The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  “Pretty enough to fuck,” said someone who could have been Spunk.

  “None for you, young man—you’ve been grounded. Until, that is, you get your punishment,” said someone who could have been Pa.

  “Awww, man...” said someone who could have been Spunk.

  “Part of which, you bad boy, is getting to watch but not touch,” said someone who could have been Pa.

  Then something slightly cool, and very hard, touched her hot, melting lips. The touch was electric—but not literally: She was flying, hot and high, and the touch there was only slightly less steaming that she was... thus, cool. She was confused, floating on her ropey wings, buoyed by the near come from Pa’s whip, so she wasn’t capable of any kind of even lower mathematics: Doris couldn’t add anything up—so she didn’t really know what Pa meant when she said: “What is it, dear?”

  “I—I don’t know, Pa,” she managed to mumble out.

  “Come on, slut. You know. Take a guess. But if you guess Spunk you’re wrong—he’s being punished.”

  Then it clicked—a remarkable achievement considering how her consciousness was floating somewhere around Jupiter. An image: A fine sculpture of wood, burnished and glowing with natural warmth. Too big? Maybe, or maybe she was so excited, so on fire she’d try anyway—if just to push her over the edge: “The dildo, Sir.”

  “Right, slut. Very right—” and the touch turned into a slowly increasing pressure. With a will focused to an extraordinarily tight, tiny point, Doris could imagine the wooden cock slowly press against her wet, open lips, pushing aside with gentle insistence the rope, the knot, that she knew was there. She could see it in her mind—since here eyes were staring at the whiteness of a screen—glistening with reflections from her hot juice, as Pa slowly withdrew, inserted, withdrew, inserted the sculpture until, painstakingly, but painlessly, it moved into her one fraction of an inch at a time.

  It was hard to say where Doris was right then—Neptune, possibly—but wherever it was, it was good. Damned good. Screamingly good, which was what she did—an earthen, primordial scream of pure joy—as the cock made its way, the final inch, into her.

  “Now, slut,” someone who might have been Pa said, “you may come.”

  “Yes, dear,” someone who might have been Ma said, “now.”

  “Oh, man,” someone who might have been Spunk said, “I’m so fucking hard!”

  Then she did—and, lifted by the wondrous ropes of Ma, fucked by the magnificent cock of Pa—she passed out.

  Words, during or since, could never do it justice.

  * * * *

  Dreamily, because Doris could never be sure how much of the rest of that evening was reality or the soft, billowy illusions of her sleeping, happy mind, the cock was withdrawn from her clenching, spasmodic cunt. She then was slowly, carefully, uncoiled from the thin grasps of Ma, and gently lowered to the floor.

  Then, before a shiver could even begin to race across her body, she was bundled up in a beautifully ornate quilt (that she knew Ma must have sewn), carried up a flight of stairs and into a simple, yet warmly beautiful room (all rosewood and oak, peaceful paintings and flowers), and was tucked into a comfortable bed.

  “Tomorrow,” Pa may or may not have said, kissing her on the forehead “you’ll fix us all breakfast. Then we’ll decide what to do with Spunk.”

  “Tomorrow,” Ma may or may not have said, also kissing her on the forehead “you’ll help me bake some cookies. Then we’ll get Spunk.”

  “Tomorrow,” Spunk may or may not have said, playfully ruffling her hair, “is going to be a lot of fun.”

  Then the light was put out, and darkness closed in. “Welcome home,” they may or may not have said as definite dreams started to close in around Doris—and she smiled.

  Chapter Sixteen: Honorable Opponents II

  There was a lot of grumbling when the trainers reassembled in the large room. A lunchtime spent re-hashing debates—or trying to avoid the subject—did not serve to make many of them eager to continue. Despite the strong showing that the anti-proposal speakers had made in the morning, there was a heavy expectation of formidable verbal combat in the air. Toward the end of the morning session, the debates had started to get—nasty.

  “Academy members,” said William Longet as he took his seat again, “please attempt to observe decorum! There is no need for the sort of name-calling or harsh language evident in our last session.”

