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The Academy
Skyhook Erotica
The Academy
One: Interview/G's story
Written by Skyhook
A last appraising, calculating look in the mirror – and not merely at her outward appearance - then she turned to the laptop on her dressing table, the glow from the screen too bright and unnaturally sharp in her candle lit bedroom.
The email filling the screen was short, simply a time and address. The font was somehow old fashioned without being contrived, stark white on a black background. She shut the email down, she knew it by heart now anyway, had read and re-read it several times over the last few days.
The window below had the original web page up, the one she'd spent so much time hunting down after hearing rumours and hints, whispered mentions in fragments of overheard conversations. It had felt silly at the time, like she was the heroine in some daft low-budget film piecing a puzzle together, the prize this mythical site. She'd still been drawn in though, even now with one hand at resting on the top of the screen ready to fold it down into electronic hibernation she had to read the words again.
“The Academy
Congratulations on finding us.
You have passed the first stage. A different future awaits you now; if you desire it enough.
We are in the reality business.
Hedonism. Desire. Fantasy… oh your fantasies; we know you dream, that you want, need, crave… oh the cravings. Allow us to presume. You've tried to find something, someone to colour in the pictures in your head. But you cannot, can you? Never right, too much emotion – or too little, your other in your little adventure maybe satisfies for a while but ultimately disappoints. Maybe not there fault, you may even blame yourself; life can not be like your beautiful fantasy, after all, how could it be?
We are here to tell you that it can be.
We are in the reality business.
We will take your fantasy and make it real. Tell us what you desire. Tell us everything you crave.
We can, and will make it happen. This is what we were formed for. Top, bottom, Domme, Dom, sub, slave, virgin, slut, pet, sadist, masochist, rapist, victim, dictator, object… we can flesh out your dream, put it here on Earth. Tell us. This is what we do.
And what do we ask in return? Not money.
We will expect you to pay your debt to us another way. And in return we will show you the world behind the world, we will show you such pleasure.”
She shut the screen down with a slam. Pretentious. And stupid. Stupid, stupid. I'm so fucking stupid. This is fucking stupid. I'm not going to do this.
**
Forty minutes later she makes a turn down a side road away from the city centre. It always makes her smile inwardly, that just a few minutes walk from the gaudy commercial neon and bustle of people you can be walking on deserted cobbled streets, tall imposing Edwardian houses on either side. Look past the railings at the front doors – brass plaques with names of Doctors, Lawyers, a mess of a scrabble hand of letters after their names. She takes a left, heading up hill now, and there is the building she is here for. The ubiquitous plaque (not brass – a colder steel this time) simply engraved with 'The Academy'.
She pauses. But the choice had been made long before.
She presses the intercom by the door, announces her name and time of appointment. The female voice – clipped, formal, businesslike but not unpleasant – tells her to enter even as the door lock starts to buzz. She is told to walk through reception, up the first flight of stairs then down the corridor. There will be a waiting room on her left, she is to take a seat – she will be called.
The house interior is even grander than the outside. Uncluttered yet grand. The ceilings notably high, the furnishings sparse but welcoming. Reception is deserted, there is no sign of intercom lady. The house is so still, her footfalls embarrassingly intrusive, to her ears at least. She climbs the stairs, the carpet runner deadening her movement, left hand sliding up the warm wood of the banister. She walks down the corridor, looking at each door until she sees a small plaque engraved with 'waiting room'. She feels like a child scared but high on the thrill of trespassing as she turns the handle and enters the room. It's deserted, simply adorned. Deep windows overlooking the street and house opposite, two long green leather sofas against two of the walls. They are high armed and button backed, she notices the patina of wear as she lowers herself into one. And waits.
The wall to her left has another door. No plaque this time, but she knows that is where she will be going next. Can a door loom? Apparently this one can. She can't shake her gaze from it. She jumps at a click – the door has unlatched, swung open maybe five degrees. Her heart is loud in her ears – she berates herself yet again for being stupid - But the room is so still and quiet, the situation so bizarre that her nerves are raw.
“Please come in”. A male voice this time. Cultured, but with a slight gruffness, '20 smokes a day' she thought instantly. She stands up, walks across the room and pushes the door open. She feels like she's entering her old headmasters office, yet this time she isn't lowering her face to hide a smirk, her face is down to prolong the moment before she has to look at him. She closes the door behind her, then has to turn to look at him.
