The Academy (45 page)

Michael saw Marcy enter the room with Stuart in tow, and briefly felt a flash of embarrassment. But then, he stopped and tried to think of how he should be reacting. After all, nothing especially earthshaking had happened. He had been one of the stars in a vaguely uncomfortable sex show. But when it came down to brass tacks, it had been his choice to do it.
All of this is my choice
, Michael thought.
And I have the power to choose how to deal with it, too. I was just laughing at these people for not playing and having sex—but I did play, and I did have sex, last night. Not the type I might have chosen... but I got off.

Come to think of it, it really wasn’t that bad after all. As far as the beating went, hell, he’d taken worse from Chris. And although Cindy’s dick was on the large side, its shape and the humiliation of being fucked for an audience was more of what made it uncomfortable. He certainly didn’t feel torn or abused in any way this morning. And he did get to fuck Andy, or at least have Andy bouncing up and down on his cock, which was just as much fun with much less work. And as for Stuart—well, Michael had no intention of blabbing about Stuart’s cock any more then he had concerning Cindy’s. The very thought was amusing, but in mid-smile, he stopped his memories and frowned in confusion.
What was I so upset about last night
, he wondered.
Chris was right—I wanted to play and screw around—and I did. It wasn’t on my terms, but it wasn’t anything more than I’d been warned might happen, and dammit, some of it was downright fun.
So how would Chris deal with it? He’d probably just nod hello to Stu and act like it never happened. After all, it was after-hours and not for public consumption. That was how a good slave might treat it.

But I’m not a slave yet
, Michael mused.
I’m still free, as free as any apprentice in this field is. And if I had good sex with someone and wanted to say hi the next day, what would I do?

He caught Stuart’s eye, and much to the young man’s shock, Michael gave him a broad wink and mimed a kiss.

Oh, it was so good to see Stuart blush and hurry after Marcy! Kinda mean, yeah, but good, too.

Ken laughed out loud, not missing the exchange and slapped Michael playfully on the arm. “Bad dog,” she said. “Naughty dingo!”

“Actually, I’m wondering if I hurt his feelings,” Michael said with a regretful sigh. “Maybe I better go talk to him.”

“No, no,” Ken assured him. “Better he should get used to being... being made the object of admiration, yes? He is filling Marcy with his new desires to be like you, mon chien, to be trained as the great Parker trains, the poor fool.”

Michael laughed. “There are worse things,” he said.

“Yes, indeed there are. But a man that shy should not even consider delivering himself into Parker’s gentle hands, do you not agree?”

Michael nodded after a moment’s thought. Yes, she was right; part of Chris’s technique in distancing was to use surrogates in dominance—to loan out slaves and, well, trainees, to his various experienced friends. Or to give the impression of being loaned. Damn, there was so much to think about now, new ideas were crowding Michael’s head like lines of a new song. He wanted very much to sit back and chat with all these hot, important people, but he also wanted to run back to his room and write out reams of notes on all these things. He hoped he would remember all of them when he finally got a break.

“Yeah, Chris isn’t exactly the most kind and gentle trainer,” laughed Paul. “But he’s got a hell of an eye.”

Shoshana and Joost both nodded; having a good eye was high praise indeed from humans who made it their business to see slaves where everyone else saw mere humans. Dan, the Californian spotter, shrugged. “All I ask is that trainers trust my eye. Sometimes an older-timer like Parker doesn’t give a client enough of a chance. That’s why I like to send ’em to Negel; he’ll hang onto something for three months at least before giving up. It’s the least to ask, when I might have spent half a year scouting them out, waiting for them to get out of bad relationships, testing, researching—it’s a pain sometimes! I think we deserve to be taken seriously when we put that much time in.”

“We also deserve to be kicked in the derrière when we waste our time and the time of others,” Ken said with a snort. “Just because you have fun with someone for six months does not mean that a trainer will wish to do the same!”

They laughed and Dan seemed not to take it personally, much to Michael’s relief. “I used to think being a spotter would be a great job,” he said with a smile. “Hell, it was what I thought I’d do at first. But I had no idea how much time you guys put in on the clients. God, I was an idiot.”

“You don’t want to be a spotter anyway,” Dan said with a shrug. “Long hours and slow turn around. The best thing about is is that it’s your choice; the worst thing about it is the rejection rate!”

“No, no, the worst thing is the disappointment when a good prospect doesn’t pan out,” insisted Paul. “Man, you put weeks into figuring how someone ticks, you put all your hopes in them, you get ’em ready to go, you’re just about to suggest there might be something better for them—and then wham!—they ‘fall in looove’—with someone else. Or worse—with you!” He laughed bitterly.

“It is only natural when they fall in love with you,” Ken said with one of her slight shrugs. “One can turn that if the client is still suitable, make it into an asset.”

Joost nodded thoughtfully, playing with the chunks of pineapple and sections of tangerine left on his lunch plate. “Yes, that is true,” he said. “A good trainer can make a difference, I think. It is hard for an independent spotter to do this alone, it works best when you have a training partner. Someone who can help manage the—the disappointment when it comes.” He smiled quickly, revealing beautiful teeth that lit up his dark face. “I am fortunate in my allies; I always have a—what is it you Americans say? A reality check. I know when I have spent too much time on a client who can only go so far.”

“God help us when we don’t,” Shoshana said with a toss of her hair. “Working alone can make you crazy! There are only three spotters in Israel right now, and one trainer. If we didn’t keep in touch, we would all be off in the hills, talking to rocks and goats.”

Michael laughed. “But why?”

The spotters looked at him in wonder, then among themselves. Paul shrugged, volunteered to answer.

“Because we’ve got our feet in two worlds,” he said. “You’ve been around a little—how many trainers do you know work by themselves? Not many, right? And even the solos who are out there, what do they do? They assemble a staff, they train juniors, like Anderson does. They live and breathe the Marketplace, and they always have contact with other people in it.

“But we spend more of our time in the soft world—or in situations even less friendly! Like we were saying about sex and play parties—we’re at every goddamn leather contest and conference and panel, every stupid fashion show, all year long, it’s leather and fetish and sex and S/M—but with weekenders and pretenders and well-intentioned novices with grandiose fantasies. With people like us, it’s always weird—you have to blend into the weekend world well, but then come back to a place where we do this shit for keeps. It’s like building two different lives, two different personalities. Then, look at Kurgan’s spotter team—six people who spend their year going from one military environment to another, scoping out the jarheads and zoomies and squids for potential slaves. When they finish one tour, they start another. And the only contact they really have is Kurgan himself, no parties to go to, no Marketplace hang-outs. They have a different problem—they have to walk into the mundane world most of the time and then take a quick retreat into what feels like a fantasy. Hell, most spotters don’t even go to the auctions where their clients end up, they came up with some stats to show that it unnerved the clients.”

“When you are alone like that, it can lead to some—bad behavior,” Joost said.

“Like Matson?” Michael asked, glancing at Ken.

“Matson was never alone,” Ken said sharply. “He had friends, he had a local network. But yes, like Matson. He began to believe that he could and should do everything by himself.”

“Bullseye also thought the world revolved around him,” said Dan. “Shit, I remember him, he was one arrogant bastard.”

“We are all arrogant,” Shoshana said. “Or, correctly, we are all confident.”

“Fine line,” said Paul.

“Matson fell in looove,” Ken said, echoing Paul’s earlier comment. “People grow mad when they are in looove.”

“There are much worse reasons for madness,” Joost said thoughtfully.

“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.”

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.