“Girls, as you know from your previous education at high school, our planet received its name, Euporia, from one of the ancient languages of the human race’s home world, Earth. Does anyone remember what it meant in that original language?”
Miss Frando looked around the classroom, an encouraging smile on her face. Most of the twenty-two eighteen-year-olds seated at their old-fashioned school desks looked around, too, though much more covertly, to see whether any other girl of their number might raise her hand.
Beatrice looked around, too, as her mind tried to draw up the answer from the deep well of her memory. Did euporia mean sweetness? It was something like that. The name of that ancient language—Greek—came to her instead of the meaning she sought, rather to her annoyance.
The main difficulty Beatrice had in thinking about her new teacher’s question, which she felt sure the other girls in the room shared, lay in finding it very difficult to concentrate on such an abstruse topic in her current circumstances. Every time she glanced around the room, Beatrice’s face got very hot, and she could see that the same condition afflicted the cheeks of her twenty-one companions. Rational thought had become very difficult upon Miss Frando’s entrance following the sound of the bell that had told the girls to take their seats, each girl at the desk where she found her name written neatly upon a small white card.
For the pretty young instructor who had entered just after the bell finished ringing had on clothing of a sort Beatrice had never imagined a woman might wear. The sharp intake of breath from the other seated girls at Miss Frando’s entrance had seemed to indicate that they, too, had never conceived of such a garment.
The petite, fair-haired teacher who came to stand under her elegantly lettered name, already written upon the chalkboard, wore what Beatrice thought might best be described as a nightgown. Its appearance, though, differed so entirely from any nightgown she had ever seen that she supposed the garment might also have a completely different name.
The nightgown, or short dress, or whatever it might be called, was made of a diaphanous black material Beatrice did not even recognize. Its skirt came down to just above Miss Frando’s knee, as if it were an apron or a pinafore, though the nightgown covered less of Miss Frando’s trim thighs even than those two articles would have.
Moreover, a young woman wore an apron or pinafore over her other clothing. Indeed, Beatrice and the rest of the new class just arrived at Girls’ Training Academy wore their long gray high-school uniform dresses with white pinafores over them now, as the letter of matriculation had instructed them to do.
Miss Frando, however, under her little black nightgown, had only… Beatrice couldn’t bear to look, and yet she had to. Her eyes would not move from the sight. The very idea that the sheer fabric of the garment allowed her gaze to pass through it and to see her new teacher’s lovely body seemed to set her mind ablaze.
Under the nightgown Miss Frando had nothing to cover her womanly but still rather small breasts. Her pink nipples were clearly visible through the gauzy material. Further down, though, where Beatrice wore the thick briefs of white cotton that all high school girls were required to don each morning, Miss Frando had on something very different.
Beatrice didn’t understand why the sight of the tiny panties that scarcely covered anything more than Miss Frando’s private part should make her cheeks blaze so very hot. Perhaps her embarrassment stemmed from the simple notion, drilled into her head at grammar school, that no one should ever see anyone else’s underwear, and no one should ever acknowledge that a girl had a private part down between her thighs, covered in thick cotton to maintain her modesty in case her skirt did fly up unexpectedly, or—at night in the dormitory—her nightgown.
Not the sort of nightgown Miss Frando wore now, of course; schoolgirls aged eighteen and older wore shapeless white flannel to bed in their long rows of dormitory cots. Underneath they put on a fresh pair of girls’ briefs, after their shower in one of the private stalls. Below the little mirror in the stalls a placard told them, A good girl is a modest girl, clean and bright, heart and hands kept pure at night.
A little image of a young woman accompanied the fragment of half-poetry: smiling out of a line drawing, her eyes closed as if in sleep, this perfectly modest person held her hands in front of her chest. On Beatrice’s last birthday, that image had become more real; that day she had moved to the eighteen-year-olds’ dormitory.
There she had received from the dormitory matron her virtue-keeper: a collar of white webbing with softer fabric inside so as to be comfortable around her neck, attached to similarly fashioned cuffs that went around a girl’s wrists. Each night the ten girls in Beatrice’s room waited for Mrs. Hollonim to come and put their virtue-keepers on, standing at the foot of their beds with the device upon the coverlet in front of them.
Each night, Mrs. Hollonim said, before she told the girls to place the collar around their necks so that she could then go from bed to bed and fasten their cuffs, “Remember, girls, that your hands are for your duty, and not for your pleasure.”
Beatrice did not think she entirely understood, and she often drifted off to sleep, with her hands held firmly in front of her chin, wondering what it meant. The mystery seemed the deeper to her because the older girls in the room, who had begun at Girls’ Training School the previous term, always seemed to blush deeply when Mrs. Hollonim made her pronouncement. Those girls, one of whom had already left school and Dormitory B since Beatrice had arrived, also seemed more restless in their beds, which she found very strange, as if they couldn’t help tugging at their virtue-keepers in the night.
