Chapter One
I had been dreading the field trip to Magisteria for months. Not because I feared what I might find there—I had studied enough Magisterian history to know their patriarchal customs were archaic and absurd—but because I knew my classmates would embarrass themselves. Worse, they would embarrass Hippolyta with their grasping ambition to become part of the Federation’s machinery at any price.
When the morning finally came, I walked up the ramp of the sleek transport vessel with my head held high, my bag clutched in one hand. As the transport lifted off from Hippolyta City’s spaceport, the other eleven girls from my cohort chattered nervously or stared out the viewport at our beautiful planet receding below. From my seat near the back I tried to ignore Brequa’s breathless excitement two rows ahead.
“I can’t believe we’re actually going,” she whispered to the girl beside her, loud enough for half the cabin to hear. “We’ve read so much about their culture, and their… you know, their leaders.”
Her seatmate tittered. Ah, yes, the Magisterian leaders: the royal house and their cronies, polygamous noblemen who found having both wives and concubines perfectly acceptable—ideal, even, as long as those wives and concubines went along with the Magisterian way.
I rolled my eyes and pulled out my datapad, determined to review my notes on Hippolytan governance models. I would need every argument at my disposal if, as I had heard might happen, our overlords decided I had skills they needed and didn’t care to honor my own desires. In that case, from what I had read, I would need to demonstrate that my value to Hippolyta—our separate and ‘almost equal’ world—would be greater than my value to the Federation as a whole.
It felt a bit arrogant, of course, to assume that the Magisterians would seize on my talents that way. But my favorite teacher, Ms. Opalin, had warned me explicitly. You need to be ready, she had told me. You have a mind practically designed for diplomacy. They’ll try to convince you that you don’t understand yourself as well as you think you do.
Ms. Haspor, our chaperone, stood at the front of the cabin once we’d cleared Hippolyta’s atmosphere. She represented the absolute opposite of Ms. Opalin as far as I could tell. Ms. Haspor was a stern woman in her forties, her gray-streaked hair pulled back severely. She had lived on Magisteria for a decade before returning to teach, which represented only the beginning of the things that made her suspect in my opinion.
“Girls,” she began, her voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “I know some of you have… complicated feelings about this trip. But I want you to understand something from the outset: this is an opportunity. A privilege, even.”
I felt my jaw clench.
“I know you’ve studied Magisteria, either with Ms. Opalin or with me. It’s important that you have those lessons in mind today, however, and so I wish to review their most important points, in order to put you all—including Ms. Opalin’s students—in the proper frame of mind.”
She looked pointedly at me for a moment. Shit, I thought, I didn’t realize I’d developed a reputation. I had a moment’s dismay, but then a little thrill of hope rose in me—surely the Magisterians wouldn’t want a young woman with that kind of attitude.
Ms. Haspor’s eyes returned to the group as a whole as she continued.
“The history of Magisteria is the history of our modern galaxy,” she orated, as if addressing the Planetary Assembly. “Three hundred years ago, miners on the world to which we’re traveling now discovered gravitium deposits deep beneath the surface. Within fifty years, they had developed the gravitium drive—the technology that makes faster-than-light travel possible. The Magisterian Federation grew from a single planet to a dominant interstellar power.”
Mabola was taking notes, her amber eyes focused with that clinical intensity she brought to everything. She caught me watching and raised an eyebrow, as if challenging me to object to Ms. Haspor’s lecture.
“Of course, not everyone accepted Magisterian leadership willingly,” Ms. Haspor said. “Our own Hippolyta represented a loyal opposition almost from the beginning of the Federation. More recently, the Vionian revolt nearly tore the Federation apart only a decade ago. But Magisteria’s control over gravitium production has allowed them—us, really, for Hippolyta is and always will be Magisteria’s sister world—to prevail. Today, the Vionian Empire is no more than a stubborn, doomed resistance, and the Federation’s influence is unmatched.”
