The Academy (2 page)

* * * *

Trainers from all over the world were converging on the Shimada Resort and Ryokan, located deep in the green hills about forty miles outside of Naha, the capital of Okinawa. Autumn in this tropical area was lush and warm, and the gleaming wood beams of the Japanese country-style inn glowed in the sunlight. It had been specially emptied for the week, entirely staffed by Marketplace employees and servitors of varying levels. Stone lanterns marked the long drive into the property, and a beautiful red and gold gate framed one of the splendid views of the valley to the east. There was a bubbling stream on the northern edge, where outdoor baths were also available, framed by raised dark oak platforms. Ornamental gardens could be seen from almost every window. Small ponds were dense with almost garishly colored lilies, hidden between the trees. It was a breathtakingly beautiful site that invited exploration and an experience of sensuality. The army of service staff moved with the practiced ease of slave veterans—no one would embarrass themselves by sending a marginally acceptable piece of property to serve at the Academy. In fact, it was common for trainers to bring a special slave with them, a way for those lucky individuals to see perfection in action.

The resort was cunningly split between Western and Japanese style accommodations. Much of the actual conference area was Western, with high tables and straight backed office chairs and rooms that were exact copies of every other hotel room in the world, clean, small, and efficient. But in his annoying way, Chris had insisted upon a room in the ryokan section of the resort, a traditional Japanese room, and Michael had prepared to deal with one. The pictures he had studied and the descriptions in the tourist guidebooks had been enough to let him know that there were in fact, beds in the room—or at least they were behind panels somewhere. He gazed at the perfectly proportioned room, counting the tatami mats that made every room in such a traditional arrangement uniform sizes. There was an ikebana arrangement of a floating lily in shallow water over dull, gray, water-smoothed stones, set in a niche across from the door; a perfect position for the late afternoon sun to hit it. He found that he couldn’t remember what the little niche was called, and tried to hide his panic by unpacking.

Belatedly, he remembered his shoes, and took them off immediately, carrying them to the door. He had been gratified to see that many of the guests were shod in the shoes they wore outside. But in this traditional wing, where the flooring in the rooms was the ubiquitous tatami matting, you had to leave your street shoes outside, wear slippers on the wooden floors, and socks or bare feet inside.

Oh, jeeze, and I walked through the whole place! Why didn’t someone stop me?

Did I pass the slippers on my way in without noticing? Wasn’t there supposed to be a special kind of porch, a genkan, something like that? Were staff people right now snickering over his error and whispering about him? He was about to slide the door open and dash down the hall to the main entrance, but naturally, that was when Chris got there.

“That’ll be ten,” Chris said, brushing by him. Chris had already removed his boots, and his small feet were neatly encased in Japanese slippers. He kicked them off and stooped to place them neatly by the door, toes facing out. “Excellent,” he said with a sigh, after turning again to scan the room. “I’ll be bathing. Have everything unpacked and my strap out by the time I’m finished.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said glumly.

“And don’t worry, Michael,” Chris said cheerfully as he took one of the ryokan yukatas hanging on one wall. The light cotton robes all bore a stylized gate pattern in soft, pale gray on a much darker background. “You have an infinite number of potential fuck-ups ahead of you over the next couple of days. You had to start somewhere.” He chuckled as he padded out the door, leaving Michael to slide the lightweight panel shut after him.

Michael bit back even the thought of a retort, one of the hardest things in his new regimen of exercises. Back in the spring, when he had impulsively volunteered to be trained as “a classic”—a rigorous, seven year process involving everything from this current apprenticeship assignment to actually being sold and living for a term as a slave—he thought he had considered every possible drawback to the situation. As usual, however, he was dead wrong.

He hadn’t counted on being immediately assigned to Chris Parker, the man he had somehow developed a massive crush on, despite years of knowing that one, he was just not very attracted to men, and two, he was certainly not a bottom. He hadn’t counted on suddenly becoming the real low man on the totem pole at an entry-level training house, subject to the whims of everyone except the damn slaves in training, and occasionally to them as well. And finally, he hadn’t counted on liking it so damn much.

