Submissive (17 page)

Sir Peter broke the uncomfortable silence. “Ah, but I must get back now. Keep those diligent eyes on her, Sir Bruce.”

“I will.”

As Bruce watched Sir Peter stroll down the path toward Madam's house, he thought about the painful thing the man had revealed, and it made him realize the gravity of his job. There was no room for envy or guilt here, or any useless passion for that matter. He would do what was required, and soon enough Gillian would be the Warden's responsibility. Maybe then, he could indulge the pleasures he had come to Nemi for in the first place.

He slipped into the pavilion, finding Gillian and another Disciple setting out the dishes and silverware, cups and glasses. He went out quietly and surveyed the grounds and spoke with some of the guards meandering about. When the sun was setting, two guards wheeled out carts from the prison yard. White cloths covered the pans and bowls for the feast, and once they reached the pavilion, one of the others ordered the girls to come out and fetch the food. Bruce hung back against the canvas and watched as they carried the vessels inside.

The musicians, lugging their instruments along, arrived from the residents' village. A young boy was with them, pulling a small wagon that carried their jugs of ale and wine. Guards were prohibited from drinking on duty unless invited to do so by Madam or one of the Leather Wives, Bruce knew.

Soon, he saw the prison gates open again. A line of prisoners came down to the Pavilion under escort of two spear-brandishing guards. These who feasted came from among the prison's general populace; those not yet cured of their contempt or fear of women enough to be allowed their personal servant girls, but not yet proven beyond redemption. As they passed through the entrance, Bruce saw face after face branded with hardened arrogance and hostility for which all Nemi stood for. The perverse grinned with fancies of deceiving the guards and of finding the route to escape. The eyes of the fanatics were lit with visions of using the experience to abet their corrupt agendas, while the eyes of the bloodthirsty and violent shone with a madness that made Bruce cringe.

But unlike on Earth, these prisoners had few privileges. They were never a drain on the finances of the citizenry. Aside from the company of the Disciples who served to educate them, there were only the dull confines of the prison. They knew nothing of the fact they could, and well might be, returned home if they proved unwilling to cooperate—albeit, certainly, of their memories of the time in Nemi that might fuel their hatred. If their evil festered and became more explicit, they could eventually be executed. But the threat of death was considered detrimental for the welfare of their education. They had to accept and embrace development, and so were kept ignorant of executions as well.

The musicians were just warming up their instruments when a bevy of beauties was delivered from Madam. As they were ushered inside the pavilion, Bruce heard a disgruntled groan from one of the prisoners, followed by the snap of a whip across flesh. The prisoner let loose with a flagrant curse at his punisher, for which the guard ordered he be gagged. Bruce stepped in again and saw the unruly one rounded to his feet by two guards while a third strapped a muzzle over his mouth. The prisoner was forced to sit down again. He glared at the table, flinching at the brush of a naked Disciple passing behind him.

Bruce saw Gillian seated now between another Disciple and a prisoner. The man was big and burly, his hair still dripping from a forced shower. But as Gillian kneeled beside him and lifted a tidbit to his lips, his eyes softened and he accepted it. He spoke something to her, and Bruce saw her smile and demurely eat from the grapes on his plate.

Bruce looked away and accepted the plate a Disciple offered. He took it outside and ate the beef and honeyed bread, nibbled on the vegetables. Giving the plate over to another guard, he circled the pavilion again. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he walked to the pathway leading to the household and lit a cigarette.

It was then he saw from across the meadow two figures tumble out of the woodland and slide under through a loose place at the fence. They giggled as they got up, stifling these sounds behind their hands. When they were composed, they started across the meadow hand in hand. The starlight illuminated their feminine bodies and revealed the mischievous smirks on their faces.

Gina and Rose…when they noticed the pavilion guards, their gait slowed to a graceful walk and they inclined their heads formally.

They were given admittance. Bruce threw the cigarette on the ground and hastened back. Inside, he spotted them loading plates with food and ordering two mugs of ale from a Disciple. But as he glanced at the table, he found Gillian gone. His eyes scanned the length of the table as the musicians struck up a lively tune and a little group of dancers began to jig on their bare feet. As Bruce walked by, he heard the bells on their ankles chiming vigorously.

In the shadows behind the table, he spied movement and making his way around the band, tiptoed into a place evidently reserved for private encounters. There was a pallet and a couch here, a couple of stools. On one of these sat the burly prisoner he had seen before. He now had Gillian sitting on one knee, with her panties pulled down to her knees, and was probing her pussy with his fingers. Although Gillian frowned with frustration, Bruce saw that the man's touch made her hips stir and her nipples harden behind the fabric of her short dress.

Bruce closed his eyes. It took several deep inhalations of air before he could control the urge to just snatch Gillian out of the oaf's clutches. He knew it was counterproductive to indulge such a rash emotion. So, he opened his eyes and left them to their shadowed privacy. Gina and Rose were sitting at a place at the table when he passed through. They both were swigging on a jug lifted from the musician's wagon. Their faces were too crammed with cake to notice him.

 

Gillian knew her manners teacher would hardly approve of her lack of focus now. The prisoner was nice enough, but his skin was filmed with a sour sweat and his groping hands were cold. But she had been told the Warden was determined she learn how to focus her attention and she tried now, tried so hard.

At least I don't have to show this man any real affection
, she conceded happily. Affection for the Warden, she felt, would come soon enough. That prospective day would have to be one of solace, for then the yearning for Sir Bruce would surely go away.