“And their influence is what, exactly?” I heard myself ask. “Forcing half the population into submission?”
Ms. Haspor’s gaze found mine, sharp and disapproving. “Their influence, Jendra, is what allows Hippolyta to exist as a sovereign world. Our leaders swore loyalty to the Magisterian crown in exchange for our autonomy. And part of that agreement includes this: young women from Hippolyta who prove their aptitude may enter the Magisterian military or civil service. Many have done so with great success.”
“Success at betraying everything Hippolyta stands for,” I muttered, but Ms. Haspor had already turned away. The rest of the journey passed relatively quickly. It was the first time in space for all of us, of course. With the exception of our one jump, though, when the stars all changed in an instant, it didn’t seem to me much more diverting than a video. When we made the jump and saw the bright white surface of Magisteria, covered with ice to a depth of two kilometers, even I had to admit to myself that the experience had a certain coolness—and then I winced at my mental pun.
As the transport began to descend, I listened to the increasingly nervous speculation from my classmates. Brequa practically vibrated with anticipation. Mabola remained coolly observant, occasionally jotting notes in her personal journal. I spent the time mentally rehearsing every argument against Magisterian customs I had ever learned.
When I caught a glimpse of the hole in the ice that gave access to Magisteria’s spaceport, and the way it seemed to be getting larger with every passing second, my heart was pounding despite my determination to remain calm. We filed off the transport into a gleaming corridor that smelled of recycled air, but purified and imbued with a pleasant, vegetal scent.
Two officials in crisp purple uniforms were waiting for us. Both men, naturally. The taller one consulted a datapad while the other surveyed us with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Welcome, girls of Hippolyta,” the tall one said. “You’re all looking lovely today. Ms. Haspor, they look like a fine group.”
Girls. Lovely. I gritted my teeth.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” our chaperone answered primly, her bright smile making me a little queasy.
“You know the way, Ms. Haspor,” the other man said. “Your tour will start in a few minutes, as soon as you have the girls prepared.”
Ms. Haspor led us through a maze of corridors that took us from the spaceport into what seemed an adjacent reception facility. Everything seemed adorned with evidence of Magisterian pride: rich purple wallpaper and deep blue carpets seemed to extend into infinity. To my surprise, Ms. Haspor led us into what seemed like a large coat room with benches along the walls and cubbies with hooks inside.
“Alright, girls, here’s the part I know you’re feeling a bit nervous about, if you’ve talked to older students about this field trip,” our chaperone told us. “You’re going to go ahead and remove your clothing and hang your things in the cubbies.”
I had indeed heard about this part of the field trip from older girls in my dormitory, but I had thought they were just trying to scare me. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at Ms. Haspor.
“I know this seems unusual,” she continued, her tone matter-of-fact. “But you need to understand that on Magisteria, women are only allowed to wear clothing when given permission by the man in charge of them. For the duration of this visit, you will experience what it would mean to join Magisterian society. A full sense of what that entails.”
Several of my classmates gasped. Brequa’s eyes went wide, but there was something in her expression that looked almost eager. Mabola simply tilted her head, as if filing this information away for later analysis.
I wanted to refuse. Every fiber of my Hippolytan upbringing screamed at me to protest, to demand our rights, to march right back onto that transport. But my voice seemed to have disappeared somewhere between my brain and my throat.
“Come now, girls,” Ms. Haspor said. “I know this is uncomfortable, but you’re all adults. You’ve had your wellness classes.”
Wellness classes. Yes, we’d had those. The dorm mothers had been kind but clinical about it all, teaching us about human sexuality and hygiene as if they were explaining how to operate a food synthesizer. Bodies were biological systems. Reproduction was a natural function. Everything had been so dispassionate, so careful, so safe.
