The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  Voluntary slavery did not fit into this picture. Chris had to leave my house and leave training if he was to become at home with himself. And yet the Marketplace was now his home, at least as much as his skin was.

  When men who became women left the Marketplace, many of them were assured that there would be a place for them should they wish to return, regardless of how far they went with their change. Heck, there were so many requests for folks with breasts and penises you would think God might have forgotten one of the sexes during those hectic six days, and some of us miss it real bad.

  But how could I promise there would be a place for Chris?

  I couldn’t. Not reliably. Except that he had broken—and had begun to show me what he was really made of, the strength of will and determination that made him so damn attractive. Attractive to me.

  I had to salvage him, if not for the auction block, then for my own purposes. I’d be an idiot to let him wander away to continue thrill seeking among the amateurs. Or, more likely, lose him to Dalton, who had been so sure that there was a place for him somewhere.

  He already belongs to you, I thought wryly. He told you so; why not call him on it?

  Because I don’t own slaves, that’s why. I don’t think that trainers should own slaves, especially trainers who work alone. I don’t keep my own trainees when they do their service terms, I send them to friends and associates. To me, the relationship of owner and slave is too intimate, too unique to ruin with a spill-over into the realm of trainer and student. Plus, the minute I own a slave, I immediately set up the possibility I can own two. It’s hard enough to be a perfectionist trainer; I can’t also be a dream master too.

  I pulled Chris’s file again and read through it, turning the pages idly. All this time I had invested—and not only my own time but Janna’s and Dalton’s as well. Dalton seemed sure that he could find someone who could agent Chris into the right home; but to toss this gifted youth into an English household just might lose him to me forever. Lose his potential as something better than a single purpose slave, a curiosity.

  It might make him happy though, my conscience nagged me.

  I closed the file and opened one of my old cabinets and leafed through a folder of old contracts. And when I found the one I wanted, I put it on the desk and waited for my client to present himself.

  2:00PM

  Chris Parker finally looked right again, in a white shirt and tie, a slightly over-sized pull over wool vest and trousers that looked like he had just run an iron over them. Even his shoes were shined; well, Anderson had told him to be groomed and appropriate. His eyes were red-rimmed and his body just a little stiff—but nothing near the stiffness that he had when in a dress.

  He was also quiet and attentive, sitting in a composed posture that signaled nothing but patience and obedience. His jaw occasionally moved as she began to explain, but he never interrupted. She was blunt, as occasions like this often required. And when she finished, he nodded.

  “Thank you, Trainer,” he said softly. A low voice for a girl, Anderson thought, but a sweet voice for a boy. “Thank you for everything, you’ve been more than generous and kind to me. May I ask some questions?”

  “Please do.”

  “Do I have a choice in this? Do I have to see a doctor? What if I just kept on training and you had me appraised again, couldn’t I just be sold without all this—psychiatric—care? Mr. Dalton said that I could be sold in England... and I was offered a place at Kaleigh, I could go there, couldn’t I?” He was trying to look calm, but there was a beautiful edge of panic in his voice, just a touch of pleading.

  “We all have some choices in our lives,” Anderson said, leaning back. “But I wouldn’t continue your training, and I would advise Dalton about your situation as well.”

  He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Understand me, Chris, it isn’t because I think there’s something wrong with you. But keeping you on as a client when you haven’t finished the business of what gender you are—that would be a mistake.”

  “But—excuse me, Trainer, please forgive me for arguing with you—but I don’t have any money for this. I don’t have anything! And—and—it could take years! Ms. Cruz said it took three years for her—for her to—change.” His hands clenched each other as he forced them down into his lap.

  “As luck and fate would have it, I have a solution to both problems,” Anderson said, fingering a multi-page document in front of her. “But I have to ask you a serious question first. Do you remember what you offered me for your training?”

  “Yes ma’am. I told you that you could have my entire sale price.” There was a flicker of interest working its way past the wide-eyed panic.

  “And what did Janna tell you when you were with her?”

  “That in fact you would take a straight fee out of my first sale price and up to three sales past that, with a portion going to her, and that the rest would be held in trust for me when I left service.” Interest grew into hope, and his face seemed to open to her.

  “Well, Chris Parker, I’m going to revisit your first offer,” Anderson said. “To be frank, I have every confidence that you are born to service and will make an excellent slave—or trainer.”

  The unexpected praise pushed him back in his seat—he blinked in shock, but she didn’t let him wallow in it.

  “But, as Dalton put it, you are abysmally ignorant in matters of literature, music, and art. You are lacking in the classical education that he felt was necessary to be a fully qualified gentleman’s gentleman. And now, we have this—issue—with how much time you might need to make changes in your life that will at least allow you to present as the kind of person you see yourself as when you close your eyes.” She raised an eyebrow at him, and he nodded sadly.

  “I estimate that you should need between two and four years to do whatever the doctors we find for you tell you to do, or what you decide needs to be done. We don’t know right now exactly everything that might happen, but judging from my experience with men who become women, that seems reasonable. You also need an education. And finally, you need to be out of full-time training so that you can dedicate yourself to both of these things.” Anderson ticked them off on her fingers and then gave her client a long, measuring look. Yes, he was starting to understand.

