Mute by order and her own humiliation, she knelt in the center of the room, arms behind her back, eyes heavily downcast.
“I have invested a good portion of my very valuable time and resources in your acquisition, and personal time to train in the methods I prefer.”
Tears, as hot as molten lead, started to slowly inch their way down her cheeks and Fancy desperately wanted to blow her nose. She didn’t—and instead just let the snot slowly drip.
“By your behavior this afternoon I am beginning to think that all this time, all my time with you has been for nothing.”
When Fancy had first met her Master she had been entranced, shocked by his perfection into a kind of adoring stupor: tall, strong, with finely chiseled features, raven-dark hair, a finely manicured beard and mustache, intelligent, and with a profound knowledge of what was wonderful pleasure and, well, wonderful pain. His accent, more than anything though, was what made Fancy stand and simply drool—from both her mouth and her cunt: James Mason, Jeremy Irons, Alec Guinness, Pierce Brosnan... he was dignity, refinement, strength, and civility.
But now he was disappointed, and she discovered—for the first time—that his perfect Oxford tones could also project icy menace, cold distance, and dismissive indifference.
“But, as I have stated, I do try and understand, to forgive transgressions and failures—after all, I can’t hold you, an American, to my own British standards of excellence. Because of this, I am not prepared, at this time, to simply return you to the Marketplace. Do you understand how fortunate you are that I am endeavoring to expand this portion of my otherwise rigid and demanding personality?”
Fancy nodded, saying, “Yes, Sir; thank you, Sir,” and tried not to sniffle.
Suddenly an elegant hand appeared in her field of vision, coming between her bare thighs and the Chinese rug. In this hand was a silk handkerchief, a brilliant square of red. “Blow your nose, Fancy—have some pride. Until this incident you have done nothing to give me any form of displeasure. You have been a most satisfactory slave.”
Despite the compliment, Fancy felt herself smile. Before she had been... well, before she had been that young woman kneeling on that Chinese rug, she would have snorted a quick gust of disgust at his patronizing and been “outa here.”
But she was Fancy now—no, that wasn’t it. She was finally the woman she had always wanted to be, she was finally Fancy—and Fancy glowed at this kind gesture from her Master, this touch of approval.
“‘Have been,’ Fancy—until now, you have been an adequate slave. But your behavior this evening has shown that you may not be able to achieve the level of excellence I demand from those in my service. I may be trying to develop a sense of... patience with people’s flaws, but I am also firm in my requirements for my slaves. Tonight, Fancy, you must prove to me your worth as a slave, you must show me—your Master—that you have within yourself the ability to grow from your disappointing state into a truly memorable possession.”
He hadn’t given her permission, but Fancy knew her Master well enough to know when she was—unspoken—being allowed to speak. “Thank you so much, Sir. I won’t disappoint you again, Sir.”
“Perhaps you won’t,” he said—and was that a touch of humor in his precise voice? “You shall stay here tonight, while I go out to amuse myself, and you shall think about your error. In the morning, when I return to fetch you, I expect to hear the exact words that will show me that you are indeed worthy of my time as your Master.”
With that, her Master turned and walked out—but not before turning out the lights, drenching the room in cool darkness.
* * * *
For the first hour Fancy berated herself, pummeling her self-esteem with her Master’s disappointment. Why do I even try? I can’t even do this right. Why do I always fail at everything I try? This was going to be it; this was going to be the life I always wanted—and now I fucked it up. Her Master flashed through her mind. His wicked smile as he selected the toy of the evening, the taste of his lips, the biting smell of his excitement, the time he’d bathed her and made her sneeze from the bubbles. That afternoon when he taught her how to properly make tea, that night he’d presented her to what he called his “Circle,” and the rest of that night as she was delightfully passed from one to another—and I fucked it up, just as I always do.
