The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  “And how much of this feeling is sexual, Jeffrey? Do you feel the same pleasure in service after you’ve had an orgasm?”

  I flushed with embarrassment, because of course a lot of it was sexual. And I remembered how lazy I could feel right after coming. But he spared me having to confess that, and he seemed to understand that it wasn’t just sexual.

  “Well, that proves you’re normal, my boy! Nearly all slaves find their calling because sex drives them to it. But those who stay in this life discover rewards beyond the sexual—they have to, because most Masters allow orgasms very sparingly! A horny slave is an attentive slave, and the same goes for a trainee. If I accept you for training, Jeffrey, the very first rule is that you will never touch your cock except to clean it, and then with a washcloth, and you will never come except on my order—unless you have a wet dream! And you can be sure I won’t order you to come for a long time, at least four weeks to start. These rules don’t apply only when you’re here. You’ll follow them all the time, everywhere. Can you accept and abide by that?”

  “Yes, Sir!” I vowed, my cock paradoxically rock-hard at the thought of being denied release. “It’ll be hard, Sir, but I know I can do it.” Four weeks!

  “Good. There are devices that can help insure your chastity, and I’ll look into getting something practical for you. But any device can be defeated if the slave is determined to disobey. Your obedience is much more important than your chastity. You will demonstrate that obedience by keeping a daily journal, and, among other things, you will note down in it every time you ‘slip’ and touch your cock. I will discuss your slips with you and encourage you to do better. If the violation was flagrant, I will punish you. A failure to be truthful with me is unforgivable. If I ever catch you in a lie, you will be instantly dismissed. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “A word about punishment. I don’t believe that you can train a slave to behave properly by physical punishment. I use pain as a reminder, or for emphasis, and to help a trainee focus. But the main force must always be your own desire to succeed and excel, to become what you say you want to be. I’m not going to beat that into you or any of that nonsense you’ve probably read about in porn stories.

  “Oh, I’ll beat you plenty—every session will include some kind of a beating. As I told you before, slaves need to be beaten regularly. But I won’t beat you for punishment. I expect you to learn not only to accept regular beatings but to welcome them and enjoy them. The last thing I want is for you to associate them with misbehavior, or to encourage you to think you need to screw up in order to get beaten!

  “Most of our sessions will be much like this first one, though longer and with more varied training in how to move, especially in chains, how to talk, and how to serve. If I think you need heavier torture or extended bondage, I’ll give you that, too. You won’t need to play games anymore the way you’ve been doing in the bars. You won’t have to try to seduce me into giving you what you need. Giving you what you need is what I’m here for. Think of me as your coach. I will prepare you to endure anything that may be imposed on you in service, and to do anything you’ll be asked for. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir.” My head was spinning with questions! But I didn’t know where to begin, or how to ask them without irritating him. Of course, he saw that, too.

  “If you think of questions after you leave today, you may write me, and I will answer them, if I can, when I see you again.”

  “Thank you, Sir!”

  “I don’t hold much with written contracts during training. Either your word is your bond, or you’re not worth anyone’s time. So here’s the deal: If you will agree to do whatever I tell you, to the best of your ability, until I release you, I will agree to train you to be the best slave you are capable of being. I promise that I will not dismiss you except for cause or when I judge you are ready to offer yourself to a Master. You, however, will have the option of quitting at any time for any reason—with the proviso that such a decision is final, and that if you quit I won’t see you again. Is all that clear, Jeffrey?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And do we have an agreement?”

  Sweat broke out all over me as I wrestled with the decision. He made it seem so... so sweeping and irrevocable, although there was that escape clause... . Wasn’t this what I wanted? How could I back out now, without even trying? Just because he’s not a sexy stud? You don’t need to be a sexy stud to be a good teacher! But what if he expects to fuck me, or have me suck him off?... Well, so what? I can close my eyes and pretend it’s someone else. When I’m a slave I won’t have any choice about who uses my holes. Why worry about it now? I’m sure he’ll keep it safe; he’s no fool, that’s for sure.

