Bill tried to focus on the lone positive development in this disaster: that Commander Henry Smith had decided the girl needed a public flogging in the nude. As a believer in corporal punishment he didn’t feel a need for revenge: that wasn’t what spanking and whipping were for, as he could tell from the commander’s face and his tone of voice he understood as well. Tilly Squires, though, badly needed a lesson in respecting legal authority, and to see that done properly and in such a way as to make her blazing red backside an example to the rest of the crew would at least bring some good out of the terrible situation.
Bill couldn’t have gotten to the senior position he held at Selecta without gaining a good deal of experience in disciplining women the old-fashioned way, as Commander Smith clearly knew. The Selecta Corporation didn’t trumpet the fact, but neither did they conceal it: female employees of the company got spanked regularly, with their panties down, not only for such infractions as insubordination but also as a routine part of their performance reviews. The founders of Selecta held as a central philosophy of their mission and thus their corporate culture that the reassertion of traditional gender roles through strict, loving, bare-bottom discipline made for a workplace suited to the utter marketplace domination of the company’s rivals.
Thus Bill had spanked little Amanda over his knee the previous week in his office, using his firm hand to make sure she would pay better attention to her coding, where she had made an error that cost them weeks of work. She had signed a contract, and initialed the special clause in it, that said she could well end up over her boss’ lap with her panties down, if not strapped naked to a punishment horse in one of the discipline rooms located at every Selecta facility, where senior male employees took junior female ones for extended attitude-adjustment sessions when necessary.
Amanda had struggled and cried as Bill had spanked her, and he had had to warn the lovely thirty-one-year-old not to try to fend off her punishment with her hands, threatening to make her remove all her clothing and bend over his desk with her wrists strapped down so he could paddle her without obstruction. The sweet girl had sobbed a promise to try, and held onto the legs of Bill’s chair for the rest of her punishment, obediently offering her little cheeks to her boss’ chastening hand.
“Bill, please…” Amanda had wailed.
“You’ll call me sir, when you’re over my knee,” he had replied, continuing the spanking until her whole backside glowed red and her tears had pooled on his office floor, and she had gone limp over his thighs in submission to his authority.
He could tell Tilly Squires wouldn’t manifest that degree of respect toward the authority of the commander, let alone to an apparently random crewmember like Bill. Colonel Jones had stripped the pressure suit down off her, a notably easy task in zero-g: Tilly, holding onto a rung near the airlock, widened her eyes at the swiftness and decisiveness of the copilot’s action, which left her in a t-shirt that read Fuck The Corporate-Governmental Complex and skimpy cut-off shorts upon which she herself had obviously done the cutting off, judging from their raggedness and general lack of cuteness.
Bill thought—paradoxically, he supposed—that the girl looked cuter in those unfashionable homemade shorts than she would have in something store-bought and intended to be sexy. He had old-fashioned taste in women’s clothes, outside the bedroom anyway though antique lace in the bedroom also suited him fine. He had gravitated toward Selecta because of their efforts in that domain, and he much preferred girls to dress modestly, so Tilly’s longer, self-fashioned cut-offs sent a complicated pang of something like affection through him, since despite hardly being modest they definitely looked old-fashioned.
A real, authentic free-liver, he thought. Selecta picked them up by the dozens in their relocation vans, an arm of the corporation that Bill of course had nothing to do with, but very few of them came into contact with the kind of respectable people who worked for Selecta, or CGSA, because the surveillance in practically every community in the first world could identify them instantly and dispatch a van to pick them up.
Bill wondered what Tilly’s story held—how she had gotten away from the educational facility in which she must have spent her first years, how she had made it to nineteen or twenty without getting caught. His anger dissipated as he looked at her frightened face, seeing the defiance there as a poor front for her fear. Yes, he had compassion—but he also knew he had to discipline her very soundly.
Tilly’s jaw had fallen open at the quick succession of events that had left her without the pressure suit and facing Bill, with the commander’s sentence of a naked whipping ringing in her ears. Her lips moved, now, in a shape that suggested she meant to form a W: What?
