The Academy (5 page)

“Well—we can’t know that until it’s tried,” Michael said, knowing how awful it sounded. “Besides, it’s not even clear what the qualifications of accreditation will be, you don’t know who might be accepted and who not. And I know there’s nothing in the works to deny people access to the Marketplace—”

“Yet!” snapped Shoshana. “Nothing yet! First they want to register us, make sure we are all in agreement, and then those who are not will be cast out.”

Michael instantly put his head down and his hands behind his back. It was a posture meant to receive a rebuke, and it calmed the entire room as though they were all alpha dogs and he had turned his throat to them. Ken laughed, delighted.

“Oh, poor thing, poor thing,” she crooned. “Come here and sit by me, and learn something, mmm?”

“Ma’am—” Michael began to speak, but she shushed him.

“No, no, we shall not frighten you any longer. I only want you to leave here knowing what we do for the Marketplace. Actually...” she paused meaningfully and looked into his eyes, “actually, I think you understand quite well what a spotter should and should not be, is that not true?”

Michael wished he could just hang himself there and then. But instead he sat gingerly where she pointed, even more subdued than before.
She knows!
he thought with a moment of anguish. Of course, Geoff must have told her, they were on the same side now.

Daniel pointed a finger at Michael and said, “People always say that spotters are the gateway to the Marketplace, and leave it at that. Well, sometimes I don’t think that anyone really understands how must time and effort—and money!—goes into being a successful spotter. Come on, folks, who here spotted ten clients last year?”

Ken waggled a finger, but the rest of them scowled. Daniel waved at Ken with one hand and said, “Well, we have to expect that from you, Ken, you have no other life! Besides, you pick ’em and send them off for training faster than anyone I ever heard of. I doubt you remember the names of the people you spotted last year!” That was met with friendly laughter and Ken grinned with satisfaction.

“But look at me—five damn clients last year, and I was grateful for every damn one. And you know how many people I spotted and let go?” He looked around the table.

Shoshana shrugged. “One hundred? Two? It is the same all over.”

“I built the playroom, I go to all the soft events, every damn one of them. Plus, I do the swinger circuit, and the post military rounds. Know what that means? I’m on the road three weeks out of four sometimes. And when I find a good one and get ’em into training, there’s no guarantee I can see ’em to the selling floor, because we’re getting a higher return rate now than ever!” He was obviously worked up about this, prepared to say all these things, and in the saying, some of his anger seemed to deflate. He sank back into his seat. “What I don’t need from the Academy, thank you very much, is more rules to learn, so I have to make it even harder for a new client to get into shape. And the last fucking thing I need is someone else telling me what trainers I can use if I don’t have the time or talent to train.”

“Trainers tend to think they have the hardest job,” Shoshana said. “They are always whining about how much time they spend getting a client ready for market. But what about the time we spend making sure they are market material? What about the number of times we throw back bad merchandise, the ill-bred, the ill-motivated, the... the fakers. How many times we find out only at the last minute that they truly do not have the wish to serve and must be gotten rid of so that we can move on? How many times are our hearts broken because we cannot get a client to the right level to send them on?”

“Don’t ever let them break your heart,” Ken scolded. “You must be more positive! But it is true, we toss so many back into the sea! We are more than the gateway, Mike, we are the funnel, the, what is it? The strainer. Without us, these exalted trainers would be wasting all of their time going to meetings on...” she thought for a moment. “On Twenty-Four-Seven! Yes, that was the phrase, 24/7!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” the Italian asked.

“All the time. Twenty-four hours in a day and so forth. How to, ‘live the lifestyle,’ nes’t ce pas?” Ken laughed and the others joined in. Even Michael spared a slight giggle. He had been to several seminars on just that topic, and couldn’t begin to imagine what Chris would look like at one, let alone how he would participate.

“I went to one last year, as a matter of fact,” Ken said, sitting up in her chair. “I go to several of these conventions, these weekend meetings, although I prefer the ones most concerned with fashion for my own uses! I have found some very good clients there, very good ones. But, oh, what I go through to find them! The agony! The hours of looking, and waiting! The teasings, the bindings, and oh, oh, all the sex I must have! But you know—when the bird is in the bush, you must beat the bush to get it to fly out.”

“I’m sure you hate all that bush beating,” laughed Daniel.

“Oh, sometimes,” Ken agreed. “But sometimes, also, one finds a moment of truth.”

She was like a knife blade in twilight, attractive and dangerous and oh, so obvious in her presence. I felt for her like I sometimes feel when I stand on the edge of a balcony, like I should really bend my knees and launch myself out and down, to my certain destruction.

I dampened my jockeys right through to the seam of my 501s, and turned away before I leapt.

I was late for the seminar, the booklet folded back in my hands, slipping and sliding among the dozen handouts and schedule updates, glancing down from time to time to make sure I was in the right place. The hotel hallways were crowded, and I could barely make it from one room to another without running into ex-girlfriends, former bottoms, current fuck buddies, and assorted community acquaintances, who all had to be acknowledged. Hugs and back pounding, kisses and casual gropings, promises to meet later, later, after the next one, before the contest, at the dungeon.

How many people have I slept with, based on a relationship that lasts ten minutes at a time, while we’re both on our way to something else? I amused myself by trying to count while I scanned the room looking for a seat behind someone not too tall.

As usual, the presenters weren’t ready, just milling around at the front of the room, playing with the microphones and pouring glasses of ice water. I stuffed the papers into my vest pockets and settled my dick comfortably against my right thigh. It was itching today, probably too dry. The straps of the harness settled up tight, and I sat up straighter to relieve the pressure.

Finally, with nods all around, the leader of the seminar coughed and tapped the mike, and people began to settle down. I waved at a pal across the room, and they turned the tape recorder on, and the man introduced the topic.

