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 his mistress 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 instead 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 by day, no physical or mental exertions, he could easily catch up on sleep while everyone else worked, 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 live in 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 ruled a gang of thugs and the man who faced the French were gone, and he felt unmanned and listless.
'Oh Dennis, I'm so sorry to see you so unhappy! Why don't you just talk to the mistress, I'm sure everything will be all right.'
Patrick was trying 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.
