The Academy (7 page)

“You are not ready,” she said, with a shrug. “C’est la vie. But you were fun to play with, and so I have given you a souvenir. Perhaps you will be ready one day, and then you will call this number, and I will see you, and if you prove suitable, I shall finish the cuts. But do not dare call if you are not prepared to give me everything.”

Tears came quickly—how could I still have them to cry? And she shook her head at me.

“There is no failure with me, little girl-boy, only partial success. You have been entertaining, and so we part as so many do, mm? Without rancor, without tears. Surely, you will find other happiness, even if you never call me.”

I hated her, with every fiber of my being. I hated her for teasing me, for playing with me, for cutting my shirt and making me miss my fucking flight, but I hated her for making me leave, oh yes, that was the worst part. Stiffly, determined not to make a scene, I strode to the door. My back and thighs and ass and cunt and tits ached, and I thought,
well, at least I have that
. I picked up the card in shaking fingers and put it in my pocket. Andy was holding the door open and I was almost through it before I turned and hit my knees again, this time bowing my head all the way to the floor.

“Yes,” I heard her say. “You are welcome.”

* * * *

Andy took me to the airport in a big, shiny rent-a-car. We didn’t say much to each other. And I didn’t look at the card until I got home. It was very plain. It had a New York telephone number on it, and the initials KM. She had written on it, “When you are ready.”

I slid it into the frame of my mirror, where I see it every morning, and every time I check myself out before hitting the bars. I don’t exactly know how I feel about this readiness, what it really means, and whether I’ll ever call that number.

But I do know this: the price of freedom has never been so low.

As I knelt, trembling on the polished wooden floor, my back a tight bow, the growling words of my new master came too fast for me to even hope to follow, punctuated by sharp, staccato sounds that dripped with contempt and anger. From time to time, I felt a slight kick—against my shoulder, against my thigh, but I did not raise my head, not an inch, holding myself as still as possible, as Anderson had cautioned me to do.

Finally, the command to look up came, and I carefully brought my body up, not moving my knees, sliding my arms alongside my body as carefully as possible, even though I felt the tingles of worn and sleeping muscles all over myself. Sakai Tetsuo was a handsome but severe man, his eyes dark and narrow, his cheekbones drawn tight over an aristocratic face. He was holding a rod, and too fast to follow, it descended and smacked hard, making a loud crack that cut through the room. I couldn’t help it; I flinched as it struck, and that began the first of many, many beatings. I didn’t know what I had done, or what I had neglected to do. I wasn’t to know for days. It would be three weeks before I found out that my new master even spoke English. All I knew that day was that I was held as beneath contempt—not only because I was an American, but because I was a freak.

And yet, she had sent me there. After all the time it took for her to see me as what I was, she had sent me there.

* * * *

Chris snapped himself out of his reverie as he stood by the door to the room Tetsuo had invited him to. It was a lifetime ago, his first visit to Japan. Yet still, it seemed unnatural for him to approach this door on his feet; strange to merely tap against the pine door frame and wait to be invited in. Surely, if he dared to walk in, eyes level, Tetsuo would erupt in rage and nearly take his head off with one blow.

But he heard the invitation come, slid the door open, and entered without a trace of the tremors which threatened to rise in him like waves. Tetsuo was already seated by his table, soft lamps illuminating the one corner of the room.

There was never a need to say the empty things that were taught to slaves in the States. No “I am here, Master,” or “What may I do for you, My Lord?” Here, one is summoned, and one comes.

I need a drink
, Chris thought, settling opposite Tetsuo and forcing the memories into a corner of his mind.

“Sake?” Tetsuo offered.

“Thank you, no,” Chris said. “Just water please.”

Tetsuo nodded, and the door to the adjoining room slid open like a whisper. A tray appeared, followed by a woman in a kimono, and Chris stopped watching as she went through the ritual of closing the screen, picking up the tray, and all of the movements which you had to learn in order to bring someone something as simple as a drink. He didn’t comment on how quickly whoever was in the other room had found a cup of water for him, or arranged the tray. To notice a serving slave, as opposed to an ornamental one, was a breach of etiquette.

There was the usual exchange of courtesies; Tetsuo asked polite questions about the state of affairs in New York, and Chris inquired about Tetsuo’s school in Tokyo. They agreed that the Shimada resort was quite an excellent blending of Eastern and Western styles, and the weather was fine, and that they both regretted being so busy that they could not spare any time to cheer for their favorite baseball teams in person, although they hoped that they might find an afternoon this year to do just that. Finally, Tetsuo changed his posture in that minute way that showed he was ready to talk business.

“As to the matter at hand,” he said, “I have been most interested in this proposal of yours. I must tell you that I and my house support it wholly.”

Chris bowed his head down slightly in acknowledgment and gratitude, but did not comment. It was only natural that Tetsuo would support it. He waited for better news.

“Noguchi-sama is also in favor,” Tetsuo continued, as though this were of no singular importance. But that was the real blessing, Chris thought. As Noguchi goes, so do the great Japanese houses, trainers and spotters alike.

“That is encouraging news,” Chris said.

“But that is not why I asked to see you.” Tetsuo emptied his sake cup and put it gently down. He made a slight motion with his right hand and no slave returned to the room to refill it. It was so very subtle; so designed to make it seem that slaves just knew when to do things and when not to.

“I have some proposals of my own to present this week,” Tetsuo continued.

“This first one is for you. I have been following your progress for these few years. Your record has been exemplary; you have been of great value to the house of Elliot and Selador. Your writing style varies enough from Sensei Anderson’s that I can see where your influence has been growing in her own reports. In addition, I have found your independent style of training to be most instructive, particularly considering the nature of the North American clients you have trained.”

