Page 55 of Punished and Trained
I could see faces in the tiered seating now—Mistress Orela sat in the front row with her usual composed expression, while beside her Mistress Nurana watched with clinical interest. My fellow pupils from the Academy occupied the next row back, their faces showing the same mixture of sympathy and morbid fascination I had felt when watching others face discipline. Palla’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, while Morandra leaned forward with scholarly attention despite the obvious distress in her dark eyes.
Colonel and Mrs. Quinst sat with military bearing in the diplomatic section, their presence a reminder of how my training had prepared me for this moment. The sight of them sent an unexpected pang of gratitude through me—they had helped shape me into someone who could endure what was coming.
“Position the penitent,” Prince Hendren commanded.
The sergeant-at-arms guided me toward the frame with firm hands. The horizontal bar pressed against my hips as he positioned me, forcing me to bend forward at the waist. My bound hands were released momentarily, only to be secured to restraint points that kept my arms stretched wide, my fingers unable to provide any protection for what was to come. When hefastened the supports around my ankles, spreading my legs wide for stability, I realized with burning shame that my bare pussy was now completely exposed to everyone in the yard.
“These restraints are for your own protection,” the sergeant-at-arms explained in his formal tone as he tightened the bonds. “The pain may cause involuntary movements that could result in injury.”
The leather straps bit into my wrists and ankles with unforgiving force, holding me so securely that I could barely shift my weight. I felt my backside elevated, positioned in the too-familiar way I could never seem to get used to—presented for punishment like an offering to the watching crowd. The morning air moved across my exposed flesh, making me acutely aware of every inch of skin that would soon bear the cane’s kiss.
Prince Hendren moved to stand beside the frame, the judicial cane resting across his palms as he addressed the assembled witnesses. His voice carried the authority of centuries of Magisterian tradition.
“What you witness today represents the culmination of our most fundamental principles,” he began, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “For over a millennium, the Magisterian Federation has maintained order through recognition of natural hierarchies. Today’s correction demonstrates the importance of complete feminine submission.”
CHAPTER 27
Viola
My master paused, allowing his words to settle over the assembled crowd before continuing. “The subject’s nudity serves multiple purposes beyond mere humiliation. Magisterian law requires that nothing interfere with the administration of justice—no clothing to cushion the blow, no barriers between correction and flesh. More important, nakedness strips away the artificial constructs of rank and status that might otherwise cloud judgment. Before the cane, a former president is no different from any other wayward woman requiring guidance.”
I felt my cheeks burn as his explanation reduced my exposure to legal necessity, though I knew millions across the galaxy were hearing the same justification for my degradation.
“The correction is delivered to the buttocks for reasons both practical and symbolic,” Prince Hendren continued, his voice taking on the cadence of a lecture. “This area can withstand significant punishment without permanent damage, ensuring the lesson is thorough yet safe. Symbolically, it represents themost private, vulnerable aspect of feminine pride—the part of herself a woman guards most carefully from masculine authority.”
He moved behind me, and I heard the whistle of the cane as he tested its flexibility through the air. The sound sent terror coursing through my bound form.
“By accepting correction in this most intimate manner, the subject demonstrates complete surrender of her will to masculine guidance. Today, Viola Herranofar will discover that true submission requires abandoning the last vestiges of pride and control. She will bear the signs of this punishment on her backside for a long while, as an intimate reminder of her misbehavior and its reward.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt him position himself behind my raised bottom, the cane tapping lightly against my tender flesh in preparation. The touch was almost gentle, but I knew it was merely the calm before devastation.
“Twenty-four strokes,” he announced to the crowd. “One for each month of neglect that led to Artemisia’s downfall. Let the correction begin.”
The first stroke fell with explosive force across the center of my bottom, the bamboo landing with a sharp crack that echoed through the yard. The pain was unlike anything I had ever experienced—pure fire that radiated from the point of impact through my entire nervous system. Without the governor’s usual cushioning arousal, every nerve ending registered the agony with crystalline clarity.
“Ahhhh!” The scream tore from my throat before I could stop it, my body straining against the restraints as the pain peaked and then settled into a burning throb.
“One,” Prince Hendren announced calmly, already positioning for the second stroke.
I bit down hard on my lip, trying to prepare myself, but nothing could have readied me for the devastating impact when the cane struck again, this time just below the first mark. The overlapping pain created a storm of agony that made my vision blur.
“Please!” I sobbed, the word escaping despite my determination to endure silently. “Oh, powers, please!”
“Two,” came his inexorable count.
As the third stroke landed with searing precision just above the first, I understood with terrible clarity that my pleas meant nothing. The governor’s suppression function ensured that my body could find no refuge in arousal, no chemical relief from the mounting agony. Each stroke registered with absolute, unforgiving clarity.
“Three.” Prince Hendren’s voice remained steady as granite.
Through my tears I thought I could hear the crowd’s collective intake of breath with each impact. I couldn’t help picturing them, though the mental image drew a new sob from my chest. Some must be watching with clinical fascination, others with discomfort, but in my imagination all remained transfixed by the spectacle of my correction. And the Federation News Services cameras must be capturing every angle of my degradation, broadcasting my naked suffering across the galaxy.
The fourth stroke fell diagonally across the previous marks, creating a crosshatch of fire that made me throw my head back and wail. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry for what I did to Artemisia!”
“Four. Your apologies are noted, but they do not diminish your debt,” Prince Hendren replied, his tone carrying both authority and what might have been compassion.
By the eighth stroke, my bottom felt as though it had been branded with molten metal. Tears streamed down my face, falling to the stone below as my body shook with each impact. The restraints held me perfectly in position, preventing any escape from the methodical destruction of my pride.
“Please, Master,” I gasped between sobs. “No more… I… I was…”
