Page 60 of Her Alien Guardian

“Given that you were the instigator of last night’s misconduct, and considering your lazy and careless piano practice today, your punishment will be more severe. You will receive twelve strokes, Miss Lydia, with your governor set to level one.”

My breath caught in my throat at his pronouncement. Twelve strokes, and with her governor so low that she would feel every nuance of the pain. I couldn’t help but picture Lydia’s face, imagining the fear and dread that must be etched across her delicate features.

There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by Lydia’s shaky breathing and the soft beep of Dr. Porter’s handheld as he adjusted her governor. Then came the familiar whoosh of the cane cutting through the air, followed by a sharp crack as it connected with Lydia’s flesh.

Lydia’s scream was immediate and heart-wrenching, the sound tearing through the quiet room. I flinched against the wall, my own bottom clenching in sympathy and sending fresh waves of pain through my body.

Before Lydia’s cry had fully faded, the cane whistled through the air again. Another crack, another agonized scream. Dr. Porter set a relentless pace, not pausing between strokes or offering any words of admonishment. There was only the terrible rhythm of the punishment—the whistle of the cane, the crack of impact, and Lydia’s screams of pain.

As the horrible punishment continued, I found myself growing almost dizzy with the confusion of thoughts and feelings that flooded my chest, my tummy, and worst of all the parts below. Each crack of the cane against Lydia’s flesh made me flinch, my own welts throbbing in sympathy. Yet beneath the fear and empathy, I felt an undeniable current of arousal building within me.

My governor worked continuously, sending constant tingles through my most intimate areas as it struggled to curb my shameful need. The sensation only served to heighten myawareness of my body—of how powerless I was, hands atop my head and punished bottom on display. I bit my lip hard, trying to focus on the cool plaster against my forehead rather than the heat building between my thighs.

Lydia’s screams filled the room. I knew I shouldn’t be able to think of my own needs, but I found my mind drifting once again to Gamma. I tried to concentrate on the feeling of his presence, and suddenly it was as if I could see through his eyes. The image in my mind became startlingly clear—Lydia’s pale bottom, striped with angry red welts, rising to meet each stroke of Dr. Porter’s cane. I could almost feel Gamma’s fascination, his body responding to the sight of Lydia’s punishment just as it had to mine.

With each crack of the cane, I felt a jolt of what I was certain was Gamma’s arousal. His desire seemed to pulse in time with my own need, growing stronger as Lydia’s whipping progressed. I sensed his appreciation for Dr. Porter’s skill, noting how each stroke landed with perfect precision, layering new welts atop the old.

Through Gamma’s eyes, I saw how Lydia’s bottom clenched and unclenched between strokes, the muscles quivering in anticipation of the next blow. I noticed details I would have missed from my own perspective—the way her toes curled against the leather of the whipping horse, how her chestnut hair had fallen forward to partially obscure her tearstained face.

As the punishment neared its end, I felt what seemed to be Gamma’s mounting excitement. The strokes of the cane drew increasingly desperate cries from Lydia, and I sensed Gamma’s satisfaction at seeing and hearing the evidence of a lesson well learned.

His arousal seemed to peak as Dr. Porter delivered another stroke, laying it diagonally across the others in a way that made Lydia shriek in agony. I saw it through his eyes: how her punished backside squirmed desperately, how the lewd movement showed the watching gentlemen her bare cunny and even a glimpse of her tiny pink anus.

How her glistening need, despite the action of her governor, showed there, seeping from the virgin sheath where her husband would someday make a woman of her. I felt my eyes go wide, because I would never have noticed that—or, if I had, I would have persuaded myself I hadn’t truly seen it. Gamma had definitely seen it, though, and I could hear in his thoughts a kind of understanding I didn’t have: the sort of thing I wanted so desperately for him to teach me.

She needs sterner discipline than Tessara and Elara, and Dr. Porter knows how to give it to her. Bravo.

I gasped. The intensity of Gamma’s thoughts and emotions, combined with my own confused response to Lydia’s punishment, left me trembling against the wall. My governor worked furiously to suppress my arousal, but it felt like fighting against a tidal wave. I squeezed my eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through my body and the certainty that I was truly experiencing Gamma’s thoughts and feelings.

As the caning continued, Lydia’s cries became more desperate, more primal. I could hear her thrashing against her restraints, seeing through my alien guardian’s eyes how she arched her back, trying futilely to escape the burning lashes of the cane. But Dr. Porter was merciless. He laid stripe after stripe across her tender flesh with precision and force.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I listened to Lydia’s suffering, despite my shameful, uncontrollable arousal. Each scream seemed to go on forever, filling the room with her anguish. I found myself silently counting the strokes, my heart racing as the number climbed higher and higher.

By the eighth stroke, Lydia’s screams had turned into broken sobs, punctuated by sharp cries each time the cane fell. I could almost feel the fire spreading across her bottom, imagining angry red welts crisscrossing her pale skin, overlapping and intensifying with each new stroke.

The final four strokes seemed to fall even harder, if that were possible. Helpless to turn my thoughts away, I watched from Gamma’s perspective as Dr. Porter delivered the last stroke with devastating precision, laying it crosswise over several others. Lydia’s heaving sob filled the room, her body convulsing against the restraints. I flinched at the sound, feeling it reverberate through my very bones.

The room fell into an eerie silence. The only sounds were Lydia’s ragged breathing and the soft rustle of clothing as the gentlemen shifted in their seats. I could almost feel the weight of their gazes upon us—three chastised girls, our bottoms striped and on display.

Mrs. Porter’s gentle voice broke the tension. “There now, Miss Lydia. It’s all over. Let’s get you up.”

I heard the soft clink of buckles being undone, followed by Lydia’s whimpers as Mrs. Porter helped her to her feet. The floorboards creaked softly as they made their way across the room. I tensed as I sensed them approaching, my hands pressing harder against my head.

“Face the wall, Miss Lydia,” Mrs. Porter instructed softly. “Hands on your head, just like your schoolmates.”

I felt rather than saw Lydia take her place beside me. The heat I imagined radiating from her punished bottom seemed to mingle with the fire still blazing in my own welts. Her quiet sobs and hitched breathing filled my ears, making my heart ache with sympathy even as a mixture of relief and lingering arousal coursed through me.

“Well done, girls,” Mrs. Porter said, her tone a mixture of sternness and approval. “You’ve taken your punishments bravely. Now, you’ll remain in this position while the gentlemen have their tea. This will give you time to reflect on your misdeeds and the consequences of such behavior.”

I heard Mrs. Porter’s footsteps retreat, and then a creaky sound that I thought must be old-fashioned wheels, along with a soft clink of china. The aroma of freshly brewed tea wafted through the air, a jarringly domestic scent that contrasted, I suddenly became aware, with a musky smell my schoolmates and I emitted, standing on display in the nude. My face blazed with heat as I realized we had all become so aroused as to emit that mortifying, lewd aroma.

“Gentlemen, please help yourselves,” Mrs. Porter said. “I’ve prepared a selection of sandwiches and pastries to accompany your tea.”

The rustle of movement filled the room as the men rose from their seats. I could hear the soft murmur of their voices as they gathered around the little trolley I realized I could see, in a ghostly way, through my guardian’s eyes. My cheeks burned as I sensed them casually serving themselves refreshments while we stood, naked and punished, only a few feet away.

“I must say, Dr. Porter,” Mr. Blackwood’s deep voice carried clearly across the room, “your skill with the cane is truly impressive. The precision of your strokes is remarkable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwood,” Dr. Porter replied, a note of pride in his voice. “It’s a skill honed over many years of experience. One must learn to be precise, you know.”

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