The Academy (48 page)

Morgan ignored Ian’s questions and veiled accusations. Threats were easy to make when you were all tied up, but it was a terrible loss of face. It was the beginning of the end for her quarry. Morgan had already wasted several months with the Genevieve fiasco and hoped that word did not get out into the Marketplace. Trainers were particular in their requirements, tastes, and in their ethics. She had already lost out twice on pre-selected clients that Ian had taken and then driven into despair and suspicion. No one liked to work with clients who wondered whether the next master would hurt them as much as the last—and in ways they did not enjoy! And yet, there was nothing she could—or should—do to such a dangerous, cold predator in her world, not according to the guidelines her colleagues agreed upon.

And yet, here she was, her prey attached to her slender, painful leashes, and her hands on the controls. It felt good, like salt in the mouth. She had gone too far not to carry this forth to the end.

“I have been waiting patiently for this opportunity,” Morgan informed her adversary. “‘The time has come, the day is near, I will pour out my fury on you and exhaust my anger at you; I will judge you as your conduct deserves.’ Ezekiel 7:9.”

Ian’s eyes flew open as the first dose of current ran through her body. Morgan was somewhere behind her, out of sight, or maybe even out of the room. Wel verdomme
, now what,
Ian thought. Electricity was one of those things that no matter how much you fought the inevitable would happen... You’d get zapped. Each zap increased the stress which in turn increased the sweat production. Sweat has this marvelous property, salt, which increases conductivity thereby increasing the severity of the sensation. Just when she thought that it was getting better the electricity varied. It peaked and pulsed and zapped at unexpected times. Her body jerked and twisted. Her lips were dry, as was her mouth.

Ian tried performing deep breathing exercises. If she could somehow distract her mind it would all work out. She needed to yield to the sensations, as much as she could. She tried to let go as she had seen others do in the past. Having never experienced submission, it was not something that she could simply do. She tried to concentrate on the way Genevieve’s face looked when she mentioned The Marketplace. But it wasn’t enough. The stress of trying prevented the very revelation that she was seeking. Ian stopped thinking and started screaming. Once she started she could not stop. She screamed to her heart’s content. It no longer mattered how she looked or what the woman thought. Survival and pain were all that she thought about. Ian’s body finally did the only thing it could to escape, and a smile crossed her lips as the room became black.

* * * *

A stream of water struck her face, and Ian found herself still seated, but freed from the electrodes. Morgan was standing before her, with a pair of nipple clamps that did not look like anything that she had ever seen before. They had broad tips and large knobs shaped like a propane valve. Ian’s nipples were quickly trapped in the coated teeth. Morgan started tightening the knobs until she had the nipple trapped between them, but not hard enough to have caused any pain.

“No, no, please enough, enough, I have learned my lesson, I swear it,” Ian tried to say, as Morgan pulled out a cane and tested it in the air before Ian’s eyes.

“But I want you to feel what it is that you have subjected others to.” Morgan said, stroking the smooth, flexible rod. “You believe yourself to be devoid of feeling. But is that you really want to be? I will show you a glimpse of your soul. A chance for your redemption. ‘The great day of anger has come, and we will see who survives.’ Revelations 6:17. Shall we begin?”

In a split second the cane whooshed through the air embedding itself in Ian’s flesh before bouncing back. An intense and fearful shriek was torn from her lips followed by a string of expletives that would make a Swede blush. A reddish welt was already visible across the front of her exposed thighs. Ian had always avoided those damned pieces of rattan. Try as she might, she had never been able to quite master them. But she had to admit they were effective; one strike drove all the breath from her and made her see stars.

These momentary thoughts were interrupted by another cane stroke. There was just no way out of this one. It was bizarre to be caned while seated, her body believing that she could just stand up and leave, only to be defeated by the restraints. The caning continued and Ian thrashed about like a fish on a line, able to see each stroke’s mark across her thighs, breasts, and stomach. Her flinching and thrashing finally knocked the chair over.

