Ordered into service as a fucking piece, thanks to their worlds’ foolishness, ship girls—with the help of officers like Vincent and Doctor Hascom—learned to understand their degrading position in a new way. Melora and Britana would find that the officers who used their lovely bodies for their dominant masculine pleasure always tempered their justice with compassion.
More, when a girl proved obedient, she received a rich reward of pleasure. Her masters bestowed on her sweet young pussy the sort of pleasure for which she could never have asked, growing up as she had on a world like Normeria, where submissive women were made to feel instinctively guilty about their needs. Indeed, pretty Melora probably never would have received that sort of erotic satisfaction at all if she had been allowed to remain on her egalitarian planet.
Melora’s green eyes went to Sister Portia’s face, widening a little in alarm. Vincent saw an indulgent smile on the teacher’s face.
“You may speak, girl,” said the older woman. “Captain Edwards addressed you.”
Vincent smiled, and took two steps toward the naked young woman. Melora’s eyes had gone even wider at the information that the man who had come to visit the training center held the highest rank, save admiral, in the Magisterian space fleet. The hierarchy of officers and nobility made one of the first lessons, Vincent knew, in a ship girl’s curriculum.
“I’m… I’m just…” Now it became very clear why Melora hadn’t answered Vincent immediately. She lowered her eyes to his polished black shoes and shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Sister Portia became a little severe, now.
“Melora Bullen, you know you are not to exhibit any prudery concerning your bodily functions. Out with it. Tell the captain why you have come into the hall.”
Melora’s eyes shone with tears now as she looked at him, pleading for sympathy. Now, however, Vincent knew he must exhibit more firmness. He inclined his head slightly and furrowed his brow.
“Well, girl?” he asked.
“I just have to go to the bathroom,” Melora blurted out. “Sir, may I please?”
Her eyes darted from Vincent to Sister Portia as it became clear that the conversation had begun to make the urge between her trim thighs much stronger.
“In a moment, Melora,” Vincent replied. He reached his right hand out to take her slightly pointy chin gently on his fingertips. Melora’s brow furrowed and she bit her lip. A little whimper came from deep in her throat, and Vincent detected a tremor in her hips not solely attributable to the state of her bladder.
“Is this your first time meeting a captain?” he asked softly.
“Yes, sir,” Melora breathed. “We… the major… from the Colonial Authority, he comes to watch, you know, discipline, sometimes… and… my…”
Vincent’s hand had traveled down to the girl’s breasts, to fondle them gently, his thumb brushing the stiff peaks of their little nipples. Melora closed her eyes. Her breathing came quickly between her parted lips, and her knees bounced down below with the twin stimuli of her need for the bathroom and her exquisite sexual responsiveness.
Vincent reached further down, letting his fingers enjoy the silkiness of the girl’s bare skin, until he found the tender cleft of her quim. He stroked idly, pressing with his two middle fingers into the sweet folds where her demure little clit lay hidden and, no doubt, aching.
“Oh, sir,” Melora whispered, her hips moving yieldingly, her breathing accompanied by little sobs as she gave herself to Vincent’s touch.
Sister Portia spoke, then, fulfilling her function, her voice cool and dismissive. “The girl’s first service was to a lieutenant of the Colonial Authority, last week. She received a good report from him.”
“I’m sure she did,” Vincent said, stooping a little so that he could work his hand further between Melora’s thighs and find the place the lieutenant had opened for men’s enjoyment. Melora’s brow furrowed deeply as he found the wetness that had gathered there. Erotic need had won out over her more mundane urge to pee, for the moment. Her hands, behind her back, moved restlessly atop her sweet little bottom. With each breath a tiny moan escaped her lips.
“You are a good girl, Melora,” Vincent said, removing his hand reluctantly from the slick little cunny that had grown very warm under his touch. “You may go relieve yourself.”
Melora’s eyes opened, and she blinked at Vincent, her mind returning from the submissive’s interior world to which he had sent her. For a moment, a pleased, proud smile played about her lips, perhaps at having obeyed in such terribly embarrassing circumstances.
