The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  Michael groaned. Why couldn’t they just get it over with?

  And then he realized that Chris was next to him, and he could feel, actually feel the menace, and he knew that he had to answer, and quickly.

  “Ma’am,” he said, thinking as fast as he could, “I am ashamed that my bad behavior has—caused me to be punished.”

  “Not—a—direct—answer.” said Chris, after giving Michael a firm push in the center of his back. Michael allowed himself to fall onto his hands and braced himself. There was one blow of the strap for each word that Chris had said, and when he finished with the last one, he grabbed Michael by the hair and pulled him up, and jammed one foot under his cock and balls. Michael could feel the stiffness, and his heartbeat echoed in his brain and he wished he could scream and struggle and just run out of there, but he stayed still, allowing Chris to push him back down again.

  “See?” was all Chris said.

  “Let Cindy do it then,” suggested Marcy. “Or Stu here, he can handle one of those canes if you want something different.”

  Not the boy, not the boy, not the boy, Michael thought furiously.

  “No—let Andy do it,” Ken said firmly. “He has a strong arm. I wish to see if the dingo reacts to all men, or just to one man.”

  There was silence then, and Michael knew that Chris had agreed, and he tensed his body. As he felt Andy take up a position beside him, he ground his teeth together, vowing to remain silent for as long as he could. It didn’t take too long for him to break his vow, because whatever Andy was using, it wasn’t Chris’s strap and it wasn’t a cane, but something hard and stingy, some kind of whip with knots on the ends, short enough to use kneeling, but wicked enough to make his breath come out in tight hisses. He tried to keep silent, at least keep to gasping, but the first time those knots crept up and hit the underside of his balls, even at half strength, he yowled.

  “He doesn’t know to tuck?” Ken asked idly.

  No one answered her, but the whipping stopped, and Michael felt a strange hand part his legs further, and humiliatingly pull his cock and balls tighter under his body. Then the same hand tapped his spread thighs, and Michael pulled them in. He was now tucked. The whipping continued, and he could dimly hear conversation in the background. Thank goodness, they weren’t all just staring at him.

  But—shouldn’t they be? His brain started to hurt from the contradictions. How could he so much want them all to disappear and yet feel bad that they weren’t paying attention?

  When it was over, he gasped for breath and almost whimpered. His ass and legs felt like they had been sand blasted. A hand fisted in his hair again, and he knew that it was Chris, and as he was jerked up, it was amply clear that there was a difference between when Chris disciplined him and when some other man did. Chris gave him a slight shake, and Michael gasped, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Well, that ends that experiment,” Marcy said. “What next?”

  “Now he belongs to Ken, for whatever deviltry she’s planned,” Chris said, untangling his fingers. Cindy came up to him with her trademark combination of shyness and invitation and held a glass of champagne for him; he smiled at her when he took it, and stroked her hip gently as he retreated to one of the low, comfortable chairs.

  Ken walked around Michael again with one finger tapping her lips. “I was going to let the twins have him, but on second thought—perhaps just Cindy.”

  With the slightest of pouts, Cindy left Chris’s side to go to her owner. She was wearing a thong and her smile, and when Ken signaled, she dropped the thong. “Let him see,” Ken said, and Cindy knelt gracefully to pull off the blindfold, so that the first thing that Michael saw since he had knelt in the middle of the room were her beautiful, tanned breasts and her pearly smile. There were no red marks on her perfect tits, that was for sure.

  “Do you like her?” Ken asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Michael whispered.

  “Bon. You shall put on a show for us now, a sex show. Then I shall decide what else to do.”

  For a brief moment, Michael hoped that things were looking up, but as soon as Cindy giggled, retreated to the side of the room where all the sex toys were and picked up a harness for Ken to approve of, he knew he was wrong.

  “So—what are you going to do with Andy, if not put him in the show?” asked Marcy.

  “I loan him to you,” Ken said magnanimously.

