Submissive (7 page)

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-dancer 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.

The prisoner who had spoken rose to his feet. “Come around and sit with me. I have waited so long for this meeting.”

Gillian could feel eyes upon her from a number of the prisoners, stares so malevolent that her instinct urged her to back away and flee out the doorway. But then another guard from the other side of the room stepped to the table. The uncompromising look he gave her subdued her impulses. She bowed her head and walked about the closest end of the table and came to stand before the waiting prisoner.

His smile was almost bashful as he gestured to the bench. Gillian sat down, catching the grunt made by the prisoner to her other side.

The one who had insulted her before now sneered at her admirer.

“You are a whore,” he hissed. “I shall eat nothing contaminated by your presence!”

Clive did not seem to have heard a word of it. Instead, he shared the food from his plate with Gillian. He even offered the wineglass to her lips. She felt the rude one across the table growing more and more heated. After a time, Clive took a piece of sugar-powdered cake from a platter and told her to eat it, too. As she nibbled on it, he lifted her hair aside and shyly kissed her cheek. Suddenly, the rude one slammed a fist on the table, jarring it and bringing the attention of everyone.

He leaped to his feet and shook a pudgy finger at Clive. “This is hell, my friend—hell! And here you disgrace our people by feeding a concubine!”

Several guards rushed out of the shadows and encircled him, gouging his waist with the heads of their spears.

“Come along, Stephen,” one of them ordered, “your meal is finished!”

Fear flashed in Stephen's eyes. He raised his hands amiably.

“Have mercy on me, I have been ill,” he said. When after a second order he still had not moved away from the table, one of the guards turned his spear and jabbed his shoulder hard with the butt. He ordered Stephen outside, and the prisoner's legs started to move, but in the next moment Stephen jerked his head to one side and spat at Gillian. The spittle only struck the table, but it was enough to bring the handle of one guard's spear crashing over the back of his neck. He staggered forward and was caught by another guard before falling. Several spearheads gouged roughly into him now, making him move at last to the entryway.

Clive sighed and whispered in Gillian's ear, “I am no longer as he.”

He had the eager, nervous look of an adolescent boy on his first date. She managed to smile at him, but her discomfort at being in the midst of so many resentful men did not ease. In general they seemed bent on ignoring the Disciples with the most unnatural coldness, turning their faces from the lips speaking in their ears and averting their eyes at every peep of flesh in their line of vision. Far down the table, however, Gillian saw one man had taken a Disciple onto his lap. He was obviously mesmerized by the girl, tracing her flesh gingerly with his fingertips and listening as she spoke—as if the fate of the world hung on her words. In the shadows past the musicians, she saw Pearl again.

It was not a prisoner on whose lap Pearl bounced, but a guard. He was a stout man with short curly brown hair, and he fucked Gillian's roommate with the ardor of a tomcat losing his virginity. Pearl's face was thrown back. Gillian could see the wide parting of her lips. The reflection of the lantern lights shimmered on her sweat-dewed breasts and the tinkling bells at her ankles.

The musicians stopped their playing. She peered to where they sat. They laughed among themselves, and all took long swigs from the stone jug they passed around before taking up their instruments again. It was a faster tune now, and a few of the Disciples jumped up and started to dance with one another. Some of the prisoners groaned, but Gillian saw more than one pair of eyes watch the girls with something besides antipathy. Soon the dancers' flesh was flushed and their lips ruddy with glee.

As the night went on, some more of the prisoners began talking to the Disciples. A few of them seemed actually interested in the girls; Gillian caught a genuine lusty smile here and there. But the other conversations were nothing more than blatant attempts to tell a Disciple to be “good.” She was glad to see the Disciples could and did react with the same indifference these exemplars of righteousness had shown them earlier: turning their faces from them completely, and if the man pressed further, simply walking away.

One of the men, however, could not endure being ignored. The prisoner's eyes glowered when his girl walked away and his face grew livid. He picked up his plate and threw it at her, messing her back and hair with food, and bringing the musician's tune to an abrupt halt. The prisoner jumped up from the bench and raised his hands and started to babble, beginning to sway on his feet with his eyes turned back in their sockets when the guards accosted him.

He came to his senses only after he kicked at those who held his arms until he was taken outside. Not everyone could be redeemed, Gillian thought. So be it. An uncomfortable hush fell over the table, and the musicians set their instruments down and passed around their jug again.

