'Never mind, love, you were dying on the moors only a few days ago. No wonder you're excitable. I'm on fire, too, do you know how to please a woman?'
He decided to be honest.
'I've never tried, mistress, never really had a woman to please. But I can try, if you tell me what to do...'
Of course it would have been better if he had been able to please her from experience. Or would it? She had plenty of men eager to do so, and skilled, even Dick apparently knew how to do it. Maybe teaching someone was much more fun, maybe breaking in a virtual virgin was much hotter. He awaited her orders, not with humility but with eagerness. For Dick seemed to really like doing this, and somehow Dennis felt he wanted to learn. His reward was a smouldering kiss, her body, still completely dressed, on his, and her tongue almost in his throat. It was easy to answer it in the same spirit, and he dared himself to hold her as he kissed her, which she accepted.
When they were both out of breath she did something under her skirts, then
carefully moved up until they covered his face totally. She had moved the chain so she didn't sit on it, the very touch of it stirring her even further, and he found the inside of her skirts much less smothering than he had expected.
In fact, they were rather roomy, and very exciting, for she had removed her own underwear and right in front of his face he found the little patch of curly hair he knew would be there. But hers smelled really nice, she probably bathed a lot, or maybe gentle ladies smelled better than camp followers or street girls.
Patrick had told him to lie between her legs and gently move aside the flesh that the hair covered, and Dennis supposed he could do the same here, even though it was op top of his face. He stroked the little curls and carefully explored the flesh beneath them, to find out which way it would go. He couldn't see a thing so he had to feel his way around, and he soon found an opening like the one he had used to relieve his urges on in his former life.
Probing it a little with a finger he felt the mistress shiver, and he hoped it was as much a sign of ardour in her as it had been in him. But this was only to re-acquaint himself with the better parts of a woman, for the bit that mattered should be higher up.
His hands wouldn't be of much use there and his face couldn't quite reach, he didn't have the stomach muscles anymore to lift his torso this high, so he wriggled down a bit until he was straight under her, the pulled her down onto his face, hoping it wouldn't cost him. But frankly, his heat was up, he didn't care very much anymore, this was so hot, the smell, the moistness, the softness of it, he probed it carefully with the tip of his tongue, and found he could easily find where it felt best for her by just touching a part and judging her reaction.
There was a little nob, protected by a fold of skin, and it gave the best reaction, so he licked it a few times, getting a shudder each time. The legs on both sides of his face relaxed and settled, apparently he was doing well, and the mistress was making herself comfortable to enjoy it.
A few licks later he got so heated he just had to suck that little ball, take as much of it in his mouth as he could, then use his tongue again, he wanted to taste all of it, every fold, and every corner, and he did. The reactions varied, but each time he got the strongest one on the little ball, and when he lost his grip on the flesh with the curly hairs and took a firmer hold of it, she moaned.
So that was good, too.
He was quite comfortable, hidden away safely in the dark beneath the
mistress' skirts, her legs spread wide to allow him access, her most sensitive and vulnerable bit in his mouth. It never bored him, he loved the feel of it, this was so much better than grunting and rutting, he held her open and sampled her soft flesh greedily, until she moaned once and little shocks racked her slender body.
It was a bit disconcerting, and he stopped to find out if she was all right, but she moved away from his face, and kissed him as ardently as before, tasting herself on his tongue. As they kissed, he could feel her rubbing herself against him, and he wondered if this was the moment. Should he take her now? She expected it, wanted him to, but she was so afraid to lose her dominance.
Again, his body decided for him.
Still kissing, he grabbed her roughly, on purpose, and he swung her around and covered her with his whole body, pinning her beneath him. Her skirts were lying open, enabling him to thrust himself inside her in one firm move.
He held her mouth with his, he held her arms, and he held her whole body with his weight, as his lust shut down his doubts and forced him to push himself into her again and again, mindlessly pumping until his stomach hurt with the effort.
The pain of it brought him out of his fervour and he could see and hear again, every one of his thrusts forced a little sound out of her, and her face was wrung with, not with pain, but with ecstasy. His fear of punishment came back, but he couldn't stop now, he had to plunge in, and out, and again and again, until she arched and wanted to kiss him again. He bent over to kiss her, arching his back to reach her mouth, and this seemed to get an even stronger reaction, apparently through the arch of his back his dick touched some part of her inside that felt very good indeed.
As soon as her mouth released their kiss, she squealed again with his every thrust, and something almost seemed to pain her, making him unsure, until she urged him on, 'Faster, love, harder, just a tiny bit more! It's so hot!'
He tried to give her what she asked for, she was his mistress after all, and his own lust drove him on relentlessly, but his muscles ached and he was badly out of breath, the chain of the collar had gotten stuck under her body and it was putting an uncomfortable pressure on his bruised throat. Still his urges needed to be satisfied and his mistress had to be pleased, and he chased his climax with renewed energy, pumping as fast as he could and as hard as he could, and just as he felt he had no breath left in him he felt her freeze
beneath him and was overcome by an almost painful high himself.
He crashed to the bed heaving for breath, fear for retribution forgotten in his fight for air, world shrinking to one breath after the other. Then nothing.
