“Beta’s suite,” Sala said simply.
The rooms beyond were sumptuous. A living area with plush furniture and a massive view screen showing the stars above Magisteria’s ice. Beyond that, I glimpsed a bedroom with a bed large enough for several people. And through another doorway, the gleam of what must be a bathroom.
Sala led me straight in that direction. “First, let’s get you clean,” she said.
The space was larger than my entire dormitory room back on Hippolyta. A huge tub—no, some kind of hot spring, I realized—dominated one corner, steam rising from its surface. A vast shower stall fashioned of marble and glass occupied another corner. I swallowed hard as Sala began removing her dress, and I watched the magnetic clasps release one by one until she stood as naked as I was.
Her body was beautiful, slender and graceful, her skin pale and perfect. I felt my face heat as she stepped into the water and beckoned me to follow.
The heat enveloped me as I sank into the spring, and I couldn’t suppress a small moan of relief. My muscles, tense for what felt like days, began to relax.
Sala moved closer, producing a soft cloth and some kind of soap. “Let me help you,” she said.
Her hands on my skin were gentle but thorough. She washed my arms, my shoulders, my back. When her fingers brushed the sides of my breasts, I gasped and pulled away.
“Shh, darling… easy…” Sala murmured. “In Magisterian culture, wives and concubines often pleasure each other. With permission from our masters, of course. When we’ve behaved ourselves.”
Her hands moved lower, washing my stomach, my hips. I felt my breath quicken.
“I would like to pleasure you, Jendra,” Sala said softly. “To help you relax before… before what comes next. But Beta will want you to receive your punishment first. Pleasure is a reward, not something to be given before discipline.”
The reminder of what awaited me sent ice through my veins even as my body responded to her touch with shameful heat. I was going to be whipped. Beta was going to whip me.
Sala’s hands moved between my legs, washing me there with careful attention. I trembled at the contact, my pussy clenching despite—or perhaps because of—my fear.
“You’re very aroused,” Sala observed without judgment. “That’s natural. The anticipation, the fear, the knowledge that it will happen whether you want it to or not… these things affect us in ways we can’t always control.”
I sobbed softly. “Part of me really did think Omega would cure me. That after experiencing real domination, real cruelty, I wouldn’t want this anymore.”
Sala’s smile was gentle again as she guided me to rinse off under a warm stream of water. “Remember… it doesn’t work that way,” she repeated. “Omega is an aberration who rose from your wild subconscious. But that doesn’t mean submission itself is wrong. It just means you need the right master. Someone firm but caring. Someone like Beta.”
When we were both clean, Sala helped me from the water and dried us both with soft towels. Then, with a sense of terrible inevitability, she led me to a door at the far end of the suite.
“This is the discipline room,” she told me quietly.
The door opened, and I stopped at the threshold, my vision swimming. The room was smaller than I’d expected, but somehow that made it worse. More intimate. More focused in its purpose.
Against one wall stood various pieces of furniture—a padded bench, a frame with restraints, mats on the floor. But what drew my eye, what made my knees weak and my pussy clench with mingled terror and need, was the rack on the opposite wall.
Three implements hung there, each one more terrifying than the last.
“Come,” Sala said gently, guiding me forward. “Let me show you.”
I felt like I was floating, disconnected from my body, as we approached the rack.
“This is a naval cat,” Sala said, touching the first implement. It had multiple leather tails, each ending in a small knot. “It’s used for more severe punishments, usually reserved for serious infractions. The knots leave marks that last for days.”
I whimpered, imagining those tails striking my bare bottom.
“This is a cane,” Sala continued, moving to the second implement. It was long and thin, made of some flexible material. “Very precise. Very painful. It creates sharp, intense sensations and distinctive welts.”
My breathing had become rapid and shallow. I felt like I might faint.
“And this,” Sala said softly, touching the third implement, “is a cunt paddle.”
The name alone made me sob. It had a broad, triangular blade, about the size of my hand, made of stout leather. The narrow end was attached with rivets to a polished wooden handle twice as long as the blade. I imagined it in Beta’s enormous hand, raisedhigh as I gazed up at him with wide, terrified eyes, my knees parted and raised at his command.
“It’s designed specifically for whipping a woman’s vulva,” Sala explained, her voice gentle despite the horrifying words. “To punish her most intimate places. To remind her that everything between her legs belongs to her master.”
