Submissive

by Anya Howard

He sighed and pulled her hair back over her shoulders. “You should never hesitate or question our bidding, Gillian. There shall be no more of these incidents without consequences. Also, it is not permitted for a Disciple to speak to a superior before given accord to do so. And in the future, refer to all guards as sir.”

  She shivered and found it difficult to meet his eyes. She backed toward Sir Peter, hoping he would tell Sir Vincent to be quiet, or that this was just some game. She had to accept Madam’s authority; that had already been demonstrated out in the woods. But surely no one actually expected her to kowtow to all these men. It was subservience, pure and simple.

  And yet the thought of its actuality made her clit quicken…

  She looked to Sir Peter desperately.

  “It is proper, respectful,” he said.

  “Now, kneel on the floor,” Vincent instructed her.

  With an impatient sigh, Gillian did so. He asked her many questions regarding the information about Nemi that she had been given so far. She answered, as respectfully as she could manage.

  “Madam has told you all the necessities,” he replied when she was finished. “However, there are a few other vital things to remember. In contact with the prisoners, you may not speak with or associate with them unless instructed otherwise. And although you probably will be assigned tasks here in the household, remember that certain prisoners are assigned regular tasks of maintaining and cleaning the premises. With this in mind, just as when you are outing at the prison, be wary to avoid un-privileged speech with these trustees.

  “Also, arguments and quarrels, acts of jealousy and pettiness are not allowed between Disciples. If and when you are given over to one of the Madam’s apprentices—the Leather Wives—you must show them the same respect as any guard. At all times you are expected to be sweet-spoken and tidy in your person and take care of all those items given to you for personal use.

  “Let me remind you again that you are expected to be obedient to all guards. We were recruited specifically for qualities of firmness and for our aptitude at restraining our tempers. Therefore, you have nothing to fear about being mistreated. This, however, does not preclude us from dealing fit punishment as we see needed, nor from enjoying those special talents that qualified you. Now, have you any questions about anything, Gillian?”

  Gillian stared at his hands on his hips. She was absolutely secure in the knowledge this man would yield his life to protect her and any of the Disciples. She was equally sure that despite even their recent intimacy, this man would yield no mercy in punishing her for any transgression she might make.

  Her earlier stupefied reaction to Nemi’s startlingly vital ambiance was gradually absorbing into her consciousness, as if her soul had recognized that which her physical form had not foreseen: that she had been destined to endure the pleasurable but mortifying trials of Nemi.

  She bowed her head and answered humbly, “Yes, sir.”

  Madam returned at last and told Gillian it was time to settle her in upstairs.

  On the second floor, voices and giggles sounded behind every closed door. Gillian had no way of knowing if these issued from the prisoners or the Disciples. As Madam’s tone had been brusque since taking her from Sir Peter and Sir Vincent, Gillian thought it best not to ask. So she admired the hardwood floor and velvet wallpaper as they made their way through the upstairs halls. A light breeze passed through the raised windows. They did not meet anyone else, although when passing a pair of glass doors, Gillian saw several figures on the veranda beyond. Several women, all clad in leather lingerie and boots, clamored about a naked male sitting on his ass in their midst. Gillian did not see his face, as it was bowed between his knees.

  Madam’s voice drew her curious eyes away at once, “This will be your room.”

  Madam opened the door, and at her gesture, Gillian walked through. It was a long, narrow room of cedar-paneled walls. Four slender beds were headboarded against the upper wall, all covered with white spreads and canopied in white lace. On the wall down a ways from the farthest bed, was set a wide, deeppaned window. To the other side of this window stood an antique vanity, complete with a white-cushioned stool. A little table stood near the door they entered, and upon it were an opaque glass lantern and a cloisonné matchbox.

  An enormous painting hung on the wall down from the table: a scene of winged men disrobing and ravishing a group of women. With its majestic size and sensual, bright hues, the artwork dominated the room. There was an engraved plaque of gold set beneath the frame and Gillian tried to read it, but her eyes were drawn back to the picture. The men were especially fascinating, with their deliciously taut muscles, aroused, ruddy penises, and great dusky wings, somewhat translucent. At first glance one might have thought it was only shadowy auras outlining the men’s backs.

