The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  “This is a wondrous world we now live in. Clients find their ways to us by methods we never imagined. Underground clubs gave way to newspapers and magazines—people found ways to connect over the phone, for crying out loud, and now, who knows where this Internet revolution might take us? There are now hundreds of established organizations that teach people safe ways to experience a form of slavery—”

  “Soft world clubs, you mean?” came a sharp voice, one of the three Australian trainers.

  Geoff swiveled quickly and stabbed a finger out, “Yes! And let me say that I don’t like that term much. Soft world, indeed. We marginalize people that way, we hold them up for ridicule. And yet where do we go to hunt?”

  “The army, for one,” snapped Walther, sitting up.

  “Mr. Kurgen, I’m glad you brought that up—because in fact, we are getting fewer clients from the armed services these days—and do you know why? Because they are reading these books and magazines and going to these clubs and finding that they don’t have to be taught to kill and submit blindly to governmental authority in order to serve!”

  “Now, see here,” Walther started to say. But Longet stopped him with a rap on the table.

  “Mr. Kurgen, please wait to be recognized during the rebuttal.”

  “I’ll kick his rebuttal all over Japan,” Walther muttered. When he saw Chris choking back a laugh, he grinned. “It is good to pun in English,” the German said with satisfaction.

  “With more clients coming to us with some experience—not the best experience, to be sure, but some knowledge of the language to describe their desires, we need to be adaptive, to grow and change, so that we can welcome them. A strict, restrictive style of training might not be able to be so open to cultural changes—”

  “Fads, you mean!”

  Geoff smiled sadly. “Fads go away in time. What I’m talking about is a sea change, a gradual shift in paradigms from which there is no turning back. We can’t afford to limit our scope any more than it already is, and I’m afraid, my friends, that this proposal, so innocent at first glance, so noble and high-reaching, is in reality a way to try to keep us focused upon our tribal past instead of charging forward into our shared future.

  “I have other points to make, but I see that my initial statement time is up. I welcome your comments.” He sat down after a slight bow to the audience and to Mr. Longet, who immediately pointed at Walther.

  “I don’t know about tribal things,” the German man said, rising. He scanned the room, a look of contempt on his chiseled features. “I am not from the wild west of America! And even if I were, I would be riding my great black stallion, Rih, being a cowboy, instead of wearing feathers and hunting the buffalo, eh?” He laughed, joined with most of the room.

  “But I do know this; the future is only worth advancing to when one knows and teaches the traditions of the past. Honors them, yes, and not just as—as—icons, as stories to tell to inspire us.” He wheeled around and gestured to himself, “I was trained by Karl Wein! And he trained with Jurgen and Marta Perlman, and they were trained—well, you all know who they were trained by! Or,” he said, with a meaningful pause, “you should know.”

  “The reason I name them is because I would not be here without their mastery. The methods they used and the way they instructed are in me like bone and blood. And they are effective! We have generations of proof as to their effectiveness, their efficiency. I think my respected American friend says he does not mean to insult when he suggests that we are outdated, but in fact he wishes we would all go away and leave him and his wild Indians to take over!”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Geoff said, rising.

  “No, no, you must wait now, it is my turn to speak!” yelled Walther.

  “Gentlemen, please,” called out Mr. Longet. “Mr. Negel, you are not recognized. Herr Kurgen, you may continue.”

  The German smiled in satisfaction as Geoff sat again. “In addition, I wish to say that we do have a tradition of barring trade when we must. Right now, we do not trade within the nations which will not honor visas and allow for the immigration of clients—and we must not forget that the Perlmans left their homeland not only because of personal danger, but so that they could aid in removing their clients and students from the... the nightmare. Every few years, we must examine ourselves and the world to determine where and when we are safe, and how we may continue to operate; this proposal, which I support, is but one way to assure us of continuity.” He looked at William Longet and nodded firmly. “I have finished speaking now.”

  “We recognize the author of the proposal.”

  “Thank you, Mssr. Longet.” Chris rose and bowed once to the parliamentarian and once to Noguchi. “Honored trainers and spotters, please allow me to remind you all, once again, that this proposal does not contain any language suggesting that there should be one approved training method. I would be the last one to suggest that; I have benefited from learning several radically different styles and have in fact developed my own, which many of you have examined.

  “‘Proposed: That the International Coalition of Trainers and Handlers create a standing committee of Standards of Training, including a certification process for accrediting new Trainers.’ A committee, my fellow trainers, not a single entity with one vision. A process; not a rule by fiat. And new trainers; not previously established ones. No one here would or should fear that their own styles, as long as they continued to be effective, would be disenfranchised.”

  “And what does that mean, continue to be effective, eh?” Ken Mandarin asked.

  “Exactly what it means to us now, Ms. Mandarin,” Chris replied. “We are all in service to three things—our consciences, our clients, and our customers.” There were agreeable nods to that summary, and he continued. “If we find that we are betraying ourselves in what we do, we will fail. If we don’t produce effective, pleasing, and content clients, we fail. And if there are no customers for those clients we train—then we have not only failed ourselves, but our clients as well. These things keep us honest, regardless of which styles we use.”

