Submissionette 1: Slaves & Novices

Submissionette 1: Slaves & Novices

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Mirabella Lucinda is a Novice, that is a slave—captured in battle—and now being trained to become a Submissionette, a lord's personal plaything. Today is the day of her final test: her first submission. Yet things are not always as simple as they seem...


Mirabella Lucinda is a Novice, that is a slave—captured in battle—and now being trained to become a Submissionette, a lord's personal plaything. Today is the day of her final test: her first submission. Yet things are not always as simple as they seem...


Submitted: April 28, 2013

A A A | A A A


Submitted: April 28, 2013



It was still the early morning hour of the day of her first submission, but Mirabella Lucinda was already awake. She lay in her bed wrapped in her linens, watching the rising sunlight through drawn, heavy curtains. Soon, the birds would begin to chirp, followed by the foot traffic that always passed just below her bedroom window. It was a small bedroom, and moist—all cold stone and rough wood—but it was still palatial compared to what she had expected as quarters for a slave, and downright exquisite compared to what became of slaves in her own part of the world. And, regardless, if she performed well tonight, if she wasn’t a complete “ass about it” (the words of her Matron, Olive) she would soon move into the rooms in the mysterious building right next to the King’s stables, the mysterious domain of the Submissionettes.

Mirabella turned onto her side, pulled the covers over her head, and groaned. She knew she wasn’t going to get any more sleep.

“Remember to have a proper night’s rest,” Olive had told her. “That’s my only advice.”

So much for that.

Matrons were retired Submissionettes—though Mirabella could hardly picture Olive frolicking in a bed with a fair-haired lord, let alone being lusted over to the point of obsession—who acted as mentors for the Novices. Each Novice had her own Matron, but each Matron had several Novices.

Speak of the devil:

The door to Mirabella’s bedroom slammed open and a squat, bosomy woman with long, black hair strode in.

“Up, up, up, rise and powder your cheeks! They won’t powder themselves.”

Mirabella exhaled into her pillow.

Olive placed her stubby hands on her wide hips.

“Did you get a good night’s rest?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Good. Now...”

* * * * *

The grey dress fit too tightly in all the wrong spots and Mirabella could hardly walk right in it. After making several dozen rounds around the dressing room, she collapsed into a wicker chair.

“Careful! Don’t crumple it.”

“I can’t move in this, let alone walk like a person.”

“You’re not supposed to walk like a person. You’re supposed to walk like a lady.”

Mirabella angled her eyebrows.

“None of that. It’s unbecoming. A lady must always be in control of her emotions and her body language. She must be calm, collected—”

“Prim and proper, gentle and bending, like the most delicate of trees in a warm summer wind on an island of chamomiles and daisies.”

“Novice Mirabella Lucinda!”

Mirabella huffed. “I apologise, Matron. We don’t have ladies where I come from.”

“Or so you’ve told me, though I don’t quite know if I believe you. Now stand and take another stroll around the room. I need you to appear relaxed.”

Mirabella started.

Slowly,” Olive said, making the word sound its meaning, “with long, lazy movements and an emphasis on the hips. Chest forward, neck arched.”

 “I don’t see the point. I’m not a serving girl.”

“Right now you’re slave. By tomorrow morning, you may be a Submissionette. But,” her thin lips, pronouncing, twitched, “a Submissionette is also a type of serving girl. And, I will add, there is nothing wrong with being a serving girl.”

Mirabella stuck out her arm, as if holding a plate full of soup bowls. “There.”

“No, my dear girl. A Submissionette is both the server and what’s being served. You are the vessel and what’s in it. Hence, walk accordingly.”

The material of the grey dress tightened and slackened, pulled and pushed, and sometimes pinched. It was like skin across Mirabella’s backside and as fluffy as clouds on her shoulders. Across her bare breasts, it felt coarse, making her nipples tender. And despite there being a fair amount of the dress, it caused her an indescribable, irrational, feeling of being naked. In the dress, she was an obvious object of attention.

* * * * *

The procession began at the city gates.

There were twenty one Novices altogether and—Mirabella did a quick count—six Matrons. The Matrons were all dressed in black with white trim. Each Novice wore a dress of the same uncomfortable cut but of a different colour. Mirabella’s was grey, but the others were not so restrained. Still, rather than feel jealous of the canary yellow and the violent purple, Mirabella instead took solace in the hope that hers might be the least visible colour of all in the murky, urban twilight. Not that she imagined escaping. Escape was impossible and the punishment was far worse than submission. She simply didn’t enjoy being the centre of attention. She preferred to be the looker than the looked-at, the predator rather than the prey. It was one of the first lessons they taught the children in her own lands: vision is power.