His office is functional, his desk expansive, the only overtly extravagant touch in the room. There is a green leather high wing backed chair brooding in front of the monolithic desk – he beckons her into it with a measured sweep of his hand. She allows herself a quick calming breath, then walks across the lush carpet, lowering and arranging herself neatly into the chair. She is instantly grateful that he gives her his attention straight away; for a second she'd pictured him writing at his desk, forehead furrowed in concentration before he finally put down his pen at deigns to acknowledge her presence. Instead he smiles and gives her his full attention. He is a large man, obviously works out, but has that solidity that only comes with age. Maybe early forties, expensive suit worn casually, a touch of grey at his temples. Neat, contained.
“Would you like a drink?” He asks her. “We have tea, coffee (a pause) wine, vodka…?”
“No, thank you, I'm fine” She is slightly surprised at the strength in her voice. Let us just do this, she thinks. She feels alive, on edge, focused. Scared.
“Very well.” He smiles again, his lips a tight curving line, but there is a warmth in his eyes. “I shall tell you a little about us, and I will request that you do not speak until I finish. This is not a question and answer session, I will tell you of our club, our Academy and what we can offer you. And then I will ask you a question. The Question, if you will. Should you say 'yes', then we will give you your dreams. If you say 'no', then you can walk away. We only ask in that case that this house, that what was said remains private.”
The look on his face left her in no doubt that this would be one secret she'd keep – on promise of her life. She nodded.
“We were formed, this Academy, rather a long time ago. A different age. A crueller age perhaps, and a rather particularly English club, as it was. Our Fathers called themselves 'The Magnificent Bastards', or similar in the language of the time. They were dedicated to pleasure, to all the hedonism that their age could offer, they revelled in their notoriety and depths of debauchery. They were courted and reviled by equal measures, in the lowest and – believe me- highest of society circles. Fine, high… cruel times. All things of course, come to an end. DeSade, LeVey, the world discovered new demons. As it always will, as is natural – just as our club grew old, as flesh left desire behind. We were reduced, dwindled. Our time passed. Passed and withered, but we did not die. Families have secrets, stories and history; drive and desire can leap many generations – it slumbers but never dies.
We are reborn. We have… ah, no names… but we have a particularly singular man to thank. Genes will out. And the secrets, the fingers of influence in the old powers of Europe he rediscovered. Sins of the fathers, indeed!”
She wasn't sure she was following this high talk. Her face must have betrayed her.
“Oh, I waffle of course. Let us address today. Old Europe is no more. But the club of our forefathers is reformed, re-invented in this modern age as The Academy.
That singular man who reformed us? He is the last in line of 'The Magnificent Bastards.' And this is his offer to you.
I shall say again.
This is his offer to you.
Tell me your fantasy. Your deepest fantasy. The one you always turn to, the one you crave. Everyone has one, but I know yours burn brighter than most, or you wouldn't be here.
You've not lived it yet. You've tried, but everyone has been found wanting, they couldn't match what is in you head. Do you doubt yourself? Think you are after the unattainable?
You aren't. Tell me your fantasy right now, and I promise we will make it real. We will give you anything, everything. Above the law if needs be, we will protect you. Imagine that! Every single fantasy you've ever desired, we will make it happen, we have that power.”
She is silent. His voice is hypnotic, her brain races…
“We are in the reality business.
So this then, is the deal.
Tell me your fantasy. We will make it happen.
The only condition is, after we give you what you desire, is that you join The Academy. Imagine; as a member - every fantasy you've ever had, every craving, we can and will arrange for you.
And as a member… you will always be on call. Should another member have a fantasy that we feel we can use you in, you have to provide yourself. No matter what is asked of you. That is the deal.
So, accept the terms, tell me your fantasy… or get up now and walk out this room, and we ask you to never to talk about this house.
Tell me your fantasy."
What G told
Written by G
Photography: Echo Photography
Model: G
Rape.
Non-consent. Force.
I want it. I crave it. I desire it.
I want to be grabbed by a stranger and forced to the ground. I want to feel a hand wrapped in my hair and another around my throat. I want to hear heavy breathing, mine and his.
"Don't scream. Just do as I say. Scream and I'll kill you, understood? You fucking whore. Stupid bitch."
I want the words screamed at me, hissed at me, whispered to me. His face near my ear as the words ooze out of his mouth and into my brain and consciousness. The words, however they are said, will drift around inside my head, the volume building and building as I contemplate the threats and try to ignore the insults.
I want to fight back. I want to struggle. I want to scream for help even if I'm told not to, even if it means a punch to the gut, a slap to the face, a knife to the throat.
I will kick out. I will slap and punch. I will scratch and bite. I will twist and turn my entire body to try and get away.
I want to moan, gasp, yelp, cry out and scream. I want to beg for my life, for my safety, for my virginity. I want to plead with my rapist and ask over and over for him to not rape me, to not hurt me, to not fuck me and to let me go.
