The Academy Read online

  And this was only the beginning! If Anderson and Chris weren’t bullshitting him, they intended to actually sell him to someone within the year. At first, he had been eager for the chance to prove himself, but lately, he had been wondering if, in fact, it was all some sort of head-game. After all, they both admitted that almost no one was trained like that any more, and Chris hadn’t mentioned this potential sale since they were both at Anderson’s place. Plus, there was the fact that despite his occasionally insufferable arrogance about these “Old Guard” methods, Chris admitted that he had not fulfilled them himself. Not adequately, at any rate.

  Of course, Chris had been in some sort of service, somewhere. It showed in the way he perfectly deferred to Grendel and Alex back at the House, and in the way he acted toward Anderson. But there were no sale records for him in the Marketplace. His experience had to have been some sort of private arrangement that somehow still counted. Michael was convinced that his own “sale” was really just going to be some kind of reassignment to another trainer, possibly Grendel and Alex, since they seemed friendly with Anderson and busy enough to use him. But if that happened, he feared that Chris would no longer be part of the picture. There was no way they really needed two under-trainers, and the house seemed over-staffed as it was, what with Rachel pretty much running things and the trainee slaves doing the scut work.

  The thought of continuing his training without Chris—no matter how much he hated him—was very disturbing.

  It was, in fact, mortifying.

  Even now, as he found the closets and hung up Chris’s suits and smoothed out his ties, (and found a western style shoe rack), Michael could feel his cock straining against the narrow cotton rope that Chris had wrapped around it before their connection in Tokyo. It had been almost three hours to Okinawa, and another hour and a half on the road to get here. But that was nothing, Michael thought ruefully. At least the rope didn’t have little spikes on the inside of it, like the parachute/cock-ring assembly that he had been directed to pack along with the other items that Chris used to keep him aware of his status. It didn’t matter, really. Anything that Chris used on him, touched him with, said to him, seemed important beyond all logic now, imbued with erotic and emotional significance.

  The only regularly used toy not in the bag, as a matter of fact, was Michael’s now well-used gag. Because, for once, he was free to speak for the entire trip—free to ask questions, engage in conversations, even—chat about the weather. After months of isolation, he was almost feverishly eager to have those experiences. And cautious as hell, too. Just because you are allowed to do something doesn’t mean you can do it badly. That was one of his most underlined notes in his precious book of hints and rules, compiled since Anderson, the Trainer of Trainers, reminded him that obedience to her was more important than what he felt was correct. If he took the opportunity to speak up, his voice had to be controlled, his questions intelligent, his conversation appropriate. If not....

  He pulled Chris’s strap out of the garment bag pocket and laid it out on the low, polished, pine table. The handle was dark with palm sweat, the smooth leather worn by years of use. Michael couldn’t remember three days that had gone by in the past five months without feeling it. Even now, there were fading bruises on the backs of his thighs.

  As he moved and felt them, he sighed in pleasure. Oh man, he thought, fighting to keep his motions sure, his attention on the task before him. This is as far from where I was a year ago as I could get!

  And it felt so damn good!

  He had no illusions about his presence here. He was not here to serve anyone but Chris, and he was not here as an example of anything except for what he was—a raw, untrained man marked by Anderson as having a chance at becoming a trainer. And while some people would envy his position, Michael still felt the tug of ambivalence from time to time. Was he crazy, thinking that he stood a chance at being anything but a dilettante, Chris’s favorite accusation? Was he clinging to this trainer-in-training facade in order to avoid considering becoming a full-time slave?

  As if to relieve his worries, his cock gently settled underneath its bondage, no longer strangling itself in frustrating tumescence. There was never a true erotic attraction to being a full-time slave, never that jolt of feeling right that he had read about in so many slave interviews and reports. So clearly, he was made to be a trainer, and this newfound passion for use, abuse, and humiliation was directed toward one man and one man only. And since Chris made it clear that his loyalties lay in only one direction—that of Imala Anderson and her methods and traditions—and that he was certainly not interested in owning a slave, then that settled things. Period. Nothing more to say.

  Yet when Chris came back and Michael got on all fours and presented his ass for a beating, his traitorous cock was hard as a rock, red, and straining painfully between the white strands of rope, and every stroke drove the breath from him in gasps that were ecstatically pure. And his thanks were as genuine as his obedience and his gasps. As usual, he forgot all about how cut and dry everything was, needing only to feel the slight brush of Chris’s hand on his head to make him wriggle with pleasure and ache to be better—so much better—in the future.

  * * * *

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for attending this year’s Academy. On behalf of the International Coalition of Trainers and Handlers and the Asian and South Pacific offices of The Marketplace, I welcome you to Okinawa and this beautiful resort, provided for our use by the Shimada family.” The speaker was Noguchi Shigeo, the undisputed Trainer of Trainers in his part of the world. At least eighty years old (some said ninety), he seemed to be made of seasoned timber, as ancient and creaky as the central beam of an old country house. His English was precise and British, his manners impeccable, his training methods unspeakably brutal. It was said that his school rejected at least a dozen applicants for each position, and then weeded out half of those who were accepted. In the small world of the Marketplace, that was quite considerable, especially because although he was always cordial and respectful, no gai-jin—no foreigner—had ever been accepted for training in his house. Plus, his rejections were still considered among the most desired of private trainers, especially if they had survived the first year.

