I reached into my shoulder bag, wanting to take one last look at my notes. I stopped as my fingers touched the paper. I don't need it. I know what's on there. I rubbed the folded paper with my fingertips, withdrew my hand and closed the bag.
I was sitting in the outer office of Dean Porter. The director of admissions, Mr. Bennett, had conducted me here from his office, leading me through a heavy door that he opened with a magstripe card. I'm in the student area! I exulted as the door closed and locked behind me, and Mr. Bennett led me through a maze of corridors behind it. This is where Marshall lived! And where I'll live, until I'm sold to be hanged!
I was wearing the same outfit I'd worn when I picked up the application. I decided it gave the right message — serious, not flirty. I closed my eyes and repeated the mental exercise I'd been practicing all morning, suggested by an article I'd read. I've already done the interview, I told myself. It went great. I'm remembering it now.
It seemed to help. Thoughts of Andrew, of the consequences of failure, disappeared into the background.
I jumped only slightly at the sudden buzz on the Dean's secretary's desk. The secretary was smiling at me. "You can go in now, Wynn."
I smiled at her, my heart thumping but not nearly as badly as I'd expected. I've already done it. This is just remembering. At the door I hesitated. I should probably knock. I did so, and heard a voice saying "Yes, come in."
Dean Porter, a tall, lean leopard, was rising from his desk, holding his hand out, a smile on his face. "Nice to meet you, Wynn." I shook his hand and he gestured towards a chair in front of his desk. I sat, putting my bag on the floor beside me. Again resisting the feeling of wanting to look at my notes one more time.
The leopard sat back down, leaning forward with his arms on his desk, but looking basically friendly, not at all predatory. "Well, Wynn, I've read your application, of course, and I'm very impressed with your grades. There's one question we don't ask on the application, because I like to hear it straight from the applicant. Putting you on the spot, a little. Tell me, why do you want to be a student at the Hanging Academy?"
I was ready for that one. During all my speculations on what questions I might be asked during the interview, that one seemed obvious. "I've thought about that a lot, sir. Not because I didn't know, but because so much crowds into my head when I think about it. The main thing is... a really good friend of mine said to me one time, that when I thought about my goals in life, that a goal is something I needed to find inside of me, and it should be the thing I want the most of all. I really understand that.
"It can't be something someone else picked out for you, because you can't stick with that. And I know what I want the most. I didn't find it by... sort of an elimination process, like deciding all the things I don't want to be and saying, hmm, what's left? I know it because I feel it everywhere inside me, not just in my head. It's in my heart, my fingers and toes, my..." I laughed slightly, "...my neck; what I want, what fills me up with meaning and gives me a goal to follow, is the Hanging Academy." I took a deep breath, and smiled. "I'm here in the Academy because the Academy is in me."
The Dean blinked, and smiled. "Okay, I'd say that's an answer." He looked down at a folder on his desk. "I was interested to see that you've participated in two hangings already, as a sub-assistant. At least I guess that second one must have happened by now, though it hadn't yet when you filed the application. You did go to that one, right?"
I nodded. "Yes, sir. That was for Bailey Downey. And the first was for Marshall Warren."
"How did you come to be involved in those... oh, wait." He rubbed his head as if trying to verify his memory. "Cameron. Are you related to — what was the name — Alex Cameron?"
"Andrew, sir. He's my brother." Most of the time wished I could deny a relationship, but at least here it helped me explain what had happened. "Well, my father actually bought Marshall, but in Andrew's name."
The Dean nodded. "So that hanging was at your home."
I nodded again. "Yes, sir. He did a really wonderful job. Oh, and Bailey too, of course. Bailey had so much energy! He needed all of that." I'd been concerned that dwelling too much on Marshall might put me on dangerous ground. If it seemed to the Dean as if my commitment to the Academy dated only from little more than a month ago, that could call its permanence into question. Inside, I knew that in some sense, I had been waiting to go to the Academy my entire life. I simply hadn't been conscious of it until recently. But in any case, it was better to avoid too much talk of Marshall.
Porter chuckled. "I'm sure he did. I was just recalling that six men bought him."
I nodded. "Four of them did him inside the tent, and two of them played his master and his chief slave captain, so he gave them oral sex right up on the stage while he was begging them to spare his life. Oh, I don't know if you know, he was doing the runaway slave scene."
He nodded. "I recall that, yes. And Marshall was the prince. So you've seen two different scenarios, not just the two hangings. Did you prefer one of them?"
"I wanted to wait on that until I saw more of them. Oh! That reminds me, I was going to ask. I noticed there weren't any Academy students at either hanging, just graduates like Bailey to help Marshall, and Sam to help Bailey. Do students go sometimes? It seemed like that would be such a valuable learning experience."
The Dean nodded. "On occasion, to observe, but meanwhile our students do get experience assisting with hangings in front of real audiences, at the parties. You know about the parties?"