But neither her distaste for the prisoner nor the flattering discovery that the Warden wanted her for his personal house girl allayed the thoughts that had preoccupied her all day. Over and over again Bruce's silken words played in her mind, laying her soul bare. The memory of his scorching gaze had bound her concentration as firmly as silken cords had lashed her to the Rapture Pillar. Beside the renewed desire for him, all the others—sweet Clive, tantalizing Alexandra, even the handsome Warden—did not compare. It was wrong, she knew, and ruefully foolish as well. She had not seen him the entire day and guessed the passion he had shown before was only fleeting, something to pass away the time while he was on duty.

“Gillian, come here!”

Hearing the rigid command, Gillian turned her face eagerly from the prisoner's puckered lips. She squinted through the recesses until she saw a woman's outline standing on the threshold of light from the feasting area.

But the prisoner was agitated. “What do you want? I got her fair and square—the guards said I could.”

“Too bad,” the woman retorted. “Come here now, Disciple.”

Gillian glanced at the man contritely, but moved off his lap and pulled up her panties. He caught the hem of her dress in his shaking hand.

“You come back later,” he ordered in a mumble.

She nodded humbly, but was glad to get away from him. Only when she had left the shadows behind did she see the woman's features, and all sense of relief abandoned her under the familiar, mocking eyes. Before she could even think, the woman grabbed her hair and wrestled her away to the canvas, where her companion kneeled while holding up the skirt of the heavy fabric.

The one named Gina released her hair. “Squat and follow me under.”

Sir Bruce's warning about these two sounded in Gillian's head. She shivered and took a step back from the menacing beauty.

“No. I cannot do that.”

The Dommes looked at each other. Gina said tightly, “But you will, if you do not wish another night gagged and bound.”

Gillian responded as evenly as she could, “But Sir Bruce has told me—”

“Sir Bruce? This order is not his. We came at the Warden's order, young lady, and I think you have more to fear from disobeying him than some common guard, don't you?”

At mention of the Warden, Gillian remembered the girl restrained on the statue at the prison. It had been humiliating enough to spend a night on the Rapture Pillar; the thought of being bound and gagged at the prison, under the disapproving command of the Warden, tormented her. Emotional now, she thought of turning and simply running to the haven of Madam's house. Gina must have perceived her dilemma, for a compassionate glint suddenly softened her eyes.

“Now, what have you to fear, Gillian? It is only the Warden.”

She extended her hand and Gillian accepted it, knowing her fingers were now as cold as the prisoner's had been. She kneeled slowly and crawled under the canvas. Gina followed at once, then Rose, and with each taking one of Gillian's hands, they guided her around the borders of the pavilion grounds, to the path that led from the meadow back to the household.

But as they reached it, they crouched in the shadows by the fence. A guard came by on his way to the meadow, and Gina pressed a hand over Gillian's mouth. When he was gone, they pulled her roughly on until they reached the avenue that stretched between the woodland and Madam's property. There was another guard standing beneath one of the oaks, and again Gina's hand clamped more firmly over Gillian's mouth. With growing apprehension, Gillian tried to wrest the hand away. Rose's free hand flew to her belt and she brought up a kitchen knife, which she brandished in front of Gillian's eyes. Gillian's heart pounded and she looked to Gina for help, but the smirk on her face glowed with unholy promise.

At length, the guard made one more look up and down the avenue, and then ambled up toward the household. As soon as he reached the lawn, the two pulled Gillian out of the shadows and forced her down the avenue in the direction of the woods. The night provided little illumination in the woodland, and Gillian feared they might stumble at any moment and be injured, or worse—fall on Rose's blade. But the two seemed to know their way around, and presently a hazy light filtered through the branches from the distance, so that even Gillian could see the copse and flowers and roots that they hastened her across.

They exited the woods into a garden area near the high fence that bordered all of Nemi. The jasmine trailing up the wrought iron posts were open even more than she remembered, and their bedewed petals glistened in the strange light that seeped in from beyond the fence. It was the color of deep ocean water. Glancing up, Gillian saw now how the night heaven crowned Nemi like a cap, diffusing at the borders and vanishing into this sea of haze.

The two pitched her roughly to her knees so that her face fell into a cushion of jasmine. She looked up at them, seeing clearly the hatred in their eyes.

“That is the gateway to the universe,” Gina said, “or oblivion, however, you may interpret it. The path between Ultimate Reality and the lies of mortality.” She grinned and tossed her head so that her hair fell behind her shoulders. “Or at least that's what these decadent liars would have us believe—that reality is what we make it, and we can only make it by embracing their ideals of submission and domination, yin and yang, give and take.”

“Take,” Rose chortled and admired her reflection in the knife blade. “It's time for us to take, isn't it, Gina?”

Gina nodded, and raised her pretty chin to give Gillian a photo-perfect pout. “I do not accept these inane ideals of reciprocal physical pleasures, and don't give a damn about ethereal accord or spiritual fulfillment. What I can enjoy I will take without worrying about the undeserving or even death. They want us to believe death is but a lie, did you know that, Gillian?”

Gillian turned from the jasmine and sitting up, stared at her mutely.

Gina licked her lips and said in a baiting tone, “You do not know yet the difference between reality and Ultimate Reality? That Ultimate Reality comes when we have embraced the sensual, the loving, the fulfillment of our precious souls—when we become as gods and cannot die or suffer permanent damage. Only long enough to revamp ourselves, rebirth ourselves, even in the same, exact bodies we incorporated before, if that is our wish?”

Gillian exhaled slowly. Secretly, she knew it was all true and was glad for it. Her knowledge resented the mockery of the sacred as displayed by this petty girl.

“Why do you scoff at it, Gina?”

She laughed. “Scoff at it? Oh, no, dear Disciple. I embrace it! But I am tired of playing the slave to the slave-makers. That's all. I should not have to serve as watcher to boot-kissing wretches like you ever again when I can have money and comfort and anything I want.”

Gillian blinked. “In the world of lies and mortality? What good is that?”