Training Planet

by Tilton, Emily

  “Please,” she begged, though she had no idea what precisely she wanted to happen, or not to happen. She definitely wanted Sister Portia to take her hand away, and to stop, though. “Please, stop.”

  Despite herself, she had moved her eyes to the older woman’s face, to see that the head sister’s own attention had focused on the lower half of Britana’s body.

  “We’ll have these pants down,” the black-dressed woman said. “I heard a sound and saw a movement that tells me you’re in greater need of inspection than I had even supposed, Miss Britana Geran.”

  To Britana’s utter horror, Sister Portia’s left hand joined her right inside the waistband of the neo-capris. Even worse, as she felt the woman draw her pants swiftly down to her knees, Britana caught a whiff of a mortifying scent: the rich, naughty fragrance she associated with her underwear and her bed sheets after one of her restless nights, as she thought of them.

  When the sister sniffed the air and clucked her tongue, Britana thought she might well faint with the embarrassment that seemed to flood her body. Worst of all, she felt herself getting even warmer—and, to her horror, wetter—down there. Now she had no way of avoiding the realization that the funny feeling below her tummy had everything to do with her restless nights, and the thoughts with which she couldn’t help filling her mind in bed, sometimes.

  “Please,” she whispered. It seemed to be the only word she knew how to utter.

  “It’s as I thought,” the older woman said, lifting her piercing blue eyes to look Britana in the face again. “I don’t even have to take down those lewd panties to know what I’ll find in the gusset, do I?”

  For a moment Britana thought this meant that Sister Portia would stop, now—that she had satisfied herself as to Britana’s immodesty and immorality. But the hands that had lowered Britana’s neo-capris to just above her knees now went to the waistband of the pink thong. Britana felt her face crumple and go crimson. A little sob escaped her mouth as she chewed her lower lip.

  Looking into Britana’s eyes, Sister Portia pulled down her tiny panties.

  “Oh, no,” Britana breathed, as she saw the contemptuous smile on the woman’s face.

  Then Sister Portia did what Britana had dreaded above all: she stooped, so she could get a better look. The woman in the strange black habit didn’t say anything at first, but she clucked again, and she sniffed again.

  Britana closed her eyes tightly, trying to concentrate on the feeling of her hair against her fingers and not on the way having her hands there meant that the older woman had forbidden her access to her own body.

  “Of course,” said the stooping sister in that same awful, disapproving voice. “When we have you shaved in a little while, perhaps you’ll remember a bit of modesty. Girls here have their grownup hair taken away from their private parts to help them understand their position.”

  “I don’t understand,” Britana said softly, as much to herself as to Sister Portia, who she didn’t expect would give any answer at all.

  “Oh, you will,” the older woman said. “You will most definitely understand very soon, Britana Geran.” Without warning she took both pants and panties in her hands and pulled them all the way down Britana’s legs. Then she stood up and took hold of the lacy white camisole.

  “Lace,” Sister Portia said with a sneer. “Let’s get this off, you little hussy.”

  She ripped it upward, so that Britana almost lost her balance, and got it over her head and past her flailing arms in a moment.

  “Step out of your pants this instant,” the head sister said. “Get onto the examination chair. I’m going to shave you myself now, to help the doctor get a better look at you.”

  Chapter 4

  Vincent had gotten quite aroused by this time, watching young Britana undress. The girl really did have that appealing quality for which the captain tended to look most when choosing a concubine: a mingling of intelligence, innocence, and modesty with a tinge not of defiance but of independence—and an innate sense of her own worth despite the humiliating things a dominant man, or a censorious teacher, might demand of her.

  In the close-up of her face, Vincent could see along with the tears a basic indignation with her blushes. Britana Geran had no intention of rebelling against the shameful circumstances into which her planet’s foolishness had cast her. Every instinct in her mind and her heart, though, pushed back against Sister Portia’s forcible awakening of her body’s darkest needs.

