The Secret Garden Academy Ch 02

Welcome to the Secret Garden Academy.

I feel unexpectedly calm when I wake up. Keeping calm under pressure is a valuable skill for an undercover agent, but I must admit that sleeping on a king-sized bed, draped in Egyptian cotton linens that feel like silk against my skin helps. My bed's headboard--fine leather-- bears an intricate logo proclaiming that this is The Secret Garden Hotel.

The hotel is peculiar because my room--like the other rooms I can see--is widely open toward the hall. Everyone can see me from outside. It is a dollhouse, and I am the doll. This could be the set of a reality show, with stainless-steel bars in place of the wall. But even these are elegant and chic, designed by a fashionable interior architect in revival Déco style.

Before getting abducted, I guessed that naked was the standard uniform of a sex-slave trainee, but I was wrong: the hotel provided me with classy lingerie, including a see-through nightgown, short, open in front and behind.

A curvy woman smiles at me from the five-star cell in front of mine, then stands up and stretches out of bed in her indecent attire. A few hotel servants take their time in front of her 'room' and a couple of them stop and leer at her as she is undressing. She is deliciously overweight and they seem to appreciate the spill-over of her substantial tits. She blushes, but looks incongruously pleased.

Day one at the Secret Garden Academy for the both of us, I guess.

Suddenly, I become aware that someone is coming for us. Heavy, cadenced steps approaching. Four athletic men in black denim appear. Two of them for each of us new trainees. They could be Club Med entertainers, except for an ominous black cane they wear at their hips.

I pretend to be still fast asleep, but I am peering under lowered eyelids at the burly guards in black. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty, today is your first day at our famed sex-slave academy. The Masters will be expecting you, honey."

The larger guy stands just outside my posh room as I fake waking up slowly--though I am awake and alert. His smaller companion sketches a leering smile.

"Excuse my rude colleague, Doctor," he says in a mockingly respectful tone. He says Docteur, affecting a French accent.

"Now, if you don't mind, please prepare for the Welcome Hearing. You know the dress code..."

I don't, but it is easy to guess. I slowly stand up and make a couple of Yoga moves. The Sun Salutation in thirty seconds. Useful to cool the mind. The big guy grins and echoes his smarter companion, continuing:

"...you know the dress code, Doctor. That means, naked. Now."

Nude is not the sex-slave trainee dress code because they like to order us to undress. They don't open the door. They just stand outside the cage, leering at me.

The smaller guy is leaning on the bars, a lecherous grin on his lips. The larger one reaches for his crotch and adjusts the bulge which is starting to show, in anticipation.

"You can't do that, you dirty men..." I mutter, blushing, as I slowly start raising the nightgown, under the gaze of the guards. Other men--hotel attendants attracted by the voices--are pointing and guffawing.

The blush is not entirely fake--but it is also functional to assure them I am just another run-of-the-mill abducted girl. Making the opposition underestimate you is a golden rule in my new line of business.

Their smiles broaden as I studiously fold the nightgown on the bed, bending over while I try to assess the odd couple, giving them a glimpse of my pussy. They seem to appreciate it. Sluttyself wakes up and giggles.

The big, older guy is in charge but looks dumber than his younger companion. "Very well honey... now these, please" he passes a luxurious beauty box through the bars. The words 'The Secret Garden Academy' are finely engraved on the red leather. Inside the box, collar and wrist restraints, silk stockings, and high heels. Sex-slave recommended accessories.

I quickly brush my hairy mound and slowly slide the silk stockings on, followed by the wrist restraints. Made of deerskin and completed by silver rings, they seem more like sophisticated bracelets than restrictive implements. But they are perfectly functional. Tailor-made, they fit my thin wrists perfectly and comfortably. Finally, the high heels: a pair of classic stiletto sandals to go with the black lingerie. Black suede, with red soles. They slide on smoothly, like a dream. But as I adjust the ankle straps I discover that they are made especially for us Academy trainees. We can get them on, but not off. And the small silver ring is there for a reason. Classy high-heels doubling as ankle restraints. The necessity to tie-up a sex-slave could arise any moment, you never know. I picture myself tied spread-eagle on the romantic bed, and--oblivious to the danger--Sluttyself wakes up fully. "Cool!"

