Submissive (11 page)

“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.

Camille 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.”

D
omme 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 ecstasy.

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.

It was a strange feeling to know this. Even after she had disobeyed the rules, they wanted her. Many of the prisoners made her uncomfortable, yet she was sure she would get used to their disapproval. She was beginning to admire the reliably stern Madam. The guards made her feel safe. Her roommates were all sweet girls. She saw that, together, Leather Wives and Disciples were the balancing forces of Nemi. She continued to wonder about the elusive Ur'theriems, mainly why they cared so much about Earth and the fate of its inhabitants. But there were other questions as well.

What exactly were Ur'theriems? That handsome Xaqriel, was he one of them? Were they truly angels, or incubi, or something else altogether?

“Demons of spirit.”

The unexpected words startled her. She spun on the grass toward the speaker and saw a figure standing in the shadowed clearing between the spiral and the woods. Naked and as towering as Xaqriel, his entire body was covered by skin of stone-gray scales. His eyes had the look of a human's except that his irises were yellow. A mane of pewter-colored hair fell wildly about his shoulders. His mouth was at once cruel and exotic, and when he stepped to the very edge of the circle, every hair on Gillian's body stood on end.

Somehow she managed to rise and speak. “Who are you?”

“Come out here where the shade is kinder, so that I may see you clearly,” he answered.

Gillian could not have moved if she had wanted to. He paced the boundary of the spiral, his features revealing a myriad of emotions she could not decipher. When he looked up again, his eyes had changed to a soft shade of olive. Almost seductive they were now, and with them, he canvassed her from head to toe. His right hand touched his great manhood. It was russet-colored and had a fat spade-shaped head. He stroked it slowly, from the heavy balls to the head and down to the root again, compelling it into an upward-arching snake in his palm.

Gillian looked all over for signs of the others, but there was none. She tried to tell herself there was nothing to be afraid of; this was surely only one of Xaqriel's brother angels.

His lips formed a circle and he blew toward her. A blast of heat wafted through the boundaries and licked her flesh. Her senses were drugged with an overpowering lust.

“Come to me, little one!”

Light, feminine voices sounded from the woods, snapping her hypnotized mind back to consciousness. She watched as he cocked his head toward the sound and narrowed his eyes. As the voices drew closer, his scales altered to a mottled tint of indigo, and then into an ill orange hue. The air grew hotter until suddenly his legs and torso burst into flame. All of him above the waist diminished to a swirling semblance of flesh. As Gillian faltered back, gasping, she watched his face spin and blacken, and before the next inhalation of her breath, the creature of flame diminished into an indigo spark no bigger than her fist and rocketed into the cloud-wisped sky.

Gillian was relieved to see Domme Camille and one of the priestess's attendants walking toward the circle. She ran to them and told them what had happened.

Domme Camille's brow furrowed and she and the attendant both searched the sky.

The attendant murmured a single word: “Dhjinn-E'noch.”

The Leather Wife smiled wryly at Gillian. “You were wise to stay in the circle, for his kind cannot pass through it. But you must take care now to never venture alone out-of-doors. Now that he has laid eyes upon you this close, he may come looking for you. We must report this to Madam.”

Gillian sighed. She felt as if she should miss the enlightening privacy the moments alone had allowed. And yet, such moments were not to be had often, she realized, and her instincts sensed the day still offered ripe and exciting prospects.

“Now, be silent again, dear Gillian,” Camille told her firmly, “for your probation is over and 'tis time for real work.”