But those classes hadn’t prepared me for this. They hadn’t taught me how to feel about my own body—about the way it had changed over the past few years, developing curves and softness in places that still felt foreign to me. I knew some of my classmates had figured out how to be comfortable with themselves. I’d heard them at night in the dormitory, the quiet sounds they tried to muffle beneath their blankets. I had tried it myself once, tentatively exploring, but I’d stopped almost immediately because of the pictures that came into my head.
Pictures I didn’t want to examine too closely. Pictures of… of strong hands and commanding voices and…
No. I pushed those thoughts away now, just as I had the night I’d let my fingers explore, down there between my thighs.
Around me, my classmates were beginning to comply. Brequa had already pulled her tunic over her head, giggling nervously as she folded it. Mabola moved with her usual efficiency, her movements precise and unhurried. Others followed, some blushing, some chattering to cover their embarrassment.
Nudity on Hippolyta wasn’t something we were supposed to be ashamed of, really… but I didn’t think I was alone in feeling embarrassment about it anyway. Especially since being nude, in the showers for instance, didn’t ever involve seeing boys naked. I knew what it looked like, from the pictures in wellness class, the thing they had down there, and I knew what they did with it, with a woman, when she consented.
Hippolytan education to the age of nineteen, though, was single-sex, in order to minimize distraction, according to our teachers. We would have our first chance to meet boys in two weeks, in fact. As far as I could tell, none of us really knew how to feel about that—except that we all looked forward to it because it also meant that we had nearly finished school. We would enter a transitional phase of life when we could choose among various internships all over the Hippolytan economy. I had tentatively decided on an advocacy office, having won most of the debate and public speaking prizes at school over the past few years.
“Jendra,” I heard Ms. Haspor say behind me, “do we have a problem?”
I swallowed hard and turned to look over my shoulder at her.
“No, Ms. Haspor,” I told her, reaching for the hem of my tunic.
She nodded, her face wearing an understanding sort of expression.
I began to pull my tunic up, pushing away the unwelcome shiver that had gone through me at the sound of her words. Do we have a problem?
I swallowed again. If we had a problem, I couldn’t help wondering, what would happen then?
I pulled the tunic over my head, feeling the cool air of the facility touch my skin. My fingers fumbled with the fastening of my pants, and I stepped out of them, folding them with unnecessary care to delay the inevitable. The bra came next, and finally—my face burning—I slipped off my panties and placed them in the cubby with the rest of my simple Hippolytan clothing.
I stood there naked, my arms instinctively crossing over my breasts, acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin. Around me, the other girls were in various states of undress, most of them giggling nervously or stealing glances at each other. I tried hard not to do the same kind of furtive looking, but I couldn’t help it: I found myself noting who had the biggest breasts and even the most hair covering their pussies. My face got hot as I realized I didn’t have nearly as much of that grownup thatch as Mabola did.
Then I noticed something that made my breath catch.
Ms. Haspor was unbuttoning her own tunic.
I watched, stunned, as our chaperone methodically removed her clothing with the same matter-of-fact efficiency she brought to everything. Within moments, she stood as naked as the rest of us, her magnificent, mature body somehow making the situation feel even more surreal.
I tried desperately not to stare, but Ms. Haspor’s swelling breasts and large nipples drew my eye inexorably, and…
I had to bite my lip when I saw that she had no hair between her thighs. I could see the cleft of my chaperone’s pussy, as clearly as I could see Brequa’s, where it seemed hair hadn’t really started to grow. Had Ms. Haspor removed hers? Had she shaved down there, or done something else to take away the fur? And… why?
I had the dismaying feeling that if I thought hard enough, I could figure it out. Thinking more about it, though, I told myself, was the last thing I wanted to do.
[divider]Chapter Two
Jendra
“Follow me, girls,” Ms. Haspor said, as casually as if she were fully clothed.
We filed out of the cloak room into another corridor, our bare feet padding softly on the plush carpet. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, trying not to think about the fact that I was walking naked through a Magisterian facility, trying not to imagine what would happen if we encountered anyone.