  Marcy looked at Chris, who waved a hand in easy denial of Andy’s use, and Marcy sighed. “Good. I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, Andy, come here and let’s make watching this show a little more interesting for me. Parker, feel free to entertain yourself with Stu.”

  Michael caught a glimpse of the embarrassment and fear that flooded Stuart’s face and felt a brief moment of pleasure at the thought of whatever Chris would do to the boy, but stopped thinking right about the moment Cindy reappeared in his line of sight with a large, green dildo shaped somewhat like a corkscrew now strapped between her legs.

  “Hello, pretty boy,” she whispered, licking her lips and caressing its length with her fingers. “Help me get this nice and hard for you.”

  “How is his mouth?” inquired Ken, nibbling on a slice of mango.

  “I don’t have personal experience with it,” Chris said. “But Mr. Elliot pronounced him adequate and trainable.”

  “I hope that he is more than adequate for my Cindy,” Ken laughed as he waved at Cindy to command her to begin and then took the seat next to Chris. He glanced down. Stuart assumed the kneeling-to-offer position before him. Chris then deliberately turned away, to face Ken, just as she finished the mango and was admiring the tattoos on his forearms. She traced a line of flames that began slightly above his wrist and wound halfway to his elbow.

  “I like the fire,” she said. “It is very unlike you, though. Unlike what you appear to be, I suppose.”

  “Don’t confuse restraint with a lack of passion,” Chris said.

  Cindy was rocking her hips back and forth very gently, letting Michael get used to the width and length of her toy cock. His face was already red, his eyes closed in humiliation or concentration—but not exactly distaste. His cock was tumescent again. Andy’s was, too, his body backed against Marcy’s, her fingers tormenting his nipples as they watched Cindy work her way deeper and deeper into Michael’s mouth.

  “So Ken,” Chris said, feeling Stuart sway slightly in his posture, feeling the warm energy that came from a person who was so tightly controlled and so excited. He continued to ignore the young man. “For years now, I’ve supported your contention that they’re actually twins. I never even asked them directly, and you know I could have if I wanted to, and compelled them to obedience, as well. Do me a kindness and end the mystery for me. Tell me the truth.”

  Ken smiled and they both glanced at the show that was going on for their pleasure when they heard Michael gag. Without moving her eyes away from the scene, Ken said, “No, they are not. They are husband and wife.”

  “Ah.” Chris admired the way Cindy moved her hips—it was just as he taught her, with a little rocking motion to spread the mouth wide. “Stuart, hands and knees, please, and turn to the side. Now shift back. Back. Stop and stay.”

  Ken obligingly used her new ottoman and leaned back into the chair. “They were almost divorced once, can you believe it? Each wishing that the other would play the master for them.”

  “Matson found them, didn’t he?”

  “Oui. And then Janna trained them, and then they became mine and then I sent them to you.” She sighed and wiggled her toes. “It pleased me that they looked so much alike, twins from the gods, I think. Twin in nature if not in blood. There is—a—what is it, an energy, a synergy?—that comes from the nearness of a brother and sister, yes?”

  “Yes, sometimes,” Chris said. He watched Stuart’s face, saw the color in his cheeks, the slight tremble in his narrow shoulders. Time enough to catch him if he stiffened, and he should have learned by now how to stay in one place for so
short a time. “I’ve seen this sibling energy many times,” he said, leaning back, his head next to Ken’s.

  Cindy looked at her owner and said, “Master—may I?” Ken looked over at the pair and then at Chris, and when he nodded, said “Yes, but vasi doucement, eh? Be gentle.” Cindy grinned and nodded and patted Michael on the head as he gasped and coughed, and then elegantly walked behind him to kneel comfortably and spread his ass cheeks.

  Ken watched thoughtfully for another moment and then touched Chris’s hand lightly. “I am glad to be friends again,” she said. “But I am sad to say that I cannot think of a way to approve of your proposal. I must vote against it.” She traced the outline tattoos on his forearm again, this time almost sheepishly. She had liked all of his tattoos when she first saw them two months ago. That was when he first told her about his proposal. And as he glanced at her lowered eyes tonight, he saw that she was annoyed with what she had to say to him.