The bells rang, followed by the banging of drums and the blast of a single trumpet.

When the trumpet finished, they were off.

They walked in two rows, one composed of ten female bodies and the other of eleven, followed by the six Matrons walking solemnly side-by-side, and with a small honorary Kingsguard bringing up the rear. The guards were a formality. None of the girls would attempt an escape, and no one in the spectating public would lay a hand on any of the girls. But the knights’ polished breastplates shone beautifully and their broadswords reflected the flickering flames of the torches they carried, so who would be the one to suggest they stay home?

The Novices kept their heads down. They were forbidden from looking up, from meeting eyes with the faces of the citizens of the kingdom that had captured them—had defeated their men in open battle.

“Whore!” a woman shouted. “Nah good wenches, the lot of yuh!”

Only words were allowed.

Only humiliation.

More voices joined in. Some merely hooted and grunted in approval, while others slung insults of their own.

“I bet yuh got so much peckerwood in yuh cunnies yuh cunnies is stretched out looser than a Rabillian’s tongue!”

“I’d put it in yer outhole faster than I’d put it in your dirty moutheses!”

Not all of the spectators were uneducated.

“I dare say, Edward,” a masculine voice said, “but that girl in the burgundy dress, she does resemble an awful lot your sister Mathilde.”


The clang of swords. The crack of a fist against a jaw.

Outbursts of cheers and laughter.

“You sluts!”

Despite the violence and the cursing—or perhaps because of those very elements—the atmosphere was festive. There were lute players and jugglers, and firecrackers and moonshine vendors. Mugs clanged against mugs and the smell of hops drifted between their marching rows, and throughout it all, even as she unconsciously counted her steps, counted the distance to the Submissionettes’ quarters where her final test would be, Mirabella concentrated on walking forward and not looking up.

“The march of shame—or the amble of embarrassment as we old girls like to call it,” Olive had told her with a chuckle and not without a sense of nostalgia, “may be the last day of the month of humiliation, but it’s also the beginning of your obedience. If you can’t keep your head down walking the roads, you sure as heathens won’t be able to keep your head down with an inebriated lord and his imagination on your back.”

“Has anyone ever failed the march?” Mirabella had asked.

“Aye, there’s usually one who fails.”

Back in the present, surrounded by a volley of new insults and the increasing pressure of surrounding, invisible chaos, still staring obediently at her own shoes, Mirabella heard sobbing.

It was coming from the girl in a sky blue dress to her left. Her sobs were gentle but rhythmic, and the girl was mumbling something under breath, something that sounded like, “No, please, stop, no, please, I’m not, I wouldn’t, no...”

“You’d take a donkey in the arse!”

“I wouldn’t, no, please...”

According to Mirabella’s count, there were only some five hundred steps to go. It wasn’t a lot—one hundred times five steps, and five steps were nothing, and one hundred times nothing was nothing—but the crowds were packed now, she could feel their presence, their heat, their wrath, half good-natured and half genuine, and she didn’t begrudge them the former for the Submissionettes did live in better conditions than most of the commoners in the city.

A voice cut in: “Such a hoity-toity ass, dressed like thinkin’ she is better than us when it’s us she’s serving, born in some savage land beyond the black desert, where they still do the worship, and now she is processing through our own city in front of our own eyes and the eyes of our future generations.”

And someone spat.

And the spit landed on the cheek of the girl in the sky blue dress.

Or so Mirabella imagined. She’d bit her teeth and kept her head as down as a cartographer’s south.

The girl in the blue dress raised her voice. “I’m not, I’m not. I am not better. I am not worse. I can’t take it anymore. I just,” and the rest of her sentence turned into babbling, which was just as suddenly yanked out of the marching row, and the crowd erupted, and the member of the Kingsguard who had done the deed returned to his customary place behind the matrons, having performed his only work of the evening.

Mirabella swallowed hard.

She heard the blue dress torn to shreds and the girl’s’ first shrieks.

Thirty steps to go.

“Ain’t so special now is we!”

“I’m not—”

One who failed the walk of shame was stripped immediately of her Novice status. She became an ordinary slave. To hit—or worse—a Submissionette, even one in training, was a grave offense and punishable by public flogging, imprisonment and even castration. To do anything to a slave was permissible, with any compensation being in money and only to the slave’s owner. However, it took time to get an owner...

* * * * *

The doors of the Submissionettes’ quarters opened.

