The Academy (40 page)

Ken laughed and Cindy blushed prettily and squeezed out an extra dollop. “She just wishes to make it more interesting, she is a wicked girl that way. So, enough business. You will tell me about this sibling thing, yes? Have you met others like my pair?”

“Yes.”

“Slaves you trained as well?”

“Not as much. I’m actually thinking of my sister.” He chuckled at her look of surprise. “Not a sister of blood. My sister in spirit.”

by Karen Taylor

Rachel was leaning over her table, rolling a joint, when she heard someone knock on her door. “Go the fuck away, I’m busy,” she yelled, since it was at least three hours before her next client was supposed to arrive and she wasn’t dressed.

“Too busy for an old friend?” a familiar voice called back, startling her. Rachel dropped the joint back on the table and headed to the hallway. She looked through the peephole. Standing outside her door was a short, stocky man with dark curly hair, wearing a motorcycle jacket. With a shriek, she pulled the door open.

“Parker? Ohmygod, it’s fucking Parker!” she cried, throwing her arms around the man at the door. “You surprised the fuck out of me! Why didn’t you call or something?”

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by,” Chris said lightly, embracing her briefly, then releasing.

“Jesus, Parker, the apartment’s a fucking mess, I’m not dressed—”

“So what’s new?” he responded, and she punched him playfully. “Come on, Rachel, I’ve seen you and your living quarters in conditions much worse than this.” He looked around. The studio was in the Meat Packing District, but high enough up that the noise wasn’t too bad. Or the smell, although it hovered in the air even late at night. Some of the furniture was still familiar—the kitchen table, the old lamp with the broken chain, the small desk piled high with mail and papers. But there was a new mock-Persian rug, and a futon couch with a stained oak frame with a matching side table. A chiffarobe in the corner had one door open, showing the floggers hanging on the inside. His eyes trailed up. There, he spotted the eye bolts sunk deeply into the ceiling.

“How’s business?” he asked, watching her as she walked toward the refrigerator and pulled out two diet colas.

“Same old shit,” she replied, returning and handing him one of the cans. “But I pay my rent and have enough left over for some luxuries.” She set her can on the table next to the couch, picked up the newly rolled joint, and lit it. Chris shook his head when she offered it to him, and she rolled her eyes wickedly.

“I know, I know, you don’t do it any more. Fuck, Parker, I never thought I’d see you turn down a toke,” she teased him. “Time was, you’d match me toke for toke, line for line.”

“Match you? I’d beat you,” Chris replied, and they laughed together, warmed by each other’s company. “Do you remember—” they said simultaneously, then stopped, laughing again. Then Rachel put the joint back down, stepped closer, touched Chris’s face tenderly, and kissed him. “Fuck, I miss you, Parker,” she sighed.

Chris smiled back, his face more relaxed and open with Rachel than with anyone else in his life. Ever. “I missed you, too,” he said.

And suddenly, it was just like old times. They wrapped themselves around each other, kissing deeply. Rachel unbuttoned Chris’s shirt, pulled it out of his jeans, and rubbed her hands against the warm flesh of his chest and shoulders, kissing his neck hungrily. Chris was less urgent, but just as ready, using one hand to untie the front of her kimono, using the other to run his fingers through Rachel’s thick, curly hair, pulling on it just slightly to pull her head back and kiss her harder. They stumbled, still tangled in each other, to the couch, clothes falling around them. Wrestling for position, like they used to do.

Later, Chris watched her languidly smoke her joint, his fingers tracing a series of scars on her arm.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he told her.

“You have,” Rachel replied honestly, “but you’re still one hell of a good fuck.”

* * * *

“I’m here to offer you a job,” Chris said. They were sitting up, more or less, and Rachel was smoking her joint.

“What kind of job?” she asked.

“Working with me. In the Marketplace,” he answered. Rachel took another toke, letting the smoke sink into her lungs as she thought about that. Parker had told her about the Marketplace, told her years ago when he went in search of it. Told her more after he was in it, even though he often seemed to vanish for months at a time without as much as a postcard. It was clear Parker loved the Marketplace. She remembered the last time he had come to visit, around Christmas a year ago, after he got his job out on Long Island. He told her about the for real slaves and owners who did this full time. And Parker told her he was going to train the slaves.