  Shouldn’t an eighteen-year-old, Britana’s face asked plaintively though wordlessly, be allowed to explore her sexuality as she chose? Was it not an offense against basic human decency to strip her naked this way, and strap her down to a chair with her knees raised and spread?

  Britana looked down her nude breasts and tummy at Sister Portia, seated on the stool, now. The older woman had made short work of fastening the stout webbing belt around Britana’s waist and the knee stirrups’ restraining straps. The girl’s wrists went into the cuffs at either side of the belt. Britana’s forehead creased deeply, and she chewed hard on her lower lip.

  “Disgraceful,” pronounced the Sister of Service, employing what seemed her favorite word. Vincent could see on Britana’s face precisely why that word had such a prominent place in the vocabulary of the order’s academies and centers: her nose and eyebrows worked adorably to contain the terrible mingling of shame and arousal she so obviously felt—the two bodily and emotional forces working alongside each other to heighten the effect to fever pitch.

  Vincent switched the view on his screen to a close-up of Britana’s still-furry quim, where the sparse curls of an eighteen-year-old didn’t quite cover the sweet pout of the girl’s pussy lips. He could see there just how effective Sister Portia’s favorite word could be; a tiny bead of Britana’s arousal had appeared, low down on the tender cleft of her cunt. Glistening, it lingered there now with no panty gusset to absorb it.

  “Please,” Britana whispered—the word that seemed to represent her favorite.

  Sister Portia, getting the battery-powered shaver from the drawer beneath the counter, paid the girl’s begging no notice.

  “Why?” the lovely, naked eighteen-year-old asked.

  “Because like every girl on this world, as far as I can tell, you are a little slut,” the head sister answered sharply as she moved the stool slightly to put herself in position, her face only a few inches away from Britana’s sweet quim with the dark thatch that marked her readiness for grownup use by her planet’s conquerors.

  The girl whimpered at the degrading words, and then again when Sister Portia turned on the bladeless shaver, a Magisterian invention like the obedience wand she had used to ensure that Britana could not resist her commands. Vincent’s heart ached a little, even as the hardness between his legs grew, at the girl’s erotic distress.

  Britana needed this kind of awakening, Vincent knew as well as Sister Portia did, to feel the sort of pleasure she might never find here on Normeria. Her ecstatic satisfaction, though, lay on the other side of the ordeal her government had brought upon her and the other young women under the center’s tutelage, all of them chosen like Britana for strict sexual servitude in their conquerors’ beds.

  The low buzz of the shaver filled the little room, now. A sob broke from Britana’s chest as she felt the warm, vibrating thing start to glide over her skin, her pubic curls falling away as it went. Her hips jerked at the clearly unexpected sensation of pleasure that it gave her, and in his close-up of the girl’s face, Vincent saw her cheeks redden.

  “Yes, girl,” Sister Portia said, raising her eyes from the quim whose natural covering she was swiftly removing. “Whores like you enjoy this, don’t you? I can tell you’re going to make a good ship girl.”

  “No…” Britana whimpered.

  Sister Portia nodded, returning her attention to the pussy in front of her. In a view from above, Vincent could see that the woman had already bared Britana’s whole vulva, giving him a very exciting glimpse of the sweet, com
plex folds around her young clit.

  “Yes,” the sister said. “You girls can say whatever you want, but your private parts will always tell me the truth. Now we’ll shave this impudent bottom. No hair for a whore like you but the hair on your head.”

  In Britana’s face, Vincent could see that the girl wanted to struggle against the straps restraining her, but the effects of the obedience wand, which Sister Portia had probably set to last half an hour, still kept her from carrying out that desire. As the older woman began to remove the stray hairs that adorned Britana’s tiny bottom hole, adorable desperation, coming so very clearly from her helpless arousal, contorted the girl’s face.

  That half pitiful, half powerfully arousing expression attracted Vincent so strongly he resolved then and there to call in a favor from the provincial governor. He would take some shore leave on Normeria, and exercise a captain’s privilege.