  But apparently there was. Corinne was called a ‘narrow-minded, stuck up Frenchie who didn’t know what language to think in,’ and Sam Keesey from Nevada was called an anarchist; Tetsuo Sakai was accused of supporting the proposal in order to maintain an unethical control over the Asian market, and Ken Mandarin almost throttled an elderly Irish woman who called her a slut who spotted only to support her own promiscuity.

  Longet appealed to order again and again, until he had to rise and bang his gavel repeatedly to get their attention. And each time, they sent quick apologies to him and sometimes to each other, sat down, and allowed at least one more person to speak for a minute uninterrupted.

  Ninon was one of the few who was granted a moderate amount of time and attention.

  “I support this proposal with all my heart,” she said clearly, her voice achieving a bell-like quality as she pitched it to the room. “For I have seen what happens when unsuitable trainers allow unsuitable slaves to be traded. Twenty years ago, you heard of such things in whispers, as rare happenstance which caused shame to fall upon a house and all the trainers within. Now, it is too easy to say, oh, so-and-so trained with this man, but he has not been with him in two years. Or that woman, she was training with this one, but she left early and found someone who would present her clients. That is not only bad karma, as our kind hosts would say, but it is bad business.”

  That was more to the point, and the trainers listened, many of them nodding.

  “If we had the power to approve all new trainers, we could establish a formal apprenticeship period—create a way for local coalitions of trainers to nominate new, younger trainers to us—and encourage the more established houses to create new opportunities for these fresh, new faces to study and learn—”

  “See? See how easy it is to go from a general approval committee to something even more insidious?” That was Keesey, standing to face her, his broad, burnished face red from a previous confrontation. “Already, they’re thinking of establishing training guidelines, sending new juniors to the old schools! Why not just take my trainees from me and indoctrinate them right now?”

  “Now, see here!” shouted Tucker, raising a fist, “Don’t you go callin’ Ninon insidious, you fat prick!”

  The sound of the gavel falling and the sight of Ninon, drawn up with her arms carefully crossed in front of her steadily brought the general outrage down to quiet again.

  “As I was saying before I was interrupted,” she said easily, “yes, I do believe that the old style of apprenticing new trainers is perfect the way it is. I have had great success with it—and so have all the older houses that have been using it for generations. I am not ashamed to say that I think all trainers would be improved by it, and if I served upon this committee, I would ask whether such methods were used in one’s training.” She leveled her gaze at several of the more outspoken opponents. “I do not fear such a commission, because I know that if I had failed myself and a student, I would want to know before my student wasted the time, passion, and love of creating a slave. I would wish to know whether I had not given my student enough time and experience before I sent them out to affect the lives of the living treasures we call clients. I would rather be called names here, by all of you, than to hear from one owner that one slave coming from my trainer line was unsuitable. A committee to approve new trainers in our midst? I regret only that the proposal did not also give us a way of dealing with some of the unsuitable ones among us now. I am finished; you may resume your shouting.” She sat down elegantly, and no one shouted.

  “Ni
non, I hear what you are saying,” said Geoff, rising. One of his supporters who actually had been pointed at by Longet waved the parliamentarian off and yielded his place. “But let’s be serious here. You advocate a training period of five years. Tetsuo here says six. And Anderson, not to be outdone, asks for a commitment of seven years to make a trainer like her. Seven years, ladies and gentlemen! You could train a surgeon in less time!

  “This isn’t an effective way to continue our lines! This is lunacy!” The stress of the day was showing on him, too, although he seemed to handle his voice level very well. “And the methods of training trainers often make slave training look like a vacation week in the Bahamas!” This got a laugh from some of the trainees standing along the edges of the walls. “Really; how much longer do you think people will stand for the kind of strict, hierarchical—and downright brutal—methods that are advocated by some of our more...traditional...members? You would ask young and new trainers if they endured the years of humiliation and abuse required of these pathologically sadistic styles of training and judge them acceptable because of it? I would like to know myself, so that I can keep clients out of their hands!”

  Chris Parker almost choked, and a wave of gasps spread through the room, accompanied by scattered laughter and one or two claps. Tetsuo was signaling to be recognized, though, so Chris kept his own hand down.

