CHAPTER 25
Jendra
I stood on shaky legs. My face burned as I realized I understood exactly what Beta meant aboutan old-fashioned schoolgirl.
The Victorians of old Earth: their strict girls’ schools, with their cane-wielding headmasters. The blush reached my scalp as I remembered how some of my frantic research, after returning from the field trip that had started all of this, had involved learning more than I thought I really should about the correction of young women in the Victorian period.
I walked to the desk on trembling legs, my spanked bottom radiating heat with each step. Beta’s study seemed to transform around me—the bookshelves, the holographic displays, even the very air took on a different quality. As if I’d stepped backward through time into some austere Victorian schoolroom where wayward young ladies learned proper comportment through the application of firm correction.
I bent over the desk as instructed, the cool surface pressing against my suddenly tender breasts and the stiff peaks of my tiny nipples. My hands gripped the far edge, and I heard Beta moving behind me, his footsteps deliberate.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice taking on that instructional tone that made my stomach flutter, “about the heritage of corporal punishment in Victorian education?”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered. “I… I studied them… their… their practices.” I swallowed hard, suddenly wanting to communicate to Beta, the man I knew I loved, something about the complexity of my thoughts and feelings on the matter. “On… on my own.”
“On your own,” I heard Beta say, his voice thoughtful. “That’s an important fact, I think.”
I felt my forehead crease as a sob of mingled gratitude and shame threatened to rise in my throat. He had known what I meant. I could tell, just from his voice. For a moment I wondered if he could read my mind, the way Omega had.
“Headmasters understood something fundamental,” Beta continued. I heard him open a cabinet, heard the soft sound of wood sliding against wood. “That young people—especially young women with inquiring minds and wayward tendencies—require proper discipline to channel their energies productively.”
I swallowed hard, because I thought I knew what was coming.
“The cane was considered essential for girls who sought to learn but struggled with self-control.” His footsteps approached again. “Girls who let their base desires override their better judgment. Girls who needed firm guidance to become proper young ladies.”
I heard him position himself behind me, felt his presence looming over my exposed form.
“I will be your headmaster from now on, Jendra,” Beta declared, and something in his tone made me shiver with a mixture of fear and arousal. “As well as your master in other ways. You will submit to my educational methods. You will accept correction when you fail to meet my standards. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master. Yes, Headmaster,” I gasped, the new title feeling strange on my tongue but somehow deeply appropriate.
“Good girl.”
I heard the whistle of the cane through air before it landed across the center of my bottom with a crack that made me shriek. The pain was immediate and intense, a line of fire that seemed to burn deeper with each passing second.
“Count,” Beta commanded.
“One! Thank you, Headmaster!”
The second stroke landed just below the first, parallel and precise. I screamed again, my hands gripping the desk edge so hard my knuckles went white.
“Two! Thank you, Headmaster!”
He worked methodically, laying stripe after stripe across my already tender flesh. Each one felt worse than the last as the pain accumulated, building into an inferno that consumed all coherent thought. By the tenth stroke, I was sobbing uncontrollably, my bottom squirming, clenching and then unclenching in a desperate search for relief.
“Please,” I begged. “Please, Headmaster, I’ve learned my lesson…”
“Not yet,” he said firmly. “A thorough caning requires at least two dozen strokes for serious infractions.”
The punishment continued relentlessly. Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty. Each stroke teaching me something new about submission, about consequences, about the terrible beauty of surrendering control to someone who wielded it with such precise authority.
When he finally stopped at twenty-four, I hung over the desk boneless and broken, sobbing into the hard surface. My bottom felt like it had been set ablaze, every nerve ending screaming.
“Now,” Beta said, his voice softer but no less commanding, “reach back with both hands and spread your bottom cheeks. Show me your anus.”
Mortification flooded through me even as my body obeyed. My hands moved behind me, trembling, and pulled my punished cheeks apart. The position was utterly degrading, exposing my most private place to his gaze while I remained bent helplessly over his desk.
“Do you understand,” Beta said quietly, “the importance of shame?”