  “Why are you hesitating, boy?” he demanded finally. “Either you know what you want, or you don’t. Having sought me out with considerable effort, you know what I am. You know my reputation. You came here asking to be trained as a slave, and I have agreed to do so. Yes, I’m demanding a blank check from you, but you can stop payment on it at any time. We’re both adults. We’ve been candid with each other—or at least I have. You’ve had a chance to see and feel what my teaching is like. Trust your heart. Decide.”

  “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” I forced out. This was so hard!

  “Does that mean you agree? Don’t hedge.”

  “Yes, Sir, I agree, Sir. I will do whatever you tell me, Sir, to the best of my ability, until you release me, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” There! It was done. I was committed.

  “Good boy. Put your hands behind your back again. Now bend forward and kiss my shoes. The left one first. Always begin on the Master’s left when you are offering service. Begin on your right side when you change your own position.” I could barely reach his gleaming black shoes, but he helped me by moving his feet out a few inches. After I kissed his left and then his right shoe, I knelt upright again, keeping my head bowed. Something cold and metallic slipped over my head and settled around my neck—a dog chain. He had slipped one end through the other, instead of locking it, and the loose end hung down my chest.

  “Your collar, boy. It’s unlocked, because you still have the freedom to take it off at any time. But you’ll keep it on, won’t you?” Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to take it off!

  “Oh, yes, Sir, thank you, Sir!”

  “You’ll have to earn a lock for it, boy, and that won’t be easy. You need to understand exactly what you’re giving up in becoming a slave, and this unlocked collar will be there to remind you. It’s almost time for you to go, but I’ll expect you back here tomorrow at six p.m. You get off work at five o’clock, you said, so be punctual. You’re going to serve my dinner, and I don’t like to eat late. Tomorrow is Friday, so expect to stay here through the weekend. If you had other plans, cancel them. Bring a small bag with anything you think you absolutely need as well as clothes for work on Monday. Remember that your cock and balls are off limits to you now. Don’t worry too much about all the other rules I’ve given you today. We’ll go over them again and again until you’re incapable of forgetting them. Tonight just concentrate on not touching your cock—that should be hard enough, I expect! You can even sleep in your bed instead of on the floor; time enough for that later. Any questions yet, boy?”

  “Yes, Sir. Forgive me, Sir, if this is too personal... but were you ever a slave?”

  “Yes, boy,” he said with a laugh, “I’ve been where you are—that’s really what you’re asking, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for me to reply but continued, more gravely. “I was trained just as I will train you—if anything, more harshly and forcibly. I wasn’t allowed to live on my own at all once I entered training. I was brought into my Master’s home, stripped, collared, and regimented twenty-four hours a day from Day One. I won’t ask anything of you that hasn’t been demanded of me. Understand, boy?”

  “Yes, Sir. But... but...” His eyes flashed, and I left the obvious question unstated, suddenly afraid I’
d angered him. His expression softened, however, and he actually smiled down at me—kneeling before him put my head lower than his even though I was taller and he was sitting.

  “Why am I not a slave now? Is that your question, boy?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said in a small voice.

  “Who said I’m not, boy? There’s more than one way to live a life of service. We can’t all stay naked and on our knees, much as we might like to. For instance, right now you need to get on your feet, get dressed, and go home.”

  “Yes, Sir!” I said, smoothly rising to my feet in the Ready position before turning to leave the room.

  “Stop!” Mr. Benjamin said sharply. I froze in place. “Turn around!” I faced him, filled with distress at having fucked up already—and I didn’t even know how! “Do not ever turn your back on me, boy, or on any other superior. When you’re dismissed, you back away slowly until I turn my attention elsewhere, then turn and leave normally. Get down and give me fifty push-ups! Now, boy!” I lowered my chest to the floor and then pushed back up onto my toes. “Count off each one, boy, and thank me for it. They’ll help you remember this lesson.”

