Submissive (10 page)

The vision of her yawning crimson sex faded, and all Bruce could see was that which had disturbed him earlier. The face glancing at him from the meadow—a Disciple, reminiscent of Gillian. God, how often he had fantasized of ravishing her innocent mouth and ripping off her ugly waitress uniform. She had been the first female he had met who had actually seemed interested in knowing him for who he was. How urgently he'd wanted to claim her, to hold onto her as he'd held no other woman.

The offer from the Saphorian, Sethlucius, had whacked his head. During the ensuing weeks, he convinced himself it had been all for the best, that the naive blonde Gillian could never have compared to the stunning Gina.

Gina looked up at him now through sleepy lids, bunched her breasts together, and pinched the nipples seductively. But he was not interested, did not know if he ever would be again. He got off the bed and started to dress.

Her voice was husky—another time it would have entranced him, lured him back to her side, “Where are you going?”

He did not answer. He left them to the bed and lay down on the sofa, with the celestial transmission of a cop drama turned up loud enough to drown out any sound from the bedroom.

 

Bruce awoke late the next morning to find Rose nibbling on his ear.

He groaned as his eyes opened to the sight of her straddling his waist. Her breasts descended to his lips. He had never been one to wake up cheerful, especially if he did not get at least five or six solid hours of sleep. But the primal urge of his loins was stronger this morning than the customary surliness.

He grasped the fleshy orbs and sucked on them until the nipples were small gems in his mouth. Rose maneuvered her hips down so she could scoop his stiff cock out from his boxers, guided it into her pussy and started to ride.

He savored his pleasure until she climaxed, then held to her hips and worked her hard up and down. He came fast, a mechanical, bodily response. But when he was thinking clearly again, he was glad it had been her who had awakened him this way instead of Gina.

“Nice,” he yawned, stretching his arms and legs while she bobbed idly over his dwindling hard-on.

“Good morning,” she smiled brightly. “Was it really nice?”

“Of course.”

“Nice enough that you would let Madam know?”

He frowned. “Well, yes. But why would you want me to?” He smiled decadently. “Turns you on to know you've been bragged about? That's cute.”

She shook her head and he caught the shadow of a purse at her lips. “She wants to send me home—Gina, too.”

A nameless and unpleasant wariness crept over Bruce's skin.

“Why?”

Rose shrugged and this time her lips pursed truly, bitterly. “Madam doesn't think we are good enough.” She sighed and added, “She said we are lazy, selfish. Can you believe that? Told me I have forgotten what I'm here for—as if anyone could forever care about those nasty prisoners. Then she got all worked up one day because Gina hit a girl, a Disciple. But the girl deserved it. She wouldn't hand something over that Gina asked for. Those Disciples are not supposed to hoard, you know.”

“Well, what did the girl hoard? A guy?”

“No. Some stupid trinket box she had asked the Ur'theriems to bring from her home on Earth. Claimed she'd had it since she was a little girl. But she has no need of such things. Gina liked it, and asked for it when the girl was under her keep. The girl refused and Gina slapped her. But the selfish sub deserved it!”

Bruce shook his head, appalled. “No. I would say, how dare Gina. She is supposed to be a disciplinarian, not an extortionist.”

Rose looked shocked. “That is very unfair to say, Bruce.”

Bruce rubbed her thigh. “Get up.” She did so, but with the most devastated of looks. As he stood up, she sighed irritably.

“Well, can't you speak up for us? Madam's made arrangements to have the Ur'theriems take us back to our respective times in two days.”

He threw Rose an exasperated glance as she went on, “Not even for me? Why should I go back, and to where they found me—to when they found me?”

Bruce shrugged, tired of the conversation. “You need to ask yourself if there's some truth in what Madam says. Why does she claim you're selfish? Fix whatever problems that made her come to that conclusion, and maybe she'll change her mind.”

Rose crossed her arms in a sulky way. “She says a lot. Mainly, I think, she knows I hate those Disciples, have for a long time. Clingy, needy females, you know. I prefer the company of strong women and mindless males.” She said the last with a crooked smile, but Bruce knew she was not altogether joking.

“And you're not needy with Gina? And she doesn't cling to everything she can grasp?”

She regarded him quietly. “That's a stupid thing to say.”

