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Shamed: A Punishment Reverse Harem Romance by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

Araminta frowned. “Training?”

“Yes, Araminta. Especially in your case training is the appropriate word—and it also represents a fine illustration of how things work here. Draconian citizens are free to form romantic and sexual relationships with whomever they please, but our history—some of which you may know—includes a phase of what you might call freely chosen patriarchy, when women who did not wish to submit to men’s leadership lived apart from the rest of society. That resulted, when the need for legally enforced male domination had passed, in what we call the discernment period.”

Araminta found herself fascinated despite herself. “What does that mean?”

The professor seemed to note her interest and nodded, his voice becoming a little more conversational and a little less didactic.

“For two decades,” he said, “romantic and sexual relationships were reviewed by a special government body—not with an eye toward preventing any citizen from doing what he or she wanted, but with the intention of making policies on the matter that fit with the meritocracy under which Draco has always existed. During that time different sub-populations were identified according to their need and capacity to lead or their need to submit, in order to achieve their potential.”

Araminta shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” the professor said, a little sharpness returning to his voice. “All you need to know is that the five men in this room belong to the male dominant group, and you belong to the female submissive group.”

Butterflies seemed to go wild in Araminta’s tummy, then, and she couldn’t tell why, which made her anger even stronger. “I am not submissive,” she said in as even a tone as she could.

“You certainly don’t think you are,” the professor agreed amiably. “Which is why you need training. Do you masturbate, Araminta?”

“What?” Her mouth flew open and her hands came down from her head for a moment, instinctively seeking to cover up her breasts and her pussy in an involuntary response to the humiliating question.

“You heard the professor,” said the man in the officer’s uniform. “Do you touch yourself, down between your legs, to make your little pussy feel good?”

Araminta’s breath came in little gasps now as she looked wildly around the table to see if the other men found this line of questioning acceptable. On all their faces—the businessman-type, the artist-type, and worst of all, the workman—she found either amusement or a sort of hunger that seemed to her even worse.

“I… I… h-how can you…”

“I can ask you that,” the professor replied, “because in the discernment period one of the things the government discerned was that while to control any citizen’s sexuality, whether man or woman, same-sex-oriented, hetero-oriented, polyamorous, queer, or what have you, is antithetical to the Draconian way of life, at the same time it is essential to maintaining that way of life that guidance be provided.”

Araminta tried to slow her heartrate, the rapidity of her breathing. She tried to focus on the information in the professor’s words.

“Wh-what does that mean?” Her voice came out in a pleading, almost whining tone, which made her want to scream, but at least she thought she had followed the content of what the dark-skinned man had said enough to understand it, and to feel the need for clarification.

“In your case, Araminta,” he continued, “because you are an arrival and not yet a citizen, it means that we will control you, until you understand that you are in fact a submissive who needs that control. You may lower your hands. Then turn around and bend over, please. You will masturbate for us now, and then I will cane you.”

“But… but… why?” she begged, her hands now coming down all the way, to attempt the vain covering of her private parts again. “I can’t! I don’t… I… don’t do that!” It was a lie, but really only a little one: she didn’t do it much, and she didn’t like to think about it at all.

“We told you to keep your breasts and pussy visible,” said the workman sternly. “Get those hands away.”

“It’s alright, Red,” the professor said. “I startled her, just as I intended. A little waywardness is to be expected right now. Araminta, the reason you will obey me is first of all that you must. When any of us give you a command, you will follow it because we said so.”

Araminta felt her face crumple and the tears come again. How could this be happening to a duchess?

“But,” he continued, “to turn you into a happy, contributing Draconian citizen it’s absolutely essential that you do understand exactly why your masters give you each instruction. In this case, the reason is quite basic, and underlies everything we will go on to teach you. You, with all your aristocratic pretensions layered on top of your ideas of compulsory egalitarianism, think that for a man to tell you to pleasure yourself represents a violation of both those principles: a noblewoman—as you think yourself—should never submit to a colonial professor, and an Earth citizen equal to all other Earth citizens should never have to do what anyone else says, above all when it comes to her vagina.”

Araminta flinched at the clinical word as if the professor had said something much worse. The little speech had given her time to recover, and as he had spoken she had gradually, with defiant looks around the table, taken her hands away from her breasts and pussy to put them at her sides.

