The Academy (4 page)

Geoff Negel had been the first Marketplace professional that Michael had ever met, back when his first exposure to this underground world was through his Uncle Niall, a Hollywood writer. Somewhat undecided as to what his own professional life was going to look like, Michael had leapt at the chance to become a trainer of real-life slaves, and for many months, lived the idyllic life of a man for whom no pleasure was denied. But then, he screwed up royally and put his own training in jeopardy. By sheer luck, the East Coast trainer known as Anderson responded to his request for further training. Little had he known where that trip would take him, exactly how far from the warm, sheltering hedonism of Geoff Negel’s California-based house of slave training.

He felt ashamed; as though he had been stripped and exposed before Geoff, and made to grovel like a penitent slave. Geoff hadn’t gone for all this “in order to be a good trainer, you have to know how to be a good slave” stuff. In fact, he had spoken derisively of it, confident in his own methods, his own style. To stand there in front of him behaving like a slave in training, to refuse his invitation to call him by his first name—it was humiliating. How could something that was so right, day to day, be so damn hard minute to minute?

“Was it really so difficult?” Chris asked, in his casually maddening way.

“Yes, sir,” Michael said. “I’m sorry I let it show.”

“Well, it takes practice to know exactly how much emotion to display,” Chris said. Apparently, he was in a generous mood. “If your intention was to show Geoff that he could effectively humiliate you, you did well. If your intention was to make Ninon treat you like a clumsy, shy adolescent, I’d say you were marvelously successful.”

Or, maybe he was just saving the cutting remarks for last, Michael thought.

“Never mind that, though—Ninon has that affect on many people, regardless of orientation or taste.” The corner of Chris’s mouth twitched slightly, and Michael knew he was flashing on some pleasant memory. “If she had not produced that affect on you at first, she would have no doubt tried for something even more devastating.”

“I’ve never been attracted to a woman who—” Michael hesitated, trying to find the right words.

“Was so much older than you? Who was not two slender legs supporting breasts of a more than moderate size?”

“It’s not that, it’s just she’s—I mean, she isn’t—she’s hardly unattractive!” Michael sputtered.

“Certainly not. But it is her profession to make people who can attract attention, divert it, keep it. Naturally, in order to pass that knowledge on, she is the master of the art.”

Oh, so it was a lesson. Michael tried to compose himself. “If I heard her physical description, I wouldn’t have thought she could have that effect on me,” he admitted. “Is she Italian? I couldn’t place the accent.”

“Greek,” Chris said, with a slight nod. “Her house is on Mykanos, surely one of the most beautiful spots on earth. I guarantee that you would find it absolutely intoxicating. Most trainees do. But such training isn’t for you. Think about that, and write me a few words on it tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said. He was doing a lot of writing these days. And unlike Anderson, Chris not only checked up on him, but read and commented on everything.

In fact, Michael mused, this seemed an awful lot like junior high school. He spent far too much time reading and writing, and kept getting interrupted by inconvenient boners. He hid a grin as he wondered whether that would make a good entry in his journal. Probably not.

* * * *

As trainers would continue to arrive the next day, dinner was an informal affair, with ad hoc groups meeting in separate rooms or enjoying an array of fresh sushi being prepared on one of the open porches. Michael finally was freed from his duty at Chris’s side, as Chris went off for some private meeting with one of the Japanese trainers. Michael had practically jumped for joy; instead, he smiled and thanked Chris as politely and warmly as he could and dashed off to enjoy a tour of the premises uninhibited by any
thing save his fear of being unintentionally rude to someone. I can manage to stay out of trouble, he swore to himself, after trying a few clearly identifiable pieces of raw fish from a table hosting two stern sushi chefs. He found that the food was not quite what he knew as Japanese food per se, and tried to act as nonchalant as possible when confused by dishes of what looked like little nuggets of something pale and soft. Noticing several people digging into them and popping them like peanuts, he tried them and found himself chewing something that tasted remarkably like incredibly dense Velveeta.

