Chapter 8
Viola
Trellama let out a little sob.
“No, Mistress. Not… very often.”
“Less frequently than ideal, certainly,” Mistress Orela said, nodding, “or you would not be here with us, would you?”
I bit my lip to keep myself from whimpering at the way this mortifying exchange affected me. I knew I must have a wet spot of my own, and I prayed the dreadful woman didn’t intend to inspect each of us.
“N-no, Mistress,” Trellama said. “They… the government on Draco sent me as a second chance when I refused too many suitors.”
“Let us hope you make the most of it,” Mistress Orela said. “I think we’ll be able to ensure you’re ready to submit, when you return home.”
She straightened and moved further down the row.
She paused beside my supine form, and I felt her gaze assessing me.
“Miss Viola, your wet spot is even more commendable than Miss Trellama’s.
Please maintain that position while the others return to their seats.
I wish to demonstrate proper adjustment of posture. ”
My heart hammered as the other students rose and moved away, leaving me alone on the floor in the shameful pose. Mistress Orela knelt beside me, her hands cool as she adjusted the angle of my legs.
“Notice how the spine must arch properly,” she lectured to the class. “The submission must be complete and aesthetically pleasing.” Her fingers traced along my thigh, ostensibly for instructional purposes, but the touch sent unwelcome shivers through me.
“Your Guardian will expect perfection in these displays,” she continued, her hand now resting possessively on my knee. “Any hesitation or improper form will result in immediate correction.”
I bit my lip to suppress a whimper as her touch lingered, knowing that my body’s treacherous responses were being monitored by the governor, recorded for Prince Hendren’s later review.
The thought that he might be watching even now, seeing me debased before these strangers, made the humiliation complete.
“You may return to your seat now,” Mistress Orela finally said, rising to her feet with fluid grace.
I scrambled up on unsteady legs, my face burning as I smoothed down my skirt and returned to my desk. The brief respite of sitting normally felt like a luxury after the degrading positions we had just practiced.
“Now then,” Mistress Orela said, returning to her position at the front of the classroom, “we will discuss the philosophical foundations of the Good Way. Miss Palla, please read aloud the start of chapter three of your text.”
Palla fumbled with her book, her hands still trembling, obviously from what we had all witnessed. “The natural order dictates that feminine submission serves not only individual happiness but societal stability,” she began in a soft voice.
“Louder,” Mistress Orela commanded. “Confidence in reciting truth is essential.”
“The natural order dictates that feminine submission serves not only individual happiness but societal stability,” Palla repeated, her voice stronger now.
“When women attempt to usurp masculine authority, chaos inevitably follows. The recent Vionian revolt demonstrates this principle with devastating clarity.”
I felt a familiar surge of anger at the words, but it was quickly tempered by something more complex.
Sitting here in this schoolgirl uniform, my body still humming with unwelcome arousal from the posture exercises, I found myself unable to dismiss the argument as easily as I once had.
My world had fallen. I had failed to protect my people.
The treaty I’d signed in desperation had led directly to my current position—dressed in this ridiculous uniform, collared and controlled, my most intimate responses monitored by an electronic device I couldn’t remove.
“Continue, Miss Palla,” Mistress Orela prompted.
“Women who embrace their natural submissive tendencies report higher levels of satisfaction and purpose,” Palla read, her voice gaining confidence.
“The burden of leadership creates psychological stress incompatible with feminine biology. When women surrender these inappropriate responsibilities to masculine guidance, they discover fulfillment previously denied to them.”
The words hit me like physical blows. I wanted to argue, to point out the logical fallacies, to defend the achievements of female leaders throughout history.
But sitting in this classroom, my body still tingling from watching Morandra’s punishment, my sex wet with shameful arousal, the arguments felt hollow in my mind.
“Miss Viola,” Mistress Orela said suddenly, making me start. “You seem particularly thoughtful. Please share your reflections on this passage with the class.”
