Page 10 of Punished and Trained
“No?” His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back sharply. “Then perhaps it excites you.”
My breath caught. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” The prince released my hair and moved to stand before me again. “Stand up and face the mirror.”
I rose on unsteady legs and turned toward the full-length mirror that dominated one wall of the chamber. My reflection stared back at me—naked, collared, my newly bare sex exposed, my nipples hardened despite my best efforts to control my body’s responses.
“Look at yourself,” Prince Hendren commanded, standing behind me. “Tell me what you see.”
“A prisoner,” I whispered.
“No.” His hands settled on my shoulders. “Look deeper. See the flush on your chest? The way your pupils have dilated? You don’t know yourself anywhere near as well as you think, Viola.”
I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sight of my treacherous body.
“Open them,” he snapped. “Tell me the truth, Viola. The Academy fascinates you, doesn’t it? The structure, the discipline, the complete surrender it demands—it calls to something deep inside you.”
“No,” I insisted, but even to my own ears, the denial sounded hollow.
As I stared at my reflection, a terrible realization dawned. I did want to be punished. I wanted him to whip me, not just because the pain had become inexplicably tangled with pleasure in my mind, but because, deep down, I wanted the excuse. If he forced me, if he punished me severely enough, I could go to the Academy with my conscience intact. I could tell myself I had no choice.
The truth hit me with such force that I swayed slightly on my feet. I was indeed fascinated by the Academy, just as my master had said. The total control, the submission it demanded—all of it called to something primal inside me that I’d spent my entire political career denying. The part of me that had, to my absolute horror, secretly thrilled when the Magisterian ships first appeared in Artemisian orbit, that had felt a forbidden excitement when signing the surrender documents.
I was so horrified by this revelation that I pushed it deep down inside myself, locking it away where Prince Hendren could neverfind it. I would never tell him. I would never give him that satisfaction.
“Your silence speaks volumes,” the prince murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “But I don’t need your confession. I can read your body perfectly well. Let’s start with your governor set to level three, to make sure you don’t get too excited.”
I watched him adjust the handheld, and heard the beep, and then I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering at the tingle between my thighs as the need there was dampened. I looked at him, trying to figure out why I couldn’t feel the hatred I was so sure I should.
“Go to the whipping block,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The specialized piece of furniture stood in the corner of the room, just as it had in our stateroom aboard the flagship—a standard feature of Magisterian luxury accommodations, so that masters could always conveniently discipline and use their female property. My legs carried me toward it automatically, my body already conditioned to obey even as my mind rebelled.
“Bend over.”
I positioned myself over the padded surface, my forearms resting on the angled upper section, my stomach pressed against the middle, and my legs slightly spread on either side of the lower portion. The position thrust my bottom up and out, presenting it perfectly for whatever punishment Prince Hendren chose to inflict.
His hands were cold and efficient as he secured the restraints around my wrists and ankles. I heard him move away, thenreturn, the distinctive sound of a cane swishing through the air making my stomach clench.
“Your real punishment won’t begin until you beg for your whipping,” he said, tracing the thin rod along the curve of my bottom. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered, hating the tremor in my voice.
The first stroke landed with precise force, a line of fire across the fullest part of my buttocks. I gasped, jerking against the restraints.
“Yes, what?” my master prompted.
“Yes,Sire,” I corrected, gritting my teeth against the burning sensation.
“Better.” The second stroke fell just below the first, the pain sharper, more focused than the naval cat had been. This was precision rather than brute force, and somehow worse for it.
The third stroke made me cry out, my body writhing uselessly against the padded surface. I tried to focus on my anger, my defiance, anything but the strange emptiness between my legs where pleasure should have been building.
“You’re still fighting,” Prince Hendren observed, landing a fourth stroke that made me sob. “Still clinging to the illusion that you have any control here.”
The fifth and sixth strokes fell in quick succession, crossing the earlier welts and doubling the pain. Tears sprang to my eyes, spilling down my cheeks.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Viola,” he commanded, pausing in his methodical punishment.
