Submissive by Anya Howard Page B

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.”
    â€œYou just can’t appreciate a woman with self-will and intelligence!”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œCome 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.

6
    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.
    â€œYou 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