Page 11 of Punished and Trained
“I hate you,” I gasped, the words escaping before I could stop them.
To my surprise, Prince Hendren laughed, a rich, genuine sound that seemed incongruous with the situation. “No, you don’t. That would be simpler, wouldn’t it? If you could just hate me?” His hand caressed my burning flesh, the touch both soothing and threatening. “What you hate is how I make you feel. How I strip away your carefully constructed façade and expose the woman beneath.”
The seventh stroke landed with devastating accuracy, and I screamed, my body convulsing against the whipping block.
“You hate that I see you,” he continued, his voice maddeningly calm. “The real you, not President Herranofar with her elegant suits and diplomatic platitudes. Just Viola, naked and wet and desperate to surrender.”
“No,” I sobbed, even as a terrible surge of affection for him washed over me—for his brutality, for his decisiveness, for the way he had taken me in hand so completely. The feeling horrified me more than the pain, more than the humiliation.
Suddenly I felt a subtle shift, a warmth blooming between my thighs where emptiness had been moments before. Prince Hendren had adjusted something on the controller, and my pussy had abruptly begun to respond again—not fully, but enough to send tendrils of heat creeping through me with each stroke of the cane.
“Oh!” The sound escaped me, half-pain and half-pleasure as the eighth stroke landed.
“Better?” he asked, his voice knowing, cruel in its understanding.
The ninth stroke fell, and this time the pain transformed, melting into something else as it radiated through my body. My hips moved of their own accord, pressing back slightly as if seeking more.
“Please,” I whispered, the word slipping out before I could catch it.
“Please what, Viola?” His hand caressed my welted bottom, fingers tracing the raised lines with deliberate pressure.
“Please… whip me.” The words tumbled from my lips, shocking me with their sincerity. “Please whip me, Sire.”
His chuckle was low and satisfied. “And why should I grant you that?”
“Because I…” I swallowed hard, tears streaming down my face. Anything I said now I could claim later—to the prince, to myself, to the galaxy—I hadn’t meant, thanks to the prince’s savage punishment. I spoke the only words I could. “Because I need it.”
The cane whistled through the air, landing with precision across my sit spots. I cried out, arching against the restraints as pleasure spiraled through the pain. The governor allowed pulses of arousal to travel through me—not enough to satisfy, just enough to intensify everything else.
“And will you go to the Academy tomorrow?” he asked, landing another stroke that made me sob with mingled pain and need.
“Yes,” I gasped, hating myself even as relief flooded through me. “Yes, Sire.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise sent an unexpected thrill through me. “Now count the next ten strokes. Thank me for each one.”
The cane fell again, harder than before. “One! Thank you, Sire,” I cried out, my voice breaking.
Another stroke, crossing the previous welts. “Two! Thank you, Sire!”
By the fifth stroke, I was weeping openly, my body trembling. The low-level stimulation permitted by the horrid governor transformed each lash into something complex and terrible—pain that bloomed into pleasure that never quite peaked.
“Eight! Thank you, Sire!” My voice was hoarse, my throat raw from crying.
The final two strokes landed in quick succession across the sensitive crease where buttock meets thigh. “Nine! Ten! Thank you, Sire, thank you!”
Prince Hendren set the cane aside and moved to stand before me, unfastening his uniform trousers. His erection sprang free, rigid and imposing.
“You’ve earned this,” he said, lifting my tearstained face. “Open your mouth.”
I parted my lips obediently, all resistance momentarily abandoned as he pushed into my mouth. His hands gripped my hair, holding me in place as he thrust deeply. The taste of him, masculine and slightly salty, filled my senses. I struggled to breathe around his girth, tears streaming down my face as he used my mouth with ruthless efficiency.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I raised my eyes, meeting his ice-blue gaze as he continued to thrust. Something in his expression shifted—a flash of approval that sent an unwelcome warmth through my core.
“This is who you are,” he said, his voice strained with pleasure. “Not a president. Not a diplomat. Just a woman made to serve.”
He withdrew suddenly, leaving me gasping. His hand caressed my cheek with unexpected gentleness before he moved behind me again. I felt his fingers probe between my legs, testing my wetness.