“So?” she demanded now, doing everything in her mental power to keep from thinking of the shameful command and the even more shameful and frightening promise of the punishment to follow.

“So,” the professor said in his amiable tone, “each of your masters will address a specific pretension, a particular pride you have about the superiority in which you believe so very strongly—more strongly in fact than any other arrival admitted to the resettlement program. Red here will teach you to respect honest labor. Mr. Masdin will deal with the power of money and finance and your pride in Earth’s former economic prosperity. Mr. Ged will instruct you in the beauties of Draconian art for which you showed such disdain in your assessment.”

Araminta swallowed hard: the administrator had gone over some of this, but now that the professor laid it out with the men themselves there it seemed so much more alarming. Her eyes fixed on the military man—the one who frightened her the most.

“I,” said Colonel Federan, “will teach you the value of true discipline. In the Draconian armed forces, we know how to punish disobedience in order to produce esprit de corps. That’s how we defeated your egalitarian planet in the war—if you can even call it that.”

Araminta looked at the professor, hoping for some softening of the terror the colonel had imparted, but she found only the face of a stern teacher.

“And I will ensure,” he said, “that you understand how much you need that discipline, because of the sexual desires you have kept hidden even from yourself. That is why you will masturbate for us now, and then receive a whipping to teach you that now your pussy belongs to us. You won’t be fucked today, Araminta, but we will bare you down there, and deflower you, very soon.”

Colonel Promin Federan had to concede, if grudgingly, that the professor had hit on a fine way to open the girl’s training. Her reaction to the news that her masters, under the professor’s guidance, would be the men to fuck her first—to make a woman of her—showed all the shame the Draconian naturalization system was designed to elicit, in order to teach an arrival her place in her new society.

Araminta’s mouth had dropped open, and her breath came in little pants. “You… you can’t,” she whispered.

“Yes, we can,” Professor Nesterius replied. “And we will. Because I know how wet your sweet pussy just got.”

“N-no!” the girl stammered, but the crimson in her cheeks told the opposite tale. Federan’s cock, already rising, got very hard.

“Now do as you’re told, Araminta,” the professor said, his voice becoming a little more demanding. “Turn around and bend over. One hand in front, on your clitoris, and the other behind, on your bottom. Your file says there’s a very good chance you do masturbate regularly, but whether that’s true or not you’re going to do it right now, before your whipping. You may think about whatever you like while you play with yourself: freedom of thought and expression are a key part of the Draconian Basic Law. If you need inspiration, though, think about what it’s going to be like when we bend you over to fuck you for the first time, and how it will feel to have a penis inside you. You’re going to learn a lot about pleasing a man very soon, and I know that even though it makes you feel ashamed, it also makes you need to touch your little pussy.”

Araminta’s eyes and mouth had closed. Her nostrils flared as she took gasping breaths through them. Federan had to hand it to the professor: an advanced degree in psychology helped a man bring out the erotic needs of a girl with great effectiveness.

Araminta bit her lip. It looked for a moment like she might actually obey—something Federan had thought impossible. Her shoulders pivoted just a few inches, but then they returned to their forward-facing position. Her eyes opened.

“I can’t. I won’t,” she said, obviously trying to find some shred of resistance to the idea that she had the slightest desire for the treatment the professor had begun to outline.

“Red, Colonel Federan,” the professor said calmly, “put her over the table while I get the wand, please.”

“Gladly,” the colonel replied, rising from his seat just as Red did the same.

“What?” Araminta demanded, turning her head to look at the two approaching men.

“I’m going to whip you more severely now for your disobedience,” the professor said calmly, “but we’re not going to dispense with your demonstration of your sexual need. It will simply occur against your will, now. I am going to make you experience an orgasm while your masters observe you. Someday soon you will play with yourself in front of us, but today all I truly need to make clear to you is that the pleasure between your legs belongs to us from this point on, and that we will use it in training you.”

He, too, rose now and went to a cabinet at the side of the conference room. Federan and Red stood on either side of Araminta, a hand on each of her shoulders. Federan couldn’t help stroking her soft, creamy skin a little possessively, enjoying the way it made her shudder.

Red said, “Bend over the table now, sweetheart. The professor is going to make you feel good.”