Weird. Also weird was the fact that a lot of the foods seemed spicy hot, especially when dabbed with a red pepper sauce that seemed very popular with the locals. He smeared a healthy portion on top of a piece of sashimi and took a bite, and felt like his mouth was being seared. As he gasped and tried not to choke, someone pressed a small cup into his hand and he swallowed its contents compulsively. Not the best idea, as it turned out. Expecting the light taste of fine sake, he was met with a much denser, harsher feel, like a brandy, which did precious little to soothe his tongue and quite a bit to make him dizzy.

“Uchinaa guchi wakai miseemi?” A tall, broad and bearded Japanese man demanded of him. It was one of the local trainers, of course, and his face was so composed that the loud voice seemed terrifying. He helpfully repeated himself in a slower, and much louder tone and Michael made a helpless gesture, still spitting around the array of tastes in his mouth.

“Sir, please excuse my rudeness, but Master Sato wishes to know if you speak Okinawan Japanese,” said a young woman suddenly next to him. By the collar around her throat and the careful phrasing, he knew she was one of the many interpreter slaves who were wandering around, and he was very grateful for her sudden appearance. She had a ribbon pinned to her blouse that listed English, Deutsch, Español, Italiano, and two names in kanji, one of which he assumed was Okinawan Japanese. Michael wasn’t even sure whether there was a big difference between Okinawan and mainland Japanese, or whether it was like the difference between Mexican and Puerto Rican Spanish. But he was glad to see her anyway.

“Yes—er, no,” he said carefully, finally feeling a slight easing in the burning sensation. “Thank you, please tell Mr. Sato that I am sorry that I don’t speak Okinawan, but thank him for his kind concern for me.” Michael handed the little cup back with a sheepish grin, and as Sato heard his response, he nodded and smiled. The smile barely broke through the stone of that face. He said “Ma’asan, eh?” and elbowed Michael and winked, and then bowed slightly and left.

“Ma’asan?” Michael asked the interpreter.

“It means, ‘tasty,’ Sir.” she replied with a brilliant smile. She was not even five feet tall, Michael realized. Tiny, like all the women in adventure books about big burly men finding themselves in Japan. Her ink black hair was short, though, appallingly short. He wondered if it was custom, or her owner’s taste, or even a punishment. Without thinking about it, he brushed one hand across the soft layers of shorn hair, so much like an animal’s coat. She didn’t even blink, only took his caress with the same calm confidence she had radiated when interpreting. But her smile seemed to waver and then get suddenly wider.

“Thank you for your help,” he said, suddenly embarrassed by his action. It had been so long since he felt free to touch a slave, he thought. Yet how natural it felt, how comforting to know that she would stand there and allow him to run his hand across her head. But did he do something wrong by touching her? No one had said anything to him about such things.

“It is my honor to serve, Sir,” she said. “Do you require anything more from me?”

“Yes—yes,” Michael said. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to touch her again. Most of all, he wanted to take her into one of those secluded groves and fuck her brains out. Instead, he asked her what he had been drinking, and how to get another one.

“It is called Awamori, Sir,” she said, elegantly indicating in which direction he should walk. “It is considered one of Okinawa’s most famous exports. It is like brandy, and the Awamori here is of the finest quality.” She remained calm and polite, but that initial smile was now barely a memory. Her face was frozen in a kind of cheerful grin that made him shiver, and he recalled that one of the ways that Japanese people showed embarrassment was by smiling. So he had done something wrong by touching her, dammit. Also, he knew a factoid when he heard one; she was slipping into a tour guide mode, and she was much more important as an interpreter. He sighed and shooed her away to help someone else while he waited for one of the servers to pour him a new cup.

“You must watch yourself when you drink this fine beverage,” came Ken Mandarin’s voice from over his shoulder. “It is a drink that seduces, you know. You think you have not had enough, and then suddenly, you find yourself in—how do you say it? A compromising position.”

