The Academy (10 page)

“I couldn’t help but overhear what you gentlemen were talking about,” she said after taking a sip. “I wish I hadn’t missed the report, Michael. You’ll have to give me your notes later. But you know, Tucker, there is only one way to make sure you don’t spend six weeks training someone who will run off and marry the first self-appointed master or mistress who gives them an orgasm—and that’s to listen to them. We seem to have to learn that lesson every year.”

“But they all say the same damn things, Alex,” Tucker said. He cocked his head to one side and said in an innocent sing-song voice, “Why Masta’ Tucker, I was just born to be a slave, I was! It’s in my dreams, it’s in my blood, I’d do anything for my masta!” They all laughed.

“Yes,” Alex agreed. “They often do. But you know what? We have to stop believing them. Oh, we toss back the obvious loose cannons and flakes, at least I hope so. But sometimes, you find someone who is as honest and hungry as they claim to be—but the Marketplace still isn’t right for them.”

“The ones who wish a more conventional life?” asked Mr. Wong. “Marriage and children?”

“No, I wasn’t thinking of them, although I think we have to consider expanding our resources to cover that sort of matchmaking. I’m thinking more of the ones who know exactly what they want to be and limit themselves right into a niche that is best served off the block.”

“Now, see, I like that kind of thinking,” Tucker said. “More private sales, that’s a good direction to go in. The old-fashioned way, really, owner to owner, trainer to owner.”

Alex shrugged elegantly. “That too! But what I was really thinking of is all the arrangements we can make without involving the contract people at all. Not everyone needs the kind of protection and system we offer; especially if they only want one owner, or only one role. I think we need to consider our secondary market; slaves who co-exist in our world without belonging to it. With the proper relationships in place with responsible owners, there’s no reason why we can’t admit that there are some people who belong to our world without ever being formally registered as a client.”

“But what do people like that need from us?” Michael asked.

“They need the assurance that we are there for them when—or if—their time comes,” Alex said. “They need to know that we will act on their behalf if they need us to. And most of all, they need to know that we exist.”

“Why?” Tucker asked, a look of amused disbelief on his face.

“Because,” Alex smiled, “It will make their lives ever so much more... delicious.”

by Karen Taylor

“I can’t believe this is actually happening to me.” I stared out the window as the driver turned left onto a tiny lane that I hadn’t even seen from the road we had been on. The hedges were high and thick on the right, the left opening into an enormous, meticulously kept lawn with formal flower beds rolling in great curves and swirls across the grass. I couldn’t even see the house yet! I clenched my fists, relieved that the white cotton gloves were actually absorbing some of the sweat from my palms. Did this all belong to Mistress Madeline? Of course it does, I told myself, digging my covered nails deeper into my cotton-covered palms. Why, someone like Mistress Madeleine was probably fabulously wealthy, to keep such an estate. And to have people—people like me—under her care.

I still couldn’t believe my luck. After spending months as Miss Cruz’s personal maid-in-training, she had recommended me for a long-term position with Mistress Madeleine, and I was accepted to the position of second chambermaid, with possibilities of advancement in her house. Miss Cruz told me that if Mistress Madeleine was pleased with my work, there was the possibility I might be trained for the Marketplace, even sold on the auction block. The idea of being owned, a slave maid for the rest of my life, was frightening—and intoxicating.

I smoothed my skirt down, trying unsuccessfully to cover my knees. Opening my purse, I pulled out a compact to check my make-up one last time. Breathing a sigh of relief that my mascara wasn’t running, I refreshed my lipstick and snapped my purse shut just as the car came to a stop. The driver opened my door, helped me out, and was turning the car around before I even remembered to thank him.

I stared up at the house. It reminded me of something out of an E.M. Forster novel. Brideshead displaced to New Jersey. A great, Georgian door centered in the building, with small wings spreading off to each side. Windows everywhere, so I made sure I was standing straight and moving as gracefully as possible across the driveway, just in case anyone was watching. Drawing a deep breath, I rang the bell.

