The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  “What do you mean?” Michael asked.

  “Envy,” Joost said quickly. “A spotter may intentionally spoil another’s hunt. Spite, jealousy. Hatred. If I recall Matson, he fell in love with a client and did not wish to relinquish her, am I correct? But at least she had a place to turn, there were those who would be guardians for her. But when a spotter becomes obsessed with someone not in our world, with no one to protect them, then what happens? I know of a certain—person—who—well, it is a difficult tale. I do not think I could do it justice.”

  “Well, now I must hear it,” Ken declared, summoning a slave who bent elegantly to her side. “Do I know this—person?”

  Joost sighed, shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps, Mandarin. Unlike Paul’s ‘Mr. Benjamin’, it would be difficult to masquerade this individual.”

  “Excellent!” Ken’s eyes gleamed with anticipation of something particularly juicy. “Now please tell me that this...individual is not here, so I can listen with innocence, hm?” She ordered iced teas for the table, and no one objected.

  Joost laughed. “Well, since you have been kind enough to tell me what happened in Italy last year, I think I owe you something in exchange. Besides that, they are no longer counted among us, so I suppose I may be more free in disclosure.” He leaned forward, thinking, and then looked up. Michael drew in his chair as the two slaves distributed a milky-looking, sweet spiced tea in tall glasses. Joost nodded to himself. “I caution you, though,” he said thoughtfully after a sip, “I have this story from someone who was already once removed from the situation. I do know that at least some of it is true, but some of the details are—not flattering to us.”

  Paul shrugged. “As long as it’s not about me, I don’t care.”

  “We are all part of one family,” Joost said firmly. “When one of us does well, we learn from them. When one of us does not—we must examine ourselves, I think. And learn from them as well.”

  “Yes, yes,” Shoshana said impatiently. “We’re prepared, tell us this terrible story already!”

  “Well—it took place in Amsterdam,” Joost said. “Not too long ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Redemption

  by Michael Hernandez

  She parted the heavy leather curtains and entered the bar, one of the oldest on Warmoesstraat, suffering that temporary blindness that accompanies travel from light into darkness. At the moment it was impossible to see without infra-red vision. It was easy to believe that it was the bartenders’ fault. The fumbling around in the darkness ensured that the power balance remained with those who were serving. Then again, more than likely the reason for keeping the bar so dark was that darkness invited raw sexuality. Light tended to drive out the beast within. The darkness served another purpose than employee entertainment. It allowed those sitting along the bar to feast their eyes upon their future conquests without the potential “victim” receiving the reciprocal benefit.

  Ian knew that if she could just stroll up to the bar without tripping over anyone or her own two feet, her eyes would adjust in the amount of time that it would take the bartender to bring her a drink, and that itself would increase her opportunity to score tonight. In this bar, the balance of power was paramount. Appearances were everything. Anyone who forgot that would soon have the tables turned.

  She was the smoothest of operators, clad immaculately in black leather from the Daddy cap on her head, down to her steel-toed motorcycle boots, blending easily with the raw masculinity of the majority of the bar’s patrons. She wore faded blue button-down 501’s under her chaps revealing a rather large basket. As she approached the bar, she absentmindedly reached down and stroked her cock. Her leathers, while clean, did not radiate that polished gleam that came from the pristine butches or leathermen. While she respected the traditional values of the older generation, such fastidiousness was not her style. She was dependent on her ability to blend into the background. All the good hunters in the animal kingdom depended on good camouflage. The respectable fade of her leathers increased her chances of remaining hidden in the alley, of watching from afar without being spotted, and of disappearing without a second glance. She could move through the District and be noticed at the time of her choosing.

  Tonight she wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Butch, femme, punk, something else. Thrillseeker tourists from Germany or the United States were always good and hungry. Anyone would do so long as they were a good time. Gender was irrelevant. It was all about a quick thrill, sex in a public place, and her getting her rocks off. She didn’t have to go far nor did she have to take her clothes off to bury her cock in some young mouth. The alley behind the bar would do quite nicely for starters. Her dick twitched. She could smell a potential partner within a two mile radius. A little verbal sparring and the next step was the alley. If “it” sucked well enough they’d go back to her fuck pad in the Jordaan. Blindfolds were used as a matter of course. The combination of blindfold and her neighborhood, which was less than welcoming at night, also prevented visitors from appearing at her play space uninvited. She’d interrogate a scene out of “it” then play to her heart’s content, although her heart was not usually the organ that got the action. Actually the word “play” was too mundane of a description of what she did. It was more like... feeding.

