The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  The slave made a low, inarticulate sound, and she felt his teeth lightly tug at the edges of the cotton. His tongue slid under the fabric and she felt its velvet brush against her tiny bud. The intense pleasure of this contact dizzied her; he must have felt her sway, for his hands reached up to cup her buttocks, which steadied her and drove her mad. Her skirt had fallen over him, covering his face, but she could feel him increasing his efforts to stroke her button of pleasure. Khadija rocked herself against him, directing his tongue to the rhythm that would release her mounting need, so tightly focused there between her legs. He obeyed her, flicking his tongue rapidly, using his teeth to increase the sensation across the restricting undergarment. She felt herself reach the apex, and with a cry of release and relief her body thrust against his face uncontrollably. She could feel the slave’s fingers digging into the flesh of her buttocks, holding her in place until her thrusts had subsided, and gently releasing her when she could once again stand upright.

  Khadija straightened her dress, and sank into one of the library’s wingback chairs. She looked under heavy eyelids at the slave, who had returned to his kneeling position, albeit with an erect cock that stirred her anew. That would be hers, as well. In good time.

  “Farouk, please kneel here,” Khadija said in Arabic, pointing to a spot in front of her. The man complied, and settled again into a kneeling position, looking both alert and patient.

  “Farouk, I am Khadija, and I believe I shall be your new Owner,” she began. “And if you are capable, you shall have an unusual assignment which is bound to be challenging and, I hope, rewarding.” Farouk’s eyes grew wider and wider as Khadija explained to him what would be expected of him.

  “I know from your records that you are capable of handling such a position,” Khadija concluded. “But tell me, honestly, Farouk, because I need to know: are you willing to be my husband yet still my slave? My family must not suspect, nor my father’s business associates, that you are not a free man. You will have a great deal of autonomy. But not in everything. Certainly not when we are alone together. Can you do this?”

  Farouk lowered his eyes in thought, and that pleased Khadija. Despite all she had learned in the last months about the Marketplace, despite the scene which had just taken place between them, she still feared she would have a slave who would blindly agree to anything she said, and ultimately ruin the whole plan. But Farouk was taking his time, clearly weighing the challenges and the opportunities. Finally, he lifted his eyes.

  “May I speak freely, ya mahdem?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “To answer your question first, yes, I am willing to be your husband and your slave. But I cannot simply answer you without providing you with my own reasons. To begin, ya mahdem, I am intrigued by this position. It challenges me in a way that, to be truthful, I haven’t felt challenged in a long time. Business management is interesting, and I have pleased my previous masters with my skill, but in my last few years I began to wonder if there were other ways I could serve that would feel more... fulfilling.” His soft, slurring North African accent warmed the room, and sent a delicious shiver through her spine. Oh, she would enjoy listening to this voice in her bed. She wanted to have his voice wash over her again.

  “Fulfilling? I wish to know exactly what you mean,” she requested, unable to keep a seductive lilt from her voice. Farouk’s cock jumped slightly, in response to her tone, but his voice revealed no distraction.

  “Yes, ya mahdem. I was remembering my days as a butler, and even before that, when I was serving young William while he was in school. The drive to anticipate his whims, to please him before his friends, even the... punishments when I was not successful. I became aware that my nature is to be pleased by simple service, to be excited in the pleasure of my employers, my masters, and now, my owners. Those elements of service are not as... prevalent in business settings. I believe I was beginning to miss them. I began to think about returning to a more personal form of service.”

  “I see,” Khadija breathed, delighted to discover this about her new purchase. “Well, as you may have already guessed, I will expect a great deal of personal service from you, Farouk. But I shall not make use of your lovely and attentive adornment until we are married,” she said, gesturing at the slave’s erect cock. “That would not be proper. However, I cannot just bring you home and announce to my family that I am to marry a perfect stranger none of them have met. Especially after my uncle has been working so hard to find me a husband. We must be properly introduced. And I am calling upon your talents to suggest a way for that to happen.”

  “Yes, ya mahdem. As you explained the problem, I considered a possible solution.” And when Farouk explained to her his idea, Khadija smiled broadly. This indeed, was a resourceful slave to own. And a man to marry. She called for Ken and the papers and signed them joyfully.

  * * * *

  “Oh, praise Allah you are home, Khadija,” her uncle said over the phone. “I have the most wonderful news. I met a man today—no, don’t protest, my niece, this is not like Ali, or Samir, or Nabil, or Mohammed, or the others. This is a man who says you may remember him from business in Zürich. His name is Farouk al-Wadir. He works for Danberry & Ellis, your father’s dear colleagues in Great Britain. Do you perhaps remember now? Yes, good. Because he remembers you, my darling.”

  Khadija could barely control her laughter as her uncle rapturously described meeting Farouk at his favorite tea house (imagine! such a coincidence, a happy one, praise Allah), and lavishly praising his manners and demeanor, his dignity and all the respect he heaped upon her modest Uncle, and the obvious esteem he held Khadija in.

  “He remembers you fondly, Khadija, and he has asked me to provide him a formal introduction. So wonderful to be talking with a gentleman with such manners, true? And so I would like to bring him by this afternoon.”

