Chapter 4
Jendra
More motors activated around me. I counted at least six, maybe seven of my classmates who had reached for their dials. The sounds they made—soft whimpers, breathy moans—filled the spaces between the sharp cracks of Alpha’s palm against Sala’s punished flesh.
“Very good, Brequa,” Ms. Haspor said warmly. “Don’t fight what you’re feeling. Let yourself experience it.”
Brequa’s whimper grew louder. Her hips had begun to move, grinding against the vibrating seat in small, helpless circles.
“Mabola, excellent,” Ms. Haspor continued. “I can see you’re letting yourself feel the pleasure.”
I glanced at Mabola, shocked to see my usually composed classmate with her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her hand gripping the armrest as the other stayed on the dial. Her analytical mind had apparently decided that experiencing the sensation was the logical choice.
My own seat remained still and silent beneath me, though also much too warm for my mental ease.
The throbbing between my legs, though, had intensified to the point of actual discomfort.
I pressed my thighs together, trying to find some relief, and immediately regretted it as the pressure only made the aching worse.
Alpha’s hand finally stilled. Sala lay across his lap, her bottom a deep, angry red, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He helped her to her feet with surprising gentleness, then guided her to the front edge of the stage and turned her to face away from the audience.
“Hands on your head,” he commanded, his voice firm but not cruel.
Sala obeyed immediately, lacing her fingers behind her head. The position lifted her chest and made her back arch a bit, as if to display her punished bottom better to all of us. I could see the way the round cheeks trembled, could see the heat radiating from the reddened skin.
Around me, more whimpers. A girl behind me—I thought it might be Cerista—let out a low moan that sounded almost like pain, but I knew it wasn’t. Not really.
“That’s it, Cerista,” Ms. Haspor encouraged. “Let it happen. Let yourself climax.”
My face burned at the word. Climax. Orgasm. The thing I had almost given myself that night in the dormitory before I’d stopped, frightened by my own imagination.
Alpha stood and began to remove his uniform.
First the jacket with its insignia, then the shirt beneath.
His blue skin seemed to shimmer more intensely as each layer came off, his musculature clearly defined.
When his hands went to the fastening of his trousers, my heart began to pound so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.
The trousers fell away.
The collective gasp from my classmates was audible even over the whirring of their vibrating seats. I felt my own breath catch, felt my eyes widen despite every instinct telling me to look away.
Alpha’s cock—and I couldn’t think of it as anything else, besides the naughty word older girls had whispered… not penis, not member, but cock—hung nearly to his knees even in its semi-flaccid state. It was thick, impossibly thick, and as we watched, it stiffened and rose even further.
“Now you know, girls, I think,” Ms. Haspor said, and I heard amusement in her voice, “what Sala meant about discomfort.”
The enormous appendage continued to harden, lifting until it jutted out from Alpha’s body at an angle, massive and rigid.
The head was darker than the shaft, and I could see a bead of moisture at its tip.
My wellness classes had not prepared me for this.
The clinical diagrams had shown nothing like this—nothing that conveyed the raw, primal reality of what I was seeing.
A girl to my right—I thought it was Lenara—cried out, her body shuddering in her seat. She had climaxed, I realized. The vibrations and the sight of Alpha’s enormous erection had pushed her over the edge.
“Beautiful, Lenara,” Ms. Haspor praised. “Don’t be ashamed. Your body knows what it needs.”
Alpha retrieved a cushion from behind the wooden chair and placed it at the center of the stage. Then he looked at Sala, still standing with her hands on her head, her punished bottom on display.
“Come here, wife,” he said.
Sala moved immediately, gracefully, despite what must have been considerable pain from her spanking. She knelt on the cushion without being told, her posture perfect, her gaze lifted to look at her husband’s face.
Alpha stepped closer, his massive cock now level with Sala’s face. He placed one hand on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her short black hair.
“Open,” he commanded.
Sala’s mouth opened, and Alpha guided his cock between her lips. I watched, transfixed and horrified in equal measure, as he pushed forward. Sala’s lips stretched around his girth, her eyes watering as he penetrated deeper into her mouth and throat.
