Submissive

by Anya Howard

  “Sir Peter came to me with a request from the Warden’s office,” she heard the Leather Wife say. “Prisoner Clive has put in a request for this girl.”

  “He’s not ready,” Madam said. “The guards gave me a full report. Apparently, he shied from using a firm hand at all with her.”

  “Ah. At least, he has demonstrated much improvement.”

  “Yes. I believe it won’t be long before he throws off his inhibitions completely. It’s easier to coax manly behavior when the prisoner is young.”

  “And to this end he won’t be given custodian privileges for awhile?”

  “Oh, no. A reprieve now would only negate the improvements. To be lenient would end up making him incorrigible.”

  Gillian was intrigued by this talk, wondering what flaw or flaws Clive had that needed rehabilitating. She hoped they would talk longer and answer her curiosity, but Madam said she had other things to attend to. When she was gone, the Leather Wife strolled by Gillian and rapped the surface of the bottle with her fingernails.

  “Drink!”

  Gillian cringed but worked harder to suckle, and when the Leather Wife was satisfied with her effort she joined the prisoner who had been working on the swing.

  “Very good, Prisoner Mitchell. Now, I want you to bring me a divan and a flask of that oil we keep for sunbathing.”

  “Yes, Domme Camille.” He ran off quickly. When he returned, he was carrying a divan of lightweight wood and a dark, corked bottle. He set the divan in the full sunlight as she directed, then started picking up the tools and cloth and jar of wax from the ground. Domme Camille told him to return everything to the house and find Sir Hugh for instructions.

  Gillian paused in nursing a moment to relieve her tired mouth, and as she did, Domme Camille removed her crop and set this on the ground. She next stripped out of her clothes, down to a blue bikini beneath. Lying down in the divan, she called to the other prisoner.

  “Prisoner Jay!”

  He turned at once, his mahogany brow beaded with sweat. But as she raised the bottle, Gillian noted the concealed smile as he came and knelt beside her. Domme Camille turned over and unhooked the back of her bikini top.

  “Do a better job today, Jay.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  He poured some oil from the flask into his palms. This he massaged into her back and arms and then down thoroughly over her midriff and legs.

  “Better, yes,” she murmured. “I’ll call you when you’re needed again.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he said pliantly. But he was staring at the length of her, tense, as if it was all he could do to summon the will to turn away. When at last he returned to his work, his efforts were more industrious than even before.

  While Domme Camille sunbathed, she peered up from time to time to observe them.

  Except for the sounds of Jay’s gardening and the birds fluttering in the trees, all was very quiet. Gillian grew drowsy from the sun that beat down over her skin and had to catch herself from slowing down on the nipple.

  After a time, however, she heard Domme Camille jump up from the divan. Taking up her crop, she stepped over to Gillian and whipped her soundly. Gillian’s ass throbbed and she whimpered miserably behind the nipple. She was close to tears again as Domme Camille lay down on her back and instructed Prisoner Jay to oil up her front side.

  A little while later, a shout from behind the great oak broke the quiet. Gillian could see from the right of her vision three prisoners emerge, shackled by their ankles one to the other. Two guards pressed them forward from behind. One of these pointed his spear toward the prisoners and ordered them to kneel on the grass.

  “Domme Camille,” he reported, “your well diggers were arguing.”

  She sat up at once, her mouth hardening. She glared at the three kneeling men, who were all now bowing their heads humbly.

  “How dare you,” she seethed, rising to her feet. “I trusted each of you!” She stepped about them slowly, her anger growing with each breath. “Would you prefer I just send you back to dwell with the selectively dominant males?”

  They shook their heads as one. The middle prisoner wrung his hands and looked at her pleadingly.

  “Mistress, please, not that! It was a foolish mistake!”

  She slapped him so hard Gillian flinched.

  “You will not address me without permission, Henry! If you three keep acting as if you are entitled to choose your behavior, then you shall be returned to the fold of the alpha males.”

  The prisoners nodded their heads silently.