“Take off your clothes, Tilly,” Bill said in a quiet but very firm voice.
The W shape turned into an N: “No! You can’t… you can’t make me!” Even as the words left her mouth, their certainty seemed to desert them. Tilly clearly understood very well that they could most definitely make her do whatever they wanted.
“Yes,” Colonel Jones said, “we can.” The mid-thirties, crew-cut copilot seemed barely to be holding down her wrath. She clearly felt Tilly needed a humiliating punishment session as soon as possible. Looking around the main cabin, Bill could see that nearly all his fellow scientists also endorsed what would have seemed in most earthbound work settings—other than a Selecta office or facility—a rather shocking measure.
One of the precepts drilled into the payload specialists during their six months of astronaut training, after all, was that a spacecraft had to function in a certain way like a warship during the age of sail: the commander, as captain, had the power if necessary of life and death over his crew. Indeed, Bill remembered that flogging had in fact received a specific mention in the briefing that covered crew discipline, if a joking one.
“So Henry can flog us with a cat o’ nine tails?” one of the Haller engineers had asked the briefing officer with a chuckle.
“You’re damn right I can,” the commander had answered from his own seat, turning around to look at the questioner with a humorous but still pointed glare, “but I’d probably have Bill here do it for me since these Selecta types know how to do it right. And that’s Commander Smith to you, thanks.”
As the commander himself had said a few moments before, no one had expected discipline would need to be administered that way—especially only an hour or two after liftoff. Bill had brought his punishment strap, though, for use as necessary to correct Amanda and Janice during the trip out to Freedom’s New Chapter and then on the station, and he felt certain the commander knew it, since he had personally gone over the full manifest of every item brought on board Freedom’s Hope. Of course, that didn’t count the ‘dark packages’ from the corps, whose contents only the executives and CGSA higher-ups knew, but Bill had brought his strap as part of his personal luggage.
“Last chance, Tilly,” Bill said. “Take off your clothes or my colleague Amanda will take them off for you once we have you restrained for your whipping.”
Amanda turned a little in her seat at that, unbuckling her safety harness, so that Tilly could identify her, and see that as a loyal Selecta employee she would be happy to take the t-shirt and cut-offs of a naughty girl away, to prepare her for the bare-bottom punishment she so richly deserved.
The woman from Conocorp—Leah Price, Bill remembered—said, “Why does she have to be naked?”
Tilly pulled herself around a little on the rung to look wide-eyed and hopeful at Leah, a honey blonde with a willowy figure. The girl put a doe-eyed, penitent look on her face that Bill assumed she must have used to get out of trouble many times as a free-liver.
“Specialist Price,” said the commander. “I promise you that if you question my orders again you’re going to remove your own jumpsuit so that Senior Specialist Foster can whip you alongside Miss Squires. As I told her, I believe in old-fashioned discipline. I hold that when a woman misbehaves she must be taught first and foremost to feel embarrassed about what she has done.” Henry pulled himself around to look at Tilly as he continued icily, “I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a girl who needs to learn some shame as badly as Miss Squires here, and I intend to make both her humiliation and her painful flogging an example to others, such as you, Specialist Price. Once you see what happens to defaulters, to use the old naval word, on Freedom’s Hope, I doubt you’re going to talk back again.”
Leah Price’s blue eyes went wide, and she swallowed hard. Tilly’s face fell, and she looked back at Bill. “Please?” she implored him. “Just… just my shorts, maybe?”
Bill looked at the commander for confirmation, and saw Henry nod once, grimly but with satisfaction. He pushed himself forward so that he could take Tilly around the waist with his right arm while keeping his left hand on a ceiling rung. His experience in zero-g, and Tilly’s lack of it, made it a simple matter to get a firm hold of her, despite her struggling and crying out, for as soon as he had propelled himself toward her she had instinctively let go of the wall rung to which she had been clinging, as if to defend herself from having her clothes removed.