  “Then why bother with this controlling committee?” Ken asked with a dismissive wave of one hand.

  “For the same reasons that Mr. Negel used as arguments why we do not need it,” Chris said with a slight smile. “Yes, we are a large organization, and we can no longer all meet annually, trainers and spotters and slaves and owners. We have divided into our worlds, and even within the divisions, we cannot all know each other. But if all new trainers were presented for examination and certification—then at least we know that someone other than their direct line teacher or master has attested to their fitness.

  “We already encourage that clients be examined by two or more trainers before being presented for sale. What greater care should we take, then, when we establish a new trainer, who could touch the lives of perhaps hundreds of clients?

  “I am also encouraged by the growth of the Marketplace in the modern age. But I know you will agree that by our nature, we are exclusive. One of the ways we maintain our organization to the level of efficiency and continuity is by continually enforcing behavioral standards among ourselves. This commission, this process I propose will only serve to formalize what is already in place informally. We must keep our older values alive while we grow, or else all our growth will only lead to dissolution. To greater dissatisfaction among our clients and customers. To more exposure to the uninitiated outside world. To a greater emphasis paid to fads and fancies than to building the foundations for future generations of our people.” He sighed and unwrapped his fist from the paper he had been crushing without noticing, taking in the eyes of friends and foes. “Thank you for your kind attention.” He sat down, feeling suddenly nervous, even though Ninon leaned over to pat his thigh and Walther grunted in agreement.

  No wonder the feeling of dread—the next recognized speaker was Howard Ward, the chief speaker for the group from Great Britain. Chris felt his mouth go dry as he forced himself in
to a polite and relaxed position of attendance, and found that Dalton was doing the same thing. As Mr. Ward began by announcing his opposition to the proposal, they both nodded and looked as though this was of no more interest than the luncheon menu.

  But the session just got worse from there.

  * * * *

  “I understand the reasons behind your proposal perfectly, Parker,” said Fiona “Fi” Larabey, the only trainer currently working in Perth. She was a short and stocky woman with tanned and weathered skin and a shock of almost bleached hair that fell in staggering waves down her back. She reminded him of Jack, the stableman at Alex and Grendel’s house on Long Island. Maybe it had to do with the way she tossed her hair back and looked you right in the eye. Like most of the Australians he had met, these were two people who enjoyed the trappings of authority without really showing respect for them. They’d work at something until it came out perfectly, but wouldn’t call you “Sir” unless they bloody well felt like it. They had an enduring belief that if you could handle something well, you should be left alone to do it, without interference.

  “And honestly, I think some of the boys in there got a little out of hand with the name callin’ and such, and that’s a damn bloody shame, an’ I apologize for how nasty it got at the end. There’s no need for that kind of talk! But even if I disagree with the shouting an’ cursing, I still can’t see votin’ for your plan there. It’s just that I chafe under harness, you know?” she said. “Don’t like the idea of a governing committee sitting in judgment over me.”

  Chris sighed again; so many of the objectors turned the proposal into something personal, as though he had been thinking of them individually when he labored over the wording. At this point, he was almost ready to start asking them not to flatter themselves.

  “All I can ask of you is that you examine it again,” he said. “I think you will find that it is far more open to diversity than some of the more vehement opponents might believe.”

  “I’ll give it another go, then,” she said kindly.

  “Thank you,” he murmured. And realized that in their walk, they had come to the junction between the wings, and the crowd had thickened as people went to their choice of dining areas for a light lunch. Tonight’s banquet would by tradition be sponsored by their hosts, but there was still a long afternoon to endure. One more debate session to go, and then another round of seminars, during which he had to present his paper.

  Funny how unimportant that little thesis had become. He glanced at the options before him for food, and decided to stay in the western wing. There would be Japanese food in plenty later on. As he turned into the main dining hall though, he found that not only was Geoff Negel holding court in the center of the room with most of his supporters arrayed around him, but Michael was there as well, apparently listening.

  A slave came up to him immediately and he felt the way her eyes scanned his body language followed by the unhesitating way she held one hand out to indicate an empty seat to Negel’s back. Chris admired the way it was done, very neat, very discreet. But he shook his head, and without a second of hesitation, she guided him to an empty seat at the table to Geoff’s right. He was barely seated when a cup of coffee appeared, and finally, Michael noticed him.

  Poor Michael, how awkward for him.

  “Sorry, sir, I lost track of you in the halls,” the younger man said, as he hurried over to lean down next to Chris’s chair. “Um—I just came in here for a bite—”

  Chris turned to nod at the offered tray a slave was displaying, and allowed himself to be served a green salad but declined the curried prawns. “That will be all,” he said, and then turned back to Michael.

  “You are here to learn,” he said softly. “Learn.”

  “Hello, Mr. Parker,” Geoff called from the next table. Chris nodded to him. “It was a pleasure to debate with you again today; you’re an excellent speaker, and you made some pretty compelling arguments.” He smiled warmly, the kind of smile that made other people feel ungracious for not returning one just like it. Chris nodded again, a little more slowly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Negel. Then I can count on your support during the voting?”

