The Academy (18 page)

The darkness was thick like syrup—as if from the bottom of a well, she looked up at his knife, trying to anchor herself in cold logic: burglar in the house, knife positioned at her naked belly, Graham nowhere to be found, maybe not even at home. But even cold logic betrayed her, and the so-hungry slave named Fancy, instead looked at a powerful animal, glittering knife in his hand, hard cock in his pants, sopping moisture between her legs.

“You want it, bitch, don’t you?” he said, tone still gravel, but now tempered with what must have been mean-ass come-on.

She almost nodded, almost said “Yes, Master,” almost dropped down to her knees again to hunt for his hard cock through those black jeans. Almost—but she didn’t. She stood, frozen—a deer in his feral headlights—and trembled from equal parts fear and want.

The knife blade flashed in front of her downcast eyes, so close it made her start, made her eyes flicker up from the blade to his arm, his broad shoulders, his dark eyes. “Yeah, bitch—you want it....”

She did—Lord, she did. It was like the absolute slave that Fancy wanted to be, was standing there. She was pure. She was want. She was an object. She was a victim....

Fancy heard his hands fumbling with his belt, heard his jeans tumble around his ankles. Heard, because she suddenly wasn’t looking down, but rather had brought her head up to stare into a pair of hard brown eyes. She saw him for the first time: not power, just violence; not domination, but destruction.

“Yeah, bitch, you fuckin’ want it. You want it fuckin’ bad—” he said, equal parts desire and rage. A kid, a little boy, who finally got his wish: a toy to use, break, then throw away. “You ready to take it, bitch?”

“No,” Fancy said, “and I’m not a bitch. I’m Fancy—and I’m the best fucking slave there is.”

Then she took a step back, carefully aimed—that brown belt in Tae Kwon Do never far from her mind—and power kicked him right in the balls.

* * * *

In the end, she really wished she could have stolen away for a quick shower. But the instant the thought filled her mind she pushed it aside. Her Master had told her to remain in this room, and that’s what she would do—even if she reeked of cunt juice and sweat.

Her arms still ached, and she smiled. She’d stayed where she’d been put—but that hadn’t prevented her from getting a work-out. He certainly hadn’t looked heavy—big, maybe, but not like the monster sack of cement he’d felt like as she’d dragged him, groaning and cursing, over to the window. Even with his balls kicked up his ass, he’d tried to grab her—but she’d just fallen back into a perfectly balanced stance (Thank you, Master Ko) and given him three quick shots to the face, throat, and solar plexus—which had left him in a pliant, if heavily fetal curl.

Once she knew he wasn’t going to do anything remotely threatening, her breathing settled back into its regular, slow rhythm. She picked the knife up—noticing for the first time it was a cheap Chinese piece of shit—and flipped into a far corner. Call the police? She should, it was, after all, her civic duty... but then she hesitated. First, explaining to the cops why she was naked, why one room of Graham’s lavish apartment was decked out with a sling, stocks, GYN table; why... well, there were just too many whys. Too many things had to be hidden, changed, covered, and Master would have to be summoned and disturbed as well. His much valued privacy would be invaded. Besides, the burglar—between sobs and almost-shrieking groans—was quite adamant about coming back to “fucking kill you, bitch.”

She debated, quite coolly, taking the knife and... well, not really seriously.

In the end, she settled for simply dragging him over to the window and heaving him out. He made a very satisfying thud and then some almost childish screams after he landed in the alley two floors below. She made a mental note to have the ornamental railings outside the windows checked for damage, and returned to her place in the center of the room. To her shock, it was morning already—somehow, the night had passed, taking with it her shame and terror, her deeper fears, and her unholy arousal. She was once again Fancy.

* * * *

“I am not pleased,” her Master said, standing in front of her. “Yes, you have performed the simple physical task I set out for you to remain in this room till my return... but, this is not all I ordered you to accomplish—is that not right, slave?”

“Yes, Master. I apologize, Master.”

