The Academy (60 page)

Ron shrugged. “Incest is not my bag.”

“You pervert, that wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”

“Yeah, I know, I could have kept it all clean and everything. But that wouldn’t have been enough for Chris. It wouldn’t have been right. The two of us playing with that kind of power is just too nasty to think about.” He looked around the apartment and kicked at the underwear on the floor next to him. “Though I have to admit that whenever he was here I never worried about the laundry! So—what are you gonna do with him?”

“Chris looks like a trainer to me,” Anderson said.

“Damn! That would suck.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not what he wants, man,” Ron said. “Hell, anyone could see the kid was born to be a slave. Forget the trainer thing. You know he’s good, and you got more trainer applicants than you can shake your riding crop at.”

“You’re assuming that I’m keeping him. Are you paying his training fees?”

Ron blushed—why hadn’t she seen the resemblance between them before? “Aw, you know I don’t have that kind of money, Imala. I spent half my slave fees getting set up here—the rest is the only retirement money I’ll ever have, if I keep myself in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed.” He sighed, cursed under his breath and then shrugged. “OK. You want me to get it out of the bank and turn it over to you? You can have it, every dime. If you need more, tell me and I’ll get it. But you can’t tell the kid I did it, or he’ll have a fit.”

Anderson put down her cup and shook her head. “You’re a good brother, Ron. Actually, you’re a sorry excuse for a brother. If you had any sense, Chris would be in school, well dressed and dating and going to the movies, and not—confused.”

“Oh, take my word for it, Anderson, that kid is not confused. Give him a few weeks at your place, and you will make him confused, sure. But I bet you that right now, he knows exactly what he is and what he wants.” He stretched, drawing the shirt tightly around his body. “It’ll take me a day to go down to the bank and see about making out a check.”

“Forget it,” Anderson said, rising. “It’s taken care of.”

“Really?” He gave her a slow, sleepy look, and then his lips twitched again in amusement.

“Just tell me something: why did you call Chris a... faggot?” She worked her mouth around the harsh word distastefully.

“Because he is,” Ron insisted. “Queer as a three-dollar bill. I don’t care what that hellion he hangs with says or, shi—oot, what she does with him. In fact, I don’t even want to think of what they do together.” He winced theatrically. “No, Chris is my baby bro’ in every way you can imagine but one. Oh, and the name, I guess. What can I tell you? I always hated ‘Parker’, made me sound like a damn goy or something.” He laughed.

“I had actually forgotten that you changed your name,” Imala admitted, looking down at him. “But then, I’m getting old. I must be slipping.”

“You? Like hell! I’ll tell you what the problem is, oh Lady Trainer.” He stretched again and grinned his feral grin. “Imala’s in luuuv,” he purred.

“Now you’re being rude,” she said, picking her way to the door. “Ron, do me a favor and never send me a minor again. But call me, sweetheart. You could be a fabulous spotter.”

“Ah-hah!” His cries of satisfaction continued even as she let herself out. “I told you so!” he was crowing.
Smart-ass,
she thought as she left the building.
Just like his brother.

Sister, dammit!
Sister!

12:15PM

Janna had Chris appraised at the end of the next three months. We were both impressed with the values that several pricing specialists posted. But every one of them said roughly the same thing; this was a specialty slave without a specialty. Chris had never stopped asking to train with me, although he always waited suitable intervals. He occasionally asked when his projected sale might be. Janna and I gave the matter some thought, and then I pulled rank. If Chris needed a special skill, I would provide what would become a perfect role for him to take on. I sent him to my brother trainer in England, Dalton.

Dalton, the perfectionist. Dalton, the disciplinarian.

Dalton, the butler.

* * * *

So why keep Chris at arm’s length? I was only doing what we have always done; I kept a goal slightly beyond a client’s reach. Oh, yes, it was an object lesson in and of itself. But it was also showing me what Chris was really made of. Every time I passed him on to someone else, I learned new things. Every report that got back to me taught me things that I might have missed in personal contact. And yes, I was very afraid that if Chris was in my hands, I would let my own plans get in the way of my client’s real potential. I had to know, for sure, whether what my instincts told me was right. In this case, I chose correctly.