Sister Portia intervened. “You heard Captain Edwards, you little whore,” she said sternly. “Go and do your business. Your wanton part has received all the wicked delight it is going to get for the moment.”
Melora’s face now showed precisely the inner conflict the Sisters of Service excelled at inspiring, and it seemed to Vincent for a moment that she might even stand up to them. In her eyes he saw a demand to know how it could be that the teacher could call her a whore when she also expected Melora to receive gladly such degrading touches as Vincent had bestowed.
Then she bit her lip, the stimulus of her bladder clearly becoming the most important thing.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, and hurried off down the hallway.
Chapter 7
Britana looked up from her desk when the door opened, expecting Melora to return from the bathroom. When she saw the officer instead, with the blue eyes and the neatly trimmed beard, and Sister Portia right behind him, her heart skipped a beat.
Oh, no, her mind said, as she looked around at the other naked girls, seated so mortifyingly and incongruously at their own old-fashioned school desks.
Britana had told herself that Sister Portia must simply have meant to frighten her, when she said that a starship captain had requested an invitation to come meet her. She had almost persuaded herself that really Sister Portia didn’t represent the fearsome ogress she had at first seemed so closely to resemble: the head sister saying that she wouldn’t whip Britana immediately, as she had seemed to promise, must mean that in the end Britana would get out of it, right?
The sight of the tall man, who walked around the periphery of the classroom in so very upright a way and with such self-assurance as the sister followed him, made it perfectly clear that Sister Portia always told the truth. When she had said that the captain would make a visit soon, and observe Britana’s first punishment, it had all seemed impossible, outlandish. It didn’t seem that way now.
“Go on, please, Sister Gracilis,” said the terrible woman as she followed the captain to the back of the room. “Finish the lesson. Then we’ll have a special disciplinary session. Britana Geran is going to pay the price for dawdling.”
Britana bent her head and looked down at her clenched fists on the desk. Out of the corners of her eyes she thought she could see the girls around her turning to look, but she couldn’t have raised her own gaze to see even if she had wanted to. Her heart thudded in her chest and a sob rose to her throat, though she managed to keep it down.
“Eyes forward, girls,” said Sister Gracilis, in the sweet voice that made such a contrast with Sister Portia’s chilly one. Britana had only arrived in this room that morning, but she already felt like Sister Gracilis could somehow make the Girls’ Training Center feel almost normal. Listening to the lesson that day, she had felt like she had gone back to school—a place Britana had always felt good, and safe from the terrible news of the war and then the humiliating peace.
Though the sister wore a habit and her sixteen pupils had no clothing at all, she seemed able to make them forget the embarrassment of their nudity. When Britana had entered, Sister Gracilis was in the middle of a discussion of the Draconian Renaissance on Earth, and its relation to Magisterian history. Without fuss, she had accepted charge of the newest girl from Sister Portia, and told Britana to take any of the three open desks. The other girls had given quick smiles, and Britana had thought she saw one or tw
o of them look her over surreptitiously—but certainly not in a mean or even a particularly embarrassing way.
She had had the chance to feel her way into the flow of the discussion, and had even raised her hand to ask a question about how Magisteria and Draco, originally allies, had parted ways.
“Good question!” Sister Gracilis had said and, looking around the room, she had seen kind smiles on other girls’ faces. Britana had even felt a little flush of pride, rather than of embarrassment, as she realized that at least a little camaraderie must exist among the girls here. They were all in it together, after all—as degrading as their ordeal might be, they shared it, didn’t they?
Half an hour later the class had followed their teacher down the hallway to the former ballroom that Sister Gracilis called the gymnasium. The other girls had taken white sports bras and exercise mats from the plain plastic cubbies that the Sisters of Service had clearly added to the elegant decor of the president’s mansion.
