Mistress Agnes

by Kirsten Bij't Vuur

  His action caused the world to start spinning, and she could feel a release well up from deep inside her, shocking its way out with force. As she still lay savouring the ebbing feeling, he covered her with his entire body and thrust himself in her with force, as usual. But this time, it was different, every nerve in her body was set on fire by the high he had given her just before, and every thrust pushed one of those little squeals out of her. His stomach was rock hard, he was not like so many other men of low intelligence, he did not overeat, and he worked hard so his body was firm with muscle.

  He filled her up so totally that his solid belly touched her clitoris, which was already on fire and waiting for more. Leaning on his arms to open herself even more to him, every thrust brought her closer to some exquisite state of ecstasy, and it wasn't long before she cried out, a towering high washing over her. Dick was grinning now, increasing his efforts, showing his own ardour, he looked different in the throes of passion, almost like a normal man. This time, the release came quickly and violently, and only a fraction after that he arched and crashed on top of her, something he had never dared do before either.

  Of course he caught himself on his arms or Agnes would have been crushed by his body, but still she thought it was rather daring of him. Ever since their first time he had been almost timid towards her, sometimes too much so. This was much better, but only if his attitude in real life didn't change. She would

  not accept such behaviour from him outside the bedroom.

  He must have felt that, for he immediately rolled to the side and was back to his usual meek self. A cheeky smile did light up his plain face, though, and Agnes was relieved to find him still respectful of her, but also affected by his pride in his own prowess.

  'That was really good, Dick,' she praised him, 'you really made me cry out this time.'

  Of course he couldn't keep a secret and he admitted, 'Patrick told me what to do. He said you liked that very much, he said I needed to get better with a new man coming. How did he know, mistress?'

  Poor Dick knew nothing of Agnes' plans, so this must have seemed like Patrick predicting her finding the soldier on the moors. Agnes felt some true affection for this gentle giant, and she snuggled against him and stroked his flat stomach, and the inside of his legs. He was not ticklish at all and he enjoyed her touch, unlike the boys, who involuntarily shied from her. For a moment she doubted her decision, wondered why she didn't just try to school Dick further, he would never try to rule her and apparently he could give a lot more than just rough coupling.

  'Why don't you have a baby, mistress? You told me what we do is like cow and bull, and mare and stallion. Mother told me they make babies.'

  It had to take all his courage to ask such a frank question of his mistress, he could have asked Patrick.

  'I think I cannot have babies, Dick, I was married for ten years and never had one.'

  'That is sad, I like babies.'

  Agnes said cheerily, 'Well, you won't have any with me. If you want babies, you'll have to find yourself another woman. But I've heard they are a lot of work and worry.'

  'My mother said I shouldn't have babies, they'd be like me. Will you send me away now you have another man?'

  That was so sad!

  'Of course I won't! Dick, you do important work here. You can stay as long as you do your job well, and Patrick is right, I liked what you did just now.

  This will still be our room, we will still make love here. You know I make love to Patrick and Guy as well, I'm not going to send them away either.'

  She stroked him some more and kissed him, he was a good kisser, and she

  couldn't imagine any other man combining such a large dick with such fervour and so little hassle.

  'Let's get back to work, and don't worry about that man. He's not here to harm you.'

  Chapter 3

  That man, meanwhile, had woken up from a deep sleep for a moment or two.

  His name was Dennis, and he was indeed a deserter from the army camp Agnes knew lay three days' walk away. Dennis had gotten lost and wandered for five days until he was close to death, not for the first time in his life. He felt weak and still very tired, but he was warm, and clean, and his belly was not full, but not empty either.

  He knew from bitter experience that after days without food one needed to take it slow and not overeat, so he bore his rumbling stomach easily. His befuddled mind could not make heads or tails of the pressure on his throat, though, and he tried to feel what was wrong with it. A collar, made of iron?

  Was he a prisoner then? Caught by the army, to be tried and hanged?

  Fear cleared his mind a little more and he looked around the room. He was not lying on a pallet, but in a luxurious bed, under down covers, his head resting on a thick fluffy pillow. There was another one just like it on his right side, the bed was a large double. As far as he could see in the relative dark, the room was decorated with care in blues and purples, and there was a roaring fire in a modern hearth. No army camp this.

  Feeling the collar once more, and finding the chain, following it to a sturdy brace in the wall, padlocking him to the very room, he didn't understand anything anymore. So he was a prisoner, but not of the army? Was he to be delivered to an army official in the morning, to die in shame in a public hanging, despised and ridiculed by his former comrades?

  It was all too much for him, he was still so tired, and so relieved to be warm even for a single night, he let go of his fears and speculations and went back to sleep.

  'Dennis, it's time for your lesson!'

  Oh his mum, she was so sweet. People called her a whore, and though he was just nine years old Dennis knew what that was. He saw her customers all the time, there was just the one room, he had a bed in a little nook, hidden by a curtain, and his mum knew he could see and hear everything, but what could

  she do?