  “Depending on what happens when Alison finds you a doctor and what he says, I intend to send you to school,” she said, watching his eyes flicker and his hands start to shake again. “I will support you while you study, and while you are under a doctor’s care. And in return—” She pushed the contract across the desk and with a flicker of her eyes, told him to pick it up. He examined it for a moment and then looked up at her in confusion.

  “A... bondsman?”

  “Debt bondage,” Anderson said with a nod. “Pretty rare these days, with so many eager volunteers who would pay for the right to be someone’s doormat. But acceptable within our guidelines.”

  “But.... Ma’am—it’s too much,” Chris whispered, putting the contract back on the desk. “I owe you so much already... I can’t ask you for all that as well—it’s too much!”

  “You didn’t ask me, I made an offer,” Anderson countered. “I think the time and money invested in you will pay off handsomely, if you apply yourself the way you have since you started training. It won’t at first—you will still need experience and some more training to be the kind of client I see you have the potential to be. But if you don’t take my offer, I run the risk of losing what I’ve already invested.”

  Chris looked at the contract for a moment, and Anderson almost grinned. Yes, Dalton had complained that Chris lacked an acquaintance with the higher arts, but he also noted that Chris wasn’t at all stupid. Find the trouble with this offer, Anderson encouraged silently. Find my trap.

  “I mean no disrespect, Trainer,” he said carefully, nervously. “But—I have learned that you do not keep slaves. If I am in debt to you and there isn’t a buyer who can afford t
o pay you for what you...invested in me—what will happen to me?”

  “Oh, I can guarantee that no one will afford you when you get out of school,” Anderson said easily. “At least, those who could afford you could also get better for the same amount of money. No, Chris, I am counting on a period of time in which you belong to me—or at least, when your labor belongs to me.” Think about it, she thought, watching as indecision swept over his face.

  “I agree,” he said softly.

  “You should take some time to think about it,” Anderson said.

  “I have no choice,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Trainer, I have nothing but what you see in me. If you think I need to do these things, I have to trust you, because... I don’t know, myself. I once told you I wanted to be the best, Trainer. I—I’ve learned that I was arrogant and rude, and that I didn’t know anything about what it might take to be anything better than—well, like you said, someone’s doormat.”

  This was a long speech for someone who was not used to talking. Anderson crossed her legs comfortably and cocked her head, encouraging him to continue.

  “If what it takes to complete my training is to serve you as a trainer, then I will,” he said simply. “For as long as you think is fair.”

  Anderson sighed. “You still believe things should be fair?’ she asked. “After all you’ve been taught?”

  “I have to,” Chris said.

  2:15PM

  The temper tantrum I threw when I found out how many people like Chris there were and realized that we had been relying on outdated or edited information from our so-called mental health professionals turned out to have a great effect on the way we did things. Janna was also a bit put out; she had accepted her doctor’s opinion without question and hadn’t done her own research and she felt that it should have been her responsibility since I put Chris’s initial interviews in her hands. But how could I criticize? Even my damn cook knew more than I did, which he didn’t fail to remind me of for years.

  It took several weeks to settle on a local professional who had experience that Alison respected, and actually get Chris into his care. Torn between wanting to get him out of my reach and not wanting to leave him alone, I finally moved Chris into the attic room that I used for overflow. Poor Ray took a little time to understand what had happened, but he had his hands full of the clients I neglected while I talked to Alison on the phone and called in favors and engaged myself in figuring out how to do what I had proposed to Chris. The flurry of preparations distracted me long enough to get used to the idea of sending him away again.

  And when the paperwork was finished and the details ironed out, I could send for my soon-to-be debt slave and present him with his new address and his new bank account, and his contract.

  “You will keep a running ledger,” I instructed him, giving him the bound book. “I am not interested in proofing it, so I rely on you to be accurate. You will also continue to keep a journal, and in addition to that, I will expect a monthly report on your progress. No less than three thousand words, please. If you anticipate new expenses or have a problem, you may call Vicente; but keep your communication with me limited to writing. While you’re at it, improve your handwriting and learn to type.”

  Chris nodded. “Yes, Trainer,” he said. He had stopped crying, settled himself into cooperation, which was nice. But also a little disconcerting.

  “Alison will prove to be one of the best friends you will ever have,” I continued. “Treat her with respect. Since she has offered to remain your mentor, I suggest you take her up on that and remain in communication with her as well. You may not indulge in any illegal drugs, and if you value my advice, you will also abstain from alcohol. Don’t take this opportunity to be a typical college student; be an exemplary one. I want you to concentrate on your therapy and your studies and anything I turn your mind to, and not to waste a single minute doing things that are self-destructive. You will not be in my house, but you are damn sure part of my household, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Trainer,” he immediately answered. And glad of it too, I thought, looking at the way he relaxed when I gave him instruction.