Chris picked up his cup and drank slowly. Tetsuo had never been so...
effusive
in his compliments. It was almost too much to process cleanly. Without thinking, his left hand made a gesture, and the slave returned to refill his cup. Tetsuo didn’t hide a smile, and Chris almost blushed.

“You are too kind to this poor, ignorant student,” he finally murmured in Japanese.

Tetsuo didn’t argue, as an American teacher might have, only grunted in response to the use of his language. He continued in English. “There has been one mark against your record, and that is a disappointment. However, considering your youth and the pressures of the market, I believe I understand the complete situation. Our failures often point directly at our weaknesses.”

Chris nodded.

“And if your greatest weakness is your loyalty, then you are to be commended upon choosing a remarkable fault for this age,” Tetsuo said with a slight smile. “A fault which I wish to exploit. It is time you... moved on, Parker-san. I realize that in your country, it is common for one in your position to begin a house of your own. I propose something different. An alliance, and a business proposition. Between my house, and the house of Sensei Anderson. Between myself, and you. Come to Japan, Parker-san. As a trainer in my house.” He signaled for more sake, and held up one finger toward Chris, who had taken a breath to speak. “I am not finished.”

Chris composed himself smoothly and waited as the sake was poured, allowing the girl to serve him some. When she was gone again, Tetsuo reached next to him on the floor and picked up a carved wooden box, which he placed on the table. As Chris stiffened in surprise, he pried the top of the box off and pushed it across the table so that Chris could see the contents. Even though there was no real reason to look, Chris did. The coil of dark metal was threaded with the stylized magnetic lock and identity cylinder that Tetsuo used on his personal slaves, and not the large orange tag that was used on trainees.

“Not only as a trainer,” Tetsuo added, settling back comfortably. “But as my personal slave. I wish to purchase you from Sensei Anderson.”

Chris reached for the sake, and drank it down like water.

e

“And then what happened?” Michael asked, when he finished giggling. The other people around him were wiping tears from their eyes and calming their own snickers.

“What could I do?” The speaker shrugged. She was a broad-faced, bright-eyed young Korean who called herself “just Kim!” “I bowed low, backed out of the room and went back later with a can of paint...” More laughter followed and she grinned.

Earlier that evening, Michael had pried himself free of the brooding spotters as soon as he could. After wandering aimlessly for almost an hour and considering turning in, he found a group of folks who were all his age and younger hanging out by the hot tubs furthest away from the ryokan. To his delight, they were almost all trainees themselves. He tossed off his clothes, cleansed himself quickly and thoroughly in the glorious outdoor area set up for it, and joined Kim and a quiet Canadian man named Benjamin, while others sat at the edge or lounged on the platform. Kim had turned out to be quite a storyteller—and very funny. Two translators knelt nearby—the Brazilian man’s bad English wasn’t quite as good as Michael’s bad Spanish sprinkled with bad Portuguese, and Kim’s French wasn’t as good as she had hoped it would be, although her English was fine, so Catherine, the Swiss woman who spoke only German, French and a little English had felt left out. Now, they all traded stories and jokes with the gentle murmuring of translation going on throughout it all.

“So what about your teacher, Michael?” Kim turned to him and he felt her toes nudge against him in the tub. “Does he make you do stupid things?”

“Don’t they all?” Michael said a bit too loudly. But beer, sake, and that incredible local rice brandy had made them all a little bold, and everyone laughed. He wanted to nudge her back—firmly—but stopped himself ruefully. He couldn’t explain that he often thought that Chris read his mind, and that speaking ill about him would almost certainly cost Michael whatever freedoms he had this week. “I want to be Ninon’s trainee,” he quickly said with a leer. Everyone laughed some more.

“So do I!” several of them said at once, and cups banged against each other in toasts to the Mistress of Pleasure. “I would train for two more years to spend one year with her!” swore Catherine, the Swiss lady.

“Three!” swore the Brazilian. “By God, three years, with beatings every week!”

“I would give myself to her as a slave,” Kim said, “and I do not like women!”

“But neither do I!” said the Brazilian, and they exploded in laughter.

Oh, this is better
, Michael thought.
This is fun! Nice people, no politics, just a little vacation, that’s all.
Talking about sex instead of business was a bonus, too.

“But the market for pleasure slaves is down,” Benjamin said soberly, killing Michael’s last thought. “At least it is in the Americas. How is it out here, Kim?”

Kim shrugged. “Better than you have, I think. Many more people here want pleasure slaves than in your country. You are so strange in America—and Canada!” she amended. “Here in Asia, people always think of slaves as property to be fucked. In America, you wanted slaves to work in fields, and were ashamed that you want to fuck them. For Marketplace slaves, it is the same! Here, we use them for pleasure, and in America, you make them do housework.”

“Aw, that’s not true!” Michael immediately protested. “We produce hundreds of pleasure slaves in the US! And they’re still popular!”

“Sure, yes,” Kim agreed. “But see how the international sales go, eh? The most pleasure slaves are trained in the East, and the most specialty slaves are now coming from the West.”

“Huh?”

“It’s true,” Benjamin agreed. “I’ve been studying sales records for the past ten years, and comparing them to the previous fifty. America and Canada are producing more slaves with cross-training than anyone else right now, and the Asian markets are supplying more pleasure slaves than ever. The Mediterranean and Middle East markets are full of pleasure slaves, too. But we North Americans are putting out specialists. Cooks and butlers and doctors and drivers and teachers, eh?”

“I wonder what that means,” Michael mused out loud.

“It means you Yankees don’t know how to have fun!” Kim teased.

“I know how to have fun!” he protested, finally giving her that nudge with his toe. She nudged him back, and they ended up splashing each other like kids, until Benjamin protested and they all settled down again.