"Yes, sir." Marshall had mentioned that one student was always hanged to death at each party, which was part of why many students didn't graduate. "I can see that's invaluable, but I thought maybe seeing the real cream of the crop in the one performance they'd trained so long for, the one that it's all about... just seeing that would be such an inspiration for all the students. And they could really be part of it! In the Runaway Slave, for example, it seemed like something was missing. There should be some other slaves to witness the runaway's hanging — that would be why the runaway's master is hanging him, so the other slaves can see it and be terrified of the consequences of a failed escape..." I stopped and grinned. "I'm sorry, I'm letting my mouth run on."
Porter waved his hand, "No, that's fine. So you're saying students could fill that role, and they'd have the experience of not just seeing a hanging show, but actually being part of it."
I nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir! And the roles they play would add to the realism at the same time, so the audience could get even more out of it. In the Prince show, a student could be... the prince's personal manservant, who is captured in the scullery with the prince, and he's dragged in along with the prince and cries as he watches his master dying. Something like that."
The Dean looked at me thoughtfully, biting the side of his lip. "I have to admit we hadn't really thought of all the advantages participation could have, beyond just witnessing the show. As I said, students do attend the shows on occasion, but... well, I can see we've got to put some thought into this."
This really has to help!
Dean Porter pulled his thoughts back to the present. "Now, your application doesn't mention it, but I assume you've had some practice of your own at hanging already."
I fought to hold my smile. This was another question I'd considered obvious, and I'd thought a long time about how I might win my way back from the disadvantage this put me at. Lying to the Dean was out of the question — he and the staff would know immediately that I'd never done it before. "No, sir."
The Dean's right eyebrow went up. "Never?"
I shook my head, managing still to hold onto my smile. "I've wanted to so much, really. But I told myself, you've got the best instructors here at the Academy. I know you can teach me techniques I could never have found on my own, and if I did it myself, I knew I'd get into some bad habits I'd have to unlearn after I got here. Like if you taught yourself to drive a car, and then a driving instructor at school started sitting with you and saw all these things you were doing that weren't safe, and told you to do things differently, but the habits were so ingrained by then that it was really hard to stop." I grinned. "I should be saying me, not you. That's actually me. Anyway, in hanging, bad habits would mean you never survive to graduation!" I fixed my eyes on his. "And I'm going to graduate." I said it with all the conviction I could muster.
He smiled at me. "All right. Now, I'd like you to do something for me. Stand up please."
I did, trying to settle my stomach which was suddenly twisting. I thought I knew what must be coming next.
"Now take off all your clothes."
I had guessed correctly. One absolute requirement of all graduates, besides unparalleled prowess at erotic hanging, was that the graduate must present a body that would arouse the witnesses at a show immediately, independently of what he was doing with it. And besides the body, he must have a complete lack of self-consciousness about showing it. I was at a disadvantage again on both counts, notwithstanding Andrew suddenly being hot for me — I had only recently made any efforts to develop my body, and equally recently gained any experience at showing myself naked to anyone.
I had worked to prepare myself mentally for this. As soon as he spoke the words, I reached up to unbutton my shirt, smiling, while telling myself, I've already done this, it went really great, he liked my body, it was fun. I'm just remembering it now. I peeled off the shirt and the undershirt, untied my shoes, undid my belt, and pulled down my pants, folding them neatly on Dean Porter's desk. I put my BVDs on top of them.
I looked down at the Dean, and smiled as I saw him nodding slightly. My confidence blossomed full-force when I heard him say, "You've been doing some working out, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir. Right now I'm working on my tummy and my butt." I tensed my stomach muscles to bring out my abdominals, then turned around and poked lightly at my left buttock with my finger. "I just got the exercise equipment recently, so I'm not where I want to be yet. And I know you've got better equipment and professional instructors, so I'm really looking forward to that."
The Dean nodded. "When we get applicants who have seen one of our hangings, they're usually concerned that they don't match up with the graduate physically. I'm not so interested in what you are now, as much as I am in where you might be able to go from here. I've got a good eye for what you might look like in three years." He gestured. "You can sit down again, Wynn. Don't get dressed yet. And keep looking ahead."
He walked around behind me, and I sat patiently, waiting, not trying to follow him. Of all the things in the interview, this was the one thing I had known for certain to expect — Marshall had demonstrated it for me.
"Now, don't react to what I'm about to do. I'm going to put my hands around your throat and squeeze, and I want you to keep your hands in your lap and resist trying to reach up."
"Yes, sir." I closed my eyes and tried to keep breathing evenly as my heart thumped.
I felt his palms gently press on either side of my neck, the tips of his fingers very lightly compressing my windpipe. I wanted not to react at all, as if this were all a matter of course. Marshall had done it from in front of me, so this was a little different, but I still felt confidence based on that earlier experience.