We did encounter someone: a woman, also naked, waiting for us in a large atrium. She was perhaps thirty, with dark hair cascading over her shoulders and a serene expression on her face. I had to suppress some sort of noise—a whimper or a cry of surprise, I couldn’t even tell which—down in my throat as I saw that like Ms. Haspor, this woman’s pussy was smooth and bare. I couldn’t look right at Mabola out of embarrassment, but out of the corner of my eye I thought I could see that her face, too, had gone red.
“Welcome, young women of Hippolyta,” she said warmly. “My name is Glomana, and I will be your guide today through our Museum of Magisterian Heritage. Please, follow me.”
The museum itself was impressive, I had to admit, though I would never have said so aloud. The first room we entered was dedicated to the founding families of Magisteria—those who had left Earth centuries ago seeking a place where they could practice what they called ‘traditional values.’
Glomana stopped before a glass case. We peered inside—it seemed to contain nothing but a worn leather strap with a wooden handle. “This,” she explained, “belonged to Hendrick the Elder, one of our founding fathers. He used it to discipline his wives and concubines when they needed correction.”
My stomach turned. Needed correction. As if women were children or malfunctioning machines.
On the wall nearby hung a large painting that drew my reluctant attention. It depicted a bearded man—presumably Hendrick—seated with a naked woman draped over his knee. His arm was raised, the strap in his hand, and the woman’s buttocks were painted an angry red. Her face, turned toward the viewer, wore an expression I couldn’t quite interpret. Pain, certainly, but something else too. Something that made my own face grow hot.
“Hendrick’s wife Anya,” Glomana said softly, noticing my stare. “According to his journals, she was his favorite, and the one who needed the most frequent reminders of her place.”
I tore my eyes away from the painting, my heart hammering.
The next room, to my relief, focused on the discovery of gravitium. It was filled with mining equipment and technical displays that would have interested me under different circumstances. But I could barely concentrate, still thinking about that painting, about the expression on Anya’s face.
The third room showcased the history of the Magisterian royal family. Portraits lined the walls, generation after generation of stern-faced men and demure women, most of them to my mortification just as naked as I was—but with their folded hands and downcast eyes, no less demure for all that. It was the diorama in the center of the room, though, that drew gasps from several of my classmates and made me approach with hesitant but irrepressible curiosity.
It depicted a royal wedding ceremony in miniature but exquisite detail. The groom stood in elaborate purple robes, while the bride knelt naked before him. And in her mouth—I felt my face burning hotter than it ever had before—in her mouth was his… his rigid penis. The scene was so anatomically explicit, so unapologetically clear about what was happening, that I couldn’t look away.
“This represents the traditional Magisterian royal wedding oath,” Glomana explained, her voice still calm and warm. “The bride demonstrates her submission and devotion to her husband in the most intimate way possible. It is considered a sacred moment.”
The words burst out of me before I could stop them. “How can you possibly bear to serve a man like that?”
Silence fell over the room. I felt Ms. Haspor’s sharp gaze on me immediately.
“Jendra, that question is inappropriate,” she said, her voice carrying a warning that made my stomach lurch.
But Glomana smiled gently. “No, Ms. Haspor, I understand. It must seem very strange to these young women.” She turned to me, her eyes kind. “I understand your confusion, truly I do. But you see, I love my master. To have his penis in my mouth makes me very happy because it makes his penis hard, and that means it feels good to him. Giving him pleasure is my greatest joy.”
I stared at her, searching her face for any sign of coercion, of hidden resentment, of the oppression that must surely lurk beneath her words. But I found only contentment, a genuine warmth that unsettled me more than anger would have.
“But don’t you want… anything for yourself?” I pressed, unable to let it go.
Glomana’s smile deepened. “What I want is to serve him. That’s what you don’t understand yet—and you may never understand, I know. His happiness is my happiness. His pleasure is my pleasure.” She paused, then added softly, “When I kneel before him and take him in my mouth, when I feel him grow hard because of what I’m doing… there’s no feeling in the galaxy quite like it.”