The door opened, and a man who could have played a butler in any movie for the last fifty years glared at me. “What are you doing here?” he asked, the chill in his voice so noticeable I wished I had a sweater on.

“I’m, I’m the new chambermaid, sir,” I said, curtsying as Mistress Cruz had taught me. If possible, his glare was even more chilling.

“Don’t you think I know that?” he hissed at me. “I’m asking you what you are doing here, at the front door, as if you were a guest of Mistress Madeleine instead of the kitchen door where it is proper for someone in your position.”

Gulping, I felt my cheeks burning hot, and tears filling my eyes. I can’t believe I made such a horrific mistake! I turned even as the butler was closing the door and ran to the side of the house, hoping to find the kitchen door before he alerted anyone to my amazingly stupid act.

The wing I was sprinting for was obscured by hedges, and as I skidded around the corner, hair disheveled under my hat, I knew it was the wrong side of the house. Full-length windows, which offered a view of the garden (and me) covered the entire south side. Through a set of open French doors I could hear someone singing German lieder accompanied by a piano. When the music stopped abruptly, I knew they had seen me. I wished myself invisible and sped on around the back of the house, finally stumbling to a halt in front of a door that stood wide open, once again facing the baleful glare of the butler.

Gathering the last of my emotional strength, I curtsied again, panting. “Sir, I’m the new chambermaid, sir, reporting in.”

As I gasped for breath, I felt his eyes move over me. My skirt was hanging wrong now, there was a run in my left stocking, and my felt hat was wilted. I had scuffed my shoes and the heels had bits of earth on them. His nose twitched as if he could smell me sweating profusely through my blouse. The palms of my gloves were stained and damp. “I will inform the housekeeper of your arrival,” he said, gesturing for me to wait under the covered roof of the breezeway, next to the recycling and compost bins.

Just before the tears spilled out of my eyes, a flash of memory. “You are not a quitter, you got chutzpah.” Miss Cruz. She said it to me so many times, sometimes after watching me drag myself off the floor after a beating, other times when I was perfecting my tea serving skills in her Chelsea apartment. “Remember that, my dear. It’s your greatest strength.”

Alison Cruz had been the best thing that ever happened to me. While meeting her had been through an odd set of accidents and misunderstandings, she had taken a liking to me, and she introduced me to the world I was now entering. First, she took me to some of the S/M clubs in New York, and later, to some of the private parties held by the professional doms. I found a partial answer to my desires there, but I wanted more. I begged her to let me serve her, to become her personal maid. Reluctantly, she agreed to a trial arrangement. I moved in with her, and for three months I served her. In return, she taught me how to speak properly, and to perfect my make-up so as to enhance my features without calling undue attention to them. When I took her to lunch after being accepted into my current position, she expressed her confidence again. “You are a natural, Francie, I knew that when I first saw you,” she said. “You will go to the Marketplace. I’m betting on it.”

So instead of running, instead of breaking down into tears, instead of doing all the things I wanted to do, I snapped open my purse, fetched my brush and pulled it through my hair, refastened my hat, and fixed my make-up. I thought about removing the sweat-stained gloves, but I heard footsteps approaching and settled for straightening my skirt. The door opened and the housekeeper stepped out to the breezeway.

“Welcome, Miss Francie,” she said formally. “I am Miss Claudia, the housekeeper and Mistress Madeleine’s personal maid. You will be working under me.”

Miss Claudia was a petite woman who wore a dark green dress with a neckline decorated with lace in a manner that appeared modest while inviting attention to her cleavage. There was lace at the wrists, and decorating her apron. Her brown hair was drawn back in a French twist, held in place by a complicated arrangement of long hairpins decorated with tiny pearls. There were curly wisps that had freed themselves, softening the overall effect to such success I knew it was deliberate. She looked like a perfect little china doll, absolutely delicious.

I curtsied in acknowledgment of her introduction. “Thank you, ma’am,” I whispered, keeping my voice soft.