“No! Please… I’ll…” Tilly seemed to search for something she could promise as Bill pulled her with weightless ease toward his own seat. “I’ll be good!”
“Yes,” said the commander. “Yes, Miss Squires, you will.”
Bill, going from one ceiling rung to another, using his much greater inertia to neutralize Tilly’s attempts to worm out from his arm’s embrace, reached the big semi-chair-like acceleration seat. He turned the girl so that he could put her on her knees facing the back of the seat.
Henry had moved through the main cabin so that he floated on the other side of Bill’s seat now, holding a ceiling rung. Tilly looked wildly from Bill to the commander, her limbs still punching and kicking out in a way that would have sent her into a wall or the floor or the ceiling with a painful bump if Bill had let go of her.
“Specialist Miller,” Bill said to Amanda, “would you please secure Tilly to the seat?”
“With pleasure, sir,” Amanda said, pushing herself out of her seat and across the aisle to Bill’s, while he used his right foot in a floor rung to swing around to the back of it and give her room.
“Don’t,” Tilly sobbed, her face now very frightened. “Please don’t whip me.”
Amanda started with the stout waist strap of the highly adjustable harness, which had been designed to hold cargo if necessary as well as the human body, moving it up the back of the chair and then running the webbing across Tilly’s slim back. “You earned this, Tilly,” Amanda said sternly, speaking from her wealth of Selecta experience. “Try to learn from it. Your butt’s going to be very sore, and the whole crew is going to watch, and see you naked—because of what you did. But you can only learn from it if you decide to improve your behavior.”
Bill had let go of Tilly’s waist as soon as Amanda had strapped the girl down into the kneeling position, with her face and the tops of her shoulders above the back of the seat.
“Hands over your head, Tilly,” he said. But the girl still turned from side to side as if looking for relief, so Bill hooked his feet under a floor rung and reached for her wrists, to keep them high so that Amanda could pull the Fuck The Corporate-Governmental Complex t-shirt over her head and off, revealing a hint of Tilly’s little breasts with their pink nipples that went so well with her dirty red hair and green eyes.
Bill felt his cock swell a little in the CGSA-issued briefs under his red jumpsuit. The girl’s quite lovely, he realized. The two years without sex hadn’t seemed quite so agonizing just a moment before, but now he had to keep his libido in check.
Once the shirt was off and floating across the room, Bill lowered Tilly’s wrists to the chair so that Amanda could strap them there. Bill’s experience with bondage made it simple to jury-rig the safety harness effectively so as to turn the acceleration seat into a discipline horse.
“Take off her shorts,” the commander said. “Bare that naughty backside.”
“No!” Tilly tried again, but Amanda paid no attention: with the girl strapped down at waist and wrists the engineer could easily reach around and unbutton the cutoffs to pull them down off Tilly’s kicking legs, revealing a lack of panties that didn’t surprise Bill, though the sight of the red-haired pussy peeping out between Tilly’s trim thighs did make his erection give a little leap.
Behind him, he heard one of the Haller specialists say something inaudible in the ear of another, who laughed in response, but in a rueful way that suggested to Bill—as if there could be any doubt—that the prohibition against sex had just gotten more difficult for the green team too.
“Strap her knees down, please, Amanda,” he said, trying not to think either about the enticing proximity of the Selecta engineer’s face to Tilly’s bottom or about how easy it would be to rearrange the girl in the harness to put her over the back of the seat and strap her in place bottom up for submissive sex. Bill had never fucked in zero-g, but, like everyone else, he supposed, he had always been intrigued by the idea.
“Spread the knees, Specialist Miller,” said the commander. “I want her to feel exposed.”
“Of course, Commander,” Amanda said.
“Please…” Tilly said feebly, struggling in vain to keep her knees closed as the older woman secured them to the seat nearly a foot apart.
Once it was done, silence reigned in the main cabin except for the pulsing of the ion drive, a sound very much like ocean waves, from far aft on Freedom’s Hope, the slight clanking produced by the crew shifting in their seats, and the whimpering of the naked girl about to have her adorable young backside whipped with the two-foot-long black leather punishment strap Bill had just fetched from his locker.