For the next hour she tried to calm herself, back away from the hideous pit yawning before her. Stop—it’s not over yet! You have to try, you have to pull yourself together and keep going. He hadn’t thrown her away, he hadn’t ended his wonderful time with her. He was still here, and she was still here. He had taught her so much—how to make real English tea and how to burn the crumpets, but—more importantly, lessons in pleasuring others, in understanding sensation, in the glory of service, and, more than anything, the skill to love what you have been, are, and could be. I want this too damned much!
From ten to eleven she wandered through her own mind, a little trip through her personal history. It wasn’t a voyage she wanted to go on, but for some reason thinking of her Master and their good times brought to mind the long, hard years she’d spent trying to get where she was.
Unlike some of her friends, her special desires hadn’t always been there. There had been no tying the next-door kids up, no getting wet watching pirate or gladiator movies, no self-bondage, not even dog-eared copies of famous naughty books. Before she was Fancy, she was happy enough—a good home, good folks, complete education, and even some traveling. She’d had lovers, women as well as men, but something had always seemed... missing, as if every time she orgasmed a part of her would stay hungry for something spicy. It took her a while, several years in fact, before she found it. It hadn’t been the expected route either—no sudden stumbling over an S/M emporium, no lover who liked to spank—or be spanked. No, she had been masturbating one lazy Sunday morning, just like of drifting along in her own mind, fantasizing about that time at the lake three years before when she’d had that little informal three way with Philip and Nick. In the middle of her memories of that hot morning on the dock when Nick playfully had taken off her bikini top and Philip had gently flicked a cool finger over one of her exposed nipples, she found herself imagining Philip—instead—grabbing her head and forcing it down towards his gentle pulsing cock while Nick mumbled in her ear, “You want it, slut—you want it bad.”
It had shocked her—the reality of the fantasy and the power of her orgasm. Sitting in the little dark room of her beloved Master, she remembered thinking through the rolling after-quakes of her coming, I want this.
After that, it was easy—the information was right at hand, as if it had always been hovering just out of reach. She just hadn’t seen it. She was lucky, though, that when she had seen it, had realized she wanted it, that she’d been able to find it.
The trip, at first, had been rocky—a couple of “Masters” that were all bluster and thunder without passion, or a few with passion but no power. Some were silly (“Call me ‘My Liege’”), some hurt her spirit as well as her body, and others... well, others had been just too boring to even remember. She was especially lucky that the road didn’t wander off into self-destruction or shame—every step had seemed in the right direction... even if it meant an occasional detour (“Call me ‘Fire Lady’”).
Then, just when it seemed she was ready, a rumor changed into a possibility, and then into a name and a phone number. Sitting in that small room, the darkness a warm blanket around her, she remembered that first call—the quavering in her voice, the man’s firm tones on the other end; when she hung up the phone she knew, then and there, that she was not what she had been. The next step was just to find a name for her new self.
She became Fancy: a well-trained, elegant, skilled, and—mostly—valued slave. First to her Trainer, Jason, and then—after a frightening turn on the auction block—to Master Graham. Her Master was all that she could hope for—powerful, dynamic, passionate, and—until her foot caught on the edge of the rug—a su
rprisingly sensitive dominant.
In the dark, she felt the shame boil in her and the tears start to fog her already dimmed vision. It had all been for nothing, she’d finally discovered what she wanted to become, where she wanted to be, and then she’d thrown it all to the wind. Because of a knot in a carpet. A foot too close to the floor.
It wasn’t just the sex—though, okay, that was a wonderful part—or the servitude—which was terrific. More than anything was the thought that she was prized, she hadn’t just been a slave, she’d been a damned fine one. For the first time in her life she’d felt true, deep pride, in what she did, what she’d become. She understood that this one mistake wouldn’t send her back to Jason in disgrace. Master Graham wouldn’t sell her or return her because she tripped. But if she didn’t maintain high standards of behavior, it was a distant possibility. And without a doubt, she would miss her Master’s hands caressing her body, the way his strong chest felt, tasted; and she’d certainly miss being the object of his powerful will but... most of all, she’d miss being Fancy, and the pride that made her the best.
The darkness outside was close to mirroring the sadness inside her when she heard the noise.