  “Surely my esteemed colleague does not mean to suggest that trainers numbered among us today are actually harmful to their clients and novice trainers,” he said reasonably. “I beg his pardon if I misunderstood, I am not attended by a translator at this moment, an unforgivable error at a meeting of this importance.”

  No one was fooled. Of the Japanese contingent, Tetsuo Sakai had the best mastery of idiom and cultural vocabulary in American English. Geoff drew a hesitating breath, but before he could respond, Tetsuo continued, “I agree that the training programs we use here are difficult; who would wish that a teacher or master is ill-informed, or ill-instructed? We do not teach a simple matter here. We have a sacred duty to our clients, to provide them with instructors who can be respected because of what they have achieved—and yes, what they have endured. It is a path of honor, to grow in this way. But it is not—inhuman as much as it is occasionally inhumane. It is heat which tempers the sword, after all.” He bowed to Mr. Longet. “My apologies for my rude interruption.”

  “Please, please, it was no interruption,” Geoff said quickly. “I am thankful for your wisdom, of course, Sakai-san.” He gave a slight bow, but it was clear that he was not ready to surrender the floor, either. “But I respectfully disagree.

  “Once, it was thought that the only way to achieve mastery was to start out life as a slave. But that philosophy never held true on any real cultural level, it was an invention.”

  “What?” came several affronted cries.

  “Look at history, my friends! Every human culture had its elite classes, born to be served, and its poor and disenfranchised, born to be enslaved by one method or another. Only when society grew to appreciate democratic values did the concept of a man—or woman—working their way up the ranks to the top come to realistic fruition.

  “So now we have the concept of a voluntary slave—an oxymoron if there ever was one—and we provide an arena in which we encourage people to act out the erotic fantasy of owner and owned. We are merely the intermediaries here, serving two real masters—our clients and our customers.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Mr. Ward said strongly, “but to some of us present, this is no fantasy!”

  Geoff waved a hand casually. “Use any word you like then. We control the paradigm. We create the alternate reality. But I’m afraid that when you believe too passionately in this lifestyle as a series of earned ranks, that only a former slave may make a future one, that only pain and humiliation and blatant trickery can mold someone into a good trainer, then you are encouraging a system of abuse!”

  “My God man, you are callin’ us abusers!” shouted Tucker.

  “Mr. Negel, I think you might wish to reconsider what you’ve said,” said Chris, rising two rows back from Tucker.

  “Gentlemen and ladies, please attempt to—” started Mr. Longet, but Geoff directed himself back at Chris.

  “I chose my words deliberately, Mr. Parker! Yes, if what you are doing is setting out to inflict the same patterns of shame and physical pain and a steady stream of humiliating duties and behaviors on someone just because that was what was done to you, then you are nothing more than another abusive parent figure, getting your own back for the pain you experienced in the past.”

  “Damn, that’s one of the best parts,” Bronwyn whispered to Dalton, who barely suppressed a tight smile.

  “Gentlemen!” Longet managed to get himself heard. “The topic we are addressing is the proposal!”

  “This pertains to the reasoning behind the proposal,” Geoff insisted. “To create a slow and steady monopoly on new trainers, by denying non-traditional houses any new ‘approved’ trainers! You can count on discouraging the truly creative, the spirited individuals who have no intention of giving up their privacy, their free wills, their very sexual orientation—or their bodies—and retain only the ones who are best molded by your will-breaking, and with all due respect to Mr. Sakai, inhuman program of brainwashing. When will you people understand that we are trainers, not slaves?”

  Rumbles grew into outbursts as Longet started thumping his gavel again.

  “My fellow trainers, those among you who are still clinging to these outmoded ways are just hoping that by controlling the new trainers in the field, you’ll keep your dominance throughout the Marketplace by default, instead of by merit.”

  Michael trembled, he was so tense; the room had exploded into knots of trainers and spotters yelling at each other. He watched Chris, who was still standing—and saw his teacher exchange a long look with an old, balding gentleman seated with the bunch of Brits—he could see Bronwyn sitting right next to him. And then Chris turned to eye Ken Mandarin, who was scowling. Gradually, the riot subsided again, leaving Chris and Geoff facing each other.

