by Jen Eastwood
BIMBO ACADEMY:
THE COMPLETE SERIES
by
Jen Eastwood
Copyright © 2017 Jen Eastwood. All rights reserved.
READER ADVISORY:
This is a work of erotic fiction and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18. Please enjoy this story, but be advised that it contains sexual themes and explicit language. The characters and events in this story are intended for titillation purposes only and in no way represent any real people or transpired events. Any similarity to actual individuals or events is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are the age of 18 or above.
OTHER TITLES BY JEN EASTWOOD
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BIMBO ACADEMY: FLAWLESS ASSISTANT
BIMBO ACADEMY 2: HEADMASTER'S DISCIPLINE
BIMBO ACADEMY 3: FUNDAMENTAL CONVERSION
BIMBO ACADEMY 4: IMPROVING ON PERFECTION
BIMBO ACADEMY 5: FERTILITY FIELD TRIP
BIMBO ACADEMY:
FLAWLESS ASSISTANT
Family secrets are never shared, even among ourselves. As a Smolensky, the respect we had always received from the rich and powerful was never to be asked about. In the words of my father, “Your dedushka will tell you what he won't even tell me, in time.”
Now that my grandfather had called for me in a letter, I hoped to learn about our past. As I eased my car past the entry gate, I knew I was in for a lesson. This was my first time even seeing the castle he had moved from Romania, brick by brick after The Iron Curtain fell.
I was getting a better view as I drove up the hill. The Transylvanian stereotype I expected fell apart as soon as I saw how neat and orderly the grounds were. Even the stone blocks themselves sparkled in the sunlight.
“Would have been nice if he shared some of the wealth,” I muttered to myself. We were never poor, but even an engineer like my father can only earn so much. I never saw any evidence that my dedushka had given my father a dime.
I rounded one last curve in the drive. A sign reading Smolensky Finishing Academy greeted me after the final hedgerow. From the road, you wouldn't know what the place was.
I pulled in right behind a restored Packard Super Eight. The tan canvas top and flawless white paint didn't show it was past seventy years old, but the thing reeked of old money. It drove home how disconnected I was from my ancestry.
The burning light and heat of mid-afternoon had me getting out of my car and going for the front door. I was less impressed by the size of the slab as I was the knocker. The brass monstrosity of a lion's head stared back, almost mocking me as I grabbed the ring in its mouth.
I smacked it a few times and waited. The place could be a mansion, or a fancy insane asylum. Not a single window on the ground floor was wide enough to get an arm through.
I kept waiting, tapping my foot as if it would summon an answer. The more I looked, the more it felt like the building wasn't so much meant to withstand a siege. Every detail was too ornate to be so utilitarian.
The door finally eased open. When I saw the brunette in a red, thigh-split dress and heels on the other side, my cock was ready to stand at attention. Wouldn't it be a bitch if she was my grandmother-in-law?
“You are Alex?” Her Russian accent was undeniable.
“Uh, yeah.”
She smiled like I had given her a complimentary pass to Heaven. Her arms wrapped around me, squeezing like a woman twice her size had no business doing. “Good, let us go inside.”
“Nice to meet you, I guess.”
She finally let go. “You have so much to tell me about yourself.”
“And you are?”
“Your father never talked about me?”
He wouldn't even acknowledge my the question when I asked about our family. “No.”
She gave me a big, wet kiss on the cheek. “Your babushka is so happy to see you.”
Wait, fuck, WHAT? I jerked my head back and stared. “When did you marry my grandfather? Nobody told me about this.”
She cocked her head. “1958, before we left Smolensk for America.”
“Uh huh...”
A man's voice came from behind her. “Natalia, let the boy in.” Only a trace of accent was in his speech. “Let me see our grandson.”
I was beyond ready to turn tail and run from the pack of lunatics. “Are you sure this isn't a prank? I know I've never met my grandparents, but I know my grandmother can't look younger than me.”
The man finally stepped out, looking exactly like I expected my father to in thirty years. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his paisley lounge jacket. He pulled a tube out and hung it off his lip before saying, “You show up and act like this? Such a shame, Alex.”
Him, I could accept. “I believe you,” I looked at my supposed-grandmother and caught my eyes sneaking down to her cleavage, “but what kind of trick is this?”
He laughed and lit his cigarette with a match. The first puff blasted from his lips before he said, “Listen to your babushka and come inside. It is hot as hell out here.”
I could either drive three hours back home or figure out the prank. “No more tricks like this?”
My grandfather winked and held a hand out for a shake. “No more tricks.”
We shook. “Alright, but what's all this about?”
“As soon as you stop staring at your babushka's tits,” he grinned like a madman, “we will go to my study and I will explain everything.”
I darted my eyes away, a humble red coming across my cheeks. Fuck.
Every room in the place felt as large and expensive as the average house where I grew up. Marble, teak, and gold leaf weren't so much detail materials as they were room themes. Yet somehow it felt classy in an old-world way, instead of the usual, overcompensating form of tacky you get with that stuff.
