The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  She heard the sound of heels on concrete and caught a whiff of perfume before she saw the dame appear. “How was your nap, dear?” the redhead queried.

  “Whoever you are, I’m sure we can work this out. All you need to do is let me go and...”

  “What’s the matter?” Morgan’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Don’t you like my hospitality?”

  “Hospitality! Is that what you call it? Look Lady, I asked nicely. Don’t make me lose my temper. This is non-consensual.”

  Morgan laughed as she approached Ian. “Well, goodness knows that I wouldn’t want to do anything like that.” Morgan slapped her across the face so hard that Ian’s ears rung. She got less than an inch from Ian’s nose and whispered in a breathless sexy voice ala early Lauren Bacall, “Don’t insult my intelligence by mentioning consensuality. That’s never stopped you before—or didn’t you recognize the recipe for the mickey that was slipped in your drink? Artie told me you should be familiar with it. So then,” she lilted mockingly, “you have no idea what this is all about. Do you?”

  “Barst,” Ian spat through gritted teeth, angry at her situation—and astonished that Artie knew about her little helper. Filing that away to ponder at a later date, she glared into the startlingly green gray eyes of her captor and growled. Ian was not a bottom and was not about to be treated as such by the likes of this bitch—rotwijf, she growled to herself—or anyone else for that matter.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Morgan shaking her head. “Manners. Manners.”

  “Barst! “ Ian spat again. “I demand to be released this instant.”

  “Release? As you wish.” A knife blade immediately materialized under Ian’s chin, pricking her ever so slightly. “Ask and ye shall receive. Luke 11:9,” the woman said. She deftly began to slice the jeans off her and in the process “accidentally” cut Ian’s left thigh. “Oh, dear,” cooed Morgan as a thin line of blood started its descent toward Ian’s knee, “how clumsy of me. I should tell you that I can be a dumkopf. Oh well, it is of no consequence. These things do happen. I suppose that you should be particularly careful if you see any sharp objects in my hands. One never knows,” she said as she waved the knife over Ian’s thigh, “what may happen.” The end of her sentence was punctuated by another rapid slice. Ian felt the burning sting before she saw the knife move and sound escaped her lips before she could stop it. “This will never do,” smiled Morgan as she wiped her knife off on Ian’s face. “I think I must find another way to release you.”

  The smell of blood assaulted Ian’s nostrils. She closed her eyes as a wave of desire washed over her piqued by the smell of blood, feeling her body dance between fear and desire. Ian had been a blood whore from day one, but this little foray made it clear that, if she was not careful, her passion would betray her in front of this rotwijf.

  Well, this was certainly going to be fun. Morgan noticed Ian’s breath catch during the brief drawing of blood. Morgan continued to cut away the jeans, being particularly careful not to cut her prey anymore. In this case, it just wouldn’t do to allow the pleasure to outweigh the fear.

  “There is nothing like a virgin bottom,” Morgan teased the squirming butch. “I’ve heard about people who exclusively topped, but I’ve never believed it, really. It’s a simple matter of knowing the territory. Exclusive tops lead a rather one-dimensional life, wouldn’t you agree?” She paused, as if for a response, but Ian remained silent and struggled briefly against the bonds.

  “I have been waiting patiently for this opportunity,” Morgan continued, tapping her knife on Ian’s crotch. “‘To me belongeth vengeance and recompense’. Deuteronomy 32:35, or as they say in Sicily ‘revenge is a dish savored cold’ and vengeance shall be mine.”

  “Barst,” Ian answered, spitting a wad of saliva onto Morgan’s left cheek.

  Morgan knew she could not tolerate Ian’s breach of etiquette for even a moment. Sometimes she gave latitude to a person exploring their submission and masochism, as she had with Genevieve. But of course, it was this kuttenkop who spoiled it all.

  Morgan wiped her face, and turned her attention to Ian’s jockey shorts, poising her knife over Ian’s crotch. Most butches had one major weakness, their dildos. She noted that Ian immediately froze, not even breathing for a moment. Morgan carefully cut away Ian’s shorts, allowing her meat to spring free. “And what have we here? A Marty. I thought that they stopped making these years ago.”

  Even in her panic, Ian was impressed that Morgan recognized her cock. Italian design, produced in America, a “Marty” was the top of the line. The creme de la creme of cocks. It was comfortable yet practical, soft enough for that deep throat action yet firm enough to fuck with. None of the usual six, seven, nine and thirteen inch standard sizes. If you wanted one that was four and three-eighths long and three inches in diameter, Martino Bagnelli would design it for you. Of course being the artist that he was, he would try to convince you of what he perceived to be the appropriate size based on your height, weight, body type, and hands. Apparently Bagnelli did not quite understand the concept of packing versus fucking dicks.