  That was it. She consumed her prey. It was the emotional juices that she craved as well as the physical ones. Emotions such as fear, desire, passion, that is what she sought to elicit. That and the skeletons that everyone hides carefully in the closet. Barst safe, sane and consensual! It was the edge of non-consensuality that lured her and in turn lured her victim. No, victim was too harsh a word. Quarry was more like it. She did not feed often. Prey which proved satisfactory were few and far between, but when found, a veritable pleasure. She, like her cats, played with the mousies before the spilling guts upon the floor—metaphorically speaking of course. Through her skill, Ian was able to carefully excise and bring the souls of her partners into the light of day where she played until she tired and moved on to the next one.

  If her quarry showed enough initiative to stop the scene, she did so promptly, reapplied the blindfold, and drove back to the bar. No looking back, no regrets, no second chances. She played for keeps. Catch and release kept her skill honed. Only once had the prey really meant it. The others complained all the way back to the bar about the scene having terminated. Some begged for a second chance, but Ian was resolute. Rules, while bent from time to time, were never broken. In that she was absolutely intolerant. She had no intention of changing a damned thing. That was the way she did things now. No long term commitments. No mess. No smell. No headaches. No transatlantic phone calls in the middle of the night. No scathing notes pinned to her door with knives. No clothing chopped into tiny bits or personal effects hoarded or destroyed. Oh, her life had drama enough, but it was limited to the drama that she carefully created for herself. She ran the fuck and if the fuck did not want to be run it could go elsewhere. There were plenty of other fucks for the having.

  Somehow, she had failed with the last one. Genevieve. The fact that she remembered a name showed how much that one had gotten to her. It fueled her hunger. A real virgin was a rare find these days. Oh, not that type of virgin. It was innocence that drew her. A clean slate. Fresh, undiscovered, unexplored, untainted by the views of the so-called community. That one filled her thoughts and dreams until she screamed at the walls. She had taken her sweet time and then tossed her out when she had been sated. It had been sweet, but the woman wanted to cling to her for some reason. Unacceptable. It was now a matter of principal. Verdomme! “Never go back,” she whispered under her breath, and that statement was enough to create the reality for her. She tore herself away, slightly angered at her daydream through the past.

  Ian was hungry tonight, very hungry, but she refused to let it show. That would certainly deter her potential candidates for the evening. She slowly unwrapped a cigar and worked it in and out of her mouth, coating the end with saliva. She
removed a small silver cigar cutter from the breast pocket of her motorcycle jacket and precisely placed a “V” cut in the cigar. She surveyed the room as she placed the cigar between her lips, rotating it counter-clockwise.

  Two young punk dykes practically tripped over each other in an effort to light it for her. The cute punk with the jet black Mohawk glared at the shorter skinhead whose scalp was adorned by an elaborate and colorful Celtic knot tattoo. In a split second the room erupted into violence as the Mohawk took a swing. Her target deftly removed her face from the fist’s trajectory, miraculously causing Mohawk to miss. They somehow managed to get into a bear hug and proceeded to knock over several chairs then fly over a table before crashing to the ground. It was a scene right out of an old western.

  While Ian was enjoying this entertainment, a set of long, perfectly painted red nails came suddenly into view. The thumbnail expertly flicked the head of a safety match providing the fire for her stogie. Impressive, she thought, very promising, indeed. This one knows that lighters are not for cigars. Even more impressive was the fact that the femme was not afraid to split a nail or ruin the polish. Hmm, wonder what she’s lookin’ for? Ian flashed a wolfish grin. The dame flushed. Good, good. This looked promising. Promising indeed.

