Page 62 of Punished and Trained
“You should understand what you’re accepting, Viola,” Prince Hendren said, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on my bare shoulder. “A Magisterian consort is still owned property. You will remain my possession in every legal sense.”
I turned in his arms to face him, seeing the familiar calculating expression that meant he was ensuring I understood the full implications of what he offered. “But,” he continued, “you will be recognized as the foremost sexual servant in the Federation. The highest ranking concubine in the galaxy. Only I will be allowed to command you, and other women will be expected to acknowledge your status.”
The words sent a complex thrill through me. To be elevated above all other concubines—to hold a position of honor even in my submission—was a strange kind of power that appealed to the politician I had once been. Yet I found myself wondering, as I had so many times before, whether my excitement was genuine or simply another layer of the performance I had constructed around my surrender.
Did I truly crave this recognition, or was I simply playing the role of the ambitious concubine who would do anything to rise in her master’s favor? The question felt familiar now; that eternal uncertainty about where my authentic self ended and my carefully crafted submission began. Perhaps that ambiguity was itself the source of my contentment—living in the space between truth and performance, never quite knowing which was which.
“The position comes with responsibilities,” Prince Hendren continued, his eyes searching my face. “You would represent the Federation’s ideals in the most intimate way possible. Your body, your submission, your very existence would be a symbol of what we offer to the galaxy. Can you accept that burden?”
I considered his words carefully, feeling the weight of what he was proposing. To become not just his personal property, but a living embodiment of Magisterian principles—it would mean surrendering any remaining privacy, any last vestige of an outward self that existed apart from his authority.
“Viola,” he said, his voice taking on the formal cadence of a legal proceeding, “do you consent to become my consort? To accept the elevation and the responsibilities that come with it?”
I looked into his eyes, seeing the man who had broken me down and rebuilt me, and I looked inside me, too, and saw that even if my outward being always reflected my submission, the world inside me would remain complicated; truly, I would never have to choose between performance and reality. My power lay untouched within me, all the greater for my belonging to the prince.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “Oh, yes.”
The End