It was perverse beyond belief. No matter how difficult things got, from Chris’s degrading taunts about his skill level or thought processes, to the various hazards of working with no less than three demanding trainers, to the sheer pain of his continual punishments, erotic and not so, his heart beat out a passionate plea for more and he slept like a baby. Even his constant stream of self-castigation seemed to be part of this whole process to make him stunningly aware of his place in the world—and more firmly convinced that it was right for him.

And this was only the beginning! If Anderson and Chris weren’t bullshitting him, they intended to actually sell him to someone within the year. At first, he had been eager for the chance to prove himself, but lately, he had been wondering if, in fact, it was all some sort of head-game. After all, they both admitted that almost no one was trained like that any more, and Chris hadn’t mentioned this potential sale since they were both at Anderson’s place. Plus, there was the fact that despite his occasionally insufferable arrogance about these “Old Guard” methods, Chris admitted that he had not fulfilled them himself. Not adequately, at any rate.

Of course, Chris had been in some sort of service, somewhere. It showed in the way he perfectly deferred to Grendel and Alex back at the House, and in the way he acted toward Anderson. But there were no sale records for him in the Marketplace. His experience had to have been some sort of private arrangement that somehow still counted. Michael was convinced that his own “sale” was really just going to be some kind of reassignment to another trainer, possibly Grendel and Alex, since they seemed friendly with Anderson and busy enough to use him. But if that happened, he feared that Chris would no longer be part of the picture. There was no way they really needed two under-trainers, and the house seemed over-staffed as it was, what with Rachel pretty much running things and the trainee slaves doing the scut work.

The thought of continuing his training without Chris—no matter how much he hated him—was very disturbing.

It was, in fact, mortifying.

Even now, as he found the closets and hung up Chris’s suits and smoothed out his ties, (and found a western style shoe rack), Michael could feel his cock straining against the narrow cotton rope that Chris had wrapped around it before their connection in Tokyo. It had been almost three hours to Okinawa, and another hour and a half on the road to get here. But that was nothing, Michael thought ruefully. At least the rope didn’t have little spikes on the inside of it, like the parachute/cock-ring assembly that he had been directed to pack along with the other items that Chris used to keep him aware of his status. It didn’t matter, really. Anything that Chris used on him, touched him with, said to him, seemed important beyond all logic now, imbued with erotic and emotional significance.

The only regularly used toy not in the bag, as a matter of fact, was Michael’s now well-used gag. Because, for once, he was free to speak for the entire trip—free to ask questions, engage in conversations, even—chat about the weather. After months of isolation, he was almost feverishly eager to have those experiences. And cautious as hell, too. Just because you are allowed to do something doesn’t mean you can do it badly. That was one of his most underlined notes in his precious book of hints and rules, compiled since Anderson, the Trainer of Trainers, reminded him that obedience to her was more important than what he felt was correct. If he took the opportunity to speak up, his voice had to be controlled, his questions intelligent, his conversation appropriate. If not....

He pulled Chris’s strap out of the garment bag pocket and laid it out on the low, polished, pine table. The handle was dark with palm sweat, the smooth leather worn by years of use. Michael couldn’t remember three days that had gone by in the past five months without feeling it. Even now, there were fading bruises on the backs of his thighs.

As he moved and felt them, he sighed in pleasure.
Oh man,
he thought, fighting to keep his motions sure, his attention on the task before him.
This is as far from where I was a year ago as I could get!

And it felt so damn good!

He had no illusions about his presence here. He was not here to serve anyone but Chris, and he was not here as an example of anything except for what he was—a raw, untrained man marked by Anderson as having a chance at becoming a trainer. And while some people would envy his position, Michael still felt the tug of ambivalence from time to time. Was he crazy, thinking that he stood a chance at being anything but a dilettante, Chris’s favorite accusation? Was he clinging to this trainer-in-training facade in order to avoid considering becoming a full-time slave?

