Chapter 12
Viola
The Quinst residence, in a suburb of the capital, proved a good deal more modest than I had expected.
A comfortable home, certainly, but by no means the sort of palace Euporia’s formal buildings, like the Academy, might have led me to expect.
Built from imitation wood—or perhaps even from real trees—it reminded me most of the sort of suburban family home I had seen in ancient images of old Earth.
I supposed that fit, given the culture and lifestyle the founders of Euporia seemed to have intended to enforce on their society.
“Welcome to your home for your Guardian lessons, Viola,” Mistress Quinst said, her hand resting possessively on my knee as the vehicle came to a stop. “I know you’ll find our hospitality educational, and we’ll do our best to make it warm as well, despite the challenges we know you face.”
Colonel Quinst emerged first, his military bearing unchanged even in civilian surroundings. He moved around the transport to open my door with practiced courtesy, though his blue eyes held the same cold authority that had reduced me to begging in the Academy classroom only an hour or so before.
“Out,” he commanded simply, and I obeyed without hesitation.
The interior of their home struck me as cozy, rather than grand in any way.
The furnishings of the single story, with a large kitchen and dining area as well as an expansive living room, seemed placed and maintained in just as orderly a way as I might have expected from a colonel and his obedient spouse.
“Your bedroom is the first on the right, down that hall, Viola,” my Mistress told me.
“You may put your things in there, then freshen up in your bathroom, at the end of the hall. Then come to the living room so that we can go over our expectations, for this evening and for your future stays with us.”
Clutching my overnight bag to my chest as if to guard me from Euporia’s monstrous ideology, I walked down the hallway on unsteady legs.
I was a good deal more aware than I wished to be of my bottom’s lingering tenderness, from the thorough spanking Colonel Quinst had administered in front of my classmates.
The bedroom the Quinsts had provided to me was small, but comfortable, with a single bed covered in a patchwork quilt that looked handmade.
A wooden dresser stood against one wall.
I put my overnight bag down on a chair beside it.
The bathroom at the end of the hall was equally modest—white tile, a simple shower stall, and basic amenities arranged with military precision.
I splashed cool water on my face, trying to compose myself a little.
I turned away from my reflection so as not to have to see the president of Artemisia wearing the ridiculous schoolgirl uniform that marked me as a student of the horrid Women’s Training Academy.
When I returned to the living room, I found Colonel and Mrs. Quinst seated on a comfortable sofa, a tea service arranged on the coffee table before them.
The domestic scene might have been reassuring if not for the way they both watched me enter—I couldn’t help thinking of predators assessing their prey.
“Sit there, Viola,” Mrs. Quinst said, gesturing to a straight-backed chair positioned directly across from them. “We need to discuss your training schedule and our household rules.”
I perched carefully on the edge of the chair, wincing slightly as my punished bottom made contact with the hard wood. The Quinsts noticed my discomfort with evident satisfaction.
“Rule number one,” Colonel Quinst began, his voice carrying the same authority he had displayed at the Academy. “You will address us properly at all times. I am Guardian, and Mrs. Quinst is Mistress. Any failure to show proper respect will result in immediate correction.”
“Yes, Guardian,” I replied quickly, remembering the burning lesson of my earlier defiance all too well.
“Rule number two,” Mrs. Quinst continued, pouring tea with an elegance that could only have come from long practice. “You will maintain perfect posture and feminine deportment at all times in our home. Shoulders back, spine straight, eyes downcast unless given permission to look up.”
I adjusted my position immediately, pulling my shoulders back despite the way it emphasized my breasts beneath the white blouse.
“Rule number three,” the colonel said, accepting a cup from his wife.
“You will participate in all household activities as directed. Cooking, cleaning, serving—consider it part of your domestic education. I suppose that as the concubine of a Magisterian prince you may not be required to engage in such tasks, but the mental attitude fostered by compliance in such things will certainly please your master when you return to him.”
The basic idea of performing menial labor while wearing this humiliating uniform vied for attention in my mind with the more abstract notion of how Prince Hendren would benefit. Together they sent fresh heat rising into my cheeks, but I nodded obediently.
“And rule number four,” Mrs. Quinst added with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “you will submit completely to any instruction or correction we deem necessary. Your body belongs to Prince Hendren, but your training belongs to the Academy, and to us.”
This second, even more direct, reminder of my master’s ownership rights sent an involuntary shiver through me. I wondered if he was watching even now, monitoring my responses through the hateful governor, taking satisfaction in my mounting humiliation and submission to these strangers.
“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
“Excellent,” Colonel Quinst said, setting down his teacup with a soft clink. “Now then, let’s discuss this evening’s schedule. Dinner will be at six o’clock sharp. You’ll help Betty prepare the meal, then serve us properly. After dinner, we’ll begin your first intimate lesson.”
My stomach clenched at his words. I felt terribly foolish at the next words that came out of my mouth, since the meaning of his words seemed dismayingly clear, but part of me simply refused to know it. “Intimate lesson, Guardian?”
“Don’t look so frightened, dear,” Mrs. Quinst said, though her smile held a predatory edge. “Tonight we’ll simply be assessing your current level of training. Prince Hendren has been quite thorough, I’m sure, but the intimacy prescribed by the Good Way is of a different kind.”
“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 that reduced 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.