Shamed_A Punishment Reverse Harem Romance
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
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Shamed
By
Emily Tilton
Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton
Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Tilton, Emily
Shamed
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by 123RF/Andrey Guryanov, Dreamstime/Alexei Sysoev, and Dreamstime/Pavel Chagochkin
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Chapter One
Araminta stepped with the greatest disgust onto the terraformed soil of the planet Draco. The year was 3301 by the old Earth Standard reckoning, and Araminta wished she were still on Earth, where she belonged.
Araminta knew that, just as her mother had patiently explained, her only future lay here in the colonies where her title meant nothing in the eyes of the upstarts who had destroyed her future on the planet where she had been born into a quickly vanishing luxury. Knowing it as thoroughly as she did, since Araminta herself had watched her family’s lifestyle deteriorate and seen the effect it had upon the father she worshipped, hadn’t reconciled her to the necessity of boarding the jump ship bound for Draco, and it didn’t reconcile her now to obeying the signs on the spaceport floor guiding Arrivals, with crimson arrows, This way to resettlement processing.
Nevertheless she did know that the only way to restore the fortunes of House Lourcy back on Earth, built up so high in the Renaissance of the early Fourth Millennium, was to seek her own fortune here on Draco. The bitter irony that it had been the upstart Draconians who had brought about that Renaissance when they returned bearing the secret of faster-than-light space travel, made it all so very much worse, but Araminta trudged over arrow after arrow, following the other fifty-seven young people chosen for this wave of the resettlement program.
She tried to trudge proudly, with a consciousness of her family’s history in the long-ago days before the great collapse of 2243 and of the rebirth of that legacy eight hundred years later thanks to the tireless efforts of her physician father both in genetic research and in mercantile agronomy. Araminta Roberta Elisabeth Richildis de Lourcy, self-styled suo jure tenth Duchess of Panton and fifteenth Countess of Mercester, and, with—as even she herself admitted—slightly less authenticity, seventeenth Comtesse de Lourcy, thought perhaps that despite the wear visible upon the deep blue gown she had chosen, the other arrivals could tell that she came from one of the noble houses that had risen to power in the Renaissance democracy by servicing the consumer needs of a then rapidly growing society.
The costliness of the natural material—damask silk no less—came from the economic boom Draco had given that young free-market egalitarian Earth. The wear it showed came from the swift collapse that occurred when Draco had withdrawn its subsidies for Earth’s off-world trade in the wake of the tragically foolish and comically brief Earth-Draco War of 3298.
Araminta arrived at a place in a long corridor where instead of trudging, the Earth arrivals ahead of her stood silently, pressed close together, in a queue that stretched to a door ten people ahead. Through the door the queue seemed to continue, and—if Araminta’s eyes interpreted the available evidence correctly—to bend to the right, so that no visible end of the line presented itself.
“What?” she asked no one in particular. Rather, she asked everyone there, because the Duchess of Panton was entitled to an answer from whoever happened to hear her question. It made no difference, back on Earth, that the formal system of governance rested upon a strictly determined one-person-one-vote scheme. The members of the noble houses exercised their influence through their economic power, their cultural leadership, and—as her father had been fond of saying—their style.
For the two hundred years of the first gratefully and then bitterly named Draconian Renaissance, egalitarianism and cultural aristocracy had existed hand in hand, and Araminta de Lourcy’s sense of entitlement sprang from both sources. As the Duchess of Panton she knew at any social occasion back on Earth that she wasn’t inherently better than the non-titled citizens around her; she was merely better educated. The same applied here in this awful queue: Araminta’s cultural superiority could not but shine through; the other young men and women in line came from Earth, and they would instinctively answer her request for information.
It seemed, however, that her fellow arrivals had no information to give, and to her chagrin, the response came from a masculine voice behind her—the same voice, Araminta realized, that had been saying, gruffly, things like, “Arrivals to the left. Form your line to the left. Keep the right clear for returning citizens.”
Now it said, with a severity that took its tone from gruff to angry, “Silence, arrival.”
Araminta turned to confront a tall man in a gray uniform and a peaked cap that bore as insignia a representation of Draco’s dragon flag. His dark eyes looked into her face with a scorn that seemed even to question her right to raise her own blue gaze to his. She felt her cheeks go hot with shame and anger.
Her ancestresses, she supposed, might have protested based on some divine right that came from their noble blood. Elisabeth de Lourcy, wed to a highlander but legendarily proud, might have slapped the arrival officer across the face. Araminta, however much she might have wanted to try such a tactic, knew her argument must have more reason in it.