  “One, Sir, thank you, Sir!... Two, Sir, thank you, Sir!... Three, Sir, thank you, Sir!...” I was slick with sweat by the time I’d finished the punishment set, and my muscles burned, but I felt good! I’d learned a new lesson, and I’d been given a new boundary. I smiled to myself as I got onto my knees and faced him in the Present position, then rose to my feet again. Despite his words earlier, I could recall each of the rules Mr. Benjamin had already taught me. I recited them to myself as I backed away under his critical gaze. Every rule was a link in a chain of obedience, and the longer the chain, the safer and more secure I felt. As his eyes released me, I noted just the hint of a smile on his face. I smiled to myself, too, as I turned to leave the room—and enter into my new life.

  Chapter Twenty: Play Party

  Ken Mandarin did not have a ryokan style room. Ken had a suite on the top floor of the hotel building, overlooking the thick foliage and a waterfall to the south. Ken had a small stereo and CD player that had amazing sound quality, and an array of low, soft furniture, and trays of chilled fruits and chocolates and bottles of champagne everywhere, and she had an array of sex toys and pain toys that must have caused an army of raised eyebrows at Customs.

  None of this was visible to Michael, however, kneeling on the floor wearing nothing but a blindfold and feeling very much like he was about to be sacrificed to some rude god.

  “You know, my English is not very good,” Ken was saying to him. “Please explain again why you are here looking like this?”

  Michael could hear Marcy snicker, and his ears burned. “Ma’am, I was disrespectful to my teacher, impatient, and rude, I raised my voice and called attention to myself and to him. Ma’am, for those offenses, I am offering my body for chastisement, and I hope that the memory of this will keep me from making similar mistakes in the future. I beg my trainer’s pardon for my offenses and beg yours for having to witness this.” Oh yeah, he would never, never forget this night.

  * * * *

  Earlier that evening, right after dinner, when the entertainment began and a woman walked out onto the stage with a koto, her face covered with a thick white mask and her body covered with a long, ornate golden kimono, Michael had sat back, expecting to hear some examples of Japanese classical music. From where he sat, he could see a long-suffering look on the face of Tucker, who was busy signaling for another beer. Michael was going to do the same, when suddenly, from the wings, came two figures all dressed in solid black, who ran up to the startled woman and reached for what looked like golden strings attached to her kimono. As she stood up, uttering one or two words of what seemed like genuine surprise, the black clad “helpers” pulled on the strings, which unraveled through the sides of the kimono in whirls of motion. Another black clad figure dashed in front of them and grabbed the koto, and as he darted off to the left, the kimono broke apart and was pulled away, leaving the woman dressed—in a shiny, satin suit, with a black shirt and red tie. One flick of a wrist and the white mask with its painted-on eyebrows came off, and it revealed a feminine Japanese face topped with a stylish pompadour. Two twists of the body and a standing microphone was planted in her hand. A familiar riff filled the air, from large speakers on either side of the stage, and a warm American southern voice started singing: “Uh, one for the money, two for the show...”

  She was an Elvis impersonator. As the room exploded in laughter and applause, she gyrated and made love to the mike the way the King used to, her every move sexual and exciting and a wonderful cross between feminine and masculine.

  Michael could just hear Tucker shouting, “Now, that’s more like it!”

  And they all laughed even harder when the two black-clad assistants came back at the end of her song to tear off her suit to reveal—a slender man underneath it all, his smile going from the sexy snarl of Elvis to the coquettish look of the actors who played female roles in Kabuki.