My mouth went dry. Every eye in the room turned toward me, waiting.
I could feel the weight of expectation, the trap being laid.
Any defense of egalitarian principles would be seen as defiance, earning me the same treatment Morandra had received.
But agreement would feel like betraying everything I had once stood for.
“I…” I began, then stopped, swallowing hard. “I’m still… processing these concepts, Mistress.”
“Elaborate,” she commanded, her pale eyes fixed on me with predatory intensity.
I clasped my hands tighter in my lap, fighting to find words that wouldn’t damn me either way. “The passage suggests that leadership caused me stress, Mistress. And I… I cannot deny that the presidency was often overwhelming.”
“Go on,” Mistress Orela encouraged, as if sensing victory.
“Perhaps…” I forced the words out, hating myself for speaking them, “perhaps there is wisdom in recognizing one’s limitations.”
The admission tasted like ash in my mouth, but I saw satisfaction flicker in Mistress Orela’s eyes. Around me, my classmates watched with expressions ranging from sympathy to something like relief—as if my capitulation somehow validated their own.
“An excellent beginning,” Mistress Orela said. “Personal reflection is the first step toward genuine transformation. Miss Morandra, since you seem so eager to contribute today, please continue reading from where Miss Palla left off.”
Morandra shifted carefully in her seat, obviously still in pain from her earlier punishment. Her voice was steady as she read, but I caught the slight tremor that betrayed her ongoing discomfort.
“The Guardian–Mistress system provides optimal feminine development through structured guidance and loving correction,” she began. “Each woman benefits from both masculine strength and feminine wisdom, creating a comprehensive educational environment that addresses all aspects of proper behavior.”
I found myself listening intently despite my revulsion at the concepts being presented.
The very idea of being placed under the control of a married couple, subject to both a man’s dominance and a woman’s guidance in submission, sent conflicting signals through my nervous system.
Terror and anticipation warred within me as I imagined what such an arrangement might entail.
“The Guardian provides discipline and sexual instruction,” Morandra continued, her voice becoming smaller with each word, “while the Mistress offers emotional support and practical training in domestic arts. This dual authority ensures that no aspect of feminine development is neglected.”
Mistress Orela nodded approvingly. “Precisely. The system recognizes that women require both firm masculine guidance and nurturing feminine mentorship. You ladies will experience this firsthand beginning tomorrow evening.”
My stomach clenched. “Tomorrow?”
“You will spend tonight in the dormitory, but tomorrow you will each have your first night with your Guardian and your Mistress. They will come to fetch you in the afternoon.” She made eye contact with each of us in turn, an infuriatingly knowing smile on her lips.
“Alright, ladies. That will do for your classroom learning for the morning. It’s time for you to move on to your physical education session. ”
We followed Mistress Orela through corridors that seemed to wind endlessly through the Academy’s interior, our Mary Jane shoes clicking in unison against the polished marble floors. The sound created an oddly hypnotic rhythm that seemed to emphasize our collective subjugation.
“Physical education is just as important as the more abstract knowledge we’ve begun exploring in the classroom,” Mistress Orela explained as we walked. “Our program emphasizes grace, flexibility, and cooperative movement.”
We arrived at a set of double doors, and Mistress Orela pushed them open, revealing a spacious room with polished wooden floors and mirrored walls.
Exercise equipment lined the perimeter: weight machines and treadmills, but also ballet barres, yoga mats arranged in precise rows, and what appeared to be specialized furniture designed for stretching and positioning.
“Ladies, meet Mistress Nurana, your physical education instructor,” Mistress Orela announced.
A woman in her thirties stepped forward, her auburn hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She wore form-fitting exercise attire that accentuated her athletic build, and her green eyes assessed us with the same clinical interest we had come to expect from Academy staff.
“Welcome, girls,” Mistress Nurana said, her voice carrying a slight accent I couldn’t place. “Physical conditioning is essential to proper feminine development. A woman’s body must be both pleasing to observe and capable of the flexibility her Guardian and her husband will require.”
