EIGHTY-ONE

Removing Catherine From Tristan

At 7 p.m. on Sunday, all masters and their canvases are once more gathered before the stage in the grand ballroom. A small bleachers zone is now set up on one side of this raised performance area, and male professionals are seated there, alongside female pros in pig-tails -- who are obviously portraying kids -- and other female performers who are just as clearly meant to be the moms. These maternal characters are padded in all the wrong places, have silly hair, and are most definitely not desirable mom-incarnations. The “daughters” seated beside them are enjoying big lollipops, which they lick and lick. Each one also clutches a balloon, a stuffed toy, or some other souvenir from the circus.

Catherine is physically recovered from her purging, but Tristan, however, is not recovered from her not having been able to overcome, just for him, her hatred of apricots. When he turns his face towards her to look into her eyes, she realizes just how well he continues to control her, since the apricot ordeal that he no doubt purposefully devised worked perfectly well in reining her in. He looks away. 

How typical of him. Well, I suppose that I was rather defiant, when he awakened, which irritated him and riled him up. But now, no more of that, and I’m back to having to do everything that he says, and perfectly well. Back to obeying and pleasing him, or otherwise facing an escalation regarding what he thinks of next to keep me under his complete control.  The good thing is, however, that as long as he has complete control again, I don’t think that he’ll seek to see through me as much, and so, I’m much safer just obeying, just participating fully, because it’s easier then to hide what I know, and what I did. Those eyes of his . . . I just absolutely have to be “even.” The fact will always be that I could’ve run, but that I didn’t, and I have to get over that I didn’t, because it’s done now. Of course, that’s easier said than done, but . . . Well, as always, everything has returned to Tristan normal because, no matter what detour, he always gets me back to the main Tristan highway, which everyone around him has to travel, while obeying his rules. I wanted the voices in my head to stop so I could think for myself and make my own decisions, but screaming them quiet like I did was probably not the best thing. Would the women I’ve known, and who are the authors of those voices, those words, have all run away, had they been in my shoes, in the tunnel? Would they have all taken that chance, that huge risk? No. Because they all knew what it’s like, to face such incredible uncertainty in escaping, to be in fact trapped in a life that just can’t be escaped. They had pimps to fear, but they also had so much baggage that . . . It really doesn’t matter that Tristan happens to be a hot, handsome ass, because he’s still a stinky, disgusting asshole in the end. And it’s not even confusing anymore, really, that he does and then undoes, because it’s who he is, singing one thing, but being quite the other.

Catherine looks at the people on the stage for a moment, and then away again.

I wonder how masters will be brought back into the swing of weekend play this time, after their rest. Not that they need anything more than blood rushing to their crotch. And not that that’s difficult to bring about either. It’s us females who . . . Master, oh my master . . . Sir . . . She sarcastically adds, attacking the men around her, before those unforced “sirs” she spoke to Tristan return to her mind, those willing ones that slipped off her tongue as if “feeling” had dared to be their lubricant. Feelings?! Making me throw up to control me certainly nullifies you ever deserving that title! And . . . I saved myself, this time, by not trying to escape. And you won’t be saving my life again, so. . . so no more . . .

She takes a deep breath, to steady herself.

No one is speaking of Vivian, of an escaped submissive, of one who got away from all of this and from them, and nothing is different, she then repeats to herself.  So, if the apricots weren’t just about control but were also a punishment, Tristan can’t tell me right now, can he, since some kind of master code of silence is in effect? Plus, what matters most to him, of course, are the remaining cycles, and having fun, and enjoying every moment fully, and having the designs that he’s put on me compete well, in the end. So, going overboard with discipline, right now, just wouldn’t do. But he nevertheless . . . he nevertheless controls me, again. And I feel . . . calm. How is that? Being with him, controlled by him, calms me?!

Everything is as it was before you left his side. Everything is clearly defined again.  He has control, and you’ve regained control of yourself because he does, healer reassures her.

But the here and now is so, so demanding.

You decided to keep secrets, and now you have to deal with your choice, healer reminds her.

Catherine returns her eyes to the pre-show scene on stage.

A man died, and everything just goes on. His body will get its script, its story, and . . . I still feel nothing about his death. But I know that I should. Instead, I wonder where his submissive is. And how she killed him. And . . . The other masters aren’t afraid for themselves? Granted, there are no more sleep cycles, this weekend, but . . . And, well, submissives aren’t allowed near the food tables, and so, without access there either . . .

How did she get something into her master’s body, then? While he slept? A needle? What?

She turns her face towards Tristan, who is looking to his right, and therefore away from her.

