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Part 2: Lyon
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Chapter 7: Arrival in Lyon
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I arrive at the academy late on Saturday afternoon after an eight hour journey. The shuttle bus from Lyon’s railway station collects five of us off the train from Paris. The academy operates from an old château in the countryside about ten minutes drive from Lyon. The extensive grounds surrounding the château provide privacy, although locals are allowed to walk the through the woods and grounds, and fish in the lake.
I’m one of thirty-three students enrolled for the twelve month programme that starts on Monday morning. We all gather in the huge social room waiting for the last of us to arrive. Food and non-alcoholic drinks are provided.
“Water or coffee,” grumbles a young man I later learn is Michael. “You wouldn’t think we are in the middle of one of the largest wine producing regions of France.”
I’m not sure getting tipsy on wine would make a good first impression on our tutors. But I don’t feel inclined to get into an argument on the subject. Two school-age waitresses are topping up the food and drink as we gradually devour the contents of the buffet. It’s eight o’clock before the last of us arrive. By then I’ve had a chance to meet with at least half of the students present. Tuition will be conducted in French, which is going to be a challenge for me. My modest grade in school French isn’t likely to be adequate. Fortunately, it appears that we are an international group, and many of us speak English as a first or second language.
“I’m not sure how I’m going to manage with tuition being conducted in French,” I confess to a group of fellow students.
“I’m in the same situation,” replies Hannah, a student in her mid-twenties from Australia.
Several other students admit to similar concerns about their French language skills.
“What about you?” I ask a young woman hovering nearby who seems hesitant to join us. “Pouvez-vous parler français?”
“Oui, je parle couramment le français,” she replies with a shrug before translating her words in response to the blank look from some of the other students. “Yes, I speak fluent French. But I don’t think you need to be too worried about the tuition being conducted in French. All the tutors have experience in teaching international students, so they will be tolerant of any language difficulties at first.”
“I’m Rebecca,” I say. “You speak very good English.”
“I’m Yvonne. My parents are English but we’ve lived in France for the last eight years. I can speak English and French fluently, and a few words of German.”
“That’s a useful skill,” I reply, trying to draw her into our group. “Which dance discipline are you studying?”
“Oriental style,” replies Yvonne. “I was told that I’m the only one of this year’s intake enrolled for the style.”
“Ah! No longer. I’m a late entrant. I’m enrolled for the oriental dance programme,” I reply.
Yvonne visibly brightens at my news. Clearly she had anticipated a lonely year of solo tuition. While all the students are gathered together for meals and exercise activities, we are segregated by dance style for our dance tuition.
“What made you choose oriental style dance?” asks Hannah of both Yvonne and me. “Most of us are enrolled for modern dance or ballet.”
“I hope to perform professionally,” I reply. “I’ve had some success at amateur shows.”
“Vos sales types sont des teasers de bites,” says Michael before Yvonne can answer.
My French isn’t good enough to understand all of his words but he seems to have accused us of being slutty cock teasers. I look to Yvonne for a translation, but she’s angry at Michael.
“Et vous peux mettre ton doigt dans ton derrière,” replies Yvonne with some venom.
Again my French isn’t up to the task of a full translation, although I think Yvonne’s reply has something to do with his finger and arse.
I guide Yvonne away from the others.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah. I just get sick of having to deal with his type. They come to ogle the dancers while complaining about our morals.”
“So why have you picked to dance in this style then?” I ask.
“Like you, I hope to become good enough to perform professionally. It’s one of the few forms of dance that can be performed solo.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the academy’s staff. Mademoiselle Serena, as she likes to be called, makes a short welcome speech before handing the proceedings over to an elderly woman who will soon become the bane of our lives. Madame Brigitte is the academy’s house-mistress. Rumour soon spreads that she learned her role while working as a prison warder. Whether or not the rumour is true, the strict rules she imposes about cleanliness and behaviour soon make us feel as though we are in prison. Fortunately the tutors seem to be a much more approachable group.
