Chapter 5
Viola
“I won’t go.” The words hung in the air between us, my voice steadier than I’d expected. We stood in the gorgeous state bedroom of the embassy, surrounded by understated opulence that made me miss my presidential palace with a physical ache in my chest.
“You can punish me however you wish, Sire,” placing an extra emphasis on Sire to make sure the prince didn’t think I meant the title with the slightest bit of sincerity, “but I will not set foot in that Academy.”
Prince Hendren’s expression didn’t change, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
He stood before me in his immaculate uniform, the silver shield with three purple stars gleaming on his breast, while I knelt naked on the plush carpet of our private quarters.
The contrast wasn’t lost on me, obviously—his clothed power against my naked vulnerability—yet I had found this small rebellion within myself.
“Is that so?” he asked, his aristocratic voice soft, but threatening. “After everything you’ve seen today, you still believe you have choices?”
I swallowed hard, but held his gaze. “In this, yes. Whip me if you must. I’ve endured it before.” My hands trembled slightly where they rested on my thighs, but I kept them visible, refusing to hide my fear. “But I will not voluntarily walk into that place.”
The prince circled me slowly, his boots making no sound on the thick carpet. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “After a week of training, you choose this moment to make your stand.” He stopped behind me, his fingers trailing along my shoulder. “Why, I wonder? What about the Academy frightens you so?”
“It doesn’t frighten me,” I lied, the words bitter on my tongue.
“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 never find 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, then return, 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.
“I hate you,” I gasped, the words escaping before I could stop them.
To my surprise, Prince Hendren laughed, a rich, genuine sound that seemed incongruous with the situation.
“No, you don’t. That would be simpler, wouldn’t it?
If you could just hate me?” His hand caressed my burning flesh, the touch both soothing and threatening.
“What you hate is how I make you feel. How I strip away your carefully constructed facade and expose the woman beneath.”
The seventh stroke landed with devastating accuracy, and I screamed, my body convulsing against the whipping block.
“You hate that I see you,” he continued, his voice maddeningly calm. “The real you, not President Herranofar with her elegant suits and diplomatic platitudes. Just Viola, naked and wet and desperate to surrender.”
“No,” I sobbed, even as a terrible surge of affection for him washed over me—for his brutality, for his decisiveness, for the way he had taken me in hand so completely. The feeling horrified me more than the pain, more than the humiliation.
Suddenly I felt a subtle shift, a warmth blooming between my thighs where emptiness had been moments before.
Prince Hendren had adjusted something on the controller, and my pussy had abruptly begun to respond again—not fully, but enough to send tendrils of heat creeping through me with each stroke of the cane.
“Oh!” The sound escaped me, half-pain and half-pleasure as the eighth stroke landed.
“Better?” he asked, his voice knowing, cruel in its understanding.
The ninth stroke fell, and this time the pain transformed, melting into something else as it radiated through my body. My hips moved of their own accord, pressing back slightly as if seeking more.
“Please,” I whispered, the word slipping out before I could catch it.
“Please what, Viola?” His hand caressed my welted bottom, fingers tracing the raised lines with deliberate pressure.
“Please… whip me.” The words tumbled from my lips, shocking me with their sincerity. “Please whip me, Sire.”
His chuckle was low and satisfied. “And why should I grant you that?”
“Because I…” I swallowed hard, tears streaming down my face. Anything I said now I could claim later—to the prince, to myself, to the galaxy—I hadn’t meant, thanks to the prince’s savage punishment. I spoke the only words I could. “Because I need it.”
The cane whistled through the air, landing with precision across my sit spots. I cried out, arching against the restraints as pleasure spiraled through the pain. The governor allowed pulses of arousal to travel through me—not enough to satisfy, just enough to intensify everything else.
“And will you go to the Academy tomorrow?” he asked, landing another stroke that made me sob with mingled pain and need.
“Yes,” I gasped, hating myself even as relief flooded through me. “Yes, Sire.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise sent an unexpected thrill through me. “Now count the next ten strokes. Thank me for each one.”
The cane fell again, harder than before. “One! Thank you, Sire,” I cried out, my voice breaking.
Another stroke, crossing the previous welts. “Two! Thank you, Sire!”