As if to relieve his worries, his cock gently settled underneath its bondage, no longer strangling itself in frustrating tumescence. There was never a true erotic attraction to being a full-time slave, never that jolt of feeling right that he had read about in so many slave interviews and reports. So clearly, he was made to be a trainer, and this newfound passion for use, abuse, and humiliation was directed toward one man and one man only. And since Chris made it clear that his loyalties lay in only one direction—that of Imala Anderson and her methods and traditions—and that he was certainly not interested in owning a slave, then that settled things. Period. Nothing more to say.

Yet when Chris came back and Michael got on all fours and presented his ass for a beating, his traitorous cock was hard as a rock, red, and straining painfully between the white strands of rope, and every stroke drove the breath from him in gasps that were ecstatically pure. And his thanks were as genuine as his obedience and his gasps. As usual, he forgot all about how cut and dry everything was, needing only to feel the slight brush of Chris’s hand on his head to make him wriggle with pleasure and ache to be better—so much better—in the future.

* * * *

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for attending this year’s Academy. On behalf of the International Coalition of Trainers and Handlers and the Asian and South Pacific offices of The Marketplace, I welcome you to Okinawa and this beautiful resort, provided for our use by the Shimada family.” The speaker was Noguchi Shigeo, the undisputed Trainer of Trainers in his part of the world. At least eighty years old (some said ninety), he seemed to be made of seasoned timber, as ancient and creaky as the central beam of an old country house. His English was precise and British, his manners impeccable, his training methods unspeakably brutal. It was said that his school rejected at least a dozen applicants for each position, and then weeded out half of those who were accepted. In the small world of the Marketplace, that was quite considerable, especially because although he was always cordial and respectful, no gai-jin—no foreigner—had ever been accepted for training in his house. Plus, his rejections were still considered among the most desired of private trainers, especially if they had survived the first year.

Tetsuo Sakai had been trained by Noguchi. Like all of those who had received the touch of this venerable master, he was standing to Noguchi’s left side, mingled with the crowd, yet easily within sight of the old man and proudly attentive. It didn’t matter that Tetsuo had been an independent trainer for decades or that his house was the acknowledged second, right behind Noguchi’s, in slave training. What mattered was knowing where you came from.

The rest of the room was still settling as Noguchi went into the extensive list of welcomes and introductions of the various Marketplace representatives who were going to be present for the Academy’s session. Slaves circulated, bearing bound copies of the schedule and various position papers that were to be shared, discussed, and debated. There was also one formal proposal this year, requiring a vote of the membership. Interpreters buzzed constantly; there was a tight edge of excitement in the air.

Ken Mandarin had made the attempt to look interested and be quiet, but as soon as she got hold of the Academy schedule, she flipped it open, scanned the contents, and immediately began turning pages to the section she wanted to read first. Several of Noguchi’s men gave her short, stern glances, but she ignored them, preferring the circle of spotters who had congregated around her, just as eager to see what was going to be the real business of the week.
We are the real outlaws here
, Ken thought smugly, as she and her peers began to scan the items that might affect them.
Perhaps it is not at all where you came from
, she reflected,
but where you are going
.
And neither this old man nor my pompous little American friend is going to tell me where I am going.

Yes, there it was. They had scheduled an obscene amount of time for debating, as usual. Talk, talk, talk, they always had to talk everything to death! She sighed theatrically and shut the binder sharply, noting who ignored the sound, who jumped and tried to pretend they didn’t hear it, and who actually turned to see. It was gratifying to have her powers of observation. It was all part of what made her so good at what she did. Damn to hell anyone who thought they could tell her what her job was. She felt that the critical mass of her fellows had digested the material, and deliberately scanned each of them in turn, letting them see that she was prepared to fight. Even the oldest one there deferred to her—as was only correct. A pity that she and Parker would come to heads over this, but
c’est la guerre
. She turned her attention back to Noguchi, who was finally getting to some of the information she had come to hear.