The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  “Americans don’t have any patience,” Kurgan said strongly. “Present company excepted, of course!”

  Of course, thought Chris, as he nodded.

  “Mr. Parker,” Ninon said gently, after giving Kurgan one of her pointed “I am ignoring you” head tosses, “When can we expect Anderson to arrive?”

  “I don’t know if she is at all,” Chris said, feeling the ripple of shock that followed his words. “The last time I spoke to her, she was still considering.” Across the room from him, Tetsuo sat comfortably, no sign that he was paying any particular attention to this announcement.

  “That is not like her,” Corinne said petulantly. The French trainer whose translator clients were making the week easier for everyone was a woman in her late fifties, with a narrow, elegant nose and long, sandy hair. She was easily fluent in over a dozen languages and functional in half a dozen more, and her slaves were in high demand as tutors and translators, but she cherished opportunities to dabble in less-specialized property. She moved forward on her knees to examine the slaves up close, running her fingers across the ropes. “I know she does not like to attend, but this is too important for her to miss. She supports the proposal, of course.”

  “Yes,” Chris nodded. “I do know that her vote is assured, and her...cadre will support her as they always do.”

  “But we will not have her presence. That might be a problem.” The female slave groaned—Corinne had apparently found a sensitive spot. She smiled briefly and then turned her attention back to the little group. “I hope you understand that I am not disparaging your presence, Chris.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  But it was a problem, and they all knew it. Kurgan yawned and stretched again and then prodded the nearest slave with his toe. “I will tell you what I think,” he said bluntly. “We must make alliances with the South American factions; they will appreciate the need for order among our members, even if they chafe at the thought of... hmm... regimentation? You find a better word, Corinne.”

  “No, I don’t think that military terms will serve us best here,” Corinne agreed, her eyes mischievous. “Present company excepted, hm?”

  Alone, away from their students and apprentices, away from their lesser rivals and the need to keep up that all important appearance of absolute control and formality, the trainers in the room delighted in teasing each other. Among themselves, they were not rivals; each had their areas of expertise and their countries of origin (or residence) to separate them. They were an un-elected elite, formed by habit and tradition, and maintained, some said, throughout the history of the Marketplace. Although Chris had met with all of them separately on different occasions, this was the first time he had taken a place among them. Of the fifteen people in the room, he was the youngest; he had paid his deference early, and was rewarded with a position next to Ninon and frequent nods when he spoke. They seemed gratified that he took their teasing in stride without being baited into replying sharply. If any of them had expected him to be as blunt as Anderson, they hid their surprise. In fact, it was almost as though they were ready to accept him as an individual.

  It was beginning to look like this Academy was going to be nothing but a series of shocks.

  Ninon passed him a sheet of paper, and he scanned the list of trainers on it. She had placed her initial next to several whom she agreed to speak to. As they chatted and joked, he initialed three he already knew, sighing as he saw the familiar names. He then passed it onto Walther who scowled at it. But he would agree; he would do his best as they all would. Whatever Anderson meant by leaving her attendance a mystery, whether it was to pass on her mantle to her favored protégé or to protest this very battle among her kind, they could not afford to waste time in group speculation.

  And in fact, Walther seemed to snap out of his displeasure as easily as he had slid into it. He scrawled his initials across several names and tossed the sheet of paper onto the male slave’s stomach. “I am due at a discussion now,” he announced. “If any of you can do this favor for me, see if this female is available for later tonight.”

  “After the demonstrations?” Corinne asked. “I will share with you, if you like.”

  “Good God, no, during them. Thank you for your offer, but I don’t know if I can stand another two hours of this sort of thing,” Walther laughed, waving his broad hand dismissively over the bound bodies. “I want some diversion while any new styles of bondage or singing and dancing are going on. Perhaps we can share someone tomorrow.” A few of the trainers laughed or smiled politely.

  “I will ask Honore,” Tetsuo promised. As the German left, the remaining trainers all took a moment to study the bondage sculpture again, and then moved in closer to each other to talk about business, ignoring them. It was one of the many small differences between the trainers; some of them brought sex to their business, others brought business to their sexuality. It was no dishonor to Walther that he would rather fuck a slave than watch something new and distinct; it was just his style. Everyone had their own priorities, and as long as they did their jobs well, a certain amount of individual taste was always allowed for. It was only the eternal presence of the slaves themselves, clients or property, which remained the same.

  * * * *

  After his first seminar, a kind of basic overview of the current market conditions, Michael’s head was reeling with something other than the hangover. It was one thing to understand that the Marketplace was international and old and established; it was another thing to hear people discussing things ranging from rescuing Marketplace property from places that were splitting apart in political anarchy to how to recreate the huge Russian market that was broken up after the Revolution. The Chinese representatives were eager to discuss what might happen when Hong Kong was returned to the mainland—would that hurt them, or would it open greater mainland China, the largest potential customer base in the world? That the hand-over wasn’t scheduled for years didn’t matter—apparently, some of the Marketplace plans were decades in the making.

