The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  Stuart snapped a lock on that memory, hard, and adjusted his package, feeling the arousal way too much for comfort and concentration. “Marcy,” he whispered out loud. “What does Marcy like?”

  Big, hairy, strong, well-hung, and capable of fucking would be a good start. Didn’t she say she liked his friend Arcane that way? Arcane was a good six-three or -four and climbed rocks and lifted weights—the guy was huge, all over. Had he seen any slaves looking like that? Stuart ran through his neat, cataloged memory for anything else she ever said she admired in the male form. She liked them circumcised... she liked body modifications and piercings and scars... oh, yes, she didn’t like facial hair! She always teased him about his own goatee; hell, she even teased Mr. Parker about his. Good, good.

  He went back to his room, making mental lists and plans as he pondered what to wear on his hunt, and whether he’d get to actually meet Master Trainer Walther Kurgan.

  * * * *

  Walther hated bondage. No, that was not accurate. Bondage certainly served its purpose, immobilizing a strong body for those times when personal discipline wouldn’t keep even the best of slaves still. Also, there were types of bondage that were appropriate in certain settings; heavy steel or iron manacles for prisons and the dungeons so loved by fetishists.

  But to spend valuable time fussing over bondage just irritated him. Which was why he had his under-trainer and factotum Markus Schulze organize all three centerpieces of the party, and one in particular—an arrangement of three slave bodies in suspension. Markus had little use for such elaborate rope games himself, but he was obedient, exacting, and not a little proud of how well he managed such duties for his Master Trainer.

  The effect was pretty. The two women were suspended to either side of the man. He was knotted up in a package that bundled his slender body in multicolored webbing, face up, his arms behind his head and one knee bent up while the other was sticking straight out from his body, ropes like the cables on a suspension bridge supporting it. He looked almost as though he was relaxing in a hammock on a summer’s day. His female companions were also horizontal, both of them face down, each of them in a different position, limbs caught up or stretched out by some complicated bondage code, no doubt. The actual rigger was the slave he’d seen at the breakfast meeting, but Markus was making damn sure that each of the slaves was perfectly available for sexual use.

  There would be none of that “don’t touch the art” nonsense at one of Walther’s parties. Every slave, from the decorative ones locked in useful postures to those serving the drinks and canapés or delivering lubricants, oils, and sex toys—every slave at a Kurgan soirée was available for use, by anyone. His party, his rules, of course. It made it somewhat of a challenge to arrange the required number of slaves, as many owners and trainers did issue forth strange restrictions on their availability. But it also made serving at these parties a mark of distinction. “Doing Kurgan” had become a catch phrase that did not refer to actually serving him directly, but surviving one of his orgies.

  And that was for the best. He would rather have notoriety for being a demanding Master Trainer than an indiscriminate stallion, rutting his way to anything that smelled like a mare. Besides the sheer energy required for such a reputation, he was limited in his desire for the fillies rather than the colts. Better they should aspire to serve at one of his parties than dream of servicing him personally.

  Speaking of horses, three of the performing horse-slaves were present, in a little ring of their own, complete with a tiny one-person gig, an assortment of lunge leads and whips, and a cunning breeding box. Their harnesses and reins smelled of freshly cleaned leather, their bodies already slightly glowing with excited sweat. The horse fetishists would like that. Walther had wanted some of the dogs, too, but apparently they had far too many restrictions on their use. (Why one would care how a dog was fucked seemed odd; surely dogs were lower in rank than human slaves?)

  Luckily, Markus had instead arranged for three Japanese slavegirls who were supposedly trained in some form of erotic acrobatics. They would perform on a stage surrounded by low, well bolstered futons, strewn with little pillows and thick silk comforters, a veritable nest of soft surfaces the slaves could be thrown onto with ease.

