A Weekend With Agnes

Following the hen party at Madam Lisa’s, things pretty much reverted back to normal. I knew the approach of another party was looming, but I had adjusted to the prospect and, indeed, thought of it with something approaching enthusiasm. In the meantime, the memory of Agnes niggled away at the back of my mind like a tapeworm nestling in the bowel. This was truly a cruel lady I remembered, one with nothing but contempt for the male animal, and one who was prepared to convert her contempt into drastic action. What, I couldn’t help wondering, would it be like to serve such a demanding mistress? Did I have the guts? Her apparent desire to reduce a man to the depths of depravity, lowering his self esteem to the point where he was obliged to eat her excreta, was certainly an off-putting thought. The THOUGHT of it, to any man desirable of servitude to a dominant woman, was exciting, but, speaking for myself, I knew the reality would be more than I could stomach. Still, my memory of that thin austere body, that disapproving expression, those slender legs encased in silky black nylon, proved to be irresistible.

On my next visit to Madam Lisa, I tentatively asked if she minded me contacting Agnes with a view to spending some time with her.

Lisa laughed incredulously. “You want to visit Agnes? She’ll have you for breakfast. You don’t know what you’re getting into with that lady. I’m telling you, she really hates men. She’s had a few prospective slaves visit her, but they didn’t last long. A few hours with Agnes and they’re gone. You can’t see their arse for dust.”

I considered my reply, and said, as diplomatically as possible, “I think I know that Madam, but I’m anxious to extend my knowledge and experience of the dominance scene, and Agnes …” At this point she slapped me hard. “MISTRESS Agnes to you. Be respectful. I should punish you severely for that lapse, but I think I’ll let Agnes do it. She’s more demanding than I’ll ever be. She’ll destroy you body and soul you pathetic wimp.”

With this she produced a card from the telephone table and thrust it at me. “There you are, take your life in your hands and ring her. Tell her you have my permission, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

I kept looking at the card for several days, trying to drum up the nerve to make the call. Did I dare? What would she say? Perhaps she’d just laugh and tell me to piss off, I wasn’t worthy of her ministrations. Finally, I succumbed to the temptation that was now eating me up. I made the call.

There was a dead silence on the line after I’d introduced myself. I thought she’d put the phone down in disgust, but the line was still open. Finally, she spoke, and her voice was definitely tinged with amazement.

“My God, it’s Thing isn’t it, from Lisa’s party? You actually drummed up the courage to ring me. Perhaps I underestimated you. Yes, there’s nothing I’d like better than to have you under my heel for a weekend, if you can stay the course that is. Come NEXT weekend or not at all. The address is on the card. Friday night, 7 o’clock.” And with that she put down the phone! No can you, can’t you, is it convenient? Just COME. Perversely, it excited me.

The following Friday I was in a lather of anticipation, to say nothing of an air of foreboding. Perhaps I had bitten off more than I could chew. I was comforted by the knowledge that I could always walk out if things got too rough. I was prepared to give myself up to this fascinating woman, but not body and soul. There are limits, and I had yet to find out what mine were. One thing I knew, eating shit was definitely beyond the pale.

She took her time answering the door, and when she did, I was surprised at the normalcy of her attire. I don’t quite know what I expected; some leather perhaps, high heeled boots, any of the usual trappings that the imitation dominas affected in the magazines. Instead, she wore a simple loose black skirt, a red cotton blouse, brown stockings, or maybe tights, I couldn’t tell which, and a pair of high-heeled pink fluffy mules, through which her nylon toes peeped suggestively. It is fair to say that I was entranced. Her body was as slim and wiry as I remembered, and the glasses she wore with their large black frame, added to her overwhelming air of authority.

“Right on time,” she said, snappily, “Just as well or you would never have got past the front door. Get yourself in here.” I walked hesitantly in, carrying my small case.

“What’s in that?” she snapped as she closed the door.

“Er, my overnight things, stuff like that.” I replied.

“You wont be needing them,” she said briefly, taking the case and casually throwing it into a cupboard. “We do things differently here. Now, get down on your knees in front of me.”

“And so it starts,” I thought as I fell to my knees before her. “Please let me be up to it.” I would leave if I absolutely had to, but I did wonder at my endurance level. I really wanted to experience everything this imposing woman was capable of handing out. In a strange sort of way, I was in love with her. Certainly, I was entranced by Madam Lisa, but this lady had an effect on me far more powerful.

