Earlier that evening, Michael had pried himself free of the brooding spotters as soon as he could. After wandering aimlessly for almost an hour and considering turning in, he found a group of folks who were all his age and younger hanging out by the hot tubs furthest away from the ryokan. To his delight, they were almost all trainees themselves. He tossed off his clothes, cleansed himself quickly and thoroughly in the glorious outdoor area set up for it, and joined Kim and a quiet Canadian man named Benjamin, while others sat at the edge or lounged on the platform. Kim had turned out to be quite a storyteller—and very funny. Two translators knelt nearby—the Brazilian man’s bad English wasn’t quite as good as Michael’s bad Spanish sprinkled with bad Portuguese, and Kim’s French wasn’t as good as she had hoped it would be, although her English was fine, so Catherine, the Swiss woman who spoke only German, French and a little English had felt left out. Now, they all traded stories and jokes with the gentle murmuring of translation going on throughout it all.
“So what about your teacher, Michael?” Kim turned to him and he felt her toes nudge against him in the tub. “Does he make you do stupid things?”
“Don’t they all?” Michael said a bit too loudly. But beer, sake, and that incredible local rice brandy had made them all a little bold, and everyone laughed. He wanted to nudge her back—firmly—but stopped himself ruefully. He couldn’t explain that he often thought that Chris read his mind, and that speaking ill about him would almost certainly cost Michael whatever freedoms he had this week. “I want to be Ninon’s trainee,” he quickly said with a leer. Everyone laughed some more.
“So do I!” several of them said at once, and cups banged against each other in toasts to the Mistress of Pleasure. “I would train for two more years to spend one year with her!” swore Catherine, the Swiss lady.
“Three!” swore the Brazilian. “By God, three years, with beatings every week!”
“I would give myself to her as a slave,” Kim said, “and I do not like women!”
“But neither do I!” said the Brazilian, and they exploded in laughter.
Oh, this is better, Michael thought. This is fun! Nice people, no politics, just a little vacation, that’s all. Talking about sex instead of business was a bonus, too.
“But the market for pleasure slaves is down,” Benjamin said soberly, killing Michael’s last thought. “At least it is in the Americas. How is it out here, Kim?”
Kim shrugged. “Better than you have, I think. Many more people here want pleasure slaves than in your country. You are so strange in America—and Canada!” she amended. “Here in Asia, people always think of slaves as property to be fucked. In America, you wanted slaves to work in fields, and were ashamed that you want to fuck them. For Marketplace slaves, it is the same! Here, we use them for pleasure, and in America, you make them do housework.”
“Aw, that’s not true!” Michael immediately protested. “We produce hundreds of pleasure slaves in the US! And they’re still popular!”
“Sure, yes,” Kim agreed. “But see how the international sales go, eh? The most pleasure slaves are trained in the East, and the most specialty slaves are now coming from the West.”
“Huh?”
“It’s true,” Benjamin agreed. “I’ve been studying sales records for the past ten years, and comparing them to the previous fifty. America and Canada are producing more slaves with cross-training than anyone else right now, and the Asian markets are supplying more pleasure slaves than ever. The Mediterranean and Middle East markets are full of pleasure slaves, too. But we North Americans are putting out specialists. Cooks and butlers and doctors and drivers and teachers, eh?”
“I wonder what that means,” Michael mused out loud.
“It means you Yankees don’t know how to have fun!” Kim teased.
“I know how to have fun!” he protested, finally giving her that nudge with his toe. She nudged him back, and they ended up splashing each other like kids, until Benjamin protested and they all settled down again.