“Girls, I am sure one of you can remember what the name of our planet means!” Miss Frando said now, in mock exasperation.
The shame of seeing her new teacher in that sheer nightgown, with her bosom visible and her immodest panties on display as well in that unfamiliar classroom, made a question about the meaning of even so important a word as Euporia seem utterly trivial compared to the unknown things that clearly awaited Beatrice at her new school. It overwhelmed rational contemplation. It made her look about her, so that she wouldn’t have to look at Miss Frando.
The red faces of the other girls, however, hardly made the situation easier to bear, so Beatrice found herself looking for the first time at the walls of the classroom, where just as in high school the teacher had hung helpful visual aids. There she found, prominently displayed, the answer to Miss Frando’s question, and she realized with a different kind of blush that the teacher must intend that her new students demonstrate enough inquisitiveness to look about them. Beatrice also found, on the very same poster that told her the meaning of Euporia, something to redden her face even further.
Euporia, from the Greek eu ‘good’ and poros ‘way’ meant ‘happiness,’ but it could also mean ‘place of the Good Way.’
The top of the poster had those words printed in elegant red block letters, with an image of their pretty blue planet, easily recognizable from high school science class, below it. Someone who had never seen a photograph of Euporia wouldn’t have been able to tell how blue it looked from space, though, for the picture on the poster was a monochromatic line drawing, with the outlines of the planet’s single continent clearly visible.
Below the picture of Euporia as seen from space, however, more line drawings met Beatrice’s eye, and these images took her a long moment even to comprehend. At almost the same moment Beatrice figured out what she saw, the girl next to her gave a little gasp, and another student made a kind of whimpering sound a few desks away. A fleeting glance from side to side told Beatrice that gradually all the girls in the new class at Girls’ Training Academy had found the poster, and all were now gazing at it, some with wide eyes, some with parted lips, others with furrowed brows.
“Yes, girls,” said Miss Frando. “I see you have discovered the answer, and also a good deal more about your world—the world into which this school will prepare you to go, once we have trained you as obedient bed girls for the couples who will adopt you.”
Beatrice swallowed hard. She turned her eyes briefly to Miss Frando, and found the pretty young teacher smiling back at her. The pictures and the words on the poster, though, had not become fully comprehensible to her perturbed mind. Beatrice found that her new teacher’s encouraging expression made it impossible not to look once again at the shameful things displayed on the classroom wall.
A girl. A girl like Beatrice, or any of the other eighteen-year-olds in Miss Frando’s classroom. But…
The girl didn’t have any clothes on—none at all. She stood with her hands at her sides, and she looked anxiously at two other people. One was a woman, older than the girl, perhaps a little older than Miss Frando, who seemed to Beatrice about thirty. She had on a little nightgown, like Miss Frando’s, and though the picture comprised only lines—pink ones for the two female figures—the viewer could see that the wife, as Beatrice immediately decided the older one must be, did not even wear little panties like Miss Frando’s, under the transparent fabric.
No, Beatrice could see, in the picture on the poster, where the girl and the woman stood opposite one another in three-quarters profile, the buds of their nipples and the little clefts of their private parts between their thighs. It made her bite her lip, and shift a little in her hard seat, so that she could feel the thick cotton of her schoolgirl briefs, where she had started to feel warm in that strange way.
The feeling was the same one she had when she saw Mrs. Hollonim put the older girls in their virtue-keepers, speaking in a low voice into their ears and resting her hand on their backsides like a reminder. Mrs. Hollonim never spoke like that to Beatrice or any other new girl. Suddenly it seemed clear that the virtue-keeper and the poster and Miss Frando’s nightgown must all stand in some important relation to one another. Beatrice shifted again, realizing that she had now become guilty of fidgeting and squirming, something all girls received frequent warnings about in high school. At least she could see that the girls around her had begun to fidget, too, though that made her face feel even hotter as she turned her attention back to the terrible poster.
Two more things were depicted, in the line drawing above the words, repeated from above: The Good Way.
A bed, much bigger than any bed Beatrice had ever seen in real life. The covers on the bed had been turned down, and it appeared that all three of the figures would fit comfortably in it, together, even though the third one towered so tall above the woman and the naked girl.
He wore a dressing gown, the way men in the novels girls read in high school did, at the end of a long day and in the morning after rising. He had, it seemed, taken off his business suit or his work clothes, and put on the dressing gown. Beatrice could see that he had decided the time had come for bed, for as his wife gazed at him with clear affection, and the naked girl looked to him with wide eyes and bitten lip, he pointed to the bed, with a stern but kindly look upon his manly face.