She stood above me, looking down, then moved behind me. A sudden savage blow to the back of my head sent me sprawling on to the carpet. She had flat kicked me viciously, her high-heeled mule coming off in the process. She slipped it on again and landed another full-bodied kick to my ribs. The mule came off again.

“That’s just to show you how I mean to go on,” she said. “I think kicking a pathetic male body is one of the most satisfying things in the world, for me anyway, and I intend to do a lot of it this weekend. I don’t think these damned mules are suitable however. Tell you what, go to my bedroom at the head of the stairs, first on the left, look in the wardrobe and YOU choose which shoes you want to be kicked by. Your choice should be interesting.”

I mutely climbed to my feet, rubbing my ribs, and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. It was as austere as she was, with no trappings of female frippery, clean, neat, but definitely Spartan. I looked in the wardrobe and regarded the shoes set neatly on the bottom shelf. Which should I choose? She would expect me to choose something like a pair of trainers with flat rubber heels – something that wouldn’t cause much damage. Well, I would surprise her. I balked at choosing the stiletto-heeled examples; they could prove to be lethal, deciding instead on a pair of sturdy black leather daytime shoes with blocky two- inch heels. They were certainly going to hurt, but they had square toes, and the heels would not penetrate to the extent that stilettos would. That’s if she wore them, of course, there was no guarantee that she would.

But she did.

She smiled as she saw what I was carrying. “I knew you’d bring those. You prefer the high-heels but you’re afraid of them, and what they can do, and you don’t want me to think you a sissy by choosing flats. Well, that’s alright, it doesn’t matter what you choose, it’s still going to hurt.”

She sat down on a chair and thrust her legs forward. “You put them on for me.” I knelt and took one foot in my hand, carefully removing the fluffy mule. I couldn’t conceal a brief intake of breath as her brown stockinged foot was revealed. It was simply so enticing; slender, warm and with reinforced toes that just demanded to be worshipped. This was definitely my thing, you understand. I have been a nylon foot man since day one, and the sudden realisation that I would be spending time under such enticing specimens caused me to harden. She saw it – she missed nothing – and casually put her foot up to my face, caressing my nose with those perfumed toes. They were actually quite sweaty, but not disagreeably so, and my erection achieved a diamond cutter quality.

“Go on,” she said, “Breathe deep, I have a game-plan for this weekend, I’m going to make you wish you had never seen my feet. EVER.” And with this disconcerting statement, she drew her foot back and launched a kick directly at my chin that once more had me sprawling on my back. As I struggled to my knees, she put the shoes on herself, stamping them gently to achieve a snug fit.

“Now crawl into the lounge on your hands and knees and we’ll play a few games.”

I crawled after her into the lounge and we started. She produced a box containing bits of paper.

“This is the numbers box. The idea is, YOU decide which part of the body you want to be kicked in, then I take a paper from the box and it tells me how many kicks I can administer. It won’t be any good just choosing non- vulnerable parts of the body all the time. I mean, if you just keep saying legs, or shoulder, and some high numbers come out you’re going to be bloody paralysed with enough kicks to that part of your anatomy. Better to spread the areas around a bit. So, where do you want me to kick first?”

I thought about it. I’d try to prove her assumptions about me wrong. I would NOT pander to her fright tactics. “Stomach,” I said curtly.

“Oh, brave boy, trying to be manly eh? Well, let’s see how many times I get to kick it.” She took a paper from the box and held it out for me to see. It had a large number 6 scrawled on it.

“Right, six times to the belly, and oh, I almost forgot, if you flinch and try to protect yourself at any time, you pay a forfeit. I get to choose the next area for kicking. Now lie on your side to give me a good target.”

I did as she said and tightened my stomach muscles in anticipation of the first kick. She stood away from me and swung her leg, her stout brogue sinking deep into my belly. My breath went with a whoosh, but I tried desperately to retain my position, I didn’t want to pay any forfeits. I valued my balls too much.

“That’s one,” she said calmly, “And here’s number two.” Another kick landed in precisely the same place and my body involuntarily began to curl up. “None of that,” she snapped, “Straighten up.” Somehow I did, and endured four more heavy kicks before curling into a foetal position and clutching my aching abdomen.

