Chapter 1

Marcus Selwood’s parents, younger brother and sister died in the chemical attack on London at the beginning of the Wars. This left him, at the age of twenty, as the main shareholder of a small but very profitable, niche market, clothing manufacturer. The management in place was excellent, and he had no hesitation in accepting a commission in the Army Reserve – he was, after all, a Cadet in his University Army Cadet Corps. He accepted with alacrity an assignment as second lieutenant to a mobilising infantry company, as the Army was being rapidly expanded. His unit was not one of the first into action, that was the task of Special Forces and Regular Army units, and they needed training in the specific duties they were to undertake.

He was, as an officer and as a volunteer, unusual in that he had no prejudice against Muslims per se. He’d known several at University. His anger was directed very specifically against the extreme fundamentalist groups which aimed to force the entire world to conform to their beliefs; as if that had ever worked for any religion in the past.

He returned, jaded and cynical, at the end of his deployment, to a changed society. A disrupted, distorted economy, a very different gender balance. He reluctantly took possession of the family house, a ten-bedroom affair with nine acres of garden. The garden was tended by a man in his seventies, Rory McClellan, whom Marcus had known all his life. The building was far too much for him, of course. The family solicitor, however, suggested that it would be a good thing for the community if he kept the house and employed a number of the local ladies to manage it, and he stood to lose money if he tried to sell.

Being ‘duty oriented’, he duly made his way to various sources of labour-seekers. His first hire was a cook/housekeeper. If he was to have staff, she would have to manage it. Marjory Boothroyd was a treasure. In her early forties, plump, a skilled cook, she was the widow of a Company Sergeant Major who died in Iran. In her turn, she set about hiring staff. In the end, all were Indentured Servants, minors who had resorted to that status to survive. Two ‘house maids’, a ‘laundry maid’ and a driver, the latter to look after his stable of vehicles as well as drive them when that was necessary. Marjory’s Indenture actually ended a few weeks after her appointment, but she stayed on as a paid employee.

Over Rory’s objections, another young woman, in her twenties, a graduate of a horticultural college, was employed to help in the garden. His objections faded quite rapidly as Helen Penwithern demonstrated her competence and willingness to respect Rory’s authority. It was rapidly apparent that she was sharing his bed as well as the gardener’s cottage and they seemed quite happy.

Having established a system of order under Marjory, Marcus then turned his mind to marriage, and it was then that he made his mistake. A friend of his, a fellow officer, had asked that he ‘look after’ his family, especially his little sister, in the event of his death. That officer had died whilst commanding a platoon tasked with routing out a nest of guerillas in the Beqaa Valley.

Amelia Jackson turned out to be a pretty woman a couple of years younger than Marcus. Rather reserved in manner, Marcus thought she would thaw in time, but that was a misplaced hope. The wedding went ahead. Marcus began to realise his mistake the first evening after the ceremony.

Marcus Selwood:

Fighting guerillas in the Middle East was like eating soup with a knife. We succeeded in the end, but at what cost? What to say? Follow a group of terrorists into a village or hamlet which had in some way offended their ‘holy principles’, see the burned wreckage and mutilated and raped corpses. Even worse were the offences by a minority of our own people. I was lucky to have a very experienced Sergeant, a Regular who had retired after twenty years then entered the Reserve. With his help I was able to keep a cap on my own men and we only had to discipline one man whom we caught just before he forced a local woman to submit to him. I handed out a punishment, but it was Sergeant Everard’s ‘beasting’ which had the real effect.

I heard of my friend Rupert’s death through the grapevine, and shortly after a letter was passed on to me giving details of his family in England. Six months later I, and most of the battalion, rotated home and I was demobilised to try to pick up my civilian life in a changed world. I listened to my family solicitor and didn’t try to sell the over-sized family house, but hired a cook/housekeeper, Marjory Boothroyd, who turned out to be a treasure, as will be seen. She took over the process of choosing staff to look after the house and keep it clean and in order.