“Ms. Mandarin, I’m honored to meet you,” he said, surprised at how cleanly it came out. The he remembered that Chris had arranged to “loan” him to her, and he blushed. She smiled in her predatory way, and tossed back a cup of the strong drink and sighed with satisfaction. How dangerous she seemed, especially in contrast to the slight, composed translator who had come to his rescue a moment before.

“Yes, I am sure you are!” she replied, putting her cup down. “So, what are you doing off of your leash, hm?” She started to walk away, and he felt compelled to follow—a question was hardly a dismissal, and she was one of the big shots here.

“I’ve been freed to wander,” he said, keeping up with her. “I am even allowed out to play from time to time,” he added daringly.

“Oh, ho, you are? How terrible for you. Do you not find it easier to be controlled, knowing that your world is ever safer than the traffic you are playing in now?” She waved merrily to someone who had nodded her way and turned suddenly back into the hotel. The cool shade of the evening was so pleasant inside, warm wood everywhere, muted light in the corners. Michael scrambled to keep up because she seemed purposeful now.

“I’m not a good porch dog,” he said.

“That’s not what I heard,” she said, suddenly stopping and flashing a very nasty grin. “In any event, you shall certainly meet a rather fascinating doggie trainer later on, and we shall see what he makes of you.”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
Michael wondered. “Well—I’ll be honored to meet anyone you wish to introduce me to, Ms. Mandarin.”

“Ha!” she laughed, smacking him smartly on the arm. “You’re a good boy. Come in and meet some of my friends—I make no promises that they will not bite!”

He looked around, and saw the half-open sliding door that she was pointing to. Instantly, he slid it open wide enough for them to enter, and found himself in a small western-style meeting room, with a regular sized table and real chairs. Seated around the table were five individuals he had seen earlier with Ken. Her fellow spotters, most likely. Suddenly, he realized that this might not be the smartest place for him to be. If Chris was stirring up trouble with the spotters, and he was Chris’s...Chris’s...trainee. Student. Junior trainer. Boy? Whatever.

“Heya, this is Mike here,” Ken said, sprawling across one of the chairs, one leg dangling over the arm. “Meet the real people who make the Marketplace work, Mikey.”

Michael sighed and bowed as the people in the room introduced themselves. There was no awkwardness with these people, and no one extended a hand to shake his. Only one of them was known to him, a man named Paul Sheridan from New York City, a friend of Chris’s older brother, Ron. Paul had literally decades of experience in the field, and this was the first time Michael had seen him out of some form of leather. In fact, Paul was wearing a rather loud Hawaiian shirt over a pair of cut-off jeans, certainly one of the most informal people there. But he had never met the darkly tanned woman who introduced herself as Shoshana, or the vaguely sinister Italian man who barely scanned him for an instant before nodding and shrugging as though the meeting was of no consequence at all. The last man was a slender, brown-skinned man who was engaged in the Academy schedule and barely nodded to him when he was introduced. It was one of those moments when Michael realized he had been examined and quickly regarded as a person of little consequence. As always, it hurt.

Michael felt an increasing need to leave, but couldn’t figure out how to elegantly get out of the situation without insulting Ken Mandarin or showing how scared he was.

“Do you know why we are here?” Ken asked him, as he bowed to his final introduction. She looked pointedly at him, and he felt that sinking sensation that meant he was about to Learn a Lesson.

For a second, he thought of answering her with a quip, but decided against it. “I know the purpose of the Academy is to encourage communication and learning among the trainers,” he said carefully. “You meet every year, but not everyone attends. I know that for years, it has been the custom of the Academy to bestow an honorary accreditation to senior trainers who are sponsored by previous members, and that this was always a voluntary process, something like getting a certificate from a civic organization. And I know that this year, there’s a proposal to make accreditation into a formal status instead of an optional one, and you have to vote on that.”

There was a derisive snort from the only other Californian in the room, a man Michael had never worked with when he was out there.

“Oh, don’t be so harsh, Daniel, everything he says is true,” Ken said waving a hand at him. “So what do you think happens to us, Mike, hm? What will happen to the freelance people, the spotters who train, the trainers who spot? What will happen to those who might not get this, this accreditation, eh?”