Specialists, huh? Michael thought as he settled into the warm water up to his chin. Well, it was true—so many of the slaves whose files he’d seen in his studies were supposed to be doing specific jobs. The kind of basic training that the Elliot/Selador house did—designed to make a person easy to place in a simple job—was pretty rare. It was one of the reasons they were so successful; not only did they specialize in newcomers, but in slaves whose only talent was their desire to serve. Some owners liked that, certainly enough to keep the house in the black. But the real demand—and the high prices—were reserved for the slaves who had valuable training in specialized skills. And it had been a surprise for Michael to find out that there were plenty of slaves who did not expect to be used sexually—and even slaves whose contracts said so! Very strange, at least to him.
It was all so confusing sometimes. Chris had made him painfully aware of the essential humanity of the slaves that they handled, yet the little bastard was a cold, distant, absolutely scary topman when he deigned to play. One of the harshest things he had ever called Michael had been “user”; yet he was the first to tell a would-be slave that their entire purpose was to be used and useful.
It was enough to make you nuts, Michael reflected. “I don’t want to talk business,” he drawled, stretching luxuriously. “This is the first time I haven’t been under supervision, underfoot, or just plain under the weather in ages. I need to have some fun out here before I go back to all-work-and-no-play! Did you see some of the pleasure slaves they were showing off at the party? I want a few pieces of every one. Who’s with me on that?”
There was a moment as the interpreters managed the idioms, and some light laughter in response. Kim sighed dramatically and shook her head. “I am still celibate this trip,” she said easily, with no trace of embarrassment or annoyance. “Next year, when I finish my apprenticeship, I will be a goddess of sex! My slaves will never sleep until I have been satisfied a thousand times. But this year, you will all have to lust for me in vain.”
“Man, that sucks,” Michael said honestly. “For real, you can’t get laid?”
“You can?” translated the two interpreters simultaneously.
“Well, yeah!” Michael said, and then suddenly paused, thinking. When was the last time he got off? Was it that time when Rachel did a toy inventory with him? He had ended up with what seemed like a sex shop’s worth of things clamped, strapped, and chained to and in him while she and one of the slaves-in-training went at it like a couple of hungry weasels in front of him. Unable to touch himself, every time one of them even brushed his cock, he almost came, and when Rachel finally started taking all the toys off and out of him, the little slave girl stroked his cock until he exploded. He had almost fainted, it was so intense. But that was ages ago.
His face told the story, and they all laughed at him, and he blushed, deeply. Yeah, he was horny all the time, and no, no one had really had sex with him since he left Anderson’s house, but he hadn’t thought that he was necessarily celibate.
“I don’t understand!” he said in a burst of annoyance. “Why the hell do we have to suffer so much, when we’re the fucking trainers?”
“Oh, you might be a trainer,” the Brazilian man said with a snort. “But I am a maggot!”
“And I am slut,” added Catherine with a brilliant smile.
“I’m just ‘the kid,’” said Benjamin cheerfully.
“You want to be a trainer that fast, you go train with Negel in California,” Kim said wagging a finger at him. “He will call you whatever you like! I hear he says you are a trainer after only six months, very easy!”
Michael slid quietly back into the water as they laughed, and felt his ears burning. He had no way of knowing which of his new friends—if any—knew how he had gotten here and wished he had not raised the issue of training at all. But their laughter seemed general and not cruel, so he counted his blessings and allowed part of his mind to follow their outrageous conversation. But even as he manag
ed a few soft laughs and a nod or two, the practical side of his brain was occupied with figuring out how to keep his secrets safe during the conference. Suddenly, he was keenly aware that it wasn’t just his face that was on the line here, but Chris Parker’s as well.
Lucky bastard, he thought, flashing a grin at Kim. Chris never has to worry about anything.
Chapter Four: Tightening Coils
Pickled papaya? Rice porridge with bitter melon? And were those misshapen things really considered donuts? Michael gulped in some air and tried to concentrate past the throbbing in his skull. The unfamiliar food wasn’t making his hangover any more friendly. He passed the entire table by and snagged a cup of American coffee and went outside to drink it.
It was steamy in the early morning, and the local birds seemed in on the conspiracy to tear his eyeballs out through his ears. He tossed back three aspirin with his coffee and groaned. Why on earth did he drink so much last night?