  He sighed, but nodded. “Our friendship was never in jeopardy,” he said simply. He took up her hand and gave it a firm squeeze of reassurance. Briefly, he wished he could come up with something that would sway her, even as they sat back to watch her slaves at work, one of them now turned to pleasing, one tormenting. What a decadent life, to discuss business while people cavorted and posed and fucked for your amusement. How annoying it was that his mind could so easily be turned from this sort of spectacle toward the more mundane aspects of his position. Politics and sex; no matter how you tried to keep them apart, they crowded together. Sometimes, it was exhilarating. Other times, it was just abrasive. And thinking of abrasive things; “Cindy—please be more liberal with the lubricant, girl. I taught you better than that.”

  Ken laughed and Cindy blushed prettily and squeezed out an extra dollop. “She just wishes to make it more interesting, she is a wicked girl that way. So, enough business. You will tell me about this sibling thing, yes? Have you met others like my pair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Slaves you trained as well?”

  “Not as much. I’m actually thinking of my sister.” He chuckled at her look of surprise. “Not a sister of blood. My sister in spirit.”

  Chapter Twenty-One: Alex's Choice

  by Karen Taylor

  Rachel was leaning over her table, rolling a joint, when she heard someone knock on her door. “Go the fuck away, I’m busy,” she yelled, since it was at least three hours before her next client was supposed to arrive and she wasn’t dressed.

  “Too busy for an old friend?” a familiar voice called back, startling her. Rachel dropped the joint back on the table and headed to the hallway. She looked through the peephole. Standing outside her door was a short, stocky man with dark curly hair, wearing a motorcycle jacket. With a shriek, she pulled the door open.

  “Parker? Ohmygod, it’s fucking Parker!” she cried, throwing her arms around the man at the door. “You surprised the fuck out of me! Why didn’t you call or something?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by,” Chris said lightly, embracing her briefly, then releasing.

  “Jesus, Parker, the apartment’s a fucking mess, I’m not dressed—”

  “So what’s new?” he responded, and she punched him playfully. “Come on, Rachel, I’ve seen you and your living quarters in conditions much worse than this.” He looked around. The studio was in the Meat Packing District, but high enough up that the noise wasn’t too bad. Or the smell, although it hovered in the air even late at night. Some of the furniture was still familiar—the kitchen table, the old lamp with the broken chain, the small desk piled high with mail and papers. But there was a new mock-Persian rug, and a futon couch with a stained oak frame with a matching side table. A chiffarobe in the corner had one door open, showing the floggers hanging on the inside. His eyes trailed up. There, he spotted the eye bolts sunk deeply into the ceiling.

  “How’s business?” he asked, watching her as she walked toward the refrigerator and pulled out two diet colas.

  “Same old shit,” she replied, returning and handing him one of the cans. “But I pay my rent and have enough left over for some luxuries.” She set her can on the table next to the couch, picked up the newly rolled joint, and lit it. Chris shook his head when she offered it to him, and she rolled her eyes wickedly.

  “I know, I know, you don’t do it any more. Fuck, Parker, I never thought I’d see you turn down a toke,” she teased him. “Time was, you’d match me toke for toke, line for line.”

  “Match you? I’d beat you,” Chris replied, and they laughed together, warmed by each other’s company. “Do you remember—” they said simultaneously, then stopped, laughing again. Then Rachel put the joint back down, stepped closer, touched Chris’s face tenderly, and kissed him. “Fuck, I miss you, Parker,” she sighed.

  Chris smiled back, his face more relaxed and open with Rachel than with anyone else in his life. Ever. “I missed you, too,” he said.

  And suddenly, it was just like old times. They wrapped themselves around each other, kissing deeply. Rachel unbuttoned Chris’s shirt, pulled it out of his jeans, and rubbed her hands against the warm flesh of his chest and shoulders, kissing his neck hungrily. Chris was less urgent, but just as ready, using one hand to untie the front of her kimono, using the other to run his fingers through Rachel’s thick, curly hair, pulling on it just slightly to pull her head back and kiss her harder. They stumbled, still tangled in each other, to the couch, clothes falling around them. Wrestling for position, like they used to do.