When a ‘driver’ was appointed, I suppose ‘chauffeuse’ would be a better title, I made the trip about thirty miles across the county to visit Rupert Jackson’s sister. My ... okay, chauffeuse ... was an attractive, curvy, auburn-headed woman in her twenties. She was knowledgable about cars in general and we were able to hold a sensible conversation during the over an hour it took.

Rupert’s sister Amelia was quite pretty, and nineteen years old when we met for the first time. I found her rather reserved and distant, and there didn’t seem to me that we had a great deal in common. However, her mother was concerned for her welfare. The family – mother and son who was only twelve – were reasonably well situated financially, but she was concerned for the future of the daughter. After that first visit, I went there almost every week. Amelia did thaw somewhat and tried to take an interest in my life as I tried to do the same for her. In retrospect, it was silly to think we could have a meaningful relationship, but none-the-less, I proposed, she accepted, and we were married with all due ceremony and forms.

I realised very quickly that our relationship was going to be strained, to say the least. She came to the marriage bed in a long, flannel nightgown and insisted on having the light turned off. She was so tense and stiff that I wouldn’t consummate the marriage that night, or several nights after. In fact it was a week after that we did so, and I needed a lubricant to permit entry. It was so obvious that the act was distasteful to her that it was repeated infrequently in the first few months, then stopped completely after six. Separate beds became separate rooms and we each went to our separate lives, merely existing in the same building.

The family business had continued well during the conflicts, but the management begged me to take an interest. That was no sacrifice for me, especially as my marriage foundered. We agreed to change our product line, reducing our output of fashion-wear in favour of budget clothing which we could produce relatively cheaply and which was in great demand. Denim and corduroy sold well to a population increasingly employed in manual occupations.

A year after my marriage, Marjory came to me in my office.

Marjory Boothroyd:

Mister Selwood, Marcus, was – is – a good man. This was apparently very quickly after we met and the impression only deepened with time. Always polite and considerate, never patronising – unlike his wife – I became very concerned when it was obvious that the marriage was not a success. I swallowed my concern for months, but eventually had to speak. I knocked on his office door, and opened it when he called, ‘Come in!’

“Sir...”

“Marjory! Surely you could call me Marcus? Or even Mark? At least in private, like this?”

Well, perhaps the informality would make it easier for me to say what I wanted.

“Marcus, I don’t want to offend...”

He smiled gently. “I’ll absolve you in advance. I’ll maybe not answer, but feel free to say what you want.”

“It’s just, well, it’s obvious that you and your wife are ... not close.”

He snorted at that and smiled wryly. “I suppose it’s pretty obvious.”

“You’re young, sir ... Marcus ... and you must have ... needs. I know I’m older and maybe past my best, but I have needs, too, and would be happy to help meet yours...”

He looked at me steadily for what seemed and age, then nodded. “Don’t put yourself down, Marjory. You’re a handsome woman, an attractive woman. If you’re serious, come to my room tonight when it’s time for bed.”

That was more than I had hoped for! I smiled and slipped back out of the office to return to my domain. I had plenty of time to prepare an evening meal which would please my master, though I was pretty sure it wouldn’t please the mistress. Pie and peas, gravy. A suet pudding to follow. Red wine for the mistress, bitter beer, a local microbrew, for the master.

As expected, Mistress Amelia looked sour about the meal, but in view of Marcus’ enthusiasm was in no position to complain. By the time I’d cleared up in the kitchen and the dining-room was pristine, it was past ten pm, and I took a quick shower and, in a light robe, went to Marcus’ room, knocked, and entered, not waiting for a reply. He was sitting up in bed with a book. He looked at me and smiled. I crossed the room. He’d obviously shaved and I could smell the aftershave – Imperial Leather. Standing next to the bed, I hesitated, but untied the rope girdle holding the robe closed, and allowed it to slip off my naked body. I blushed comprehensively.

He took a sharp breath. “Magnificent! Marjory, you are magnificent!” He flipped the covers back and rapidly removed his pyjamas before holding an arm out for me.

