The Academy (22 page)

“You are lubricating. Is this from the spanking?”

“From the spanking, yes, and also the stripping and the general excitement of your presence, sir.”

“Ah, well. We’ll see about excitement. Keep your lips spread. When I ask you, you must tell me what you are feeling.” And he began to stroke her clit.

At first, he began with a short downward stroke, about one per second. After about a minute of that he asked, “On the arousal scale, where would you say you are?”

“On a scale from one to a hundred,” she answered, “About twenty-five.”

He continued with that motion without variation, for several more minutes, asking her and continuing it until she said the number had dropped between ten and fifteen. He dipped his finger into her lubrication then, and switched to moving his finger in a lazy circle around her clit. Her breathing and heart rate accelerated. He instructed her to call out numbers as they changed. As his finger circled the numbers again climbed, until she reached fifty. At that point he stopped and left the room.

He returned some fifteen minutes later, now dressed only in a thin silk robe. She did not appear to have moved a muscle while he was gone and he was enormously pleased by this. Other women would have looked bored, or defiant, or curious, and he would have punished them, fought them into submission, or ordered them to satisfy him, respectively, and later sent them back to their husbands or boyfriends with an amusing story to tell. But this one lay still and placid, her fingers still stretching her labia wide as if they never tired, awaiting his next move with measured calm.

He was determined to shatter that calm. He ordered her to close her eyes, silently slicked his manhood to hardness, rolled on a condom, and positioned himself between her legs. He grasped her hips and with one difficult thrust, buried himself in her.

Her eyes clenched tighter, and she drew her breath, but there was no scream, no litany of begging, no curse, as he felt her insides spasm as they tried to accommodate his size. Yes, he was large, I’ll leave it at that. Large enough that any pussy would not have it easy, especially not one left open to the air for a quarter of an hour. Now his feelings teetered between disappointment that his rape of her had not elicited more of a response, and pleasure at how well she obeyed him and accommodated him. He bit her breasts, slapped her face, and fucked her mercilessly. And eventually she did cry, she did gasp and wail. But she never begged for him to stop, never pushed him away, or did anything to lessen her own suffering even though her two hands were unbound. After he came, he jerked out of her and watched her closely to see if she would assume the scene was over. Her eyes did not open, she did not move. He stood there for long minutes, expecting her to beg for her own release or request some reward. But she said nothing.

“Is there something you would like to say?” he asked.

She cleared her throat of tears before speaking. “Yes, sir. I would like to apologize for crying out if the sound of it did not please you.”

An answer like that from his last visitor, a cheeky Californian he’d sent back whence she came, would have been dripping with sarcasm, and yet Lily was able to say it with just enough hesitation and choking that it rang sincere. Quite unexpectedly he found himself close by her side, his hands stroking her as he answered into her ear “Oh no, my Lily, your cries pleased me very much.” Perhaps that was the moment from which there was no return.

A few phone calls, a few delivered messages—he made sure his calendar was clear of obligations for a while, and mentioned her name for the first time to a trainer of his acquaintance in the Marketplace.

The next day Matson changed his tactic with her. Certainly she could obey his orders when they were not to do something. But how well could she perform when ordered to do something? Her “master” had bragged about her abilities to please man or woman, special talents of her tongue, and other parts of her as well. But he let her first task be to clean his kitchen.

At first he watched while she scrubbed the inside of the sink with baking soda and cleaned each black metal stove spider with steel wool. Flecks of soap speckled her bare breasts and sweat shone on her back as she worked. He instructed her to continue for an hour, unsupervised, while he took care of some things.

* * * *

“Come dear, don’t dwell on the drudgery,” Ken said. “We all know all there is to know about housework.”

The young woman smiled. “Very well. But you’ll want to hear about what happened when he came back.”

“By all means.”

* * * *

Suffice to say that when he returned to the kitchen fully dressed he found her picking the dead leaves out of his house plants... there was nothing left to do, she explained, unless she was going to begin repainting... To his eye she had been so thorough his stove top looked like new and even the grout between the kitchen tiles had been bleached.

He pushed her into the shower stall in the bathroom. While he sprayed her skin with stinging water from the hand-held massager-head, he asked her “Why did you do all of those things?”

“To please you, sir.”

“To earn my favor or reward?”

“Not specifically, sir. To do any less than my best would be wrong.”

“So, my pretty pet, do you pride yourself on your thoroughness?”

“Pride...? If you approve, then I am happy.” She seemed to struggle for a moment with the explanation, as if the concept were so basic she had never before put it into words. “I... can not do what I think would not please you, and I can’t not do what I think might.”

He cut off the spray and handed her a towel. “Well then, make me happy.”

“Sir?” She stopped patting herself dry with the towel.

“Exactly that. Please me.”

She sank to her knees in front of him, clutching the towel close. “Yes, sir.” Her eyes showed her hesitation, as she tried to guess what he meant. She let the towel fall and ran her hands down her front. Her nipples tightened and her stomach flattened as she drew in her breath. Then her delicate fingers reached out for him, caressing the fine silk of his shirt, creeping upward into his hair as she pressed her naked body against him. One hand loosened the top buttons of his shirt.

He would have faulted her for being presumptuous, except that yes, it did please him. She inflamed his senses and excited him in a way that made him want to make her cry out in pain and shelter her from harm all at once. He scooped her up then and carried her to the bedroom, where he put her on her feet and told her to continue.

Her cool fingers reached inside his shirt to untuck it from his pants and she scratched his back until every itch was gone. She undressed him with kisses and lay him back upon the bed where she knelt and worshiped his rising hard cock. She lavished attention on it, with her fingers, her breath, her lips, and her tongue. He liked being worshiped; he liked being her god.

