Chapter 25
Jendra
I stood on shaky legs. My face burned as I realized I understood exactly what Beta meant about an old-fashioned schoolgirl.
The Victorians of old Earth: their strict girls’ schools, with their cane-wielding headmasters.
The blush reached my scalp as I remembered how some of my frantic research, after returning from the field trip that had started all of this, had involved learning more than I thought I really should about the correction of young women in the Victorian period.
I walked to the desk on trembling legs, my spanked bottom radiating heat with each step.
Beta’s study seemed to transform around me—the bookshelves, the holographic displays, even the very air took on a different quality.
As if I’d stepped backward through time into some austere Victorian schoolroom where wayward young ladies learned proper comportment through the application of firm correction.
I bent over the desk as instructed, the cool surface pressing against my suddenly tender breasts and the stiff peaks of my tiny nipples. My hands gripped the far edge, and I heard Beta moving behind me, his footsteps deliberate.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice taking on that instructional tone that made my stomach flutter, “about the heritage of corporal punishment in Victorian education?”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered. “I… I studied them… their… their practices.” I swallowed hard, suddenly wanting to communicate to Beta, the man I knew I loved, something about the complexity of my thoughts and feelings on the matter. “On… on my own.”
“On your own,” I heard Beta say, his voice thoughtful. “That’s an important fact, I think.”
I felt my forehead crease as a sob of mingled gratitude and shame threatened to rise in my throat. He had known what I meant. I could tell, just from his voice. For a moment I wondered if he could read my mind, the way Omega had.
“Headmasters understood something fundamental,” Beta continued. I heard him open a cabinet, heard the soft sound of wood sliding against wood. “That young people—especially young women with inquiring minds and wayward tendencies—require proper discipline to channel their energies productively.”
I swallowed hard, because I thought I knew what was coming.
“The cane was considered essential for girls who sought to learn but struggled with self-control.” His footsteps approached again. “Girls who let their base desires override their better judgment. Girls who needed firm guidance to become proper young ladies.”
I heard him position himself behind me, felt his presence looming over my exposed form.
“I will be your headmaster from now on, Jendra,” Beta declared, and something in his tone made me shiver with a mixture of fear and arousal.
“As well as your master in other ways. You will submit to my educational methods. You will accept correction when you fail to meet my standards. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master. Yes, Headmaster,” I gasped, the new title feeling strange on my tongue but somehow deeply appropriate.
“Good girl.”
I heard the whistle of the cane through air before it landed across the center of my bottom with a crack that made me shriek. The pain was immediate and intense, a line of fire that seemed to burn deeper with each passing second.
“Count,” Beta commanded.
“One! Thank you, Headmaster!”
The second stroke landed just below the first, parallel and precise. I screamed again, my hands gripping the desk edge so hard my knuckles went white.
“Two! Thank you, Headmaster!”
He worked methodically, laying stripe after stripe across my already tender flesh.
Each one felt worse than the last as the pain accumulated, building into an inferno that consumed all coherent thought.
By the tenth stroke, I was sobbing uncontrollably, my bottom squirming, clenching and then unclenching in a desperate search for relief.
“Please,” I begged. “Please, Headmaster, I’ve learned my lesson…”
“Not yet,” he said firmly. “A thorough caning requires at least two dozen strokes for serious infractions.”
The punishment continued relentlessly. Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty. Each stroke teaching me something new about submission, about consequences, about the terrible beauty of surrendering control to someone who wielded it with such precise authority.
When he finally stopped at twenty-four, I hung over the desk boneless and broken, sobbing into the hard surface. My bottom felt like it had been set ablaze, every nerve ending screaming.
“Now,” Beta said, his voice softer but no less commanding, “reach back with both hands and spread your bottom cheeks. Show me your anus.”
Mortification flooded through me even as my body obeyed. My hands moved behind me, trembling, and pulled my punished cheeks apart. The position was utterly degrading, exposing my most private place to his gaze while I remained bent helplessly over his desk.
“Do you understand,” Beta said quietly, “the importance of shame?”
I couldn’t answer, could only sob as I held myself open for his inspection.