Twisting her head, Tilly caught sight of it, and gave a cry of alarm. The commander spoke.
“Ground control is trying to figure out what exactly we’re going to do with you, Tilly,” Henry said in a level voice that seemed to Bill like it might be an attempt at sympathy, something he had noticed Henry had a bit of trouble with—not that in the current situation he thought sympathy had a lot to recommend it. “One thing is certain, though: you’re coming to Saturn with us, though what we’re going to do there without gravity manipulators is very hard to say. In the meantime, though, you have one job, which is to obey me and every other member of this crew, and to stay out of the way. Hopefully your sore bottom, and your nakedness, since you won’t get your clothes back until you show you can respect my orders, will help you figure out how to do that job.”
The commander looked at Bill. “Specialist Foster, please give Crewwoman Squires twenty lashes. I want that backside to tell a story about what happens to defaulters on my ship.”
Tilly tried to turn around to look at Dr. Foster, hoping desperately to catch his eyes and make him feel sorry for her somehow. He had moved farther behind her though, with the horrible-looking strap, and so she tried to find the woman—Specialist Price, the commander had called her—who had said that Tilly shouldn’t be naked. She found Specialist Price, in her green jumpsuit, and even caught her eye for a moment, but Specialist Price blushed crimson in an instant and looked away.
That’s alright, Tilly thought woefully. I know you don’t want to be naked next to me here. That’s fine. Stupid commander!
She twisted in the other direction, and met the pitiless brown eyes of the man who had condemned her to suffer in this humiliating way, bound fast to whatever kind of astronaut seat this was… for another man to whip her bottom… naked and with her knees apart.
“But… but…” Tilly searched her mind for some way to show that she could become a good girl—or at least one who didn’t need to be stripped and punished in front of a crew of astronauts. “Sir…?” That was what respectful young ladies called their elders, wasn’t it? The commander’s eyes narrowed: it seemed clear that a simple sir didn’t win any points in her book. “I didn’t mean to!” Tilly pleaded.
She tried to turn further toward the man but only succeeded in making herself feel more restrained and helpless. She caught sight of more of the crew, and felt her face go hot as the sun, for Tilly couldn’t help picturing herself through their eyes—a naked teenager about to learn a terrible lesson.
She remembered what Carly and Joe had had their fight about—the fact that this Freedom’s Hope mission had placed on these astronauts the restriction that they not have sex for two years. She also remembered what Carly had said about the crew being hot. The blood in her face blazed even hotter as she saw that, yes, these men and women were all very fit and incredibly attractive even in the jumpsuits that Tilly saw now were divided equally in color—four red, four yellow, four green with what looked like corporate logos on the left breast: Selecta, Conocorp, Haller.
They all looked steadily back at her now as she met their eyes in a desperate plea for mercy. Tilly saw sympathy in a few faces—the women especially, though not that Amanda who had strapped her down and now looked at her as if she couldn’t wait to see a naughty girl learn a terrible lesson. Even the sympathetic members of the crew, though, also seemed resigned to watching the awful punishment unfold: the whipping of a young backside with a stout leather strap and then—somehow it seemed even worse to Tilly—the girl being left naked until she earned her clothes.
To her distress—her even more severe distress—something about having all those attractive, older, clothed people looking at her that way, and knowing that they all waited to watch Tilly’s bare bottom flogged and then to look at it as often as they liked afterward, until she got to wear clothes again, made her tummy flutter in a different way from the sheer fright of the punishment. She tried to push the picture back, press it down deep into her mind, but she couldn’t help imagining the commander, handsome, crew-cut Henry Smith, sauntering back from the cockpit just for a look at Tilly’s whipped bottom, telling her to bend over in front of him so he could inspect her thoroughly.
