Page 23 of Punished and Trained
“I keep thinking about it,” I admitted, my cheeks burning in the darkness. “About how I can’t, and that makes me want to even more, and then I feel ashamed for wanting to, and somehow that makes it worse.”
“It’s like they designed them specifically to torture us,” Palla said.
“They did,” Morandra replied matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly what they did.”
The next day, breakfast, morning class, physical education, and lunch all passed in a blur of routine humiliation. I found myself going through the motions, as prescribed by Mistress Orela, mechanically—practicing the seven degrading positions, reciting passages about feminine submission, enduring the transparent exercise garments and the showers just private enough to make me blush. My body responded with its usual shameful eagerness to each degradation, the governor ensuring, I knew, that every flutter of arousal was monitored and recorded.
But when we filed into the classroom for our afternoon lesson, I stopped short in the doorway. Six couples stood arranged along the walls—twelve adults in formal Euporian attire, their postures radiating authority and expectation. The men wore dark suits with the subtle rank insignia of Guardian status, while the women beside them wore elegant dresses that made it look to me as if they intended to attend a gala.
My stomach plummeted as I realized what this meant. Our assigned Guardian and Mistress couples had come to collect us like packages from a shipping depot.
“Ladies, please take your usual seats,” Mistress Orela announced, though her voice carried an undercurrent of excitement that made my skin crawl. “Today marks a significant milestone in your education.”
I moved to my desk on unsteady legs, hyperaware of how the short skirt rode up as I sat. Around me, my classmates displayed similar signs of distress—Palla’s face had gone white, while Morandra sat rigidly upright, her jaw clenched with tension.
“Each of you has been carefully matched with a Guardian and Mistress couple based on your particular needs and circumstances,” Mistress Orela continued, consulting her tabletwith clinical efficiency. “These experienced educators will guide you through the most intensive phase of your training.”
She gestured toward the nearest couple—a distinguished man with silver-streaked hair and a woman whose auburn locks were pulled back in an elegant chignon. “Guardians are responsible for discipline and intimate instruction, while Mistresses provide emotional guidance and domestic training. Together, they will reshape you into proper Euporian women.”
An overnight bag sat beside each couple, I noticed with growing dread. Inside, I felt certain, would be sleepwear, fresh undergarments for tomorrow, toiletries—everything needed for our first night’s stay away from the Academy dormitory.
“Miss Trellama,” Mistress Orela called out, “please approach Guardian and Mistress Aldrich.”
The young woman from Draco rose on trembling legs and walked slowly toward the couple in their forties who had stepped forward. The man had kind eyes, but an unmistakably authoritative bearing, while his wife smiled with maternal warmth that somehow made the situation more unsettling rather than less.
“Mistress Aldrich, may I present your pupil, Trellama of Draco?”
The woman stepped forward with practiced grace, her smile never wavering as she placed a gentle hand on Trellama’s shoulder. “Thank you, Mistress Orela. Trellama, I am Mistress Aldrich, and I will be guiding your domestic education.” Her voice carried the same maternal warmth as her expression, but there was steel beneath it. “Guardian Aldrich,” she continued, turning toward her husband, “may I present our new pupil?”
The man stepped forward, his assessment of Trellama swift, but thorough. “Welcome, Trellama. I am Guardian Aldrich, and I will be responsible for your discipline and your more intimate instruction.” His voice was measured, authoritative without being cruel. “You will address me as Guardian and my wife as Mistress. Is this understood?”
“Y-yes, Guardian,” Trellama whispered, her face flushing crimson.
To my dismay, Mistress Aldrich’s gentle hand then guided Trellama to her knees with firm pressure on the Draconian woman’s shoulders. “Kneel, girl,” she said softly, her maternal tone making the command even more degrading than if it had been barked. “This first lesson in obedience must be witnessed by your classmates so you all understand what is expected of you.”
I watched in horrified fascination as Trellama sank down, her schoolgirl skirt spreading around her on the classroom floor. The position thrust her face level with Guardian Aldrich’s waist, and I felt my own breathing become shallow as I wondered what would come next, sure that it couldn’t be what a dark, hot part of me suspected.
But, indeed, Guardian Aldrich reached for the fastenings of his formal trousers with the same measured precision with which he had spoken. “The first act of submission a woman must learn,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent classroom, “is to show proper reverence for masculine authority.”
His manhood emerged, thick and imposing, mere inches from Trellama’s terrified face. I heard Palla’s sharp intake of breath beside me, felt my own pulse hammering against my collar as the scene unfolded.
“Now, girl,” Mistress Aldrich said, her hand resting on Trellama’s shoulder with gentle firmness, “you must kiss Guardian Aldrich’s manhood to demonstrate your acceptance of his authority over you. Just a soft, respectful kiss to show your willingness to learn.”
“I can’t,” Trellama whispered, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “Please, I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can,” Mistress Aldrich replied, her voice still warm, but carrying an undertone of steel. “This is not a request, my dear. This is an essential lesson in proper feminine behavior.”
Trellama’s sob echoed through the silent classroom as she leaned forward with agonizing slowness. Her lips barely brushed against the fluted head of Guardian Aldrich’s erection—the most chaste of kisses—but the symbolism seemed devastating. The former engineering student from Draco had just publicly submitted to masculine authority in the most intimate way imaginable.
“Beautiful,” Mistress Aldrich murmured, helping Trellama to her feet with tender efficiency. She pulled the sobbing girl into a maternal embrace, stroking her hair with gentle fingers. “You’ve taken your first step toward true womanhood, my dear. I’m so proud of you.”
The contrast was jarring—Mistress Aldrich’s nurturing warmth following such a degrading act. Trellama clung to the older woman like a drowning person to driftwood, her shoulders shaking with silent tears.
“Miss Viola.” Mistress Orela’s crisp voice cut through my horrified fascination. “Please approach Guardian and Mistress Quinst.”
My legs felt like water as I stood, every eye in the room tracking my movement. A couple stepped forward from the line—the woman elegant in a navy dress that complemented her silver-streaked brown hair, the man tall and imposing in his military bearing. I recognized him with a jolt of terror: Colonel Quinst from the embassy reception.
“Mistress Quinst, may I present your pupil, Viola Herranofar, formerly president of Artemisia, now concubine to His Royal Highness Prince Hendren.”