  Her romp down memory lane was interrupted as Morgan’s knife touched the head of her cock. Ian began to sweat. She was really attached to this dick and could not bear the thought of losing it. There was no replacement for it, and would not be, since Bagnelli disappeared or retired, depending on which rumor you believed. Clearly, whatever she had said at the bar could not have offended this woman enough to subject her to a castration! She tried to remember the events leading up to this little scene. The concentration required to think and stay still was beginning to give her a headache.

  “It is a beautiful piece of work,” Morgan said, tapping her knife on Ian’s cockhead. “It’s a shame to ignore it, no matter who it belongs to.” She reached over and embedded the knife in the table next to the black box, then took a condom, opened it and slipped it into her mouth. She kneeled placing her hands on Ian’s legs. Leaning over she slowly moved her open mouth near the cock. Ian felt the warm moistness as the dame blew air onto her lower abdomen, her cock, and legs. Once the mouth came near her cock again, Ian pushed her legs towards Morgan hoping to shove just the head into that waiting mouth. Her efforts were rewarded by a severe burning sensation when Morgan used her thumbs to stretch open the cuts on Ian’s thighs.

  Morgan rose on her knees and nuzzled Ian’s cheek. Lowering her voice to a breathless whisper ala Marilyn Monroe, “Thus far I have only corrected your bad manners. Soon enough you will learn that I will hurt you because it gives me pleasure.” She leaned back and gazed into Ian’s eyes, “Nothing and no one can save you. Remember, you asked for this.”

  The words shook Ian to the core, making the trickles of blood on her thighs feel ice cold. How was it that a woman she did not know, whom she had not met before, could echo her words so clearly and concisely? It was not exactly a line. Ian did not believe in lines, but she had performed the exact series of moves, that chin nuzzle, the voice inflection, the heightening of the fear factor could be considered her personal trademarks. Edge players tended not to discuss their techniques. She had declined to teach a number of workshops on edgeplay for the weekend kink crowd, the sexual tourists. Her dialogue tended to change with the reactions of her prey, but these words were too familiar.

  And then her cock was deep in the mouth of the dame, being worked slowly back and forth. Ian felt the friction of teeth sliding across the shaft, and the throbbing of a tongue against the head which vibrated down the core of the dildo to her clit. All the moves she demanded from her tricks. Wel verdomme! That thought cleared Ian’s head for a moment, a small part of her brain able to still think as the cocksucking shifted in speed and intensity. This little bar pick-up was not a random encounter, but pre-planned and perfectly executed. Ian thought back on her previous expeditions. She would have noticed this dame at a bar irrespective of how she was dressed. Ian had a photographic memory when it came to faces. She had not met this woman before and had never see
n her at a contest or other leather event. But clearly, she was no tourist.

  Ian closed her eyes and tried to think of something else, but she could not escape the throbbing and sticky wetness of the blood moving down her thigh and the pulsing of her clit against her dick. She moaned as the woman swiftly buried her mouth all the way onto Ian’s cock, taking it to the back of her throat with no effort at all. Just before Ian was ready to explode, Morgan pulled away, and with a quick flick of the knife she still held in her hand, she cut the dildo harness off of Ian. Removing the Marty, she placed it on the table next to the knife, a bizarrely erotic still life.

  Morgan stayed between Ian’s thighs, her thumbs resting on the still-fresh cuts. “This is your last chance to apologize, and make amends.”

  Ian swallowed, her cunt still throbbing from the incomplete orgasm. This bizarre drugging-cum-bondage-cum-fear-and-terror-with-threat-of-electricity scene seemed to be ending. It was clear this dame had a few cups missing from her cupboard. Rather than fighting it, Ian figured it would be best to play along, until the bonds were untied. Then she could pull off the electrodes, grab her Marty, and get the fuck out of wherever she was. Later, she would have more than adequate time after her escape to revel in the joys of planning and executing an exacting retaliation. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

  “For what?”

  “For not pleasing you.” Ian hoped that the sarcasm didn’t show in her voice.

  “Oh, is that the only reason why?”

  Ian was confused. Why should I have to apologize to this rotwijf in the first fucking place? She fucking drugged me and brought me here. What the hell is this all about? If I can just figure that out, maybe I can bargain my way out of this. Ian had to maintain control at all costs. Buy her time until she could escape.

  “Well?” Morgan asked as her thumbs pressed again against cuts, watching Ian’s eyes roll back slightly.

  “Umm. I don’t know what you are talking about?”

  Morgan slowly leaned over showing Ian an impressive cleavage and whispered “Genevieve” in her ear. Ian’s jugular pulsed a little more strongly and that pungent scent of fear emanated from her armpits. “Yes, even you remember Genevieve, don’t you?”