The ground underfoot turned from cobblestones to pristine white flatstones and both rows of Novices, now neatly symmetrical with ten girls each, entered the building.

The Matrons followed.

The Kingsguard did not. Only lords, or nobler, were permitted inside.

The Kingsguard shut the doors, silencing the chaos still raging outside, and the echoing quiet of the vast interior almost made Mirabella’s head explode.

“Novices!” a deep female voice boomed. “At attention. Heads up.”

Mirabella obeyed.

Her neck thanked her for it so very much.

As for the room, she identified it immediately. She hadn’t see it before, of course, but she’d read about it and had been told about it many times by Olive. The Hall of Submission. It was as grand, golden, and vast as she’d imagined. Encircled by a second floor balcony, it was otherwise empty. There was no furniture and there were no decorations apart from the beautiful architecture. It all served some great goal, Mirabella was sure.

Rather than trying to figure it out, however, she tried to find Olive—to at least sneak a quick, good luck smile—but the Matrons were gone, having been ushered through the Hall and further on.

The only person in the room other than the twenty trembling Novices was Bercamille Lisbon, known otherwise as Headmistress Harrow.

She was tall and thin and dressed in a long, one-piece robe of what appeared to be shortly-cropped blood red fur that curved into a high collar at one end and flowed out perfectly onto the floor at the other. The entire outfit was held tightly in place by a thick black leather belt. The Headmistress’ boots, as far as Mirabella could tell, were of the same black material, right down to the subtle lustre.

“Novices, you stand this evening in the great Hall of Submission. You have entered it as slaves, but you may leave as Submissionettes.”

Mirabella felt the discomfort of her dress again. Here, in the Hall, its grey was no longer as hidden as it had been in the streets. Here, canary yellow and violent purple were the better camouflage.

“All of your preparations,” Headmistress Harrow continued, “have culminated on this, the most important night of your young lives. Your preparations, I am certain, have been adequate, but your fates are ultimately in your own hands. Consider this as you also consider the great mercy and privilege being bestowed upon you, foreigners all, by the King himself, the glorious, and may he live eternally, Roybert the Third.”

Headmistress Harrow bowed her head and so did the Novices.

When the moment of adoration was over, the Headmistress assumed her normal, impeccable posture and said, “But, before each of you enters her own room to be submitted by her own lord, there is one final lesson you must be taught.”

Mirabella’s breath caught in her throat. A final lesson? Olive had not said a word about this. Was it a new development? Perhaps it was meant to be unexpected. For a second, Mirabella shuddered, thinking that everything she’d been told had perhaps been an elaborate lie devised by someone with a peculiar sense of torture, before the following words put her mind at ease:

“This lesson is not something you must do, Novices. It is something you must see. The lesson is one of humility. The enemy is pride.”

Somewhere, there was clicking of shoes, and then a sneeze.

Three men walked down the length of the Hall of Submission, toward Headmistress Harrow, whose demeanor remained unchanged. One man was clean, refined in his manners and well-dressed. His hair was cut short and his skin was clear. The other two men—the men flanking him, staring at both the Headmistress and the Novices, their tongues wagging, and their cotton trousers barely containing their erections—were his direct opposites: dirty, coarse, primitive.

All three men stopped several paces from the Headmistress, who turned to face them and bowed. “Lord Caternine, it is my great pleasure.”

“Thank you, Headmistress.”

Lord Caternine was holding the men by their shoulders.

The Headmistress turned back to face the Novices. “Novices, this is the honourable Lord Caternine. Greet him as you have been taught.”

“Good evening, Lord Caternine,” Mirabella and the other Novices said in at least somewhat of a chorus.

The dirty men looked as ready to leap forward as rabid dogs.

“And these two men with Lord Caternine are beggars. They were apprehended two nights ago while asking for alms in an area restricted by law. They are lowborn and they are worthless, not even able to provide for themselves or their families without resorting to the solicitation of pity from men and women whose means may be just as meagre as theirs, yet who work harder and possess a finer moral code.”

The men either didn’t understand the Headmistress’ words, or didn’t care. Although Lord Caternine dug his fingers deeper into their shoulders, Mirabella got the distinct impression that it wasn’t simply the fear of bruising that kept the men obedient.

“Yet pride is a vice. We must be humble. To obey, we must set aside our own value of ourselves and realise that what we do may have greater value for our lords. A lord’s pleasure, Novices, is immeasurably valuable.”

