The Academy (39 page)

Michael could just hear Tucker shouting, “Now, that’s more like it!”

And they all laughed even harder when the two black-clad assistants came back at the end of her song to tear off her suit to reveal—a slender man underneath it all, his smile going from the sexy snarl of Elvis to the coquettish look of the actors who played female roles in Kabuki.

The rest of the entertainment was similar—gender twisting and dancing, with some slaves clearly of one sex or another but most of them either blurring the lines or outright leaving the trainers arguing. Some lip-synced, others sang legitimately, there was even a comedy routine, but it was all delightful—funny, exciting, curious, and gradually mysterious. And damn if it didn’t lift the mood of the room. The fluidity of gender and sexual messages was just exhilarating, and pleasantly teasing, the slaves energetic and skilled, and thrilled by applause and attention. It was a perfect show—silly and seamless, thought- and discussion-provoking, and yet casual. When the “cast” was brought out for a final round of identification, all of them clad only in training collars, roars of delight and amusement rose as the trainers got to settle on who had clocked the correct genders, or at least had come close. The slaves all bowed deeply, in the Japanese style, before they exited.

By the time the black-clad slaves scurried through the hall setting up a series of small black machines as they had set up the grills earlier, and smaller, hand held microphones were appearing, people seemed eager to scan lists of songs to sing. But before Michael even got his hands on the black and silver covered book of song titles, a figure in black and gray appeared at his side, and his heart leapt in surprise. It was Chris, and he touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Time to go, Michael.”

And when Ken got up to leave as well, Michael wished that he could say that he really, really needed to hear Tucker’s version of ‘Born in the USA,’ but they were gone from the building before the Southern man even got to thank his hosts for such a fine, fine dinner.

The same slave that helped Chris dress got him all undressed, leaving Michael to wait in a clean jockstrap and a yukata until Chris put on jeans and a T-shirt. Chris picked up the strap and they walked to the other building in silence, and once they got into the room, it was “Strip, present, and report to Ms. Mandarin why you are in such a sorry state of affairs,” and boom, that was it.

* * * *

How did they do this on a regular basis,
Michael thought, as Ken discussed his explanation and apology with Marcy.
How can any human being sleep at night knowing that at any moment, they can be stripped naked and made to do humiliating things in front of people—people they might have to deal with later on?
He had always assumed that slaves—people who wanted to be slaves anyway—had some quirk in their nature that always made these things hot, or at least acceptable. But what if their erotic attachment was to only one person, or only one situation? What if all they needed or wanted was to be the upstairs maid? Or to be one master’s fuck toy? And what if their owner could still compel them to do things like this? How did they cope?

“Well, I can hardly reward your dingo with the attentions of my two perfect angels if he has been naughty,” Ken said, drawing one finger along Cindy’s back and making her slave shiver. Ken had changed into a handsome pair of red silk boxer shorts and a loose robe knotted around her hips. Andy knelt at her feet, watching Michael intently, his lips parted and slightly wet. There were red marks around his pale pink nipples, bright and new, bites or crop strikes, it was difficult to tell. Michael’s last sight was Andy’s face, and his hard little nipples.

“You’re going to have to explain the dingo comments to me later,” Chris said. “But I agree. I was going to beat him myself. But my beatings are steadily losing their effectiveness, as he is increasingly enjoying them. Quite a nuisance, actually.”

Michael wished a whole troupe of demons would descend on his trainer and rip him to shreds.

Marcy rolled her eyes. “What else is new? It’s an old story, Parker, physical punishments have to be non-erotic, come on, that’s stuff you figure out when you’re a kid, for crissakes.”

“Well, as you must have guessed by now, Marcy, I am fond of old ways; I rely on a higher instinct to guide behavior, a desire to please and not be disappointing. I beat people because I enjoy it, and prefer that their reaction be appropriate to the situation. Since Michael will not be held to such an exacting nature of service, I am open to other methodology, and therefore—I call upon your experience to aid me. And to aid Michael, of course.”

“Tsk, tsk, Marcy, one must be patient,” interjected Ken. Michael could hear the whisper of her boxer shorts as she walked around him, could imagine her stroking her jaw, or laying a long finger against one lip. “Yes, we agree that one should not please a slave—oh, Michael, I do apologize, we all know you are not a slave—but still, one must not please a—a—target of punishment? If the target does not know the difference between pleasure and punishment. But I think it is clear that he does not enjoy enjoying. Is that not true, dingo?”

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.”