“With all this time to think, to ponder what it means to be a slave, to be the ideal submissive, I have found your answer to be simple—no, that implies elegance. More childish. ‘Because I’m proud of who I am.’ Does that speak of the complexities of servitude? Does that even touch on the physical sensations of your position, on the philosophical attributes of true service? No, Fancy—this is just not an acceptable answer.”

“Yes, Master. I am so sorry, Master.”

“And answer me this, pray-tell, what was that God-awful noise a few minutes ago? God, girl, did I give you permission to bang around like a bloody marching band? And look here—first that din and now this. I did not give you permission to open a window. Were my orders unclear? Were my instructions too complex? You were just to remain here—quietly—in this room, and to come up with an answer that would show me that you have what it takes to remain in this house, to stay my property.”

“Your orders were quite clear, Master. Please forgive me.”

“I have even begun to wonder about your sanity: it’s chilly outside and this room is close to being cold. Don’t you have enough sense to even close a window?”

“I’m sorry, Sir; it won’t happen again.”

At the window now, he rested his hands on the frame, preparing to close it—but then something caught his eye. Leaning out, he looked down for a few moments.

Distantly, Fancy could hear a few pitiful moans—as if, for instance, from someone who’d been severely beaten and then dumped out a second floor window.

After peering down into the alley for what seemed like a very long minute—at what, Fancy had a pretty good idea (if he’d been too banged up to hobble off)—Graham calmly stood back up and slid the window slowly shut. He glanced around the room, and found the silver glitter of the cheap knife laying where Fancy had tossed it aside. Then, he swept his eyes over to his property.

Her eyes were downcast, focused on the Chinese rug. Suddenly, he was beside her, his hand gently cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. His eyes were sparkling. “I do believe,” he said, “I am in possession of a very, very fine slave. Perhaps pride shall suffice.”

Fancy didn’t say anything. She just smiled.

The afternoon session ended and the explosion of trainers and spotters leaving the debates was as bustling as the check-in period, with the added pressure of evening activities looming ahead. By the time Michael pardoned himself from his sweet afternoon on the grass and dressed for dinner, he was feeling a lot calmer.
Jet lag,
he decided.
I’m overtired and just plain cranky-mean. I know I shouldn’t even talk to anyone when I’m like this, and I definitely shouldn’t be asking impertinent questions of Mr. Touchy. I’ll write about it in my journal, later.

He had dashed back to the room after young Stuart finished his story, to lay out Chris’s clothing and make sure his shoes were polished. Since the dinner was hosted by the Canadians, it was North American style formal wear. Chris had brought two different tuxedos, Michael his best suits.

He was actually looking forward to it. Formal dinners were never difficult for him; his family had a few when he was growing up. His Uncle Niall had more than his share. He had thought about renting a tuxedo, but at the very idea, he had gotten a withering look of contempt from Chris. And no wonder; when he started to pack, he discovered that Chris had a separate closet for his formal wear.

“How many tuxedos do you own?” he had asked, in amusement.

“The better question is, ‘how many suits in there are tuxedos?’” Chris had responded. And sure enough, there were vast differences between the carefully hung sets of formal wear and what Chris casually called his working clothes.

Until that time, Michael hadn’t even known that Chris had ever been a butler.

Naturally, he thought that was amusing too. “I mean,” he had said trying not to giggle, “think of what butlers are in American culture, OK? Alfred at stately Wayne Manor. Or that guy in the movie, the one who was a butler for Dudley Moore, remember? ‘I’ll alert the media,’ that was funny!”

Well, the beating he got later on was no laughing matter, although he could swear that Grendel and Alex thought the whole thing was pretty amusing. And it wasn’t that Chris ever got into the whole formal costume at their house, either; at least not when Michael was there. He tended toward the same clothing he wore at Anderson’s—suits and ties, collared shirts and ties with jeans for days when he worked outside.