She bit her lip, and emitted a tiny whimper at the thought. She felt warm, down between her legs—warmer than she ever had. How? Why? Desperate to distract herself from the embarrassment of that arousal, she turned back to the commander and tried the same plea again, for lack of a better one. “I didn’t mean to break the…” Tilly almost said stupid fucking science shit but managed to stop herself, “…that science stuff!”
“Did you mean to hide from security, Crewwoman?” the commander asked in a calm voice that told Tilly immediately both that the man had made up his mind immovably and that Commander Henry Smith’s sense of justice took in a great many factors—not merely an individual act but the entire situation. “Did you know that you were in a place you shouldn’t be?”
Tilly felt her face crumple. “Yes, but…”
“Did you know that this mission represents humanity’s hope for a future in the stars?” Now Tilly could hear a little emotion in the commander’s voice, and she understood suddenly that in breaking that stupid fucking science stuff she had done something really, really bad.
She wanted to deny that she had known about Freedom’s Hope and what it represented, but she also refused to lie. “Yes,” she whispered, and closed her eyes, scrunching up her face so that the tears would leak out and the stern officer would see them.
“Specialist Foster, do your duty,” said the commander, on the other side of the blackness Tilly had created, and maybe Tilly could hear a little more regret in the pilot’s tone, but that made it worse. She opened her eyes and cried out one more plea for mercy.
But right after the no she heard the whistling of the strap through the air and then the echoing noise of it and she felt the first awful sensation, the terrible sting that got worse and worse as her body understood that the whipping had begun. Another whistling… Dr. Foster must have braced himself so he could swing hard even in zero gravity, and they had bound Tilly in place so he had a perfect target… Tilly screamed at the second lash.
It hurt so much. So much. Dr. Foster whipped her hard and fast, gave her no respite, and Tilly felt like her whole backside had caught fire. He lashed her across both her naked bottom-cheeks, across her thighs, her right cheek, her left cheek, over and over. She struggled, crying out, her backside clenching and moving in the straps that bound her, but only a little, not enough even to soothe the terrible pain let alone get out of the way of Dr. Foster’s unerring strap.
Tilly tried to turn to her left, to see Dr. Foster and to beg him to stop for just a moment so that the awful pain would fade a little, but the way they had secured her to the seat only let her catch a glimpse of his tall, red-suited form as he brought his arm back and then forward with another lash right across the lowest part of her bottom, where she could feel it in her virgin pussy. Tilly screamed and bucked against the padding of the seat, and then her bottom surged out again of its own accord. She wondered if the ones behind her could see her red-haired private slit, if it made them think about the sex they couldn’t have, and the heat in her face rose as if to rival the terrible burning in her backside.
“That’s twenty,” said Dr. Foster. “Should we leave her there?”
“Oh, no,” Tilly sobbed. “Oh, please… it hurts so much…” She only wanted to slink off into some corner, some… sleeping pod, or whatever… to rub her bottom a little, soothe herself. To her dismay, the heat down there, which had vanished as Dr. Foster whipped her, returned double or triple now at the mere thought of that soothing.
“Yes,” said the commander. “Colonel Jones, please make sure the crew all take a good look at Miss Squires’ bottom.”
“Oh, please…” Tilly said. The heat seemed to become melting, now, in her pussy, and she felt a little of the wetness trickle out. The realization sent a rush of blood to her face, too. She bent her head and hoped they wouldn’t notice.
But a male voice—not one she thought she had heard before—said, “Look at her blush. I think she’s learned her lesson.” Tilly opened her eyes to see that one of the men in the green jumpsuits, with Haller on the breast, had taken a stand in front of her, and was looking down into her eyes. He had a blond beard and sky-blue eyes, and seemed about thirty. He reached out his hand to touch Tilly’s cheek, as her eyes widened in surprise and her heart started to beat very fast again, after it had just calmed down from the whipping.
“I’m Bart Dester, honey,” he said.
“Specialist Dester,” said Colonel Jones from behind her. “Be careful.”
A long beep sounded from behind Tilly, where she imagined the cockpit must lie. The commander said, “I’ll get that. Mr. Dester, watch yourself.”
