Chapter 7
Hendren
I could watch her forever.
The thought struck me as I reclined in the leather chair of my embassy study, eyes fixed on the high-definition display that showed the Women’s Training Academy classroom in exquisite detail.
Viola sat ramrod straight at her assigned desk, her schoolgirl uniform perfectly arranged, her hands folded in her lap with the precise positioning Mistress Orela had drilled into her during the morning session.
Even through the video feed, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched almost imperceptibly as she fought to maintain the required posture.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
The camera angle gave me a perfect view of her profile—the elegant line of her neck rising from the white collar of her blouse, the way her dark hair had been styled in what seemed the Academy’s prescribed manner, with a simple blue ribbon.
The schoolgirl aesthetic was devastatingly effective on her.
Where once she had commanded respect in tailored presidential suits, now she looked like what she was becoming: a woman learning her proper place.
“Attention, ladies.” Mistress Orela’s crisp voice carried clearly through the audio feed.
“We will now practice what we Euporians call the seven essential postures. These postures aren’t taught to young women until they are almost on the point of marriage, for they are—as you will see—quite openly suggestive.
But with more mature learners I find the lesson helpful as a beginning.
We’ll start with position one, which we call Presentation. ”
I leaned forward slightly, my interest sharpening. This was new to me—Magisterian concubine training involved its own formality, but didn’t prescribe particular positions this way. I watched as Viola and her five classmates rose from their desks with varying degrees of uncertainty.
Curious, I fetched my handheld from a side table and pulled up the readout from Viola’s governor.
I saw that Mistress Orela had left the suppression setting off, so that Viola could feel all the arousal and pleasure her cunt would naturally experience.
The graph showing Viola’s arousal history over the last few minutes showed an interesting, rather pleasing spike, that looked to have occurred when the mistress had said the word Presentation.
“Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart,” Mistress Orela instructed, her own posture demonstrating perfect form.
“Hands clasped behind your back, shoulders pulled back to display your chest properly. Eyes lowered in deference. This is how you will present yourself when your Guardian enters a room.”
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 of ceding 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 your spine, 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!”
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Each counted stroke seemed to echo in my own body, phantom sensations that made me shift restlessly on my knees.
Around me, the other students watched with expressions ranging from horror to something disturbingly similar to what I was feeling.
Palla’s face was flushed, her breathing as shallow as mine.
“Ten! Thank you, Mistress!” Morandra’s voice was barely a whisper now, tears streaming down her face.
The final five strokes came with devastating efficiency. By the fifteenth, Morandra was sobbing openly, her bottom a canvas of angry red welts. Yet she had maintained her position throughout, accepting the punishment with a submission that both appalled and aroused me.
“Return to your position,” Mistress Orela commanded, setting the strap aside with the same casual air she might use to replace a piece of chalk.
Morandra struggled to stand, her movements stiff and pained. She pulled up her panties with trembling hands, the white cotton stark against her flesh. When she returned to her kneeling position beside me, I could see tears still glistening on her cheeks.
“Now then,” Mistress Orela continued as if nothing had happened, “where were we? Ah yes, position five: Supplication. From your kneeling position, lean forward and place your forehead on the floor. Arms extended forward, palms down. This demonstrates complete surrender to your Guardian’s will.”
I lowered my forehead to the cold floor, my arms stretched out before me in the degrading pose. The position made me feel utterly powerless, my bottom raised high while my face pressed against the marble. Around me, I heard the soft sounds of my classmates assuming the same humiliating posture.
“Position six,” Mistress Orela announced, “Display. Rise to your hands and knees, then lower your upper body while keeping your hips elevated. This position allows your Guardian to examine and appreciate your most intimate areas.”
My cheeks burned as I moved into the pose, acutely aware of how the short skirt must be riding up, how exposed I was becoming. The position thrust my bottom high into the air while my chest nearly touched the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the mortification.
“And finally, position seven: Surrender. Roll onto your back, draw your knees to your chest, and hold your ankles. This is the ultimate display of feminine submission and availability.”
The final position was the most degrading of all. Lying on my back with my knees pulled up, holding my ankles as instructed, I felt completely vulnerable and exposed. The white cotton panties were the only barrier between my mortifyingly warm pussy and the open air of the classroom.
“Excellent,” Mistress Orela said as she walked among us.
“These seven positions form the foundation of proper Euporian wifely behavior. You will practice them daily until they become second nature. You ladies should feel fortunate that you are learning these postures now, before you are sent to serve your Guardians and Mistresses. As I told you earlier, younger girls are not allowed to know them, and thus will quite frequently find themselves whipped for being insufficiently submissive.”
I watched out of the corner of my eye as, to my dismay, our teacher stooped down to inspect the woman from Draco, whose name I thought I remembered was Trellama.
Mistress Orela sniffed the air. Trellama let out a little sob, and I bit my lip as I pictured what the mistress could see and smell.
At last she spoke, her voice full of satisfaction.
“Miss Trellama, the wet spot on your panties does you credit, as does the strong scent of your vagina. Try to feel no more than the proper shame a woman should have to her panties exposed to view, as your sexual response is a positive thing. Have you had a man’s penis there often? ”