  The rest of the entertainment was similar—gender twisting and dancing, with some slaves clearly of one sex or another but most of them either blurring the lines or outright leaving the trainers arguing. Some lip-synced, others sang legitimately, there was even a comedy routine, but it was all delightful—funny, exciting, curious, and gradually mysterious. And damn if it didn’t lift the mood of the room. The fluidity of gender and sexual messages was just exhilarating, and pleasantly teasing, the slaves energetic and skilled, and thrilled by applause and attention. It was a perfect show—silly and seamless, thought- and discussion-provoking, and yet casual. When the “cast” was brought out for a final round of identification, all of them clad only in training collars, roars of delight and amusement rose as the trainers got to settle on who had clocked the correct genders, or at least had come close. The slaves all bowed deeply, in the Japanese style, before they exited.

  By the time the black-clad slaves scurried through the hall setting up a series of small black machines as they had set up the grills earlier, and smaller, hand held microphones were appearing, people seemed eager to scan lists of songs to sing. But before Michael even got his hands on the black and silver covered book of song titles, a figure in black and gray appeared at his side, and his heart leapt in surprise. It was Chris, and he touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Time to go, Michael.”

  And when Ken got up to leave as well, Michael wished that he could say that he really, really needed to hear Tucker’s version of ‘Born in the USA,’ but they were gone from the building before the Southern man even got to thank his hosts for such a fine, fine dinner.

  The same slave that helped Chris dress got him all undressed, leaving Michael to wait in a clean jockstrap and a yukata until Chris put on jeans and a T-shirt. Chris picked up the strap and they walked to the other building in silence, and once they got into the room, it was “Strip, present, and report to Ms. Mandarin why you are in such a sorry state of affairs,” and boom, that was it.

  * * * *

  How did they do this on a regular basis, Michael thought, as Ken discussed his explanation and apology with Marcy. How can any human being sleep at night knowing that at any moment, they can be stripped naked and made to do humiliating things in front of people—people they might have to deal with later on? He had always assumed that slaves—people who wanted to be slaves anyway—had some quirk in their nature that always made these things hot, or at least acceptable. But what if their erotic attachment was to only one person, or only one situation? What if all they needed or wanted was to be the upstairs maid? Or to be one master’s fuck toy? And what if their owner could still compel them to do things like this? How did they cope?

  “Well, I can hardly reward your dingo with the attentions of my two perfect angels if he has been naughty,” Ken said, drawing one finger along Cindy’s back and making her slave shiver. Ken had changed into a handsome pair of red silk boxer shorts and a loose robe knotted around her hips. Andy kn
elt at her feet, watching Michael intently, his lips parted and slightly wet. There were red marks around his pale pink nipples, bright and new, bites or crop strikes, it was difficult to tell. Michael’s last sight was Andy’s face, and his hard little nipples.

  “You’re going to have to explain the dingo comments to me later,” Chris said. “But I agree. I was going to beat him myself. But my beatings are steadily losing their effectiveness, as he is increasingly enjoying them. Quite a nuisance, actually.”

  Michael wished a whole troupe of demons would descend on his trainer and rip him to shreds.

  Marcy rolled her eyes. “What else is new? It’s an old story, Parker, physical punishments have to be non-erotic, come on, that’s stuff you figure out when you’re a kid, for crissakes.”

  “Well, as you must have guessed by now, Marcy, I am fond of old ways; I rely on a higher instinct to guide behavior, a desire to please and not be disappointing. I beat people because I enjoy it, and prefer that their reaction be appropriate to the situation. Since Michael will not be held to such an exacting nature of service, I am open to other methodology, and therefore—I call upon your experience to aid me. And to aid Michael, of course.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Marcy, one must be patient,” interjected Ken. Michael could hear the whisper of her boxer shorts as she walked around him, could imagine her stroking her jaw, or laying a long finger against one lip. “Yes, we agree that one should not please a slave—oh, Michael, I do apologize, we all know you are not a slave—but still, one must not please a—a—target of punishment? If the target does not know the difference between pleasure and punishment. But I think it is clear that he does not enjoy enjoying. Is that not true, dingo?”