  Sister Portia grew a little talkative, now, using the degradation of the moment to the advantage of Britana’s training. “You will be taught to depilate, Britana, using one of these shavers in the bathroom each day. Your legs, your arms and armpits, and your private parts. Girls like you benefit a good deal from that regime, and from knowing that we inspect you daily to ensure your obedience. When you go to an officer’s bed for the first time, you will see in his eyes how your bodily submission pleases him.”

  Britana’s eyes told Vincent that she didn’t understand the full import of the teacher’s words, but he could also see that she absorbed them hungrily and stored them away. The thought that he might be the officer to take young Britana to bed for her first fucking—the one to show her with his eyes just how pleasing he found the bareness between her maiden thighs—undeniably made Vincent’s heart beat faster.

  A knock sounded at the door of the examination room, and then it opened to admit the green-uniformed doctor from the Magisterian Colonial Authority.

  “Good morning, Sister,” he said, politely if a little brusquely. When he turned to Britana, the parting of her lips and the crimson in her cheeks forced Vincent, watching aboard his ship miles above the planet’s surface, to clear his throat at the surge of arousal in his own body. “Who do we have here?”

  Britana’s body bucked in the restraints that bound her to the exam chair. A sob emerged from her chest as she understood again that the obedience wand had taken away her ability to use her muscles in resistance, but the movement the naked girl did manage caused a frown to appear on the doctor’s face.

  “You applied the wand?” he asked Sister Portia.

  “Yes, Doctor Hascom,” the sister replied. “But I set it for fifteen minutes, and Miss Britana Geran here has chosen to earn herself a session with the strap by dawdling several times.”

  “Well,” the doctor said rather jovially, putting his right hand on Britana’s bare knee, “that’s why you’re restrained, sweetheart. It won’t help your comfort any, but you can struggle all you like while I examine you, as long as you relax down where I need to have my look at you. If you can’t do that, Sister will have to use the obedience wand on you again.”

  Britana’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and Vincent thought he could even see her pulse jump at the sweet curve of her throat, though her pretty little breasts threatened to take his attention away from any other part.

  “What…” she whispered. “What is it? What did…” The girl glanced over at Sister Portia. “What did she do to me?”

  The doctor frowned. “That’s no way to talk about an instructress of this center. You’ll call her Sister, as she deserves.” He turned to the older woman with an apology in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sister. I expect you’ll be able to impress the point effectively with your strap?”

  Britana gave a little cry of fear. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she said. “Sister… please. I’m sorry.”

  But Sister Portia seemed entirely unmoved. She looked straight into Britana’s eyes as she replied to Doctor Hascom. “Of course. Someone I know is going to sleep on her tummy tonight.”

  Then, as Britana watched with parted lips and wide eyes, she reached into the hidden pocket of her habit and brought out the little silver obedience wand: just a small handle and two centimeters of a gleaming, protruding knob.

  “This is what we use here at this center,” she told the girl, “to make certain our girls learn to behave themselves. We use restraints, too, when necessary, because the effects of the wand do wear off—and because it’s very important to a young whore’s training that she experience bodily bondage. You will find that out, Miss Dawdler, when I restrain you for your whipping in a little while.”

  The doctor, to Britana’s evident horror, chuckled. “I thought you had a good reason for only giving her a small dose of the wand, Sister,” he said. “I may ask you to apply it again, and perhaps to delay the girl’s whipping, if she can’t relax for the speculum.”

  Paying no attention to the little noises of protest the naked girl made, Sister Portia turned to the doctor.

  “Of course, Doctor Hascom. If Britana can’t relax and show you her private parts properly, I’ll ensure her compliance.”

  “Please,” Britana whispered. In the close-up to which Vincent shifted, two tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ll try. I don’t understand, but I’ll try.”

  Sister Portia gave a derisive snort. “Of course you will. The doctor is a man, isn’t he?—and an officer in a uniform. You want his attention to your shameful parts just like any other young slut would.”