“Twenty-four-slash-seven, or, Do People Really Live This Way?” There was scattered laughter; I smiled a little. The amusement didn’t make me feel comfortable. I pulled the program booklet out of my pocket again to check the description of the seminar. It said:

An examination of the possibilities in a full-time D/S relationship. Presenters will discuss the realities of this most difficult lifestyle.

I tried to sit tall while they introduced themselves. Yes, yes, the middle guy has been in the scene for twenty years, he has two lifestyle subs under him. Yes, the woman at the end has been in the scene for thirty years, and she is up to her third slave. The two leather men have been together for five years, and they are master and slave. I read it all in the program. Let’s get to the point. How did they meet? How did they know? What did they do—and how can I find someone to do that with me?

Well, isn’t that the point of all these things? I mean, I had fun watching the fire demonstrations earlier, but really, I’m here to hook up. If not for tonight, then maybe...maybe much longer.

As they took turns explaining how real their relationships were to them, I was dismayed to find my mind wandering. Yes, it’s sweet that you love each other so much, I said mentally, but what does it say in your contracts? Do you really do anything you want with your lover? What does it feel like? And why weren’t there more bottoms on the damn panel?

Instead, I began to hear how compromise made things work for them all. The same stuff I’d heard before, last year as a matter of fact. This one had a trick for making sure that his slave knew that certain things were his right to do—but that he didn’t have to exercise that right. Another one sat down with his slave once every quarter, to discuss things like equals, just to make sure things were going great. Not that she couldn’t ask to do that at any time, he added quickly. It was just to make sure that they both had a safety net. That started a discussion on the burdens of being the top in a full-time relationship. Nods of agreement all around.

I stifled a yawn, and wondered when the dungeons were going to open that night, and whether there was a women’s party.

As my mind wandered, so did my eyes. And that’s when I saw her slip into the room, followed by this tall, blond-haired man who looked like he would be more at home posing for an advertisement for milk.

But she was the one who grabbed me. Five-foot-four or -five was my guess, with spiky, ink-black hair that looked like it ran down between her shoulder blades. Her high cheekbones and narrow, dark eyes spoke of an Asian background, but she wasn’t obviously Chinese or Japanese—maybe Filipina? She was wearing faded jeans and tight chaps with a silky leather uniform shirt, aviator glasses hanging from a correct loop in the front. There wasn’t a ring of keys dangling left, but what looked like a silver snake of a collar, with a lock hanging tantalizingly low on her thigh.

I instantly saw myself crawling to her and rubbing my face against that thigh, pushing that loop of silver, begging for it to embrace my throat.

I turned back to the seminar and pressed my lips closed. Swallowing hard, I then had to take a deep breath, because a wave of dizziness had washed over me.

You got it bad, baby
, I thought to myself.
Calm down! Jeeze, you’d think you weren’t getting laid often enough!

But I didn’t dare look back at her. I stared at the presenters, waiting for wisdom, or at least a clue.

“You have to recognize that your sub is a human being, with feelings and needs just like you have,” one of the guys was saying. “Sometimes, she’s going to need some time off, maybe to just chill out and take inventory. It’s your responsibility to provide her with that time.”

“And what if you should require that person’s services during that time?” came a voice from the back of the room. I knew who it was. This time, I was not the only person who turned to look at her.

She was still standing, and the blond guy was behind her and to one side, looking kind of casual, but attentive. And very cheerful. She, on the other hand was dead serious.

“Well, what do you mean? Like to talk or something?”

“No. I meant, what if, when you have dismissed your slave for this free time, you realize that there is a task which needs completion, or that you wish to have sex with them. What if you have an unexpected guest whose comfort requires the services of your slave? What if you are merely bored and wish them to come and act as a footstool while you take tea?”

Her voice was low-pitched, but clear, and there was some kind of accent there I couldn’t recognize, like an English person speaking French, or a Frenchwoman who learned English in London. She made short gestures when she spoke, little, sharp movements which emphasized words, added ironic accents to her phrases. The room swayed as attention went back to the panel.

“I’ll take that,” the woman on the end offered. “It’s simple—the agreement I have with my slaves is just that—an agreement. In it, I have made promises, too. I have to uphold them, on my honor as a mistress. If I have to deal with a minor inconvenience from time to time, it’s my responsibility to deal with it.”

There were noises of agreement, affirmation.

“Then why do you call them slaves? Would a slave not be pleased to be used by their owner? Would a slave not be utterly available, at all times, even if this is inconvenient to them—because that is their purpose? Does not an owner have the right to use their slave, so long as such use does not cause them to be incapable of serving?”

I was beginning to flush. Every line from her made my cunt throb and pulse, and by now, I was so wet I wondered if the seat was going to be spotted. But I was also shaking. When I turned back to the panel, I grabbed hold of the laces on the side of my vest and wrapped them around my fingers to keep my hands from trembling.

“Well, I guess it depends on your definition of slavery,” one of the men countered. “The way I see it, I have just as much responsibility as my sub, more, in fact. As a dom, I have to make sure that she is safe, and—”

“Happy?” The woman asked.

“Well, yes, of course,” he admitted, with heads bobbing up all around. “What’s the point of doing all this unless both partners are happy?” asked another one. There was some applause, and then the room swished as heads turned back to the woman in the rear. A few hands danced and waved, trying to get in on this, but it was obvious that they were going to have to wait.

“It seems strange to me,” the woman said, this time allowing a thin smile to show through, “that you will spend all this time and effort to create happiness when a man or woman who truly wishes to be a slave will be happy once they become one.” She made an abrupt gesture to one side, and blondie stepped away, opened the door, and she slid through.