  “Yes, this afternoon would be fine, Uncle,” Khadija responded, with a smile on her face. “Thank you, Uncle, for your persistence and your concern for my future.”

  “Ah, it is my pleasure, little one. And you know something,” her Uncle’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone, “I think this may be the one, insha’allah.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Fencing

  Chris poured out the last of the tea from the small pot and removed it from the table, placing it outside the door. Tetsuo and Anderson had covered a variety of topics, including his new investments in Kobe, and her recent visit to California, taking the train across the country and being utterly anonymous for almost three weeks. They did not discuss the proposal, or even the Academy. But finally, Anderson leaned forward and pulled the folder over between them and said, “Now, as to the matter at hand.”

  Chris stood away from them and coughed politely.

  “You may go,” Anderson said.

  “Please—if I may make a request,” Tetsuo said quickly. “If you do not think it inappropriate, I wish he might stay.”

  No, thought Chris. No, not that.

  “During negotiation?” Anderson laughed. “Well, it’s certainly unusual, Tetsuo, but so is everything else surrounding this.”

  “He will not be so rude as to hear things which do not concern him,” Tetsuo said with a slight smile.

  And so Chris knelt again, across the low table from Anderson, slightly at an angle so that they could both see his face. It was the first indication that Tetsuo had made acknowledging his presence. He composed his limbs comfortably and lowered his eyes to table height so that he could catch any hand signals.

  “First of all, I wish to apologize for my presumptions,”

  Tetsuo said, folding his hands politely. “I am aware that this is not what you intended, and of my great—what is the word we used at school—chutzpah—in assuming the nature of your property and your willingness to sell.”

  “As it turns out, your presumptions were more or less correct, Tetsuo, and although you’re right, I didn’t plan on this, I’m open-minded enough to take advantage of a situation t
hat might turn out in my favor. So let’s assume I’m willing to bargain.” She opened the file and withdrew the stack of contract forms and laid them to one side. “First of all, the photos in this file are not recent, and there have been changes to his body since they were taken. Did you wish an inspection?”

  “I’ve already had one,” Tetsuo said with a slight touch of glee in his voice. “And I am content.”

  “Did you.” Anderson shook her head with a laugh. “My God, Tetsuo, you are way ahead of me on this. OK, then, let’s cover the modifications—did you see the contract paragraphs on the marks? You’ve got the right to make additions, but not changes...”

  Chris struggled not to listen, not to hear. Early in his lessons in Japan, he was told about techniques to screen out other voices, background noises, how to build a fence around himself that allowed peace and yet still permitted him to be alert enough to respond to commands. Noriko had encouraged him to concentrate on the sound of ocean waves, crashing on the shore. Steady roars, pounding, long, and multi-layered. Hear the seagulls, if you can. Feel the cool water on the rocks, hear the hissing of the sand. He tried. But it conflicted with his other training, to notice everything, to see everything, to hear everything, from the loudest of cries to the stillness of a thought... A slight pause in conversation. Chris looked up and Anderson was saying, “Your shirt, please.”

  He unknotted the tie and stripped it off, following with his jacket, and then the shirt. His face seemed hot—he remembered the slaps as he moved so that they could discuss the marks on his back, the ones on his arm. “I will certainly leave this alone,” said Tetsuo, waving a hand over Chris’s right shoulder blade, “but I may wish to elaborate upon these, here, in the same fashion as they were made.”

  “More brands? You’ll enjoy branding him. I’ll give you the original, if you want it.”

  “Excellent, that would be quite satisfactory.”

  When they were finished, he dressed again, as gracefully as he could. He tried to summon up the sea again, as they turned pages.

  “You will bear the cost of private medical insurance, as outlined here—we will have to discuss local care, but that can be handled after a sale if necessary, unless you foresee difficulties—no? Then let’s skip down here, this is all boilerplate for a while...”

  Waves. Rhythmic waves, I do not need to hear this, Chris thought. He heard a gull, a harsh shriek in the air, cutting through the waves, and embraced the sound eagerly. It was finally loud enough to drown out the words. But then there was a knock at the door, as more tea was brought, and he had to serve again and resume his place even as they were discussing length of contract.

  “Five years.”

  “I never—never—sell a first time client for more than three.”

  “Ah, but this is not a first time client. How many years has he been in service to you, shall I do the sums?”

  Anderson paused. “I’ll permit four, considering his vast experience as a trainer, which should of course count for something. Four?”

  “It is an unlucky number in Japan. I prefer not to handle contracts of four years.”

  “Three then, with an automatic renewal for a year, pending mutual agreement with no contract modifications.”

  “Automatic renewal for two years, with those stipulations.”

  Chris could barely trust himself to breathe. He felt sweat at the back of his neck, and struggled to focus his eyes and build the fence again.

  Anderson leaned back. “OK, Tetsuo, let’s talk turkey. I’ll give you the three plus two, if, in exchange, I get one of your three-year students and one four-year student, in two separate years, for one year each.”

  “A four-year student? You wish to finish their training?” Tetsuo frowned, thinking, and rubbed the back of his neck. “That is...difficult.”