He's got to tear off my clothes. Undo my jeans and pull them off or slice them with a knife. Careless and rushed with no appreciation for the clothes or a thought to their cost. Gone, taken, ruined.
I want to match my clothes by the end.
Naked, or half-clothed, he'll enter me. Quickly, brutally, painfully and with no care or consideration for me.
He'll take me. Break me. Ruin me. Hurt me. Fuck me. Rape me.
I'm his.
Over and over, he'll thrust in and out. I'm dry. It hurts. I cry. My throat is hoarse as I try to speak through a dry mouth and throat. I'm like a desert and my cheeks are an oasis.
The only apparent moisture I have is spilling out of my eyes, over my soft cheeks, down my neck and onto my chest.
The tears excite him. He fucks me harder.
"That's it, bitch. Cry. Let me see those tears, you fucking slut."
He'll grunt. He'll groan. He'll mutter insane obscenities at me as he fucks me, in and out, over and over and over.
I want him to insult me. I want him to hurt me.
I want the pain and the humiliation.
I want to be grabbed, stripped and raped.
And then I want to be left. Left alone, a quivering, shaking, sobbing mess on the floor. I want to be ruined. I want him to cum inside me, pull out, smear his cock over me and then stand up, do up his trousers and leave. No words of goodbye and no thank you.
Just raped and abandoned.
I want that.
I want rape.
Dismissed
Written by Skyhook
As soon as she finished telling this man, this stranger, her story she felt a little silly. How odd to actually say it out loud, and in this calm office of all places.
He didn't say a word to her for what seemed like an age. Finally though he nodded his head almost imperceptibly, a small smile dancing on his lips.
“Thank you” he said, then lapsed into silence again.
'What happens now? She thought. Does he rush round the desk in a rage? Force me over his desk? She realised that wasn't what she wanted, realised how disappointed she'd feel – horrified even – if after bearing her soul like this it ended in a tawdry fuck in that office. That wasn't why she'd followed this myth, the trail of smoke and mirrors to this fabled Academy.
The silence was starting to get uncomfortable.
He broke it first, giving a small cough, covering his mouth with his fist in a bizarrely polite gesture. He got out his chair and walked around the desk to her. She couldn't help but shrink a little; this didn't seem right, it was play… not what she wanted.
With her mind racing it took her a few seconds to realise he was holding out his right hand to her, a gentlemanly gesture to help her out her seat. Confused, she rested her hand on his and stood up. As she gained her feet he indicated to the door with his left hand and slowly walked towards it, guiding her to the exit.
Now she really was confused. Had she said something wrong? Surely after all his fine talk her little fantasy hadn't offended him?
“Is… is there a problem?”
A look of surprise crossed his face, as if the question, the thought had never occurred to him.
“Why no, of course not. Again, thank you for agreeing to join our Academy. There is no contract to sign, you have told me your fantasy, and that is all we need. We are proud to have you with us”.
“Oh”. She couldn't think straight, her head was buzzing. “And my fantasy?”
“Yes?” He was holding the door open for her, a touch of impatience in his demeanour for the first time. “What of it? You are not the only one to have done your research Goldilocks. We know where you reside, we know where you go, and we know what you do. You will not know when we will come for you, or how. But rest assured, your rape will happen. It cannot be stopped now.”
When the door closed behind her, the world suddenly seemed a colder place.
G's story
Written by Skyhook
She was dropping. The adrenaline that had been coursing through her body since her appointment with the Academy was slowly draining from her system. For six days she'd been wired, nervous and focused… alive.
His words had been spoken with absolute certainty; she'd been left shaking - studying faces in crowds, always on edge waiting for a hand on her shoulder.
That sort of anticipation can't be sustained forever, and it did indeed feel like she was dropping. She was irritable, snapping at her friends and unable, or rather unwilling to tell them why. Her excitement – yes, she could admit to herself she had felt excitement – was turning to anger. She felt stupid, duped, to fall for that man's words. All those hours searching for the Academy, following the myth trail just to have a joke played on her. Look at her now, walking over Pulteney Bridge, wrapped in a bubble, her mind alternating between anger and misery. Go away world.
The world never does what you want. A white van pulled up against the kerb, slightly ahead of her causing the irritated driver in the following car to honk his horn as he was forced to swerve. She looked through the passenger window of the van to catch a glimpse of the driver, curious to see if he showed any reaction to the response his lack of parking skills had generated.
“'scuse me luv” he said though the open window “I'm trying to find Henrietta Street, but I can't even find Pulteney Bridge” he waved a crumpled sheet of paper at her, as if she'd instantly share his disgust at the inadequacy of the hand-drawn map.