I know it was at my initiative, but I was nervous as I laid on the bed next to him and allowed his arm to draw me closer. Warmth! I snuggled closer and my nipples twinged as I pressed my sadly saggy breasts against him. He caressed those parts of me he could reach with his free hand, my shoulders and back, waist (yes, I still have one, just) and buttocks. There’s a place at the top of my buttocks, each side of my spine, where there are small pads of flesh which always make me flood when they’re squeezed. He squeezed them.

“Oh, God!” I gasped, involuntarily.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m way, way, past okay! I need you in me, right now!” I rolled to my back and pulled him on top of me – not that I could have moved him had he not co-operated. My legs spread without conscious volition and he slid in to the hilt and began to move. I must have been on a hair trigger; my hips jerked involuntarily as I orgasmed after only a few strokes. I don’t know how many. I was in the moment and my body totally in control, not me. He stayed deep and still as I spasmed, and as the aftershocks faded, started to thrust again. I still can hardly believe it, but I came again! And a third time before he spurted in me.

Marcus:

Wow. That’s all I can say. I know she’s in her forties. I know she’s a few pounds overweight (but who wants a cook who’s underweight?) but, Lord, she’s the hell of a bed partner. I hardly touched her, really, after she got into bed with me, but suddenly – I was pressing places on her lower back that are often sensitive – and I felt the juices on my thigh. Then she was begging me to enter her, rolled to her back and pulled me over her. I was co-operating, of course, as who wouldn’t. She shuddered through several orgasms – three, I think – then I came. Oh, did I come! I was wiped out. Not actually unconscious, but not much good for anything for quite a while. I just rolled off her, with just enough energy and gumption to hold her and pull her against me. She conformed herself to me and a few minutes later I realised she was breathing slowly, quietly, and was asleep. Okay. Let’s just turn the light off...

That was just the beginning. She told me, the next morning when we woke...

“Marcus, that was ... the best. Absolutely the most satisfying sex I’ve ever experienced.” She coloured prettily. “I’m feeling a bit guilty saying that, but it’s true.” She muttered something which might have been ’Sorry, Wade.’ Then, “May I come back again? Often?”

No question there. “Of course! I suppose we’ll need to be a bit discreet, but Amelia has never taken any interest in what I do at night ... or most of the day, for that matter.”

I’d have welcomed her into my bed every night, honestly, but it became a regular two, three or, rarely, four, nights a week. I was pretty happy, especially as we explored the parameters of the relationship. Oral, of course. I worshipped her breasts, despite her deprecating comments. We did ‘doggy’, as I appreciated her rear. She rode me as I played with those boobs and pinched her nipples. That was another trigger for her. As for me, I couldn’t believe how snug, almost tight, her pussy was.

The household settled into a routine. I made use of a small gym in the basement every morning, and the staff made use of it at other times. Amelia didn’t. Unsurprisingly, as most of her occupations were sedentary, she gained weight. Perhaps I should have made more effort to get alongside her, but it seemed to me that she’d got what she wanted; a degree of social status – a small circle of other local ladies called in regularly to gossip, knit, crochet, embroider and drink tea. The tea became problematic, as did the coffee. She complained, but if a product is just not there, what can you do?

Marjory did her best making cordials and herbal infusions, and I did my best to reward her.

I didn’t realise at the time, but a turning point occurred with the acquisition of a ‘milk-maid’. No, not a girl to milk a cow. A girl to be milked like a cow. Sally Smith was a sweet girl, eighteen when she came to us. Sweet, hard-working, reliable, but sadly ... homely. As a result, she’d got to the age of eighteen without losing her virginity; that was rather unusual for an Indentured Minor. She was quite a large girl, too, but her main assets were a pair of large breasts. I think naturally she was about a ‘D’ cup, but she was a natural to be stimulated to lactate. I don’t know what size her lactating breasts were. EE? Maybe. We were her second placement. She had a sort of frame in the kitchen, and every four hours draped herself over it, fastened the teat-cups, and provided the household with about a pint of sweet, fresh milk every time. Every four hours, day and night. She had a tiny room off the kitchen so she could get up in the night to milk herself.