The Trainer by Laura Antoniou Page A

chance
to get these trainers of Ward’s line together to reminisce and
chat—it was a chance for Ward to report on what had been learned at
the larger, international gatherings, and for more experienced
trainers to present work they had written themselves, or the work
of colleagues. That morning, when the American contingent showed
up, they found a long table set up in the vast entry way,
containing bound collections from the annual meeting called the
Academy, as well as folders and binders of reports and papers done
by individual trainers of merit all over the world.
    Geoff had brought his own collections, which
Crystal and Michael made room for and displayed with their printed
summary cards. But Geoff didn’t stop to pick up any literature—he
gathered his troupe and gave them their instructions and then set
them “free” to explore. As usual, he didn’t require anything
specific of them, only that they didn’t clump all into one
discussion together, so they could each share something new when
they got home later that night. And with a smile and a warm pat on
the back for each, he took only Brad to accompany him as he went to
the first meeting Howard Ward was running.
    Michael waited until Crystal chose a topic
of interest to her, and then spent about an hour studying the table
and taking mental notes. He’d never heard of many of these
names—but he had heard of some of them.
    The German, Walther Kurgan, for example.
Geoff didn’t like him, and there was no mystery there. Kurgan was a
military man, who looked for former military personnel as slaves.
His methods came right out of boot camp, or whatever boot camp was
called in Germany, and he produced top-notch bodyguards and
drivers, the types of slaves who would serve and protect your
family. Or, simply the well-disciplined type who could run your
house or business or your life with aplomb. Or even personal
trainers! One of the presenters at Rothmere was one of Kurgan’s
former trainees, now a trainer on his own.
    There were many more—Arturo Massimiliano,
who trained slaves to be exquisite tops, becoming the dream
mistresses and masters for their demanding, masochist owners. Geoff
did that sort of training too, and was always reminding his
trainers that there was no shame in being a bottom, and that the
only shame was in being afraid to be who you were whenever you
wanted to be. And the trainers would hide their snickers and grin
with tolerant understanding, and Geoff would smile back at them
with the slightest of winks.
    And more! Did the Frenchwoman Corinne really
only take slaves with a talent for six languages or more? Were
there that many slaves, and was there a need for them that was so
regular? Everywhere you turned, there was an expert in a particular
method or a type of slave—a couple whose work was primarily in
novices, a man who would not even think of considering a slave
without ten years in service. There were trainers who used their
own spotters, trainers who did their own spotting, and trainers who
only took slaves who were referred by owners.
    Michael found himself overwhelmed by the
variety and the scope of topics. He looked for American houses and
was gratified to find a few, especially glad when he saw that some
of them were heavily sought after by other attendees. But Geoff’s
were ignored. Sometimes, they were idly picked up and examined, but
then put back down. One American trainer’s work got snatched up,
though.
    Anderson. No first name. People whispered
the name to each other and passed the folder on to friends. Before
they were all gone, Michael slipped one of them into his briefcase
and examined the schedule for the next round of seminars, so he
could get a better feel for what was “out there.”
    By the end of the day, what seemed like a
nice and kinky, mostly Californian way to handle matchmaking
between sex-hungry bottoms and wealthy tops just vanished. It was
much bigger, much older, and much more complicated than he