  “Ah, then, I shall give you one more chance. But never again will you act like dominant men, is this understood?”

  They nodded a second time, with more enthusiasm, and she said, “Now stand and pull those pants down to your ankles.”

  As the men set to obey, Domme Camille gave Jay a hard look that made him turn his attention back to his work. She glanced at Gillian and said to one of the guards, “Make sure that one is finishing her meal, Sir Victor.”

  The guard who had addressed Domme Camille walked to Gillian’s side. Terrified, she slurped so hard now on the nipple that her swallows produced a very undignified sound. He inspected the bottle and patted her head, and stepping behind her, stroked her between the legs, exploring the heat of her vagina. He parted her thighs gently and touched her clit, arousing it with his fingertip. He smacked her quivering cheeks as she held up the hem of her dress, then walked away, leaving her frustrated.

  “She’s almost finished.”

  “Good,” Domme Camille answered. But her attention was leveled on the prisoners, who now stood naked below the waist. Gillian blushed to see their endowments. The one at the end of the line nearest her had a slight erection and the faces of all three were scarlet.

  The Leather Wife took her crop again and walked behind them. “Bend over and grasp your ankles!”

  To Gillian’s amazement, the three prisoners complied quickly. Domme Camille strode up close to the first one in line and raised her crop. She brought it down smartly and continued to whip his buttocks until he was clenching his lips together to suppress his cries. When she finished, the man’s backside was glowing with reddish stripes. He remained bowed humbly as Camille moved on to the next in line. She wielded the crop with the same merciless hand. And when this one broke his silence with a grunt, her blows reined down furiously.

  She paused and spoke to him coolly, “I will not tolerate rudeness, Craig. You shall sleep cuffed on the floor tonight.”

  “Yes, Mistress!” Gillian saw that his cock was fully aroused. Domme Camille grinned and stroked his balls lightly so that his pelvis braced.

  “Good, Craig, very good. Now stand and demonstrate your willingness by stroking your cock until you come.”

  His eyes widened. “But Domme Camille!”

  Again she flailed him harshly and he let out a muffled shriek.

  “Remain bowed, then, and bring yourself to climax.”

  The guards were looking at the ground and Gillian could see they were uncomfortable with the situation. Nevertheless, they did not move away.

  Craig was breathing rapidly as he cinched his cock and began to masturbate. Domme Camille thrashed his backside while he stroked, only stopping when his cum splattered over the ground. He was panting, his face as abashed as his backside. The Leather Wife said nothing more to him and proceeded to the last prisoner. This one showed the willing compliance of the first. When his buttocks were well tanned, she reached around him and tugged on his cock until he had a lofty erection. By the contortions of his face, Gillian feared he would lose his jism, but Domme Camille removed her hand before it happened.

  She turned to the guards and said, “Take them back, and if they show any further insolence, have them bound where all may observe.”

  “Now stand up,” she barked at the prisoners. They did so, their backsides all branded red by her crop, and with their heads hanging, followed the guards back the way they had come.

  Ca
mille sighed heavily when they were gone and lay back down on the divan. “Jay, come here.”

  The prisoner came and sat down on the grass beside her. She stroked his hair as she spoke with him, so softly Gillian could not understand a word exchanged. Not that she was interested in prying on an intimate conversation. It was evident that Prisoner Jay truly cared about Domme Camille, and after a time, he kissed her cheek.

  At last Gillian heard her say brightly, “Have my lemonade when I return?”

  “Of course, my Domme,” he answered. Camille patted his cheek, smiling, and rose from the divan.

  She regarded Gillian’s feeding bottle and declared, “Well, you are finished. Good girl.” With a loud, final smack on Gillian’s bare bottom, she unhooked the strap from her head.

  “You may release the nipple now.”

  Gillian’s dignity had never known such solace as when she let loose of the rubber phallus. But she remained on her knees with her dress pulled up while Camille dressed again and tied the cord for her crop about one thigh.

  “Jay,” she said, “you may rest a time.”