Garret Westron watched the scene in Miss Frando’s classroom with the greatest possible interest. The Good Way involved young men of twenty-five, like him, just as deeply as it did girls of eighteen. He would not have the role of the husband depicted in the poster at which the girls in Miss Frando’s classroom now gazed with such horrified fascination, of course—or not this year, anyway. Garret’s place in the Good Way, for the new class of the Girls’ Training Academy, had its own illustration, though, on the poster to which Miss Frando next directed their attention, on the other side of the classroom.
“Now that you have reminded yourselves where your planet’s name comes from,” said the lovely blonde woman in the baby doll nightgown and lacy thong panties, “I would like you to have a further look at what the Good Way means, girls. Please turn your attention to the visual aid on the other side of the room.”
Sitting next to Garret in the men’s viewing room, his new friend Sam said with a chuckle, “Here we go.”
The men’s viewing room, in the basement of the training academy and accessed by an entirely separate entrance from the one the girls used, currently held a dozen men of about Garret’s own age. According to the specifications of the marriage laws of Euporia, both suitors and guardians had the right to be present to observe the new class. In practice, Garret knew from his experience the previous term, only a few suitors showed up, the rest of them—and all the guardians for the class—seemingly content to watch in the comfort of their own homes.
Garret thought that rather a shame: those who had designed the viewing room had clearly intended that a full complement of both suitors and guardians gather to have their first look at the girls from whom the suitors would choose, each already assigned to a guardian. The room held at least forty comfortable armchairs in front of the big screen that showed what took place in the classroom upstairs.
As the head of the colony’s building department, having worked his way up through hard work at his carpentry, brown-haired and brown-eyed Garret made his own schedule. He supposed he should go easy on his competition not only for their weaker physiques but for their more difficult schedules. Still, the colonial administration gave special days off to guardians and to qualified suitors for the beginning of the new term at Girls’ Training Academy—more men should take advantage of them, he thought.
On the other hand, the girls’ blushes—especially the auburn-haired one in the third row, Garret thought, though he told himself it would be stupid to develop an attachment—also made him wish he had stayed home so he could fully enjoy the sight by himself. In fact, looking around at the other men he realized he had seen none of them six months before, at the last matriculation.
Some of the previous set of suitors had found their brides, of course, but Garret knew he couldn’t be the only man back for another try. The others must have stayed home to watch more comfortably.
A shame, he thought, picturing the room in the days, a hundred years since, when all the men of the colony were required by law to watch this initiation together.
On the screen, Miss Frando walked, carrying her pointer now, to the wall that held the poster depicting the second part of the Good Way. The excellent microphones in the classroom caught what Garret could only call a whimper, coming from one of the girls, clad in their gray school dresses and pinafores, at the words and the illustration.
Miss Frando lifted the long wooden pointer and tapped the first word, then began to read the poster, turning as she did so to look around the classroom, meeting the eyes of her new girls and raising a blush with every glance.
“The Good Way ensures that every girl learns to do her duty,” the woman in the lascivious lingerie read slowly and clearly. “Read that with me, please, girls.”
Dutifully, casting looks from the words to the line drawing below that must confuse them terribly to the faces of their schoolmates around them, the new class of Girls’ Training Academy said, “The Good Way ensures that every girl learns to do her duty.”
“Yes, it does,” Sam chuckled from the armchair next to Garret’s. For a moment Garret wondered if Sam’s attention had been caught by the auburn-haired girl—Beatrice, Garret read on the chart each man had received as he entered the viewing room. Garret couldn’t take his eyes off her.
The Good Way also ensures, he thought to himself, however, that young men get a fair chance to enjoy doing their duty, too. Garret and Sam would both have the opportunity to fuck pretty young Beatrice very soon.
The girl herself could see that fact now, though she didn’t yet understand the meaning of the image under the words she had just repeated. All Beatrice saw was that the naked girl from the poster on the other side of the room stood, with the husband and the wife behind her, in front of a crowd of young men.
The husband and wife wore street clothes in this illustration, rather than dressing gown and baby doll. The young men’s clothes showed them to have come from all walks of life: a businessman, a fireman, a carpenter, and a sailor stood there, as well as another suitor, dressed casually, as for a day off spent at a sporting event or a fair.
Only the girl had no clothes on her sweet young body, and she looked at the suitors to whom her guardian and his wife presented her with troubled eyes and a blushing face, the rosy color of her cheeks denoted by some wonderful cross-hatching in the line drawing. Her guardian held her wrists behind her back, so that the girls in Miss Frando’s classroom could see just as well as the young men in the illustration all the prettiness of her little breasts and her tight young cunt.
