The Academy (61 page)

Parabolic hearing my ass; I just know where the best places in my house are to eavesdrop.

I found myself leaning against the wall at about three in the morning, everyone else asleep. By all rights, Chris should have been finished and in bed as well, but instead, my special client was sobbing.

I’m used to hearing crying—little squeaky tears of fear, loud, shaking sobs of pain, twisted groans of humiliation—I’ve cataloged them all. Even secret tears were no secret to me; after all, we tend to show when we’ve been crying, with red eyes and sniffling noses and pounding headaches.

But Chris’s little private sobs were different for me. As I listened to them sputter out, almost strangled into silence, and then the sounds of renewed labor and the harsh words that were aimed at my august person, I didn’t feel the breaking, the sense of futility. Oh, there was frustration and anger, definitely. And that particular sound of a person’s pain when they blame themselves for it. But these were not the despairing cries of someone who doubted their courage, but instead someone who was frustrated by their own weakness.

Yes, I could tell the difference.

There had never been a client broken under me who did not give off that particular wave of hostility, fear and defeat that a trainer can almost taste in the air around them. Chris was hurting, yes, but not breaking. Angry at me enough to curse me, but controlled enough to not let anger get in the way of training. Or, for that matter, in getting the tile grout as white as possible.

For the first time in years, I doubted my program. This was getting me—and my client—nowhere. Chris wasn’t going to break publicly, and was going to continue to work until exhaustion caused foul-ups. And for what? The humiliation of failure? That would have to be nothing compared to the humiliation of being told to paint those gently chewed fingernails pink and keep those hands looking like a lady’s.

The more I thought about it—and I stayed awake until far past the time I heard Chris’s slow footsteps on the stairs—the less satisfied I was. I wasn’t going to get a trainer out of this one, not the way I was going. All I was going to end up with was an exceptional slave who was designed for an owner with a particular fetish; not a bad thing, but not what I expected.

And the whole thing was compounded by the just plain feeling of “wrong, wrong, wrong” that I got whenever I looked at Chris. I’ve had plain-looking clients, even just damn ugly ones from time to time, and I’ve had clients who were not comfortable in their bodies, not satisfied with how they looked or sounded or felt. But there was just something wrong with Chris in a dress.

As wrong, I reminded myself, as a transsexual.

Except that there were no female transsexuals. Or whatever you would call them.

I stayed up until dawn, looking through my notes and Chris’s original file, with the doctors report. And then I took out older files from previous clients, people who had once been men, but had taken the hormones and had surgeons alter their bodies. And finally, when the older slave whose job it was that week found me and brought me coffee, I swallowed my pride and called in a second opinion.

1:00PM

Al Cruz—now Alison, Anderson reminded herself—was looking better these days. Or at least she was looking happier. Once there had been a slim man with haunted eyes and a nagging sense of not belonging which drove him to seek ownership as an answer to his problems. Now, there was a vivacious, cafe-au-lait-skinned woman who probably made more than a few men look up in order to be fascinated by her flashing eyes and long, wavy hair. Her facial bones looked a little prominent, and she favored sweeping, colorful and conservative clothing with long scarves and vests, but that fashion was only slightly out of date.

“Anderson!” Ali cried as she swept through the doorway into the sitting room. “Ohmigod, you look stunning! I love the beads, are they Indian?”

Al used to be shy, too.

Anderson glanced down at her braided necklaces and shrugged. “I’m fairly sure they’re Bloomingdales, Alison.”

“Ali, Ali. I decided I need a nickname.” Ali took the pretty chair by the window and sighed. “I haven’t seen you since the nip and tuck, Trainer, how’s business?”

Anderson laughed. “As good as it always is; and how is life now that you’re all settled into the new skin?”

“Oh, you know, it’s just fine. Mira, no more facial hair, all gone! For good, too.” Ali smiled with satisfaction, stroking her own cheek. “It’s like a dream come true. And mama, you should see the handsome macho man I have calling on me now, also like a dream come true!”

“I’m happy for you, Ali,” Anderson said honestly.