  So, horses for romping, a bondage sculpture to admire and fuck while standing, and girls to throw to the floor. Ach. As usual, there was a shortage of males. He was about to call Markus over when four naked men filed into the room leashed together by their collars; ah, an assortment! One pale and shaved, one dark and muscular, a tall red-haired brute with a ring in his nose, and a small Asian man decorated with tattoos. Markus waved them over, and Walther smiled, nodding. Trust Markus to gather the masculine entertainment.

  Years before, Walther had asked him, bluntly, “Why do you stay? Is it because you love me?”

  Markus had looked surprised, edging his glasses down his nose with a slight smile. “Oh, I do, sir,” he said simply. “But not in that way. I stay because you need me.”

  And because he knew the second was true, Walther had accepted the first. Over time, Markus had proved himself quite happy with his sex and love partners outside the training house and never gave off that intense passion of unrequited adoration so common in under-trainers. Neither did he evidence the slightest interest in starting a house of his own, even though he was a much sought after trainer.

  But in addition to his service as a trainer and as his assistant, Markus was necessary to test the male slaves. Because no matter how he tried, Walther just did not have the right feelings to judge the sexual skills of men.

  It was infuriating! What was worse, it was embarrassing. Not that he was ashamed to be heterosexual—who could be ashamed of being normal? But working as he did, in the hyper-masculine world of military recruits, those who had wished to serve but could not, and those who had worn a uniform in some manner—the majority of his clients were men. Things were changing—he had a few female slaves brought in from all over the world now, although mostly from NATO countries. Still, when his spotters hunted, they most often brought in males. Proud, strong, loyal, tough, aggressive, romantic males, who needed to be pounded down to be raised up. Men who hungered for regimentation and discipline, for a structured life and orders and consequences.

  Roughly one quarter of them were inclined toward other men, or at least open to that potential. Of the rest, some were so limited as to become useful slaves only in service to women, or only in non-sexual roles. Those, he farmed out to past trainees, or to other trainers who did not mind this restriction. The remainders were men who needed to learn to pleasure other men—and Walther, the great Trainer of Trainers, was incapable of even closing his eyes and, as the old British Queen had suggested, thinking of Germany.

  He needed Markus for that, and his various trainees as they passed in and out of his house.

  His own trainer, Karl Wein, had not been interested in Walther’s preferences. When the young would-be trainer sneered at a male slave being enthusiastically buggered at Wein’s training house in Hamburg, Wein had simply grabbed him, hit him twice in the solar plexus, and then slammed him up against a wall.

  “You think you are better than a queer, eh?” the old trainer had asked as Walther coughed and tried to breathe. Walther had been a soldier, he was in peak physical condition, but Wein caught him so quickly he was almost flattened by the force of the blows. “Well, think again, junge. That fairy can take a beating that would have you mewling like a baby for your mama’s tit! You think an owner who wants a man to fuck is less of a man than you? You are nothing until I make something of you! If I want to line the queens up and have them bang your arse until you drown, I will do that, and you will take it, or you can go find another to train you.”

  Walther did leave that night. He walked around the streets, angry and confused and full of righteous passion, hating his master, hating the Marketplace, hating this term of service he’d agreed to. And then, he went back.

  Karl looked at him,
fierce white brows over fierce grey eyes, and waited.

  “I am not queer,” Walther said firmly. “I don’t want a man to touch me. But I want to be the best. I think I am worth more than... my arse. To the man who knows how to best make use of me.”

  Karl snorted and shook his head. “Oh, I will use you, bub. And you will learn manners, first.”

  And so he had! But oh, how uncomfortable some of his tests had been, and how he eventually began to feel embarrassed not because he was straight, but because the slaves would try so hard to please him, and there was just... a blank space where his ability to respond to them might have been. While that was better than his stupid, youthful hostility and posturing, it was not useful in his profession. There were so many things he could judge, from interviewing, from testing, from observation. But when it came to direct physical contact, he needed his under trainers and trainees and other clients and spotters to stand in for him.

