Training Planet

by Tilton, Emily

  Now Britana saw Sister Portia’s own eyes travel up and over a little. The head sister must be looking at the captain. Did she read my mind? Britana thought wildly.

  No, another voice in her mind told her. She’s looking at the captain because he’s here to…

  The idea seemed to fill her chest even as it filled her mind—and then to travel further down, to Britana’s dismay, making her waist move again in the narrow compass of the leather belt. As her mind tried to fit words to the thought—verbs to complete it—each one sent a shameful jolt through her hips, and each one made her feel again how tightly the restraints of the whipping bench held her. The captain had fastened her at her waist, her wrists, her knees; Britana lay immobilized, spread and visible, ready for the terrible discipline of Sister Portia’s strap, because he was here to…

  To enjoy me. To teach me. To use me.

  Britana’s lips parted, and her breath came ragged between them.

  To… to… fuck me.

  She closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to see the sister’s reaction to the struggle atop the whipping bench that the last, most shameful verb caused, as if Britana could somehow hide her pussy from the captain’s eyes. A soft, pathetic, whimpering noise came from her throat as she felt again just how captive and exposed she lay, how offered to him and to the sister’s strap.

  Her whole body seemed to go cold and then blazing hot as she wondered how Sister Portia would respond to this apparent resistance, but the horrid woman seemed to pay it no attention. Instead, she spoke in the unctuous voice with which she addressed an officer.

  “She won’t dawdle aboard the Indus, will she, Captain? If she should be fortunate enough to be chosen for that brave vessel, I mean to say.”

  “I imagine not, Sister,” said Captain Edwards from behind her. “Not with your lessons always in her mind, as I know they will be after today.”

  “Indeed,” Sister Portia replied, her smile becoming wider and of a very different character—somehow much worse, because less genuine, Britana thought, than the expression she turned on her chastened pupils. The sister took real pleasure in punishing young women, it seemed, but her enjoyment of flattering officers had less authenticity.

  As Britana watched, horribly fascinated despite herself, the false smile turned to the real one, as Sister Portia’s attention returned downward, to the girl bound to the whipping bench.

  “Let us get on with it, then,” she said. “And make this girl’s backside a long-lasting reminder to her, to show the respect and obedience due to me—and, even more, to you, Captain. I hope you will not need to renew the lesson this evening in the hospitality suite, though of course you are very welcome to do so if you find any fault in the girl’s conduct.”

  The head sister walked briskly around Britana. When she saw that Britana had turned her head to follow her motions, and to catch a glimpse of the captain, Sister Portia said, “Eyes forward, Britana Geran. A little whore’s backside belongs to the teacher who undertakes to reform her. I shall do as I please, now, with your naughty bottom, and you will keep your face respectfully turned away.”

  Britana bit her lip and turned to look at Melora, still kneeling on the cushion in front of the bench. She found that her new friend—for the look in Melora’s eyes told Britana that despite the shameful ordeal she had watched the red-haired girl undergo on Britana’s behalf, Melora was still her friend—had turned her own eyes to Britana, with an expression of comfort.

  But then she felt Sister Portia’s hand on the belt that held her waist down to the whipping bench. She felt the terrible woman’s weight shift, and she cried out in fear at the very idea that Sister Portia’s arm had gone up, with the horrid strap in her hand. Melora’s face seemed to tell her exactly that: the other girl’s blue eyes had flicked upward for a moment, and Britana knew they must have gone to the stiff length of leather, raised to correct the new girl’s fault.

  “Twelve lashes for dawdling,” the cold voice said.

  Britana’s heart wanted to thud out of her chest, and her whole body trembled. She let out a wordless wail at the awful sentence, but at the same time she felt another of the dismaying jolts down below her tummy, and her bottom squirmed again. The wail became a whimper of shame.

  “Little whore,” said Sister Portia, “you won’t find this as pleasant as your private part seems to think. Pray that Captain Edwards decides you’ve had enough, and you have learned your lesson.”

