Page 16 of Punished and Trained
Viola’s compliance seemed reluctant, but complete. I felt a surge of satisfaction watching her assume the submissive stance, her body language conforming to the rigid Euporian standards. The white blouse stretched across her breasts as she pulled her shoulders back, the short navy skirt deliciously showing her trim thighs.
I found her classmates equally compelling to observe. Morandra, the former university professor, maintained her academic bearing even as she followed the instructions. Her dark, curly hair framed her face, her striking blue eyes in a dark-skinned face reflecting a resolute dignity despite her circumstances. Her athletic build conveyed a sense of strength and determination. Palla, the former systems administrator, looked younger and more uncertain, her brown hair in its ribbon cascading softly down her back and emphasizing her curvy frame, her brown eyes filled with a hint of apprehension.
“Position two:Inspection,” Mistress Orela continued. “Turn to face the wall. Place your palms flat against the surface, shoulder-width apart. Step back and spread your legs.”
I watched with undeniable, growing arousal as all six women moved to comply. The position thrust their bottoms out invitingly, the short skirts riding up to reveal the edges of their regulation white panties. Viola’s face, visible in profile, had flushed pink with humiliation, but she maintained the pose without protest.
I glanced again at my handheld: to my satisfaction, Viola’s arousal had shot up to level seven. I had given control of the governor to Mistress Orela, but I had also kept it for myself. My mischievous side had the urge to play a bit, to turn Viola’s cunt down all the way or even to activate the device’s stimulation function, just to let her know her master had no intention ofceding control entirely. Only the thought that it might disrupt the course of training Mistress Orela had planned stopped me. I would certainly request of the formidable woman that she integrate such interventions, though, the next time we spoke.
The Academy’s methods were proving remarkably effective. In just three days, they had already reduced my defiant former president to this level of compliance. I made a mental note to encourage the trainers’ council on Magisteria to experiment with formal postures, when I met with them at their annual conference. As their royal patron, they generally respected my opinion.
“Excellent,” Mistress Orela said, walking along the row of women. “Now position three:Reception. Turn around and kneel, sitting back on your heels. Hands on your thighs, palms up. This is how you will wait when your Guardian wishes to speak with you.”
Viola
Kneeling in that awful, submissive pose sent unwelcome heat coursing through me. My eyes remained fixed on the floor, but even I could see the rapid rise and fall of my chest beneath the white blouse. I felt the conflict in my body with terrible intensity—I managed to hold myself perfectly still, but it seemed like the very fiber of the muscles I controlled constantly tried to rebel against the position.
“Position four,” Mistress Orela continued without pause, “Offering. Remain kneeling, but lean back slightly, arch yourspine, and place your hands behind your head. This position displays your submission and availability to your Guardian.”
I arched my back as instructed, the position making me feel terribly revealed despite being fully clothed. The stretch pulled my blouse tight across my breasts, and I could feel my nipples hardening against the fabric. Around me, my classmates assumed the same degrading pose, though I noticed Morandra’s jaw was clenched in obvious defiance.
“Position five—” Mistress Orela began, but stopped abruptly. Her sharp eyes had caught something. “Miss Morandra, Miss Palla. What did you just say?”
My heart lurched. I hadn’t heard anything, but clearly the mistress had detected some infraction. Morandra’s face showed a hot blush despite the dark hue of her skin, while Palla looked terrified.
“Nothing, Mistress,” Morandra said, her voice steady despite the obvious lie.
“I see.” Mistress Orela’s tone turned glacial. “Miss Morandra, approach my desk immediately.”
The former professor rose gracefully, her athletic frame tense with apprehension. I watched from my kneeling position as she walked to the front of the classroom, her chin raised in defiance despite her circumstances.
“Bend over the desk,” Mistress Orela commanded, opening a drawer. “Hands flat on the surface.”
“Mistress, please—” Morandra started to protest.
“Now.” The word cracked like a whip.
Morandra complied, bending forward over the polished wood surface. Mistress Orela produced a leather strap from the drawer—thick, supple, and obviously designed for punishment. The sight of it made my stomach clench with dread while to my horror I felt heat gather between my thighs. I pushed away the sudden urge to beg Mistress Orela to turn my governor’s suppression up.
“When students whisper during instruction,” Mistress Orela announced to the class, “they receive immediate correction. Miss Morandra will receive fifteen strokes. The rest of you will observe and learn.”
She flipped up Morandra’s short skirt, revealing the white cotton panties beneath. Without ceremony, she pulled them down to the woman’s knees, exposing her dark buttocks to the entire class. Morandra’s body tensed, but she didn’t move from position.
The first stroke landed with a sharp crack that echoed through the classroom. Morandra gasped, her body jerking forward against the desk. A red welt immediately bloomed across her bottom.
I should have felt sympathy, horror at the brutal display. Instead, shameful heat pooled between my thighs. The sight of Morandra’s exposed flesh, the sound of leather meeting skin, the way her body writhed with each blow, all sent unwelcome arousal spiraling through me.
The second stroke fell lower, crossing the first welt. Morandra cried out, her hands gripping the edges of the desk. I found myself leaning forward slightly, my breathing shallow, transfixed by the punishment unfolding before me.
“This is what happens to disobedient women on our world,” Mistress Orela said calmly, landing the third stroke with methodical precision. “Whispered conversations during instruction are forbidden.”
Morandra’s breathing was becoming ragged, her knuckles white where they gripped the desk. The fourth and fifth strokes fell in quick succession, and she couldn’t suppress a sob.
I watched in horrified fascination, my own body responding in ways that shamed me. My nipples had hardened to painful points beneath the white cotton, and I could feel dampness gathering between my thighs, making me wish again, perversely, that Mistress Orela would control my pussy’s need with the governor, much as I hated knowing the device was there. The rhythmic crack of the strap, Morandra’s increasingly desperate gasps, the didactic efficiency with which Mistress Orela administered each stroke, all combined to create a tableau that sent unwanted thrills through my nervous system.
“Count the remaining strokes aloud,” Mistress Orela commanded. “Thank me for each one. This will be the sixth.”
The vicious stroke landed, and Morandra’s voice broke as she gasped, “Six! Thank you, Mistress!”