Janna’s reports had been positive and wonderful. But what Dalton told me was just short of miraculous. Every month or so, I’d get his fascinating reports on what Chris had learned, and how Chris was bearing up, and as the time passed and I personally trained three clients and finished a new trainer myself, Chris was on his way back to me, certified as a butler or a majordomo. He could manage a house staff, train footmen and valets and maids, organize work details, or he could do all of the tasks related to that kind of service himself. He took to the discipline of management with the same zeal he attacked almost every other assigned task, and Dalton reported that this puppy had a firm bite and a taste for control that was a delight to watch.

Now, he was genuinely valuable. Now, I would test him myself. And thanks to Dalton’s detailed reports and Janna’s very clear instructions on what she might have done to break him, I knew exactly what it would take to test this client’s mettle.

Vicente disapproved. But he did as I said and collected Chris’s suitcases and locked them away. And showed Chris the new wardrobe that would be his—hers, dammit.

* * * *

This client
, Dalton had written,
positively thrives when put to use at the table. His marks at Kaleigh were top-notch in all areas, displaying a firm sense of responsibility mingled with a level of confidence rarely found in a young client. When appropriately dressed and addressed, Chris displays excellent behavior and instincts. I would recommend finding an owner who appreciates this particular fetish, for although Chris’s behavior does not suffer when dressed in maid’s garb, it is clear that “he” suffers from loss of sleep and depression. The apparent difficulty this client has with being attired in feminine wear should be considered a reasonable limitation requiring owner notification before sale. This is no mere paraphilia, such as recreational cross-dress, but an honest example of gender identity. It is almost certain that owners may be found who will be entertained by such an individual. I believe that there is great value to be had in permitting Chris to present as male, and none whatsoever in the reverse.

* * * *

Oh yeah?
I thought.

Too bad.

* * * *

If you find yourself in a battle of wills with a slave, there are only two explanations. Either you have a bad slave, who refuses to bend to your will or break when it is sensible, or you have a bad trainer, who doesn’t realize where her place is.

After all, we have all the power. Never mind the philosophical arguments that the slaves are the power holders here. The slaves have one power only—to quit. We have everything else, including the threat of dismissal. We can make their lives rewarding and challenging or hellish and degrading. However, in order to create from a position of power, you can never find yourself in combat; it elevates the slave and lowers you. A minor scuffle, a small rebellion, these are the things which can make the whole master/slave relationship interesting. But a battle of wills should only be between equals.

Breaking starts off unfair and gets worse. But the rewards are nothing short of magnificent. A broken client touches the core of their existence and recovers with a strengthened sense of purpose. Sometimes, it turns out that the breaking shows them the way out the door. That’s a risk I take every time. But in the long run, I’d rather break them than wait for some very smart or very stupid owner to do it. It’s easier for us all if the trainer takes the heat.

I was prepared for Chris to do battle with me. I wanted Chris to come out stiff lipped and somber, showing every inch of that lovely adolescent arrogance now further molded by Dalton’s British reserve, daring me to push further. I brought in another student, Ray, and two clients, a full house, and cast Chris into Silence, the first step in ego breaking. And I gave Chris nothing but girls clothing—not especially humiliating or sexual—but girls clothing just the same.

And then I ignored this new girl in my house. Ray was given full authority to supervise her, and was instructed to deny all attempts to speak to me directly. This he was only too pleased to do; most of my students are jealous of my attention, for better or worse. I count on that. It is part of the breaking and molding. Part of the test.

I expected sullen obedience. Stiff, monosyllabic responses. I expected breakdowns, little moments of despair that were quickly hidden under smoldering, thin-stretched patience. I expected to be begged for a chance to dress and act differently, to hear from Ray that the new girl was constantly asking for a private meeting with me.

