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 youturn 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?