Despite the preparations Gillian had received, and Clive's kindness notwithstanding, the presence of most of the prisoners was almost suffocating. All she could think of was finding some way to get outside and fill her lungs with the fresh night air, to forget the bloodless men like Stephen and the babbling crazy.

Clive spoke her name again and she had to make herself meet his eyes. Even with his obvious interest and manners, she suspected it had not been too long since he had looked upon Disciples with the same enmity as the others.

He surprised her pleasantly, when next he asked, “Would you care to take a walk, Gillian?”

“But that's not allowed, is it?”

He grinned and waved a guard to the table. The guard's reply to his request astonished her.

“The others will keep a discreet watch, Clive, but yes, you may take this girl for a walk.”

The guard escorted them as far as the entryway, and informed the guards there that Clive was taking her outside.

Her heart fluttered. She was not sure it was wise, and almost hoped they would object. Instead, they directed Clive toward a beaten path between the pavilion and the prison grounds, and to a grove beyond the path. Clive's hand felt secure as he clasped her own, and she almost smiled as he led her away.

“Come.”

He walked her on down the path, to the shadowy edge of the grove. She glimpsed the barbed wire not too far within the trees. As for the prison, she tried to avoid looking at it. She inhaled the air and found it just as fresh as she had hoped. Trills of songbirds sounded from the tree branches, and somewhere behind them she thought she heard booted feet surveying the territory beyond the barbed wire.

Clive laughed softly and pulled her by the hand into his lap. As his arms laced about her, she shuddered, though she liked the fragrance of him. It was so different than the sourness that rose from most of the other prisoners in the pavilion.

“Gillian,” he whispered. “Would you have me spread your legs and take you right here in the open field?”

She suffered his kiss and found it pleasant enough. He bunched her breasts up so that her cleavage popped over the neckline of the short dress, and with his tongue, traced the areolas of her nipples. Her entire bosom swelled with fire, and the pang of desire that pulsated through her pussy made her forget the guards altogether. His eyes were sweet and tender.

A pang of grief came over her. His eyes were dark and piercing like Bruce's, she thought. And for a moment all she could think of was the terrible desire to see Bruce again. She wished she could, even now, confess to him the desire and fondness she felt for him.

But Gillian remembered what was expected of her.

She smiled and linked her hands about Clive's neck and heaved her breasts to his lips. “Why don't I take you, Clive—strip you down and fuck you in this open field?”

He gave her a tentative smile and combed his fingers through the length of her hair. “You are a naughty girl to speak this way, Gillian.”

He kissed her again, and this time she let herself truly enjoy it. His hands about her waist seemed as hot as the insides of her thighs. Without another word, she pressed her right fingers gingerly over the crotch of his pants. She got a single moment's feel of its hardening bulge before he cupped her shoulders roughly.

“What are you doing?” His displeasure was unquestionable, but she kissed his mouth lightly, sure her desire would overcome his hesitance.

“What I want to do.”

“I do not care for your words, young lady.”

His disapproval made her want him all the more. “Are you a virgin? I can make you forget you ever were.”

Clive frowned and caught her hands behind her back. “No. Do not speak like this.”

Gillian was more confused than ever. “But I thought you wanted this.”

“I want this—I want you, yes.” He smiled a little again and let go of her hands and traced her lips with his fingers. “But no more talk like this.”

“All right.”

“I long to see you writhe,” he spoke huskily, “and beg for more, but at my discretion.”

She laughed and was glad when he kissed her and rolled her down on the grass. He lifted the hem of the short dress, pulled the panties down to her knees, and stroked her thighs.

“Soft, pretty legs,” he murmured and touched the moist nether lips beneath her pubic hair. “Properly passionate, Gillian!”

He stroked her vagina with his right hand. Her clit swelled under his touch, and it seemed to her that he was particularly fascinated with this small organ. He lay over her open legs, and licked and stroked it some more, until she was sure she would burst in his hand.

Clive made a deep, satisfied sound. He sat back up, pulled her panties off, and spread her legs wide. Then he removed his pants and threw them aside. Kneeling, he pressed the head of his hard cock against her pussy. He was slick with desire, and the heat of it coaxed her juices. He plunged in gracefully and, spreading her legs now as far as they would go, fucked her deeply. But his thrusts were slow and the emotion on his face as he savored each stroke was almost painful. Gillian's pussy swelled desperately for a full-force screwing. Her hips rose to meet each leisurely thrust, and she began to writhe on the grass, moaning so plaintively she was sure everyone in the pavilion could hear her.