  American software millionaires, Russian businessmen, and Asian import/export pioneers were dominating a rise in new ownership. Fewer slaves were renewing contracts with the same owners after their first years. Contracts themselves were getting more complicated all the time. So many little facts were jotted down in his notebook, so many questions alongside them. How on earth had he ever thought this was all easy to understand?

  “Ah tell you, it’s getting harder and harder to figure out where the new clients kin come from,” came a distinctly southern-American voice from over his shoulder. “An’ yet, Ah see the numbers go up every quarter! We gotta put the brakes on, Ray!” Michael half turned to see a middle-aged man in a light, tropical suit waving his hands for emphasis, his Asian companion nodding.

  “Far too many failures,” the younger man agreed. “Yet the demand is extraordinary. Too much money, far too easy to get certified as an owner right now. I think we must eventually consider cutting the market back, sharply.”

  “Restrict the number of available slaves?” Michael asked out loud. “Sorry to intrude—but is that what you meant? And can we do that?”

  The American looked at him for a moment and smiled indulgently. “We sure kin, son. When you control the manufacturing process, you kin sure as hell slow down the shipments! Ah’m Sebastian Pettibone Tucker, Tucker to my friends. This here is Mr. Ray Wong.”

  Michael shook their hands and introduced himself. “Oh—you’re the kid Anderson picked out last year, right?” Tucker said genially. “Well, she ain’t exactly the one to start her trainees on market share principles, tha’s the truth!”

  “But—I don’t understand. Why should we slow down training new clients if the demand is so high?”

  “’Cause when the demand gets high and the money flies, people get sloppy,” Tucker said, heading to one of the inner western-styled rooms and signaling for a slave. When she came, he said sternly, “Coca Cola, with plenty of ice, and keep it coming!”
As he collapsed into a tall, bamboo chair, he fanned himself with the schedule. His face was slightly flushed, and his sandy hair curling around his ears. The three of them watched the slave for a moment of silence, and then looked at each other and laughed out loud.

  “Well, you can’t help it,” Tucker said, sighing. “You come to the Academy, and you see everything that was wrong with your last three clients.”

  Mr. Wong motioned to Michael and they sat side by side on a comfortable bench. “Did you notice that the return figures for slaves are up? And the contract renewals are not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This indicates to me—and to my esteemed colleague—” Tucker nodded, as he accepted a frosted glass of cola from the elegant servant—“that the quality of clients may be suffering. We are noticing a general shortening of training periods. Perhaps you have as well?”

  “Um—actually—Anderson said the same thing to me last time I saw her,” Michael began. He paused as he saw the two men smile in what looked like triumph, and for the first time, got a glimpse of what it must feel like to be representing the Trainer here among her peers. He warmed to the feeling, and continued, “And I think I agree. If it takes years to train a trainer, how can we expect to put a slave on the market in a few weeks?”

  Tucker lifted one hand in an elegant “so there” gesture. “My friend, you are wise beyond your years.”

  “But—then the problem is with the training, not with the clients, right?”

  Mr. Wong shook his head. “It is interrelated, I think. If a trainer thinks he can make a slave in a month, he wants to make twelve a year. And where is he going to find twelve clients worth the training time? That is my question.”

  “Ditto,” sighed Tucker. “I swear, I just don’t know what the damn spotters are thinkin’ of anymore. I had to outright refuse seven ‘pre-selected’ clients last year—and let me tell you, I only work with the best spotters! But there they were—lazy, dumb as a caseload of hammers, and a few that had no idea what they might be gettin’ themselves into! And lemme tell you, son, when I have to do my own spotting, what happens to my training schedule, huh?”

  “I only trained three new clients last year,” Mr. Wong admitted. “Plus, I spent time in New Zealand at a new training facility. I am considering joining a partnership this year.”

  “Do you think—that maybe people don’t really need what the Marketplace offers anymore?’ Michael suggested cautiously.

  Tucker laughed. “Hell no, Mike, I think we’ll always have a demand for high quality flesh!”

  “Oh—well, I meant the slaves. The clients. Maybe they don’t need to come to the Marketplace, because they have so many modern outlets for kinky sex now. I mean, why give up all your freedom if all you want is some top to slap you around and fuck you every once in a while?”

  Mr. Wong and Tucker looked at him as if he had uttered blasphemy.

  “Sir, that is the very core of our problem!” Tucker exclaimed, sitting upright. “Spotters who think that people with the latest fetish are somehow acceptable for our Way Of Life. Clients who believe that they kin learn to be a proper slave by taking classes in it; that’s just a—a fad, that’s what it is. Ten years ago, they thought they could be slaves because they saw a coupla movies about masters n’ slaves. Forty years ago, because they read all the smutty books about it. People like that are just a fact o’ life, son. The problem is when they are convinced that they kin—and should!—seek something beyond their ken, as it were.”

  “Although it is true that a significant number of new clients are reaching us through the fetish arenas,” noted Mr. Wong with a pointed look. “And many of them are as true to their new life as any client who was not a part of that world. We cannot simply recommend that spotters not cast their nets over a portion of the sea just because many of the fish need to be thrown back!”

  “But how can we make sure that those fish don’t end up in my tank, that’s what I want to know!” Tucker laughed and heaved himself to his feet. “Well, hello there, stranger!”