  Tetsuo Sakai had been trained by Noguchi. Like all of those who had received the touch of this venerable master, he was standing to Noguchi’s left side, mingled with the crowd, yet easily within sight of the old man and proudly attentive. It didn’t matter that Tetsuo had been an independent trainer for decades or that his house was the acknowledged second, right behind Noguchi’s, in slave training. What mattered was knowing where you came from.

  The rest of the room was still settling as Noguchi went into the extensive list of welcomes and introductions of the various Marketplace representatives who were going to be present for the Academy’s session. Slaves circulated, bearing bound copies of the schedule and various position papers that were to be shared, discussed, and debated. There was also one formal proposal this year, requiring a vote of the membership. Interpreters buzzed constantly; there was a tight edge of excitement in the air.

  Ken Mandarin had made the attempt to look interested and be quiet, but as soon as she got hold of the Academy schedule, she flipped it open, scanned the contents, and immediately began turning pages to the section she wanted to read first. Several of Noguchi’s men gave her short, stern glances, but she ignored them, preferring the circle of spotters who had congregated around her, just as eager to see what was going to be the real business of the week. We are the real outlaws here, Ken thought smugly, as she and her peers began to scan the items that might affect them. Perhaps it is not at all where you came from, she reflected, but where you are going. And neither this old man nor my pompous little American friend is going to tell me where I am going.

  Yes, there it was. They had scheduled an obscene amount of time for debating, as usual. Talk, talk, talk, they always had to talk everything to death! She sighed theatrically a
nd shut the binder sharply, noting who ignored the sound, who jumped and tried to pretend they didn’t hear it, and who actually turned to see. It was gratifying to have her powers of observation. It was all part of what made her so good at what she did. Damn to hell anyone who thought they could tell her what her job was. She felt that the critical mass of her fellows had digested the material, and deliberately scanned each of them in turn, letting them see that she was prepared to fight. Even the oldest one there deferred to her—as was only correct. A pity that she and Parker would come to heads over this, but c’est la guerre. She turned her attention back to Noguchi, who was finally getting to some of the information she had come to hear.

  “As our schedule is heavy and our time limited, we shall limit discussion on the major proposal to our formal debates. I respectfully request that the usual ‘hallway discourse’ be as limited as possible, so that all of our attendees will have the most complete information possible.” There was a slight wave of laughter at this valiant attempt to control the second oldest human instinct in the world, that to gather and gossip. Noguchi gave the slightest of shrugs, acknowledging the futility of his position, but his face was stern, his voice slightly harder. “When matters of such import come before us, they deserve our best efforts for resolution,” he added. “It is not an exaggeration to say that the very character of our institution might change after this meeting of the Academy. I encourage all of our members to be cooperative both in the process, and in the final results, whatever they may be.”

  “Even if we are disenfranchised by this process?” Ken called out, stirring those around her to muted agreements.

  Shigeo Noguchi lowered his gaze to her, slowly and with the great majesty that was his to bear. The anger of his students and the surprise of those who would never presume to interrupt such a grandfather in their midst was perfectly palpable. Ken tossed it all off with a casual sniff and stared back at the man with a perfectly insolent smile on her lips.

  “I look forward to the debates with great pleasure,” the old man said simply. “But I know no amount of talk will ever disenfranchise you, Ms. Mandarin.”

  The light laughter broke the momentary tension until Ken laughed herself. She gave another of her dramatic bows toward Noguchi and turned to leave. He seemed not to take any offense, and continued his introductory words as she and several others quietly left the room.

  Michael itched to follow her. Now, there was a hot babe, he thought, fully aware of the massive disrespect such a thought entailed. He had never been formally introduced to her, had only heard of her, seen her from afar. He knew that she and Chris were old acquaintances, if not friends, and that she had spotted several excellent clients, both for Chris and for Chris’s employers, Alex and Grendel. In fact, Chris had told him that Ken’s patience when scoping out potential clients by far exceeded his own. Not a bad compliment from a man who thought that patience came before obedience in the proper attributes of someone in service. Or those who trained them.

  Even still, Michael liked the way she looked, exotic and playful, strong and passionate. He liked the way she moved quickly and gracefully, assuming that people would move out of her way. She looked like the kind of woman who had had people surrounding her to see to her every whim for a long, long time. It was frankly sexy, enticing, yet slightly dangerous. In his older days in California, he would have played with her in a minute, gone hunting with her, if she wanted to, and enjoyed her wickedness when it was aimed at someone who was helpless before it. He smiled slightly, imagining her in a latex cat suit and spiked heels.

  “I’m loaning you to her later,” Chris said casually. The level of sound rose in the room as people applauded Noguchi and broke up into their little social groups. Michael paled, unsteady for a moment. Damn him! Damn all of them! Was he so transparent that they could all read his mind, or was he so simple that they could all stay two steps ahead of him?