  “Funny, too,” Geoff said quickly. “You know, Parker, you should come out to California one day. Actually see what it’s like in my corner of the world.”

  “I’ve been,” Chris said, drinking his coffee.

  “Well, you haven’t been to my place,” Geoff laughed. “You might consider coming; I would be honored to arrange a special training seminar and introduce you around. I think someone has given you a bad impression of who we are and what we do on the West Coast, and I’d give anything to correct it.”

  Michael almost laughed out loud at the thought of the oh-so-formal Chris Parker at Geoff Negel’s free-and-easy training center, where dressing for dinner meant putting pants on over your bathing suit, where there were often more guests entertained than slaves trained, and everyone called each other by their first name.

  “I try not to be a generalist,” Chris said. “And although I am concerned about things like Marketplace personnel having too close ties to the...non-Marketplace kinky population, and I am puzzled by the rise in family style relationships which incorporate our clients with non-clients in the same setting and blur the hierarchical differences, I don’t believe that the entire state of California is either responsible for these trends or filled entirely with people enacting them.”

  Paul Sheridan, the spotter, laughed out loud. “Damn if they aren’t though,” he said genially. “You should see what I saw last year at Folsom.” He shuddered. “There’s some scary shit coming from that side of the country, that’s for sure.”

  Geoff’s smile faded a little, to one that was more tolerant than warm, and he shook his head sadly. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Really now. We’re still people in California, you know. With all the glorious variety that I’m sure you can find in every region in the world. But the fact remains that we, on the West Coast of the United States, lead the way in the spread and acknowledgment of alternative sexualities.” One of the Asian men at Geoff’s table huddled with a translator, and Geoff paused until the man nodded in understanding.

  “We are the center of the radical sex movements—from the leather lesbians in Seattle to the large fetish parties in San Diego. And do I even have to mention San Francisco, the gay mecca of the United States? Of course we’re experimental—we’re pioneers. Forward thinkers. We find new ways to relate every day, and others come and learn them from us. Sure, there’s always some resistance, there always is to new ideas. But you’ll find that sooner or later, our ways seep into the lives and fantasies of the S/Mers across the country and around the world. Even to people in the Marketplace.”

  Chapter Fifteen: The California Way

  by M. Christian

  Turbulence over the Rockies had made her stomach into a gastrointestinal cauldron of potentially explosive embarrassment. The sudden drops, fists clenched tight enough to give her palms the commas of her fingernails, and equally spontaneous climbs had also pitched the fat, greasy salesman for Hunter Farm Equipment’s (“Finest Backhoes in Oskwa County, girlie”) whiskey sour onto the arm of her best—and only—blue suit. The harsh smell was a nail rammed into her sinuses, turning up the heat under her stomach.

  She didn’t sleep and the movie was one she’d already seen. She ended up faking it, trying to relax in the torturous seat for the rest of the trip—shutting her eyes to short-circuit the predatory small-talk and puffery from “the best damned salesman in Southeastern Louisiana—”

  Slaves aren’t supposed to be grouchy. Nonetheless, Doris was red-eyed, bone-tired, sharp, and testy when she finally retrieved her one small bag from the chaos of the carousel and went out into a crisp September morning.

  All that and she was back in San Francisco. Home was the last place she wanted to be.

  When Max Bloom, her Trainer, had told her to sever her ties with the outside, to sit and methodically dial o
ne number after another, cutting away job, friends, apartment, job... and family ...it had been easy to imagine that she was casting them off forever, call after call: closing doors so she could walk into the life she’d always wanted.

  One call had been to Richmond. Luckily she’d gotten her father’s answering machine. The message had been short, a quick flick of a verbal knife: “Good-bye. I’m leaving and I won’t be back.”

  But there she was, waiting as patiently as she could, struggling to fit herself into the carefully created persona of a Slave... but all the time feeling the ghosts of San Francisco waiting around every corner. Doris waited: Slave Doris for her new Master, Little Doris—who’d run away from home—for pain to start again.

  Even the mystery of her new life wasn’t enough to exorcise the ghosts. She still felt like she was waiting for Betsy to show up, to take her by the hand and drag her off into another adventure: the Chinese New Year Parade, the Cherry Blossom Festival, the Bay to Breakers, lunch in the Japanese Tea Garden, spaghetti in North Beach, closing clubs in SOMA—anything to distract, to keep from thinking of having to eventually go back to Richmond.

  Waiting in the cool concrete shadow of the airport, she took a nervous deep breath, trying to find the Slave that, just a few days before, had been bought—sold into a blissful life as sensual property. She tried to capture her life before the auction, to hang onto her erotic dream of a life—the smell of Max’s aftershave; the cool feel of his brass foot board she’d slept against; the curve of his long, hard cock entering her mouth, her cunt. The memories helped, putting her back into the Doris who’d been on the auction block, was property, a desired Slave, and not the Doris who’d run away to San Francisco every chance she’d got.