Grandfather stopped at the entrance to a room and pulled a key out. “Natalia, leave us for a moment.”
She clasped her hands in front of her hips and nodded as the ornate copper bracelet on her wrist caught the light. Before leaving, she leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Such a handsome boy.”
I watched her hips sway down the hall. No way in hell I was believing her. At the very least, I wanted to know who my real grandmother was.
He already had the door open when she rounded the corner, out of sight. “You'll regret doing that by the time we're done talking.”
“I'm not saying I'm not proud of my grandpa for scoring a girl like that,” I'd have fucked her in a heartbeat, “but I'm not five.”
“Poor fool, America has made you and your father close-minded.”
I followed grandfather into the office. Everything about the room made the rest of the place look like a hovel in comparison, other than the size. While it wasn't as cavernous, the place reeked of opulence.
“You recognize this room?”
I looked around, taking in the shining beads of amber on the walls. Even the inlaid wood on the floor was in a pattern that had to take a master craftsman to even imagine. “Maybe I've seen a picture of it before?”
“You should have. This is the Amber Room of Prussia.”
I knew I'd heard of it as the lost eighth wonder of the world, looted by the Nazis, but I chalked it up to another trick. “It looks real, like someone put the original in a museum.”
“I rescued it from a shady antiquities dealer. The Kremlin would just sell it off to some trash oligarch if it was returned to The Motherland. This is the real one, Alexei. ”
Nobody called me by my proper first name, but I gave him a pass. “Now seriously, what's going on here?”
“Take a seat.” He pointed to a desk smack in the middle of the room, that an
d three chairs being the only furnishings that looked out of place from the pictures I remembered.
“And you'll tell me without joking?”
“Belief is important, but trust has to come first.” He walked faster than a man his age should have, getting behind the desk and opening a drawer. “Come, let me show you.”
I caught up as fast as I could, dropping myself in a claw-footed chair. “I guess I should ask about your life.”
“It has been interesting, but not always good.” He tossed a photo book at me. “Take a moment and look through that.”
It was all black and white at first. Grainy photos of a peasant family through a couple of decades, and then I got to the war. I knew enough Cyrillic to figure out the note on the bottom of them read Stalingrad 1943. Bombed out buildings and total destruction was all there was.
“You fought for the Soviets?”
“Your great-grandfather did. I was the young boy in the photos just before that.”
I turned a few more pages, noticing my great-grandfather was missing from the family portrait. “I'm sorry he didn't make it.”
He stepped around and turned a page for me. Pointing to a man who looked about his age now, he said, “This is your great-great grandfather. Natalia and I left for America with him a few years after this picture was taken.”
“From Russia? I thought The Cold War was going on.”
“We were dissidents. My work, and my dedushka's work, was not welcome.”
Something paid for this place, but I couldn't figure out what. “How did you end up like this?”
“Our work,” he boxed my ear, “but I see your father kept his promise, just the same as your son will have to do.”
“To be honest, I think he hates you.”
“I know, and he should.” His face wasn't full of regret, just acknowledgment. “It is the way of our family.”
I was getting the hint, but it was too horrible to admit. “So every generation has to go out and make it on their own. I can see why you'd do that.”
Grandfather shook his head. “No, Alexei,” he put his hand on my shoulder and gripped hard. “We pass our work from grandfather to grandson.”
No wonder dad hates him. “What are you saying?”
“Your babushka and I are leaving the academy to you, after you prove you can handle it.” He turned to the next page and pointed. “That is your babushka before we were married.”
I looked down. No doubt, the woman looked identical to Natalia. “So where is she now?”
“Probably in her bedroom,” he let his hand off my shoulder and took on a shit-eating grin, “changing so you will stop eye-fucking her.”
“No way. I know there's plastic surgery and face lifts, but that girl's younger than me.”
I kept flipping through as grandfather took his seat again. As the pictures turned to Polaroids, and then to modern snapshots, my grandmother was still there. Only, as my father grew up and my grandfather aged, she looked the same.
“No fucking way.” My skin crawled as I got to the last picture. It was both of my grandparents, probably taken in the last few years.
“Now you see?” He leaned back and rested his hands on the arms of his chair. “I am a lucky man to have her.”
“How?” She had to be in her late-seventies, at least. “I see it, but I still can't believe it.”
“The wife of a copper mage doesn't age until her husband dies.”
“A what?”
“It is a skill passed down through the family, that skips a generation.”
If I could believe Natalia was really my grandmother, why not hear him out? “So you're telling me you're a wizard or something.”
“That is an insult. Magic does not come from a wand or a book.”
“And how does one make a living like that?”
My grandfather pulled a loop of brassy metal out of his pocket, identical to the one on Natalia. “For centuries, we peddled trinkets and jewelry that we had granted powers.” He tossed it my way just like the book. “Do not put it on.”