  “Your comments, sir,” said Chris, “were beneath contempt. And perfectly illustrative of the need for this proposal.” He took his seat as casually as if he had been up to make a point of order, leaving Geoff Negel frowning for a moment in confusion. Then, with a heavy sigh, the Californian man sat as well, and hands and fingers waving gave William Longet something to do.

  Chapter Seventeen: Smoke Rings

  Chris smelled her before he actually heard her approach. “Cuban?” he asked, without turning his head.

  “Oui, but of course! And I brought one for you.”

  Ken Mandarin stepped across the stone pathway and leaned over the edge of the decorative fencing, looking over the edge, down the sloping hill. It was thick with tropical vegetation, rich in heavy, misty scents. Her cigar cut through the air like a trumpet blast, and she grinned around it. She turned back to Chris, seated on a stone bench and offered him one from her leather case.

  “I’ve given it up,” he said lightly.

  “Nonsense! Giving up American cigarettes is wise. They are tasteless tubes of nothing. Giving up expensive cigars rolled upon the thighs of virgins, however, is stupid. Take it.” She waved it enticingly. “Take it! You can always smoke it later, when no one is looking.”

  Chris sighed and took the cigar from her, a Romeo y Julietta. He slid it into his breast pocket carefully and moved to make room for her. “Rolled on the thighs of virgins?” he asked.

  “It is a pleasant image,” Ken declared, sitting down. “Even if it was truly some ancient Cuban man who has more fingers than teeth.”

  Chris nodded, the scent of the rich, bitter tobacco working its seductive dance on his senses. “Ken, why are you still against me on this?’ he asked suddenly.

  “Because I don’t like to be told what to do,” she said simply. “I am an Owner from birth; I am a Spotter by trade, an Agent by whim, and sometimes I
am a Trainer by choice. If you, Chris Parker, come to me and say, ‘train your slaves in thus and such a way, I know it to be useful,’ I can listen to you, or tell you to go fuck yourself. Either way, it is my choice, and I continue to do my work and I succeed or fail according to what I deserve. Your way, this accredited way—it would take away my choice, no?”

  “No,” Chris said calmly, even though this would be the fifth or sixth time he had explained this. “I never suggested that there should be one accepted method, or even that the governing committee should have the power to force a single method onto unwilling trainers. You should know me better than that. But you have to admit that we are getting far too loose. It’s all the buzz in the hallways, isn’t it? Too much time spent weeding out unsuitable clients, dealing with owners who want refunds, slaves who want out. We need a little more centralization of the training process, and a way to—deal with trainers who consistently turn out poor clients.”

  “But who gets to be in the center? That is my question.” Ken took a long, gentle drag on her cigar and leaned back to blow smoke rings. They drifted around her head lazily until she waved them into nothingness. “I understand you, I truly do. And there is nothing I wish more than for business to be a little easier on us all. But to give one group of trainers the right to rule over the others? Not acceptable.”

  Chris shook his head. “I wish I could find a way to assure you it won’t be like that.”

  “Power is power is power, Mr. Parker. I will tell you now, here, alone, that I think you are a magnificent trainer. I think you are one of the best I have ever seen, and I like to work with you. I like to play with you! But you are a hard man. You don’t like people to come in and, how would you say...make a mess in your clean life. But we spotters and part-timers, we are a messy people!” She waved her cigar around and some of her ash fell onto the smooth gray stones beneath their feet. She laughed delightedly at her perfect illustration.

  “I don’t understand you,” Chris said with a slight, crooked smile. “I know for a fact that you are every bit as conservative as I am. You’ve said the same things I have about some of the alternative training methods, and much worse! All you third and fourth generation Marketplacers are like that, you always remember the good old days when trainers were owned by houses, and houses were run by pure owners whose bloodlines ran back for centuries, and slaves signed away lifetime contracts like this.” He snapped his fingers arrogantly, jerking his arm to one side in a campy gesture.