  Later, Chris watched her languidly smoke her joint, his fingers tracing a series of scars on her arm.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” he told her.

  “You have,” Rachel replied honestly, “but you’re still one hell of a good fuck.”

  * * * *

  “I’m here to offer you a job,” Chris said. They were sitting up, more or less, and Rachel was smoking her joint.

  “What kind of job?” she asked.

  “Working with me. In the Marketplace,” he answered. Rachel took another toke, letting the smoke sink into her lungs as she thought about that. Parker had told her about the Marketplace, told her years ago when he went in search of it. Told her more after he was in it, even though he often seemed to vanish for months at a time without as much as a postcard. It was clear Parker loved the Marketplace. She remembered the last time he had come to visit, around Christmas a year ago, after he got his job out on Long Island. He told her about the for real slaves and owners who did this full time. And Parker told her he was going to train the slaves.

  Train them? she had asked. And Parker told her about the training program he was developing, the four week, six week, and eight week regimens, and she had laughed at him. Especially when Parker explained to her that he wasn’t training them for himself, but for other people. She thought he was nuts.

  Rachel couldn’t imagine what job would be of interest to her in Parker’s world. She sure as hell wasn’t slave material. She definitely didn’t have the money to be an owner. And after Parker had told her how much money he made training, she had laughed in his face. In Rachel’s world, the money didn’t balance out the time spent, especially with Parker’s extra expenses.

  On the other hand, business was... boring. Not that she ever got tired of tying clients up and hurting them, sometimes even fucking them. But to do it on a clock annoyed her. Her favorite clients were the ones who took her to clubs or gatherings of other kinky people. There, she’d have a whole weekend to dominate and hurt her client or anyone else she had an interest in. Plus, she got off a lot. In the Marketplace, she knew, the clock would never stop.

  “Tell me about it,” Rachel said. Chris relaxed. She was interested. He started to explain, and watched her eyes, half-closed from pot and sex, begin to twinkle as he described the position he had in mind.

  * * * *

  “Rachel, I’d like to introduce you to Grendel Elliot, one of my employers,” Chris Parker said formally. Rachel stuck her hand o
ut automatically, but her eyes were still taking in the room. She had been surprised when the car had pulled in front of big Colonial type house, in a part of Long Island known for its wealthy inhabitants. Now, inside, she was standing in what Chris told her was the library. The windows looked out over a garden, and she spotted a stable. Jesus, the place even smelled like money. She thought the bearded guy who just shook her hand smelled like money, too. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Rachel,” he said in a pleasant voice. “My associate will be down as soon as she’s finished with her trainee.”

  Internally, however, Grendel was taken aback. This was the woman Chris had suggested would be suitable in their house? He could tell Rachel was wearing what was probably her best outfit, but it was definitely in need of pressing, and the skirt was shorter than current fashion. Her shoes were a cheap, shiny leather, the heels a little too spiky and tall for comfort. When Chris took her jacket, Grendel could clearly see the outline of a garish tattoo on her right arm through the sheer blouse. The sheerness also didn’t hide the fact that her nipples were pierced. She looks like a biker in drag, Grendel thought in despair. What the hell does Chris think he’s up to?

  He offered Rachel a seat, and she flopped on the couch, kicking off her pumps. Chris brought her a diet soda, and she refused his offer of a glass, drinking directly from the can. With a sigh, Grendel opened the file Chris handed to him, Rachel’s name on the flap. Again, he groaned inwardly. No college degree, not even a high school diploma. Her resume was sparse, waitressing in strip clubs, some phone sex work, and stints in three different Manhattan brothels. No job had lasted more than a year. No references, other than Chris’. He had no idea how to begin. Where was Alex? She should have been downstairs five minutes ago. The silence was growing awkward, and Grendel knew he should start without his partner. But how to begin?