“Good game isn’t it?” she laughed. “Better than monopoly definitely. I love playing this. Now, where next?”

“Thigh,” I muttered, hoping I could endure that without too much trouble.

“Chicken,” she taunted, “But if this next number is high, you won’t walk for a week.” She took another paper from the box. “Oh, it’s only a three, straighten your legs.” I did so, with difficulty, and three full- bodied kicks from those heavy shoes thudded into my right thigh. The pain was intense but I could live with it. God knows what the bruises would look like.

The game continued for another 15 minutes, with Agnes methodically kicking my back – 7 times, - my chest – twice, my left thigh 5 times and my shoulder once. The game would finish when all the numbers from one to ten had been drawn from the box. There were four to go, including all the high ones – 8, 9 and 10. My body ached all over but I was determined to stick it out. By this time, Agnes was breathing heavily and decided to call time-out for a break.

“Time for some refreshment I think,” she said, sitting down in an easy chair. “Go to the kitchen and you’ll see a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Bring them.”

“My God,” I thought, “She’s actually offering me a drink?” This was definitely a turn-up for the books. I went to the kitchen and found a rather good bottle of red wine standing on a tray with two glasses. I carried the tray back into the lounge and poured a glass of wine that I handed to Agnes. Then I made to pour one for myself. “Oh no, that’s not for you, I’ve got something rather special for you. Go and look in that cupboard over there and bring what you find on the bottom shelf.”

Puzzled, I went over to the cupboard, opened the door, and saw a large white chamber pot sitting there. It was about half full of yellowy liquid. My heart sank as I realised what it was. “Yep,” said Agnes, it’s piss. I’ve had it upstairs all week without emptying it. There’s six days worth there. I’ve been saving it ever since you rang me up, and you’re going to drink it all. You don’t have to do it all at once, but until it’s all gone you don’t get a proper drink. Now take yourself a glass full and we’ll talk awhile.” I reluctantly drew a glass full of stale urine from the pot and stood looking at it. “Go on,” said Agnes, a touch of menace entering her voice. “Drink it, it’s all your good for.”

I raised the glass to my lips and took a swallow. To be honest, the taste, at first, wasn’t too bad, but it had a nasty oily texture and was very cold. It also left a bitter aftertaste in the mouth. Still, nothing for it but to persevere, I had to have some proper nourishment over the weekend, and I wouldn’t get any of that until I’d finished the pot’s contents. I chugalugged the rest of the glass with abandon; the quicker I got it down the sooner it would be all over. I scooped up another load.

“Well well,” chuckled Agnes, “I think he likes it. Perhaps I should think about bottling it. Come on over here and sit down in front of me.” I did as I was told and sat at her feet. She casually rested her feet on my shoulder, and regarded me quizzically. “You know, what I would really like to do is kick you to death. Take my time about it, an hour here, an hour there, reduce you to a condition where you would scream with fear whenever you heard my footsteps approaching. Of course, I can’t do that unfortunately, disposing of the corpse etc. Very messy. But, you know something? I have a feeling that you’d let me. Am I right?”

I looked at her. “I don’t know Madam, I truly don’t. I know you hold a terrible fascination for me, and I adore your legs and feet. In some respects it is an honour to kicked and trampled by them, but to submit to death by them is perhaps a step too far. However, if circumstances dictated that I had to die, but could choose the manner of my death, that is the death I would choose.”

She mulled this over. “A good answer I think. I was aware of your interest at Lisa’s party, even though I treated you abominably. What we need to prove this weekend, is just how far I can break your will and make you absolutely subservient to mine. Then we might have a lasting relationship. Possibly. I’ll consider I’ve achieved my goal when I force you to eat my shit.”

I’d been waiting for this, and now it was here. Make or break time. That was one step absolutely too far

“I’m sorry Madam, but that I won’t do. You can treat me how you like, revile me, kick me, beat me and, as you’ve just seen, I’ll drink your urine, but I won’t do that.” I expected an outburst of temper, a kick, blow, SOMETHING, but she just smiled and said, “We’ll see.