It took a while, the sadness smothering her, making anything except for her pain insignificant, but it was very persistent—too much to ignore.
In a hammering heartbeat her attention was on the closed and shaded window. The sound was there, sharp and clear—too irregular to be wind, way too precise to be anything natural.
She was frozen, deer-in-the-headlights paralyzed. Oh, shit—she thought in a tone she thought she’d left behind when she’d become Fancy—what the fuck is that?
She knew what she had to do, too many years of living in the city had instilled her with a kind of territorial feral instinct: get up, turn on the light, yell “Get away from my window, youcocksuckingmotherfucker!” and, if her blood was sufficiently boiling, throw something cheap and heavy at the window.
The sound continued—but Fancy just stood at attention, frozen. Part of it was fear, even from that ballsy woman who would have grabbed the nearest ceramic ashtray, heaved, and called the landlord to fix the window afterward. But a bigger portion was... something that sent a shiver of fear up her back. She was wet.
Fuck, she was wet—with the revelation that the sound was someone outside, forcing their way inside. She’d felt it: a feeling she’d only felt before during the wonderful depths of servitude. Graham’s hands on her ass, Graham’s cock in her mouth, Graham’s cock in her cunt, Graham’s whip on her back—and, now, the little scratching that meant someone was trying to break in.
Standing there in the dark, she felt herself drip. When the window finally cracked and then softly squeaked open, she knew she must have been painting her thighs with a sheen of molten desire.
He was big. As he stepped through the window his shoulders brushed the sides of the frame, and when he stood his head was only a foot or two from the top. Dressed in black, he looked like the darkness made human-form: the dead of night out for a prowl.
Gloves, dark jeans, a black sweater and ski mask—Fancy couldn’t tell if he was young, old, black, white, Asian, or anything else. He was—her nipples felt like knotted cords, and each heavy thump of her pounding heartbeat seemed to send a exciting tremor through them. Her cunt was heavy, and hungry for any touch, any penetration; her clit was as hard as she ever felt it. It was only her terror that kept her from dropping a hand down to part her plump lips and stroke it. Suddenly her throat hungered for a cock—any cock—to plunge down, fill her with salty come. There, in the dark, she was the perfect slave, the perfect object of lust... just waiting to be used by a pure man; an animal walking upright. He was a hunter, a lion, a beast. Graham was powerful, certainly, but this intruder was a crack of lightning.
It was all Fancy could to keep from whimpering, from dropping to her knees and begging him—pleading with him—to take her, use her, fuck her.
Then he saw her. “Whatthefuck—!” he said in a thick voice, too full of thunder and alarm for her to recognize the accent. In a burst of dark movement he was facing her, crouched down and perfectly focused. One hand was cocked back in a leather-covered fist, the other... gleamed.
Fancy was on her knees, hands outstretched in perfect submission—terror collapsing under the weight of her trained desire. Legs slightly spread, heavy breasts resting on the scratchy rug, nipples shimmering as if shocked by the contact, she was his: perfectly, absolutely, totally.
Knives did that to her.
“Jesus, bitch—” he said, stepping back and breathing heavy. She couldn’t speak. One half too much panting desire at the sign of the sharp steel, one half sizing him up: letting him do the talking.
“Get up, bitch,” he said, voice deep, hoarse—as if scratched by too many fierce screams. “What the fuck you doing?”
Slowly, the fear making her hands shake, she climbed back up onto her feet. The room seemed to sway.
For the first time he seemed to notice she was naked. “Fuck...” he said, that rough voice dropping a register as he looked.
He raped her with his eyes. Even though the room was dark, there was more than enough ambient light from the busy city outside. In the intermittent flashes, his hard stare was as cold as the knife he still held: her shoulders, her large breasts, knotted nipples, the gentle swell of her tummy, her bare mons (Graham not having a fondness for pubic hair)—and he couldn’t very well miss her swollen majora or the shine of juice on the inside of her thighs.