My throat felt tight. Those pictures were trying to surface again in my mind—the ones I’d pushed away that night in the dormitory, the ones that had made me stop touching myself because they had frightened me with their intensity as much as with their content, the troubling story they had tried to tell.
After we had finished the museum visit, with a room that thankfully contained nothing but models and images depicting the Federation’s triumph over the Vionian revolt and then the Vionian Empire itself, Glomana bid us farewell. Ms. Haspor led us through another series of corridors to what was a sort of transit station. A sleek train waited on magnetic rails, its observation car made almost entirely of transparent material that would offer panoramic views of our journey.
“We’ll be touring the original gravitium mines,” Ms. Haspor announced as we filed into the car, still naked, our bare skin pressing against the cool seats. “The Magisterian Communications Office decided to turn them into a vast museum testifying to the Federation’s heritage. Then we’ll travel through the ice itself before briefly emerging onto the planet’s surface.”
I took a seat near the window, grateful for any distraction from the thoughts swirling in my head. The train began to move, gliding silently through tunnels carved deep beneath Magisteria’s frozen crust.
The mines appeared first—vast caverns lit by artificial lights, with machinery that looked both ancient and meticulously maintained. I watched as we passed extraction sites where the rare gravitium ore had first been discovered, the veins of purplish metallic material still visible in the rock walls. Under different circumstances, I would have found it fascinating. I should have found it fascinating.
But all I could think about was Glomana’s face. Her contentment. Her genuine happiness as she spoke about serving her master.
The train entered a section where the ice walls were visible through reinforced viewing panels. Brequa pressed her face against the glass, exclaiming at the way the light refracted through layers of frozen water that had accumulated over millennia. I stared at the ice too, but I wasn’t really seeing it.
To have his penis in my mouth makes me very happy because it makes his penis hard, and that means it feels good to him.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but that only made the images worse. The painting of Anya draped over Hendrick’s knee. The diorama of the bride kneeling before her groom. Glomana’s serene expression as she described the joy of submission.
My body felt strange—warm in places it shouldn’t be, despite the cool air of the observation car. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, pressing my thighs together, trying to ignore the sensation building between them.
This was exactly what Ms. Opalin had warned me about. The Magisterians would try to confuse me, to make me doubt my own values, to awaken feelings that contradicted everything I believed about equality and freedom. I needed to stay focused, to remember who I was and what I stood for.
But Glomana hadn’t seemed confused. She hadn’t seemed oppressed or broken. She had seemed… happy.
The train began to ascend, and suddenly we were approaching the surface. The ice gave way to the thin atmosphere of Magisteria’s exterior, and I found myself staring at a landscape unlike anything I had ever imagined. The planet’s surface was a frozen wasteland of crystalline formations and sweeping plains of snow that caught the light of Magisteria’s distant sun in spectacular refractions. Strange ice formations rose like sculptures, shaped by winds that had blown for centuries across this inhospitable terrain.
“It’s beautiful,” Mabola whispered beside me.
It was beautiful. Alien and harsh and utterly beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
Just like that painting of Anya had been beautiful, in its own disturbing way. The composition, the use of light and shadow, the expression on her face that I still couldn’t quite interpret.
The train descended back into the ice, returning us to the warmth and safety of the underground facility. The journey back to the reception center seemed to pass in moments, though I knew it must have taken the same amount of time as the outward trip. I was too lost in my own thoughts to track the minutes properly.
When we arrived, Ms. Haspor stood and addressed us. “Now, girls, we’re going to proceed to what I consider the most important part of today’s visit. Please follow me.”
She led us through yet another series of corridors until we reached a small theater. On the little stage was a piece of furniture that I didn’t recognize, except that it bore a slight resemblance to an examination chair from a gynecologist’s office. My attention, though, was drawn by a more immediate furniture-related problem: the seats in the audience of the theater, though definitely identifiable as such, were also unlike any I had seen before—padded and comfortable-looking, but with seat bottoms apparently molded to receive the backside of a young woman. I felt heat mount to my cheeks just looking at their curved contours. The surface seemed to be upholstered in high-quality synthetic leather.