“Mindless male, you remember.”

Rose threw her hands down. “Oh, come on! You've had some fun with us, haven't you? You don't really want to see us sent away, do you?”

He rubbed his hands through his short, dark hair. “Hey. You prefer to associate with what you call strong women? Then be one. You don't need a man's aid, then, if you are. And Gina, too. Why do you have to use me like this? Because you really do think of me as weak? Guess a strong man would just turn you over his knee and teach you to get your act together.”

Rose shivered then, in anger so potent her face turned livid. “Oh, shut up!”

She looked across the room then and her eyes softened a little. Turning, Bruce saw Gina standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She was already dressed and holding Rose's clothing.

“We were wrong, Rose. Bruce has been around these other men too long. He's starting to think all women should be subservient, half-naked Disciples.”

She walked in and handed Rose her garments. As Rose dressed, Bruce took his last pack of cigs from the coffee table and packed it across his palm. He noticed Gina must have found his comb, for her hair was brushed out, glossy dark locks tumbling down over her shoulder blades. Her lively complexion had paled, though, and her eyes sparkled with cold indignity.

“You would believe all these fabrications on Madam's part, Bruce?”

“Fabrications? I hardly think Madam would lie.”

“So, you believe them. And yet, you had sex with us.”

“Why not? Evidently, I mean nothing to either of you but what I can offer. A tumble in the sheets, a little departure from routine, gifts, and free meals—an ear to listen while you bitch about the duties you resent, the proprietress who expects you to act with some manners, some civility. You slept with me, Gina, but I was just a cock to you, nothing more.”

“You just can't appreciate a woman with self-will and intelligence!”

“Oh, I know you are intelligent,” he said, opening the pack and lighting up. He regarded the cool smile, the lack of warmth on her face. “You certainly have the self-will. But you want and want and never think to give back. The Disciples have the inner strength to yield to their carnal needs. They give back, too, and that's what you resent.”

Her mouth hardened, and despite her incomparable beauty, he never wanted to kiss her again.

“Come on,” she said to Rose. “Don't expect us back, Bruce.”

Rose pulled on her boots and walked with Gina out the door. They did not look back as they left and slammed the door so hard it jarred. He did not care anymore and hummed as he tore the sheets off his bed. He threw them into the hamper of dirty clothes and then flopped down on the mattress.

He drifted quickly off, into the best sleep he'd enjoyed since meeting Gina. Hot, erotic visions of the Disciple he'd seen earlier filled his dreams. Her face and body was poignantly reminiscent of Gillian; and she was his disciple—naked except for a collar that declared his ownership. But she adored him and took pleasure in his masterly commands of her own pure and passionate accord.

G
illian awoke late in the morning and guessed it was close to noon by the position of the sun outside the window. Her roommates were gone, but she found a fresh dress on a stool next to her bed. It was pink and just as short as the first one. Her slippers were sitting under the stool, with a pair of innocent white anklets. A pair of white cotton panties lay across these.

She bathed quickly and returned to dress. She had just slipped on her shoes when the door opened.

It was Madam, dressed in a long, rose-dyed tunic that was pinned over one shoulder with a cameo brooch. She looked radiant, her hair piled in ringlets. What little makeup she wore looked very natural. But there was a hard air to her this morning, and Gillian wondered if Sir Douglas had informed her of what had happened during the night.

Madam stood by Gillian's bed silently as she put on the shoes. But once she was finished, said, “Bring me a brush from the bathroom, Gillian, and hairbands and ribbons.”

Gillian obeyed and when she returned Madam instructed her to sit on the corner of the bed. She brushed Gillian's hair, swiftly and efficiently. Parting her hair, she banded the two lengths at either side of her head and decorated them with the ribbons.

“You will be eating breakfast outside this morning,” Madam announced. “This is not our usual custom, Gillian, but I have been informed of your behavior last night. I know Sir Douglas has already dealt with your unseemly flight, but I want to be sure you remember that the lack of decorum you displayed while serving the prisoners will not be condoned.”

Gillian's mouth flew open and a single sound of protest froze. Perhaps Madam only intended to segregate her from the others for a while. That she could handle easily enough.