Fancy stood stock still, feet planted firmly, eyes downcast—focused on the brilliant shine of the knife in his hand. She wanted that knife, as much or more so than his cock. She wanted that knife to hover, a hair’s breath, from her throat. She wanted to feel his fire, his ferocity—she wanted to be trapped with this beast, this urban tiger. Fancy wanted to be his toy, and his victim.
The darkness was thick like syrup—as if from the bottom of a well, she looked up at his knife, trying to anchor herself in cold logic: burglar in the house, knife positioned at her naked belly, Graham nowhere to be found, maybe not even at home. But even cold logic betrayed her, and the so-hungry slave named Fancy, instead looked at a powerful animal, glittering knife in his hand, hard cock in his pants, sopping moisture between her legs.
“You want it, bitch, don’t you?” he said, tone still gravel, but now tempered with what must have been mean-ass come-on.
She almost nodded, almost said “Yes, Master,” almost dropped down to her knees again to hunt for his hard cock through those black jeans. Almost—but she didn’t. She stood, frozen—a deer in his feral headlights—and trembled from equal parts fear and want.
The knife blade flashed in front of her downcast eyes, so close it made her start, made her eyes flicker up from the blade to his arm, his broad shoulders, his dark eyes. “Yeah, bitch—you want it....”
She did—Lord, she did. It was like the absolute slave that Fancy wanted to be, was standing there. She was pure. She was want. She was an object. She was a victim....
Fancy heard his hands fumbling with his belt, heard his jeans tumble around his ankles. Heard, because she suddenly wasn’t looking down, but rather had brought her head up to stare into a pair of hard brown eyes. She saw him for the first time: not power, just violence; not domination, but destruction.
“Yeah, bitch, you fuckin’ want it. You want it fuckin’ bad—” he said, equal parts desire and rage. A kid, a little boy, who finally got his wish: a toy to use, break, then throw away. “You ready to take it, bitch?”
“No,” Fancy said, “and I’m not a bitch. I’m Fancy—and I’m the best fucking slave there is.”
Then she took a step back, carefully aimed—that brown belt in Tae Kwon Do never far from her mind—and power kicked him right in the balls.
* * * *
In the end, she really wished she could have stolen away for a quick shower. But the instant the thought filled her mind she pushed it aside. Her Master had told he
r to remain in this room, and that’s what she would do—even if she reeked of cunt juice and sweat.
Her arms still ached, and she smiled. She’d stayed where she’d been put—but that hadn’t prevented her from getting a work-out. He certainly hadn’t looked heavy—big, maybe, but not like the monster sack of cement he’d felt like as she’d dragged him, groaning and cursing, over to the window. Even with his balls kicked up his ass, he’d tried to grab her—but she’d just fallen back into a perfectly balanced stance (Thank you, Master Ko) and given him three quick shots to the face, throat, and solar plexus—which had left him in a pliant, if heavily fetal curl.
Once she knew he wasn’t going to do anything remotely threatening, her breathing settled back into its regular, slow rhythm. She picked the knife up—noticing for the first time it was a cheap Chinese piece of shit—and flipped into a far corner. Call the police? She should, it was, after all, her civic duty... but then she hesitated. First, explaining to the cops why she was naked, why one room of Graham’s lavish apartment was decked out with a sling, stocks, GYN table; why... well, there were just too many whys. Too many things had to be hidden, changed, covered, and Master would have to be summoned and disturbed as well. His much valued privacy would be invaded. Besides, the burglar—between sobs and almost-shrieking groans—was quite adamant about coming back to “fucking kill you, bitch.”
She debated, quite coolly, taking the knife and... well, not really seriously.
In the end, she settled for simply dragging him over to the window and heaving him out. He made a very satisfying thud and then some almost childish screams after he landed in the alley two floors below. She made a mental note to have the ornamental railings outside the windows checked for damage, and returned to her place in the center of the room. To her shock, it was morning already—somehow, the night had passed, taking with it her shame and terror, her deeper fears, and her unholy arousal. She was once again Fancy.
The Academy Page 13