  He came and bowed at her feet and kissed the tops of her boots, whispering something Gillian did not catch. Whatever it was brought a fleeting smile to the Leather Wife’s lips.

  “Let go of the hem, Gillian, and pull up your panties,” she said at last. “Madam has instructed that now you are to be taken to dedicate yourself to God Real.”

  7

  Domme Camille led Gillian down a long path cut at the back side of Madam’s property. There was a clearing in the lush woodland here. Willows curtained the edges of the place and tiny wildflowers freckled the deep blue-green grass. There was a circle imprinted in the center of the clearing, where the grass folded over itself and created a spiral. At each of the four quadrants of this circle stood an immense statue. They appeared to be angels, fashioned of a rock Gillian did not recognize. A long altar of gleaming solid gold was set in the middle of the circle.

  “This is the Temple of Purity,” Domme Camille explained as they walked in. “There is no holier place in all of Nemi. All of us—the Leather Wives, the Disciples, the guards—are welcome to use this sanctuary for prayer and meditation. You have been chosen by a recruiting Ur’theriem and approved by Madam and her advisors. As long as your heart is dedicated to the doctrine of pleasure, you are one of us. Nothing can disgrace your rank but your own repudiation.”

  Gillian heard footsteps cross the grass behind them. Turning, she saw a figure approaching, garbed in a pink, hooded robe, and at the figure’s side were two women who wore nothing but silver headbands with sheer ivory veils shielding their faces. One of the women carried a scourge across her breast, the other a silver platter upon which was laid a loaf of honeycomb. The robed figure came to stand before the altar, and as the platter was set upon it, she took the scourge from the other woman. Gillian watched as the robed one raised her arms heavenward.

  “Kneel, Gillian,” said Domme Camille.

  As she did so, the robed one turned toward her. She slid the hood down the back of her neck and contemplated Gillian. She was like no woman Gillian had ever seen before. Facets of amber glinted in her hazel eyes and her wide, thin lips were hued of palest green. In the bathing sunlight, Gillian could see that her skin consisted of iridescent, milky scales. Gillian blinked and then saw that her hands were scaled as well. Her long fingernails were thicker than a mortal woman’s and naturally prismatic.

  Gillian shivered and the robed one said, “I am Anev’ ja Lis, Priestess of Pleasure, and daughter of the heavenly concubine, Sophia.”

  Gillian was speechless, appalled by her own ill-mannered staring, and searched the ground for something to look at as the woman spoke.

  The voice caressed her with compassion, “And yes, as your feelings suspect, I am not human, nor mortal. My sire was my mother’s captor, one of the races of the Dhjinn-E’noch. But there is nothing to fear, Gillian, I will not harm you.”

  As Gillian lifted her eyes as the priestess’s lips turned up at the corners in what seemed a gentle smile. “You may always speak freely within this circle, Gillian. Tell me, are you ready to dedicate yourself? To pledge yourself entirely to the cause of pleasure and its twinned components—self-contentment and love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then speak your affirmation.”

  The priestess gestured with a hand toward the altar. The veiled attendants were standing at either side of it now, looking almost like statues for their unflinching poise and fair skin. Gillian glanced at Domme Camille, and taking a long breath, crawled to the altar. She blinked uncertainly.

  “What…what should I say?”

  Anev’ ja Lis bent and kissed the crown of her head. “Whatever your heart speaks, my dear. And it does not have to be aloud.”

  Gillian turned to look at her for confirmation it was all right to keep her pledge silent, when she saw Xaqriel standing before the statue at the eastern quadrant. He was clothed in only a wide belt of deep brown with wide, gauzy strips of fabric made of the sheerest smoke, which hung between the fronts of his legs, so that his titanic endowments were visible. The wings he had used the night before were but dusky gossamer outlines.

  It might as well have been a delusion for all I can see now.

  His amber eyes seemed to penetrate her suddenly, to caress the bare flesh beneath her dress. Her cheeks smarted and she looked back to the altar and felt the priestess’s hands on the nape of her neck. They were cool and dry and the touch pulled her thoughts back to the ritual.