It must be because Tristan is such a creature from hell and that I can’t believe that he stands right next to me, that my gaze lingers upon him. The stay-up pill worked: my eyes aren’t closing anymore. Or maybe it’s knowing that I can’t mess up, that the price to pay will be high if I do. Or maybe it’s testosterone by association . . . I’m not feeling any physical symptoms of withdrawal, right now, for not having taken one of my own pills, but I think that I wish that I were. If I ask for one in order that I don’t think as much, then the fuse will be lit and he’ll explode. I know, I know. But when won’t it be? When does he stop measuring winning over me, winning my mind over, by my not asking? If I do anything that ruins the rest of the weekend for him, then he’ll be enraged, and . . .

Catherine’s eyes once again rest upon faces of masters around her.

Is it because I haven’t had one of my pills in a while that I feel nothing for that master’s death? Is it that being aware of what’s right or wrong slips, without them, which would make sense because I’m more like a man, without my Venus-side survival tablets? Maybe all those words in my head are like my medication, and so, without either one of them right now . . .

What if it’s your tablets that cause your recurring overdoses on those words? Healer interrupts.

Overdoses? There’s nothing wrong with considering what other women have gone through, with being sympathetic, empathetic. With accumulating information about how to deal with . . . And you’ve always wanted me to be strong, to take my medicine in order to protect myself.

Catherine’s eyes find Soft Curls, who is standing so very close to her master, with her eyes so alive.

Alive. With him. But he’s just using her. Poor Soft Curls. Pause. Those songs she uses for her videos of female happiness and delight mislead her.  Especially if she uses any of Tristan’s, she adds, before one such song of his begins to play in her mind.

She does not immediately shut it off. But then shakes her head.

Tristan, you’re the best pill against you, the best antidote, she declares, after she has stopped the music. None of the images currently around her, after all, belong in a Soft Curls video. Even when I’m exhausted and my mind therefore plays tricks and so desires poetry and love, and then slips up by pinning the request for all of that, for everything, on you, Tristan, it’s because it has no choice, since you’re the only one next to me, ever. But you just go on believing what you want, because, as long as I continue to hold on, another chance to escape will come up. A better one than facing vast grounds patrolled by so many men. I’m sorry, Fate, but you have to do better, because I want to survive escaping. I don’t want to be brought back to him.

“Gentlemen, we need volunteers for our next act. So, who will come up?” The ringmaster speaks to the performer-audience on stage, when the show begins. “Come on now, don’t be shy,” he adds, as the recorded sounds of screaming babies and children echo in the grand room in order to recreate the atmosphere of a family-circus outing.

The “dads” in the stands obviously want to be anywhere but where they are, but clowns soon convince three of the men to follow them to the circus ring that is located center-stage. Once the men are positioned just right, music begins to play, and the clowns perform a typically silly routine, with close-ups of their faces shown on all the screens in the ballroom, as well as on screens on and to the sides of the stage. The “kids” laugh. The “dads” put on what are meant to appear as fake smiles. All part of the act.

After the clowns then run a few laps around the circus ring, with silliness in full swing, they slip and slide and travel all the way off the stage, gliding behind a colourful three-way fold divider that allows performers to make an entrance. The clowns are all quickly back on scene, however, keeping up their crazy act.

After more bumping and tumbling, the white and red makeup-clad entertainers pull out un-inflated balloons from the deep pockets of their patchwork outfits and, once the long forms are filled with air, attempt to make balloon animals out of them. However,  whatever they try, and no matter how many squeaky contortions take place during those attempts that are accompanied by overly-concentrated faces, the balloons end up looking like shaft and accompanying orbs, and nothing like the images of giraffes and elephants, among others, that the clowns point to as their inspiration.

After a handful of attempts, a shrug of each clowns’ shoulders signals their acceptance of the inevitable outcome of their failed efforts, and they then offer the balloons as they are to the male volunteers on stage. When these men repeatedly refuse to take them, the clowns become more and more insulted, until all of them are making exaggerated fighting gestures, in overtures to scrapping.

As soon as the volunteers raise their own fists in response, the clowns quickly overpower the men and shove them to the floor. An exaggerated struggle then ensues, and eventually ends with each volunteer’s manhood finding itself within a clown’s mouth, which stirs up quite the reaction from the audience, since male on male never occurs during the events of this association. Even in the biggest of group plays, men never go there.

The “kids” scream at the horrific sight, and the “mothers,” after making their children turn and look away, laugh nastily at their “husband’s” predicament, and at the men’s futile efforts to escape, since the clowns do not release them and continue to slip long, hardened shafts in and out of their red, makeup-broadened lips, until near-bliss.            

When spewing is seen, it hits the now nude behinds of the repositioned assault-clowns, which are waved in the path of the restrained men’s powerful streaming, following a dramatic ripping open of the material panel over each off those rear cheeks. This scene evokes further reaction from the real audience of masters, before the stage.