He had made his way back to the room some time between two and three. Chris liked his privacy, and Michael had thought to just tiptoe in and find his futon in the dark. But to his surprise, the room was empty, a single lamp lit and no sign of his trainer. There was a shoji screen set up, blocking half of Chris’s futon, but it was amply clear that he wasn’t in the room.
He had somehow managed to get out of his clothing and shove it all in his luggage to minimize any mess he might make, before collapsing face down onto the shockingly thin sleeping mat. The next thing he knew, a strange slave was gently opening the shutters and once again, he was the only one in the room. Chris’s futon, out and pristine last night, was already put away, and on the table was a note that simply read “Review the track 1 seminars and choose two.” The Academy schedule was open to the event listings and there were several tabs inserted on various pages, with Chris’s neat script indicating papers for Michael to read.
When does he sleep? Michael wondered, clutching the coffee mug protectively. Back in the states, coffee was a treat for him, despite the fact that Chris was rather a caffeine freak himself, drinking it at all hours, even late at night. But this is no treat, he thought, grimacing. This is life-saving medication. He gulped at it desperately and groaned again. The schedule and its attached papers seemed so huge and complex, with lists of meetings, seminars, presentations, and special discussion groups. He hadn’t been ready to examine it, only shoved it under his arm for later perusal. He thought that maybe another coffee, then another shower, and he might be ready to read fine print.
“You’re looking a little worn this morning, kiddo,” came Geoff Negel’s nauseatingly cheerful, deep voice.
Great, Michael thought. I’m never going to get rid of him, ever.
“Morning, Mr. Negel,” he mumbled. As he started to rise, he felt Geoff’s hand gently on his shoulder.
“No need to get up for me, Mike. There was a time when we were equals, remember?” He walked around Michael’s spot on the stairs and took a deep, theatrical breath. He was dressed in white shorts and a soft looking summer sweater, his tan clean and glowing, his silvered hair brilliant in the sun. Michael felt like he was a troll looking at a knight. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Michael grunted.
Geoff looked down at him, his mouth compressed suddenly in what looked like genuine hurt. “I’m sorry you’re mad at me, Michael, and somewhat in the dark as to why you are. I’m very happy for you; accepted to study with Anderson, and now the single student of her protégé—that’s very impressive. You’ve come far since I first met you. You deserve to go much, much further. If you’re holding some sort of grudge against me, I wish you’d tell me what I did, so I can apologize for it.”
Michael lowered his own head to avoid those piercing, ever so earnest eyes. What am I supposed to say now? I hate you because I spent all that time with you learning things that my new teachers think are the cause of every thing bad in the universe? I want to avoid you because you were there for one of the biggest fuck-ups of my life, and I have no idea how many people you’ve told about me?
“I—I’m just not feeling well today, sir,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry that I’ve made you feel uncomfortable. I—I’ll try to be in a better mood.” Not an acceptable apology at all, in addition to being a piece of misdirection that Chris would slap him into next week for, but what did he care? Geoff wasn’t like these people he was learning with now, he wouldn’t be able to tell. Besides, Geoff Negel was nothing to him. Nothing.
“I see,” Geoff sighed. “Well, if you’re going to hide behind what passes for manners, there’s not much I can do. Sorry to bother you, Mike. Try to drink some grapefruit juice, that’ll help rehydrate you. Feel better.” He started to move away, and Michael made no move to stop him.
Other people came and went, exploring, or on their way to one of the outbuildings. Michael sat as still as possible, waiting for the pounding to stop echoing. He was also waiting for the feelings of self pity and anger to wash away. Damn Geoff Negel anyway! Damn him for being so strong and healthy and positive he was right; damn him for being handsome and fit and sexy and confident, and so, so damn wrong.