  Send him to Father Jonah to learn to read and write, to forget the world around him for a few days in a book he borrowed from the Father. And not have any more children, nigh on impossible with her job, but she did try.

  In hindsight, Dennis realized she'd had several abortions, lying in bed for a day and night, crying in pain, trying to hide the blood from her boy. Until the last one took her from him, she was unable to stop the bleeding, and pain and putrefaction grew until she slowly faded out of life. Her clients were faithful, one even called a doctor, but that fellow could do little more than relieve her pain a tiny bit.

  Little Dennis was heartlessly thrown out of his mother's rented room, landed on the street, no more lessons for him, just fight for survival, always cold and hungry. He knew the dangers of stuffing himself after days without food, or days with just a crust of bread and a spoiled turnip. Eventually, he came out on top of the local food chain, leader of a gang of youths by the time he was fourteen, brash, dangerous and finally no longer hungry. But a few years later, well on his way to becoming a hardened criminal with very little empathy for himself or others, he was caught by the law and given the choice to either hang or join the army.

  Life was even harder there, teaching hard-bitten youths discipline and weapon skills being virtually impossible without threats and punishments, Dennis tasted the bite of the sergeant's whip more than once, and still he didn't break but merely bent to the stronger force. After a year of training he was marched across the country in his company, now as familiar and as close-knit as his gang had ever been. But no opportunity to gain leadership for Dennis here, though his character made him very well-suited to being responsible for others, his social status precluded his rise through the ranks, a private he was and a private he would stay, always taking orders from soft nobles on threat of a sound thrashing.

  Having crossed half the country on foot he was led onto a leaky ship to be miserable and sick for days, then dumped on a mirror image of the coast they had set off from. The cliffs were the same, the grass and the trees looked the same, but the houses were different, and they soon found out this was Franc
e, defended by the superior armies of the Republic, and most of his company was slaughtered in several confrontations, Dennis surviving by luck, mostly.

  The carnage he had seen and caused and the hurts he suffered had taken their

  toll on his body and his mind, and close to raving madness he had been shipped back to England after four years, marched across it once more on his last legs, then recuperated physically, but not mentally. As soon as he was back on his feet he had been sent back into training, with another company, under another noble, being beaten by other sergeants, still suffering from nightly terrors and spells of sudden, incapacitating fear.

  Since he was a veteran of the French campaign his mates did their best to hide his weaknesses from the commanding officers, they respected him and wished him well, and life slowly resumed its course. But when word came through the ranks that they were going to be shipped off to the colonies next, something broke inside Dennis. He couldn't face another campaign of senseless bloodshed, of seeing all his mates cut down by a faceless enemy once again, and if he survived this time, again, and again, undoubtedly.

  He decided to flee his fate, he no longer cared what punishment awaited him if he was caught. Life had nothing in store for him. If he could reach the city he would resume his life on the streets, ready to take back the leadership of a gang, now a seasoned fighter as well as a smart thinker.

  But the northern moors defeated him as nothing before had ever managed to do. There was no food, no shelter, nothing to fight. Just endless heath and treacherous moors and driving rain, for days and days he wandered without direction or goal, ever weakening until at last he gave in to his fatigue, ignored cold and hunger and lay down to die.

  He woke from his restless memories to the smell of food, but when he opened his eyes he also remembered the chain, and the threat of being handed over to the law.

  'Easy, easy now,' a friendly voice spoke, a woman's voice, and a woman laid her hand on his rough cheek.

  'You're safe here,' the voice said, and he saw the lady of the evening before.

  Had he slept through the night already? The place where they kept him was rather dark, there was no way to tell the time.

  'Are you going to give me up to the authorities?'

  The voice laughed, and a face came into focus. It was beautiful, no longer young but beautiful nonetheless. And it found the thought of handing him over to the law very funny, but why the chain then?

  'I am not,' she replied, 'rest assured, your neck is safe from the noose. Your uniform has been burned, you can forget the life that you had before, no-one is going to find you here.'

  Why didn't that sound reassuring?

  The hand continued to caress him, but Dennis was to weak to feel anything beside relief at not having to die in shame. Although the lady was very appealing and her touch was gentle, it did not excite him, he was still exhausted and totally confused.

  'Never mind that for now,' she said, 'you must be hungry, can you sit up to eat? Patrick thought you might handle some solids already. And after that he will give you a shave, I want to see what I have caught myself on the moors.

  What's your age, and what is your name?'

  He did manage to sit upright, he was hungry, very much so, and the smell of whatever food she had with her made his mouth water. Grateful for the warmth and the care he never even noticed her authoritative tone, in fact he wouldn't have thought much of it had he heard it for his life had not had any sympathy or love in it since he lost his mother.

  'My name is Dennis, ma'am, and I was twenty-two last August. Thank you for saving my life, and for not giving me up to the law.'

  She never replied, though she did look surprised and pleased when he mentioned his age. Then she merely handed him a bowl of stew and a spoon, and put a plate with some bread and soft cheese in his lap.