“Take your seats,” Ms. Haspor instructed. “And please note that these chairs are equipped with monitoring technology. Your responses today are being evaluated.”
My stomach dropped. Evaluated. This was the part where I had to be at my strongest, but I felt terribly confused.
I sat down hesitantly. To my dismay, the seat felt warm and much too welcoming under my naked bottom. Around me, my classmates were settling into their own seats, some looking nervous, others—like Brequa—almost eager.
The lights dimmed, and a figure walked onto the small stage at the front of the theater. He was tall, imposing, with striking blue skin that seemed to shimmer even in the low light. His uniform marked him as a high-ranking officer, the purple and silver insignia of the Magisterian star fleet prominent on his chest.
“Good afternoon, young women of Hippolyta,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the space. “My name is Captain Alpha of the star fleet cruiser Prince Hend. I want to begin by explaining exactly what is happening here today.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping across all of us. When his eyes met mine, I felt something clench in my stomach.
“The seats you’re sitting in are monitoring your physiological responses—heart rate, skin temperature, pupil dilation, and other markers. You are being evaluated for potential positions in Magisterian civil service or military. This is not optional. It is a condition that the Magisterian authorities have made for Hippolyta’s continued independence.”
I wanted to stand up, to protest, to demand to know by what right they could evaluate us like this. But I remained frozen in my seat, my heart pounding so hard I was certain their sensors were recording every frantic beat.
“All Hippolytan girls,” Alpha continued, “are introduced in this way to certain realities about life, about Magisteria, and about the opportunities available to them. What you are about to witness is a demonstration of authentic Magisterian relationships and power dynamics. I ask that you observe with open minds.”
He gestured toward the wings of the stage. “Please welcome my wife, Sala.”
[divider]Chapter Three
Jendra
A woman walked onto the stage, and my breath caught in my throat. She was naked, like Ms. Haspor and Glomana had been, like we all were. But there was something different about her presence—a confidence, a grace that made her nudity seem almost regal. Her short black hair gleamed under the stage lights, and her blue eyes surveyed us with what looked like understanding.
“Hello,” she said warmly. “As Alpha said, I am Sala, his wife. I’m here today to help you understand what it means to be a Magisterian woman.”
At Alpha’s gesture—it wasn’t quite a command, but there was authority in it that made my pulse quicken—Sala moved to the ambiguous piece of furniture at the center of the stage. It was like a gynecologist’s chair, I realized as she raised two fixtures that I could now see were knee stirrups to either side of the thing’s lower part.
Sala settled onto the chair, facing us. With no apparent shame or hesitation, she raised her legs and spread them wide. I swallowed audibly as Alpha helped his wife guide her knees into the stirrups, holding her in that utterly exposed position.
I couldn’t look away, except for the quick flick of my eyes around the room to verify that none of us could avert our gaze. Sala’s dainty-looking pussy was completely visible, smooth and bare like Ms. Haspor’s and Glomana’s had been. Between her pale outer lips, her pink inner ones peeked out, their rosy pout illuminated by the bright stage lights.
We could even see a hint of the opening at the base of Sala’s labia, where, I knew from wellness class, Alpha must like to put his hard penis—and, as a Magisterian husband, I knew he must do that as often as he chose. And, below Sala’s pussy, even more embarrassingly, her anus was visible too. My forehead creased hard as I remembered the most mortifying moment of wellness class, when Ms. Haspor had told us, in a dispassionate voice, that most Magisterian men regularly penetrated their wives’ and concubines’ anuses.
“It’s an easy form of birth control,” Ms. Haspor had said, “like oral sex, but it also expresses a Magisterian woman’s sexual subservience of course, since it naturally isn’t as pleasurable for her as vaginal sex. For that reason it occasionally serves as a disciplinary practice as well.”