"Shush, you idiot. They probably have rings and carabiners ready for our classy restraints scattered all over the place. If they realize we are spying on them they could tie us somewhere less comfortable than a bed. Would you like to have your wrists tied to these rings up there and left hanging a foot over the ground with these guys in black questioning us with the help of his lovely whip, you exhibitionst girl?"

This silences her, so I can concentrate on the guards. Satisfied by my obedience, the smaller man passes through the bars a smaller leather box, speaking in a mockingly respectful tone, "Display please, Doctor" the younger guard likes to flaunt his superior culture. He is referring to the Gorean formalism: the Display position, hands clasped behind head, body slightly arched to show off tits, knees spread, but not too much. A position I have learned to maintain perfectly, as part of the Gorean Slave Poses I have studied in preparation for this mission. I keep the position even under the leering gaze of a small audience of men who materialized just outside the cage, sniggering ribald comments and laughing. The big guy - the dumb one - slowly reaches for the key, and finally opens the cage door, addressing his companion in a loud and authoritarian tone.

"Lad, handcuff the grand dame!"

The smaller guy, Lad, is looking at me with interest. He approaches, observing my small tits. Then his gaze migrates to my Venus mound. But he isn't just leering. He has noticed the two identical beauty moles, one by my right breast and another just beside the perfectly trimmed triangle pointing down to my pussy. He is observant and suspicious. And he is right, of course. He has spotted the identical beauty moles. The miniaturized cameras. He reaches for my breast and touches the nipple, and I know that a dozen pictures of the two men are automatically taken and sent towards the Agency headquarters. He seizes my wrist and moves behind me. If he notices the third identical mole on my butt I'm done. I glance at the rings affixed on the ceiling in the middle of the hotel room. The restraints will be put to use well before they expect.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I need to think of something, fast. The big guard is taking his time, still leering at me, flexing his powerful biceps. A gesture I find oddly familiar. Inspiring.

"You dirty serfs of the Patriarchs..."

As I expected, the smaller guy resents being called names. But I suspect he resents even more to be associated with his ostensibly dumber companion. My provocation works. Against the rules, he can't resist answering, "Look who is talking of servitude..." he sneers, as he grabs my other wrist and snaps the bracelets shut behind my back. They can grope at me as they like now.

But I am undeterred. "There are different forms of servitude, Lad--I deliberately use the insulting term used by his companion, implying hierarchic submission--I guess you are proud of taking orders from that dumb, paunchy bastard." I sweetly tease, alluding to the big guy with a small jerk of my erect nipples--as I can't use my hands tied behind my back. As I anticipated, the big man reacts.

Squinting, he grabs the thin vicious-looking cane they both carry and swishes it sharply across my exposed ass. "You haughty bitch! This is for calling me paunchy!"

The cane lashes out again. "And this is for bastard!"

I can't stifle a yelp. But I am smiling inside. They are so gullible. "And this..."

He can't complete the sentence, because the smaller guy--Lad--grabs his raised arm by the wrist. The cane falls to the ground.

"Knock it off Sarge... you know the rules... the hotel people are looking" he urgently whispers in a hushed voice.

But the big man grabs his companion's arm and twists it, red-faced and angry. For a moment, he seems determined to break the wrist as he murmurs menacingly, "Don't you dare to touch me again Lad"

The younger man grimaces, and for an instant, it looks as if the two men are about to clash, but then, with an effort, the big guy whisks his companion's arm away, breathing hard.

The moles-cameras are temporarily forgotten. He has broken a capital rule. Lad's reaction confirms my suspicions: they are forbidden to touch any sex-slave trainee since we are to be 'auctioned' at the end of the course. Or delivered to someone who has ordered the abduction, like in my case.