Araminta shook her head. “Please. Please, no.”

“Do as you’re told,” Federan said, letting some of his military authority come into his voice. “Bend over or we will do it for you.”

She watched, her lips a little parted now, as the professor got from the cabinet the long white battery-operated wand with the blue knob at its end.

“Wh-what is it?” Araminta whispered.

“It’s the thing that’s going to make you feel good, sweetheart,” said Red.

Federan was about to offer the girl one last chance to go voluntarily over the table, but something in Red’s words, or in the sight of the wand in the professor’s hand, made her suddenly try to jerk away from the masters at either side. Red took firm hold of her left shoulder, then, and Federan of her right. They hauled her little body to the side of the gleaming table and bent her over.

“Victornian and Nebor,” the professor said. “Please hold her hands.”

The cellist and the businessman shifted their seats slightly so that they were directly across the table from Araminta. Each reached out his own hands to take one of the golden-haired girl’s. She gave a little whimper at the contact, and then another as they stretched her out naked across the expanse of wood.

“Keep her knees spread,” Federan said to Red, reaching down as he spoke to tug on Araminta’s right thigh, ensuring her lightly furred pussy and even her sweet little anus remain completely exposed. Red did the same, so that Araminta de Lourcy, self-styled Duchess of Panton, lay immobilized among her five masters on the conference table.

“That’s it,” said the professor. “Just like that, gentlemen.”

He switched the wand on. The loud buzzing that filled the air made Araminta flinch and squirm in the grasp of the men who held her fast. Federan watched her twist her head as the professor circled the table, until she had to crane her neck to look behind her.

“Keep your face forward, Araminta,” the professor said. “And think about being a good girl for your masters.”

He placed his left hand atop her waist, giving her the slightest of circular caresses there, and lower down, on her right bottom-cheek, and then on her left. After that, without further warning, he put the buzzing knob of the vibrator right where Federan knew from extensive experience it would send the greatest pleasurable sensation rocketing through Araminta’s body.

She gave a little cry, and her back arched, bottom jerking upward, even stretched out as she was. The cry became a long, low, helpless moan.

“N-no… no… p-please…” Words failed her again, and her bottom clenched and unclenched, as the professor moved the wand a little to stimulate her glistening labia, then her puckered bottom-hole.

“We will have you, in these places, Araminta,” he said in a low voice. “And you will enjoy it—more, you will learn to admit that you enjoy it.”

Araminta cried out, and rode the knob, trying to push her clitoris back onto it, greedy for the wicked sensation despite all her pride. The professor pushed a button that made the buzz much louder, and gave her just what she wanted, but the cries of helpless pleasure that came from her demonstrated that Araminta hadn’t known just how much pleasure that special place between her thighs could give. She threw her head back, her face turned bright red, and she sobbed with need and ecstasy at once.

“You may come, Araminta,” said the professor in a stern voice that Federan knew he had calculated both to increase the girl’s arousal and to help teach the important lesson about her body’s belonging to her masters during her naturalization. “Hold her tightly, gentlemen, please.”

Federan had no trouble with that, and he knew his fellow masters felt the same: he kept his right hand on Araminta’s sweet, naked hip and his left on her inner thigh, tightening his grip just a little. Araminta cried out louder as she felt herself restrained, as the wanton, wayward motions of her hips were forbidden by the men who meant to punish her and to enjoy her in nearly equal measure.

Then her whole body went taut, and her moan caught in her throat. Her fists curled tightly on the table where Masdin and Ged held her wrists. Federan could feel the tremors of pleasure in the trim thigh where he had his hand, and it took all his self-control not to run that hand up higher and indicate to the girl that he meant to have her pussy and her bottom very soon.

Araminta’s orgasm went on and on as the professor held the buzzing knob against her clit, until at last she relaxed and went limp upon the table. Nesterius took the wand away and clicked it off, and silence returned to the room but for the heavy, nearly sobbing breathing of a girl forced to a climax for which she hadn’t asked, made to display her submissive need while held in the grasp of her masters.

“Red, Colonel Federan,” said the professor, “go ahead and close those knees up. I’m going to cane her now.” He stepped away from the table to return to the cabinet. Araminta looked up wildly from the table.

“But… but I let you…”

Federan couldn’t suppress a laugh at that.