She looked at Gillian thoughtfully before sending her out of the room. The downstairs was alive with activity this morning; prisoners were coming back and forth, apparently endeavoring to clean the household. Some of these were actually working; others were simply dictating jobs to Disciples. The guard she had seen the day before with his gagged Disciple opened the front door for them. Alexandra was scrubbing one end of the porch when they stepped out, while a prisoner supervised her progress from the swing. A slender switch lay across his lap. She did not look up as Gillian and Madam passed by, and Gillian wondered if her stay on the Rapture Pillar had worked to subdue her willfulness.

Two guards paced the grass as Gillian followed Madam down the steps into the yard. One of these was Sir Peter, and his bold gaze sent a stab of humiliated desire through Gillian's thighs. She flinched and blushed as Madam snatched her hand and led her on to the western side of the house.

A box-tiered garden hugged the siding here, and one prisoner worked to weed the flowers, while a second polished the wood plank of a swing hanging from the nearest oak. Madam said nothing to these men. Instead she led Gillian to a heavy metal pole, about three and a half feet tall, which stood between the tree and the garden. A woman waited here, and Gillian knew at once she must be one of the Leather Wives. Her age seemed indeterminate to Gillian, though she dressed much like a college girl in lowslung jeans and a white peasant blouse, a pair of ankle-length high-heeled boots, and a small ruby piercing her left nostril. Her makeup was moderately Goth. Only the tight rolled braid of her brown hair atop her head and the crop tied by a cord about her thigh lent her a more mature look. She smiled at Madam as they approached. Gillian saw she held a glass container, capped at the short-necked mouth with a large rubber nipple that had been molded into the shape of a phallus.

Atop the pole an upright U had been bolted. A rubber-encased bolt was inserted low on the inside of both arms. The end of a wide leather strap had been buttonholed over one of these, and there was another button slit cut into the loose-hanging end. Madam wedged the bottle between the bolts so that the nipple was aimed at Gillian.

Madam nodded as she regarded first the pole, and next, Gillian.

“Looks like they brought it down to the proper height, Camille.”

“Sir Peter is talented at estimating height,” the Leather Wife replied.

“Gillian, kneel,” ordered Madam. Before Gillian could think, Madam pressed her down by the shoulders in front of the pole and lifted her chin. “This is your breakfast, with royal jelly and other nutrients. You will drink every last drop, if you do not wish to find yourself kneeling here again for your next meal.”

Gillian was horrified. “But Madam, please let me—”

“No. You may not speak. Now take that nipple into your mouth.”

Gillian swallowed and hesitantly complied. The nipple was as big as a real cock and stuffed her mouth entirely. The Leather Wife drew the strap about the back of her head and buttoned it around the free bolt. Gillian's face flushed in humiliation.

Madam eyed her sternly. “Nurse it, Gillian!”

She did so and discovered at once how very tiny the opening for the liquid to pass was. She had to struggle just to get the first drop out. Although the drink did not taste bad, it did not taste good, either: a thick milky concoction with a flat flavor. As Gillian worked for the next drops, Madam pulled the hem of Gillian's dress up and peeled down her panties to her knees so that her bottom was exposed. Gillian closed her eyes and flinched in anticipation of a spanking.

“You will hold this hem up while you are here,” Madam said, “and if you are caught with it down, you will be whipped until you are scarlet.”

Gillian made a penitent sound. Already her lips were tired from the effort to nurse the phallus. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the two women walked over to the shadow of the oak. They spoke quietly to one another, and Gillian was close to tears, wondering desperately if she could ever live down this present embarrassment. It had not been willfulness that had led her to disobey Sir Douglas, so much as fear.

What will they do if I ever deliberately defy them?

The prisoner at the swing rose to his feet and stretched. When he turned in her direction Gillian closed her eyes.

She heard someone advance quickly, and before her next breath was drawn, a paddle swooped down across her backside.

Gillian heard Madam warn, “Keep your eyes open! Don't you think for a moment you are allowed modesty!”

Gillian's eyes opened and Madam spanked her several more times. It took all her effort to keep the hem up as Madam walked away, and to her added chagrin, the prisoner at the swing threw her a wink.

Although the women stepped out of her line of vision, she could hear their conversation and listened, if only to take her mind somewhat from her humiliating punishment.

“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.”