After he came, and after he had inspected her pussy and found it again wet and ready, after he ordered her to lie still beside him, he told her this: “You have succeeded in pleasing me, and yet you have failed.”

“How, sir?” She trembled slightly in his arms.

“I was so hoping that you would NOT please me, so that I could punish you. And so by pleasing me, you have disappointed me, and robbed me of that satisfaction.”

She pressed closer to him. “Well, then, do I not deserve the punishment for disappointing you so? I am yours to do with as you will.” With that she slipped out of the bed to the floor, where she knelt with her head touching the soft carpet. “If it would please you to punish me,” she said, “I would be pleased to suffer.”

“Later,” he said. “Get dressed. I have some errands for you to do.”

* * * *

The next twenty-four hours were a whirlwind of pain and passion for both of them, as he turned from one tactic to another, one toy to another, playing with her skin and her mind and her sex—and he felt a stab of thrilling electricity every time he looked into her eyes and saw himself reflected there.

That night he invited his acquaintance the trainer, Alayne, to dinner, eager to exhibit his prize. Alayne had protested vehemently; it was much, much too soon! But Matson insisted, so she agreed with a laugh.

Lily, who did not know Alayne was anything but a friend to be impressed, prepared and served them a gourmet meal, beginning with stuffed mushrooms that he chose to eat off her soft skin, her flat belly like an hors d’oeuvre tray, followed by a cunning consommé served in shallow china bowls she set on the table without a sound. The roast lamb was succulent and savory and he tucked a sprig of meat-soaked rosemary into her pubic hair where she knelt beside him. And although they talked of everything else, Lily could feel Alayne’s eyes on her, and his eyes on Alayne’s eyes. The meal finished with cognac and liqueur-soaked bananas brulee on tangerine almond salsa.

Alayne’s spoon clinked into her dessert dish as she sat back. And finally she asked “Where did you get this one, again? Are you sure she’s not one of ours, run away from someone less deserving?”

Matson didn’t answer. He stroked her hair with one hand.

“Have you told her...?”

“Why don’t we retire to the other room,” he suggested, and stood. “Heel,” he said, though he hadn’t taught her how to heel and didn’t dare turn his head to see if she was following him. But when he sat down in the living room, she had crawled alongside him. He set down his half-finished cognac. He tugged on her hair until she was on all fours in front of him and he ran his hands over her smooth buttocks and thighs.

Alayne settled into the couch opposite him with her snifter.

His hands stroked her up and down until one fingers slid down her spine and through the wet folds of her cunt. He stuck a finger inside of her, almost reflexively, just as he might stroke her hair or scratch his own chin. With his free hand he picked up his snifter and luxuriated in the fine, woody scent.

They talked more, those two, now about slaves and scenes and service. And he would occasionally add a finger, or subtract one, as he caught Alayne up on the latest leather community spat, and they discussed people they knew in common, how someone named Mildred was now in a household in France, Rick under the boot of an ex-Marine...

Lily’s cunt tightened as she realized they were speaking of slaves like her, speaking seriously of people who lived this sort of lifestyle, not just on weekends or in professional dominant’s dungeons.

The sudden tug on his fingers brought Matson back to life. He shoved her roughly down onto the thick carpet. “I do believe,” he said to Alayne, “that tonight’s entertainment is about to begin.”

“Oh, good,” Alayne declared, spreading her legs. “I could use a good cunt-licking. Come over here, honey.”

Lily looked up at him, questions in her eyes, and Matson’s pride swelled as he realized she awaited his word before beginning. So many slave sluts he’d played with would do anything anybody said, but not her. He nodded his approval to her and stood up.

Between the two of them they flogged her, blindfolded her, and tickled her, made her pleasure Alayne with her tongue while Matson impaled her with his, all manner of decadence until in the early hours of morning Alayne declared that she had to get going.

“You could stay the night,” Matson said as Lily helped her put her boots back on.

“No, no, I want some time to think this over. We’d better have that conversation soon, though. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can discuss this when I’m not so... distracted.” Alayne blew a kiss at Lily and slipped out the door.

Discuss this?
Lily thought.
This? Me?

That night, as she lay at the foot of Matson’s bed, she lay awake despite the exhaustion of use and effort. They had been careful, so careful, as they talked around the subject, but she knew, somehow, that there was more there than they had told her. They had tantalized her with hints, but she knew to be patient was the only way.

Or, perhaps not. Did he not say she could always ask questions of him? What could she say, how could she ask about what she did not know? She feared offending him, though, and put her questions out of her head, and kept silent.

* * * *

Matson did not keep her waiting long. That afternoon in his study he explained to her the basic workings of the Marketplace, and Alayne’s role as a trainer, and then spoke to Alayne on speaker phone so that Lily could hear.

“You know,” Alayne told him, “I don’t usually like to rush things, but there’s an auction in Vienna I could certainly put her into. That’s three months, and I’ve already got quite a full plate. But considering her skills and her potential value... did you mention she speaks French?”

“Spanish,” Lily corrected, at his prompting.

Matson and Alayne went back and forth over financial dealings, until finally Alayne said “Matt, this is really quite a generous deal. Why are you being so standoffish about this? Are you listening to me?”

“Mm,” he agreed, looking at Lily. Maybe he had the idea then, or maybe he’d had it in mind all along and was waiting for this moment. “I’d like to make a proposal,” he said, never taking his eyes off the curve of Lily’s neck, her luminous naked skin, “regarding Lily’s training.”

Lily listened in amazement as Matson proposed that he “continue” her training, with Alayne’s periodic supervision, and that rather than be given spotters credit and fee, he’d share the training credit with her.