“No, you didn’t, girl. We put you over the table, remember? The professor is teaching you that your pussy and your bottom belong to us, now, and we will do what we want with them.”

The professor turned, holding the old-fashioned, half-inch-thick rattan cane that Federan knew he favored for punishing naughty coeds.

“Indeed,” he said, though he shot a glance at Federan that told the colonel that the professor was not in fact pleased by the interruption, “that is quite true, but there is much more to this lesson for you, Araminta.”

He stepped once again around the table, to take his place on Araminta’s left side. He raised the cane and whipped it through the air. Araminta gave a little cry of fear, and tried to see what he was doing, twisting her head wildly around.

“Eyes forward,” Red said gruffly. “The professor will give your bottom what he thinks it needs.”

That elicited a little whimper from the bending girl. A glance at the professor told Federan that, as he suspected, Nesterius regarded Red’s interruptions with much more favor than the colonel’s.

So be it. You like the workman more than the officer. Academics. At the same time, Federan noted a certain tension in the way Red had spoken, and the way Araminta had responded with her wordless submissive noise. And Red likes her, and she him. Fine with me. I’m just looking to enjoy myself on this assignment.

Araminta craned her neck a little more even, trying to look at Red himself, as if wishing to plead with him, but he put his enormous hand on her blonde head and turned it back toward the two masters on the other side of the table. She gave a cry of alarm, and pressed her cheek to the polished wood of the table.

“No,” the professor continued as if the interruption hadn’t occurred. “Your private places do belong to us, but the reason I am going to cane you is that you find it disgusting that a young woman such as you should submit to the discipline of the man who loves her.”

“I don’t…” Araminta tried, then, “What do you mean?”

The professor swished the cane through the air again. Federan could tell that the disciplinarian had emerged in Nesterius in full force now, and he appreciated it despite knowing that the two of them would almost certainly be at odds throughout the lengthy naturalization of Araminta Lourcy.

“Gentlemen,” the professor said to Red and the colonel. “Take a step back, please. Nebor and Victornian, keep her in place.”

“What? No… please… not…”

But Federan and the rest of the masters had followed the professor’s instructions instantly, so that he could raise the long cane and bring it down hard across Araminta’s sweet little bottom. As she cried out with the building of the pain in her whipped cheeks from that first severe cut, her body writhing over the table, the professor spoke again.

“You will call me sir or professor, from this point forward, Araminta.”


The cane flashed down again, and then again, and Araminta screamed, her bottom bouncing up and down over her closed knees. Federan had to admit he might enjoy this view as much as the open-kneed one they had had before: the merest hint of the girl’s private pout showed itself in her struggles, like an invitation to teach her the most important lessons of all.

“On this planet, Araminta,” said the professor, “we recognize the importance of discipline. One essential form of that discipline is the voluntary submission of a woman to the man who cares for her. Sometimes this arises in a traditional marriage, and sometimes it arises in a more casual relationship. Sometimes it arises in the classroom. It may not suit everyone, but your reaction to certain parts of your assessment tells the arrival court, and in particular me, that the disgust you have for that sort of loving discipline is the key to teaching you how to behave here in your new home.”

Araminta started to fear that the professor’s insanity would infect her mind, too. Her bottom hurt so much, but the shame of being punished that way, after he had forced her to come in front of all of them, seemed even worse.

You’re the sort of girl who gets a naked whipping. You’re the sort of girl who gets a naked whipping.

Cobbled together somehow from the professor’s words, it kept singing in her head.

The cane swished through the air, and now she cried out at the mere sound of it. When it cracked across her bottom, and she writhed under its fiery stroke yet again, she screamed: the pain built in each individual stroke, and the more cuts the professor gave her, the worse that rising pain became. She felt like he had laid a flaming brand across her poor little bottom.

After he had delivered his speech about loving discipline the professor seemed content to whip her steadily across her buttocks and upper thighs for several moments, as she sobbed and struggled against the restraining hands of the masters on the other side of the table. Her special master laid his hand atop her waist and brought the cane down over and over.

You’re the sort of girl who gets a naked whipping, until she can’t sit down.