My face went very hot at the memory, and when Sala’s voice snapped me out of the reverie, the heat didn’t fade.
“As you can see, girls,” she explained, putting her hand between her thighs and stroking her private lips gently, as if petting a kitten, “like most Magisterian wives and concubines, I am required to keep my pussy smooth to show my submission to my husband. It’s a daily reminder of my place, of my purpose.” Her voice was calm and educational, but the movement of her fingers, openly masturbating in front of a group of younger women, seemed to make a more urgent point.
Several of my classmates gasped. I felt my face burning, felt that warmth between my legs intensifying in a way that made me want to press my thighs together, but I forced myself to remain still. I felt certain that the sensors would detect any movement, any response.
“I want to tell you about my journey,” Sala continued. “I began my career on a Magisterian pleasure station. Do you know what that means?”
Silence greeted her question.
“It means that men paid a great deal of money to use me with their penises. Ms. Haspor, do your students know the word fuck yet?”
I turned to see that our teacher had a little smile on her face. I thought I had heard the word from older girls, as a sort of interjection—a mild curse—but I had no idea why Sala would ask about it.
“Not as such, Sala,” Ms. Haspor replied. “Girls, the word is still considered vulgar in Hippolytan society, but it refers to the act of a man using a woman’s body with his hard penis. It’s an ancient way to speak of sexual intercourse.”
I didn’t know why, but something about this information seemed to set my whole body on fire. I thought about the diorama with the shameful marriage ceremony, about Hendrick the Elder and his wife’s rosy bottom. I couldn’t figure out how exactly my mind had reacted this way, but it suddenly seemed to me that fuck must be the perfect word for what a Magisterian man did with his rigid manhood when he decided to enjoy himself inside a woman he owned.
“Thank you, Ms. Haspor,” Sala said. “Girls, the men who came to the pleasure station paid to fuck my mouth, my pussy, and my bottom. I was there to give them pleasure, and I did so willingly, because that was the path I had chosen.”
The words overwhelmed my reason. Men had paid to use her. To put their penises in her. To fuck her. She said it so matter-of-factly, as if she were describing any other profession.
“One day,” Sala went on, “three men, who were not really men, came to the station. Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. As you can see, they have the bodies of huge blue human men, but those bodies were manufactured in a cloning factory, to house the consciousness of beings from a group of energy entities called the Collective.”
I nodded along at this point, and I could see out of the corners of my eyes that my classmates were, too. We had learned about the Collective—the only genuinely alien life humans had ever encountered in their exploration of the galaxy. We had learned that there were a few cloned humans who belonged to the Collective, but we hadn’t heard anything about their arrival—and now, with a blush, I understood why.
Sala smiled then, and it transformed her face. “All three of the brothers are remarkable, and I and the other girls who served them at the pleasure station all felt privileged to serve them, as uncomfortable as it sometimes was. In a few moments, by the way, you’ll see the reason for that discomfort.”
Sala gave a little giggle. Her fingers moved a little quicker over her pussy, pressed on her clitoris’s wrinkly hood a little more firmly. I saw that her fingertips had begun to glisten a little in the light, and in the air, with a hot blush, I could smell a tangy sort of odor that reminded me of the dorm at night, when other girls had played with themselves after lights out.
I realized that my jaw had gone slightly slack, and my breathing sped up. The seat beneath me seemed much too warm. I pushed away the memory of the sensors in it; my mind had too much to cope with at the moment.
“For me,” Sala continued, “Alpha was different from the others. When he used me, when he fucked me, he looked into my eyes. He saw me, not just my body. And I… I fell in love with him. And somehow, miraculously, he fell in love with me too.”
“How long did it take?” Brequa asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “To fall in love? Did it happen the first time?”
