Page 21 of Punished and Trained
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. The honest answer was yes—I had wondered, especially during the darkest moments of the Vionian crisis when every choice seemed to lead to disaster. But admitting that felt like betraying everything I had worked for.
“I… sometimes I did wonder,” I whispered, hating myself for the words even as they brought an unexpected sense of relief.
“Of course you did,” Mistress Orela said, her tone almost gentle now. “It’s natural. The human female psyche evolved to seek protection and guidance from stronger males. When we force ourselves into roles that contradict our deepest programming, psychological distress is inevitable.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of historical analysis and philosophical indoctrination. When evening came, dinner was served with the same quiet efficiency as lunch—simple, nourishing food that we ate mostly in silence under the watchful eyes of Academy staff.
Afterward, we were granted what Mistress Orela called ‘contemplation time’ in a small library adjacent to the dining hall. The room was lined with carefully selected texts, all supporting the Academy’s educational philosophy. I had barelysettled into a corner chair when Lara approached, her blonde hair catching the soft lamplight.
“May I sit with you?” she asked, her voice carrying the careful politeness we all seemed to have adopted as if by osmosis from the environment.
I nodded, though part of me wanted to be alone with my churning thoughts. Lara settled into the chair beside mine, her blue eyes studying me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.
“Viola,” she said quietly, glancing around to ensure we weren’t overheard, “can I ask you something personal?”
My stomach clenched with apprehension. “I suppose.”
“Did you always know?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “About being… submissive, I mean. Did you always know that’s what you needed?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. Heat rushed to my cheeks with such intensity I thought everyone in the room must notice. “I’m not submissive,” I said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I was the president of an entire world. I made decisions that affected millions of people. I’m not—I don’t?—”
“But the way you responded in class today,” Lara pressed gently. “When Mistress Orela asked about the burden of leadership, when she talked about seeking guidance from stronger males… your face, Viola. You looked almost relieved.”
“That’s not—” I started, then stopped, my throat closing around the words. The conversation was spiraling into territory I couldn’t navigate, forcing me to confront thoughts and feelings I had been desperately trying to suppress.
“I’m sorry,” Lara said, seeming to sense my distress. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that I’ve always known, you see. Even growing up on Euporia, where it’s expected, I could feel it in myself. The need to surrender, to let someone else be strong. But something in me—maybe just a need to be contrary—made me lose my chance at the Girls’ Academy. I got selected, and I decided not to go. I thought maybe you felt the same when… I don’t know, when you got into politics.”
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “Excuse me,” I mumbled, fleeing to the far corner of the library where I could hide behind the tall stacks.
My hands shook as I selected a book at random—something about Earth’s economic collapse during the Wild Years. I sank into a reading chair, using the volume as a shield between myself and the rest of the room. But even as I tried to focus on the text, Lara’s words echoed in my mind. The relief I had felt when admitting the burdens of leadership, the way my body responded to every degradation, every loss of control, all painted a picture I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
The book’s pages blurred before my eyes as I tried to concentrate, but the words seemed to leap out at me with uncomfortable relevance. Stories of women during Earth’s collapse finding purpose in submission, of communities that thrived when traditional roles were embraced, of the psychological relief that came with surrendering impossible burdens. Each paragraph felt like it had been written specifically to torment me.
I was so absorbed in my reading that I jumped when the soft chime of the evening bell echoed through the library. Around me, the other women began closing their books and rising fromtheir chairs with the careful movements that seemed to come naturally here.
“Time for evening preparations, ladies,” came Mistress Orela’s familiar voice from the doorway. “Follow me to the dormitory facilities.”
I closed the book with trembling hands, historical accounts of feminine surrender still echoing in my mind as I joined the quiet procession through the Academy’s corridors.
“The bathroom facilities are through here,” Mistress Orela announced, opening a door to reveal a long, tiled space lined with individual changing stalls. “You’ll find that the stalls are labeled with your names. Change quickly and quietly.”
I selected the stall that said, to my dismay,Prince Hendren’s Violaand stepped inside, my fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar clasps of the schoolgirl uniform. The sleepwear waiting for me was laid out with typical Academy precision: thick synth-cotton panties and a matching camisole in pale blue. The fabric was soft, but substantial, clearly designed for modesty and comfort rather than attraction of any sort.
“Form a line,” Mistress Orela commanded, producing a small case from her bag. “I’ll put you each in your virtue-keeper for the night. They will ensure you maintain proper self-control in the darkness.”
CHAPTER 10
Hendren
I hadn’t been able to keep myself from checking on Viola’s video feed every hour or so all day. The Academy’s surveillance system provided remarkably comprehensive coverage. From my embassy study, I could access feeds from every classroom, exercise facility, dining hall, and dormitory room. The quality was exceptional—high-definition video with crystal-clear audio that captured even whispered conversation, as well of course as each involuntary gasp or telling blush.
Currently, I watched as Mistress Orela efficiently secured the virtue-keepers around each pupil’s wrists, the soft leather cuffs with the short chain that bound them to the woman’s collar, beautifully designed to prevent self-gratification. Their hands, I could see, would remain safely away from temptation during the dangerous overnight hours.
Viola stood third in line, her pale blue sleepwear modest yet also emphasizing her femininity. The Academy’s choice of nightclothes struck me as inspired—covering enough to suggestpropriety while the fabric despite its thickness revealed the outline of her nipples, the curve of her hips. She shifted nervously as her turn approached, and I felt a familiar surge of possessive satisfaction watching her anxiety.
“Arms forward in front of your bosom, with your wrists together,” Mistress Orela instructed when Viola stepped up to her.
I leaned closer to the screen, noting how Viola’s breathing had quickened. The governor’s readout on my secondary display showed her arousal spiking as the leather cuffs clicked into place. Even the simple act of being restrained sent shameful heat through her body—a response that still doubtless horrified the former president, but which I found deeply gratifying.