Her mind added the part about not sitting down, and Araminta had no idea why. With the idea of being unable to bear the feel of a chair’s seat upon her well-disciplined backside came the image of what her poor bottom-cheeks would look like, how they looked now to the professor and to the two men standing behind her, Red and Colonel Federan—the two she feared most, though now she couldn’t tell whether that was because they scared her just by their nature as worker and warrior or because they had been the ones to seize her and bend her over the table for the shameful ordeal the professor had inflicted.

Red… he frightened her more, though something about the fear made her tummy’s knots much too complicated to entangle. She wanted the big man to stop, not to stand there, not to look at her, but she also wanted to look into his eyes when he did and see if what had seemed to flash there before still shone out at her. Does he care about me?

The cane again: another fiery line took her mind away from Red.

Until she can’t sit down.

She saw the naughty girl’s bottom, streaked with the red lines that meant a man had whipped her. Why did she feel for some reason, some obviously terrible and false reason, that the girl had earned the punishment… that she should have a bottom covered with the purple indications that she had received the just reward of her misbehavior?

That she deserved not to be able to sit in a chair, the way good girls did?

She remembered, suddenly, the question on the assessment that must have played such an important role in bringing her into the power of these men: the woman, clearly a wife, getting a spanking in a car. It sent a shudder through her whole body, as if not only her mind, but also her muscles, remembered the disgust that had taken hold of her at the sight of a grown woman’s bottom exposed that way, her skirt up and her panties down, of a man’s big, firm hand raised to teach her the lesson she needed, because she had perhaps been late without calling, or said something haughty to a waiter. Araminta remembered the disgust, and the hot blush, the image had brought, the way her hand had reached out to touch the button for Most unlike my life.

But hadn’t the resettlement officials assured the men and women taking the test that Draco believed in freedom to choose one’s domestic situation? That the choices they made on the assessment would be used to place them in the life best suited for them? How could she have been any clearer that she didn’t want to submit to whatever this was, this insane idea of loving discipline?

Until she can’t sit down. She felt her bottom squirm and clench, all memory of the orgasm gone but this wayward, shameful motion that Araminta felt displayed her submission despite everything she could do, the same whether the professor pressed the vibrator to her clit or flogged her bottom with the awful cane. She wailed as the cane came down again across her thighs. The pool of tears she had left on the table wet her cheek, and she kept her eyes tightly shut so she wouldn’t have to look at the men the professor had called Victornian and Nebor.

“There,” said the professor. “You will have a good look at your bottom in the mirror every night for the next few days—your masters will make sure of that—and you’ll remember how you were caned after your orgasm. You will want to touch yourself then, I’m fairly sure, but I want to make it very clear, Araminta, that you are not permitted to masturbate without permission, from now on. If you are caught pleasuring yourself, you will be flogged again, by me, as the special master in charge of your core training.”

Behind her, over her quiet sobs, the colonel spoke. “The rest of us will punish you when you need it, for disobedience and disrespect, but we’ll turn you over to the professor for touching your pussy.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” the professor said. Did Araminta hear a hint of annoyance in the special master’s tone? Despite herself and despite the pain in her bottom that had begun now slowly to fade into a low-burning ache, she felt a fascination with the possibility that her five masters represented not a monolithic opposition to her freedom, but a wall riven with deep fissures into which, perhaps, an intelligent girl could slip.

Professor Nesterius spoke again. “Araminta, you may get up. You will stand before us again, with your hands on your head.”

Looking only at the table, at the little pool of tears, she obeyed. She winced and gave a soft cry at the pain awakened by the movement. More tears welled up, but without falling. She bit her lip, and tried to look angry rather than woeful, but she couldn’t meet the eyes of any of the men around the table as she took her stand, again twining her fingers in her now disheveled hair.

“Look at me, Araminta,” the professor said more gently. She raised her eyes from the table to meet his dark brown gaze, to see his handsome bearded face.

“I am going to take you to a shopping center, now, to get you some new clothes.”

“But…” Araminta began to protest. How could that be, when he had torn her dress.

“Hush, Araminta. You will have something to wear for the trip to the shopping center.” He reached down and got a cloth bag she had not noticed before. From it he took what looked like an oversized t-shirt, bright orange in color. Deliberately he held it up so she could see the words on its front, written in big, blocky black letters so that they could, Araminta guessed, be read from a hundred meters away: I’m an Earth girl who’s just been punished. Ask to see my bottom.

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