I was hoping I could feel the same level of excitement I had when Marshall had done it — yes! As it became harder to draw a breath, I felt the beginnings of the same floating sensation, the same... I remembered the word "exultation." It came on more quickly than it had with Marshall, as if that earlier experience had sensitized me to it. I had known to expect it this time. I couldn't breathe at all now, and felt the joy bursting from me, covering my skin, I could feel a tingling at my throat, in my head. I started getting hard... I didn't know how long it went on. Time was the least important of all my perceptions. Eventually, as before, redness started to press in from the sides of my field of vision, and I wanted to swim towards it, feel it cushion me all around like a bed of flowers...
The Dean let go suddenly, and I slumped forward slightly and gasped for air, almost automatically reaching up to my throat and steeling myself against the instinct, not sure I was supposed to do that even now. I locked my fingers around the arms of the chair, breathing deeply, starting to return to normal.
Without my having noticed his movement, I saw suddenly he was crouching in front of me, looking down between my legs. I followed the direction of his gaze, and grinned as I understood that he was seeing what he was looking for: a little drop of pre-cum at the tip of my penis — already partly erect from that brief period of being choked. It wasn't just a matter of me being able to accept being strangled. He needed to know how excited it made me.
The Dean stood, smiling, and walked back behind his desk and sat. "Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Wynn. You can get dressed now. Do you have any questions before you go?"
I reached for my undies and pulled them on, suddenly feeling an explosion of excitement welling up in me. It's over! I think I did it! I didn't forget anything, and I said everything I wanted to say! "No, sir. I just wanted to say it's been an honor meeting you and... if it's okay to say this, I hope I meet you again."
He chuckled. "Nothing wrong with saying that, Wynn. Now, you know we have many more interviews to do, and we don't notify anyone of admission until we complete the process, right?"
I finished dressing quickly, and was doing the last buttons on my shirt. "Yes, sir. Mr. Bennett said August 15?"
"Around then, yes. We do get some of the rejections out earlier than that. It's easier deciding on some of them, of course."
"Yes, sir. I'll be looking forward to hearing from you." I grinned cautiously. "I think."
He held out his hand and I shook it. "Best of luck, Wynn, no matter what."
"Thank you, sir."
"Mr. Bennett should be waiting for you in the outer office." He smiled. "He can take you on a short tour of the facilities, if you want."
Wow! "Oh, yes, sir!"
I stood transfixed in the doorway of the gym, my head turning slowly to take in the sights in front of me.
All of the boys were wearing similar uniforms, consisting of nothing more than a polo-shirt-like thing that barely covered the chest, shorts that looked like cotton and were only a little longer than full briefs, but looser at the bottom while hugging the hips. Most of the boys wore lightweight sneakers, though some were barefoot. Mr. Bennett had explained the class colors. The uniforms were white for the first year students, aqua for the second years, and for the third years a deep, beautiful blue that looked like the sky away from the sun just after sunset.
There was a class distinction in the boys' collars as well. The first and second year students wore loose, silvery metal rings around their necks, doughnut shaped except for being very thin, probably only a quarter-inch thick, that rested at the bottoms of their necks, while the third years had cloth chokers like the ones Marshall and Bailey had worn. I hadn't seen any up close enough to read them. I asked Mr. Bennett if the collars all had the boys' names on them. Mr. Bennett responded that those of the second and third year students did, while the first years' collars identified each of them only as "Slave Boy."
I nodded. I could understand the pride the boys must feel as they advanced through the various uniforms and collars.
The nearer end of the room was filled with various pieces of exercise equipment, many of them occupied by students, their skin glowing with sweat as they went through their exercise routines, chatting with each other to pass the time. At the farther end was an array of nooses with platforms underneath them, similar to the ones Marshall and Bailey had used at their hangings. That makes sense. They get used to a particular type of platform, that sinks at a certain rate. That makes it easier for them to time their breathing before they lose their footing on it and start hanging from their neck.
At present a group of first year students was gathered around the nooses, apparently a class in progress. It was evident that a young male, dressed in the same style as the students except his shirt and shorts were bright red, was the teacher for the class. If there's an emergency, the teacher is very easy to spot. The teacher himself looked barely older than the students, and I suspected he was probably a recent graduate, waiting to be sold for his own show — Marshall and Bailey had both done the same work after graduation.
I was too far away to hear what the teacher was saying, with all the nearer voices in between, but Mr. Bennett had stopped here, and I figured this was as close as any outsider would be allowed to get. I watched, rapt and wide-eyed, as one of the students, a buff, slender rat, naked, his hands cuffed behind him, mounted one of the platforms. They must always do it naked, right from the first. So they get used to doing it that way. The teacher arranged the noose around the rat's neck and started speaking to him, touching the back of the rat's head for a time as if explaining some part of the technique being demonstrated, occasionally turning to speak to the other students, probably to ask questions for them to respond to, or to explain some facet of the art. At last the teacher pulled the lever and, for the third time, I watched an Academy student hanging.
