The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  I did as she said, and my hands burrowed into place before I figured out how to do it. “I wanted to tell you,” I said, shaking, “that I liked what you were saying. Sir.”

  “Yes, you did. And you wanted what else?”

  “To—to see if you knew—to find out if you might—” I lost the nerve. Sweat was covering my body, and I was trembling too hard to concentrate. It all seemed so stupid, that I was standing there like that, so scared yet so fucking turned on that I couldn’t even move. I hung my head, and took deep breaths.

  “You must say it, or I will have Andy open that door and send you on your way.”

  I looked back up at her, and felt my knees shaking. There was only one response to that—I hit the floor, hard, and she made a hissing sound that was almost like a whistle. “Then come closer and tell me,” she said.

  Flashback to that moment in the seminar—but now, I was there, literally crawling to her on my knees, crossing that hotel room in an agonizingly embarrassing, halting shuffle, until I was as close as I dared to be, her curious, hard eyes following my every move.

  “I want to be a slave like that,” I choked out, bowing my head again. “Sir. I would be happy if I were a real slave.”

  The scissoring whisper of steel caught my attention, and like magic, there was a knife in her left hand and her right hand was gripping the collar of my T-shirt. “Everyone says that,” she said, catching my eyes with hers. “Whose slave would you be?”

  “Yours,” I gasped. Anything else was cut off as swiftly as she swept that knife along the front of my shirt, stabbing it down below where her fist was, and then cutting straight through the straps of my bra, and not stopping at my waistband. Instead, she switched grips and pulled my shirt from the jeans and finished severing it. I felt a tug from behind and gasped again, but it had to be Andy, pulling the newly made rag from my shoulders, along with the remains of my bra.

  She reached down and pinched one of my nipples, gently. “You would be my slave? I have enough slaves. Be my toy, right now, and show me how much you meant what you claimed.”

  This is crazy, I thought. I have a plane to catch, and I don’t have anything to wear down to the lobby, and that was a good bra!

  “As you wish, Sir,” I said, shaking.

  To describe what we did would be fairly pointless. If I told you she spanked me, how would you know that every blow of her hand made me want to cry? Not because of the pain, but because she was telling me with every heavy swat, that spanking was for children, and only with my tears would this end. Every time I felt that, I fought the battle with never wanting it to end and wanting so much to give her what would please her.

  How could you know that?

  And if I told you that I crawled and whimpered on the floor, following her boots with my tongue as she parted my legs with a slender and wicked cane, leaving so many slashes on the inside of my thighs that the very thought of pulling my jeans back on was terrifying, would you realize that I didn’t care about the pain or the discomfort? Would you believe me when I said that my thoughts were only on the boots that I had been commanded to shine, and that until they were gleaming with my spit, nothing, nothing would distract me? Could you possibly understand how pleased I was when she braced her heels, one at a time, against my back, and pronounced the job done to her satisfaction? That I came, grinding my cunt against her foot, only to repeat the exercise, knowing that this was a trap set for me yet also understanding that I was to fall into it, eagerly?

  It’s impossible to describe.

  And when I say she possessed my body, you may think that her fingers in my mouth, in my cunt, in my asshole, were all just that—fingers, penetrating and opening me, spreading me wide to examine and tease, to empty and fill again, until I squirmed with ecstasy and groaned in pain. But to me, she was taking possession of me—marking her territory. I begged for more, not with words, but with every time I arched my back, every time I relaxed to take more, every time I cried, or moaned or licked hungrily at her offered fingers in gratitude.

  The knife was in her hand again, but her other hand was indicating her fly. “Take me,” she said, “take me well, and all that I wish to do with you, and I will mark you. And if I mark you, I will see you again.”