Sister Gracilis had shown Britana a cubby, number seven, and had given her a bra. “Let me know if it’s too big,” she had said in a compassionate kind of voice. “There’s one smaller size. If that’s too big, though, you’ll just go without.”
That had made the heat come to Britana’s face. The sister’s apparent kindness did have a patronizing quality, but she clearly cared about the girls in a way the other sisters Britana had seen did not.
That bra had proven too big, as had the smaller one. Alone of the sixteen girls, Britana remained entirely naked as Sister Gracilis led them through vigorous aerobics. Britana didn’t see anyone looking at her, but she couldn’t help looking at the other girls—especially Melora, whom Britana had considered her friend since the red-haired girl had introduced herself in a whisper, during the walk to the gym. She knew it would seem absurd under any other circumstances, but how could she keep herself from thinking that way of anyone nice enough to speak to the new girl?
Melora’s mat had been just in front of Britana’s, in the gym, and Britana had watched the other girl’s slim back as beads of sweat had started to trickle down it during the jumping jacks. When Sister Gracilis had told them to get down on hands and knees for the ancient cat-cow exercises, Britana’s face had gotten very hot at the sight of Melora’s pussy, shaven just as bare as Britana’s own.
When Sister Gracilis had told them to rest for a moment, and girls had started to talk quietly amongst themselves elsewhere in the gym, Melora had turned to Britana with a smile.
“Number seven was June,” she had said. “She graduated last week to the advanced class. I know you looked at me, just the way I looked at the girl in front of me my first time.”
Britana had blinked, taking a moment to understand what Melora meant. Then her already hot cheeks had gotten even hotter.
“It’s alright,” Melora had said, smiling. “We can’t help it. It gets easier.”
Britana had wanted to ask so many things, then, but physical education period had ended, and she had followed Melora to the shower room where, thank goodness, each girl had her own shower stall. That fact had made Britana even more curious about the questions she had for her new friend; the center seemed such a dismaying mixture of shame and shamelessness, modesty and degradation, that Britana could hardly keep the rules straight in her mind as she learned them.
It hadn’t gotten easier in the dining hall, which had once been the grand dining room of the president. Bombastic paintings of figures from the history of the human species, on Earth and in space, covered the walls: the moon landing, the launch of the Lourcy Starship to Draco, the discovery of gravitium, and the planting of the Federation flag on the barren world of Normeria led to a series of paintings of Normeria’s seven presidents, ending with the one deposed by Magisteria.
Britana’s and the rest of the beginners class’ nudity in this room had seemed wicked on its own, but her first sight of the advanced class, in their modest old-fashioned dresses, had made her face as hot as an oven. The clothed girls ate at one long table and the naked ones at another, with their teachers at the heads of the tables.
The food, Britana had found, tasted surprisingly good. When she had made an involuntary ‘mmm’ sound of appreciation at the quality of the salad dressing, a perfect balance of salt, sweet, oil, and tang, Melora beside her had whispered, “I know! See, it’s not so bad.”
By the time the afternoon lesson, a discussion of a passage from an ancient novel, had nearly ended, Britana had almost forgotten about Sister Portia and her threats. She had entirely forgotten about the captain. Melora had asked permission to use the bathroom. Britana had felt a good deal of reassurance at how freely Sister Gracilis had allowed it.
The sister had said, “Now, girls, now that we’ve talked about the historical context, let’s discuss the part of this chapter that you probably noticed most.”
Britana of course hadn’t read the chapter as homework, the way the other girls had. But on the tablet Sister Gracilis had given her, she had indeed noticed something the instant she started to skim the words—the brief final paragraph, after the girl named Fantine had been deserted by her boyfriend.
An hour later, when she had returned to her room, she wept. It was her first love affair, as we have said; she had given herself to this Tholomyès as to a husband, and the poor girl had a child.
“Fantine,” Sister Gracilis had said, “gave herself, Victor Hugo tells us, as to a husband. And she had a child. This book is very long and very sad, and you girls may wish to read all of it someday. We read this chapter here at the training center…”
Then the door had opened, and the captain had walked in, followed by Sister Portia.