  Michael half-turned in his seat and then rose himself, with Mr. Wong at his side. Alexandra Selador joined them, hugging Tucker warmly.

  “Hello, Tucker, good to see you!”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Ms. Selador,” he said genially. “Do y’all know Alex here, boys?”

  She turned and shook Mr. Wong’s hand and then smiled at Michael, who had automatically put his hands behind his back and taken half a step back. “Well, hello there, Mike! I see you’re meeting all the important people here.”

  He grinned; he really liked Alex. Of the two partners in the Long Island House he was working in, she was more likely to offer a kind word or a hint when things got bad. “Yes, ma’am,” he said cheerfully. “I didn’t realize that you had arrived! If I had, I would have seen to you this morning.”

  “I got onto an earlier flight and slept in,” she said, sitting down. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mike. I know Chris will keep you busy enough, and it looks like they almost brought a slave for everyone this year. My it’s hot, isn’t it?” The men took seats around her and a slave brought her a glass of iced tea with that same fluid grace that they all did.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear what you gentlemen were talking about,” she said after taking a sip. “I wish I hadn’t missed the report, Michael. You’ll have to give me your notes later. But you know, Tucker, there is only one way to make sure you don’t spend six weeks training someone who will run off and marry the first self-appointed master or mistress who gives them an orgasm—and that’s to listen to them. We seem to have to learn that lesson every year.”

  “But they all say the same damn things, Alex,” Tucker said. He cocked his head to one side and said in an innocent sing-song voice, “Why Masta’ Tucker, I was just born to be a slave, I was! It’s in my dreams, it’s in my blood, I’d do anything for my masta!” They all laughed.

  “Yes,” Alex agreed. “They often do. But you know what? We have to stop believing them. Oh, we toss back the obvious loose cannons and flakes, at least I hope so. But sometimes, you find someone who is as honest and hungry as they claim to be—but the Marketplace still isn’t right for them.”

  “The ones who wish a more conventional life?” asked Mr. Wong. “Marriage and children?”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking of them, although I think we have to consider expanding our resources to cover that sort of matchmaking. I’m thinking more of the ones who know exactly what they want to be and limit themselves right into a niche that is best served off the block.”

  “Now, see, I like that kind of thinking,” Tucker said. “More private sales, that’s a good direction to go in. The old-fashioned way, really, owner to owner, trainer to owner.”

  Alex shrugged elegantly. “That too! But what I was really thinking of is all the arrangements we can make without involving the contract people at all. Not everyone needs the kind of protection and system we offer; especially if they only want one owner, or only one role. I think we need to consider our secondary market; slaves who co-exist in our world without belonging to it. With the proper relationships in place with responsible owners, there’s no reason why we can’t admit that there are some people who belong to our world without ever being formally registered as a client.”

  “But what do people like that need from us?” Michael asked.

  “They need the assurance that we are there for them when—or if—their time comes,” Alex said. “They need to know that we will act on their behalf if they need us to. And most of all, they need to know that we exist.”

  “Why?” Tucker asked, a look of amused disbelief on his face.

  “Because,” Alex smiled, “It will make their lives ever so much more... delicious.”

  Chapter Five: Thank You, Miss Claudia

  by Karen Taylor

  “I can’t believe this is actually happening to me.” I stared out the window as the driver turned left onto a tiny lane that I ha
dn’t even seen from the road we had been on. The hedges were high and thick on the right, the left opening into an enormous, meticulously kept lawn with formal flower beds rolling in great curves and swirls across the grass. I couldn’t even see the house yet! I clenched my fists, relieved that the white cotton gloves were actually absorbing some of the sweat from my palms. Did this all belong to Mistress Madeline? Of course it does, I told myself, digging my covered nails deeper into my cotton-covered palms. Why, someone like Mistress Madeleine was probably fabulously wealthy, to keep such an estate. And to have people—people like me—under her care.

  I still couldn’t believe my luck. After spending months as Miss Cruz’s personal maid-in-training, she had recommended me for a long-term position with Mistress Madeleine, and I was accepted to the position of second chambermaid, with possibilities of advancement in her house. Miss Cruz told me that if Mistress Madeleine was pleased with my work, there was the possibility I might be trained for the Marketplace, even sold on the auction block. The idea of being owned, a slave maid for the rest of my life, was frightening—and intoxicating.

  I smoothed my skirt down, trying unsuccessfully to cover my knees. Opening my purse, I pulled out a compact to check my make-up one last time. Breathing a sigh of relief that my mascara wasn’t running, I refreshed my lipstick and snapped my purse shut just as the car came to a stop. The driver opened my door, helped me out, and was turning the car around before I even remembered to thank him.

  I stared up at the house. It reminded me of something out of an E.M. Forster novel. Brideshead displaced to New Jersey. A great, Georgian door centered in the building, with small wings spreading off to each side. Windows everywhere, so I made sure I was standing straight and moving as gracefully as possible across the driveway, just in case anyone was watching. Drawing a deep breath, I rang the bell.

  The door opened, and a man who could have played a butler in any movie for the last fifty years glared at me. “What are you doing here?” he asked, the chill in his voice so noticeable I wished I had a sweater on.