“Headmistress,” Lord Caternine said suddenly—and stiffly, as if reading from a script, “it would give me great pleasure to see you submit to these men and to let them do to you all that I may do to you, for you are mine and you belong to me, and I authorise these men to exercise these of my rights by acting as my agents.”

“Yes, Lord Caternine.” She was facing him again. “I do as you command.”

Headmistress Harrow let her arms drop to the sides of her body.

Lord Caternine let loose the beggars.

They lunged like hungry, uncoordinated wolves at a composed and regal lamb, whose calmness was hardly reflected in the gaze of Mirabella and the other Novices, watching through clenched eyes as the Headmistress’ red fur robe fell to floor just seconds before the beggars’ greedy hands fell upon her exposed, pale flesh, upon which their desperate clawing left tender red marks without leaving any impression upon her face, which was focused on Lord Caternine.

“Do you want it?” she asked. Her voice was strained. The beggars were forcing her to the floor.


Mirabella glanced at the Novice to her right. She was biting her lower lip. The Novice to her left was squeezing the material of her dress at her hips, unconsciously probably. Mirabella herself was rubbing her fingers against her thumbs. She stopped as soon as she realized. It was an old, nervous habit. If the Headmistress could submit so willingly to these—Mirabella found no word more suitable than beasts—then surely she could watch the submission without rubbing her thumbs.

The corner of Lord Caternine’s mouth twitched.

His pupils shook.

One of the beggars had pulled his soiled pants to his knees and was waddling, his cock hard, around the Headmistress’ kneeling body.

The Novices were breathing in unintentional unison: long, deeply held breaths followed by loud exhalations.

The other beggar had grabbed the Headmistress’ breasts and was squeezing them as if they were the first and greatest pair of breasts he’d ever squeezed.

“For you, my lo—” the Headmistress managed to say between her ragged breaths, before the beggar’s hands escaped from her breasts and crawled into her mouth. His fingers must taste vile, Mirabella found herself thinking, but the Headmistress didn’t even recoil.

The waddling beggar pushed the Headmistress’ back, causing the other beggar’s fingers to push into her throat. She gagged slightly, the beggar withdrew his fingers—watching the Headmistress’ saliva run down his skin before shoving his fingers into his own mouth to enjoy the taste—and let her upper body fold forward until her cheek was on the floor and her ass raised high off the ground.

The beggar behind her slapped his hands onto her waist and waddled into a good fucking position.

The beggar in front lowered himself to floor, turned onto his side and slid his cheek along the floor until his face was inches away from the Headmistress’ face, at which point he extended his long, thin tongue and inserted it between the Headmistress’ lips. By some accounts, it could have been considered a kiss. For the beggar, no doubt, it was the richest pair of lips he’d ever kissed. By the way he sucked and lapped up the insides of the Headmistress’ mouth, while his body writhed in pleasure on the floor and his hand rubbed its knuckles against his crotch, it was obvious he’d taken a liking to the taste of upper class spit.

The Novice beside Mirabella with the clenched fists suddenly let go of the material and covered her face with her hands. She started to shake.

“Novices,” Headmistress Harrow managed to say after the kissing beggar had had his fill, “heads up, hands down.” Even in this situation and said in this, such a quivering voice, she sounded commanding and in control.

But the Novice refused to lower her hands.

The beggar with his fingers all over the Headmistress’ hips slapped them again, and then crawled onto the Headmistress’ body like a small dog. He started fucking with jerky, powerful thrusts.

The motion caused the Headmistress to lose what remained of her awkward balance and she shot out her arms to keep it.

This startled the kisser, who leapt backward, eliciting a gasp from the closest Novices.

But the beggar didn’t so much as look in their direction. Instead, he undid his rope belt, stepped out of his baggy pants and, straining the surprising musculature of his legs, tore off his crumpled shirt and reengaged with the sex.

The Novice started sobbing into her hands. Her body trembled.

Perhaps she was remembering a memory. Perhaps the stress of the entire Novitiate had finally caught up with her. Perhaps she couldn’t handle that what was happening to the Headmistress could—and would—also happen to her, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to handle it nearly as well. Mirabella couldn’t decide, but she did at least keep her own body under control. Her head was up and her hands down.

The Headmistress held out one arm, snapped her fingers, and returned to all fours, groaning and crawling forward.

The fucker was finding his rhythm and self-confidence.

Sex is the great equalizer.

Lord Caternine strode toward the crying Novice, grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her out of line.

On a boot heel he turned, and together they marched toward—

“Eyes... forward...” the Headmistress said.

The measured click of Lord Caternine’s boots receded.

