Training Planet

by Tilton, Emily

  The drone’s-eye view from above the center showed a perfectly lovely white-pillared structure, with a distinctive balcony from which the world’s presidents must have addressed cheering crowds. Vincent tended to prefer a more Northern—as the geography of old Earth went, which still determined schools of art these millennia later—style, but Normeria had clearly done well for itself, until the unwise decision to join the Vionian coalition.

  The view from above the center served as a guide to the wide selection of views into which Vincent could zoom at will. Red captions on the view screen told him that seventeen girls were in one of the center’s large classrooms and fifteen were in the other—the former group, the caption indicated, comprised most of the advanced class of ship girls-in-training, while the latter included young women who had arrived within the past three months. One girl had, it seemed, just arrived at the receiving entrance.

  Vincent shifted his view to the advanced classroom, and found a camera angle he liked. The girls, in their modest gray dresses, sat in five rows before the sister teaching today’s lesson. Seen from behind the instructor, they looked up with pink-cheeked faces at the young lady of their number who had it seemed just been made to take off her clothing, either as part of the lesson or perhaps, Vincent thought, as a disciplinary measure.

  He shifted his camera angle to a view from the wall and saw the tearstained expression on the girl’s face as she stepped out of her thick white schoolgirl briefs. A punishment, then, seemed most likely. Then Vincent saw that the Sister of Service had begun to part her habit at the neck, opening it along its invisible seam to reveal a black corset, and below that formidable lingerie, the privilege of her order: the full bush of cunt hair that Magisterian sisters of service trimmed only occasionally, though the girls they trained learned a very different regime. The young woman who had just removed her panties had no hair between her legs at all; the adorable cleft of her quim peeped out charmingly—and, for Vincent, mouth-wateringly—for all to see.

  The naked girl, her red hair pulled back in a pretty headband and her green eyes wide, turned to see her teacher take from a drawer the punishment harness. For this device the Sisters of Service had become justly known on every world where the order had undertaken to train young women for the pleasure of dominant masters.

  This class had seen it before, clearly. The naked girl’s face crumpled.

  “Please, Sister?” she begged.

  “Lay yourself over the whipping horse, Miss Taler,” the sister said, pointing to the distinctive bench at the back of the room. “Girls, you will work on your essays while I punish Miss Taler.”

  An alert in the corner of Vincent’s screen told him that the new girl had just been fully registered as a student. He tapped there, out of curiosity. The scene in the advanced classroom would be exciting, but he knew it would take at least a few minutes for it to begin properly: the sister had to don the punishment harness, and then strap the girl to the whipping horse, before the lesson could truly commence.

  When he saw the new girl, though, Vincent decided to forego that voyeuristic pleasure in favor of the one provided by Miss Britana Geran. Attracted by her dark eyes as she stood uncertainly before the desk in the vestibule, he double-tapped her image to learn that to be her name and to see that she had earned stellar marks at her secondary school.

  The intelligence in her gaze showed clearly in the way Britana looked about her now, so obviously attempting to puzzle out what sort of place the mysterious Girls’ Training Center might be. At the same time, the red in her face made plain how very conscious the communication from the Magisterian Colonial Authority had made her of the destiny forced upon her—so very shameful, as she must think it.

  In contemplating that sweet blush, Vincent found anew his appreciation of his world’s system for the erotic satisfaction of men like him—and girls like Britana. Every girl chosen for enrollment under the care of the sisters of service had come to the attention of the Colonial Authority’s proven algorithm for identifying suitable ship girls as a result of the sort of modesty that now made Britana blush.

  The red-haired girl in the advanced classroom, whom the sister had now probably begun strapping down atop the whipping horse, shared that quality, as did every other young lady in both classrooms.

  Even after thousands of years of the study of human psychology, little consensus existed in the Galactic Federation—let alone the galaxy as a whole—as to the nature of modesty. On the other hand, Magisterian researchers had gathered abundant evidence that one kind of modesty, the sort accompanied by the nano-sensor readings coming from between Miss Britana Geran’s thighs, indicated that a young woman needed what the Sisters of Service, and the Magisterian Royal Navy, could give her.

  “You may put your suitcase over there,” said Head Sister Portia, whose name appeared helpfully in a graphic on Vincent’s screen. Her voice was brusque and faintly disapproving, as if Britana should have known better than to hold onto her luggage.

  Britana looked up at the woman, and then over to the sister behind the reception desk. Vincent found himself oddly moved by the girl’s evident sensitivity; it seemed as if the abrupt injunction to leave her suitcase against the wall had increased her anxiety greatly. She had good reason for that anxiety, Vincent knew: the next few minutes would be very difficult for her. The captain felt his cock swell against his thigh at the thought of the humiliation Miss Britana Geran, daughter—the profile displayed on the right side of his screen said—of two Normerian senior magistrates, would now undergo.

  Sister Tristia, behind the desk, looked up at Britana with an expression of annoyance. “Don’t dawdle, girl. Do as Sister Portia said.”

  “She dawdled on the sidewalk,” said Sister Portia, her voice growing even more censorious. “She has a whipping coming already.”

