Page 27 of Punished and Trained
“You’ll undress completely,” Colonel Quinst added in a conversational tone that seemed all the more degrading for its neutrality. “Mrs. Quinst will examine you first, then I will. We need to understand exactly what we’re working with before we can begin your training for our bed.”
The casual way they discussed my body and their apparent freedom to do with it as they pleased made me feel faint. Much worse, though, I could feel that the treasonous heat had begun to build again. The lunatic thought—increasingly familiar despite its insanity—that I wished someone would turn on the governor’s suppressive function and dampen that arousal, or even take it away, flashed into my head.
As if reading my mind, my Mistress said, “We’re fascinated by the possibilities the little governor device between your legs opens up. It’s a new technology for us here on Euporia.”
I blinked at her. Naively, I had supposed that Mistress Orela would reserve the knowledge about my governor. But of course not. Colonel Quinst had fetched his handheld out of his inside jacket pocket.
“Mistress Orela, with your master’s permission, has given us control over the device. I’m still not sure how well it fits with our training methods, but the wealth of data about your body’s responses is fascinating.”
My cheeks flamed as he consulted the screen, his expression clinical yet satisfied. “Remarkable,” he murmured. “Your arousal has climbed steadily since we began this conversation. The prospect of being examined by your new Guardian and Mistress clearly excites you, despite the distress I can see in your face.”
“That’s not—” I started to protest, but Mrs. Quinst held up a gentle hand.
“Hush, dear. Your body’s responses are perfectly natural. There’s no shame in acknowledging what you need.” She rose gracefully from the sofa. “But we have time before dinner preparations begin. Why don’t you go to your room and rest? I’ll ring the bell when it’s time for you to join me in the kitchen.”
Colonel Quinst nodded his approval. “Use the time to reflect on what you’ve learned today, Viola. Consider how far you’ve come already, and how much further you have yet to go.”
I stood on trembling legs, my bottom still tender from the savage spanking my Guardian had given me in the classroom. “Yes, Guardian. Yes, Mistress.”
When I had closed the door of the little bedroom behind me, I sank onto the edge of the bed, my hands shaking as I tried to process everything that had happened.
The room’s single mirror hung above the dresser, and after a moment I found myself standing before it, searching my reflection for some sign of the humiliating transformation everyone seemed so certain was taking place. I stared into my own dark eyes, looking for traces of the submission they all claimed to see blooming within me.
But the face that stared back appeared unchanged. My features remained as they had always been—the high cheekbones that had served me well in diplomatic photographs, the determined set of my jaw that had carried me through countless political battles, the intelligent eyes that had once commanded respect from planetary councils. I saw no mark of servitude there, no softening that would indicate a broken spirit.
Part of me felt exactly the same as I always had. The dreams remained—perhaps not of leading Artemisia, but certainly of contributing something meaningful to the galaxy. Even within the Federation’s patriarchal structure, there had to be places where an intelligent woman could make a difference, could help shape policy or diplomatic relations. The desire to accomplish great things still burned within me, undimmed by my current circumstances.
Yet as I continued to stare at my reflection, I knew something fundamental had shifted, invisibly, inside me. The part of me that craved Prince Hendren’s dominance, that had responded so shamefully to Colonel Quinst’s authority, that yearned for the structure and security of masculine control—that part had broken free from whatever prison I had built around it during my years in politics.
I searched my face as dispassionately as I could, trying to analyze my expression minutely for some outward sign of this internal revolution, some visible evidence of the submission that seemed to pour through my veins like molten metal. But there was nothing. The schoolgirl uniform told the story more clearly than my features ever could—the white blouse emphasizing the contrast between my external composure and the shameful hunger growing within me, the short navy skirt that marked me as a student rather than a leader, the white knee socks thatreduced me to the level of a schoolgirl despite my thirty-two years.
The clothes told the truth my face refused to reveal. Someone else had indeed laid me low, but that someone wasn’t Prince Hendren or Colonel Quinst or even the Academy’s systematic methods. The someone who had stripped away my dignity and authority was the woman who had always lived inside me, the one who had spent decades hiding behind presidential suits and diplomatic protocols, desperate to avoid acknowledging what she truly craved.
That woman had finally broken free, and she wanted nothing more than to kneel at the feet of powerful men and beg for their approval.
The soft chime of a bell echoed through the house, pulling me from my disturbing self-examination. Mistress Quinst’s voice followed a moment later, warm and maternal despite the circumstances.
“Viola, dear, time to help with dinner preparations.”
I smoothed down my skirt and walked to the kitchen on unsteady legs, my bottom still tender enough to remind me of Colonel Quinst’s authority with each step. The kitchen was spacious and well appointed, with gleaming appliances arranged with the same military precision that characterized the rest of their home.
“Wonderful timing,” Mrs. Quinst said, tying an apron around her waist over her elegant navy dress. “We’re preparing roast chicken with vegetables tonight—nothing too elaborate, but it will give us a chance to assess your domestic skills.”
She handed me a matching apron, and I fumbled with the ties, acutely aware of how the domestic garment transformed my appearance even further. Where the schoolgirl uniform had made me look young and innocent, the apron marked me clearly as a servant.
“Now then,” Mrs. Quinst continued, opening the refrigerator with practiced efficiency, “I’ve been thinking about tonight’s service. I believe your training would benefit from a certain enhancement to your presentation, as well as it helping you understand your Guardian’s desires.”
She turned to face me, her pale eyes holding that familiar predatory gleam. “You’ll serve us with your panties around your knees, dear. It will remind you of your place while ensuring you move with appropriate feminine grace.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Heat rushed through my body with such intensity that I swayed slightly on my feet, my breathing becoming shallow as shameful arousal flooded my system. The image she had painted—me, serving dinner in the humiliating schoolgirl uniform with my white cotton panties tangled around my knees, my bare sex exposed beneath the short skirt—seemed so simple, so minor in light of everything else the prince, Mistress Orela, and my Guardian had already inflicted on me. Yet in the purity of the little degradation, it somehow sent a terrible surge of need crashing through me.
Colonel Quinst appeared in the kitchen doorway with startling suddenness, his handheld device in his hand and his eyes sharp with interest.
“What just happened?” he demanded, consulting the screen with clinical fascination.
CHAPTER 13
Hendren