When he woke up in the mistress' arms he didn't know how long he had been out. She didn't seem too worried but she was as sweet as the day before yesterday, stroking his hair, kissing his face, holding him tightly. He still felt the weight of the collar on his bruised throat, though.
'You're awake, thank God. I thought you were done for this time.'
So she had been worried.
She did not offer to remove the collar, sadly. But neither did she threaten to whip him for taking her.
'You did well, love, you gave your all. More than your all. Better take care to lead the chain next time, I don't think you can keep fainting like this, I suppose it must be very unhealthy.'
What could he do but enjoy her affection? He would never understand her reasons to keep him chained up.
Chapter 6
And that didn't change in the next months. As his body gained weight it lost colour and stamina, though he tried to exercise as much as he could by running in place and doing push ups and other muscle-building workouts.
The iron collar kept his throat in a constant state of delicacy, the bruise had become a permanent fixture, a source of pain that drained his energy and his will, and cost him even more breath than his lack of fresh air and physical activity.
He became very skilled at making love, and enjoyed the mistress'
ministrations ever more, she never hurt him without provocation, never tried to demean him in their love-play, and she generally called him pet names, though she never used his name.
As he gained confidence in her wishes he acted a lot firmer than he felt, pinning her under his body, kissing her roughly, grabbing her breasts and sucking them hard, fucking her with energy and never tenderly, as he would have preferred. He would have loved to have her with him at night, to talk for hours, then fall asleep beside her and stroke her tenderly, for he had come to love her more than a little, and he yearned for tenderness in
stead of rough love-play.
Still, he anticipated her wishes well enough to earn his right to stay, and he never got hurt worse than the occasional slap if he was too rough or too assertive, she did not lead him on to become dominant, then whip him for it, as Patrick and himself had feared.
In general, Dennis was pretty content, but as his body first recuperated, then lost its fitness in enforced idleness, and his mind quieted down for lack of danger, then started to lose its edge for having nothing to do besides read and contemplate, he started to feel resentment for being kept prisoner without a single reason.
Instead of gaining respect for his mistress, he started losing it because of her unfairness, and though he still felt intense love for her when she spoiled him and urged him to unleash his fervour on her, whenever she left him by
himself to do things he never heard about he started to lose hope to ever lead a normal life.
He had no idea what she did most of her time, or what her past had been, what her hopes and dreams for the future were, they never talked, she only visited him to have sex. She rarely held him with the love that he craved, the yearning for which had tempted him to try and win a place in her household, merely entering the room, exciting him until he took her, and then leaving him by himself once more.
She had never asked about his life before she found him, what his experiences in the army had been like, how his youth had been. And since she never asked, she never knew about his nightmares, and the terrors that still plagued him, the enforced idleness and lack of new experiences causing him to dwell on his past almost continuously.
Ever since his body had recovered from the exhaustion of the moors he hadn't slept one full night altogether, he usually woke up sweating, sometimes remembering the faces of the men he had witnessed dying on the battlefield, or in the infirmary, sometimes trying to escape from being killed himself, shot or cut by rifle or sabre, choked or stabbed by a larger boy from a rivalling gang.
Choking dreams usually meant his chain had gotten stuck under him, or on the table or the bed, pulling the collar back into the bruise, causing it to swell for a few days, giving him an audible wheeze and a raspy voice.
But his broken nights exhausting him didn't matter, he had nowhere to go, no physical or mental exertions, he could easily catch up on sleep by day, he could barely see the difference between day and night anyway, the attic was illuminated by the hearth only, unless he lighted the candle. A perfect atmosphere to make love, but not to experience day in, day out.
Of all this, the mistress was perfectly unaware. Dennis never complained, it was no use, she only felt the exquisite thrill of finally having her slave, lying in the luxurious bed, waiting for her to come and please him, or to have him please her, the only activity that could still get him to show a little spirit.
He jumped her, held her down, took her roughly, all an act, one that became harder to keep up as his spirits abandoned him further day by day, and his body couldn't keep up anymore for lack of breath and lack of will.
Dennis' pale, flabby body disgusted him, but there was nothing to entertain him in his long, lonely hours but food, which was always so good he ate everything he got. The boy who'd ruled a gang of thugs and the man who had
faced the French were gone, and he felt unmanned and listless.
Patrick tried to hearten him, but Dennis could clearly see his friend was sadly disappointed in the mistress, his lack of hope for Dennis shone through all his attempts at cheerfulness and they came to nothing. Dennis lost hope, and heart, and a resentment not previously known to him started to rule his being.
Then one evening, after making love to the mistress as she liked it, rough and bossy, he couldn't take it anymore. He was gasping for breath, the bruise on his throat hurt like hell, it was always at least painful now, making him slow and tired for lack of air, he waited until he could speak again, then pleaded with all his heart.
'Mistress, will you please release me from this attic? It's killing me. I can't breathe properly, I'm getting flabby and lazy, I'm not even half the man I used to be, whom I could be. For you, mistress.'