  He looked around the room, now almost completely set for the party. He had over forty slaves for his use this evening, some who would stay in this room, others who could be leashed and led away by the partygoers. Five of the slaves present came from his own training house, the best of the past year’s clients. There were more female slaves than male, but that was all right; they tended to be more versatile, and the additions Markus had found to round out the masculine contingent were decorative as well as functional. There were stocks and special chairs and benches and beds and crosses and a huge webbing of rope for those who wanted even more of that sort of thing. There was a selection of sex toys fit for a harem of perversity, and slaves trained to give pleasure in everything from blowjobs to artistic floggings. Corrine had supplied four translators, and he hoped that would be enough, especially since they were available for use as well.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror: tight black leather trousers, high officers boots, a vest. He looked exactly like a leatherman in a gay bar would. Ahh, but it looked good on him. He grinned at his vanity; he was as grey now as Karl Wein had been years ago, but his arms and chest were strong and his stomach tight. The large room was ready; Markus was by the door, waiting for the signal, and Walther nodded. Let the debauchery begin!

  * * * *

  The woman strapped to the ingenious bondage frame was bent over and straining, prevented from arching her back by the arrangement of straps crossing her body. Behind her, another woman was poised, hand buried deep enough so her wrist wasn’t visible, a look of fierce glee on her face. Whether the slave liked being fisted was a mystery, as her head was covered with a thin leather mask, with her lips visible in the round hole at her mouth. But she was panting and making mewling sounds, just discernible over the music and background noise of the party. Another woman leaned over, cupping one of the slave’s breasts on one hand while either whispering against the leather hood. Commands? Threats? Promises?

  Despite feeling well acquainted with sex parties, Stuart found his mouth going dry and his boots stuck firmly in place as he watched. There wasn’t anything spectacular about the three women involved; it was an act he had seen and done himself. But there was a frisson of energy in the room, seeming to just emanate from the trainers and the slaves. It was as thick as a slow drifting fog, and as tangible. The days of meetings and seminars and discussions and reading and arguing seemed a thousand miles away. This was at once the frivolous and the essential side of what they did, Stuart thought, clinging to rational thought by the single thread left of his focus. We are so beyond just people into kinky sex. And we are all about the sex.

  You’re here on a mission! He heard the voice in his head and fully intended to move on, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Just a minute more. Just a few minutes of watching the trainer fill the slave’s mouth with her fingers, easing them in and out just as the woman behind her eased her hand, glistening and dripping, in and out of the slave’s cunt. They were intent, both women smiling with a feral hunger.

  Stuart couldn’t identify them, despite having studied the pictures and biographies of every trainer present. Dimly, he realized of course he knew who they were, except at that moment, they were simply powerful forces of nature, steaming hot in the chilling fog of his disorientation. They glowed with the heat signature of selfish lust and gratification.

  Fingers tightened on the curve of the slave girl’s breast. Was she tossing her head in agony, or pleasure, or was she nodding to something the women were saying to her, demanding of her? Was she merely saying yes, yes, over and over, the way some slaves did when they had nothing else to say? She choked on the fingers in her mouth; Stuart could see her ribcage contract, hear the harsh cough as she struggled to breathe. He wanted to fuck that beautiful wet mouth, so hard. To bury his cock deep enough to trigger that choke, to hold her on his dick while his hands held those sweet tits...

  * * * *

  “Markus? Hierher.” Walther wondered why he bothered to issue a command to come. Markus was at his elbow before he finished the command. “Who is that boy?”

  He had watched the skinny lad make a circuit of the room when he first came in, unable to place him. Such a young boy! But clearly old enough to be here, clad in black jeans and boots and a tight black sleeveless shirt that could be latex or rubber. His arms had the kind of taut definition commonly seen in swimmers and gymnasts, and his arse was an invitation to sodomites everywhere.

  Markus took a glance and said, “He is Stuart Lundberg, apprentice to the American Marcia Teodor, from Seattle. This is his first Academy. He is trained to program computers, and he is a transsexual.”

  Walther grunted. “He will be a very pretty girl!”