The show continues, however, when more clowns then step onto the stage, all sad-faced and holding their own limp manhood in one hand. The “kids” in the stage-seats scream some more at the sight, and the “moms” once again quickly shield their peeking “offspring’s” eyes. This clown behaviour definitely rouses good reason for children to fear  them, for nightmares to be spawned by them. The ringmaster then joins in, as he turns towards the stage-audience with his own pants dropped to his ankles and his own manhood in hand as well.

“Do we have any volunteers? We need ladies this time . . . ” The man asks, his tone wanting to entice females to the long, hard organ he holds in his left hand, as well as to the limp ones near him that belong to the sad-faced clowns, but failing. When there are no takers, the clowns step towards the stage-seats anyway, which makes both the “offspring” and “moms” scream out in disgust, seeing all those organs closing in on them.

The performers then turn towards the real audience, tuck their manhood into their costume, and then walk among the crowd. Catherine soon frowns when one of the clowns’ eyes land in hers, and she sees that he then immediately changes direction to walk towards her. While the non-refundables who are supposed to participate in this show are guided up onto the stage, the clown before Catherine insists that she follow him up as well.

Tristan is not amused.

His eyes look to his right and see that two other true are being escorted onto the stage, and when he looks back towards Catherine, five clowns have joined forces and are now guiding her away, forcing her to move forward in their formation, or otherwise see her art smudged, as they close in on her. Or threaten to. Would they actually do so? Since Catherine cannot take the chance, she therefore keeps up with the moving pocket of art-safety that they create.

Once on stage, the three true subservients are made to stand side by side, and rather close to the assault-clowns and their sort-of-dripping-creative-material rear cheeks. Catherine finds Tristan’s eyes and knows that he is bordering on all-out anger. She herself is not happy at all at being nude on stage, before everyone, and now tells herself that she should have allowed the clowns to smudge all of her, rather than to allow herself to be spotlighted like this, before so many eyes. Momentarily overwhelmed, she takes a step forward in order to return to Tristan, but when two clowns immediately head towards her to stop her, protecting her art and designs automatically regains control of her. She freezes.

“What’s going on?” A master asks Catherine’s male.

“Our host has lost his mind,” Tristan replies, teeth clenched.

“So, this wasn’t cleared with you?”

Tristan, his eyes most intent on what is happening on the stage, slowly turns his head from side to side.

“He’s gone too far. First gay stuff, and now, skin-tone bracelets on stage during a show,” the other master adds, referring to the host.

“There are things that can’t be undone, Tristan,” the master of another true on stage reminds him, referring to the sexual doings that, once done, could never be forgotten by a master, which would not only bring about serious repercussions on the relationship, since a master would sever his invested bond in his subservient as a consequence, but which might also affect a submissive’s very life itself.

Tristan, of course, is very well aware and needed no reminding. Several options have already presented themselves in his mind, including a most bloody one, if anything untoward happens to Catherine.

What the hell is this? He wonders. Does someone want me to rush the stage and make a scene? Who? And to what ends? The host always has final approval on all the acts, but since I know that he’s without a backbone, he might’ve been bought or blackmailed or threatened into allowing this aberrance to happen. Or, well, maybe he’s just that stupid, actually.

The “volunteer” men who were forced to spew on clowns’ behinds remain on their backs in the circus ring, obliged, coerced to stay there by the nude, creative-material-covered behinds that continue to be brandished as weapons, and since the clowns have changed positions, not only is a nude male rear most annoyingly before the “volunteers,” but so is another man’s dripping creative material.

Tristan makes eye contact with the third master whose true female was just swept away and determines that it would not be difficult at all for himself and the two other men to quickly reach the stage, since every other master around the three appears ready to quickly make way, the wrong is that loathsome and contemptible.

“Who the hell planned this segment of the show?” Tristan hears here and there, among the audience. The question is posed in different ways, and he takes them all in, along with who is speaking the words, when he can. He believes that most masters are truly annoyed, but he also knows that he must consider whether or not one of the men, or more, has an agenda to advance, in convincing him to do something.

The non-refundables who were guided onto the stage by the clowns take care of the makeup-clad performers’ problem at hand -- literally in their hand -- while the “offspring” in the stage-audience now increase their reaction to sobbing and screaming, and the “mothers” up theirs to screaming at the clowns and at the whores who are behaving thus that “children” are in attendance.

When the sad-faced clowns and the ringmaster spew, several  of them do so on the faces of the clowns’ whose loaded rears are still holding the “volunteers” captive in the ring.

“What the hell?” A master irately flings at the showcased repeat of male-on-male action, of sorts.

“Tristan,” another master simultaneously alerts Catherine’s male, since the three true on stage are now being approached by clowns.

Tristan’s eyes leave another master’s -- the one with his true on stage as well and who is now on his way to joining his two similarly affected peers -- and then glare his returned attention to the “show.”