“The first time he used me? No,” Sala laughed softly. “But by the second time he fucked me, I think I knew. By the third or fourth, he knew too. He bought out my contract and made me his wife.”
“Do you ever regret it?” Mabola asked, her analytical mind clearly working through the implications. “Your old life, your freedom to choose?”
Sala’s expression grew thoughtful. “I have more freedom now than I ever did on the pleasure station. Alpha values my counsel, my intelligence, my insights. Yes, I submit to him. Yes, I serve him with my body. But he cherishes me in return.”
Her voice sounded a little breathy. I could see her hips twitch, too, her bottom squirming on the seat.
“But you still have to…” another girl started, then trailed off, her face red.
“I still have to keep my pussy smooth,” Sala finished, biting her lip as her fingers seemed to show us how sensitive it made her down there. “I still have to obey him. I still have to accept his discipline when he deems it necessary, even when it’s embarrassing, like having to wear a plug in my anus, or uncomfortable, like when he fucks my bottom hard as punishment. Yes. All of that is true.”
My heart had started to race, and to my dismay I found that I had put my right hand in my lap, and begun to exert a little pressure, just to soothe away the distressing need that arisen there.
“Which brings us,” Alpha said, “to the demonstration portion of this presentation.”
My heart stuttered. Demonstration?
“What you are about to witness,” he continued, “is a typical expression of Magisterian power dynamics between a husband and wife. Sala has consented to this, as she consents to everything in our relationship. But consent in Magisteria looks different than it might on Hippolyta.”
From behind the special chair in which Sala sat, he brought a much simpler, ancient kind of chair. Wooden, or some synthetic imitation. Rail-back, I thought I remembered the type was called. The same kind of chair, I realized with a start, depicted in the painting of Hendrick the Elder disciplining his wife.
Alpha set the chair in the middle of the stage, and then he helped Sala out of the exhibition seat or whatever it was. He guided his wife over to the wooden chair, but he left her standing at its side, and he sat down in it himself. His large hands grasped her waist, and with casual strength, he toppled her over and positioned her across his lap. Her bottom was raised, presented, vulnerable.
“Sala has been a good wife today,” Alpha said conversationally, as if he weren’t holding a naked woman across his knees in front of an audience of stunned girls. “But she will receive a spanking anyway, because I have decided she needs the reminder of her place. Because I like to spank her. Because her submission pleases me.”
He raised his hand.
The first slap echoed through the theater, and Sala gasped. Her bottom jiggled from the impact, and I watched a pink handprint bloom on her pale skin.
Another slap. Another gasp. Her fingers clutched at Alpha’s leg, and I couldn’t tell if she was trying to brace herself or simply holding on.
My own breathing had become shallow. That warmth between my legs was now a definite heat, a throbbing that I couldn’t ignore no matter how much I wanted to. The sensors would record everything, but perhaps they would also record how hard I fought against my helpless arousal.
The spanking continued, each sharp crack of Alpha’s hand against Sala’s bottom creating another pink bloom on her skin. She writhed across his lap, her gasps becoming small cries, and I felt something twist inside me at the sight.
“Girls,” Ms. Haspor’s voice cut through my focus, and I tore my eyes away from the stage to look at her. She stood at the side of the theater, her naked body illuminated by the ambient light. “You’ll notice there’s a dial on the armrest of your seat. If you turn it, your seat will begin to vibrate. I encourage you to explore this feature.”
My hand flew away from my lap as if it burned. A dial. To make the seat vibrate. Against my bare pussy. Against the place where that shameful heat had been building.
I heard the soft whir of a motor to my left. Then another, from somewhere behind me. Brequa made a small sound—half gasp, half whimper—and when I glanced over, I could see her hand on the dial, her thighs trembling slightly as she adjusted the intensity.
On stage, Alpha’s hand continued its rhythmic punishment. Sala’s bottom had turned from pink to red, and her cries had taken on a desperate quality that I couldn’t quite interpret. Was it pain? Or something else?
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