Now, when Sister Portia had told Sister Gracilis to continue the lesson, the kind teacher had said, “I was just telling the girls that we read about Fantine in part so that they learn how fortunate they are to live in the time they do. Yes, thanks to the folly of your world’s leaders, girls, you must give yourselves to the men who master you, as in antiquity a girl like Fantine gave herself in love to her unworthy boyfriend. But for Fantine, as you can see even from this brief passage, it meant sorrow, and, I’m sad to say, death at much too young an age. For you, the giving of your sweet young bodies to the valiant men of the star fleet—like the captain here—will only bring fulfillment.”
Britana took her lower lip between her teeth. She tried to keep her eyes fixed on her tablet, but she couldn’t help it: she stole a glance behind her at the handsome officer and Sister Portia.
“Fulfillment,” Sister Portia said coldly, “once they learn their duty. Britana Geran, stand up and come here to the whipping bench.”
Britana’s lips parted. She looked at the piece of furniture to which the head sister pointed, feeling her eyes widen as she understood its purpose. Having no idea what the bench might be, she had more or less simply failed to see it until now. The sound of its terrible name changed that in an instant: Britana couldn’t look away.
She saw the little kneeler, covered with what appeared slightly padded leather. She saw the belt, and the restraints for wrists and knees, to be fastened once a girl had laid herself down. She looked at Sister Portia, and she wished suddenly that the horrid woman with the lovely face and piercing blue eyes would take the obedience wand out of her hidden pocket.
If she knew, and all the other girls knew, that Britana had no choice but to lay herself down over the horrid bench, then the thoughts and feelings coursing through her mind and body might not feel so very shameful. Britana understood in truth that of course she had no choice, that the threat of even more punishment, or of the captain coming to get her from her desk to carry her to the whipping bench, should give her enough reason to obey Sister Portia’s terrible command. But to have to walk over there under her own power, with the whole class—and, much worse, the Magisterian officer—watching seemed too terrible a thing to consider.
She found she couldn’t move. She stared at Sister Portia, whose eyes narrowed as a cruel smile pla
yed on her lips, as if Britana’s refusal were just what she had hoped for. The older woman glanced down at the small tablet she had removed from her voluminous pocket, and then she spoke in her cold voice.
“Captain Edwards,” Sister Portia said, “would you care to bring Britana to the bench for her appointment with the punishment strap?”
Chapter 8
Britana’s lovely dark eyes found Vincent’s. He could see in her face all the emotions a dominant man loves most to find in a young woman about to taste true submission for the first time. Familiar alpha jealousy rose in his chest, and he knew precisely what to do: Britana Geran feared and needed discipline in almost equal measure, and Vincent had the skill necessary to help her accept and learn from the whipping she had coming.
He didn’t need to see the data from her perineal sensor—information Sister Portia of course had at her fingertips on her tablet. Britana’s eyes told him of the unwelcome—to her—heat between her thighs. Vincent, as the man who would first master her and who hoped to have her as his ship’s fucking piece, had a job to do now. Sister Portia had prepared the ground perfectly, her own skill as a Sister of Service creating a special sort of opportunity.
Britana’s desk stood in the second to last row. Vincent took two slow steps toward her, past the empty desk that must be Melora’s. Just then Melora came back into the room. Britana looked toward the door, her cheeks pink, obviously grateful for an excuse to turn away from Vincent and Sister Portia.
For a moment, the scene seemed to freeze in place: Melora looked at Vincent, her own cheeks blazing at the sight of the captain. Vincent looked at Britana, and watched the new girl take in Melora’s reaction to him, standing next to Melora’s own desk. When Britana turned to look at Vincent again, their eyes locking anew, something had changed—developed or even progressed—in her expression. Her brow seemed troubled, now, and her lips had parted slightly, as if she desperately wanted to ask him what he meant to do to her, and yet feared his answer.
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