  Ian leaned into the flame and puffed until she was certain that the cigar was lit then turned her attention to the dame attached to the nails. She was struck by the intensity of the eyes. Ian was captivated as surely as a black widow spider’s mate. The magical moment was broken by Artie’s bellow and baseball bat hitting the counter. Patrons went scrambling for the corners. “Wel verdomme! Cut that crap out you rotkoppen before I collar your kutten and chain you to the goddamned bar. You’re gonna get fucked nine ways to Sunday and I guarantee that ya ain’t gonna like hot pepper oil being used as a lubricant.” The fight stopped mid-punch.

  Artie, the bartender, was a force to be reckoned with. Her no-nonsense approach to trouble was well known in Amsterdam and gaining speed throughout the leather bars of Europe. Like any story in the community, it was embellished and passed along from flapping lip to eager ear. The latest rumor flying around was that leatherboys and baby dykes disappeared never to be seen again. Secretly, Ian believed that Artie enjoyed the artificially created reputation and did everything to encourge its embellishment. Artie continued to glare and the baby butches sheepishly looked down at their Doc Martens.

  Ian, threw her head back and started laughing so hard that her eyes watered. The new lady, startled at first, was quickly caught up in Ian’s contagious laughter. She had a delicate, full-throated laugh which was musical. Artie glowered at them as well. No one was above reproach. They moved away from the bar still chuckling to themselves. No sense tempting fate.

  In a better lit corner, Ian sized up the dame, taking a puff on her lit cigar in appreciation. The stranger was a tall drink of water or so Ian thought until she looked down to gaze upon the five-inch stiletto heels. In the heels were a pair of picture perfect legs enmeshed in black fishnet stockings. Ian’s gaze wandered up the legs and just managed to spy the garters underneath the brilliant green velvet dress that the dame was l-i-t-e-r-a-l-l-y poured into. Ian’s heartbeat doubled. Ample cleavage peeked out from between the sweetheart neckline of the dress. Ian’s gaze continued upwards across that white porcelain expanse of cleavage to return to the most probing gray-green eyes that she had ever seen. Liquid gold floating in a sea of green. Blazing red hair and not from a bottle either. Cocksucker red lipstick adorned the full luscious lips. Where had this woman come from? A tourist, perhaps, visiting the bars in the Red Light District? In for a little action? Ian hoped it was the case.

  The dame took in Ian’s perusal with a smile. There was an impish glee in her eyes. Something said but not quite spoken. Almost as if she had the inside scoop on a private joke. Ian smiled back. This was more than she could hope for. “Bier?” she asked, checking to see that Artie had calmed down. The lady smiled and, to Ian’s surprise and delight, went to the bar herself, leaning toward Artie to murmur the order. The drinks were produced in record speed. When she returned, the dame offered one of the beers to Ian. They clinked their glasses, and Ian downed hers quickly, needing the refreshment badly.

  Almost before the glass was set down, the woman wove her fingers into the hair at the back of Ian’s neck. Situating her lips upon Ian’s, she maneuvered her tongue gracefully and insistently into her mouth, running it slowly and deliberately across her teeth and tongue. The kiss increased in its passion. She gracefully insinuated her leg between Ian’s thighs, finding the dildo resting there. She pressed the base skillfully into and around Ian’s clit while continuing to explore Ian’s mouth with her own. Ian’s responded. A moan was torn from her lips as she encircled the woman in her arms. Passion won out over patience. They both parted breathless and full of desire. A fine sheen of sweat had broken over Ian’s brow. She had to have this woman. NOW.

  “Let’s get out of this pool hall,” whispered Ian.

  The woman smiled and lifted her glass to Ian, “May you never grow bored and live in interesting times.”

  “Dank u,” responded Ian, and gallantly held her arm out to the woman. The dame flashed a perfectly dazzling smile and took the proffered arm. Heads turned as they walked through the bar. There was a fair amount of whispering and with each step, Ian’s ego grew. She was on top of the world and certainly felt it. Pushing the leather curtain aside, she felt as if she were floating on clouds. As they stepped around the corner, Ian noticed that the light emitted by the street lamp had a sharp edge to it, and the canal at the end of the Heintje Hoekssteeg seemed to draw closer, then withdraw. Just then she noticed that she was moving in slow motion.