“My Mistress says you have very high recommendations from Miss Cruz,” she said. “She expects good work from you, and I intend to ensure she receives it.” The housekeeper stepped closer to me, looking up into my eyes. I could smell a light floral scent from her hair. She reached forward, as if to smooth a wrinkle in my blouse, her fingers brushing my left nipple, which immediately hardened. With a small smile, her hand traced its way down my buttons to my skirt, and patted the bulge I had tried so hard to hide under a tight jockstrap. “I expect you to work hard to please me in every way, Miss Francie,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “It is not until I am satisfied that you will be allowed to personally serve Mistress Madeleine.”

I gulped. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my cock. I wasn’t like the men who thought dressing in women’s clothes and licking the shoes of a dominatrix was the height of sexual satisfaction. Dressing in women’s clothes wasn’t degrading or humiliating for me, in fact, it exhilarated me. But I didn’t want to change my sex. I just wanted to be a maid.

A maid with a dick.

Being a maid had been a lifelong dream. When I was a little boy I devised elaborate tea parties for my stuffed animals, and served them all. I devoured old etiquette books, memorizing the details of setting tables and changing bed linens. My favorite television show was “Upstairs/Downstairs.” As I grew older, I became devoted to Merchant/Ivory films like Howard’s End and books like Remains of the Day. I never wanted to be the butler or the chauffeur in my fantasies. I wanted to be a maid.

I fantasized that I lived in Edwardian England, working in one of the great country halls, starting as a scullery maid and working my way up the servant hierarchy until I was moved Upstairs, eventually serving as Lady’s maid. I dreamed of lacing her corsets, brushing her hair (a hundred strokes). Sometimes in my fantasies I was caught doing something wrong, and was disciplined severely. The punishment would depend on my position in the household: if I was a scullery maid, for instance, the cook would beat me with a wooden spoon. If I was a Lady’s maid, it would be a spanking with her silver-backed brush. Or I might lean forward and place my hands on the fireplace mantel in the parlor, my crisp black dress yanked up above my buttocks, and be caned by the butler or housekeeper. Never in my dreams, however, had I imagined a housekeeper so delicate and beautiful.

Pulse pounding, I followed Miss Claudia through the kitchen. She took me up the back staircase to the third floor, showed me the room I would share with the other maids, and instructed me to freshen up and prepare to meet the rest of the staff. “Your uniform is on the bed. We will be waiting in the parlor at four p.m. precisely, Miss Francie,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

I kicked off my pumps and let myself slump against the wall momentarily. I was awash in a mix of emotions: awe, fear, joy, and an unrelenting horniness ever since the pretty housekeeper had touched me. I undressed, washed my upper body, and shaved my face at the basin in the corner of the room. Foundation, blush, mascara, a hint of eye shadow, and lipstick in a soft coral were next. Then I padded over to the bed, and looked at the uniform. It was exactly as I had dreamed about all those years: simple, black rayon dress, starched white apron, crisp white cap. Black leather pumps and sheer black stockings. Each garment was an erotic delight to handle and put on. I could have spent hours just running my fingers across the silk slip, and pulling the tight, high-waisted girdle over my throbbing privates nearly made me come. But I only had a few minutes before my introduction to the staff, so I contented myself with snapping the garters against my thighs as I secured the stockings.

Standing in front of the room’s full-length mirror, I studied myself. My short, dark brown hair was once again brushed firmly into an old-fashioned pageboy, bangs marching straight across my brow, cap fastened firmly on top. The dress had been made from my measurements, and showed off my slender waist, the hem line precisely at my knees. I would still tower over most of the women in the house, but I kept my shoulders down and my back straight. I knew other men who slumped to hide their height when they were in women’s clothes; Miss Cruz had cured me of that habit long ago. Besides, my shoes had low heels, keeping my height at a manageable five-foot-eight. Taking a deep breath, I headed down the stairs.

The parlor was just off the main hall. I knocked quietly at the door, and once again came face to face with the frosty-eyed butler. I curtsied again, mostly to avoid his eyes, and he stepped to one side, allowing me to enter. The staff was lined up in front of the fireplace, Miss Claudia standing in front of them.