  That final thought, placed in her mind by the head sister, of the captain watching this humiliating scene, made her legs jerk in their restraints, and the feeling of helplessness traveled through every limb, so that once again she tried the belt’s and the cuffs’ strength, as if she might get up and run away.

  But of course the captain had not left her more than a half centimeter of slack in any one of the restraints. As if taking the vain struggle for a cue, and seizing the moment to punish Britana for the rebelliousness shown in her fruitless attempt to escape discipline, Sister Portia swung the strap. Britana could hear its soft whistling through the air, and she yelped at the sound, and felt her whole body tense in fear.

  Then she heard the crack and felt the lash, and she saw Melora flinch at the sharp sound. It echoed off the high ceiling of what had once been this grand room in the president’s palace. Just before she actually felt the pain of Sister Portia’s punishment strap for the first time, Britana hoped bitterly that the former president and his advisers felt anything like the shame she did, that naked girls now got whipped in the Normerian halls of state, and trained to serve as fuck toys on the ships of the Magisterian star fleet.

  Then she did feel it, and she cried out, and she had thoughts only for herself and the burning line across both her bottom cheeks.

  “One, Sister,” she heard the whole class call out.

  Oh, no. Please… no…

  The whistling again, and the crack, and the lash landed just below the last one, where it hurt even more—low down, as if Sister Portia wanted Britana to feel it in her pussy, too. Again she cried out, even louder, and now her whole body started to shake. How could she bear any more? She had never felt anything so painful, so humiliating, so…

  “Two, Sister,” the class said. Even Melora spoke it, because of course she had to. Britana wouldn’t want anyone else to have to feel the terrible strap, as she felt certain would befall a girl who refused to count out the lashes of the new girl’s correction.

  The third stroke landed, further down again, with the horrid, echoing crack, and Britana couldn’t think of anything now except the awful agony, the fiery smart, in her little bottom. She screamed, and struggled against the leather straps without any conscious intention, her backside clenching and unclenching. She rode the whipping bench as if it might carry her away, but the head sister’s seat of fire pursued her inexorably.

  “Three, Sister,” said the class.

  “Please… no… please… just wait…”

  The words became a howl of pain as another lash came down.

  “Four, Sister.”

  “Your correction cannot wait any longer, Britana Geran. Your sluttishness and your laziness have found their just punishment.”

  The crack, and the sound of herself screaming in agony. The groan of the bench under her as she shuddered.

  “Five, Sister.”

  Britana bent her head to look at the pool of tears she had made on the wood floor below her face. She heard Melora let out a little sob in sympathy.

  Another stroke. Britana reared back her head as her hips jerked in the leather belt. She screamed continuously now, while the class counted and Sister Portia whipped her bare bottom without pity or remorse.

  Six. Seven.

  No. Twelve. No.

  Her screams became sobs, and the struggling left her limbs. Britana lay limp over the bench. As each lash landed on her bottom, crisscrossing earlier strokes, marking her thighs as well as her hind-cheeks, she felt her body jerk as if it didn’t belong to her,
and she heard herself whimper from somewhere else.

  When the class said, “Twelve, Sister,” Britana had honestly lost count. She opened her eyes to see Melora looking back, still sympathetic, the tears shining on her own cheeks.

  “Captain Edwards, would you care to deflower the little whore now in front of the beginners’ class? I believe it would be a valuable learning experience both for Britana and for the rest of the girls.”

  Sister Portia’s voice seemed to come from a long way away. The degradation in the words felt so extreme that for long seconds—until the captain had responded, in fact—Britana didn’t really absorb their meaning.

  “No, Sister,” the captain said. “I think that’s best done in private, even if ship girls are called on, when aboard their starships, to give pleasure in front of many observers. But perhaps I can comfort her a little, which might serve an equally educational purpose.”

  Chapter 12

  “By all means,” said Sister Portia, though Vincent could tell she would have preferred he accede to her first suggestion. A Sister of Service could find educational value in anything a naval officer did with a ship girl, however: the head sister turned to the rest of the class and said, “Watch closely, girls. Britana Geran is about to learn just how very whorish her nature is.”