Most of the time, Michael knew that the methods and philosophies that he was being taught by Imala Anderson and her golden boy Parker were tested by time. He saw the results, met them, studied them in files and folders, and in the flesh. And although he also saw other training methods that were excellent, he knew the value of being trained according to one tradition and then teaching it to others. He also knew, in retrospect, that the time he had spent with Geoff’s house in California was wasted. That in time, Geoff and his methods would vanish like a fad.
But it was one thing to know something because logic and wiser people than you tell you so, and another thing to feel it in your heart. And seeing Geoff glide effortlessly through his detractors, white teeth gleaming and hand always out, was humbling. Maybe he’s right for now, Michael thought in a torrent of confusion. Maybe it really is his time. And what’s wrong with being right for the moment?
At least no one answered him. He was getting tired of Chris sneaking up behind him and answering his thoughts. With a sigh, he got up and went back inside for his second cup of coffee. And maybe some grapefruit juice.
* * * *
Chris took a seat on the floor, crossing his legs comfortably. Several of the people at this invitation-only breakfast demonstration and discussion had pillows and bolsters brought for their comfort, but there were no chairs in the room. It was all for the best—the view from the floor was quite stimulating enough.
The sinuous, dark-skinned man with intricate scarification traces on his back and legs had been holding wrapped coils of colored rope, waiting until the last guest had been made comfortable. Then, with patience and grace, he unwound the rope from the perfect coils, re-winding it around the bodies of the man and woman who had started out by standing and holding onto a ribbon-like strand of heavy-weight silk that had been thrown over one of the exposed beams overhead. It had looked disarmingly unsafe and unstable.
That had added immeasurably to the charm of the scene.
As the coils became more intricate, wrapping around limbs and body parts, the dark man began to link one part to another, and the two slaves used for his demonstration were slowly drawn down, one to her knees, the other onto his back. The three of them were nude—but as the rope was used, coils of red, dark blue, pale green, the bodies of the couple in bondage became clothed. Uncomfortably so—the male was bent backwards with his legs tucked up underneath him, and the female had no way to balance except on her knees and toes—but they bore it with only slight moans and a light sheen of sweat to mark their trial.
They both screamed sex. So did the binder, whose circumcised cock was fully erect. But he paid no attention to it, other than to make sure his ropes never touched it.
Nice touch, that.
When he had used up the last inch of rope, the binder then moved his human packages from side to side—handling thei
r immobilized bodies with ease as he showed them to the guests. It was cleverly done. If you wanted to, there was access to genital openings and nipples. It might require rolling them over—and in the man’s case, pushing apart his lower limbs to such an extent that he groaned—but they had neatly been both tied up and arranged for use. The binder demonstrated this with a gentle thrust of his hips in the direction of each available orifice—a cute movement that showed his arousal and control and teased the viewers. Both bondage arrangements left “handles” that could be used to lift the slaves, which the binder also demonstrated, his muscles bunching and gleaming.
He ended his demonstration by bringing the silk ribbon down from the rafter and elegantly draping it around the two bound slaves, making them into an attractive package. Then, in silence, he bowed his way behind the screen, leaving the guests to politely applaud and murmur praise. The bound slaves, of course, had no place to go. They both closed their eyes; Chris could see them straining to breathe quietly, their bodies hot and slick, the ropes tight and just so slightly yielding.
“All this to make slaves ready to be used?” Walther Kurgan laughed, and stretched his shoulders. “The master must have great patience, I think.”
“Well, not everyone thinks that foreplay consists of ‘bend over,’ my friend,” Ninon replied, fanning herself lightly.
“What more do you need?” The ex-military man grinned and eyed the bondage arrangement again. “It is attractive, though. I can see this on the auction block. After the examinations, before the bidding.”
There was some general agreement with him on that score. Chris was one of the only dissenters. “I don’t think Americans have that kind of patience, Mr. Kurgan. As a special demonstration, yes. But they want to be able to go right from exams to bidding.”
The Academy Page 6