Morgan’s strokes did not slow or alter. No attempt was made to place Ian upright, or even in a more comfortable position. New marks appeared on parts of Ian’s body that had not been exposed before. Morgan admitted silently that she was enjoying herself. This was about punishment, pure and simple. The cane was an instrument that led straight to the soul. Most people could dish out a hell of a lot more than they could take, but that was not the case with Morgan. She had taken a caning just like this before. It was the one thing that separated her spirit from her body and allowed her to soar.

* * * *

The caning continued until Ian was reduced to a pile of red, bruised, blubbering flesh. She apologized, she confessed, she told the woman that she would never do it again, she begged and promised and cajoled and even made a threat or two in the beginning. Then there was nothing that she could do. She just wanted the caning to stop. She needed to regain her sanity and that was not possible with the flurry of blows she was experiencing.

Then, quite suddenly, Ian no longer cared about appearances. It was no longer possible to think about appearances. All of her defenses, one after another, came crashing down. She had never felt this vulnerable before and yet at the same time she became aware of a humiliating dampness between her legs. There was a fire of a different sort starting. Even as she begged forgiveness for all manners of sin, she stopped feeling any pain at all. Her eyes were rolling around in her head and howls slowly turned to moans and whimpers.

Morgan, aware of these types of changes in herself, was fascinated that the mighty Ian was not above succumbing to her bodily needs. She slowed and toyed with Ian, giving her a taste, just a small taste, of the peace of mind that comes only when one is stripped of pride and arrogance. When Morgan stopped, she was covered in sweat and her breathing was labored. Not type of breathing that comes from a good work out, but the type of breathing that comes from being aroused. She stood over Ian and relished the sensation. Morgan bent down and with a bunching of her shoulders and arms, righted the chair. With absolute precision, she stepped back, aimed her cane, and she struck the nipple clamps simultaneously, causing them to pop off. Ian was instantly snapped back into her body and the most unearthly sound emitted from between her lips accompanied by an earth-shattering, body-shaking orgasm. Morgan turned on heel and left the room.

* * * *

Ian was kneeling, her body trembling, focusing her attention on Morgan’s feet. She wondered if it would be too desperate to lie prostrate, kissing the tips of the black leather boots. She was terrified that she would be sent away now, just as she had found this yawning need in her. She was terrified, because she knew that was exactly what was going to happen.

“You and I differ in an important way, Ian,” Morgan was explaining. “You hunt, capture, then discard. I want you to understand—really understand—what it would mean if I sent you away now, with no way to contact me, knowing that you would never see me again.” She watched without moving as a tear dropped onto the toe of her polished boot. “This is, after all, what you do, is it not?” She noted that Ian’s tear-streaked face nodded.

“That is because you are a player,” Morgan continued, spitting the word out. “I do not play. This work I do is my calling. It is, in fact, my profession. Although,” she chuckled, “not in the way you might think.

“Unlike you, I recognize my prey has value beyond the beating and the fucking. Until you learn the same, I do not wish to see you again.”

Ian choked awkwardly, drawing in a ragged breath, but did not speak. Morgan watched her approvingly.

“I am letting you walk out my front door, so you know where I live, and know how to find me again. I am not, like you, afraid to be found. Indeed, I welcome being found.”

“Show me you have been redeemed, demonstrate that you recognize the value of the people around you, bring me proof of your repentance, and I may consider working with you further.”

Ian stumbled out the front door, the street noises and scents from the Bloemenmarkt easing through the haze in her mind enough to orient herself, and to ensure she memorized the address and street of Morgan’s house. She wanted to return as soon as she left, but knew she could not. Not without giving her Lady what she required.

She shoved her hands in her pockets, shivering, and felt her fingers brush against a scrap of paper. Pulling it out, she found a torn piece of paper with a phone number scrawled across it, with the note “G—please call.” The “please” was underlined twice. Her loins twitched even before her mind recognized who the note was from. Ian sighed. This could be the way back into Morgan’s house. A gift. To lay at the feet of her Lady.