We are shown to our sleeping quarters in the west wing of the château. Sixteen of our group have paid extra for private accommodation, which is provided on the Ataköy travesti second floor. For the remaining seventeen, the six-bed dormitories are located on the first floor. The five male students are assigned one dormitory, and the twelve female students are split between two rooms. Two more dormitories are left unused, although I later learn that one or both of them are occasionally used as a medical ward should there be an outbreak of infectious disease.
We don’t get given a choice of dormitory, so I feel lucky that Yvonne and I are in the same room. One of the other women asked to be moved in order to be with a friend, but her request was flatly denied. Only later do I learn that we are grouped with others taking the same specialist discipline. Yvonne was correct in what she said earlier; of the thirty-three students, only Yvonne and I have enrolled to learn oriental style dance. The other four in our dormitory are part of a larger group learning modern dancing. Those in the next dormitory are specialising in folk dance or ballet. There are four students studying ballroom dancing, but they are all in private rooms.
It has been a long day for most of us, so there are no complaints when we are all ordered to bed at ten-thirty. Lights out are at ten-forty-five, and woe-betide anyone not in bed by then. From tomorrow our daily routine is mapped out with military precision. A six-thirty wake-up alarm, followed by a run around the grounds at ten minutes to seven. Then showers and ablutions before breakfast at eight. At eight-forty-five we report to our designated tutors for lessons. Tuition continues until four in the afternoon, with short rest breaks and lunch in between. At four o’clock, we report to the gymnasium in the basement where we exercise or engage in indoor sport. Our evening meal is at six-thirty for which we must be clean and smartly dressed. Failure to pass Madame Brigitte’s inspection means a meal of bread and water in the kitchen annex. From the end of the evening meal until bedtime we have what the schedule refers to as ‘own time’. In reality its the only time we get to do our laundry and other personal chores, so there is rarely more than a third of us congregating in the social room in the evenings.
The weekend routine is less structured, although we don’t get extra time in bed in the morning. There’s no tuition, but instead we are expected to spend long periods practising our dancing and undertaking physical exercise. It’s difficult to imagine how we will all cope with such a gruelling routine for twelve months. However, if the photographs adorning the corridor walls are to be believed, then plenty of others have lasted the course before us.
Using phones, social media and computers isn’t specifically banned, but the woeful WiFi connection available to students makes it a challenge to do more than send an occasional email. I receive a lengthy message from Georgina wishing me good fortune with my lessons, but essentially confirming my own impression that our aspirations are widely different and that our once-close friendship has had its time. I send a polite reply echoing her sentiments and wishing her success with her studies at university. I feel relieved that we are at least parting as friends.
By the start of the third week I feel more settled in the academy’s routines. At weekends the academy employs local school kids to do some of the routine cleaning and laundry. My concerns that Mademoiselle Serena is exploiting local children are eased when Yvonne tells me that it is part of a work experience programme run by the schools. The academy provides one of the few opportunities for local youth employment. Some of the older children sometimes work mid-week evenings helping in the kitchen.
Each of us receives a medical check once a week to monitor his or her health and fitness. Adjustments to our individual diet or exercise regime are made as required, and we are expected to follow any instructions faithfully. Apart from Brigitte’s draconian rule over the dormitories and other rooms, life at the academy is hard but fair, and I am pleased that I made the decision to accept Heidi’s and Serana’s offer.
Apart from my developing friendship with Yvonne, I’m usually included in a social group consisting of Hannah, Juanita and Banu. Yvonne occasionally joins us, but she generally prefers my company alone. Hannah shares the same dormitory as Yvonne and me, while Juanita and Banu are ballet students sharing the other female dormitory. We have little social contact with those in private rooms. Many of them tend to spend their free time in their rooms, and generally look down on those of us in dormitories as though we are inferior. As for those in the male dormitory, they have an unfortunate tendency to consider Yvonne and me as sexually available because of our chosen dance style. After a couple of abortive attempts at a platonic friendship with the men, Yvonne and I keep clear of them in social settings.