“Very well, Commander,” Bart said, still looking down into Tilly’s eyes. He took his hand away, but in a manner that said that he did it only with the intention of putting it back whenever he felt like it, and not because he thought himself in any need of policing. “I’m going to look at your little bottom, now, Crewwoman Squires.”
He moved out of Tilly’s field of vision, as did all the other crewmembers, and her face got hot anew at the thought of them lining up, maybe, to inspect the evidence of her having paid a steep price for her foolish actions. From the cockpit she heard the commander speaking indistinct words to mission control, an unmistakable tone of surprise in his voice. The pain in Tilly’s bottom and thighs began to dull, but it was still agonizing, and she couldn’t keep herself from lewdly clenching and unclenching her little cheeks to try to ease it, despite knowing to her shame that twenty-two eyes watched the involuntarily sexy display made by a punished virgin.
“Senior Specialist Foster, would you join me in the cockpit for a moment?” the commander called.
“On my way, Commander,” Dr. Foster returned. Tilly pictured him moving in zero gravity from rung to rung and she found to her amazement that she felt a little gratitude to him for making the whipping so quick and efficient. He clearly had a good deal of experience, and that in itself made her thoughts about him, and about the commander, and Bart Dester, and Ms. Price, and Amanda Miller, and Colonel Jones, very mixed and ambiguous. Tilly felt her forehead crease deeply as she tried to figure out what it all meant.
In the cockpit, the surprise had spread to Dr. Foster’s voice. Tilly thought she heard him say, “Seriously?” and then the commander reply in the affirmative. She couldn’t make out what Dr. Foster said then, but it sounded almost bemused, as if what they had heard from mission control had proved unexpectedly interesting—even pleasing.
“Look at that little ass,” said another male voice. “So red now. Tilly, sweetheart, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Can it, Simmons,” Colonel Jones’ voice said.
A woman spoke—Specialist Miller? “Or a girlfriend. If I were your girlfriend, Tilly, you’d go over my knee all the time.”
“You too, Miller,” the copilot said.
Then a locker opened behind Tilly and to her left. Commander Smith’s voice spoke from close by—he and Dr. Foster had clearly come back from the cockpit.
“We have some orders from mission control. We’re going to run a test on Crewwoman Squires.”
The locker closed. “Tilly,” said Dr. Foster’s voice. “I’ve got an instrument here called a hygrometer. It’s designed to measure moisture, and this one is a special kind of hygrometer called a vaginal humidity sensor.”
“What?” came a female voice—Specialist Price, maybe.
“I’ll brief the crew in a few moments,” the commander said. “Dr. Foster, proceed.”
Tilly tried to twist around to see the man who had flogged her, but he must be standing directly behind her now, so she could only see a few yellow and green jump-suited specialists.
“It’s not my division of my company, Selecta, that does this, Crewwoman Squires,” Dr. Foster said, his voice seeming to indicate his surprise at the orders from mission control, “but it appears that Selecta sent along a special set of instruments as a just-in-case sort of thing. At any rate, I’m going to put this sensor between your legs, and you’re going to wear it.” Tilly heard ripping, like protective wrapping being removed from something.
“I don’t get it,” said a voice Tilly thought must be Bart Dester’s.
“You will, Specialist,” the commander replied. “Mission control thinks the test won’t take long.”
“Wait!” Tilly cried, thinking that maybe she knew what it meant, and hoping desperately she had gotten it wrong. But then she felt a big hand down there—the first male hand down there, ever, pressing something into the place between her pussy and her anus that felt itchy for only a split-second. She couldn’t suppress a little noise at that, a shameful noise of need.
“Listen to that,” said the commander. “Do we even have to look at the reading?”
Something beeped. Tilly heard indistinct murmurs among the crew behind her, as—she imagined—the different teams tried to figure out what was going on.
Dr. Foster spoke next. “Confirmed. Our little stowaway got very wet from her whipping.”
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