  We were standing together in my office, and when he looked up at me, I gave into my own impulse and touched him, running a finger along his jawline. He shivered slightly, but allowed me to turn his head, examining his face.

  “As for the rest of your life—I am not sending you out into the world to be a hustler, Mr. Parker. There will be no late night searching for easy sex, no sex for money. I’ve read your early interviews, and I disapprove of that sort of thing. No S/M play with strangers, and if you are desperate enough to feel like you need to be taken in hand, you will contact me and leave that up to my judgment. I do not want you to pursue any kind of romantic or physical relationship without my permission. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely clear, Trainer,” he said softly. A touch of shame touched his cheeks. I walked around him, and ran my finger down his spine, feeling him shake and straighten up just a little more.

  “If you want to visit your brother,” I said, feeling his body react in surprise, “don’t do it in a leather bar.”

  Oh, it was so much fun to surprise him; watch the struggles he went through, trying to figure out whether he could or should say something, ask something. Janna had mentioned this, and so did Dalton, although from his perspective, it was a flaw. No, Dalton would never want to push someone across a desk and press them down while whispering questions into their ear, making them blush and stammer as you found out how excited they were by the process.

  “How many other secrets do you think you’re hiding from me?” I asked as I pushed him down. He bent under me, alongside me, gasping; I had never been so close to him. At first, he didn’t understand what I wanted, and almost braced his arms—but as I pressed, he bent, and when his cheek hit my blotter, I plucked his glasses off his nose and put them aside as I leaned in.

  “That was not a rhetorical question, Mr. Parker.”

  “Yes, Trainer, I beg—I beg your pardon,” he gasped out. “But—I don’t know how to answer you, since—since it seems that you already know at least one, so I don’t know which other secrets you might be interested in.”

  I almost drew back to laugh. In fact, the urge was so strong, I did smile, glad that from the angle I was holding him, he couldn’t see my face. I gave him a rough shake, my hand at the back of his neck, and listened as he let go the slightest of whimpers, his legs bracing.

  “Impertinence is something you seem to have difficulty controlling,” I said, when I could count on my voice to be steady. “And I’m not interested in playing twenty questions with you today. But you will tell me everything, my...boy.” There was an appreciative shiver when I said that word, beautiful positive feedback from a slave who got off on precise wordplay. “You have a few years in which you will make me the world’s expert on Chris Parker. You’ll learn how to talk to me, how to tell me things, how to ask me things. And you will never forget how this feels, will you? To be handled like the piece of property you aspire to be. I wanted you to leave this house today absolutely sure that I will have a place for you when you get back. Do you understand where that place will be?”

  “Under—under your hand, Ma’am,” he said, and I heard the inflection that would later grow to be one of his specialties and damn if I didn’t feel like keeping him exactly where he was and doing something very un-Anderson-like.

  “Strip to the waist,” I said, barely hearing my own voice. As he obeyed me, his legs still pressed up against the desk, but his body raised only far enough to handle that task, I walked over to the glass case that held the few items in my house that could be qualified as my sex toys.

  I chose a small box, and still in an almost trance, pushed Chris back down, firmly. I moved the tray of papers out of the way so I could be close enough to do my work, and I told him, “Keep your shoulders from bunching. Keep the lines of your back supple for me. But don’t move unless
you warn me that you have to.”

  His head was turned to the right; frozen, he whispered his understanding of my instructions, and I deliberately put the box down next to his cheek. He would see each knife that I drew out, and what they looked like when I placed them back in the lid.

  It took four knives. Human skin dulls blades quickly, and a rose is an intricate design. My hands were perfectly steady, they always were when I used the knives, and I saw clearly the design on the card he sent me, the way he had shyly courted me with the rose on my umbrella. Would the doctors puzzle over this mark? Undoubtedly. But young men were expected to do stupid things, like get themselves adorned to impress young women. More important to me was the way his breathing quickened when he saw the silver edges, the way he groaned when the first cut spread open on his back, the way he sighed with every turn of the small blade as I cut another thorn into the stem. I breathed in his pain and delight until the design was complete, and stood back to watch the red trickles down his side and across the back of his throat. It had spilled onto my blotter, which did its job admirably, spreading the stain all around Chris’s face. And it had dripped a little beyond it as well. The blood would stain my desk a little. I liked that idea.

  “It’s very becoming,” I said out loud. The first words in the room since he had acknowledged his instructions.

  “Thank you, Trainer,” he whispered hoarsely.

  He thanked me again after the alcohol. And again after the ink, although by then, they were thanks mingled with tears. I bandaged the mark myself and I stepped back to watch him dress, watching him wince as the cuts crinkled when he flexed his shoulder. His own blood stained his face and his neck, there was even some in his hair.

  It had tasted sweet.

  I let him go then, knowing that he would never doubt he had a place to come back to. No matter how lonely or frustrated or angry he got, no matter how far he let himself sink into despair—he had something of me that very few in this world did. I had let him feel my passion. He was mine now, for as long as I wished. In time, I too would read him like a clock.