Mirabella obeyed the Headmistress, the fucker fucked and the other beggar shoved his thick, curved cock into the Headmistress’ mouth, which overflowed with wetness that gathered on the underside of the beggar’s cock and dripped onto the floor.

A heavy door swung open somewhere, and shut, and the click of Lord Caternine’s boots returned.

Mirabella snuck a peek. He’d come back without the Novice. But when his eyes unexpectedly met hers, they appeared afraid, and she ripped hers away and glued them back to the submission unfolding in front of her. She watched and tried not to think about what would happen, or what was already happening, to the disobedient Novice. First the girl in the sky blue dress and now this, but “You don’t ask about the ones who fail,” Olive had told her. “They are gone.”

Lord Caternine rocked back and forth on his heels. His hands were on his hips and the skin on his neck was tight.

The two beggars had lost themselves in the moment, their cocks pumping in and out of Headmistress Harrow’s pussy and mouth, both of which were nothing but sloppy, wet holes, yet still the Headmistress looked composed. It was the beggars who were out of control.

The remaining nineteen Novices were in control of themselves, at least, even as they stood rigidly straight, barely blinking and only occasionally shifting their weight as inconspicuously as possible.

The sounds of flesh hitting flesh and sexual wetness and shared moans filled the Hall of Submission.

Headmistress Harrow screamed out an orgasm.

Lord Caternine’s knuckles whitened.

Mirabella swallowed, feeling the details of her fingertip against the sensitivity of her thumb.

The beggars slid lazily off the Headmistress Harrow’s fucked body, stood straighter than they’d ever stood, growing in nobility with each passing moment, and bowed.

For the first time, Mirabella noticed their lack of smell. They looked dirty, but they weren’t dirty. The Hall of Submission didn’t reek of unwashed rags, potatoes and garlic. Streaks of smeared makeup stained the mens’ faces, which were now angular and sharp-eyed. Now, they were even handsome.

“Lords Attenbrow and Ingliss,” Headmistress Harrow said, no longer breathless, quivering or gasping. She rose to her feet, too. Lord Caternine picked up her robe lying on the floor, held it open behind her, and she inserted her arms into its furry sleeves. “The lesson is over. I hope you have learned it.”

A hush descended upon the Novices.

“What separates slavery from Submissionettedom is a single night spent with a single lord. You have made it this far. What is but one more performance?” Lord Ingliss said.

“Yet already you have been granted mercy. Never forget that you were prisoners of war. You have been spared. You have been gifted an opportunity,” Lord Attenbrow said.

“Nevertheless, some of you will still fail,” said Lord Caternine.

“But for those who succeed,” said Headmistress Harrow, “tonight will be your rebirth—perhaps painful, perhaps tiring, assuredly transformative—and tomorrow, when you wake, you will wake as the newest creatures of the King’s stable: the freshest Submisionettes.” She stepped forward, so that her lords were flanking her. “I wish you success. I grant you blessings. The rooms—” She pointed with the gentlest swing of her forearm. “—are that way.”

* * * * *

The Novices marched in single file down straight hallways that led from the Hall of Submission to straight hallways that led to straight hallways that led to...

They could have been walking in squares.

Perhaps they were.

They passed heavy closed doors and no windows.

Headmistress Harrow and the three Lords, Caternine, Ingliss and Attenbrow, had once walked with them, but no longer were and thus the Novices walked alone, forward because there were no directions other than forward and backward, and backward was failure. They walked for a long time. Each one, Mirabella imagined, was anticipating what she herself was thinking about: her lord, her lord’s commands, how she would fare, how she would perform, and what that meant in light of Headmistress Harrow’s lesson, whether she had been advocating fakery, stressing the importance of trust...

Olive had not prepared her. She felt unprepared. She saw the same in the shaking limbs of those in front of her and sensed it in those behind. Some of them would be afraid, others excited, and a few of the nineteen would find it distasteful or stressful or full of piety, because already pairs of eyes burned with the pale fire of fanaticism, for if it is both sweet and right to die for one’s kingdom, how much sweeter and more right it must be to be fucked for it...

They took another corner.

Mirabella felt her own head fill with the desire to please and therefore to win as well as the deeper and baser desire to fail and therefore to win by not giving in, because victory was always in a fog, and if it was possible to live on one’s knees rather than die on one’s feet, which of these victories was hollow?

They took another corner.