  “No, no. He has already changed sex. He was once a girl.”

  “Truly?” Walther squinted and cursed the distance and his eyesight. No, he still looked like a little schoolboy, down to his tiny chin beard and wispy mustache. “Remind me...” he started to say in a low voice and Markus smoothly interrupted with the response.

  “They give hormones, testosterone, yes? And then remove the breasts. Some get surgery below, have a cock made from other skin.”

  Walther blinked and struggled not to repeat himself by asking whether this was true as well. More questions came to mind, for example, where—

  “The forearm,” Markus helpfully supplied. “Or the leg, I believe.”

  “And this one?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Shall I find out for you?”

  “No. It doesn’t matter. So, this young man is even younger than I thought.” He watched as the lad shook his head like a man awakening from a dream and chuckled at the slow movements as he tried to desperately to draw himself away from the lesbian three-way that had so captivated him. The lad kept looking back and then firmly taking more steps away, as though he was fighting an invisible leash.

  “What, do you think he is forbidden to watch? No. He is looking for someone. For something!” Walther nodded firmly. “Yes, he is hunting and cannot stop scenting distractions. Bring—”

  Markus was already moving.

  * * * *

  Managing to drag himself away from one scene did nothing but assault his senses with a dozen others. There, over in the corner, was one of Marcy’s friends, Sebastian Tucker, reclining back on what looked like an impossibly soft and sensuous couch, a slave bobbing her head up and down over his cock while behind her, a lady trainer from New York applied a cane with a delicate and precise layering of marks. In the center of the room, two men shared a male slave suspended from the ceiling, rocking him and the two women beside him in a rhythmic motion that gained an appreciative audience, some with their own servitors at hand. One man had two slaves, one behind him, one in front of him, both on their knees, while he stood, watching the bondage centerpiece bob and rock. His eyes looked glazed; Stuart could feel his own vision get slightly blurry around the edges. The room smelled of pine, salt, and the sweat of exertion; the richness of sex, all at once sweet and sharp, was powerful.

  I shouldn’t have worn the latex, Stua
rt thought, his mouth dry and trickles of sweat running down his chest and back. I need—

  Someone offered him a tiny cup of shaved ice with some blood-red flavoring poured over it. As he tossed it back, the rich sweetness of pomegranates and cherries mingled with a dangerous miasma of alcohol and went straight to his head.

  Oh get a freaking grip, he thought, shaking his head to clear it. What’s wrong with me? There is nothing here that’s new! Maybe the fact that this was a gathering of the world’s best slave trainers might have something to do with it. And some of the best slaves, his mind filled in, tugging at his duty with an insistent clarity. But it felt overwhelming, frightening. How could he just saunter in here, a nobody, a wet-behind-the-ears trainee who knew nothing, and just grab a man and drag him back for Marcy? How could he possibly judge?

  They’re all hot! He thought, spinning as his eyes scanned the room. Christ, there’s another gorgeous one!

  Oh, no. That was Michael LaGuardia, Mr. Parker’s trainee, gliding through the room looking like a fashion model in skintight leather jeans and boots and nothing else. The dark-haired man with those amazing dark-ringed blue eyes stopped at a performance of three slaves climbing and lifting each other and said something that made the people near him laugh.

  For a brief second, Stuart wondered whether Marcy would like him. True, he wasn’t a muscle-bound, hairy kind of guy, but he was so gorgeous and he did have a good-sized and quite functional cock, and Marcy would probably love taking him...

  What am I thinking? Stuart dragged himself out of yet another distracting fantasy image. Why is this so hard? Why can’t I concentrate? Oh, Christ, if Michael is here, does that mean Mr. Parker is, too? Seeing me wander around like some dazed tourist? He started to swing around, knowing it didn’t look cool and controlled at all, and almost bumped into another man.

  Luckily it was not Mr. Parker, although the faux pas was just as embarrassing. The older man put a hand out to steady him, and Stuart looked up with a slight blush. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he said.