The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  “No!” I cried, astonished. By this time we were huddled together like schoolgirls. “What happened?”

  “Miss Madeleine sent her to a special training house, a place where they train slaves for the Marketplace,” Susan informed me. I could hear the capital letters in her voice when she mentioned the Marketplace, and shivered in fear. “When she came back she was a different person. You’ve seen!”

  “What kind of training would make someone change like that?” I wondered out loud, but before we could continue, we heard footsteps in the hall. We turned quickly and curtsied as the housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

  Looking at both of us shrewdly, she said, “Mistress Madeleine and her guest, Mr. Linden, are on their way here. Please come downstairs to welcome them.” We quickly trotted behind her, and stood in the hall, where this time I lined up with the rest of the staff.

  Mistress Madeleine was taller than I, and dark, the color of milk chocolate. She wore her hair long, and in a complicated arrangement that must take nearly an hour to prepare. I ached at the vision of brushing her hair out (a hundred strokes). She was dressed in a simple, but elegant dress, and had clearly been shopping, as witnessed by the packages being carried by the two gentlemen following her in. Since one was in uniform, I guessed he was Jefferson, making the other Mr. Linden.

  “Carl, give those to Fletcher,” she said in a light, musical voice. The butler was already stepping forward to relieve the man of the packages, and he and the chauffeur took their burdens into the parlor. Mistress Madeleine turned her attention to Miss Claudia, and at her signal we all curtsied. That was when I heard Mr. Linden gasp—well, snort, really.

  “Good heavens, Madeleine, what’s this?” Mr. Linden exploded. I knew he meant me, but I stayed in position, eyes fixed downward, hands clasped together—and my bound cock now pushing slightly against the fabric of my skirt.

  “Well, Carl, you kept complaining that I didn’t have enough available men around the place,” Mistress Madeleine answered. “I decided this would be a good compromise: another man for you without taking away from the feminine ambiance that I’ve taken such pains to create here.”

  “But, a sissy maid!” he protested. I kept my eyes down, staying in position. I can’t stand the term, but I was certainly in no position to contradict the Mistress’ companion. She made a shushing sound to him.

  “Claudia, I will want a bath before dinner. And a brief consultation with you as well—we’re going to have a party this weekend.” She turned to walk briskly up the grand staircase, indicating that the housekeeper accompany her. With a long sigh, Mr. Linden followed. I followed the other servants to the kitchen.

  “Well, you shore wuz a surprise for Mista Linden,” said Miss Charlene flicking a lock of caramel-colored hair out of her eyes. “You even made Mista Fletcher’s eyes jump, even though he knowed aboutcha aheada time. But I gotta admit, you look cute as a bug’s ear in that yooniform, ’specially with that little package y’all got under theah.” Susan giggled, and nodded in agreement. The attention of the two maids made me blush even more.

  “Thank you,” I said awkwardly, and she flashed a smile that lit her whole face.

  “Aw shucks, Francie, I really jest meant to say welcome. But I gotta go,” she said, standing up as a little bell rang on the servant’s board. “That’s Mista Linden ringing for you, and I gotta give Cook a hand finishin’ the salads.”

  I headed up the back stairs to the second floor, hesitated, then knocked at Mr. Linden’s door.

  “Come in,” he called, and I entered, with a curtsy. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting. He pointed to his boots. “Give me a hand with these,” he said, and I immediately dropped to my knees and gently removed the boots, setting them carefully by the fireplace. “So, what’s your name?” he asked me.

  “Francie, Sir.”

  “Francie, huh? Well, if that’s the way it is.” He was unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll want a bath, hot, and I’ll want you to shave me.” I went into the bathroom and started the hot water pouring into the iron claw-foot tub. As steam began to fill the room, he joined me, stark naked. He was a big man, darker than Mistress Madeleine, with an upper body that he clearly kept up with weights, and thick, stocky legs. His head was beautifully shaped, and he kept it shaved. An enormous gold earring weighed down his left earlobe, and an ampallang piercing framed the head of his thick, heavy cock. He looked at me, and sighed again, and stepped into the bath.