  I forced my hands into stillness as I worked the fly open. Underneath the expensive trousers, dampened with my tears, were silk boxer shorts, never so sexy on a woman before. I reached in, and felt the bulge I would have to take to earn her favor, and licked my lips desperately. It was large. No, it was huge. One of those black silicone things that doesn’t look anything like a real cock, and as it came free of her clothing, I despaired of ever really taking it with any expertise. I could only hope to survive on sincerity. She passed me an un-lubricated condom, and slowly, I worked it over the tip, using my lips to push it on.

  “Eerie— yes,” she sighed, watching me. “That is good, ma petite. I know you cannot swallow all of me. But make love to it nonetheless. Do not allow what is happening to you to distract you.”

  What was happening to me? I wondered about that for scarcely a moment before I felt my thighs being spread wider. It had to be Andy again, and his fingers lightly touched my cunt, and I shivered.

  I had not had a man touch me there in years.

  The cold shock of that made me stop what I was doing—exactly what I shouldn’t have done. What she said she didn’t want me to do. Instantly, her hand was in my hair, jerking my mouth off of her cock, and turning my eyes to hers.

  “You are not a virgin,” she stated with the assurance of one who has already had access to my open holes. “You may be a lesbian, but you are my toy right now, are you not?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, feeling a wash of betraying tears. The fingers had left me, and I shook, half in fear and half in anger at myself.

  “And if I choose to have my toy penetrated by my hand, or my fist, or my cock, that is my right, is it not?”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “Or any hand or fist or cock. It is of no import who or what they are attached to. I wish it done—you will accept it.”

  I felt a word dancing around in my mind, and captured it before it could escape. Safe word, I was thinking. Dammit, safe word! I want you, not your boytoy, I don’t want any man’s dick in my cunt.

  But I want to be a slave, your slave, like you said, serving you—But I don’t want anyone else—But other women, that would be all right—But I could be happy—

  She pushed my head back down, and speared my mouth, expertly. I choked at the intrusion, and almost fell backward, but caught myself with a fist wrapped around each of my ankles. There was no intruding hand between my thighs this time, only the hard, slick cock of a woman, the pounding and sliding penetration that no flesh and blood phallus could duplicate. I set my lips around it, and pushed back, taking as much as I could, coughing and gagging as she took me. I didn’t know what to think, and soon enough couldn’t. At one point, she held me suspended on this gag, filling me until I couldn’t breathe, and laughing as I swayed back.

  And then, I was on all fours, and that big, awful cock took me, first driving into my cunt, slick with the dampness of come and sweat and every drop of lube my body could possibly manufacture. By the time she spread my ass cheeks, I was near blind with confused pleasure, drunk on endorphins, exhausted with the strain of holding my own body up. I felt the tearing pressure as though it came from outside my body, and when she sank her teeth into my neck, pinning me to the floor, I screamed and thrashed around in something so shattering it couldn’t be contained in the word orgasm. Think of one mind-blowing, electrical shock that zaps you from head to toes. Now, sustain it until you can’t breathe.

  I lay there, panting and oozing, clutching at the carpet fibers, trembling. I felt a weight on my back, and a sharp cut on my shoulder, and cried—sobbed, really—when I realized that she was marking me.

  Then, I felt Andy lifting me up and allowed him to lead me to the glorious bathroom. He bathed me like an in
valid, wiping me down, and left the room with me sitting on the john, utterly wasted.

  I stood, and turned to see my back in the mirror. On my left shoulder was an odd mark—two vertical lines, one with a shorter line flying up on the right side, the other with a line extending from the top at perhaps a 30 degree angle. They were trickling blood. When Andy came back, he put a bandage over both. He brought my clothes with him—at least my jeans, socks, and boots. A conference T-shirt was with them, probably his, since the woman’s would be too small for me.

  I realized that I didn’t even know her name.

  I walked out into the room, unsure of what to say, or what to do. Should I kneel again? What would happen now?

  “You may go,” the woman said. She was placing a business card on the table by the door.

  I stood still. Confusion must have been quite apparent on my face.

  “You are not ready,” she said, with a shrug. “C’est la vie. But you were fun to play with, and so I have given you a souvenir. Perhaps you will be ready one day, and then you will call this number, and I will see you, and if you prove suitable, I shall finish the cuts. But do not dare call if you are not prepared to give me everything.”