I drank another glass of cold oily pee and we went back to the game. I nominated my backside, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it before. It was fleshy, and able to withstand a kick probably better than any other part of the body, and I lucked out! I hit the ten spot, and Agnes launched kicks one after the other. I received these on my hands and knees, inevitably falling forwards on to my front, but Agnes patiently waited whilst I resumed the position. My stomach received five more heavy kicks, making me grit my teeth and fight hard to retain the oily pee assaulting my digestive tract. Then came the big nine. My limbs were aching terribly and I wanted to retain their use, so I had nominated my lower back. I knew it would be either a four or a nine. Naturally, I hoped it would be a four but was unlucky. By the time the fifth kick landed, I was moaning in agony, and with the sixth I screamed and twisted over, my hands clutching futilely at the punished area.

“Forfeit,” cried Agnes happily, “I get to choose. I think we’ll have a go at the head.”

It was impossible for me to lie still by this time; my body ached beyond measure, while sharp shocks of pain lanced everywhere. Agnes took no notice; she danced around my head and kicked at will. Her heavy shoe crushed my lips, loosened teeth on the right hand side, gave me a black eye, and all in all nearly rendered me unconscious. Then it was over, and Agnes sat down gasping with pleasure.

“A bloody good game that. I really enjoyed it. I must say you stood up to it pretty well. Perhaps we’ll play it again tomorrow. Now pour me another glass of wine, and one for yourself of course, but not wine.” She chuckled and kicked off those punishing shoes. Regardless of the agony I was in, I reflected that things would have been a whole lot worse if she’d been wearing those stilettos with the pointy toes.

I forced down another glass of Agnes’ golden nectar, and thought that I was almost beginning to like it. Agnes sipped her wine and regarded me steadily. “Lie down in front of me and I’ll let you worship my feet awhile,” she said. This was something I could respond to willingly. I put the glass down and stretched out at her feet, my body protesting at the effort. Her beautiful narrow nylon soles descended on my face and began caressing my face. I winced repeatedly as they found the wounds they had so recently created, but didn’t move. I inhaled that incredible musky, slightly sweet smell that only women’s feet seem to have, and reveled in it.

During this time, Agnes made no attempt to punish me in any way. We could have been just another couple, indulging in their own secret pastimes while the rest of the world was safely locked outside. Then it was time for supper. I was shown where the makings were, and told to rustle up two cheese omelets, “Unless you’d like a shit sandwich.” Said Agnes with a sly smile. I said nothing and continued my efforts without looking at her.

The meal passed off uneventfully, except for the fact that Agnes drank wine, and I drank piss. Thankfully, the chamber pot was almost emptied of its contents by now. However, I was aware that it could be filled up again quite easily, whenever Agnes had the urge to go. In my time there, she hadn’t been once, but she had consumed a complete bottle of wine, and the time must be approaching fast.

After supper, we retired back to the lounge and Agnes sprawled in the armchair. She was definitely a little tipsy. She opened her legs wide and said, somewhat sleepily, “I’m too tired for anything very energetic, crawl up here and eat me out. Do it well and I’ll lay off you for the rest of the night.”

This was a summons that needed no repeating. This was all my birthdays come at once; to sup at the fount of this enigmatic, domineering woman, was a command I would have crawled over broken glass to obey. I fell to my knees and gently pushed her skirt back, revealing oh so silky patterned stocking tops with the V of a pair of white silk briefs centred in the middle. I ran my tongue gently over each top in turn before letting it slip casually on to the smooth white flesh above. I let it rove around, coming within a hairsbreadth of the nylon crutch –piece, but never quite touching. Actually, I was very good at this, having had a lot of practise over the years. I had discovered that a man talented in the sublime art of muff diving could make a woman very respondent indeed. All he needed was an educated tongue and a lot of patience. NEVER dive in too quick; tempt and tease and draw out the actual act of penetration as long as possible. This always inevitably comes when the lady can stand it no more, and grasps your head from behind, pulling your face into her perfumed centre. Agnes was no exception. Within twenty seconds of my gentle licking of her thighs, she was moaning audibly, her hands grasped my hair roughly and pulled me deep into her perfumed panty crotch. It was divine. It was also quite moist from her expectant lubricant juices, and I completely gave myself up to the moment, almost unable to believe that I was so intimately servicing this woman who cast such a spell over me. In a sudden flurry of movement, she pushed me away, almost ripped her panties off, and grabbed my head again, pulling it once more into her now naked glistening vagina. I located her clitoris and gently sucked on it, causing spasms in her body, and a tightening of her thighs around my head.