Mirabella felt the weight and fullness of her breasts and became newly aware of the  softness of her pussy. Where she was from—her childhood flashed, unreachably, behind her eyes—toughness was a virtue and even women were supposed to be hard, mentally and physically, with lean, taut bodies and a keen instinct for survival, but there was always that one part of their bodies that would never be hard, that would always be soft, and, here, they could never attain the perfection of men...

They marched down the straight hallway alone and the straight hallway looked like every other hallway. They could have been walking in squares—

Until the doors opened, nineteen of them in sequence, and the Novices disappeared one-by-one into their depths like nineteen drops of mud into nineteen dirty puddles, and Mirabella was a puddle, too.

* * * * *

He was tall, thin and long-limbed, with black hair that fell across his face, revealing only one of his eyes, which was as unnaturally golden as the gaudy paint covering the walls enclosing the small room, in the middle of which stood a bed, and in which stood nothing else, unless one counted the window, which was large and uncovered and looked out at a dark garden of fruit trees whose branches merely distorted the rectangle of moonlight into which Mirabella, retreating, now stepped.

The man remained in the shadows, beside the shut door.

Mirabella heard him breathe.

She made sure her own breathing wasn’t louder.

The man ran the fingers of his right hand through the strands of his hair, briefly revealing his second golden eye, before the hair fell across, draping it, again.

Mirabella’s chest rose.

The man shifted his position. He was leaning against the wall. One of his legs was angled against the floor, but the other was bent at the knee with the sole of its boot placed flush on the golden paint of the wall. He hugged his body with his arms, whose elbows jutted out at acute angles, and he was rubbing his chin. Even in the shadows, he looked young—young and spidery—and with his one eye, he looked Mirabella up and looked her down and looked through her dress and peered into her soul.

“Blackmoth,” he said. “I am Lord Blackmoth.”

“Novice Mirabella.”

She tried to curtsy as best as Olive had managed to teach her.

So, this was to be her lord.

“Mirabella,” Blackmoth repeated, “Lucinda Ovida Pallerma Solis Heralda of the Mica Clan of the Granite Confederacy, captured at the Second Battle of the Opal Plains, motherless daughter of a dead man, husband of no one, still living because she had her wrist caught by a Royal soldier just as she was about to slit her throat to fall, a corpse, beside her sisters.”

He pushed off the wall and in one stride was before her, his left hand clutching her chin rather than his own. “Praised be the king, Roybert the Third.”

“May he live eternally.”

He tilted her head up. “No one lives forever.”

His skin was cold, his face illegible. Mirabella shook at the memories of her capture that his words brought back.

“He’s a corpse now, too,” Blackmoth said, “the soldier who saved your life. Caught a prostitute’s disease and rotted away. Perhaps that’s a comfort.”

It wasn’t, Mirabella tried telling herself. But it was. When the battle had been lost, she had passed the knife to her sisters and watched each of them take her own life. When the last one had fallen, she’d retrieved the knife, now stained with blood, and prepared to do as they had done and slice with it across her neck, but she hesitated; because of that hesitation, the soldier had flipped open the canvas cover, grabbed her wrist, twisted it until the knife fell to the ground, and pulled her away...

“I’ve studied you,” Blackmoth said.

He let go of her chin and she let it fall to her chest, just as she’d been instructed to do by Olive, to look down, to keep her eyes below those of her lord. Blackmoth’s boots glistened in the moonlight.

But she also dropped her head because she was ashamed: of letting herself be captured—of still being alive. For weeks, she’d lived without such thoughts, but tonight, of all nights, the shame had returned. Her cheeks burned and she felt an embarrassment to her family, her culture and her people. Every day she experienced was a day she felt she shouldn’t have known, yet with every hour her desire to live only grew stronger...

Blackmoth blinked.

“I chose you,” he said, “because it’s rare to have a savage among us.”

Although the word riled her, Mirabella kept her face pointed down, even as her upper lip curled into a private snarl.

Blackmoth traced its shape with his finger.

“Savagery can be appealing.”

He pushed his thumb and forefinger into her mouth, and pinched her tongue. She resisted the urge—her natural urge—to bite off his fingers. He let go and ran the tenderness of his fingertips along the sharpness of her teeth.

“Even disciplined,” he said, “an animal’s an animal, no matter how pretty its dress,” and he removed his fingers from between her lips and reached with his wet hand inside his black jacket. When he pulled it out, it was a fist. He opened the fist to reveal three seeds resting in his palm. One of the seeds was the purple of crushed blueberries. The two others were the colour of nothing.

He lifted one of the transparent seeds to his mouth, laid it on his tongue, and swallowed.

“Now your tongue, my savage animal.”