  The desperate look Britana gave the doctor then made the back of Vincent’s neck feel slightly hot; the girl’s dark eyes seemed to acknowledge despite her own best effort the basic, shameful truth of what the head sister had said. The bound, naked girl couldn’t push away the need that the older woman had skillfully awakened between Britana’s thighs, and she turned her pretty face to the doctor with a mixture of emotions that caused a very complicated reaction in the naval officer watching from miles above her planet—Vincent felt sympathy and jealousy and lust all at once.

  “What you’re feeling is perfectly natural, sweetheart,” Doctor Hascom said, stroking the girl’s knee gently. “It’s going to be difficult for you, especially at first, because of the ideas your upbringing has put in your head, but the Sisters of Service know how to deal with your reluctance. It won’t be long before you figure out how to accept what you are. When you get that pretty bottom whipped today, you’ll know better tomorrow.”

  Britana gave a choking sob, and in Vincent’s medium view he saw her hips move, her backside squirming as if the doctor’s words had called up some irresistible feeling that inevitably expressed itself in the lewd bodily movement. The captain swallowed hard at the way his cock leapt against his thigh. Envy of the doctor’s position made him take his writing tablet from the top drawer of his desk and scrawl a message on its illuminated surface.

  The tablet translated his fingertips’ movements as he went, ancient technology but always pleasing to Vincent, an old-fashioned kind of officer:

  To: Colonial Authority, Normeria

  From: MSS Indus, in planetary orbit

  Re: Visit to Girls’ Training Center

  Captain Edwards presents his compliments and would the authority have time to receive him for a visit to the center? The captain is interested in assisting in the matter of the defloration of a new ship girl, Miss Britana Geran.

  Chapter 5

  Britana couldn’t decide if the doctor made things better or much, much worse. On the positive side, he seemed much kinder than Sister Portia. The head sister’s bright blue eyes seemed to take in every part of Britana—inside as well as out—and to dismiss her as a wanton slut. The doctor seemed interested more in her well-being, even if each thing he said mortified her more than the last.

  But… he was a man. A handsome man, in a green uniform. Britana had never told anyone—how could she—about the funny way the Magisterians on the vids made her feel. Normerian uniforms weren’t even really properly uniforms
—more like identical casual outfits. Magisterian ones made men look… masculine. Britana had never met a Magisterian officer in person, of course, and now the doctor stood looking at her with that mostly benevolent expression, and she lay bound and naked and spread in the horrible exam chair.

  “Alright, sweetheart,” the doctor said, his voice still sounding kind despite his words’ demeaning tone. He had turned to the sink and begun to wash his hands. Now he spoke over his shoulder. “Let’s have a look at you. You’re lovely, and these little breasts shouldn’t make you feel ashamed, even though I know a lot of young women wish they had bigger ones.”

  He turned back from the sink, drying his hands on a paper towel. He had a smile on his face, but something in his eyes made Britana’s heart beat much faster—she could tell somehow that despite the doctor’s sympathetic bedside manner, he had the natural instincts of dominant masculinity for which the Magisterians had become known across the galaxy. Of course he did: nature had made him a man, and—Britana’s confused mind and heart said to her—men desire a pretty young woman, especially when they see her naked, which they should never do.

  Britana gave a sharp cry of alarm as she watched the doctor take a step forward, and saw his right hand reach out toward her chest. His fingers took her little breast into a gentle grasp, and the cry became a sob of shame and the other thing.

  Need. Britana felt her forehead crease. Her mind said, Not need. Please not need.

  Her body insisted: need.

  The doctor’s eyes went from her face to her breast as he ran his thumb across the tiny nipple, making it stand up and making Britana whimper.

  “Hush, girl,” Sister Portia said, her voice full of contempt. Britana needed to look away from the doctor so desperately that she looked at the older woman, who had risen from the stool and taken a writing tablet from the hidden pocket in her habit.