I eyed the thing. Other than the ornate etchings, it didn't look any more special than copper bands you see pitched on commercials. “I don't get it.”
“Our students wear these until they graduate. At graduation, a part of it is implanted in their body. We have never had one return to their old ways.”
The place was sounding more like an asylum. “So what do you teach?”
“I only discipline the students and look after the staff. Think of this as a reform school.”
“For the rich and famous, by the looks of it.”
His face lit up. “You are starting to get it now.”
“So you use magic to fix rich brats.” There's a sucker born every minute, and some of them are loaded, I guess. “That doesn't explain how you could afford this place, though.”
“The parents and future husbands of our students pay handsomely for our services.” He stood up and pulled another cigarette out. “Come, you will see.”
I followed my grandfather through another corridor. Large windows lined the wall looking out on a landscaped courtyard about half the size of a football field. It looked like the quad of a women's college out there.
Every one of them wore the same red skirt and charcoal blazer. Dark thigh highs only left a strip of skin showing on their legs. “Our students, Alexei.”
It all felt like a fever dream, especially when I saw a few of them wearing the same copper band he had tossed me on their wrists.
“You mean, you make a living running a school for all these girls?”
He pulled yet another cigarette out and struck an oversized match. As the first hint of tobacco smoke hit my nose, my grandfather put his hands on his hips. “It is a reform school. These girls are here because they were going nowhere, despite the privilege in their lives.”
Grandpa's Academy for Young Lady Delinquents. Doesn't have a good ring to it. “So what do you teach?”
“Hmmph,” a puff of smoke flowed from his nostrils, “do you know what makes the ideal wife for the rich and powerful?”
It seemed easy enough. “Be hot, accept a pre-nup, and produce acceptable heirs for the estate.” As much as my family was oddly accepted by high society, you picked up a few open secrets.
“That is only the first layer.” Grandfather plucked the paper tube from his mouth and filled the immediate area with a choking cloud. “Obedience and a certain amount of, let's call it creativity, are just as important.”
Art and manners is all they need? “I don't follow you.”
“You will.” He tilted his head to motion toward a staircase to our right. “You're about to see how I met your babushka.”
“What do you mean? Was my grandmother a student here?”
I knew he was holding back a laugh and a slap across my face. “This academy did not exist then, but something like it did.”
“So she was a student.”
“Under the Soviets, my grandfather barely kept our tradition alive. Natalia was his last pupil before we had to flee for our lives.”
“So how did you build this place? The money had to come from somewhere.”
Grandfather slapped me on the back, almost knocking me down. “You train a few socialites with our methods, and word gets around those circles. Before I knew it, I could not piss the money fast enough.”
And I'm next in line? “So what am I supposed to do? I didn't even know this was a reform school an hour ago.”
He looked at me like I had just farted. “You train,” my grandfather took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke pouring out as he added, “and get to know your assistant.”
“I have staff while I'm learning?”
Two girls in the yard suddenly tangled up, a tall blonde grabbing a brunette's hair in the start of a cat fight. My grandfather pulled a walkie-talkie from his breast pocket. “Code yellow in the courtyard.”
It really is a place to dump rich troublemakers. Two women who h
ad to be nearing seven feet tall marched out, putting both girls in headlocks and lifting them off the ground.
“We'll see how you handle discipline for new students tomorrow. The brunette will be a good first test.”
I stared as she got hauled off into one of many doors. The girl looked familiar, but I couldn't place it behind the scowl and mess of hair obscuring her face.
“Until then,” his hand gripped my shoulder, “you have work to do.”
I imagined reams of paperwork, or maybe a toilet brush for the next few hours. “As in?”
His fingers loosened. “Just like Natalia was trained by my grandmother to help run the school, Anya has been trained by your grandmother.”
I was almost afraid to ask. “What kind of training?”
“Rules, procedures, and being an upstanding role model for our students.” I should have known what was coming when he let go and started walking off. “Like family tradition dictates, she is Russian, of strong blood.”
“What are you telling me?” He was already too far away to hear. I ran to catch up. “What's the important part you left out?”
He stopped at the bottom of a staircase going up to the catwalk for the second floor. “You have not lost that bracelet, right?”
I felt inside my pockets. Still on the right side of my jeans. “I've got it.”
“Good.” I knew that smug grin was the one my father always talked about hating in people. Now I knew why. “Headmistresses are trained with the knowledge to do their job, but they stay unbranded until they are paired with a headmaster. You might say Anya is fresh off the boat.”
I followed him up the stairs and to our the right on the second floor. “So I give Anya this, and she's ready to help me run this place?”
“There is more to it than putting jewelry on her, just like taking a wife.” He wasn't bothering to turn around. “Tell me, do you like your women strong, or submissive?”
“What?” My grandfather was asking this kind of question? “I never thought about it, but both would be nice.”
“Good answer. The perfect woman minds herself, but is not helpless.” He stopped at a door and turned to face me. “Remember that, and she will serve you well.”