But I had left Chris with Janna for six months, and with Dalton for longer. Even considering the effect that their training had, I was unprepared for what I got.

Chris’s eyes widened, according to Vicente, but there was no sign of rebellion when the new wardrobe was revealed. Only a careful nod and an immediate change into the new costume. Chris did not ask to speak to me, did not beg for anything, only took instructions and asked the most direct and simple questions necessary.

In fact, it was over a week before I even saw more than a glimpse of my newest junior client. I was a little surprised—I had almost forgotten what Chris looked like. Frankly, I was disappointed. The features that made a handsome boy made a plain girl. And the short haircut that Dalton had apparently approved of looked just wrong.

But the way Chris slid silently to one side and waited with a lowered head for me to pass—oh, that was perfection.

I was so surprised, I didn’t even linger to find fault.

I instructed Ray to watch for signs of dissatisfaction and discomfort, and much to his annoyance, they were few. Chris was obedient to a fault, a hard worker, respectful and unobtrusive, attentive and thorough. Up early and asleep late, there were never assigned tasks that went undone, except for those designed so. And when Chris was punished for these “failures,” there was never an unattractive display of either rebellion or terror.

It would have all been very annoying had I not started to look into Chris’s state myself. Despite Ray’s claim that Chris was sleeping well every night, I knew better. Vicente passed on a comment one day, something about dark circles under Chris’s eyes, and the next time I saw the figure in the gray dress, I picked up that soft chin and took a look myself.

That was when I knew the breaking would start. You can always see it in their eyes—a certain tired hollowness, that hint of panic around the edges. Chris looked tired, yes, but also just plain worn. And although there was a spark of interest and even excitement in those eyes, deeper back there was a touch of despair. Chris was so eager, so ready for my touch, and yet fully aware that I wasn’t going to engage in any personal contact. Looking into those eyes, I saw all of that.

I walked on without saying a word, and heard my own heart beating with excitement. Surely, now we would see the cracks in the facade.

I ended up waiting another two weeks.

It doesn’t sound like much, does it? After all, I rarely take clients for less than two months, even the well-trained ones coming back for follow ups. But living under Silence is one of the hardest things for human beings to do. We are such social creatures; we need to hear other voices, and we especially need our own. Even loners will talk to pets, to plants, back to television sets. To be in a crowded house with chatty slaves and lecturing trainers—not to mention the gossiping Brazilian in the kitchen—and be forbidden to speak in anything other than the briefest of respectful answers to direct questions is just damn hard. Add that to being dressed and addressed as something you hate, being assigned to the lowest level of service when you’ve been told you can be among the highest and being denied access to the one person you’ve been enduring all this for. Then try to imagine what you would feel like. What you would do. Scream? Cry? Pick fights with someone? Quit?

Chris picked up a bad habit.

Ray told me with glee that he had taken a cane to Chris for the crime of fingernail biting. The next time I found Chris industriously at work on the laundry, I asked to see her hands. My first words to Chris Parker since she was returned to my house were, as faithfully recorded in that night’s journal entry:

You are a disgrace, missy. If you can’t be trusted to keep your hands looking presentable, you should consider another line of work.

Not the worst thing I’ve ever said to a client, but I might as well have told Chris that she had destroyed my great grandma’s heirloom china or accidentally killed my favorite pet goldfish. I got a perfect apology which I ignored, despite being very pleased at its content and delivery.

Instead, I simply told Ray what to do, and when Chris went back upstairs that night to sleep, there was a bucket and a toothbrush waiting. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned punishment to stir the pot. And frankly, the copper plumbing and walnut baseboards really appreciate a careful, patient cleansing. It wasn’t until the third night when Chris actually got into the kitchen and I finally heard a more audible crack.

My house is an old one; it has been renovated twice. During the first renovation, the owners saw fit to close off the old dumbwaiter in the kitchen and wallpaper over it. The paper neatly covered the edges of the door, but did nothing to disrupt the sound-carrying properties of the shaft.