“I know, I know. I used to hate you, but now, I know you were sent by God to make sure I did the right thing. Now that I’ve honored you, tell me what I can do to help you.” She sat forward, all attention.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Anderson said gently.

“Another transsexual, you mean? Bring her on, I’ll gladly do a little social work for you, any time! I don’t believe you’re making such a fuss over it, you know I owe you a thousand thousand times.” Ali waved her hand and laughed again. “Take me to the poor thing, or tell me where she is.”

“Funny you should say ‘she,’” Anderson said. She rose and headed for her office across the hall, and Alison followed her, curious.

“What do you mean?”

Anderson opened the office door, and Ali peeked in around her shoulder, to see a very composed if not happy looking young man in the servant’s drag of a kitchen maid, hands folded demurely in his lap. As the door was fully opened, he rose gracefully and curtsied, and although the move was very nicely done, there was something lacking to it—something she couldn’t put her finger on. His head was lowered in a charming way, and she could see that his hair was much too short for the role, and she wondered why on earth Imala hadn’t allowed it to grow out...Or—Ali blinked and shook her head.

“Ay, dios mio,” she said softly. She turned to Anderson, a sharp look of curiosity in her eyes. “Is this a boy or a girl?” she asked.

You tell me
, Anderson thought. She said, “This is Chris. Chris, this is Ms. Alison Cruz. Please answer any questions she puts to you honestly and directly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Alison glanced from the figure in maid’s clothing and then back to Anderson. “I’ll need some privacy,” she said. “You go hit someone or something.”

“Thank you, Ali,” Anderson said, and with a light touch on the woman’s shoulder, she left the doorway.

Alison walked into the room and closed the door gently behind her. She made her way to Anderson’s desk, and sat down, indicating that Chris sit as well. When Chris sat down facing her, she sighed and stroked her smooth chin, thinking.

“Well, Chris,” she finally said, pulling a sheet of paper from the box next to the typewriter. “I would like you to draw a picture for me.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I’ve had no formal training in drawing,” Chris said. Chris’s voice was a definite tenor, a little high, perhaps, from nervousness. From fear of disappointing, perhaps.

“That’s OK, I don’t want to hang it on the wall.” She passed the paper and a few pens across the desk and waited until Chris drew up to a more comfortable position for drawing. “Make me a picture of a house, and a tree, and a person.”

Chris digested that for a moment. “Any special types of these things?”

“No—just whatever you think of. In any order that you wish.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chris chose a black pen and immediately drew a long, sweeping line on the sheet of paper. In seconds, there were suggestions of branches.

I don’t know who you are,
Ali thought as she sat back, trying to remember the questions they had asked her years ago. Trying to envision the thick books that now filled her shelves and what she had read in them, about her and about people like this young man.
I don’t know who you are, muchacho, but I can tell what you are, you obedient slave. You Anderson slave.

* * * *

Anderson knew it would be a while, but wasn’t quite prepared for four and a half hours. And she certainly wasn’t prepared for Alison Cruz to come out of the room with a look of anger on her face. It dissipated into annoyance as soon as their eyes met—there were very few who faced her with sustained anger.

“We have to talk,” Ali said. “Privately, please.”

“All right,” Anderson answered cautiously. “Chris, you are excused, report to Ray for the completion of your duties today.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There was a quick reverence, and Chris slid out of the room almost too fast, absolutely not within acceptable guidelines, and Anderson heard a quavering in Chris’s voice that she had never heard before. She looked at Ali with one eyebrow raised as they walked into the room.

“If I were you,” Alison began, picking up sheets of paper and stuffing them into her cavernous purse, “I wouldn’t send him to clean the toilets, I’d put him in his proper clothes and get him to a doctor, fast.”

Anderson sat down, feeling the weight of her fear settle into her stomach. “Him,” she said softly.

“Him,” Alison repeated. “I don’t know anyone else like that, but I’ve read about it. And I remember what I said and felt and thought and dreamed about. It’s like looking into some mirror at a carnival, all twisted wrong, but you know what’s in there any way.” She perched herself on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “He’s a transsexual, Trainer, like me, and you’ve been making him crazy. Sorry to be so blunt, but you know, I say what I think.”