“I am a citizen of the Earth Republic,” she said as calmly as she could. “I am entitled to…”
“You are entitled to nothing, sweetheart,” the officer replied, the anger in his face turning—to Araminta’s fury—into amusement. “Though perhaps in a few moments you’ll entitle yourself to a session with the paddle.”
“The what?” Araminta couldn’t restrain herself, though she hadn’t meant to dignify the officer’s disdain with any response at all.
“You heard me. If the Earthers around you were foolish enough to speak, I’m sure they would tell you that they read the packet you got back on the jump ship, and they know that female arrivals are subject to corporal punishment here on Draco.”
Araminta looked wildly ahead of her and behind her in line, and saw one grim female face and one grim male one that between them confirmed the truth of what the officer had just said. She wanted to say, I knew you colonists were barbarians, but I didn’t know how very far from civilization you had fallen, and she would have said it if her wits had managed to collect themselves
in time. The awful pronouncement about corporal punishment, though, had stolen her ability to make such retorts, and the officer interpreted her silence as compliance.
“Just wait your turn, princess,” he said. “You’ll understand a good deal better when you get inside for your processing interview.”
Araminta’s face continued to burn at the insult for the next half hour as she stared at the red hair of the girl in front of her, who was dressed in work clothes but seemed nevertheless to carry herself erect. Quite right, Araminta thought. She is a citizen of the Earth Republic, just like me. Noble or common, we are all better than these colonialists with their awful dragon flag and their temerity.
At last they both made it through the door and into the anteroom of the office. Behind a glass wall, in a small room, a single hassled-looking Draconian woman sat at a desk, dressed in a business suit. She interviewed each Earth arrival in turn, and each interview took at least ten minutes. Five other young men and women were greeted, entered, and sat down to have an inaudible conversation before the Draconian official called in the girl in work clothes.
The official warmly welcomed the commoner upon her arrival, and Araminta, standing now close enough to the glass door to hear a snippet of the beginning of the interview, was pleased to hear the woman in the business suit say, “We’re very glad to have someone with your skillset, Hathera.”
Araminta couldn’t hear what the skillset in question comprised, but surely the highly educated daughter of a physician/agronomist and an attorney who argued frequently before the planetary court, ready to take up her own role in the professions, must possess at least that much worth. This colonial society after all declared itself so very ready to offer its condescending handout of an expatriate life to citizens of Earth down on their luck thanks to Draco’s destruction of their economy.
The pretty red-haired girl in the work clothes—not so lovely as Araminta herself, of course, with her flaxen hair and cornflower-blue eyes—emerged smiling and holding a piece of paper that seemed to bear a stamp upon it. Araminta realized then that each of the men and women who had preceded Hathera had also emerged with a paper, but she didn’t think the official had bestowed any other stamps.
The official shook the redhead’s hand and said, “You’re all set, Hathera. Just take this all the way down the hall to Final Disposition. They’ll give you your official naturalization papers and tell you how to get to your apartment.”
Araminta did her best to put an expression of happy resignation—even of obsequiousness—on her face as the official turned from Hathera to her. The woman in the business suit, though, to Araminta’s dismay, lost her own pleasant demeanor in an instant. An expression of skepticism—a distrust so great it almost seemed to Araminta to verge on angry disgust—transformed the official’s face, making the whole aspect of her appearance, from her sensible shoes to the tight bun of her hair, seem severe and forbidding.
Araminta felt her face freeze in the receptive affect she had attempted, and then become defensive and hostile, chin set and eyes narrow. She watched the official take in this new demeanor and, to Araminta’s horror, give a slight nod, as if in acknowledgment that the Earther had just shown her true colors.
“Araminta Lourcy, age eighteen,” she said, “greetings. I’m Administrator Johanson.”
The woman’s brusqueness, Araminta told herself, bore the blame for what happened next. The Duchess of Panton said, for she simply could not have helped it, “De Lourcy.”
For a moment such naked fury came into the administrator’s eyes that Araminta took a step back, pushing up in the most humiliating way against the young man behind her. Then, almost as quickly, the anger dissipated, and amusement took its place. When Administrator Johanson spoke, though, her severe tone cut hard across the smile she bore on her lips. “Ah, yes. I saw in your file that your family styles itself to be of noble birth.”
Araminta’s skin felt like ants were crawling all over it, now. She didn’t see how this interview could possibly have begun so badly. Still, though, she couldn’t suppress her indignant reaction.
“My father proved our descent, and the Earth Republic recognizes…”
Administrator Johanson laughed in a way that made clear all her actual amusement had in fact vanished.
“Specious genetic claims are among the things Draconian society has left far behind, Miss Lourcy. Those who try to maintain them will find themselves quickly subject to Draco’s inclination to use a firm hand in correcting misplaced pride.”