She wanted to just walk on in her little bubble, but the desire to help was too strong. “You're on the bridge now” she smiled, “but you've just missed your turning, you need to go back over the bridge, back to the roundabout, take the first left, and…”
The slam in her back was as hard as it was unexpected. An arm wrapped around her waist, a hand was over her mouth, forcing a cloth into it. The side door of the van slid open and she was bundled in, the dirty, grainy floor rushing up to meet her as she was forced down. Quick hands wrapped tape over the gag in her mouth, circling her head, pulling viciously at her hair. She had no time to think, only react, she struggled and tried to worm away from the pressure holding her down but the mechanical advantage was against her, she was helpless as a stiflingly close earthy smelling hood was placed over her head. She had no power to prevent her limbs being pulled back, forced into a rough hogtie.
A strange calm came over her. Senses heightened. She could almost feel the blocks and gaps in the tread of the boot pressed between her shoulder blades, the smell of that van floor almost physical in her nostrils (and the memory of that smell would never leave her), every pitch and yaw of the van as it gained speed, the clattery roar of the diesel engine, every turn – yet she had no sense of direction, where they were taking her. She tried to slow her heartbeat, tried to breathe steadily through her nose and the cloth of the hood. 'What is this? What is happening? Is this real? Is this the Academy?' Her mind raced – 'will I get out this alive? What will they do to me? Is this the Academy? How long, will I be missed? Oh please, let me live…'
Then they talked.
“Quite fit, ain't she?” This was the driver, his voice gravely and low like a villain from Eastenders.
“It looks sooo (he mockingly extended the word) innocent, so young, I'm going to love yanking that hair” This voice was breathy, weasely. It was this man who had his foot holding her down. If she had any wit left, if this was a film she'd be laughing at the pantomime villains. But this wasn't a joke.
“I want her arse” the weasel continued, she flinched as he rubbed his hand over her hip then around to squeeze a cheek, hard. “You want her cunt? You ever shared before? It makes you want to come in five seconds flat – fucking a tight arse and feeling a cock moving in her cunt at the same time. Guess you'll have to take the mouth” This last was directed at a third captor… 'no' was all she could think, 'no, there's three of them, this can't be happening'.
“Indeed”, the third man eventually said. He sounded more cultured, more in control – and somehow that was even more chilling. “But I believe there will be enough to go around so none of us will lose out”.
She was trying not to cry inside the hood. Her jaw was aching from the gag, her limbs screaming from the tie and the pressure of the boot between her shoulder blades. The fear and constant motion of the van were making her feel sick. She just wanted away, anywhere, get me away from this and I'll promise anything.
She had no idea how long they'd been driving before the van took a slow left turn and came to a stop. The engine was switched off, but no-one spoke. And now she was crying, frantically trying to squirm away from the boot.
Weasel laughed at this. Cultured was the first to speak – “shall we, gentlemen?”
Instantly the side door of the van was slammed open, the pressure in her limbs was released as the rope was cut, but before she could react she was grabbed by the arms and lifted out the van. She nearly collapsed but there were two of them holding her up, their grip digging into her flesh. She was crying now, great wracking sobs, trying to scream for help through the gag but not enough sound would come out. They half marched half carried her forwards, she heard a metallic rattle as a door was opened and she was thrust inside. She tried to collapse, to pull back but she couldn't break their hold on her. They mastered her struggle and walk/carried her forwards again, she was turned then roughly, terrifyingly, thrown down on her back.
Instead of the head on concrete landing she pictured in the (what seemed like) hours she was in the air, her landing was cushioned. The breath was still knocked out of her in a painful rush, but before she could recover a knee dug into her stomach. The hood was ripped from her head, the tape wrenched from around her head, taking some of her hair with it, rough fingers prised the gag from her mouth. The knee was removed from her midriff, and she couldn't stop a violent coughing fit.
Slowly her eyes adjusted to the light after the hood, her vision still blurred from the tears. She was laid on a bare mattress on the floor in what looked like a lock-up garage. It was a large room with high narrow filthy windows, cold and stark. There were workbenches against the walls, tools and oily, mechanical miscellany scattered around. The ill fitting lidget door – freedom – was outlined by the sunlight from another world, another time.
And in front of her stood three men, their eyes burning into her. The van driver who had asked her for directions was on the left. The grinning man on the right she guessed was weasel. Cultured was in the middle, stood slightly closer to her. She had never felt so exposed, vulnerable and powerless.
“No, please” she whispered, looking up at them, her voice hoarse.
“Oh yes” said Cultured. He extended his right hand and showily flicked out a long knife blade. “You are fucked”.
She screamed for her life as he advanced towards her.
Photography: Echo Photography
Model: G
©Skyhook September 2009