  Madam touched a foot post of one of the beds. “This one will be yours. There is a dress for you in the bathing room yonder, and all the necessities to bathe and relax.”

  Gillian looked to the door at the end of the room that Madam motioned to, and noticed, too, the peevish look on her face.

  “I had intended to have you dine with me this evening, and take you to the Temple of Purity afterward. But other matters necessitate my presence elsewhere.”

  The mention of a temple whetted Gillian’s curiosity, but before she could ask for permission to speak, Madam continued, “It will wait till tomorrow. Take a bath and rest awhile. This evening you will be accompanying your roommates to the prisoners’ pavilion for dinner. You are not to leave these rooms until your chaperone comes to escort the four of you there. However, if an emergency does arise, there is a bell.”

  Gillian followed her eyes to the silken cord hanging through a copper circlet on the wall near the bathing room door.

  When Madam was gone, Gillian felt weighed down by the sudden solitude. She could hear nothing from any of the other rooms, only a cricket or two through the window. She was glad to enter the bathing room and found there a porcelain sink, commode, and a deep claw-foot tub—all with plumbing. The tub was set upon a tiled dais with a small, plush rug to step out onto after bathing. A full-length oval mirror was anchored to the wall just beside the sink. A stack of towels had been set on a little table nearby, along with a brass tin full of brushes and ribbons. On the shelf beneath the small window were dozens of jars. As she read the hand-printed labels on the bottoms of the containers, Gillian realized Madam had not exaggerated. There were shampoos, bath gels, salts, and oils of all sorts for the bath. For after bathing, there were perfumes, powders, moisturizers, and lotions. There were cosmetics much more refined than anything Gillian had ever seen, as well as feather and rabbit-tail puffs, even applicators devised of leather-tipped quills. And laid out on the stool beside the tub was the dress Madam had promised.

  Gillian examined it, finding to her dismay that it was not really a dress—it was too short for that. At least there were panties she could wear underneath it. As Gillian pressed the dress to her and looked in the mirror, she knew she would have to be careful when bending over if she did not want to reveal the underwear.

  “At least the window is shut tightly,” she sighed.

  She drew the tub full and poured in some tuberose bubble bath. Her muscles ached as she luxuriated in the hot water, and her pussy was tender. But soon the pains diminished, and by the time she was ready to drain the tub and rinse off, she was more than ready for a nap. She yawned while she combed her hair and dressed.

  Right now she could hardly hold her eyes open, and walking out of the bathroom, she crawled into the bed Madam had assigned her. The sheets were almost sinfully welcoming. Within moments she was asleep.

  Later, consciousness returned when someone rocked her shoulder and whispered her name. She opened her eyes to find another girl sitting at the edge of the bed, and other feminine voices sounded from the bathing room.

  “Hi,” said the one beside her. “I’m Pearl. Madam asked me to make sure you were awake and ready, and tell you to w
ear these.”

  Gillian sat up and the girl laid a pair of shoes on her lap: white patent-leather slippers. A pair of silver bells had been sewn to each.

  “Oh, and these, too.” Pearl handed her a pair of white socks.

  “To keep me warm,” Gillian said.

  “No.” Pearl smiled brightly. “They will look pretty on you.” As she stood up, Gillian saw what the girl was wearing: a short-hemmed salmon silk toga, with nothing else but belled anklets.

  “Is that what you always wear?”

  Pearl glanced toward the bathroom. “If I’m allowed,” she said. “You had best get dressed. Sir Douglas, our chaperone, will be here shortly to take us to the pavilion.”

  While the girl darted off to the bathing room, Gillian enjoyed her relative solitude again. The voices in the bathing room stilled at Pearl’s entrance, and Gillian could hear them whispering. Probably curious about her, of course, but that was only to be expected. At least they were allowed to dress.