  The close-up to which Vincent switched now showed two bright tears in the corners of the dark-haired girl’s eyes.

  “I don’t…” she started, her voice trailing off as she looked from one Sister of Service to the other. “Please. You… you can’t. I don’t understand.”

  Her eyes pleaded with Sister Portia.

  “Did you dawdle on the sidewalk, Britana, or did you come right in here where you knew you must go?”

  “I only… I only looked at the… the…” Now the frightened girl clearly foundered on the dilemma of whether to call the building the president’s manor or the shameful new name her world’s conquerors had given it.

  “The Girls’ Training Center, you little whore,” said Sister Tristia.

  Britana started at the woman’s degrading words. “What? I… you…”

  Sister Tristia didn’t address the girl now, but her fellow instructress. “She’s registered. You may take her to the examination room.” She turned again to Britana. “I hope Sister whips that whorish young bottom of yours very thoroughly, girl. You obviously need an old-fashioned lesson in the worst way. You Normerian girls are all such wanton sluts. I don’t wonder the Federation put this center here.”

  Britana had turned to look at the woman behind the desk, whose cold eyes moved up and down her pretty young form, clad in a simple but very fashionable outfit of close-fitting pink pants and a white short-sleeved top. Fashions traveled vast interstellar distances these days; young women on every egalitarian planet in the Federation were donning similarly tight pants. A Magisterian at home would allow his concubines to wear such a thing in the bedroom, Vincent thought to himself, in order to have those pants lovingly removed after their seat had been thoroughly paddled—but nowhere else.

  The sisters’ judgment upon the young women of Normeria therefore had to do not so much with the specific culture of Britana’s world than it probably seemed to her. The Magisterian Sisters of Service, founded a thousand years before as an instrument for educational and cultural outreach, had always taken this sort of pronouncement as part of its duty, wherever its academies and centers rose on human colonies. Sister Portia and Sister Tristia
undertook to awaken submissive girls’ natural ambivalence about independence granted them on planets like Normeria, and to turn it to the purpose of dominant pleasure—as well as the girls’ own erotic fulfillment.

  Sister Portia’s duty now involved taking a menacing step toward Britana and seizing the little blue suitcase, on which Britana’s right hand still rested. The girl instinctively clutched at it, but Sister Portia pulled the case away with a look of utter contempt.

  “Wait…” Britana cried, as the sister in the black habit turned and marched the two steps to the corner at which she had pointed a few moments before.

  “You will see your things again in the dormitory,” Sister Tristia said, looking up from the work to which she had returned her attention and speaking dismissively. “Go with Sister Portia now.”

  Britana again turned her lovely face this way and that, dividing her gaze between the two sisters, as if she might find one of them sympathetic, but neither paid her any attention. Sister Portia moved to the door that led inward into the center and opened it. When she turned back to Britana her face looked as hard as stone.

  “The first door on the left, girl,” the sister said.

  Vincent chose the close-up of Britana’s face again, to see a jolt of emotion go through her that he could scarcely read. Her cheeks went very red, so shame—perhaps at how the promise of a whipping had made her feel between her thighs—definitely made a part of it. He saw fear, too, in her widened eyes—an immediate anxiety about the prospect of being seen to ‘dawdle’ again that made her feet move under her, though as Vincent shifted the camera to a longer view she seemed to walk very awkwardly, as if she had difficulty controlling her limbs.

  Then, in her look back over her shoulder as she passed Sister Portia, he saw something else that made his heart swell a bit even as it also stiffened him in his uniform pants. Britana’s dark eyes seemed to plead for understanding of her dawdling, as if she hoped the sister would see that the Normerian girl wanted to behave herself, but didn’t yet know how.

  Did Sister Portia see the same plea, Vincent wondered? If the woman did, her training didn’t allow her to acknowledge the perception in any way.

  “Through the door, Britana,” said the Sister of Service. “Then take off those disgraceful clothes.”

  Chapter 3

  “What?” Britana demanded, stopping just in front of the slightly open door, through which she could see a sliver of a well-lit room.

  The examination room. One of them called it that.

  The whiteness of the room beyond the door made her think of a doctor’s office.

  “I…” she tried, looking at the horrible Sister Portia in her strange, shapeless black dress and the severe black head scarf that framed what Britana realized was really probably a lovely face. The utter lack of sympathy in that face made the words just had my checkup catch in her throat and fade away to nothing there.

  To her horror, Sister Portia closed the door leading from the little corridor into the vestibule and then, without warning, crossed the distance to Britana and put her hand right on Britana’s bottom, gripping the firm little cheeks tightly in her surprisingly strong fingers. Britana shuddered, and started forward, her body complying with the same strange feeling of unwanted muscle relaxation she had felt outside the center.

  Whatever the woman had touched her back with, out there, it had created a confusing disconnect between her mind and her body. No matter how clearly her brain urged her to stay in place, the older woman’s hold on Britana’s rear end in her tight pink neo-capri pants made her move in the direction Sister Portia pushed—right toward the door of the examination room.

  The older woman had come very close to Britana, now, and Britana could feel warm breath on her ear as Sister Portia hissed, “I know you went to the doctor last week, you little whore. I know you got your birth control shot, too. The center’s doctor is going to give you a different kind of exam now.”