I imagine that the merchandise--top-class sex slaves--should be perfect for such a distinguished clientele, no defects allowed. And I am sure the two stinging welts on my bum are pretty visible now. Just before the Welcome Hearing--whatever that could mean. I smile innocently at the two abashed guards. They are in trouble now.

Faking coolness, Sarge steps closer smiling a perfect, very white smile. He is not paunchy at all, actually, just obsessed with his physique. He probably works out several hours a day in the gym, and the results are there -- pecs, abs, and all.

"I guess he also owns a sizable, efficient cock." Sluttyself intrudes.

But she is right: I would consider him for a one-night stand in a different context. Over my bare shoulders, he drapes the long red cape. As he closes it at the neck, he slips his left arm behind it, grabbing my small tits from behind. Then he slides his right hand down and finds my pussy there, rather wet. Sluttyself at work somehow. I jump. Risk is a great aphrodisiac, not only for young men. In a deep, coarse voice, he whispers in my ear:

"Aha! Look at this... I know wat you need, you arrogant cunt... an' you will get dat soon, I swear to you."

Good. He is angry: he is reverting to his native lingo. And how skilled he is! His fingers circling my clit, he leans on me so I can feel his stony erection through the fabric. I can't stop a sigh, but I try to react professionally. Keep them angry. A dangerous but effective strategy. Angry men make mistakes. "You not gon' do dat, big boy..." I answer, mocking his jargon, smiling sweetly, "nor your younger dumb companion who believes he is so smart. Isn't that so, Garçon?" Garçon means Lad in French, even more insulting to a Frenchman than the English counterpart.

The younger man opens his mouth to answer, then he just smiles back. He has an impish grin, is lean and supple and moves like a leopard. I wouldn't be surprised to see him on the cover of Glamour, and both guards could well walk the catwalk for a swimwear fashion show. It is almost a pity that I will be sending them to jail instead.

My butt stings like hell, but the stinging is almost sweet.

As the smaller man drags me - cautiously, lest I trip, ripping the silk stockings -- out of the door, a ladybug takes off from the top rose and flies toward me, landing on my shoulder, on the Red Cape. I don't dare to look at it, hoping the clever young man has not noticed the small robotic insect.

Walking toward the garden I realize that, notwithstanding my extensive training, I need to concentrate just to walk, let alone run. Escaping in stilettos would require super-heroine powers. A brilliant concept.

As we step out the garden door, I am dazzled by the sun as the cape is blown open by a whiff of fresh wind, exposing my naked body. I know what to expect: our intelligence suggested the codename 'Secret Garden' could indeed refer to a real garden in which the abducted girls are sometimes brought, to be evaluated by important prospective buyers. All the same, I am not prepared for the magnificence of the place.

The small Italian Garden is spread on the side of a verdant hill. The Dollhouse is hosted by a Barchessa, a former utility building of the Palladian Villa that can be seen at the top end of a slightly ascending graveled path passing through symmetrical, perfectly trimmed hedges. Here and there, other women nude under the Red Cape or in indecent lingerie are brought around by men in black.

My red cape opens at every step as I sashay up the central Viale toward the Villa. With my hands behind my back, I cannot keep it closed. Gently brushed by the soft mohair and titillated by the sparkling air -- or maybe excited by the ladybug risk - my nipples decide to lead the way, pointing forward. We stop. Amused, Sarge gingerly touches them, chuckling dirtily.

A very Italian bell sound reverberates in the air, but halfway towards the Villa, it morphs into elaborate string music as we approach a small classic round temple, doubling as a bandstand.

There, two gentlemen in full suits sit in wooden armchairs, deep in amiable conversation, as a Baroque all-female string quartet is playing Vivaldi.