“Oh, dear,” Anderson said. “But—the doctor who examined him said there was no such thing.”

“He’s out of date, then. Or stupid. Or both, I don’t know. And you know what else? I don’t even know if my doctor will be able to help, either, all he works with is ladies like me. Maybe there’s someone at Johns Hopkins, but that’s where that whacko is who thinks if you talk about it, you can grow tits and stop needing to shave.” She tossed her hands up in frustration.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just reading this report from this doctor who says that people like me don’t need surgery, all we need is a good psychiatrist. Honey, I could talk your ass off from here to when Jesus comes, but it wasn’t talking that got me this gorgeous body, it was the knife and lots of drugs.”

Anderson shook her head. “I have to think about what to do now,” she said.

“Don’t think too long. You remember how unhappy I was when you told me I needed to leave and get real help? He’s worse. The only reason he’s not dead now is that he wants to be a slave more than he wants to be a man, or at least that’s what he thinks. You have to convince him he’s wrong.”

“I do?”

“It’s what you would do if he was a young man who you felt was a woman, right? Anderson, tell me something—you can feel so much from a person, I know that. I took one look at him, and I read him like a clock. Don’t you just feel it from him?”

“Actually,” Anderson said, standing with a heavy sigh, “apparently I was the only one who didn’t. How about that? Thank you, Alison. Can I ask you for another favor? Can you help me find someone for him?”

“I will,” Ali nodded and shifted her purse onto her shoulder. “But get him out of the life, Trainer. You know they won’t take him seriously if they know what he’s been doing with you.”

“Yes,” Anderson said, her voice a little hollow. “I know that.” She saw Alison to the door and went back onto the office to sit alone for a while. When she was composed, she thought of calling Ray in, but changed her mind and went to see Vicente first. And after her apology to him, she was the one who went upstairs to tell Chris that he was relieved from chores and to give him back his clothing.

And that was precisely when Chris broke.

1:15PM

“Please, please, Trainer, ma’am, I promise to work harder! I’ll be happier, I’ll smile more, I’ll never, never show discomfort again, I swear!” Chris’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and wide open in desperation. It had been difficult for him, those moments of trying to be obedient and calm, to collect himself and follow my instructions. But he crumbled gradually, like chipped limestone, cracking around the edges until the huge fissure down the middle left him unable to stand.

Of course the only proper place for him was on his knees anyway, so when he suddenly doubled over and keened, there wasn’t much more road for him to travel. He was much too well trained to grab for my legs or even make a move toward me, so he hugged his arms around his chest instead as his gut twisted him down, head lowered so he could dash away tears with the back of his hand before raising his face to me to plead again.

“Please, ma’am, don’t send me away, I’ve worked so hard to get here—it is all my fault, yes, I haven’t been as good as you deserve, but I will be, I’ll accept any punishment you chose, any duties, any clothing, it doesn’t matter to me, but please, don’t throw me out!”

I did expect something dramatic to happen. It always does, when I have to tell a client why they can’t pursue their dream. Some of them break down and cry, others scream at me, a few will coldly shut off all feeling and start calmly packing. Four times, I had to dissuade people from killing themselves. Three times, I succeeded.

It doesn’t get easier with time, but at least I learned to figure out what people really mean in those unguarded moments of hysteria. And now, I could feel the panic, the desperation I so wanted from this client a week ago. I had a choice: coddle and soothe him, or see whether this colt could stay the course. The humane thing, of course, would be to get on my knees right next to him, take him in my arms until he calmed, and then explain what was coming in as gentle and supportive tones as I could manage. Most people don’t know, but I can become mamma when necessary. When I mounted the stairs, I fully intended to be humane.

But humane or not, dammit, this was my fascinating client here; driven into desperation by the slightest glimpse that Ali Cruz had allowed him of himself, and now, just at that state I had wanted the day before.

“Compose yourself,” I snapped. “This behavior is unseemly in someone with your training.”