  Sister Portia took a step away from Britana’s well-whipped backside, and turned toward the naked young women sitting in their rows of school desks. Vincent saw the girls’ eyes go from the terrifying head sister to the even more terrible and edifying sight of the new girl’s bottom.

  The strap had done its work with vigor, and Vincent didn’t think Britana’s bowed head sobbing over the bench represented any less than the full truth of the agony Sister Portia had bestowed. For dawdling the tiniest bit on her entrance to the center, the sweet dark-haired girl had received a whipping she would never forget.

  Her little bottom-cheeks had marks of dark red that had already begun to turn purple, and her upper thighs bore even angrier welts. Britana would not, Vincent knew from experience, walk comfortably for the next twenty-four hours, and not sit without wincing for several days. In the mirror, when undressing for the shower, she would see Sister Portia’s work. She would, being the sort of girl she was, put her hands behind her, and run her fingers over the painful welts, thinking about what the sister called her whorishness.

  She would remember how thoroughly ship girls must work at obedience, to avoid the discipline meted out by the Sisters of Service, and she would remember with hot cheeks how she had felt between her thighs, in her little quim, before and after—and how she felt then and there, in front of the mirror. Her fingers would find their way forward, and Britana would remember not merely the strap, but also the captain who had mastered her, as she engaged in wanton self-pleasure, forbidden but also universal at the Girls’ Training Center.

  Sister Portia held an uncompromising idea of how girls like Britana, Melora, and the rest of the beginners’ class should learn obedience to Magisterian authority. She had an equally firm resolve with regard to the girls’ instruction in the even more important lessons of sexual service, with their ambiguous but utterly compelling rewards.

  That resolve dictated, Vincent knew, that the best occasion to take a ship girl’s virginity arose immediately after she had experienced discipline of the most thorough kind. Only a Sister of Service could truly give that sort of correction. An officer like Vincent would almost never have the necessity to take a good girl like Britana so far into the realm of pain and humiliation.

  He wouldn’t hesitate, of course, to use the ship’s cat just as fiercely as the sister had used the school strap, if he had no choice: if for example Britana had endangered herself or the rest of the crew. Realistically, though, a ship girl provoked that kind of discipline only with the utmost rarity.

  Aboard the Indus, Britana would certainly be punished from time to time, perhaps for dawdling or for slovenliness in the keeping of her quarters. Vincent felt no shame in looking forward to delivering those needed lessons. He hoped, though, that he would never have to whip her as Sister Portia just had. The head sister knew that, and given the view of ship girl sexuality instilled in the Sisters of Service by their order, she had wished to see Britana fucked for the first time here and now, over the whipping bench and in front of her classmates.

  For the girl’s own good and for the good of all the young women of the beginners’ class, Sister Portia very obviously thought, Britana should serve as a fuck toy immediately after what might prove the most painful chastisement of her life. Ship girls from rebellious worlds needed to learn, the head sister’s opinion clearly ran; thoroughly and harshly and, for the officer present, pleasurably. The pleasure Britana herself would receive, the part of the disciplinary process that would in the end make her a happy ship girl as well as an obedient one, must always on that view be put in the service of a dominant man’s enjoyment.

  Vincent wanted to give Britana a different sort of lesson, here in the classroom at any rate.

  Sister Portia, for her part, knew how to make it as educational—in the mortification-inflected way of her order—as possible. She addressed the class again.

  “You all saw just how thoroughly I whipped Britana Geran’s impudent bottom, did you not?”

  Even the beginners’ class quickly learned the cadence of their teachers’ demands for their compliance.

  “Yes, Sister,” they chorused back. Britana’s back heaved with a sob.

  The head sister’s voice held a note of triumph now. “Listen to that. Such penitence now for her dawdling. Britana Geran, are you sorry you dawdled?”

