The Academy
Tales of the Marketplace
A Novelogy
by Laura Antoniou
Edited by Karen Taylor
With Guest Authors
M. Christian
Michael Hernandez
david stein
Cecilia Tan
Karen Taylor
Published by Luster Editions
An Imprint of
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
The Academy
The Academy: Tales of the Marketplace
by Laura Antoniou
Copyright © 2012 by Laura Antoniou and contributors
Cover Photo © 2012 Lochai Stine
Post-photo styling: Lara Benstein
Models: Curtis Mercury & Inkincarnadine
Originally published by Mystic Rose Books, 2000.
Published by Circlet Press, Inc.
39 Hurlbut Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
www.circlet.com
First Circlet Press digital and paperback editions May 2012.
This electronic version was produced in-house at Circlet Press. The PDF mimics the design of the print edition.
License Notes
Please do not support online piracy of copyrighted works. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the purchaser only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, or if you received this ebook copied from a friend or by other means, please support the writers who made it possible by purchasing a copy yourself. Thank you for your support.
Dedicated to the 1999 Master/Slave conference in Atlanta, Georgia, because it was there I first read from the manuscript in progress and invited friends to join the party. And it has been my pleasure over the years to serve that particular community with my flights of fancy.
With deepest thanks to Karen Taylor, who read this page by page as my friend, lover, bride, and #1 fan. It’s a cliché, but I truly could not do this without her. Really. I’d be working at Starbucks.
In gratitude to Molly Devon, who let me invent a new form of book and brought me back from out-of-print status and gave me the will to continue writing.
In gratitude to Kim Attica, who gave me more than she knows, and deserves better than I can give.
And to my friends and beta readers over the years who patiently read chapter by chapter and asked for more, even when I did horrible things to their favorite characters. Or, maybe that’s why they asked for more...
Contents
Chapter One: Welcome to Okinawa
Chapter Two: Mandarin Style
Chapter Three: Fortunate Bastard
Chapter Four: Tightening Coils
Chapter Five: Thank You, Miss Claudia by Karen Taylor
Chapter Six: Willows
Chapter Seven: In Exile
Chapter Eight: The Tiger In The Dining Room by M. Christian
Chapter Nine: The Dog And Pony Show
Chapter Ten: Snack Run
Chapter Eleven: Bullseye by Cecilia Tan
Chapter Twelve: The Specialists
Chapter Thirteen: The Nurse by Karen Taylor
Chapter Fourteen: Honorable Opponents
Chapter Fifteen: The California Way by M. Christian
Chapter Sixteen: Honorable Opponents II
Chapter Seventeen: Smoke Rings
Chapter Eighteen: Identities
Chapter Nineteen: In Service by david stein
Chapter Twenty: Play Party
Chapter Twenty-One: Alex’s Choice by Karen Taylor
Chapter Twenty-Two: Transitions
Chapter Twenty-Three: A Change In Plans
Chapter Twenty-Four: Making Choices
Chapter Twenty-Five: Redemption by Michael Hernandez
Chapter Twenty-Six: In Hot Water
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Mysterious Ways
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Insha’allah by Karen Taylor
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Fencing
Chapter Thirty: Giddy As A Schoolboy
Chapter Thirty-One: Clocking
Chapter Thirty-Two: I’d Like To Thank The Academy
Chapter Thirty-Three: Farewell to Okinawa
Epilogue
Bonus Story: Inside Straight (ebook only)
About the Author
Isn’t it a pleasure when you can make practical use of the things you have studied?
Isn’t it a pleasure to have an old friend visit from afar?
Isn’t it a sure sign of a gentleman, that he does not take offense when others fail to recognize his ability?
—Kung Fu-tzi, known as Koshi-sama, or Confucius
Chapter One: Welcome to Okinawa
The murmur of voices had that peculiar polyglot cadence of a mixture of languages. English dominated, as it always did, a combination of sheer numbers and the decibel level of its native speakers. But Japanese was a close second, and the lilting tones of French wove in and out like snatches of melodic static. The excitement level was high, matched by the energy of people in motion, going from one to another, hands and arms outstretched.
“Parker-san.” It was a strong voice, cutting through the din as neatly as though it had been pitched perfectly for one listener without seeming like a shout.
Chris Parker glanced up as the automatic shading in his glasses finally began to fade. He smiled and waited until the man who had called to him came closer, and then bowed low in greeting. His bow was met by one noticeably less deep, and they both smiled when they rose to look at each other.
Sakai Tetsuo hadn’t changed much in the three years since they had last met in person. His hair was a dense mixture of gray and white, trimmed just a little longer than current Tokyo fashion, his blue suit impeccably tailored and pressed, his shoes hand-made and Italian. His tie was knotted tight to his throat, perfectly neat, matched by the shining peaks of his pocket square. He was only slightly taller than Chris Parker, and as they shook hands, they looked like a strange pair of brothers, small and compact and precise in every movement.
“You are looking excellent, my friend,” Tetsuo said warmly. “It has been too long! You must stay after the conference and come back to Tokyo and visit with me.”