The implications of her words sent heat rushing through me again. I glanced at my classmates and saw similar reactions—Palla’s face had flushed pink, while Trellama seemed to be fighting tears.
“Remove your clothing,” Mistress Nurana commanded matter-of-factly. “Everything except your collars. Fold your garments neatly and place them in the designated cubicles.”
The order hit me like a physical blow. After the brief reprieve of being clothed, even in this degrading schoolgirl uniform, the prospect of nudity in front of my classmates felt overwhelming. But I had learned the cost of hesitation from watching Morandra’s punishment.
With trembling fingers, I began unbuttoning my white blouse.
Around me, the other women were doing the same, their movements hesitant, but compliant.
When I stepped out of my white cotton panties, the cool air against my bare sex reminded me sharply of my depilated state.
I felt utterly revealed, more humiliated somehow than I had even during the reception at the embassy.
Perhaps it was the intimacy of being naked among women who shared my circumstances, or perhaps it was the knowledge that this was only the beginning of more invasive humiliations to come.
“Excellent,” Mistress Nurana said, surveying our naked forms with professional detachment. “Now you’ll each receive a support garment designed specifically for our physical education program.”
She moved to a cabinet and withdrew what appeared to be transparent breast halters—gossamer-thin material that would provide minimal coverage while emphasizing rather than concealing our breasts.
As she handed them out, I noticed with a mixture of fascination and horror that every woman in the class had been depilated just as I had.
The uniformity of our bare sexes created an oddly compelling visual that made me acutely aware of my own nakedness.
“These garments serve multiple purposes,” Mistress Nurana explained as we struggled into the flimsy halters. “They provide support during exercise while ensuring your bodies remain on display. Your Guardians will expect you to move with grace and confidence, regardless of your state of undress.”
The transparent material felt strange against my skin, offering the illusion of modesty while actually highlighting my breasts more effectively than complete nudity might have.
I caught sight of myself in the mirrored wall and felt a fresh wave of humiliation at how the garment transformed me into something between a student and a sexual object.
“Today we’ll begin with basic flexibility training,” Mistress Nurana announced. “Partner exercises are particularly effective for building trust and cooperation among students.”
She began pairing us off, and to my dismay, I found myself matched with Morandra. The former professor’s dark skin still showed the faint marks of her earlier punishment, and I could see the careful way she moved, obviously still tender from the strapping.
“Face each other and hold hands,” Mistress Nurana instructed. “Miss Viola, you’ll lean back while Miss Morandra supports your weight. This exercise builds both physical flexibility and emotional trust.”
As I grasped Morandra’s hands and began to lean backward, I felt an unexpected intimacy in the position. Our nearly naked bodies formed a graceful arch, our faces close enough that I could see the intelligence still burning in her eyes despite everything she had endured.
“Deeper,” Mistress Nurana commanded, pressing her hand against the small of my back to force a more pronounced arch. “Your Guardian will expect a good deal of flexibility from your spine.”
The position thrust my chest forward, the transparent halter doing nothing to conceal my hardened nipples. I bit my lip to suppress a whimper as the stretch intensified, my body responding to the combination of physical stress and intimate positioning in ways that shamed me.
“Switch positions,” Mistress Nurana ordered.
Now it was my turn to support Morandra as she arched backward, her athletic body forming an elegant curve that I couldn’t help but admire.
The trust required for the exercise seemed somehow to create a bond between us.
I wished I dared ask how much her bottom hurt, or—more to the point—how she had come to give up her independent life on Hippolyta.
“This cooperation will help you adjust especially to your subordinate relationship to your Mistresses, ladies. That’s something that may come more naturally to younger women, who are more inclined to look up to the older woman who teaches them to serve a man.
You, on the other hand, may have the instinct to question, rather than to trust that your Mistress knows best.”