  She tried to mention it to confirm her observations, but her tongue felt thick and dry. The words just would not come. Panic caused adrenaline to flood through her system, but it was not enough to speed the passage of time. Just then she noticed that her legs were jelly. She staggered as the night rushed in to greet her. The last image she saw was the face of the dame above her bearing the most incredible smile. It looked... perfectly wicked. “Wel verdomme?” was the last thing that she managed to say before she lost consciousness.

  * * * *

  Morgan had been furious when Genevieve suddenly dropped out of the program. Genevieve represented several months worth of cultivation as potential material for the Marketplace. Morgan, unlike other spotters, employed the services of various under-scouts to do most of the legwork. This ensured that Morgan did not waste all of her time culling through individuals who would never even be considered for training. The job of the scouts was to bring potential property to her attention. If worthy of consideration, the scout received a fee. A scout was given three opportunities to present talent. Three strikes and you were on your way out. Three outs and you were kapot. Morgan had developed a nice network which allowed her to present ten to twelve candidates for consideration per year. It was expensive for her, but worth it, if she could keep up that pace.

  Genevieve presented rather unique properties. A novice who had very deep-seated desires plus intelligence, wit, imagination, and a sense of adventure while exuding a naiveté that was unparalleled. A battery of tests had been performed to determine the extent of Genevieve’s potential.

  Then, this dumkopf, no, this kuttenkop, had just waltzed in and done as she pleased, ruining months worth of work, not to mention the lost fees. It was not the first time that Ian had interfered with Morgan’s plans, but it would be the last. “Justice, Justice shalt thou pursue,” ran through her mind, although deep in her heart Morgan knew it was revenge, not justice. She should not take it so personally, but Morgan took everything personally.

  She had carved out a reputation for herself for being a fair, but wicked top. She abhorred femmes who pretended to be stupid or who used their body to manipulate others into doing what they wanted. Morgan’s style was more direct. She was the preeminent flirt who was quite able to clearly communicate her needs during the
seduction. If the other person was willing to participate then everyone was happy.

  In the past few weeks, she compiled information about Ian, her tactics, her prowling ground, what she smoked and drank. That was another thing that the scouting system did well, compile information. Well, someone had to teach this kuttenkop a lesson. Ian’s interference, coincidental or otherwise, just wouldn’t do. Morgan should have moved in a little more quickly on Genevieve, but wanted to make sure that the proper level of desire had been attained. Genevieve was more than a bottom, she had service in her blood. Clearly, that little delay gave Ian the edge. Genevieve was ready and was losing patience for the delays and hoops that Morgan was making her jump through to get what she wanted. Well, little Genevieve got more than she bargained for. It might still be possible to salvage the situation, but only at great effort.

  Morgan owed the two punks, but paying off those debts would be more of a pleasure than a chore. The diversion caught Ian off guard, gave her an amusing distraction that allowed for a spectacular entrance and seduction. Such a challenge, to distract another hunter, even an amateur. So delightful to succeed so utterly. Well, enough of those delicious thoughts for now. Justice would be hers and it was time to pay the piper.

  * * * *

  Ian opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. What little light illuminated her surroundings had a hazy sort of quality. Her tongue still felt thick and her hip hurt. She tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes, learning then that her wrists were securely fastened by thick leather restraints, the kind that they use in psychiatric wards, to the chair that she was sitting in.

  The itchiness around her chest and crotch became more acute as she grew more conscious. Ian saw that a small network of wires crossed her body, disappearing under her shirt, down her jeans, and on her hands and feet. The wires all left her body and ended in a black box that Ian recognized as a machine used by physical therapists to make atrophied muscles jump with small, uncontrollable jerks—making the machine popular with certain fetishists, as well. Ian attempted to pull her wrists out of the restraints, but between their design and the strength of the chair, it was impossible. There was nowhere for her elbows to go. The restraints were tight enough to bind her, yet loose enough to be comfortable if she didn’t thrash about. No way out of these at the moment. If only she could get to her belt. She had a long wire taped to the inside of it for emergencies such as these.