The huge blue captain began to fuck his wife’s face—there was no other way to describe it. His hips moved in steady thrusts while he held her head in place, using her mouth for his pleasure exactly as she had described men doing at the pleasure station.
More motors whirred to life. More gasps and moans filled the theater. Another girl climaxed—I couldn’t tell who this time—her cry of release mingling with the wet sounds of Alpha’s cock sliding in and out of Sala’s throat.
My hand hovered over my own dial. The ache between my legs had become almost unbearable.
I could feel moisture there, knew that my body was responding exactly as the sensors were designed to detect.
But if I touched that dial, if I gave in to what my body wanted, wouldn’t that prove everything Ms. Opalin had warned me about?
Wouldn’t it mean I was weak, that I had been corrupted by Magisterian propaganda?
Alpha pulled his cock from Sala’s mouth with an obscene sound. Saliva connected her lips to his shaft in glistening strands. He moved the wooden chair to the front of the stage, positioning it so the back faced us, then placed the cushion on its seat.
“Up,” he told Sala.
She stood on shaky legs, and he guided her to kneel on the cushion, facing us.
Her knees were on the chair’s seat, her hands gripping its back for support.
To my dismay, I couldn’t help picturing how she looked from her husband’s perspective: the posture must have left her completely exposed—her smooth pussy, her reddened bottom, everything visible to the man who clearly owned her in every way.
Alpha positioned himself behind her. His cock, glistening with Sala’s saliva, pressed against her pussy.
Through the posts of the chair’s rail back I could see the cleft, the way the huge blue penis began to stretch the entrance to her body.
I saw Sala tense, saw her knuckles whiten on the chair back, and then he thrust forward.
Sala cried out—a sound of discomfort mixed with something I recognized, with a flash of heat to my face, as primal need.
Alpha’s enormous cock had penetrated her, opening her in ways that must have hurt despite the arousal I could see glistening on her thighs.
He began to move, his thrusts deep and powerful, and Sala’s cries became a rhythmic accompaniment to his fucking.
But even as she cried out, even as I could see the strain on her face, I could also see something else.
Her back arched to take him deeper. Her hips pushed back to meet his thrusts.
The pain was obviously real, but so was the pleasure, and watching the two intertwine on her face made my own body respond in ways I couldn’t control.
Brequa climaxed again, her second orgasm making her slump in her seat. Two other girls I couldn’t identify also cried out their release. The theater had become a symphony of pleasure and submission, and I seemed to be the only one fighting against it.
Alpha’s thrusts slowed, then stopped. He pulled his cock from Sala’s pussy and I watched him move it upward, position it higher for some reason, then slowly begin to press.
It took me a moment, and Sala’s whimper of discomfort, different from before, to understand.
No, I thought. Not that. Please, not that.
But Alpha pushed forward, and Sala’s cry this time was definitely pain.
I knew her anus was stretched around his girth now, resisting, but I could see that her husband was relentless.
Inch by inch, I could see on her face, he penetrated her bottom.
Tears streamed down her face even as through the chair back I could see how her pussy continued to glisten with arousal.
“This is discipline,” Alpha said, his voice carrying easily through the theater despite his exertion. “This is how a Magisterian husband reminds his wife of her marital obligations. But watch closely—watch Sala’s face.”
I couldn’t look away. As Alpha began to fuck Sala’s bottom with the same powerful thrusts he had used on her pussy, I saw the pain on her face gradually transform. Her cries became moans. Her body, which had been rigid with discomfort, began to relax and move with him.
To my astonishment, Sala spoke, her voice a strained moan:
“Sir… please… may I?”
Alpha’s deep voice seemed smooth, unaffected by the effort of using his wife’s smallest hole.
“Yes, my love. Touch yourself. Make your little cunny feel good.”
Oh, no. That word… the c-word, the other terribly vulgar word…
but, in a diminutive form that made it even more mortifying…
I felt my own… my own cunny clench, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out as I watched Sala’s hand slip between her legs, saw her fingers find her clitoris and begin to rub.
She was going to climax. He was fucking her bottom, using her in the most degrading way possible, and she was going to climax from it. She was playing with her bare little cunny, like a naughty girl… in front of all of us… and she wanted to… to come that way, too.