Free The Academy by Laura Antoniou Page A

so strong and healthy and positive he was right; damn him for being handsome and fit and sexy and confident, and so, so damn wrong.
    Most of the time, Michael knew that the methods and philosophies that he was being taught by Imala Anderson and her golden boy Parker were tested by time. He saw the results, met them, studied them in files and folders, and in the flesh. And although he also saw other training methods that were excellent, he knew the value of being trained according to one tradition and then teaching it to others. He also knew, in retrospect, that the time he had spent with Geoff’s house in California was wasted. That in time, Geoff and his methods would vanish like a fad.
    But it was one thing to know something because logic and wiser people than you tell you so, and another thing to feel it in your heart. And seeing Geoff glide effortlessly through his detractors, white teeth gleaming and hand always out, was humbling. Maybe he’s right for now , Michael thought in a torrent of confusion. Maybe it really is his time. And what’s wrong with being right for the moment?
    At least no one answered him. He was getting tired of Chris sneaking up behind him and answering his thoughts. With a sigh, he got up and went back inside for his second cup of coffee. And maybe some grapefruit juice.

    * * * *

    Chris took a seat on the floor, crossing his legs comfortably. Several of the people at this invitation-only breakfast demonstration and discussion had pillows and bolsters brought for their comfort, but there were no chairs in the room. It was all for the best—the view from the floor was quite stimulating enough.
    The sinuous, dark-skinned man with intricate scarification traces on his back and legs had been holding wrapped coils of colored rope, waiting until the last guest had been made comfortable. Then, with patience and grace, he unwound the rope from the perfect coils, re-winding it around the bodies of the man and woman who had started out by standing and holding onto a ribbon-like strand of heavy-weight silk that had been thrown over one of the exposed beams overhead. It had looked disarmingly unsafe and unstable.
    That had added immeasurably to the charm of the scene.
    As the coils became more intricate, wrapping around limbs and body parts, the dark man began to link one part to another, and the two slaves used for his demonstration were slowly drawn down, one to her knees, the other onto his back. The three of them were nude—but as the rope was used, coils of red, dark blue, pale green, the bodies of the couple in bondage became clothed. Uncomfortably so—the male was bent backwards with his legs tucked up underneath him, and the female had no way to balance except on her knees and toes—but they bore it with only slight moans and a light sheen of sweat to mark their trial.
    They both screamed sex. So did the binder, whose circumcised cock was fully erect. But he paid no attention to it, other than to make sure his ropes never touched it.
    Nice touch, that.
    When he had used up the last inch of rope, the binder then moved his human packages from side to side—handling their immobilized bodies with ease as he showed them to the guests. It was cleverly done. If you wanted to, there was access to genital openings and nipples. It might require rolling them over—and in the man’s case, pushing apart his lower limbs to such an extent that he groaned—but they had neatly been both tied up and arranged for use. The binder demonstrated this with a gentle thrust of his hips in the direction of each available orifice—a cute movement that showed his arousal and control and teased the viewers. Both bondage arrangements left “handles” that could be used to lift the slaves, which the binder also demonstrated, his muscles bunching and gleaming.
    He ended his demonstration by bringing the silk ribbon down from the rafter and elegantly draping it around the two bound slaves, making them into an attractive