This one, not surprisingly, wasn't nearly in the class of Marshall or Bailey. As the rat kicked awkwardly, the teacher gave him some instructions, and the other students contributed comments that I couldn't quite hear. After about five minutes by my watch, the rat was already slowing, his kicking more spasmodic. I found I was rubbing my sheath as I watched. I was thrilled to see the performance, even though the rat's time didn't come close to Marshall's or Bailey's. I'll be able to do it this long by the end of my first year. At least, I guess I'd better be.
The student, though tiring, did look as though he could go a little longer, but the teacher brought the platform back up, and the rat's feet, desperately straining downward, touched the surface and took his weight once more. He began breathing in great gasps as the teacher loosened the noose, nodding his head as the teacher spoke to him, probably a critique. At length the teacher patted the rat on the arm, and unlocked his handcuffs. The rat went to retrieve his clothes and the teacher turned to another student.
Mr. Bennett spoke. "Are you ready to go, Wynn?"
I took a deep breath. "I don't ever want to leave, but I guess I'd better. I just hope I can come back."
Mr. Bennett smiled. "I hope so too, Wynn." He led me back through the corridors, a few times passing students coming the other way, in twos and threes, chatting and laughing on their way wherever they were headed. I tried to read their collars, but they went past too fast.
At last we reached the heavy door that led into the restricted area of the school. Mr. Bennett took out the magstripe card and opened the door again. I felt as if I was leaving part of myself behind when I walked out through the door. I had to come back here to live the rest of my life. I had to.
In my car at last, I felt the bubble of excitement burst out of me, like a thousand gaily colored balloons falling out of the netting in the ceiling at a big celebration. I pumped my fists over my head and let out a shout. I did it! I did it! I got through and didn't screw up!
But I won't know if it's good enough. Not for weeks.
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. I hadn't planned to make a call. I hadn't planned anything post-interview, hadn't imagined myself that far into the future of the day. I'd been completely focused on this one event.
I shouted joyfully into the phone as soon as it was answered. "Scott?"
"Wynn, hi! Are you..."
"Scott, could we go to a movie or something? Then come back to your place later? I have to unwind."
"Umm... is that good or bad? I was going to ask how the interview went."
"I think it went okay. I think, I think, I think. Anyway, I didn't mess up or spill coffee all over his suit or anything like that. It's over now, and I feel like I've got all this energy!"
Scott laughed. "The energy part sounds good. There's a matinee at the Rally 16. Want to see 'Hired Gun'? Darrell Thackerey's last role. They snuffed him during filming. One o'clock?"
"That sounds great. I'll meet you at the box office. See you in a bit."
We lay together in Scott's bed in his off-campus apartment, naked, stroking, kissing. I'd attacked him as soon as we got back from the movie, pulled his pants off and started sucking his wolf-cock. I'd held him right on the brink for nearly five minutes before he exploded in my mouth; it was a lot but I swallowed every drop. Then he'd insisted on doing me. He knew I just needed release, and brought me off in just a couple of minutes. Mm.... so nice!
I was completely relaxed. No worries about Scott's purposely absent roommate barging in. Scott brushed back a strand of my hair. "You know I'm just really glad we could have some times together. Nobody hopes you get in the Academy more than I do."
I giggled. "That does sound like you're trying to get rid of me. But I do appreciate that, I really do."
He shrugged. "Even if it wasn't for that, I'd always know you could get drafted tomorrow, say. Or your dad could decide to turn you into fur. There's never such a thing as forever. Except memories. Remembering you will be no problem."
I kissed him. "That's really sweet."
He grinned. "Ready for another go?"
I giggled and kissed him again. "You want it that much, huh?"
He rolled his eyes and grimaced. "Naw, hate it."
I reversed over him so we could kiss each other's nipples. When he was good and hard (and I was too), I rolled over on my back and raised my legs, pulling my thighs back with my hands. He coated himself and me with lube, and started to press against me. I pushed back to get him inside me, and he cooperated. I tightened my sphincter — another thing I'd been practicing at home.
Through gritted teeth, he managed to say in a tight voice, "You're getting better at that every time... AHH!"
"You're a good... ooh!... practice partner... aiee!" He'd reached down and grabbed my cock. His hand was still covered with lube, and it was so good....
I needed a good fucking, and he gave it to me, his hand keeping me just excited enough but without going over the edge; I'd been building up my endurance, too. Finally I felt him come in me, and it triggered my own come. It was every bit as good as he had promised it would be.
He lowered himself and lay on top of me, both of us spent, grinning weakly and giving each other soft kisses.
He said softly, "See, that's what I mean about memories."
I laughed and kissed him again.