  “When you are ready, Gillian, clear your mind of everything but the desire of your heart.”

  Gillian nodded and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply for a few minutes, until all cares vanished but for the duty she had pledged herself. She saw it first as a spoken word: pleasure. The word repeated itself over and over in her mind until she heard herself voice it. As she continued to speak, the word evolved into a melody without beginning or end, a song without language. A horizon of rich colors flowed before her eyes. Something snatched her up and with her ascended its summits, then whisked her to green and soaring mountains and carried her over meadows of sylvan pinks. Into an ocean of browns she plummeted, and in turn she was uplifted by tender blues. Over a canvas of black did she spirit, and in the next moment, indigo stars birthed before her. Into them, she was absorbed.

  Her breath quailed, and she looked up into the face of a great figure of radiant whites, shades of which she had never imagined. Its formless limbs twisted and bled, showering her in a deluge of fresh, fertile reds. These buoyed her soul so fast that her lungs opened again. She tingled from head to toe with delicious sensations and her entire body glowed in all the loving hues and shades of eternal love and endless passion.

  She was blinded to mortality and she cared not. Out of the sensuous lights hovering nearby she heard a lush and symphonic voice say that she was ready…

  “I dedicate myself to pleasure.”

  She was not sure she had spoken the words or simply embraced them. But beyond the engulfing sensations, she knew the priestess had thrice struck her shoulders with the scourge.

  Something pitched within the ethereal womb. It expanded and grew before her spiritual eyes, fashioning itself from out of the primordial colors to form a towering phallus. Her sensations quickened, and she was drawn into it. She went happily, yearningly, eagerly, draping her soul over the head of the phallic shaft. She plunged over it, and its thunderous heartbeat pulsated through her.

  A voice steeped in virility chased away all other considerations: “It is well then, my Gillian.”

  All suffused into shades of gold, and from this splendid sea, a man emerged. For a moment, she considered that it was Xaqriel, but no, this one was too perfectly human. His dark, seductive eyes bore into hers as he advanced.

  “We are one flesh, you and I—one mind, one spirit, one bright and luminous ray of heaven.”

  His words rocked her with a surrendering, poignant ecstas
y.

  She flew to him and felt her arms sweep about his neck. His solid fragrance was distinct, reminding her of a scene from a dream she had somehow forgotten. His hands went to her buttocks and he scooped her up. Her eager legs wrapped around his waist. The head of his cock pounded against the opening of her vagina and his mouth feasted on her throat. With a guttural moan, he seized her hips and brought her down, impaling her with exquisite pain. He bounced her heartily upon himself, grinding his pelvis to meet her bobbing hips. Up and down his hard, thick cock she rode, the head of it a blazing hammer against her wanton core. When she climaxed, the fire exploded through her and sent her soul soaring, and then sucked her back like oxygen, so that she was in his arms again.

  She looked into his face, with her real eyes this time, and almost swooned for recognition of the familiar, provocative features.

  From beyond the web of souls, she felt something touch her mouth. A voice beckoned. She did not want to respond, but then something defined of virility and dusky gossamer swooped down and tore her away.

  “Home for now, Gillian.”

  She opened her eyes to find the priestess offering a bit of the honeycomb to her lips.

  Her arms and sex still tingled from the man. Bereft, she wept.

  “Oh, God, where is he?”

  Anev’ ja Lis kissed the tears away and announced, “Sister Gillian, eat now and be a part of everlasting consciousness and immortal femininity.”

  And as Gillian fed upon the sweet bee nectar, her soul was grounded again.

  With the ritual finished, the women left Gillian alone in the circle so she might meditate. Xaqriel departed, too, not speaking a word before vanishing. It was a peaceful aloneness they had left her to. In the sweet fresh air, without fear of anyone of the household bursting upon her repose, it was the first time she truly had to relax since coming to Nemi. She sat cross-legged before the altar and gazed into her own thoughts for a long time, thinking over everything she had experienced since coming to Nemi.

  For the first time, I am needed and wanted entirely just as I am.