“Oh, no, Sakai-san, I must look like something the cat dragged in. Spending a day on airplanes doesn’t do much to improve one’s disposition or appearance. Thank you very much, but you are too kind.” Chris ruefully ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I would love nothing more than to visit with you, and it might be possible.” He avoided the direct and rude negative that they both understood would have been improper, and Tetsuo nodded slightly in pride.
“You are always a welcome guest,” he said simply. “Perhaps we could speak later, upon some insignificant items concerning mutual business?”
Chris hid his shock at Tetsuo’s directness. To bring up business first was unknown of in this rigid instructor in all things Japanese. “I am at your service,” Chris answered, this time in Japanese.
Tetsuo smiled again. “Excellent! In this too, you have improved,” he said. “But perhaps we shall speak English, so that I may practice my own poor efforts?” They could continue this dance back and forth all night—as in fact, they had, on several occasions. The rhythm of Japanese conversation, especially concerning business, was soft, rolling, and required patience which few untutored Westerners could finesse. However, Tetsuo’s English was excellent, a language he had begun to learn as a child and had honed with years in America. His business acumen was also honed in America, with a Harvard MBA. Chris’s Japanese was of mu
ch more recent vintage and rudimentary at best. The areas of knowledge which he had studied both at college and during his first extended contact with Tetsuo would simply not be adequate to the subtle nuances of negotiation.
“I will be honored to see you at your convenience,” Chris said, inclining his shoulders slightly. Tetsuo immediately reciprocated, and the two of them straightened at the sound of a delighted, low-pitched laugh.
“I could watch you all day, bobbing up and down like those strange toys in the backs of American cars,” Ken Mandarin said, sliding up to them. Today, she was not in her usual Western cross-dressing drag, but in a stunning Japanese outfit. She whirled for their approval, indigo hakama trousers flaring out, the heavy jacket wrapped more tightly around her body than perhaps necessary or customary.
The two men bowed to her and she laughed again, dipping elegantly into an enormously exaggerated one. “All this up and down, up and down!” she exclaimed, tossing her head back. “One might get dizzy!”
“I see you’ve already been shopping,” Chris said.
“What, this old thing?” Ken looked pleased, though, and she leaned forward to give him a peck on the cheek. “And look at you!” she exclaimed, backing up to arms length. “I like your new haircut! Very modern, oui?” She glanced lightly to her right. “Good to see you, Sakai.”
“A delight to see you again,” Tetsuo said, his voice equally light. But they both had acquired a slight edge. “I did not realize that your name also revealed an interest in a martial art.”
“It’s Ken-da, not ken-do,” Ken answered. “And I wouldn’t know which end of that bamboo sword to hold, let alone how to beat my opponent to bits. But this—this is a fine outfit, no?” Her eyes became sharply drawn; no matter why she choose an outfit more suited for a dojo, she was clearly ready for some kind of battle. There was a reason why Ken did not often work in Asia, but preferred the West. Her battles with the various Marketplace establishments in the Far East were legendary, as were her father’s before he died; they had both shared a marked dislike of the Japanese block for their own reasons. Memories were long in the East, she would sometimes say with a shrug. No matter how carefully the Marketplace cultivated an air of neutrality, there were always political and historical differences between some people. Chris was grateful for the sight of a convenient excuse to move on.
“Michael!” Chris snapped. “Find out what room I’m in and don’t dawdle.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said, struggling with the luggage and too obviously dismayed that he couldn’t join in the mingling. As slaves approached, he had to shake his head over and over again, until the message spread not to help him. He turned toward the registration room to the left of the main stairs and both Ken and Tetsuo relaxed somewhat at the distraction. Tetsuo was the first to excuse himself, omitting the usual reminder to schedule a meeting, and Ken kissed Chris again and gave him a hug.
“Is that the boy you told me about?” she said, appraising Michael’s body from behind, cocking her head as if she could see his hips and flanks through the hanging garment bag. Apparently the edge she had acquired was gone again as she switched her attention to something new. “Pretty! Lend him to me. I’ve brought the two—they haven’t had a toy in months!”
Chris chuckled at the thought of Ken’s rapacious matched set of personal servants and what twisted and exhausting use they could make of Michael. He nodded. “Done,” he said. “But there is a price.”
“Anything!” she replied extravagantly. Then, her eyes narrowed again and she adopted an arms akimbo stance that looked rather appropriate in her new outfit. “Oh, you mean a real price!” she said accusingly. She wagged her finger at him, making tsking sounds between her teeth. “You should know better, white boy. The proposal you’ve placed before the Academy is more complicated than it seems to be—I am still not quite comfortable with all the potential... ramifications.”
Chris shrugged. “I am sure we can find some grounds to agree upon,” he said. “But I was really thinking of asking you for a proper introduction to your friend from Seattle and the junior she’s brought with her.”
