The Academy (6 page)

“Hey—don’t leave—you can’t do that—” came an outraged cry from the podium.

“Oh, that was nice,” the woman on the end snapped. “Come in, say your piece, and then leave before anyone can argue with you. That was useful.”

“Well, let’s just say that that sort of judgmentalizing doesn’t help anyone,” the leader said, regaining focus. “Slaves and masters are whoever they decide themselves to be. Now, let’s get back to the real topic, OK?”

I heard one person down the row from me whisper, “Do you know who she was?” I saw the head shake, no, and then I gathered up my papers and made my way out.

By the time I got to the hall, she was long gone.

* * * *

I saw her again, skirting the edges of the room where the fundraising auction was held, but lost her in the crowd. In vain, I looked for her at the dungeon space, even loitering in mixed space for two hours, asking people if they’d seen her. Almost everyone had—but not there.

I didn’t know what I would say to her. I didn’t even know how I’d say it. But that night, after a few half-hearted friendly scenes with some other girls, I fell asleep alone, twisting under the covers, hot but unable to jerk off. It was like being love sick, except that I didn’t even know her name, or whether she liked girls, or shit, even if she’d take one look at me. It hurt, real bad. And no, not in a good way.

On Sunday, after the last of my marked off seminars, I packed and stowed my luggage at the front desk. I would have three hours until I had to take the shuttle to the airport and then home. Because of that woman, this had been one of the strangest conferences I’d ever been to—I hadn’t taken anyone new to bed, and I hadn’t bottomed to anyone new, and I didn’t even come, not once. I was wondering how long this was going to last.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from the door. No, it wasn’t her—it was him. Blondie. I turned and jumped a little—but she wasn’t next to him. He flashed a smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you,” he said easily. “Is it Miss, Ma’am, or Sir?”

God, you could hear the capitals when he talked. “Jessie,” I said, clearing my throat. “Jessie is just fine.”

“Thank you, Jessie. My Mistress has asked for the pleasure of your company if you are currently free.”

My heart beat out the rhythm of a tango. I stood without thinking and nodded, and he held the door open for me. How did he find me? Why did she want to see me? How did she pick me to see? I walked with him to the elevator, where he punched up the penthouse suite floor, naturally, and I began to feel a little giddy.

“This is like being in a book,” I said out loud.

“Yep,” he agreed.

“I mean, wealthy, mysterious woman who I don’t know asks to see me the last day of a conference. This doesn’t happen on a regular basis.”

“Nope!”

I wiped my hands against my jeans legs and looked at my traveling clothes in horror. I was as vanilla as you can be, not even packing. I didn’t even look like a dyke, let alone a tough, butch, bottom leatherdyke.

The elevator door slid open and Blondie waited for me to exit, and then kind of sailed across the hall to tap on a door. He opened it slowly, and ushered me in like he was going to announce me.

She was sitting in one of the big wing-backed chairs by the wall of windows that gave a great view of the city. She was also not in her leathers—she was wearing a man’s tailored, white shirt, French cuffs and gold at her wrists, and one of those fancy silk ties that cost more than what I make and will never, ever be used for makeshift bondage.

“So,” she said right away, before I had a chance to even step into the room. “What do you want?”

My mouth went dry, and my mind went blank. I stared at her for an incredibly long moment and then mentally shook my head to get the cobwebs out. “Er—you sent for me,” I managed to say.

“You sent for me, what?”

“You sent for me—Ma’am.” This time, I put in the capital. It was real easy.

“Sir,” she corrected genially.

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.

“You were looking for me, and now, you’ve found me. Tell me, little girl with a big cock, what it is you were going to say when you followed me out of the workshop yesterday.”

“Well,” I started.

“No, wait! First, straighten your back. Place your hands in the small of your back, and push them forward. Do not, do not fidget, yes, do not fidget. Look at me. Tell me.”

I did as she said, and my hands burrowed into place before I figured out how to do it. “I wanted to tell you,” I said, shaking, “that I liked what you were saying. Sir.”

“Yes, you did. And you wanted what else?”

“To—to see if you knew—to find out if you might—” I lost the nerve. Sweat was covering my body, and I was trembling too hard to concentrate. It all seemed so stupid, that I was standing there like that, so scared yet so fucking turned on that I couldn’t even move. I hung my head, and took deep breaths.

“You must say it, or I will have Andy open that door and send you on your way.”

I looked back up at her, and felt my knees shaking. There was only one response to that—I hit the floor, hard, and she made a hissing sound that was almost like a whistle. “Then come closer and tell me,” she said.

Flashback to that moment in the seminar—but now, I was there, literally crawling to her on my knees, crossing that hotel room in an agonizingly embarrassing, halting shuffle, until I was as close as I dared to be, her curious, hard eyes following my every move.

“I want to be a slave like that,” I choked out, bowing my head again. “Sir. I would be happy if I were a real slave.”

The scissoring whisper of steel caught my attention, and like magic, there was a knife in her left hand and her right hand was gripping the collar of my T-shirt. “Everyone says that,” she said, catching my eyes with hers. “Whose slave would you be?”

“Yours,” I gasped. Anything else was cut off as swiftly as she swept that knife along the front of my shirt, stabbing it down below where her fist was, and then cutting straight through the straps of my bra, and not stopping at my waistband. Instead, she switched grips and pulled my shirt from the jeans and finished severing it. I felt a tug from behind and gasped again, but it had to be Andy, pulling the newly made rag from my shoulders, along with the remains of my bra.

She reached down and pinched one of my nipples, gently. “You would be my slave? I have enough slaves. Be my toy, right now, and show me how much you meant what you claimed.”

This is crazy,
I thought.
I have a plane to catch, and I don’t have anything to wear down to the lobby, and that was a good bra!