Mirabella opened her mouth. Blackmoth laid the second transparent seed on it, and she swallowed, reminding herself that even Headmistress Harrow was tasked with obeying her lord.

The seed had no taste and no immediate effect.

“Turn for me.”

Mirabella did, and felt Blackmoth’s body bend over hers and his hand, the one holding the remaining, purple, pill, begin to work its way up her thigh toward her pussy. She remained uncomfortably still. Preparation, reading and Olive’s lessons were one thing. A man’s actual touch, especially there, in the soft place, her weakness, was another. It had been over a year since she’d been penetrated.

Blackmoth’s hand slid the seed inside her, before his fingers pushed it deeper. “For the sake of your new profession,” he said. “Praised be the Novice, Mirabella Lucinda. May she submit eternally.”

He grabbed her by the hips and turned her round again.

His golden eye was glowing.

The moonlight dimmed.

When his hands slid from her hips to the outsides of Mirabella’s thighs, the material of her dress felt coarse. When he fisted it and pulled it up, exposing her skin to the night air, the air was like a liquid flowing around the contours of her body.

She gasped, not wanting to drown.

The liquid filled her lungs and Blackmoth’s face neared hers and its breath singed the tiny hairs on her face.

His tongue smothered out the fire on her cheek.

His eye was so bright that she shut both of hers so hard that her eyelashes oscillated.

Her dress opened. It dropped to the floor. Nakedness felt like swelling.

Blackmoth’s tongue licked Mirabella’s cheek, across her chin, and down her exposed neck and soft chest to settle in the space between her breasts.

Her eyelashes stopped oscillating and bloomed open, but what she saw wasn’t the world, at least not as she knew it, but the world of light, the world as viewed from a point deep within a flame...

Blackmoth pushed her backward until her calves were against the bed. He pushed her backward until she fell and her back was on the bed. He pushed until her legs were spread and her arms were reaching toward him, clutching at his shoulders, his arms, lost somewhere in the indescribable brightness.


He slapped her breasts.

She arched her back as she moaned.

He grabbed her throat and massaged the breath in and out of her lungs.

His cock stabbed her.

She breathed in the liquid air, no longer concerned about suffocation. He loosened his two-handed grip on her neck, letting her inhale, and raised his hands to her mouth, into which he inserted both thumbs.

She sucked the thumbs.

He fucked her.

She stroked his body with one of her legs, then hugged him with both, and, with her hands, explored his long, cascading hair.

With his forefingers he pressed down on the skin covering her closed eyes until spots of colour appeared and, dancing, coalesced in the central square of her mind. Pink and rusted red and crawling like salamanders, and blue in green in globules of the most exquisite yellow, fading, appearing. She wanted him to press harder and fuck harder and she hugged him harder and wrapped his hair around her knuckles...

He breathed heat.

Her pussy felt like water becoming steam.

The air around them was steaming, too, turning from liquid to pressure, first gentle, like Blackmoth’s pressure on the outsides of her eyeballs, but quickly expanding and intensifying, and covering her exterior and penetrating into her interior through her pussy and her nostrils and her ears, sounding always like a hundred hunter’s arrows piercing time, about to converge on a single, unsuspecting prey.

The anticipation tightened her muscles and constricted her pussy.

Her constricting pussy choked Blackmoth’s cock.

He lurched forward.

He came.

The tips of his wet hair tickled her face.

And she came, too.

And what had been such indescribable brightness became once more a most ordinary darkness.

She ripped open her eyes.

She was lying on her back on the bed in the room with gaudy golden walls, draped only in the pale moonlight. Blackmoth was standing in front of her. His eye no longer glowed. Her dress lay, sliced open, on the bed beneath her. In his right hand, Blackmoth held a curved knife. He spun it round, palmed the blade and held it out to her.

She still felt the remnants of her orgasm between her legs, but the sensations themselves were distant.

“Take it,” Blackmoth said.

Again Mirabella remembered the day under the canvas covers. The emotions were still raw. It was as if she’d ripped off a psychological scab. She closed her hand on the knife’s handle and Blackmoth let go of the blade.

“Now cut me with it,” he said.

Mirabella hesitated.

“Do not hesitate. Obey. To obey your lord, that is what your Matron taught you. That is your role. Submit to my will and obey. I command you, cut me.”

He pulled up a sleeve and held out a thin arm.

Mirabella placed the blade against his skin, feeling the depth of his flesh and the bones, tendons and muscles within, and slid the blade across all, making a line that for a few seconds was invisible, before overflowing with crimson blood.