  Britana didn’t hesitate. She raised her head. Vincent standing now where the sister had stood to whip the girl, could see her tearstained face and the look of repentance in her dark eyes.

  “Yes, Sister,” she said in a strained voice, her hips twitching and her whipped bottom clenching lewdly as if even the effort to speak had brought back the agony of the strap.

  “Watch now, girls,” said Sister Portia, “what happens when the captain touches her whorish little private part with his strong, masculine hand.”

  “Oh, no,” Britana said, her head turning toward Vincent, as she seemed to understand for the first time what would now befall her. “Please… sir, please… please, don’t?”

  He heard the question in her voice, despite the pleas. He saw that question in her eyes, too, and in the way she had taken her lower lip into her teeth. The part of her erotic nature that positively craved precisely what Vincent would do, both here in the classroom, in front of the sisters and the other girls, and later in his bedroom, shone in her lovely face.

  Vincent smiled. For her sake and for Sister Portia’s, he said, “Hush, sweetheart.” He held her eyes with his, and he put his right hand gently on her poor little bottom and rubbed very softly in a circle.

  Britana took a gasping breath. Her whole body shuddered at the touch, so that Vincent could tell the slight pain from his fingers even pressing so gently on the strap’s welts had begun to mingle with the submissive warmth in her quim. Her dark eyes went very wide, and her face crumpled, as an ambiguous sob burst from her lips. Best of all, her backside squirmed against the belt, the little cheeks seeming to press themselves into his soothing hand.

  Vincent could see, too, in the distress that creased her forehead that she had had no idea—how could she have?—how much need, and how much pleasure, her virgin pussy could feel. Even the doctor’s efficient touch had introduced the girl only to the basic nature of her arousal cycle. His medically trained fingers had let her feel a climax for the first time, but no more.

  Her examination under Doctor Hascom’s eyes and hands had taught Britana what sort of release awaited her when her sweet, bare cunny received the necessary stimulation. Now, with Vincent’s help, she had begun to learn just how often and just how desperately she would crave that stimulation. Much more important, he meant to ensure she also learned how much pleasure awaited he
r in her full submission to her masters.

  Slowly and gently, he moved his middle two fingers down and in. With his eyes still on Britana’s face, he put his left hand lightly atop the leather belt, and stroked the silken skin of her back just below it with his fingertips. The reminder of her restraint over the bench made her bite her lip, or perhaps that came from the movement of his fingers up and down the sweet, bare pout of her untried quim.

  “Captain, is the little slut wet?” Sister Portia asked in her most superior tone, her voice clearly intended to reach the ears of every naked pupil in the classroom. “Did that correction only make her more shameless and in greater need of a firm hand like yours?”

  Britana gave a cry of humiliation. Her already pink cheeks went so red that Vincent thought he could see her pulse jump at her neck.

  Deliberately, he turned his attention from the girl’s lovely face to her well-whipped backside. Britana let out a little whimper, as if at the mere knowledge that he had decided to look at her cunny, so beautifully exposed by the spreading of her knees in the restraints of the whipping bench.

  He watched his fingers glide up and down the glistening pink lips. He felt the virgin quim flutter with a clench against his caress, as he rubbed a little more firmly in the place her shy little clit lay hidden. He moved the fingers again, gently, and pressed them inside, watching in delight all the while as he penetrated her that way, nearly to the spot where her first fucking would open her for the cock.

  Britana moaned, long and low, and Vincent turned his eyes back to her face to find that she had closed her own. He worked his fingers in and out, with a growing urgency, so that her quim emitted unmistakable wet sounds of feminine pleasure.

  “Do you hear that, girls?” Sister Portia demanded of the class. “No need for the captain even to answer me.”

  Britana’s eyes flew open then, and met Vincent’s. A warm smile came to his face then. He had not meant to smile; he had meant to hold his face in his usual dominant officer’s look of command. He could not have stopped the smile, even if he had wanted to, though. He knew Britana Geran would become a member of his crew, now: he had no intention of letting any possible naval bureaucracy get in the way.