“Young ladies who do not want to have their anuses on display,” he continued, “tempting their headmasters with such intimate exposure, must learn to behave themselves properly. This shame you feel—this is part of your education.”
I heard him open something—a jar, perhaps. Then I felt his finger, slick with oil, pressing against my anus. The invasion made me whimper, but I didn’t release my grip on my cheeks.
“Naughty girls must learn their lesson,” Beta murmured as he worked the oil into me, stretching me, preparing me. “And sometimes the only way to teach certain naughty girls is by imposing a headmaster’s manhood in their most shameful place.”
“Please,” I sobbed, though I didn’t know if I was begging him to stop or continue.
“Making them give pleasure that way,” he continued, positioning himself behind me. I felt the head of his enormous cock pressing against my oiled entrance. “To a vigorously thrusting masculine member.”
He pushed forward, and I cried out as he filled me. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, made worse by the welts covering my bottom. But Beta didn’t relent. He began to thrust, taking me with the deliberate rhythm of a man administering correction.
“This is what wayward schoolgirls receive,” he said, his voice rough with exertion and arousal. “When they fail to control their base urges. When they let their needy cunnies lead them astray.”
The crude language combined with the old-fashioned scenario made my head spin. I was desperate for release, my pussy clenching emptily as he used my bottom. I tried to rub myself against the desk, seeking friction, needing something to ease the terrible pressure building inside me.
“Stop that,” Beta commanded sharply, his hand coming down hard on my already punished bottom. “You do not have permission to masturbate.”
I wailed at the additional pain, but I stilled my hips obediently.
“You will be punished for that attempt,” he continued, his thrusts never faltering. “Severely punished. But first, you will feel your headmaster spend himself in your naughty bottom hole.”
His pace increased, becoming more urgent. I hung there helplessly, taking everything he gave, my body burning with need I wasn’t allowed to satisfy. When he finally came with a deep groan, filling me with his seed, I sobbed with frustration and relief in equal measure.
Beta pulled out slowly, leaving me feeling terribly empty and exposed. “Stay exactly as you are,” he ordered.
I heard water running in what must have been an attached washroom. He left me bent over his desk, my hands still gripping the edge, his seed leaking from my bottom. The position was mortifying, especially knowing he would return to find me like this. But I didn’t dare move.
When Beta came back, he helped me stand. My legs could barely support me. Then I noticed something in his hand of a kind I hadn’t seen before on Magisteria—a pair of red panties made mostly of a silky material. The inside of the seat seemed to have an extra layer of soft fabric.
“Put these on,” he instructed.
I stepped into them with shaking legs, and he pulled them up over my hips. The fabric pressed against my punished flesh, and I could feel his seed still warm inside me.
“Everyone on Magisteria knows,” Beta said, adjusting the panties carefully, “that red panties mean a concubine has her master’s seed in her anus.”
My face blazed with renewed shame. “Everyone?”
“Everyone,” he confirmed. “It’s a mark of thorough correction. Of a master who takes his responsibilities seriously. It’s one of the few occasions where others are expected to notice the evidence of a young woman’s submission to her master.”
“I… I have to go out? Like this?”
“Yes. We’re going to my ship.”
The walk through the palace complex was a special kind of torture.
Beta strode confidently while I followed behind, naked except for those damning red panties.
People we passed—guards, servants, other concubines—all noticed.
Some looked away politely. Others stared openly.
A few men nodded at Beta with what looked like approval.
By the time we reached the transit station, my face felt permanently flushed. We boarded the train, and I stood close to Beta, trying to make myself small. But there was no hiding the red panties, no disguising what they meant.
A naked concubine across from us noticed and gave me a sympathetic smile. An older man in uniform actually winked at Beta. I wanted to die.
“Where are we going?” I finally whispered.
“To teach you about the Collective,” Beta replied. “As I promised. Your education is just beginning, Jendra.”
The train carried us to the spaceport, where Beta’s ship waited. It was sleeker than I’d expected, more elegant. Once aboard, I felt some of my mortification ease—at least here, no one could see me.