They are wearing a Venetian gown, wide skirt, V-shaped laced bodice, red, very romantic, very appropriate. Two blond, two brunettes, their hair worn in an elaborate curly fashion. A sweet, regular face, not too young, probably in their thirties. Perfect low-key makeup. An image of pure beauty. The cellist shyly smiles at me as we approach. Her tight corset leaves her ample bosom fully exposed, her breasts slightly bouncing in synch with the fiddle, very white under the Italian sun, large pink areolas and small nipples slightly relieved. She has her legs spread -- as her instrument requires -- but the full skirts are widely open in the middle, and their naked white thigs is apparent over the dark stockings, below her well-groomed hairy mound (indeed, a true blonde) her pussy lips shining. Bottomless top cellist. Ready for use. Very appropriate to the place.

When our small party passes by one of the men tips his head back, a small very French gesture used for beckoning a waiter. Lad stops on the spot, then directs me toward him. The guards' attitude immediately switches to complete deference. I almost expect them to click heels.

We stand there waiting for the man to complete the sentence, and I take notice that he is speaking good English with a fashionable French accent. His distinguished friend - Savile Row conservative suit, monogrammed white shirt - answers in posh, truly upper-class English.

Monsieur and Milord are talking business, "At least, some serious war. Between rich countries." "Indeed my friend. High time to get our national industries into full gear. There is serious money out there."

They don't feel they should not talk like this in public. There is an aura of importance all around them, the calm authority of those who are never in need of explaining why you should obey them at once.

My heart rate increases slightly as I realize this is my first photo-opportunity for a preview of the real customers of the Academy, and their motives.

Monsieur makes another small gesture, and Lad promptly unbuckles my red cape with a slight flourish letting me just in high heels and stockings in front of the men. They scan me up and down and I flush as my nipples tighten more, fully exposed to the fresh spring air. Monsieur seems interested, but Milord shakes his head as he signals to get closer. I comply, wiggling a bit my small pointed breasts as long practiced. Usually, men can't resist. Allez allez Milord! Finally, he feels up my breasts, one at a time, activating the miniaturized interference camera hidden in the beauty mole beside my right areola. Smile for the camera!

Voilà l'entente cordiale. Click. Their smiling faces are now on their way towards the Agency's face-recognition software.

They don't know the place will be stormed by my colleagues a couple of days after I have left, not immediately, not to make obvious the connection. I really hope they will be still here, and I wonder if they will maintain their Olympic stance when the Lesbo Squad got them. I can almost picture Alice handcuffing them as Ellen slaps their precious balls. Hard.

But there is no time for self-congratulating. As Monsieur makes Lad turn my back on him, he urgently whispers "Spread legs, Docteur..." His French accent becomes more noticeable when he is worried. We are buddies now.

There I stand, legs slightly spread, my ass toward the man, he tucks his hand between my legs from behind, brushes my trimmed bush, then gently slides two fingers through my slippery lips, resting on my clit. Surprised by the sudden move I jerk, moving a small step forward, "Steady, steady, Madame!"

His tone is calm and assured, he speaks the way he would to a mare in his stable. Which is probably exactly what he considers the women here. His companion laughs softly, then says something in a low voice. At a new commend Lad makes me turn again, as the man, satisfied by the inspection, commands:

"Very well. Garçon, bring a cushion and make Madame kneel in front of me." Then explains to Milord "I am told she is very proficient at deepthroating" He actually says Garçon. Lad is nonplussed.

I try to conceal my surprise -- how on earth does he know that? Lad -- in an unusually timid voice -- answers, "Sir... I am so sorry. She has just arrived and has been summoned to the Welcome Hearing. And she is earmarked for..."

Monsieur seems disappointed, but his English companion explains, "She is Prince Orlov's bitch. You know, his obsession with vengeance..."

Prince Orlov? Vengeance?

I wonder how I came to accept this assignment -- and what exactly a famous University Professor is doing here, naked under a red cape, hands pinioned behind her back, sashaying on high heels toward sex-slave training and vengeance.

But of course, I know.