  “Speak,” Chris snapped.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Michael replied smartly. He had learned that gratitude fit almost every occasion and used it liberally. This time, it seemed appropriate, because Chris nodded and let the matter drop. In any event, there was someone approaching, from behind Michael’s shoulder, according to how Chris’s eyes were tracking. Carefully, Michael edged out of the way, and sighed when he managed to move to the side just as the newcomer came close enough for a personal greeting.

  * * * *

  “Mr. Parker, what a pleasure to see you again.” The voice behind him was low, smooth, and gently accented; he turned his body to stand behind Chris and to his left, and saw one of the most beautiful women he could possibly imagine.

  There he had been, just seconds into a full-fledged erotic fantasy about this slender, angular Asian woman with spiky hair and high cheekbones. But now, Ken Mandarin faded before something ever so much more—ethereal. And Michael struggled to understand why.

  She was in her fifties, maybe even her sixties, it was hard to guess. Her smooth, olive-toned skin was faintly glowing in health, that kind of color you got when you lived in a warm place. Her hair was a rich, lush black, touched lightly with silvery white, making you guess at her age, mocking you with the possibilities. She had large, bold, dark eyes, and a body that Americans would describe as heavy. But when she stood and offered an elegantly manicured hand toward Chris Parker, she seemed as tempting as Aphrodite freshly come from the waves, as stunning as an Italian movie actress, as inviting as a warm embrace.

  Chris took her hand and kissed the back, European style. Michael couldn’t think of any other way to greet this woman. He realized that his mouth and lips had dried out, and nervously swallowed, hoping that Chris would not introduce him. I’ll just fade into the background, he thought, praying that his palms weren’t sweating.

  “Ninon,” Chris said, pronouncing it like it was French. “I was so pleased to get your note.”

  “And I was pleased to see that you have at last truly joined us,” the woman said. “Your writings have been so useful to me, it seemed a shame you were not more active among us. I hope that I am among the first to give you my full support and encouragement.”

  “I’m honored by your interest,” Chris replied. “I just hope that the upcoming discussions won’t be—unpleasant to you.”

  “Oh, my young friend,” she laughed, and her laugh was like something warm and soft thrown over bare shoulders. “I have been here much longer than you, and have faced terrible battles in the past. Surely, you know that it is those moments of unpleasantness which accentuate the moments of joy.”

  “Of course.” Chris smiled, and was that just the slightest touch of color in his cheeks? Well, there was certainly a lot of heat pumping through Michael’s face, and it intensified when Chris turned toward him and indicated him. “Ninon, please allow me to present Michael, who was chosen by Anderson to train under me.”

  Michael felt buffeted when the woman turned her gaze toward him. He bowed deeply, appropriately for a person of such little status, and, he hoped, low enough for Chris’s judgment. She smiled at him, though, and it made everything instantly better. She did not extend her hand to be kissed, for which he was terribly grateful. He didn’t think that it would be appropriate to take one of those pretty hands into his suddenly huge and sweaty paw.

  “Ninon is one of the greatest gifts the modern Marketplace has,” Chris said. “And her specialty will interest you, Michael.”

  “Yes, sir?” Michael managed to say.

  “Ninon exclusively trains pleasure slaves.” Chris smiled again, and Michael gulped as Ninon turned to look into his eyes again.

  “Is that truly a field of interest to you, Michael?” she asked, her eyebrows raising delicately. “As a client, or a trainer?”

  “I—I hope to be a trainer,” Michael stammered.

  “How charming. And fortunate for you, as well. You are at an awkward age for pleasure training,” she said gently. “Too young for the proper experience, too old to be fully trained in
the most proper way. But a few months with me, and I would teach you things about pleasure which you could have never imagined.”

  I bet, Michael thought, bitterly hating the way the spikes were digging into his balls and around the base of his cock. “It would be an honor for me to study under you ma’am,” he said. He hated the way it sounded the minute the words left his mouth, but again her smile made everything better. When she turned her attention back to Chris, he tried to breathe in deeply and gently and regain his composure.

  “Surely, you have many allies in this,” she was saying.

  “All I need,” Chris said confidently. “And I suspect that many of those who have indicated opposition will come around before our meeting is over. I’ve found that there are a lot of irrational fears surrounding what this might mean for independents, especially spotters.” He gave her a meaningful look, and she nodded wisely.

  “Still,” she said gently, “it is needed. The quality of merchandise has been declining for years now. I have seen common threads; a lack of dedication, a lack of the proper spark, the passion.” She shook her head sadly. “However, we cannot place the blame entirely upon the clientèle. We must bear this responsibility, as we are the foundation upon which the Marketplace exists. We are more than the conduit, Mr. Parker—we are the shapers of service. Surely, we must admit that there are universal standards of acceptability.”

  “Of course we do,” came a deep voice from behind her. “We accept the standards and teach them. But we can’t allow any governing board authority over us and our methods. That would go against the very essence of our origins and place in the world.”

  Michael cringed at the sound of that confident, cheerful voice. Chris and Ninon turned to welcome Geoff Negel into their little conversation, and Michael wished even harder that he could sink into the floor, unnoticed.