  “Difficult, but you’re thinking of taking away my best pupil. I want full exposure to your best students, and I want your training books with them.”

  “Ah,” Tetsuo sighed. He leaned back, nodding his head in respect. “You want us to be siblings.”

  Anderson raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it about time? Face it, Tetsuo, you will be the first Noguchi trainer to bring a gai-jin into your House. Don’t do things by half. If you’re gonna change the world, you can’t do it shyly. Let this contract be our bridge, brother and sister.”

  “And your training books?” Tetsuo asked with a wry smile.

  Anderson laughed and jerked a thumb in Chris’s direction. “I would say you’re negotiating to buy my training books, wouldn’t you?”

  Tetsuo Sakai gave her a measured look. Neither of then looked at Chris, only into each others’ eyes, taking measure. Carefully, Tetsuo nodded, and Anderson smiled thinly and picked up her negotiation again. “You can pick the students, and the time, as long as they are one year apart and they know English, written and spoken. Or, skip the students and send me one trainer of your line for two years, so that I have time to search for a replacement...”

  * * * *

  Finally, the image of crashing waves caught on again—he could see the droplets of water cascading through the air and falling down against rocks and sand. There was a steady undertone of hissing, the whistling, grinding of underwater sand, and above it all, the screech of a gull, over and over again. The sounds became louder, echoing at last, drowning out the plans to replace him, trade him, send him away, give him away, and at last he realized that the waves were not water at all, but the sound had a more steady and predictable rhythm to it. He could feel the churning of wheels, and the screeching of the gull became the scream of brakes, as the Number Seven train rushed through Jackson Heights and into Corona and Flushing, stops at numbered intersections on the steel elevated tracks above Roosevelt Avenue late at night, on a school night. Each stop shook him awake again, just as the train engines lulled him to sleep, his head resting against the sidewall, his knapsack drawn up between his legs.

  * * * *

  It had been a profitable night, almost thirty dollars shoved into his sneakers, where the johns didn’t search when they tried to rip you off, which had happened two weeks ago. He had explained the rip in his jeans pocket with a clumsy tale about getting caught in a turnstile. The bump on his head was hidden by his hair, and the worn out army cap with the frayed lining that his brother had given him before going away. It had a peace symbol drawn on it in colored magic marker, all but faded away now.

  His throat was sore. But he had the money to add to the folded collection in the ear of the old teddy bear, almost enough to leave, almost enough to get a place for one month maybe two.

  The lights of the Shea Stadium stop were bright and hurt his eyes. He blinked as the car filled up with angry, sweaty people, cursing the heat, cursing the team.

  “Fucking twats can’t even win a fucking game,” cried a boy who looked like a senior. “Man, I want my fucking money back!”

  “Twats!” snorted one of his friends, smelling strongly of beer. “Fucking pussies!”

  He pulled himself closer to the wall, avoiding their gazes. Boys like that beat up boys like him. Or worse. Besides, he was angry. The Mets were a great team. They won the World Series, and he had been there when he was nine. They could do it again. You had to have faith. He kept his eyes closed as the train pulled into the last station on the line, Main Street, and people jostled to exit or just claim seats for the ride back down Roosevelt into Manhattan. As he got up, he saw a flash of bright blue and orange on the train floor, and without thinking, bent down to pick it up.

  It was a baseball cap. It was their baseball cap, in beautiful shape, barely worn, it seemed. Had one of those older boys actually thrown it away?

  Finders, keepers. It was his now.

  It was the first thing that his father grabbed when he finally got home.

  What the hell is this thing? You went to a baseball game? On a school night? With what money? What do you mean you found it? Lying again? Where were you? Who were you with?

 
; And his mother. Why don’t you come home when you’re told? Why don’t you dress like a normal child! Why can’t you just behave? Why do you have to look like a slob?

  And his father. You’re a curse from God! Your pervert freak brother wears a dress and you go out like—like—I don’t know what and you lie and steal and why are you always hiding and what are you hiding, and I don’t believe you found this, and until you tell me the truth, you can’t have it! Why has God cursed us with two freaks as children?

  Sitting on his bed in the dark, his thoughts all dark too. His brother did not wear a dress, his brother was one of the most macho guys ever, he even went to Israel and was in the army there, at least he had a gun, there was a picture of him in a tank top and heavy green pants and boots, a gun in his arms, a cocky smile on his lips. And he didn’t steal the hat, he found it, it was his.

  He was a freak, though. He couldn’t do anything about that.

  There was one hundred and fifty dollars in the ear of the stuffed bear.

  The last thing he did before he left was take the hat from the top of the kitchen shelf where his not-very-tall father had put it.

  He got back on the Seven train sometime after two in the morning and rode it all the way into Forty-Second Street and then transferred south. It was still warm enough to sleep under the piers. He couldn’t go looking for his brother until he was sure his parents wouldn’t ambush him there. Besides—he could still earn some good money under the piers. And the new cap made him look much older, he was sure, and if he bummed a cigarette from someone, they always thought he was older... the brakes of the train screeched like a gull, echoing in the tunnel as he got up, feeling tired and frightened but out of there at last, back among people who looked at him and saw what he saw, and not what they all saw at home...

  * * * *