  “All right, all right, I’m sorry played with your kut Genevieve, or whoever the fuck she was,” Ian growled. “I even admit it was the hottest scene I’ve had in a long time. But Genevieve was just a one-time thing.” And she obviously wasn’t getting what she wanted from you, rotwijf, Ian said to herself, forcing her mind away from the scent of the blood and the pleasurable pain of Morgan’s thumbs on her cuts.

  “That’s the problem with you, Ian,” Morgan responded. “You are one of those dreadfully shallow people who believes that a hot scene is the highest achievement you can reach. It’s a shame, really, there’s so much more possible. Genevieve knew it, and was working to get there—until you placed yourself like the proverbial stumbling block before her.”

  “What kind of bullshit are you talking about?” Ian snarled. “Genevieve never said she belonged to anybody, and the hungry little kut certainly didn’t stumble following me home! In fact, she was pretty near begging me to take her and keep her forever!” Ian smirked, sure now that this was a lover’s quarrel, and feeling no need to apologize for being the better top.

  Morgan slapped Ian again, following it with a caress across her cheek with her nails, enjoying the involuntary shiver it provoked in her victim. Leaning forward, Morgan purred, “Listen and listen carefully. You don’t seem to understand that you have committed a grave error. You played with the wrong girl. Not yours to do or to choose. You had the ill manners to enjoy it. In fact, you enjoyed it without thought, without doubt, without honor, and without a price.”

  “Listen, Lady, I don’t know what your problem is—”

  “My problem is you, kuttenkop.” Ian’s eyes snapped up in shock at the obscenity, but Morgan continued. “Your interference has cost me a great deal of time and potential...” Morgan stopped, realizing her anger made her say too much. She had almost said “fees.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Ian asked, seeing that the question made Morgan uneasy, and remembering part of that long-ago conversation with Genevieve. “Wait. This is about this—this—Marktplaats?”

  Morgan paused, stunned that Ian knew. Half a heartbeat later, she realized Ian didn’t know, and was just repeating something heard, no doubt, from the traumatized Genevieve. She needed to turn Ian’s mind away from that thought, and quickly.

  Moving swiftly, Morgan jerked the knife out of the table. Out of the corner of her eye, Ian saw the dame hold her Marty down, and, with horror, saw the knife descend toward it like a guillotine. Ian’s stomach dropped. “What the fuck are you doing?!” she screamed. There were times when the American curses seemed so much more... intense.

  “Language, dear, language,” Morgan said, clearing the debris from the table, but Ian continued her multilingual cursing, straining at her bonds until she grew hoarse and bruised, and finally, sobbing. Her Marty, her favorite dick, her best, irreplaceable.

  Morgan stood watching her, quietly, with a smile ala Mona Lisa until Ian finally slumped over, angry tears streaking her face, coughing herself into silence.

  “We’re back to your need to apologize to me.” Morgan didn’t even bother to look at Ian, focusing her attention on the black box, instead, knowing that Ian’s attention would be drawn there, too.

  “Okay, look, lady,” Ian said calmly, but through gritted teeth. “So I played with something that belonged to you, so what? Genevieve never said anything about an owner or mistress or lover or anything else.” But there had been someone, Ian remembered, her mind racing as Morgan fiddled with the box. Genevieve seemed to be expecting someone that night—that’s right—she asked Ian if she had been sent by someone or some place. Of course Ian had said yes, knowing it would give her access to that delicious little slice of bottom. But now she was frantically trying to remember exactly what Genevieve had said.

  Morgan set the controls. It was easy to overstimulate using electricity. The trick here was to cause pain when she wanted to, not for the convenience of the bottom. Timing was everything. She could dole out pain carefully and concisely for hours given the right circumstances. The torment would start slowly then build faster and faster until Ian would regret the day that she laid eyes on Genevieve.

  Morgan watched a drop of sweat work its way down Ian’s temple. Maintaining a soft and even tone, she said, “You can’t just waltz into someone’s life, take something that does not belong to you, and then discard it with nary a thought when you are done. People, while they enjoy objectification from time to time, are not objects.

  “It took me a long time to find Genevieve. I cultivated certain tastes in her. Certain hidden desires were disclosed. Certain tests performed. Then in one fell swoop you snatched her up at the bar, had your way with her, and without so much as a second thought discarded her. You undid in four hours what took my valuable time and effort to discover and arouse... and this was not the first time.”

  “What the hell were you testing for anyway? Cooking? Screwing? Loyalty?” Ian’s mind was racing—didn’t Genevieve say something when they first met, something about a test? “What do you mean, not the first time? Have you been stalking me?”

  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.