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Chapter 8: Sexual Overtures
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When Ataköy travestiileri I chose to specialise in oriental dance, I didn’t fully appreciate the different styles, or the wide range of cultural significance, of such dances. Aaliyah is our main tutor for oriental dance. She spends the first few weeks of tuition highlighting the various styles and explaining the difference between ritual dances for special occasions and those for pure entertainment. Even belly dancing has different styles. The movements I’ve been performing have been a hodgepodge of styles. Yvonne has the same problem. Aaliyah insists Yvonne and I practise performing wholly in one style or another, and sets us the task of adapting our style to be purely Egyptian or purely Turkish. Although we could both have chosen the same style, Yvonne chooses to adapt to the lively Turkish style requiring bold body movements and intricate footwork, while I opt for the more fluid and subtle movements of the Egyptian style.
We practise seven days a week wearing a cotton halter top and a pair of loose fitting knee length trousers. The list of things to bring included three sets of practise clothing. For performances, I will need a full costume, but the academy instructed me to wait and purchase something suitable while I’m here. So far I’m not sure how I’m going to do that. We aren’t allowed out of the château grounds. Aaliyah says that she will help us buy our costume using a special online application available in the academy office.
So far our tuition has focussed on movement rather than costume. While we are learning both traditional dances as well as more modern belly dances, in reality the dance movements are remarkably similar. A solemn temple dance can be adapted to a raunchy belly dance with relative ease. However, Aaliyah insists we learn the difference between the music and movements appropriate for celebrations such as weddings and birthdays, and those which are not.
“Demain, tu commenceras à t’entraîner en costume,” says Aaliyah when we finish practise for the day.
By now my French has improved enough to understand that we will begin practising in costume from tomorrow.
“I don’t have a costume,” I say to Yvonne as we walk to the gymnasium.
“Nor do I,” replies Yvonne. “I was told to purchase something when I arrived here, but I haven’t had the chance to do so. I hope Aaliyah realises that. I don’t fancy enduring another of Madame Brigitte’s punishment duties.”
By now our gruelling regime of dance practise and physical exercise has toned our muscles and made us much fitter. I find that I can now endure all the activity without suffering aching muscles or blisters in the process. Yvonne isn’t quite so lucky. An old injury means her feet have a tendency to trouble her.
“Perhaps you should switch to the Egyptian style of dancing,” I suggest. “There’s no rapid footwork involved.”
“I did consider that, but Aaliyah says the Egyptian style requires the dancer to improvise rather than follow a set routine. You’re good at that. I’m not so sure I can do so well. Besides, we will almost certainly be required to practise the other style later on. We may even have to include some ballet movements as well.”
“Have you ever performed in public?” I ask.
“A few private parties. My school grades weren’t good enough to go to college, and I didn’t want to work in a shop or office for a living. Dancing is my passion, but the competition is fierce for parts in shows. I drifted into belly dancing as a means of earning some money. Someone from a scholarship foundation approached me when they saw me dance, and offered to fund my training. That’s how I ended up here.”
“That’s a coincidence,” I say. “I was also approached and offered a scholarship to train here. Which foundation is sponsoring you?”
“The von Herrschaft Foundation. This academy is one of the von Herrschaft enterprises.”
I should have wondered about the connection between Heidi and Serena. It makes sense that Serena works for the von Herrschaft family. But everything happened so fast, and I didn’t have time to investigate everything.
“Are you required to serve a period of indenture with the von Herrschaft conglomerate when you finish your training here?” I ask.
“Yes. For six months,” replies Yvonne. “I presume from your question, that you are as well.”
“Yes. I met a student from a Canadian university who was indentured to Heidi von Herrschaft during the summer breaks. Bea was effectively Heidi’s slave, although she seemed to be okay with that.”
“Hmm. It’s the one thing that made me hesitate to accept the foundation’s offer,” replies Yvonne. “My parents would go ballistic if they knew what I’ve agreed to do once I’ve finished here.”
“Does that mean you are like me and what they call a ‘submissive’?”
“I think all the students here are submissive by nature. It’s what draws them here. This place specialises in teaching people like us. In other training facilities we would probably be sidelined travesti Ataköy by more assertive students and fail the course. At least here we have a chance to learn among equals.”
“I hadn’t thought about it in those terms,” I muse. “I just didn’t think of you or Hannah as being submissive.”