  “My shaving items are in the cabinet there,” he directed. “Give my head a once over. I usually have it shaved every other day.” I found the razor, shaving brush, and the cup containing the hard bar of soap. Working the soap into a lather, I covered his head with the bay-scented foam, and began to shave him carefully. It was a strangely erotic sensation, rubbing my hand over the smoothness of his head, checking for stubble.

  “Wonderful, Francie, just wonderful,” he said as I handed him a mirror to inspect the results, and I glowed at his compliment. He must have noticed, because as he dried himself he gave me another once-over.

  “Francie, take off that uniform.” I obediently stepped out of my shoes, untied the apron and unbuttoned the dress, letting it fall to the floor. I then unhooked my garter belt and slipped the stockings, still attached, off my legs. As I reached up to unpin my cap, he interrupted me.

  “Is that part of your standard uniform?” He pointed to the cock ring.

  “Yes, Sir,” I answered, embarrassed.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a maid wearing one of those before,” he said, cocking an eye at me. I blushed.

  “Miss Claudia has decided I am to wear it under my garments,” I explained.

  He threw back his head in a roar of laughter. “Claudia!” he laughed. “Oh, that sweet, wicked thing! I’ll have to thank the wench personally.” I stood silently, wondering what was going on, and feeling very naked. But he didn’t seem to be laughing at me, but at some joke I didn’t yet understand.

  “Francie, get over here and suck my dick,” Mr. Linden said, still chuckling. I dropped to my knees and opened my mouth, stretching wide to include the ends of the ampallang, as he continued to laugh quietly. The laughter changed into grunts, as I worked my tongue around the shaft of his thickening dick. I found that I could grasp one side of the barbell piercing with my teeth. He moaned with enjoyment as I tugged on it gently, then worked my mouth to the other side and did the same. I felt one meaty paw on the back of my head, keeping me in place as he thrust harder and harder down my throat, finally pulling out to shoot his orgasm onto my bare chest with the roar of a tiger.

  “You know, I think I like the cap,” he said, as I gently cleaned the come from his shaft and then from myself. “From now on, whenever I call you to this room, I want you in just the cock ring and the cap.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I answered. He laughed again, and dismissed me for the evening.

  After that, life began to settle into a routine. Every morning I would present myself to Mr. Linden, dressed as requested. I would help him dress for the day, and then straighten his room. Then I would change into my uniform and help Miss Susan or Miss Charlene with other tasks in the house. In the afternoons, I would undress again, draw a bath for Mr. Linden, and suck his cock before dinner. In the evenings, after we finished our chores, I would join Susan and Charlene in our attic room while we prepared for bed. I would brush Susan’s curls (a hundred strokes) until they shone like copper, and Charlene would beg one or the other of us to offer her our feet for a massage or pedicure. We would giggle like young school maids as we shared snippets of gossip. Nearly every night, however, our talk would eventually turn to the housekeeper.

  All of us were in awe of Miss Claudia. She was so pretty, so efficient, and so, so sexy. The maids gave me tidbits about her punishments that made me wriggle on the bed. I became obsessed with perfecting my appearance and my work, in the hopes that she would notice. At night I would fantasize that I had invited her wrath, and dreamed of that dr
eadful cane whipping through the air to bury itself in my flesh.

  As the weekend approached, we all grew busier. Miss Claudia had informed us that Mistress Madeleine was hosting a small party on Saturday night, for about twenty slave owners and friends, and that a dozen additional slaves were expected. Some would be there to help us in our duties, others for the enjoyment of the Owners. “Not that any of us are exempt from that duty, as well,” the housekeeper reminded us. “Should an Owner request your personal services, you are expected to comply immediately.” We nodded, excited, and I listened eagerly to the stories my roommates had to tell of previous parties in the house.

  Early Saturday morning, the first of the slaves began to arrive. These were mostly additional kitchen staff, which made Cook both happy and testy, so we did our best to stay out of her way unless we were absolutely needed. Two additional maids were brought in to help in the downstairs with rearranging the furniture and arranging flowers, and another joined me upstairs in the afternoon, airing out the other guest rooms and scrubbing the floors. By four o’clock the house felt crowded with slaves, and Miss Claudia was in the midst of it all with a clipboard, checking off items and sending slaves to the garden, the kitchen, the garage, anywhere they were needed. I was in awe of her control, and couldn’t reconcile the woman before me with the vision Susan and Charlene both insisted had been what the housekeeper was like before she was trained in the Marketplace.