Agnes looked at her slave in utter shock. They were such a good pairing, he didn't rage as she'd hoped but he was as skilled as Patrick and Guy, and more energetic than Dick, and he always let her do with him as pleased her. And now he told her he was desperately unhappy living just for her? He looked fine, he did gasp for breath often, but he always made love beyond his endurance, no wonder he felt tired afterwards.
'I need to see daylight again, mistress, breathe fresh air, run across the moors until I'm dripping with sweat. I'm feeling low half the time, and resentful the other half. I cannot live like this any longer.'
Low and resentful? She gave him the best food available, she lowered herself to please him, she actually loved him! Suddenly anger flared up inside her, and she slapped him, hard. He didn't cringe, or show anger, he merely blinked once and stared blankly in front of him.
She was losing him.
'I can't do it, love, you're my slave, you're just for me, I need you to wait for me here and be mine.'
Without meaning to, she put all her love in that sentence, her guilt at having hit a defenceless man overcoming her for a second.
'Even if it kills me, mistress? I will be yours for as long as you want me to, I've done everything you wanted me to, I'll kneel to you, or take you, whichever you want, but I cannot sit here all day anymore, in the dark, with nothing to do.'
Agnes didn't want to hear him, and left.
But the next day he wasn't back to his old self, being left utterly alone hadn't cured him of his foolishness. He was listless, he didn't respond to her caresses, he didn't show any displeasure at her attempts to excite him, but he didn't show any emotion either.
She was not going to plead him, she was the mistress, and she decided his life. He did look awful and it wrung her heart to see such a handsome man so unhappy, but he'd get over it once he could pin her under him.
But he didn't pin her anywhere, his dick still rose, but she couldn't get him to use it, not by threatening him, not by asking him politely, and not by hitting him. He merely took the punishment in silence, showing the pain but nothing else. She would not stoop to pleading him, even though she loved him and it broke her heart to have him reject her.
Some days later, angered by his attitude, she even took a whip to him, viciously, but it didn't bring any life back into him, he didn't bow to her will as she had hoped, he didn't threaten her with violence to defend himself. In fact, he didn't lift a finger, he just lay there, lifeless but for his gasping breath, his face not showing any emotion at all anymore, blood dripping from nearly a dozen cuts.
After that, he barely ate for days, his breath wheezing whenever he saw her, or maybe all the time, and Patrick, Guy, and even Dick stared at her with reproach.
Patrick took care of him lovingly, cleaning the cuts with great care, feeding him tidbits, fluffing his pillow and holding him whenever he thought his mistress was hard at work in her study. Agnes took to spying on them, suspecting them of trying to fool her into releasing her slave, spoiling her dearest wish, but she soon had to admit that her beloved was indeed miserable. Patrick tried to cheer him, read to him, stroked him, told him all would be well but his voice betrayed the older man hadn't the slightest hope.
And her love did wheeze even when he didn't see her watching him, he was right, she was killing him.
It had taken her a week to get to the point where she whipped him, and it took her another week to realize she'd lose him altogether if she didn't free him.
She was writing a particularly hot love-scene, totally taken up by the action, when she suddenly thought: this is how Dennis and I used to make love, it was so good, so full of love and trust, and now it's over.
That was the first time she used his name, saw him as a person, the man she had come to love.
Sneaking upstairs she watched him for half an hour, in which he never stirred. His labo
ured breathing was all the proof she had that he still lived, and a slight sense of worry burst into outright panic.
He was lost to her already, but if she kept him chained, he'd just die.
Suddenly scared out of her mind, she stumbled down the stairs, ran blindly into the kitchen where she knew she'd find the boys, and handed Patrick the key, begging, 'Set him free, please save him. I don't care what the cost, get him well, set him up with a business somewhere, make sure he's happy.'
Then she stormed off to her bedroom, locked the door, and cried herself sick in total silence. Beaten by her own slave, then forced to live without him. But she would not have to live with the knowledge that she killed an innocent man.
Totally stunned and not a little bit concerned, Patrick and Guy wordlessly agreed on what needed to be done.
First they went upstairs, together, for Patrick didn't dare go alone anymore for fear that he'd find his friend past rescue. Suffocated in the collar Patrick had allowed his mistress to place upon him, then let her keep on him though it caused him constant pain. Or dying for lack of will to continue living, always in fear, never free, not ever having been loved unconditionally or free of restraint.
Patrick had heard him talk in his sleep often, always reliving scenes from his past, seeing mates killed before his very eyes, having to save himself by killing foreign boys his own age, being wounded and merely patched up and sent back out straight away. No-one ever cared.
Well, Patrick did, and even Dick, they sneaked up to comfort their friend whenever they dared, but the mistress had always been jealous of her slave, and very watchful. But now she had given them permission to show the poor wretch that someone did care what happened to him, and they would start right now.
Of course he was still alive, his situation wasn't that bad. And he was tough, his mind had given up but his body hadn't. Guy didn't even feel jealous as Patrick kissed the younger man tenderly before he unlocked the collar, and threw it from him in disgust. Then he stroked the pale cheek, still smooth for Patrick insisted on shaving Dennis every other day, showing his love by keeping Dennis clean and neat.
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