Ken had the decency to look abashed, and Ken Mandarin looking ashamed was quite a sight. “I am so sorry,” she said, with just the slightest evidence of a blush underneath her wheat-colored skin. “Of course, I shall introduce you to Marcy, she wishes to make your acquaintance as well. Naturally! But now, you must excuse me, so that I can go and commit suicide over my stupidity.” She reeled away in a false swoon, and threw herself through the open panels of the exterior wall into the garden beyond. Her gutter Cantonese trailed behind her as she cursed herself. Chris smiled as he saw two Chinese gentlemen gaze after her in shock and horror.
But her gaffe had communicated more than she had perhaps thought. Chris’s smile faded as he turned to look for Michael, thinking of the comfort of a long, hot bath. It wasn’t even the first day of The Academy, and the battle flags were out. And for the first time ever, he wasn’t the squire on this crusade—he was a goddamn knight.
* * * *
Trainers from all over the world were converging on the Shimada Resort and Ryokan, located deep in the green hills about forty miles outside of Naha, the capital of Okinawa. Autumn in this tropical area was lush and warm, and the gleaming wood beams of the Japanese country-style inn glowed in the sunlight. It had been specially emptied for the week, entirely staffed by Marketplace employees and servitors of varying levels. Stone lanterns marked the long drive into the property, and a beautiful red and gold gate framed one of the splendid views of the valley to the east. There was a bubbling stream on the northern edge, where outdoor baths were also available, framed by raised dark oak platforms. Ornamental gardens could be seen from almost every window. Small ponds were dense with almost garishly colored lilies, hidden between the trees. It was a breathtakingly beautiful site that invited exploration and an experience of sensuality. The army of service staff moved with the practiced ease of slave veterans—no one would embarrass themselves by sending a marginally acceptable piece of property to serve at the Academy. In fact, it was common for trainers to bring a special slave with them, a way for those lucky individuals to see perfection in action.
The resort was cunningly split between Western and Japanese style accommodations. Much of the actual conference area was Western, with high tables and straight backed office chairs and rooms that were exact copies of every other hotel room in the world, clean, small, and efficient. But in his annoying way, Chris had insisted upon a room in the ryokan section of the resort, a traditional Japanese room, and Michael had prepared to deal with one. The pictures he had studied and the descriptions in the tourist guidebooks had been enough to let him know that there were in fact, beds in the room—or at least they were behind panels somewhere. He gazed at the perfectly proportioned room, counting the tatami mats that made every room in such a traditional arrangement uniform sizes. There was an ikebana arrangement of a floating lily in shallow water over dull, gray, water-smoothed stones, set in a niche across from the door; a perfect position for the late afternoon sun to hit it. He found that he couldn’t remember what the little niche was called, and tried to hide his panic by unpacking.
Belatedly, he remembered his shoes, and took them off immediately, carrying them to the door. He had been gratified to see that many of the guests were shod in the shoes they wore outside. But in this traditional wing, where the flooring in the rooms was the ubiquitous tatami matting, you had to leave your street shoes outside, wear slippers on the wooden floors, and socks or bare feet inside.
Oh, jeeze, and I walked through the whole place! Why didn’t someone stop me?
Did I pass the slippers on my way in without noticing? Wasn’t there supposed to be a special kind of porch, a genkan, something like that? Were staff people right now snickering over his error and whispering about him? He was about to slide the door open and dash down the hall to the main entrance, but naturally, that was when Chris got there.
“That’ll be ten,” Chris said, brushing by him. Chris had already removed his boots, and his small feet were neatly encased in Japanese slippers. He kicked them off and stooped to place them neatly by the door, toes facing out. “Excellent,” he said with a sigh, after turning again to scan the room. “I’ll be bathing. Have everything unpacked and my strap out by the time I’m finished.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said glumly.
“And don’t worry, Michael,” Chris said cheerfully as he took one of the ryokan yukatas hanging on one wall. The light cotton robes all bore a stylized gate pattern in soft, pale gray on a much darker background. “You have an infinite number of potential fuck-ups ahead of you over the next couple of days. You had to start somewhere.” He chuckled as he padded out the door, leaving Michael to slide the lightweight panel shut after him.
Michael bit back even the thought of a retort, one of the hardest things in his new regimen of exercises. Back in the spring, when he had impulsively volunteered to be trained as “a classic”—a rigorous, seven year process involving everything from this current apprenticeship assignment to actually being sold and living for a term as a slave—he thought he had considered every possible drawback to the situation. As usual, however, he was dead wrong.
He hadn’t counted on being immediately assigned to Chris Parker, the man he had somehow developed a massive crush on, despite years of knowing that one, he was just not very attracted to men, and two, he was certainly not a bottom. He hadn’t counted on suddenly becoming the real low man on the totem pole at an entry-level training house, subject to the whims of everyone except the damn slaves in training, and occasionally to them as well. And finally, he hadn’t counted on liking it so damn much.
It was perverse beyond belief. No matter how difficult things got, from Chris’s degrading taunts about his skill level or thought processes, to the various hazards of working with no less than three demanding trainers, to the sheer pain of his continual punishments, erotic and not so, his heart beat out a passionate plea for more and he slept like a baby. Even his constant stream of self-castigation seemed to be part of this whole process to make him stunningly aware of his place in the world—and more firmly convinced that it was right for him.
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