Michael secretly thought that maybe Chris had some sort of tux fetish. It was occasionally a funny thing to consider, although he was very careful not to ever say anything out loud. But it also started him wondering what other huge secrets Chris Parker had. Man of mystery, indeed. Just when you think you had him pegged, he went out to a leather bar and hustled tourists at pool, or watched some cheesy monster movie with Rachel, the two of them leaning into each other and laughing around buttered popcorn. Or, well, he turned out to have been a butler.

As he brushed the jacket off and opened the box of studs and cuff links, Michael thought about the entire formal service wardrobe. Where had Chris actually been a butler? And when? Was that something he had been sent away to do? Was that the context in which Anderson...loaned him out? Because there was now no doubt that Chris had been handed off to someone unspeakable. The memory of it was apparently so terrible, he couldn’t even hide it from Michael, the traditional ‘last-to know’ guy.

And the fact that Chris had actually experienced it meant that Michael was himself more likely to suffer, too. It was frightening now, too frightening to really spend a lot of time considering. He decided that he would ask for a meeting with Anderson when he got back to the States to clarify things. But while he was here, he had to concentrate on doing better. He had to focus on serving and pleasing Chris, making up for his lost temper and showing what all these months of learning were worth.

So, knowing that Chris wouldn’t let him play valet because of his little temper tantrum, he left the room and sought out a little time with other people his age as they congregated in the halls and on the outskirts of the banquet hall. It was nice being part of a crowd that might be discussing genital piercings as easily as sports scores. He kept an eye on the time, and strolled over to the Western wing as promptly as possible. Serving slaves dashed about in western-style uniforms, some of them more provocatively dressed than others. As he turned into room five, he thought he had walked into the wrong room, because the first person he saw was Stuart.

He was dressed in a tux now, a modern one without a lapel. He looked for all the world looked like the junior groomsman who was getting up the nerve to ask the junior bridesmaid to dance.

But instead of a too-tall girl in a pastel party dress, Chris, looking relaxed and elegant himself, was chatting with him. Michael stationed himself a discreet distance away, but could hear them very well. He lowered his head and focused away from them.

“What do you think of the Jorgenson Center?” Chris was asking, showing no sign that he had noticed Michael at all.

“It’s OK, Sir,” the kid replied. “Not equipped for someone like me, I can tell you that! If I had told them everything at first, I don’t think they might have been as helpful. You gave me the best advice though, and I can’t tell you how much it meant to me.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Chris said gently. “And from what I’ve heard—and what I see—they’re better equipped than anyone was when I was your age. You make me feel ancient.”

“Wow, I’m sorry!” The kid blushed. “It’s just that—when Marcy told me about you, and said that I could write to you—it was like a lifeline.”

Michael shuffled a little, wanting to move even further away. This seemed embarrassingly personal. At the same time, his sense of jealousy came right up. What the hell was Chris doing with that—that—child? How did this angelic-looking space cadet end up being pen-pals with his trainer? Stuart was still speaking.

“And Sir—with all respect—I have to say again that you should consider publishing it. If you only saw what was happening on the West Coast—it’s like an explosion. And we need the kind of stuff you wrote to me.” He was so sweetly earnest.

“Publish it? I don’t know, Stuart.” Chris paused and shook his head. “It was a different world for me, I’m afraid. There are things I’m not comfortable with as common knowledge. I—I would need to think about that.”

“Thanks, Sir, that’s all I can ask.”

Michael cleared his throat slightly, and was gratified to see Chris check his watch.

“Time we should be going,” he said. “Michael, come here a moment. This is Stuart. He is Marcy Teodor’s trainee, from Seattle. Stuart, this is my student, Michael.”

“Hello, Stuart,” Michael said, feeling foolish as he nodded. “Good to see you again, I didn’t know you knew Mr. Parker.”

“You never said who your trainer was,” Stuart said with a touch of excitement and respect. “It’s an pleasure to formally meet you, sir.” Michael almost rolled his eyes. No one had called him ‘sir’ in ages.