Page 47 of Punished and Trained
Viola
The words struck me like a physical blow, and I felt my breath catch as their implications sank in.Our choice. The phrase echoed in my mind with bitter irony, yet I couldn’t deny the grain of truth it contained. However coerced the circumstances, however manipulated the options, I had indeed chosen to kneel before Prince Hendren last night rather than accept his offer of freedom.
Around me, my classmates shifted uncomfortably in their seats, each processing Mistress Orela’s words through the lens of their own experiences. Palla’s face had gone white, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she stared at the polished desk surface. Morandra’s scholarly composure seemed strained, her usual confidence replaced by something approaching bewilderment.
“But Mistress,” Reb’s voice came out as barely a whisper, “how can it be a choice when… when we were given no real alternative? For me, it was coming here or living in poverty on Kamnos, with the collapse of the empire.”
Mistress Orela’s expression softened with what appeared to be genuine sympathy. “But my dear, the alternative was there—and more important, you would never have been offered the chance to join us here if the Federation hadn’t determined you could thrive as an owned concubine. You could also have sought asylum on Hippolyta or another egalitarian community. Evenlast night, Miss Viola was offered complete freedom by her master.”
The reminder of my public refusal sent heat flooding through my cheeks. Every woman in this room had witnessed my decision to remain Prince Hendren’s concubine, had watched me sink to my knees and worship him with my mouth before hundreds of observers.
“The tragedy,” Mistress Orela continued, moving to stand before the large window that overlooked the Academy’s manicured grounds, “is that so few women understand what they truly need until they experience proper guidance. The egalitarian worlds are filled with women who spend their lives fighting their own nature, achieving hollow victories that bring no real satisfaction.”
I found myself leaning forward despite my discomfort, my political mind engaging with the philosophical implications of her argument. There was a seductive logic to it, a way of reframing submission as enlightenment rather than defeat. I didn’t know if I believed it in the universal way Mistress Orela clearly did—after thousands of years and volumes of scientific research, it seemed humans still didn’t know what made some of us respond sexually to one thing and others to something else. I couldn’t deny, though, that even if it didn’t apply to anyone else here, it definitely applied to me. And, worse—or maybe better?—Prince Hendren’s Magisterian methods had identified that need in me.
“Consider your own responses over these past weeks,” she said, turning back to face us with that penetrating stare. “How many of you have experienced pleasure more intense than anything you knew in your previous lives? How many have found a peace in surrender that your former independence never provided?”
The questions hung in the air like accusations. I thought of the devastating climaxes my master had drawn from my body, the way my resistance had crumbled under his patient dominance. Even now, the memory sent unwelcome warmth spiraling through my core.
“That’s not fair,” Trellama burst out, her red hair seeming to flame with indignation. “You’re confusing physical responses with genuine choice. Our bodies were trained to respond this way!”
“Were they?” Mistress Orela asked mildly. “Or were they simply awakened to needs that had always existed? Miss Trellama, I have your psychological evaluations from before you arrived. The indicators were all there—your tendency to seek approval from authority figures, your pattern of romantic relationships with dominant partners, your admission during intake interviews that you fantasized about being controlled. The Academy didn’t create these needs. We simply recognized them and provided proper guidance.”
Trellama’s face crumpled as the truth of Mistress Orela’s words hit home. I could see the recognition in her eyes, the dawning understanding that her resistance had been as much self-deception as genuine opposition.
“The same is true for all of you,” Mistress Orela continued, her voice carrying that mixture of authority and maternal warmth that had become so familiar. “Miss Morandra’s academic achievements were a form of armor, protecting her from acknowledging her need to surrender intellectual control. Miss Palla sought out increasingly dangerous situations, unconsciously craving the moment when someone would take charge completely.”
Each assessment struck with surgical precision, and I watched my classmates’ faces as their psychological profiles were laid bare. The accuracy was devastating, and I found myself dreading what revelations might come about my own hidden needs.
“And you, Miss Viola,” Mistress Orela said, her attention focusing on me with laser intensity. “A planetary president who consistently chose advisors stronger than herself, who surrounded herself with military leaders and diplomatic experts whose authority she could defer to. Your political success came not from imposing your will, but from your extraordinary ability to synthesize and submit to the collective wisdom of those you trusted.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. She was right—terrifyingly, completely right. My greatest achievements as president had come when I’d assembled teams of experts and then yielded to their specialized knowledge. I had been most comfortable in the role of facilitator rather than dictator, finding satisfaction in creating consensus rather than imposing decisions. My failures had happened when I had tried to show my people and our enemies that I could be tough and warlike.
“Even your capture,” she continued relentlessly, “followed this pattern. You could have fled Artemisia when the Federation forces arrived. Your security detail begged you to evacuate. Instead, you chose to remain and negotiate, hoping to surrender yourself to spare your people greater suffering.”
My breath caught as the implications sank in. Had my decision to stay been genuine self-sacrifice, or had some part of me craved exactly what had followed? The thought was too disturbing to fully process.
“This is why the egalitarian communities ultimately fail to satisfy women like yourselves,” Mistress Orela explained, moving back to her desk with practiced grace. “They offer equality, but equality cannot fill the need for surrender that exists in your very souls. They provide choices, but some women require the peace that comes only from having choices made for them by those they trust completely.”
I felt tears prick at my eyes as her words resonated with uncomfortable truth. The constant pressure of presidential decisions, the weight of responsibility for millions of lives, the endless burden of choice—had been exhausting in ways I’d never fully acknowledged. Now, wearing nothing but a simple, if obscene, uniform and knowing that every aspect of my existence was controlled by others, I felt a strange lightness despite my degradation.
“The Federation’s genius, like our own Good Way,” Mistress Orela continued, “lies not in forcing this recognition, but in creating systems that allow it to emerge naturally. The egalitarian worlds serve as proof that our methods work by choice rather than compulsion. Those who truly belong there can thrive in equality. Those who don’t…” She gestured toward us with elegant precision. “Eventually find their way to where they belong.”
In the Hall of Movement that afternoon, Mistress Nurana made us strip to our collars and then kneel on the mat-covered floor.
“Position three, ladies,” she commanded.
I couldn’t look at my fellow pupils as I remembered, and obeyed, sitting back on my heels, with my hands open on my thighs. It got much more embarrassing, then, because the physical education mistress began to inform us of our masters’ individual desires for our training. Looking down at our naked forms with an assessing eye, she consulted her handheld with the same detached interest we had come to expect from all our Academy mistresses.
“Your masters have provided very specific requirements for your final training phase,” she announced, her voice echoing in the spacious gymnasium. “Each of you will focus on developing the particular skills your owner values most highly.”
She gestured toward a series of stations that had been arranged around the room, each equipped with different implements that made my stomach clench with dread and shameful anticipation.
“Miss Morandra and Miss Reb,” Mistress Nurana continued, “your masters have expressed particular interest in your ability to accommodate anal penetration with grace and enthusiasm. You’ll be working with graduated training devices while maintaining arousal through manual stimulation.”
I watched Morandra’s composed facade crack slightly as she processed the crude instruction, while Reb’s face went a scalding red. Mistress Nurana pointed to a station where an array of increasingly large plugs waited on a pristine white towel, the largest specimens making me wince in sympathetic discomfort.
“You may crawl over there and resume position three as you familiarize yourself with the implements on the towel.”