  Tears came quickly—how could I still have them to cry? And she shook her head at me.

  “There is no failure with me, little girl-boy, only partial success. You have been entertaining, and so we part as so many do, mm? Without rancor, without tears. Surely, you will find other happiness, even if you never call me.”

  I hated her, with every fiber of my being. I hated her for teasing me, for playing with me, for cutting my shirt and making me miss my fucking flight, but I hated her for making me leave, oh yes, that was the worst part. Stiffly, determined not to make a scene, I strode to the door. My back and thighs and ass and cunt and tits ached, and I thought, well, at least I have that. I picked up the card in shaking fingers and put it in my pocket. Andy was holding the door open and I was almost through it before I turned and hit my knees again, this time bowing my head all the way to the floor.

  “Yes,” I heard her say. “You are welcome.”

  * * * *

  Andy took me to the airport in a big, shiny rent-a-car. We didn’t say much to each other. And I didn’t look at the card until I got home. It was very plain. It had a New York telephone number on it, and the initials KM. She had written on it, “When you are ready.”

  I slid it into the frame of my mirror, where I see it every morning, and every time I check myself out before hitting the bars. I don’t exactly know how I feel about this readiness, what it really means, and whether I’ll ever call that number.

  But I do know this: the price of freedom has never been so low.

  Chapter Three: Fortunate Bastard

  As I knelt, trembling on the polished wooden floor, my back a tight bow, the growling words of my new master came too fast for me to even hope to follow, punctuated by sharp, staccato sounds that dripped with contempt and anger. From time to time, I felt a slight kick—against my shoulder, against my thigh, but I did not raise my head, not an inch, holding myself as still as possible, as Anderson had cautioned me to do.

  Finally, the command to look up came, and I carefully brought my body up, not moving my knees, sliding my arms alongside my body as carefully as possible, even though I felt the tingles of worn and sleeping muscles all over myself. Sakai Tetsuo was a handsome but severe man, his eyes dark and narrow, his cheekbones drawn tight over an aristocratic face. He was holding a rod, and too fast to follow, it descended and smacked hard, making a loud crack that cut through the room. I couldn’t help it; I flinched as it struck, and that began the first of many, many beatings. I didn’t know what I had done, or what I had neglected to do. I wasn’t to know for days. It would be three weeks before I found out that my new master even spoke English. All I knew that day was that I was held as beneath contempt—not only because I was an American, but because I was a freak.

  And yet, she had sent me there. After all the time it took for her to see me as what I was, she had sent me there.

  * * * *

  Chris snapped himself out of his reverie as he stood by the door to the room Tetsuo had invited him to. It was a lifetime ago, his first visit to Japan. Yet still, it seemed unnatural for him to approach this door on his feet; strange to merely tap against the pine door frame and wait to be invited in. Surely, if he dared to walk in, eyes level, Tetsuo would erupt in rage and nearly take his head off with one blow.

  But he heard the invitation come, slid the door open, and entered without a trace of the tremors which threatened to rise in him like waves. Tetsuo was already seated by his table, soft lamps illuminating the one corner of the room.

  There was never a need to say the empty things that were taught to slaves in the States. No “I am here, Master,” or “What may I do for you, My Lord?” Here, one is summoned, and one comes.

  I need a drink, Chris thought, settling opposite Tetsuo and forcing the memories into a corner of his mind.

  “Sake?” Tetsuo offered.

  “Thank you, no,” Chris said. “Just water please.”

  Tetsuo nodded, and the door to the adjoining room slid open like a whisper. A tray appeared, followed by a woman in a kimono, and Chris stopped watching as she went through the ritual of closing the screen, picking up the tray, and all of the movements which you had to learn in order to bring someone something as simple as a drink. He didn’t comment on how quickly whoever was in the other room had found a cup of water for him, or arranged the tray. To notice a serving slave, as opposed to an ornamental one, was a breach of etiquette.