“As you wish, Sir,” I said, shaking.

To describe what we did would be fairly pointless. If I told you she spanked me, how would you know that every blow of her hand made me want to cry? Not because of the pain, but because she was telling me with every heavy swat, that spanking was for children, and only with my tears would this end. Every time I felt that, I fought the battle with never wanting it to end and wanting so much to give her what would please her.

How could you know that?

And if I told you that I crawled and whimpered on the floor, following her boots with my tongue as she parted my legs with a slender and wicked cane, leaving so many slashes on the inside of my thighs that the very thought of pulling my jeans back on was terrifying, would you realize that I didn’t care about the pain or the discomfort? Would you believe me when I said that my thoughts were only on the boots that I had been commanded to shine, and that until they were gleaming with my spit, nothing, nothing would distract me? Could you possibly understand how pleased I was when she braced her heels, one at a time, against my back, and pronounced the job done to her satisfaction? That I came, grinding my cunt against her foot, only to repeat the exercise, knowing that this was a trap set for me yet also understanding that I was to fall into it, eagerly?

It’s impossible to describe.

And when I say she possessed my body, you may think that her fingers in my mouth, in my cunt, in my asshole, were all just that—fingers, penetrating and opening me, spreading me wide to examine and tease, to empty and fill again, until I squirmed with ecstasy and groaned in pain. But to me, she was taking possession of me—marking her territory. I begged for more, not with words, but with every time I arched my back, every time I relaxed to take more, every time I cried, or moaned or licked hungrily at her offered fingers in gratitude.

The knife was in her hand again, but her other hand was indicating her fly. “Take me,” she said, “take me well, and all that I wish to do with you, and I will mark you. And if I mark you, I will see you again.”

I forced my hands into stillness as I worked the fly open. Underneath the expensive trousers, dampened with my tears, were silk boxer shorts, never so sexy on a woman before. I reached in, and felt the bulge I would have to take to earn her favor, and licked my lips desperately. It was large. No, it was huge. One of those black silicone things that doesn’t look anything like a real cock, and as it came free of her clothing, I despaired of ever really taking it with any expertise. I could only hope to survive on sincerity. She passed me an un-lubricated condom, and slowly, I worked it over the tip, using my lips to push it on.

“Eerie— yes,” she sighed, watching me. “That is good, ma petite. I know you cannot swallow all of me. But make love to it nonetheless. Do not allow what is happening to you to distract you.”

What was happening to me? I wondered about that for scarcely a moment before I felt my thighs being spread wider. It had to be Andy again, and his fingers lightly touched my cunt, and I shivered.

I had not had a man touch me there in years.

The cold shock of that made me stop what I was doing—exactly what I shouldn’t have done. What she said she didn’t want me to do. Instantly, her hand was in my hair, jerking my mouth off of her cock, and turning my eyes to hers.

“You are not a virgin,” she stated with the assurance of one who has already had access to my open holes. “You may be a lesbian, but you are my toy right now, are you not?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, feeling a wash of betraying tears. The fingers had left me, and I shook, half in fear and half in anger at myself.

“And if I choose to have my toy penetrated by my hand, or my fist, or my cock, that is my right, is it not?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Or any hand or fist or cock. It is of no import who or what they are attached to. I wish it done—you will accept it.”

I felt a word dancing around in my mind, and captured it before it could escape. Safe word, I was thinking. Dammit, safe word! I want you, not your boytoy, I don’t want any man’s dick in my cunt.

But I want to be a slave, your slave, like you said, serving you—But I don’t want anyone else—But other women, that would be all right—But I could be happy—

She pushed my head back down, and speared my mouth, expertly. I choked at the intrusion, and almost fell backward, but caught myself with a fist wrapped around each of my ankles. There was no intruding hand between my thighs this time, only the hard, slick cock of a woman, the pounding and sliding penetration that no flesh and blood phallus could duplicate. I set my lips around it, and pushed back, taking as much as I could, coughing and gagging as she took me. I didn’t know what to think, and soon enough couldn’t. At one point, she held me suspended on this gag, filling me until I couldn’t breathe, and laughing as I swayed back.

And then, I was on all fours, and that big, awful cock took me, first driving into my cunt, slick with the dampness of come and sweat and every drop of lube my body could possibly manufacture. By the time she spread my ass cheeks, I was near blind with confused pleasure, drunk on endorphins, exhausted with the strain of holding my own body up. I felt the tearing pressure as though it came from outside my body, and when she sank her teeth into my neck, pinning me to the floor, I screamed and thrashed around in something so shattering it couldn’t be contained in the word orgasm. Think of one mind-blowing, electrical shock that zaps you from head to toes. Now, sustain it until you can’t breathe.

I lay there, panting and oozing, clutching at the carpet fibers, trembling. I felt a weight on my back, and a sharp cut on my shoulder, and cried—sobbed, really—when I realized that she was marking me.

Then, I felt Andy lifting me up and allowed him to lead me to the glorious bathroom. He bathed me like an invalid, wiping me down, and left the room with me sitting on the john, utterly wasted.

I stood, and turned to see my back in the mirror. On my left shoulder was an odd mark—two vertical lines, one with a shorter line flying up on the right side, the other with a line extending from the top at perhaps a 30 degree angle. They were trickling blood. When Andy came back, he put a bandage over both. He brought my clothes with him—at least my jeans, socks, and boots. A conference T-shirt was with them, probably his, since the woman’s would be too small for me.

I realized that I didn’t even know her name.

I walked out into the room, unsure of what to say, or what to do. Should I kneel again? What would happen now?

“You may go,” the woman said. She was placing a business card on the table by the door.

I stood still. Confusion must have been quite apparent on my face.