Train them? she had asked. And Parker told her about the training program he was developing, the four week, six week, and eight week regimens, and she had laughed at him. Especially when Parker explained to her that he wasn’t training them for himself, but for other people. She thought he was nuts.

Rachel couldn’t imagine what job would be of interest to her in Parker’s world. She sure as hell wasn’t slave material. She definitely didn’t have the money to be an owner. And after Parker had told her how much money he made training, she had laughed in his face. In Rachel’s world, the money didn’t balance out the time spent, especially with Parker’s extra expenses.

On the other hand, business was... boring. Not that she ever got tired of tying clients up and hurting them, sometimes even fucking them. But to do it on a clock annoyed her. Her favorite clients were the ones who took her to clubs or gatherings of other kinky people. There, she’d have a whole weekend to dominate and hurt her client or anyone else she had an interest in. Plus, she got off a lot. In the Marketplace, she knew, the clock would never stop.

“Tell me about it,” Rachel said. Chris relaxed. She was interested. He started to explain, and watched her eyes, half-closed from pot and sex, begin to twinkle as he described the position he had in mind.

* * * *

“Rachel, I’d like to introduce you to Grendel Elliot, one of my employers,” Chris Parker said formally. Rachel stuck her hand out automatically, but her eyes were still taking in the room. She had been surprised when the car had pulled in front of big Colonial type house, in a part of Long Island known for its wealthy inhabitants. Now, inside, she was standing in what Chris told her was the library. The windows looked out over a garden, and she spotted a stable. Jesus, the place even smelled like money. She thought the bearded guy who just shook her hand smelled like money, too. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Rachel,” he said in a pleasant voice. “My associate will be down as soon as she’s finished with her trainee.”

Internally, however, Grendel was taken aback. This was the woman Chris had suggested would be suitable in their house? He could tell Rachel was wearing what was probably her best outfit, but it was definitely in need of pressing, and the skirt was shorter than current fashion. Her shoes were a cheap, shiny leather, the heels a little too spiky and tall for comfort. When Chris took her jacket, Grendel could clearly see the outline of a garish tattoo on her right arm through the sheer blouse. The sheerness also didn’t hide the fact that her nipples were pierced.
She looks like a biker in drag
, Grendel thought in despair.
What the hell does Chris think he’s up to?

He offered Rachel a seat, and she flopped on the couch, kicking off her pumps. Chris brought her a diet soda, and she refused his offer of a glass, drinking directly from the can. With a sigh, Grendel opened the file Chris handed to him, Rachel’s name on the flap. Again, he groaned inwardly. No college degree, not even a high school diploma. Her resume was sparse, waitressing in strip clubs, some phone sex work, and stints in three different Manhattan brothels. No job had lasted more than a year. No references, other than Chris’. He had no idea how to begin. Where was Alex? She should have been downstairs five minutes ago. The silence was growing awkward, and Grendel knew he should start without his partner. But how to begin?

“Tell me, Rachel,” Grendel began tentatively, “Do you have any housekeeping experience?”

Rachel stared at him for a moment, then burst into loud guffaws.

“I’m pleased to hear you’re getting along so well with our guest,” said a voice from the doorway. Immediately, Chris reappeared, and motioned slightly to Rachel that she should stand up again. She did so, with only a slight air of impatience. Grendel was already on his feet, and made the introductions. “Rachel, this is my partner, Alexandra Selador.”

Alexandra was small-boned and elegant, with blond hair streaked with white and piercing blue eyes. Rachel extended her hand again, wondering why the woman looked so familiar. She sat across from Rachel, and made some pleasant comments about meeting a friend of Chris Parker’s, making Rachel feel more comfortable. Her presence was also a relief to Grendel, who quickly excused himself from the room, claiming an important phone call.

“Tell me, Rachel, what has Chris told you about us?” Alexandra asked, when the time seemed right. She, like Grendel, was surprised by Rachel, but she was willing to believe there was something about the woman she hadn’t yet discovered. If Chris was so willing to vouch for her, willing enough to ask for leave to bring her personally to the house, Alexandra was ready to find out why.

“Well, uh, Parker told me a lot about the Marketplace, and a bit about you two,” Rachel began, still wondering where she had met this woman before, “and that you were looking for, well, an extra set of hands around here.”