A retort died on Araminta’s lips and her cheeks burned as she remembered what the man in the uniform had said about the paddle, but she still glared back as much defiance as she could.
“Come into my office, Miss Lourcy. This interview already threatens to consume far too much time.”
Without another word, Administrator Johanson turned and led the way into her office.
“Close the door behind you, Araminta,” the official said, “and sit down.”
Somehow, Araminta thought, the woman’s voice had entered an even more peremptory register now. It frightened her so much that she did not in fact obey, but rather said, in a stammer that made her face get even hotter, “Why… why will it… take so long?”
The administrator had sat at her desk, now, and as she looked up at Araminta she gave the impression of a power enthroned not on birth but on merit. It made the Earth girl’s heart quail.
“Because, Araminta,” Administrator Johanson said slowly, as if wanting each word to strike the new arrival like a spank from a paddle, “we must discuss each aspect of the very lengthy, very severe disciplinary process your case demands.”
Chapter Two
Greven Nesterius put the paper version of the Lourcy file on the conference table and looked around the expanse of real polished oak, the product of Draco’s terraformed old-growth forest, at the four other men assigned with him to this difficult case.
“The algorithm says, gentlemen, that it’s going to take at least a month before our girl shows the slightest inclination toward thanking us for what we need to do with her.”
Greven fixed his eyes first on Red Strekin and then on Promin Federan as he finished delivering this opening gambit, the two colleagues he thought would pose the biggest challenge to the way he planned to direct the shaming of Araminta Lourcy. The relevant policies gave Greven, as the special master appointed by the arrival court, authority to tell each of the four ordinary masters exactly how to discipline the girl, and if necessary to replace each of them. In practice Greven felt sure he wouldn’t have any actual difficulty keeping even these two in line—and Nebor Masdin and Victornian Ged, the other two men at the table, seemed amenable to advice, despite being alphas in their own right.
Araminta, after all, was the very first Earth girl to whom the algorithm, and then, in human confirmation, the arrival court in the person of Administrator Gera Johanson, had assigned five masters. No previous girl had ever even received as many as four; two three-master cases had occurred, but even two-master cases popped up with great rarity—of the approximately five thousand Earth girls processed through the shame system, as Draconians called what legal documents dryly denoted as Special Procedures for the Naturalization of Terran Arrivals, only about a hundred had required the assignment of two men to shame the girl in question.
Greven had received the Lourcy assignment because he had served as a master for one of the girls whom three men had reeducated, and as the special master for four young women who had undergone citizenship training at the hands of two. He had also, of course, mastered dozens of girls to whom the system had assigned only a single man to teach the sometimes difficult lessons necessary to foster a happy citizen of the colonies.
The three-master case, a girl who had worked in the office of the president of the then-defiant, now-subjugated, Earth Republic, had made him long for sole control of the re-educational process. He hadn’t disagreed with the special master so much as he had early on decided
he could have done much better by the confused, proud girl than his senior colleague had done. Greven had enjoyed the two-master cases much more, since in every case they had felt like a partnership, especially when it came to the girls’ sexual education.
Araminta Lourcy was as lovely a girl as he had ever seen. Greven felt sure that every one of his fellow masters looked forward to fucking her as much as he did. The Earth girl, however, seemed likely to pose a few difficulties to the team of masters assigned to her case. Greven could see that obtaining full cooperation among the five of them when they gangbanged her—let alone when they tried to teach her the finer points of Draconian culture—would challenge his organizational skills and his self-control, though certainly not to anywhere near the breaking point.
He had no real doubt that he would close this case successfully and make of Araminta a happy, productive citizen. He wouldn’t need to tell Colonel Promin Federan that his military training didn’t make him the top dog among the masters, or Red Strekin that his bulging carpenter’s muscles didn’t entitle him to be the sole disciplinarian when it came to giving the girl the many bare bottom punishments she would certainly require. As the training continued, the men would eventually come naturally to work as a team.
The true difficulty lay in the undeniable fact that some of their special qualifications—for which of course the administrator had chosen each of them—would necessarily dictate Greven’s approach as he planned Araminta Lourcy’s shaming.
He would want Red to do a greater-than-equal share of the spanking—the hand spanking, at any rate, which the algorithm had highlighted as an essential part of the girl’s training. The very sight of Red’s stacked body would fill Araminta with precisely the shame, fear, and arousal that would teach her so much about letting go of that particular aspect of her ancestral pride. When Red fucked her as hard as the man’s dossier indicated he would, Araminta Lourcy would learn to respect the common man more thoroughly than she would ever have imagined she could.