  'Don't stuff yourself, Dennis, or you'll be sick.'

  He did not tell her he knew for he was too busy savouring the food. Taking in the smell was the best way to keep himself from bolting it down, experience had taught him that, and it worked again this time.

  The stew was still hot so he started on the bread, breaking off a small piece and taking a bite out of the cheese. There was no knife, did she distrust him with one? Little did this woman know, he could break her in two even with his bare hands, but what good would it do him? She kept him warm, she fed him, as long as she didn't treat him worse than the army had he'd stick to her like a burr on a sheep, he would be her faithful servant forever.

  The bread was the best he'd ever had, and the cheese melted in his mouth.

  There was no way he was going to bolt this fare down, not even with his stomach urging him on. After taking his time chewing the bread, he tried the stew, and again, he had never in his life tasted something that good.

  She watched him eat and did not hide her surprise at his control.

  'You've been hungry before, haven't you? You know how to handle a feast when starved.'

  He nodded, a bit impolite but he couldn't stop eating, however slowly he

  progressed. With an effort he refrained from taking another bite to reply, 'I grew up on the streets. One learns.'

  For a moment her face became soft, as if she pitied him, but she quickly suppressed it and got up, saying rather coldly, 'Patrick will be here in a moment, I suggest you let him shave you without making trouble for him, you are going to have that shave no matter what.'

  Dennis did not understand her change of attitude. It was as if she didn't want to feel sympathy for him, but he hadn't given her any reason to be that way, had he? He was still very weak, besides, he thought he had shown his gratitude towards her very clearly. Her sudden coldness hurt him, causing him to wonder where his mental strength had gone, he used to be totally impervious to other people's anger or meanness.

  The food was still good, though, and he took his time eating every single crumb, polishing the stew bowl with the last piece of bread until it shone.

  When he was done, he stacked the bowl on the plate and tried to lean over to put both on the table beside the bed, the chain rattling as he moved. There were a pewter pitcher on that table and a wooden cup, they didn't even trust him with glass or earthenware? They must rate him to be dangerous indeed, which he had been most of his life, but no more. He was not just suffering from physical exhaustion, his mind was at its end, too, he could not bring himself to feel anger over being chained and treated like a wild animal.

  He just poured a cup of water and drank it down, then used the chamber pot he found under the bed to relieve himself. If they expected him to use that for his other business as well, he'd get used to that, too. Compared to army latrines, or where he'd done his business on the streets, it was pure luxury. He did wonder who'd empty it.

  When he was back in the bed, but before he could go back to sleep, there were soft footsteps on the stairs and a beautiful slender man of an ageless perfection came towards him, carrying a tray with a large bowl. This man showed his sympathy for Dennis clearly, put the tray on the table and sat beside him, taking his hand.

  'You look much better, fortunately. I was afraid you might still die on us, you seemed so weak. The mistress said your name is Dennis, I'm Patrick, I'm very pleased to see you awake and with such a good appetite. Dick carried you up here and I undressed you, gave you a good clean, then got this nightshirt on you. And now the mistress has ordered me to give you a shave as well. I hope

  you don't mind, the mistress is used to being obeyed.'

  Time to set things straight here.

  'I'm used to obeying orders, sir, if your mistress wants me shaved, shaved I will be. I will not resist anything or be any kind of danger to her or you or anyone. You saved me from dying of exposure, and you will find me very grateful. Please let her know, sir, I will do whatever pleases her.'

  Why was that going to be a problem? Dennis could clearly see it was, Patrick was not a man to hide his feelings and he showed great disappointment where Dennis would h
ave expected him to be pleased to have his mistress safe.

  'Will you please tell me what is going on, sir? Why am I chained to a wall when I can hardly move for exhaustion? Why do I get the best food but without a knife, or a glass? I admit I am a deserter, but I fled from the army because I needed to get away from the violence.'

  Avoiding the desperate gaze, Patrick busied himself with the contents of his tray, but he did talk while he was working.

  'Will you please call me Patrick, Dennis? There is only one mistress in this house, and she has decided you were to be chained and not allowed sharp objects. Not because she knew you were a violent man, but because she hoped you to be a violent, passionate man. The mistress wants to keep you as her slave, to sit here day and night, ready to please her with violent lovemaking, serving her every whim, obeying her every order.'

  Dennis was still not getting it.

  'But I want to obey her in everything, I'll throw myself at her feet, I'll make love to her in any way she likes! As soon as I have a little strength back, that is. Point is, I don't need to be chained to be her slave, I won't harm her, I'll worship her on my bare knees! I'm sick and tired of violence, I don't ever want to kill or even hurt anyone ever again, and I most certainly don't want to be beaten again. I just want a bit of peace and quiet, a job to do, and possibly a little love.'

  Patrick was looking positively unhappy now, but he had gently spread a soft foam over Dennis' face and was shaving him expertly.

  'You're good at this, Patrick! I've never had anyone shave my face before, just my head, in the army, and they were cruel, they cut me and hurt me. You're so gentle, I don't feel a thing!'