“We’re looking to hire someone who is willing to work with the slaves we train,” Alexandra explained. “Someone who is willing to be part of the training process, particularly in basic household tasks.”

“Yeah, Parker told me. I gotta be honest with you, I’m not really interested in becoming a trainer. At least, not the way Parker explained it,” Rachel said. “It sounds like too much work, what with that scheduling and paperwork and stuff. Too much like a real job, you know what I mean?” Alex smiled inwardly. “But Parker said, well, that you sort of need a back-up. Someone who knows how to make a slave be submissive. Keep them feeling that way for their stay, get them used to knowing their place. And I’m real good at that.”

Indeed,
Alexandra thought, looking at the woman sitting before her.
If Chris says you are, I’m inclined to believe him. But what about the more mundane aspects of the job?
She decided to be more explicit.

“The slaves must also learn practical skills, Rachel. They must be prepared to serve, not just respond.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s not just tormenting the slaves, they gotta learn something in the process,” Rachel said. “Well, Miz Selador, let me be honest with you. I hate cleaning toilets. I hate ironing shirts. But I like a clean bathroom and clean clothes. You can bet that I’ll make sure these novices learn the basics.” She grinned. “If I have a little fun enforcing the lessons, I’m sure you won’t mind.”

Alexandra smiled back. Despite her initial response, she found herself attracted to the woman, her openness and her dominance, and her obvious sadism. She reminded Alex of someone she had seen, many years ago, while attending a party at a professional’s dungeon in the City, a young girl with wildly colored hair and a brilliant tattoo on her arm. The girl was straddling a young punk who was writhing beneath her, until the girl put a knife to his throat, and told him to stay still while she fucked him. Later, Alex spotted the same girl sitting on one of the benches, this time playing with a female, whose face was buried between the young woman’s thighs, clearly struggling to breathe. She had looked up and spotted Alexandra watching her, and grinned. Yanking on her captive’s hair, she let the woman up to gasp for breath only to push her back down in position, and lewdly moved her prisoner’s head up and down by the hair. Alexandra smiled back at her.
If only all Manhattan dungeon parties had scenes like that, I’d go out more,
Alexandra thought with a sigh.

“Is there a problem?” Rachel asked, noticing that Alexandra’s mind had wandered.

“No, no,” Alex assured her. “I was just thinking about an old friend, a pro in Midtown who used to throw great parties.”

Rachel snapped her head up. “That’s it!” she said triumphantly. “That’s where I know you from. You were at that party that Spike and me crashed.”

“Then it was you!” Alex said, astonished. Of course, that was the tattoo showing beneath Rachel’s blouse. “I remember you clearly.”

“Yeah, I remember you, too,” Rachel said bluntly. “You were the hottest thing there. But I was too busy dumping Spike and getting to know Tikka to find you. Afterward, I mean.”

“You were the one person worth watching at that party,” Alexandra laughed. “You certainly had the room going.” And me, she remembered.

“Yeah?” Rachel grinned. “How about you? Did you like it, too?” She looked Alexandra directly in the eye, and found the invitation.

Amused, but also interested, Alexandra smiled slowly, and waited for Rachel to move closer to her before she leaned toward the dark-haired woman to kiss her deeply. Rachel’s mouth had the sweet-turned-bitter taste of marijuana, her lips full and soft. Surprisingly, she didn’t immediately thrust herself into Alexandra’s mouth, but instead teased her with the tip of her tongue flicking once, then twice, across the older woman’s teeth.

There’s even more talent here than I suspected
, Alexandra thought, responding with her own quick thrusts before finishing the kiss and rising from her seat. Rachel stood immediately, and followed Alexandra out of the room, and up the stairs. After they disappeared into Alexandra’s wing, Chris quietly reentered the library, picked up the glasses and the empty can and Rachel’s shoes, and departed as noiselessly as he arrived.

* * * *

Rachel did her best not to stare at the room. Unlike her own experience in the dark, industrial-district loft dungeons of her professional colleagues in Manhattan, Alexandra’s room was light, with sunlight flowing through the windows, and beautiful, welcoming furniture that didn’t crowd the room, but invited you to sit or recline in comfort.