“You are here, girls,” said the teacher, “to learn not just to do your duty, but also what that duty means. You have reached the age, in the years of humanity’s home world, when the founders of our colony decided a young woman should become what nature intends her to be, a servant of men’s pleasure.”
The pointer moved down from the words at the top of the poster to the naked girl, presented for fucking and evaluation as a potential bride.
“As strange and embarrassing as it seems,” Miss Frando said, “you will each be presented very much like the girl in the picture, after being trained here at school and then in the bed of your guardian and his wife. That is the Good Way of our planet. You will be taken as a bride by one of the five men to whom you are presented, but not until you have learned to please them all.”
The breathing of the girls in the classroom had grown so labored as to be audible on the speakers in the men’s viewing room. Most of them—Beatrice included—had their hands in front of them on the school desks, clenched into tight little balls.
Garret thought of the thick school underwear she had on underneath the long dress, and how it must feel between her legs as she sat upon her hard wooden seat, learning for the first time about the marriage laws of her world. Such panties shouldn’t, he supposed, seem arousing to him. In fact, eighteen-year-old girls were made to wear them to prevent their young clitorises from becoming aroused, just as they wore virtue-keepers at night to prevent their hands from finding their way inside those thick school briefs. Nevertheless, the thought of the lovely auburn-haired, green-eyed girl growing warm inside the bulky cotton, getting it damp with her first lewd thoughts and feelings, made him hard as iron in his work jeans.
“From today forward,” said Miss Frando, moving back to the chalkboard at the front of the classroom, “your work at school will serve as a complement to another curriculum, which is why our school is called a training academy. This evening you will all go on your first visits to the homes of your guardians.”
The pretty teacher, so un-self-conscious of the near nudity that seemed continually to make her students blush when they gazed upon her, turned her own eyes to the first poster, the one with the image of Euporia surmounting the line drawing of the stern but kindly guardian issuing the wordless command to his wife and their new bed girl: The time has come for fucking, his face said clearly—to Garret’s imagination at any rate. Get in bed, both of you, like good girls.
When Miss Frando did not for the moment continue on in her discourse, her girls gradually turned themselves to gaze again upon the poster that they clearly found inexplicable. The educational authority of Euporia had of course designed those two visual aids very carefully, to present just enough information that they rendered the new class terribly curious about the true nature of Girls’ Training Academy.
Later, as the term continued, the girls would remember both the submissive nature of their duty as young women of their planned society and the helpless, lascivious feelings they had experienced upon first beholding those illustrations of it. By the time, during the inter-term recess, they began to depart from the academy to reside at the homes of their guardians before their final evaluation and assignment to a suitor, the line drawings would, Garret felt certain, dwell forever in their minds’ eyes.
The founders had intended it thus, of course, as Miss Frando now began to explain to her new pupils.
“Girls, I am quite certain you have wondered since I first entered this classroom why I have on a sort of clothing you probably never imagined a woman might wear.”
Twenty-two pairs of eyes turned, very wide and very bright, from the left wall to the front of the room, focusing all their attention upon their new teacher, a woman somehow both very strange and very ingenuous.
“Does anyone have an idea—any idea at all—why a girl or a wife might put on this sort of nightgown and these sort of panties? The style of this nightgown has been called baby doll since the days of old Earth, by the way, and these panties are called a thong.”
Then, for the first time, Miss Frando turned and showed her class the back of her nightgown, how it fell away so that she could take its two sheer halves in her hands and part them, raising the fabric only a little. She showed her class of eighteen-year-olds how the lacy black thong left her pert little bottom-cheeks entirely bare, how the strip of fabric that ran down from the waistband entered the dark valley between the creamy twin roundnesses and seemed to claim that place, and the place in front.
The big screen in the men’s viewing room showed a helpfully divided image: on one side Garret and the other suitors present could see Miss Frando’s astonishingly sexy pose, her knees a little bent and her bottom pushed out as she regarded her class over her shoulder. On the other side, they saw close-ups of the blushing girls dressed in gray wool that fell below their knees.
Beatrice, in the third row, seemed to flush the deepest red of all, though Garret supposed it must simply be owing to her very fair, almost porcelain, complexion. Every girl at the training academy had arrived there because her test results, assessed soon after her eighteenth birthday, indicated she possessed the proper mixture of modesty and a submissive sexual arousal pattern.
Miss Frando turned back to the class.
“Your classmates from girls’ high,” she said, “who were not accepted into the training academy, might not be able to answer this question, but I think all of you girls have an idea, deep down inside you, of why a woman wears a baby doll nightgown and thong panties.”
Tentatively, to Garret’s delight, Beatrice put up her hand.
Miss Frando smiled. “Beatrice, isn’t it?” she asked in kind voice.
“Yes, miss,” Beatrice answered hesitantly. “Is it… is it because… a man tells her to put them on?”