Blackmoth sucked in air through his teeth.

Mirabella took the knife away, unable, despite her best efforts, to read the expression on Blackmoth’s face, which meant she was unsure of whether she’d made the right or wrong choice. He was correct, of course. To obey was the golden rule, but implicit in that rule wasn’t there also a more important commandment, to care for her lord, to make sure he was safe, satisfied and comfortable? To cut was to cause pain, and pain was unwanted and dangerous. The possibility that she’d just failed her submission dragged itself through her mind.

“You are everything I imagined,” Blackmoth said, lowering his wounded arm, letting the flowing blood gather in the creases of his wrist, and drip, metronomically, to the floor. “Caged but unleashable, potential personified.”

“Was this my test?” The question, and the tone in which she said it, surprised even Mirabella herself.

Blackmoth leaned over her, placing a hand on either side of her shoulders. Some of his blood dripped onto her naked body. “There is no test.”

Mirabella opened her mouth, but before she had a chance to say anything, Blackmoth continued: “There is only reality and unreality, doing and not doing. And together, we shall do, Mirabella Lucinda. For we are reality.”


“Yes, Novice.”

“Do what?”

His was a devilish grin. He straightened his body. For a second both of his eyes were visible. Then he drew his fingers through his hair, and the curtain came down on one of them. “We shall kill the king,” he said.

And with that, he turned and left the room.

Mirabella remained on the bed. Her thoughts swirled and heart pounded. She didn’t know if she’d even heard right, or, if she had, what Blackmoth had meant, and, if he had meant exactly what she thought she’d heard him say, why he would tell her, of all people, a stranger, a Novice, a woman he’d met but once and for less than one night. Was this a test? It had to be! But what was the solution, what did they—she pictured Headmistress Harrow and Olive and Lord Caternine—want her to say or do? Was her loyalty to her lord supposed to trump her loyalty to the king, was the solution to simply keep quiet, or was she meant to understand that even her lord was secondary, and her true fealty was to the crown, in which case the solution was to run into the hall, fall to her knees and scream that there was an assassin among them.

The door opened and Olive walked in.

“I passed a lord in the hall just now. I’m not suggesting he was your lord, but I’m not suggesting the opposite, either. And although I’m not supposed to say a word, I will say that he did not look displeased, Mirabella Lucinda.”

Perhaps, Mirabella thought, she should tell Olive, but Olive simply sat down beside her, took Mirabella’s hand in hers, squeezed it, and planted a motherly kiss on her forehead. If she noticed the blood on either the floor or Mirabella’s body, she didn’t let it show.

“Olive,” Mirabella asked, “how limitless is a Submissionette’s loyalty to her lord?”

“Getting slightly ahead of ourselves, are we not, Novice Mirabella? There’s still a night’s sleep and plenty of nerves tomorrow to get through. You’re not a Submissionette yet.” She patted Mirabella’s knuckles. “However, for the sake of argument, I will say that a Submissionette’s loyalty to her lord comes before all and runs deeper than anything.”


“Because some might disagree, but that’s a heady discussion for scholars and not something to be pondered over by tired young women.” She planted another kiss on Mirabella’s forehead. She truly was proud of her. “The history of the Submissionettes, which you may come to know, is not as simple and straightforward as what you’ve studied in your preparation books.”

When Mirabella tried to say another word, Olive put a finger on her lips and shushed her. “Not a one more until the morning. You must rest, girl. Simply because I was hard on you does not mean I don’t think you deserve... And, because I was hard on you—well, you can thank proper me in the morning.”

Olive pulled Mirabella’s ruined dress from under her body, folded it and laid it on the floor beside the bed. Next, she helped Mirabella onto her side and under the covers.

Mirabella had started today lying in bed, wrapped in linens, worrying about the outcome of her first submission. Having survived that submission, she was ending it similarly, with the lone exception that what she was worrying about was something she couldn’t identify, yet that was far more frightening than any submission could ever be.

Thus, even when Olive left, Mirabella couldn’t get the image of Blackmoth out of her head. He remained ever present. It was as if he’d penetrated some part of her and implanted himself there, and his voice echoed round her skull: “We shall kill the king, we shall kill the king, we shall kill the king...”

As she fell asleep, of two things she were certain. In the morning, she would be proclaimed a Submissionette. And at no time would she tell anyone about what Blackmoth had told her. The path was branching. She had made her choice.



Cover photo courtesy of Marcus Ranum

© Copyright 2018 Lee R Summer. All rights reserved.

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