  There was the usual exchange of courtesies; Tetsuo asked polite questions about the state of affairs in New York, and Chris inquired about Tetsuo’s school in Tokyo. They agreed that the Shimada resort was quite an excellent blending of Eastern and Western styles, and the weather was fine, and that they both regretted being so busy that they could not spare any time to cheer for their favorite baseball teams in person, although they hoped that they might find an afternoon this year to do just that. Finally, Tetsuo changed his posture in that minute way that showed he was ready to talk business.

  “As to the matter at hand,” he said, “I have been most interested in this proposal of yours. I must tell you that I and my house support it wholly.”

  Chris bowed his head down slightly in acknowledgment and gratitude, but did not comment. It was only natural that Tetsuo would support it. He waited for better news.

  “Noguchi-sama is also in favor,” Tetsuo continued, as though this were of no singular importance. But that was the real blessing, Chris thought. As Noguchi goes, so do the great Japanese houses, trainers and spotters alike.

  “That is encouraging news,” Chris said.

  “But that is not why I asked to see you.” Tetsuo emptied his sake cup and put it gently down. He made a slight motion with his right hand and no slave returned to the room to refill it. It was so very subtle; so designed to make it seem that slaves just knew when to do things and when not to.

  “I have some proposals of my own to present this week,” Tetsuo continued.

  “This first one is for you. I have been following your progress for these few years. Your record has been exemplary; you have been of great value to the house of Elliot and Selador. Your writing style varies enough from Sensei Anderson’s that I can see where your influence has been growing in her own reports. In addition, I have found your independent style of training to be most instructive, particularly considering the nature of the North American clients you have trained.”

  Chris picked up his cup and drank slowly. Tetsuo had never been so...effusive in his compliments. It was almost too much to process cleanly. Without thinking, his left hand made a gesture, and the slave returned to refill his cup. Tetsuo didn’t hide a smile, and Chris almost blushed.

  “You are too kind to this poor, ignorant student,” he finally murmured in Japanese.

  Tetsuo didn’t argue, as an Am
erican teacher might have, only grunted in response to the use of his language. He continued in English. “There has been one mark against your record, and that is a disappointment. However, considering your youth and the pressures of the market, I believe I understand the complete situation. Our failures often point directly at our weaknesses.”

  Chris nodded.

  “And if your greatest weakness is your loyalty, then you are to be commended upon choosing a remarkable fault for this age,” Tetsuo said with a slight smile. “A fault which I wish to exploit. It is time you... moved on, Parker-san. I realize that in your country, it is common for one in your position to begin a house of your own. I propose something different. An alliance, and a business proposition. Between my house, and the house of Sensei Anderson. Between myself, and you. Come to Japan, Parker-san. As a trainer in my house.” He signaled for more sake, and held up one finger toward Chris, who had taken a breath to speak. “I am not finished.”

  Chris composed himself smoothly and waited as the sake was poured, allowing the girl to serve him some. When she was gone again, Tetsuo reached next to him on the floor and picked up a carved wooden box, which he placed on the table. As Chris stiffened in surprise, he pried the top of the box off and pushed it across the table so that Chris could see the contents. Even though there was no real reason to look, Chris did. The coil of dark metal was threaded with the stylized magnetic lock and identity cylinder that Tetsuo used on his personal slaves, and not the large orange tag that was used on trainees.

  “Not only as a trainer,” Tetsuo added, settling back comfortably. “But as my personal slave. I wish to purchase you from Sensei Anderson.”

  Chris reached for the sake, and drank it down like water.

  e

  “And then what happened?” Michael asked, when he finished giggling. The other people around him were wiping tears from their eyes and calming their own snickers.

  “What could I do?” The speaker shrugged. She was a broad-faced, bright-eyed young Korean who called herself “just Kim!” “I bowed low, backed out of the room and went back later with a can of paint...” More laughter followed and she grinned.