* * * *

Morgan was a jumble of emotions. Her anger was spent and now she was simply excited beyond belief. She entered her bathroom and started the steam shower. Leaning over the sink and popping out the green contacts to show clear blue eyes she thought about how Ian not only had talent as a potential scout, but also had the makings of a half-way decent piece of property. A bit rough around the edges with a lot to learn, but definitely trainable. She was concerned about her standing as a spotter for the Marketplace, but then again this little adventure had not involved anyone but outsiders. If Ian remained quiet, whether from humiliation or hopeful obedience, no one would be the wiser. She did not think Ian would go to the police with a fantastic tale of drugged beer and electrical torture in a hidden dungeon. Shame on Genevieve for mentioning the Marketplace to an outsider to begin with—if she ever regained her confidence and belief in what Morgan had to offer, Morgan would address that issue with her. Perhaps it would all work out in the end.

Morgan removed the red wig, shaking out her raven-black, wavy hair before entering the near scalding hot shower. As her muscles relaxed she thought of the payoff for the punks then turned her musings to Ian. Mentally, she bet against herself as to how long it would be before Ian returned to her door—to earn back the undamaged Marty that lay on the table in her dungeon. No, Morgan was never one to throw away anything that showed quality. Or to lose something of value without someone paying for it.

Chris let his head loll back at the ridge of the tub and breathed slowly. The water was near scalding, as most Japanese baths were. It seemed to awaken every scar on his body, old and new, made it a pleasant agony to move. Mostly, he kept still, feeling the sweat trickle through his hair.

The green tea helped settle the knot in his stomach; the hot water was working on all the others. He didn’t feel like eating; sleep was the most seductive of early afternoon choices. It might be a good idea—certainly the invitations to private little farewell orgies would be coming in soon.

Not that he was eager to attend them anyway. He closed his eyes and sighed. Now that the vote was all but taken care of, he had the leisure to ponder Tetsuo’s plan. There had been no messages from Anderson, no stern transpacific phone calls, no cryptic indications of approval or annoyance. It wasn’t like her to remain silent. Unless she was very, very angry.

Chris struggled with it, but then let the laugh out. His voice echoed against the walls, and his rising chest made the water ripple and splash up against his throat and ears, sizzling and teasing, which made him laugh even louder. It would be the ultimate irony, of course, if she were to be angry with him at this moment of victory.

“I see you are in a good mood, Mr. Parker,” came a voice from the door.

“Shouldn’t I be, Ninon?” he asked, opening his eyes.

She was wearing the ubiquitous cotton yukata and light slippers, and a female slave scurried in to attend her with an apologetic bow in Chris’s direction.

“I apologize for taking this liberty,” Ninon said, letting the robe slip away. “I realize that you had specified a private room. I took advantage of my rank.” Her generous body was as beautiful as Chris had heard described, a golden olive sheen to her perfect skin, round, feminine expanses of flesh that were lovingly massaged and pampered.

“When you offer me a glimpse of paradise, how can I even suggest that I am wronged?” Chris asked, closing his eyes again. Of all the people who could have overawed the attendants outside the bathrooms, she was one of the few who he could bear right now. Definitely one of the few he could be comfortably naked in front of. He controlled the urge to laugh out loud again.

“Very good, very good,” Ninon said, sitting on the bathing stool and allowing her hair to be pinned up. “As if I did not have the proof of your skill at flattery this morning, hm?”

“It’s still awkward,” Chris admitted. “I always feel like I’m saying someone else’s lines in a bad play.”

“Yes, it is not in your nature to flatter,” Ninon agreed. “Still, you apply yourself, and that is to be admired.” The slave played a stream of warm water over her body and then gently applied sudsy lather, and Ninon sighed in pleasure.

“Whenever I come to these things, I feel like some sort of underachieving student running into all my old professors,” Chris said, his eyes still closed.

“And perhaps you are, although I must quarrel with that word, underachieving. Is that how you feel now?”

Chris wiped his forehead clear of sweat and let the hot water splash him again. He smiled, slightly.

“Ah-hah,” Ninon laughed. “A student no more.”

“A student always,” Chris demurred. “Just a slightly more cocky than usual one today.”