  As the words registered in Britana’s mind, with all their mysterious but very dismaying implications, the hand on her bottom followed Britana’s forward movement, tightening on her little cheeks rather than letting go. Britana gave a little cry and practically jumped through the door, which Sister Portia used her left hand to open in front of her.

  To her horror Britana saw that a gynecological exam chair dominated the small room, which otherwise only had a small desk, a stool for the doctor, and a counter with a sink. When she finally managed to travel far enough toward the raised chair with the stirrups that made her tummy flip over that she no longer felt Sister Portia’s hand on her bottom, she turned to see that the woman had followed her into the room. She stood looking at Britana now with her arms folded across the formless chest of her black habit.

  “Everything off, now, Britana,” she said. “This instant.”

  If the woman had used a brusque, nurse-ly sort of voice, Britana thought, the command would have seemed infinitely more mundane and infinitely easier to obey. But in Sister Portia’s tone and in her intent eyes, which, Britana noticed now for the first time, shone coldly from the woman’s face in a bright shade of blue that she thought no Normerian eyes had, Britana sensed something else.

  Sister Portia didn’t intend to leave the room while Britana undressed, the way a nurse would have. Nor did the older woman intend even to look away. With a sinking of her heart that felt entirely physical, Britana noticed that nowhere in the little room did there exist anything that might cover her after she had taken off her clothes—the sort of paper gown, for example, she had worn at the doctor’s office the previous week.

  Nor, the woman’s face seemed to say loudly and clearly despite the utter silence in the little room, would she even look away. She meant to watch Britana take off the clothing she had called disgraceful: the cute white top and the fashionable pink pants.

  And then… Britana’s cheeks got hot as she remembered her pink thong panties and her white camisole with the lacy accents. She didn’t wear a bra, usually, since her barely B-cup breasts only needed support when she exercised. Britana had no idea, based on her knowledge of Magisterian culture, whether Sister Portia would find her underwear disgraceful too, but the very thought that the woman intended to see Britana in it—that she had made it plain that Britana would have to take everything off—sent the blood rushing to her face.

  She couldn’t bear to look at those blue eyes any longer. She lowered her own gaze to Sister Portia’s shapeless dress—the word habit came to Britana’s mind, now, though she had only a vague idea that it came from ancient Earth history. She had no choice, she told herself. Her poor, conquered planet needed this awful sacrifice from her. Britana started to turn around so that at least she wouldn’t have to show the head sister everything as she took her clothing off.

  “No,” Sister Portia said in a quiet, but very scornful and utterly superior voice. “You will undress facing me.”

  Britana had no idea why it should matter. A moment before, when she had taken a tiny bit of solace in the idea that she would at least be able to keep her back to the woman as she stripped, she had known that of course she would have to get into the awful chair afterward, wouldn’t she? Now, though, the older woman’s words sent the heat pulsing through Britana’s entire body. She had thought her blush hot before; now her entire body seemed to glow with shame.

  She stepped out of her flats and tried to pull her top swiftly over her head, hoping to get it all over with quickly. Somehow the thought of transitioning with as much speed as possible from clothed to naked made it easier—it was the undressing itself that seemed to embarrass her the most.

  That realization, however, made Britana think about it more intently than she had before. While the white fabric of her top covered her eyes for a moment, she saw herself through Sister Portia’s eyes: the lacy trim on the camisole enhancing the little curve of her breasts, the tight pink pants looking almost as if Britana didn’t have panties on at all.

  She tried to keep down the whim
per that arose, suddenly, at the strange feeling in her tummy and down below, but the glowing sensation there, the heat inside her thong grew too swiftly and too high. The little sobbing sound emerged from her throat, and worse, she felt her hips give a little jerk, her knees bouncing slightly.

  Britana tried to disguise the movement of her lower body with a shimmy of her arms and chest, as if the effort of getting the top off had made her have to use hips and knees to assist the process. She pulled off the top, not looking at Sister Portia, and turned to put it on the stool.

  “You little whore,” she heard the older woman say in a voice dripping with contempt. Britana felt her face crumple and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes, but she kept her gaze on the bottom of the sister’s habit and she put her hands to the bottom hem of the camisole.

  Suddenly she saw Sister Portia’s right hand reach out and seize the waistband of her neo-capris. She felt the woman’s fingers inside her pants, stretching the front, pulling it toward the head sister.

  Britana cried out as fear and the other thing, the shameful thing that she didn’t want to think about, filled her chest and the places Sister Portia now had her hands so near. Britana let go of her camisole and instinctively tried to move the older woman’s hand from her waistband.

  “Put your hands on your head, girl,” Sister Portia commanded.

  “Please,” Britana wailed, trying and failing to remove the woman’s iron grip.

  “Now, girl,” the sister commanded. “Or your whipping will be so much worse than it’s already going to be. Put your hands on your head or you’re not going to walk without crying for a week after you leave this room.”

  With a cry of alarm, Britana obeyed, her hands flying up and finding her now disheveled hair, fingers twining in its slight waviness.