  As we came closer to the hour of the party, I took advantage of a lull in the house to change into my evening uniform. The bell rang as I was pulling my stockings on, and I glanced quickly at the bell board. It was Mr. Linden’s room. Mr. Linden! His bath! I immediately stripped off the clothes I had so recently put on and raced downstairs, skidding to a stop before the open door. There he was, waiting. And next to him was Miss Claudia, cane in her hand.

  “Francie, Mr. Linden had expected his bath drawn nearly 30 minutes ago,” she said quietly. I nodded, and apologized without making any excuse for myself. I had learned from Miss Cruz that slaves never had an excuse for forgetting their duties. She ordered me to the bathroom, and I hurried in, starting the water splashing into the tub, then returned to the bedroom.

  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Linden,” said the housekeeper. “I’ll send her in to you as soon as I’m finished.”

  “Thank you, Claudia,” he answered formally, and strode into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The housekeeper stood before me, and took a deep breath.

  “Francie, until this moment your first week here has been quite without complaint,” she began, her words piercing my heart. “I understand that you are getting along very well with the other maids and Mr. Linden speaks highly of your services. However, Francie, there is no excuse for forgetting your primary routine, even in the midst of preparing for a party. Especially in the midst of preparing for a party where Mr. Linden is expected to appear.” I nodded, miserable that I had failed her, failed the one person I wanted to impress.

  “Francie, you are to receive six strokes for forgetting your first duty to Mr. Linden,” Miss Claudia announced formally. “You will also scrub the grand staircase tomorrow morning. The usual punishment is twelve strokes and a week’s extra chores, but Mr. Linden requested that in light of your new employment and the extra activity in the house, that I should be lenient with you.” I nodded to indicate I understood, and at her gesture, bent over, resting my hands on the bed. “Let’s make this quick, Francie, you have Mr. Linden to attend to and I am needed downstairs. I want quick responses from you.”

  “Yes, Miss Claudia,” I answered. I heard the whistle of the cane only a moment before the stinging rod struck my buttocks. The pain shot through me like lightning, but I fought my urge to cry and quickly answered, “Thank you, Miss Claudia.”

  The second came while I was still feeling the white hot of the first stroke, and a burst of flame went through me again. I gasped, and as I released my breath I remembered to thank her again. The third stroke caught me on the soft spot where the flesh of my buttocks melted into my thighs, and I nearly cried out. “Th—thank you, Miss Claudia,” I stammered, trying to gain my breath before the next stroke. It came too soon, and I was gasping again. There were spots in front of my eyes, and I felt my knees begin to tremble. “Thankyoumissclaudia,” I rushed out, taking a gulp of air just before the cane whistled through the air again. I cried out, tears spilling out of my eyes. “Thank you, Miss Claudia,” I moaned. I was sobbing as the last stroke struck my upper thighs. “Oh, Miss Claudia, thank you,” I wailed.

  I felt, rather than saw that she had put the cane down. Her touch was cool, soothing against the white hot of my buttocks. “There, there, my dear,” she murmured, handing me a crisp white handkerchief. “You don’t have time for this, and neither do I. Go to Mr. Linden, and as soon as you’re finished, I’ll need you downstairs.” I nodded, dried my eyes, handed her back her handkerchief, and scurried quickly into the bathroom to shave Mr. Linden.

  The party was a blur. I was too busy carrying trays and picking up champagne glasses to notice much. There were handsome men and women, scantily dressed pleasure slaves, with Mistress Madeleine holding several attractive people in thrall in the parlor. Every once in a while I heard the familiar roar of Mr. Linden’s laughter coming from a smoke-filled corner of the den. I was certain that I had seen a very famous movie star coming down the stairs with a man who had been linked to him for years in the press.