  She thought about Lara and Alexandra, naked but for the belled anklets and nipple clamps, and she felt a little guilty. She could also envision herself running off with them to the woods again. She knew her own heart would beat wildly at the fear of being caught by a guard but, strangely, sensed that the fear would prove as sweet as the taste of their succulent pussies and greedy, honeyed mouths.

  The fantasy made her thighs flush. She tried to think of other things, before one of the roommates suspected the fantasy by the look on her face.

  Gillian felt guilty again when the other two roommates emerged from the bathing room. Candice wore only cords of bells about her ankles, and Mary-Jo the same, along with a collar of blue feathers at her throat. Mary-Jo must have been in some trouble this day, obviously, for her backside was still glowing red with someone’s handprint. But the three of them all seemed happy, and they welcomed her kindly enough. Candice even showed Gillian the engagement ring on her finger.

  Gillian’s eyes widened as she looked at the exquisitely old-fashioned setting. “It’s lovely. But…you’re a Disciple and you’re going to be married?”

  “Yes,” Candice answered with a dreamy sigh. “To Sir Golden. Madam has already had the prisoners begin work on a little house for us over in the residents’ village.”

  Gillian smiled. “It is lovely,” she said at last, still mystified.

  The chaperon arrived shortly. He was slight of bone and short—not even as tall as Gillian—and the crop he carried was the only fear-inspiring thing about the man. He ordered Gillian and her roommates out of the room and escorted them downstairs. The twilight sky outside the staircase window turned deeper blue as Gillian followed her roommates. The guard with the leashed girl was sitting on the bench in the foyer as they passed through. Gillian surmised he must be on his break, as an emptied tray sat on the bench beside him. The girl sat in his lap, moaning behind her gag as he played with her breasts and nuzzled her throat. Gillian did not realize she had slowed to look at them until Sir Douglas almost walked right into her.

  “What are you gaping at, girl?” he snapped. “Make haste!”

  She jumped and paced briskly to catch up with her roommates, who were already waiting attentively on the porch.

  As the chaperone followed her out the door, a motion to Gillian’s right caught her eye. She looked and saw it was from the spindlelike pillar there—a girl bound, her arms and widespread legs pulled back against the wood. Her wrists and her ankles, too, were bound at the backside of the pillar by the loose ends of heavy silk cords secured into the wood by wide metal-teethed clamps. The girl’s mouth was stuffed with the same kind of phallic bit as had been on the guard’s girl.

  Only as her eyes moved Gillian’s way did she notice the familiar bejeweled clamps on her nipples.

  Alexandra!

  Alexandra’s expression was one of contrite resignation. Gillian looked quickly to the pillar to the left, and indeed, there was Lara, bound just like Alexandra, her mouth silenced by a dildo muzzle. Lara’s face was turned away, but Gillian saw tears rolling down her chin and over her throat and breasts. As Sir Douglas came through the doorway, he gave Lara a disgruntled look.

  “It could just as easily be one of you up there, young ladies,” he said and granted Candice a confidential half-smile. “Even you.”

  He then led them from the porch, and the girls followed him to the right of the lawn and through a little gate Gillian had not noticed before. The pebbled path on the other side took them through a close avenue of hazel trees that opened on to a grassy meadow. Just ahead stood a high torch-post and a wide encompassing fence of barbed wire. Sir Douglas opened the gate and entered the meadow. A great canvas pavilion stood in the center of it, and far beyond this there was yet another gate that led, it seemed to Gillian, to another enclosed yard. A little station looked to be situated just behind this other gate, and in the far distance Gillian could make out what appeared to be a dismal redbrick structure.

  The prison.

  As they walked across the meadow, the smell of cooked food and the lilt of softly played music drifted out from the pavilion. Two guards were posted at the entrance and one of these drew the entry flap aside for them. Sir Douglas clapped his hands and ushered the girls inside ahead of him. As Gillian was about to follow the others, Sir Douglas held her back.

  “I heard how you panicked this afternoon,” he whispered. “Just remember, we shan’t allow any harm to come to you. Sir Leonard will accompany you inside.”

  She looked at the man who came up beside her. He was tall and muscled and carried a spear. Beside him, Sir Douglas looked like a child playing some masterly role.