“It’s not as though any of us go around with a sign on our back saying ‘I’m a submissive’,” says Yvonne. “And obeying our tutors and the staff here isn’t the same as being sexually submissive. Besides, do you think your more assertive friends would tolerate some of the rules here? None of us try to circumvent the no mobile phones rule. I can’t imagine that happening in a regular dance academy.”
I’m fairly sure that it’s fear of incurring Madame Brigitte’s wrath that deters us from sneaking into a quiet corner and using our phone. It’s not as though they’ve been confiscated. We are trusted to obey the rule or risk the consequences if we are caught.
Yvonne and I meet a group of ballet students in the basement who are preparing to play netball. We change into our skimpy sports outfits and join one of the teams. Normally only the female students play netball, but today three of the men have joined the other team. A fourth man offers to be referee.
For a non-contact sport, there is a lot of contact as we play. More than once a player grabs my tits from behind, and my arse gets slapped several times while the referee isn’t looking. And that’s just from the women. The men are nearly as bad, although most of their attention is focussed on the other players in their own team. Juanita seems to take a particular fancy to me, while her friend Anna makes a less-than-subtle play for Yvonne.
I suppose the highly charged sexual atmosphere of the game is a consequence of all the weeks we have gone without sex. Students of the opposite sex aren’t allowed in the dormitories or private rooms, and that rule seems to be faithfully observed. Of course, the security cameras in the corridors and outside ensure any transgression would be noticed and punished. Even the opportunities for same gender sex are relatively few. The night staff check the dormitories while we are sleeping, and anyone not in their assigned bed is punished. Which leaves the communal showers and sports games the best time to engage in any sexual play.
Although the academy staff could probably put a stop to any sexual frolics, I suspect they allow it because it acts as a useful safety valve for built up tensions. We all work hard for long periods, so a chance to let off steam is helpful. For Yvonne and me, our chosen style of dancing has a sexual component which builds up urges within us that we need to release. After my time in Rimini with Bea, I have admitted to myself that I am bi-sexual. I’m not sure Yvonne has taken that step yet, although I’ve noticed her admiring me when she thinks I’m not looking. More than once I’ve been tempted to make the first move, but I don’t want to spoil things between us if she isn’t ready.
My wandering mind is suddenly brought back to our boisterous game of netball when Juanita and I collide. We end up in the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Juanita doesn’t rush to get up, and I suddenly sense her hand reaching inside my pants and sliding towards my cunt. I should put a stop to her blatant sexual assault on my body, but my own urges override my sense of propriety. I even spread my legs a little so she can gain better access to my clit. But she only makes a single stoke of my slit before withdrawing her hand.
“Later, Becca,” she whispers into my ear as she helps me stand up.
Her use of the diminutive of my name brings back memories of that night with Bea in Rimini. I smile at Juanita before resuming the game. Meanwhile Anna is having some success in breaking through Yvonne’s resistance to Anna’s sexual overtures. A successful sequence of play resulting in a goal triggers a seemingly harmless kiss from Anna that lingers longer than it ought. The lack of negative reaction from Yvonne effectively gives Anna the green light to go further. As the game progresses the sexual byplay gets steamier and steamier. The opposing team are just as guilty of turning the game into a sex romp. The men’s bulging pants get plenty of attention and it’s a tribute to our combined self control that everyone keeps their clothes on.
Of course, all restraint is abandoned the moment we step into the communal showers. Juanita is kneeling between my legs with her tongue inside my cunt while I wash the both of us. Unfortunately, we don’t have more than ten minutes to enjoy the moment. We must change and smarten ourselves up for the evening meal or we will risk going hungry.
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Chapter 9: A New Costume
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My relationship with Juanita… or Nita, as she likes to be called among close friends… also helps clarify my relationship with Yvonne. I’m attracted to Yvonne, and in other circumstances I think we would both engage in some sexual play together. But Yvonne and I spends many hours practising together, and neither of us need the distraction of the ups and downs of an intimate affair. Nita and I can enjoy our brief interludes of sex without worrying about how it might affect our work. Besides, Yvonne has Anna willing to provide any sexual relief that Yvonne may desire.
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