  On one of my trips through the servant’s corridor, carrying a load of empty champagne glasses to the kitchen, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. I glanced again into the canning pantry, and saw one of the slaves who had arrived earlier that day to help park cars. The uniform he was wearing was very old-fashioned, and emphasized his height and the span of his shoulders. He was also kissing the top of Miss Claudia’s head, and her arms were wrapped tightly around his waist.

  “Oh, Robert it’s so good to see you,” she was saying to him. I had never seen her look so happy, and I must have made some sort of noise, because she looked up and saw me. I cringed, sure that I was going to be punished, but she instead broke into a delighted laugh.

  “Francie, this is Mr. Grafton, who belongs to Ms. Pauline of Pound Ridge. I met him when we were both undergoing Marketplace training.”

  I curtsied as best as I could with the heavy tray in my hands. Robert nodded his head formally, and turned to the housekeeper with a mischievous grin.

  “I hope he’s more coordinated than I was when you first met me,” he said, and she laughed in response.

  “Francie is very good,” she replied, and I blushed at her compliment. “But as you can see, there were some things about her that reminded me of you.” The housekeeper stepped forward and pulled my dress up. Helpless because of the serving tray, I could only stand there as she displayed my semi-hard cock. “Notice the decoration?” she asked him, and Robert clapped his hands in glee.

  “You romantic thing, you,” he cried, and once again gathered the petite woman into his arms for a quick hug. “I have to return to my duties, Claudia. It’s been a pleasure to see you again.” He stepped carefully around me, and strode quickly down the corridor.

  “Return to your duties, Francie,” the housekeeper ordered, and I quickly retreated to the kitchen, thoughts rushing around in my head. Mr. Grafton trained with Miss Claudia? Was he the maid she had referred to when she first strapped on this cock ring? That huge, muscular, masculine entity? Could Marketplace training really change a person so much? It was a dreadful thought. Dreadful, I firmly told my erect cock.

  By midnight I was exhausted. My buttocks ached from the caning, my feet were sore from all the running around, and my arms ached from carrying the heavy trays of food to the buffet. When Miss Claudia dismissed me for the night, I barely had the energy to climb the stairs to the third floor, and was asleep before my roommates were even undressed.

  The next day, I pulled myself out of bed at the usual tim
e and took a tray with coffee and croissants to Mr. Linden’s room. He thanked me, and told me not to return until he called for me. When I left his room, Miss Claudia was waiting for me in the hall.

  “Don’t bother to change into uniform before starting on the stairs.” She walked with me to the grand staircase, where a bucket of hot water and a stiff brush were set on the top stair. “You know what I expect from you,” she said, and left me there. I immediately went to the task.

  I had learned how hard physical labor can numb the mind from my training with Miss Cruz. It was also a dangerous trap, inviting a slave to become lazy. I struggled against that natural tendency, watching carefully that I had reached every spot, using a smaller brush to work the dirt from the corners of the risers, crawling across each stair to check for smoothness against my knees. I was careful to rinse each stair with clean water that I replenished from the kitchen, and to rub a soft cloth over each completed stair. By the eighth stair, halfway down, I was seeing double, my mind begging me to skip the spots that didn’t look dirty, but I forced myself to be thorough. When I grew tired, I slowed down, but forced myself to be even more vigilant, bending down until the risers were nearly in front of my nose. It was almost noon when I had finally reached the last stair. As I wearily crawled across the floor with my brush, I found myself staring at a shoe. I looked up, and it was Miss Claudia before me. Beside her was Mistress Madeleine.

  I struggled to stand, but after the hours I had spent on my hands and knees, it took a few moments. My curtsy was awkward, but Mistress Madeleine didn’t seem to notice, she seemed more interested in my uniform—or rather, the lack of it.”

  Mr. Linden has requested that Francie appear to him only in this costume,” Miss Claudia explained. “I assigned him this chore to commence immediately after his morning duties with Mr. Linden.”

  “Ahh,” was Mistress Madeleine’s only comment. She stepped forward, and walked slowly around me. I felt as I would on the slave block that I had once imagined, completely exposed and vulnerable. I felt her pinch me, deliberately twisting one of the bruises left by the caning. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my body to stay still.