  Why, he couldn’t even lift me, she thought, how could he ever hope to protect me?

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. “If you don’t mind explaining to me, what exactly am I supposed to do at this meal?”

  “You do eat, don’t you?” he said lightly. “Aside from that, hold yourself proudly so these men will have no choice but to take notice of the natural attractions of your form and sex. You see, Gillian, these prisoners, well, all the prisoners of Nemi, have over the years selectively denied the natural appreciation of sex. To them lust and the pursuit of carnal pleasures are the greatest of downfalls. Some are terrified of divine judgment for their personal penchants. Others simply hate the gentler sex for various, degenerate reasons. All have spent their adult lives perpetuating untruths and stereotypes that accommodate their fears and cowardice. It is your mission to help exorcise these flaws.

  “Never be ashamed of yourself, your passion, nor your body. Should one of these prisoners show an interest in being intimate with you, know that by doing so, you are fulfilling the purpose for which you were recruited. Sir Vincent has shared the results of your evaluation with the guards inside, so all know you are a submissive, by both nature and psyche. You are expected to behave accordingly: sweet, deferential, obedient, and graceful of conduct; and never shall you be expected to do anything that goes against this, your natural disposition.”

  When he had finished speaking, Gillian thought about his words. It sounded easy enough. And taking a long breath, she bowed her head and followed Sir Leonard inside.

  The pavilion was illuminated inside by the soft glow of colorful glass lanterns affixed to the crossbeams of the supporting poles. A long, low table stood in the center, decked with plates of fine china, glassware, and dishes and bowls filled with food. There were forks and spoons laid out at every plate, but strikingly, no knives. On cushioned benches at either side of the table sat men of all ages and bearing, dressed in uniforms of light cotton. Gillian guessed these men to be the prisoners, as other guards passed through the sidelines.

  These guards were more heavily armed than the men at Madam’s house; some carried spears and others carried sabers sheathed in scabbards. They watched vigilantly as her roommates approached and took seats between some of the prisoners. There were several other Disciples present as well at the table, and two more, dressed in belly-da
ncer ensembles. A band of musicians sat on wide wood stools positioned beyond the table. They were not prisoners, Gillian thought, for they wore colorful shirts and fine suede pants. The music they played accompanied the dancers’ sensual undulations with a rich, Arabic melody.

  Gillian had no idea what she was supposed to do, and Sir Leonard did not offer a suggestion. When another guard passed through the entryway, she saw Sir Douglas standing just outside, getting a light for his cigarette from another guard. It was not until that moment that she realized she had not once craved a cigarette in all the hours spent in Nemi. Not that magical moment of the first draw; not the soothing feel of the slender form between her first two fingers. Oddly, she knew no envy in watching Sir Douglas enjoy his—instead, she saw a fleeting vision of herself kneeling between his bare legs and inhaling his hard cock into her mouth.

  She gasped at herself.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she said aloud, not even knowing she had uttered the words until Sir Leonard spoke brusquely.

  “Indeed. Why are you gazing outside? Go take a place at the table!”

  Gillian flinched. Before she could even hope to ask where it was he wanted her, his palm swooped down smartly across her backside. It was not a hard enough spank to hurt, but it sent her scurrying to the table. She looked about timidly, not even able to guess what was expected, when the bearded prisoner sitting to her right looked up. The baleful disgust in his black eyes washed like icy tar over her skin.

  “A new whore,” he muttered and turned his face rigidly straight ahead.

  “Gillian.”

  The gentler voice brought her grateful attention to the man across the table. Unlike the hateful one, he had a generous smile, and his large dark eyes were sparkling, fascinated by the scene.

  “You are Gillian? I am Clive. Pearl said Madam would send me a treat tonight.”

  She looked down the table uncertainly and saw Pearl walking behind some of the other men at the other side. She draped her arms about two of them and kissed their cheeks. One of them tossed his head impatiently; the other simply stared ahead and mumbled. She went on and greeted the next two the same way, oblivious that Gillian hoped for her notice.