NINETY-EIGHT

Alignment

When Tristan and Catherine reach his work area after the photo/colour matching mini-contest, it is just passed 10 p.m., and the tenth and final action cycle of weekend play has just begun. Since the contest was not allowed to run over, every master is therefore within his station for the last master/canvas hour of the weekend, with each man once more said to be servicing his submissive, even though it is of course she who is doing the actual servicing. It is only because there is gifting with purpose this weekend that masters speak so much of their “servicing,” while propagating their “nurture” and “nourish” beliefs as well.

The true don’t fall for the lie that what men love to do most in the world, that what they risk everything for over and over again throughout their life without care nor empathy about what it does to others, that what is for their own selfish pleasure and ego stroking, and nothing more, as they only ever think of themselves, is actually so-called all important nurture of male to female instead of what it truly is, right?

It’s a good thing that you’ve regained some control, Catherine, but don’t use it to open up files.

It was just physical, how I felt. A physical consequence, because of what was in my blood. Tristan said so. I’m feeling better now. Pause. Nurture. Is it measured in that small amount of time that a man spends with his female? But while he’s with her, he’s doing what he wants to be doing with her, to her, or having it done to him, and nothing more, nothing of real nurture, so is there ever any nurture at all? All men, then, just like Tristan with me, on tour, when he comes to me briefly to get what he wants, and is then gone again. I wonder how many weeks of the little time that he spent with me per day would add up to all the time that he’s spent with me here, in two days, this weekend. And that really is just like most relationships, in a way, isn’t it? Since men prefer the guys and other things, so they don’t spend much time with their mate other than when they’re getting or taking what they want from her. Pause. What do masters win, when their submissive wins a mini-contest? She then once again wonders.

Well, you get praise from your master.

All women are expected to do so much just because it gets them that praise. I . . . I think that I enjoyed it, just a little bit, those women being punished. Not their pain, but the idea that because of what they did to me . . .  But I could’ve been punished that way as well, for breaking the rules.

You weren’t. And your attention should be on Tristan, healer recommends.

I’m awaiting instructions as to how I’m to coax from him his next contribution, his next gifting, to my art. When he wants me attached to his dick, he’ll speak up. The absence of images flooding my mind and turning me to mush in his proximity is more proof that I’m indeed more like myself. But enjoying the women’s punishment just a little, that was . . . Well, no images turning me to mush now, she repeats to herself.

Whispers about the second midnight special, however, then enter her mind in the absence of those images, and she despises the dark emotions that the whispers reawaken. Her anxiety increases even more when the wall that she was shoved against during the first midnight special returns to mind.

Does it have to be one or the other, then?

Which would you choose? Healer inquires.

Since Tristan is concentrated on his designs upon Catherine’s body, and on what has yet to be done, he notices nothing of those feelings in his female’s eyes. When he finally gives her instructions, she remains lost within her thoughts.                                            

“I love your come. I love being fed by you in that way, nourished like a mother feeds a child, at her breast. But adults require different nourishment, and a woman doesn’t have that nourishment for an adult. A man does. You do. And I love your come. When you feed me with it in any way, when I’m starving, longing for the aching to go away, an aching that only you can stop, and then, when you make it all okay, with your come, I’m so grateful that you’re not selfish with it, that you give it to me everyday, usually twice, and often three times, and sometimes four times a day. You’re such a great master. I just don’t know how I’ll ever be able to show you all of my gratitude, for being my master.”

Catherine frowns at the words, and, once aware of her surroundings once again, is surprised to see that her master’s master is already turned on and waiting. Is that about my deviousness? My very own artfulness, to win the mini-contest? I don’t want to be like you, Tristan.

“I shouldn’t have enjoyed seeing them punished. Not even in the slightest,” she speaks up. It must’ve been that small part of my mind that you have that . . .

"Why not? Those females broke the rules,” Tristan points out.

Silence.

“It’s really freakish, thinking these designs pretty in any way. Am I not a bigger freak than . . . Covered in come and just . . .” 

"The fixative changes it, when it adds volume to it, so what covers you right now is not exactly . . . Well, whatever turns on a master, he can still see it and run with it, but the reality is that there’s me on you right now, but there’s a lot of fake as well, and the fake makes for better art.” 

Catherine frowns. Like your songs? What an admission. And on me as well, now? “That really seems contrary to . . . ”

“It is what it is. Definitely my designs, though, all over you,” Tristan interrupts to remind her, before reaching for a water bottle off the station’s table and handing it to her. If she were to become dehydrated, another injection would be even more counterproductive now, following that race. “When the first fixative was still optional, it was just a mess.”

Once Catherine is done drinking, she sets off to engage with her master in the way that he desires, that he instructed her to lend herself to, to him, minutes ago. Her hands therefore reach for the top button of his pants to free what is almost poking out, as it looks up at her, reaches out to her.

Why are my hands so determined, so . . . eager? And I’m feeling better now, so what was that light nibble on my lower lip, then? It was nice, on our way back here, that women weren’t glaring at me because they’re more themselves as well, which doesn’t mean that none of them hates me, however, she reminds herself, before taking a deep breath. That’s remarkably easy right now, no doubt since things are now back on track. The finish line is so very close. God, what is it with my hands? She considers once again, choosing not to ask the same question of other body parts as well.

“Am I . . . Am I crashing?” She then asks, just as the thought, the consideration, suddenly comes to her. “I feel . . .  ”

“You’re not racing anymore. It’ll pass. And this just won’t do. We have to try something else.”

“Two more contributions,” Catherine softly points out, her mind obviously divided between two screens, two subjects.

“You didn’t miss all of my designs, when you displayed my colour the way that you did . . . ”

“Only two, Tristan.” 

“You’ll be all done. All covered up in me.”

My face comes next, of course. Because my rear, that has to be last, after that midnight special. And I’m good. I’m not shutting down. There’s a lot on my mind, but I’m more in control of it now. I’m not crazy. Not slipping into insanity.

A non-refundable gets Tristan’s and Catherine’s attention as she and her master walk by Tristan’s station and her face makes it clear that she is considering taking a rush at Catherine. The woman does not attack, however, snapping out of her lapse in judgement just in time.

“Tell me why you keep looking at her,” she calmly asks her weekend master instead, once they have walked by.

Maybe the last four hours really won’t be so bad, if all the women here have better control of themselves like she does, Catherine reassures herself. And . . . if it doesn’t slip away.

“I will look anywhere I want, and do anything I want, because I’m a master, and you’re nothing but a wh-re, not even a true female. And true subservients have no right to act jealous, so you certainly have even less of one,” the woman’s weekend master evenly replies, but loudly enough for other females, including Catherine, to hear.

“I was alone, during that contest,” Tristan’s female softly remarks.

Tristan’s eyes tell her to drop the subject.

“Just a fact,” she adds, softly still.

“And you’re fine. Haven’t I protected you and kept you safe all weekend? Just like I have every day for a year now.”

“It could’ve gone differently. I mean, for your precious designs on me.”

“But it didn’t.”

“How long will the women’s restraint last?”

As Tristan shrugs a shoulder, Catherine suddenly feels her head to be of such weight upon her own that she must allow it to fall forward, that she is helpless not to.

“What’s wrong?” Her master inquires, since odd things have sometimes happened after exertion, during weekend play of this variety, just has they have happened without it as well.

“I feel better,” Catherine firmly replies, as she fights the weight and raises her head.

“Okay, just let me think,” her master then demands, before he obviously turns inwards.

When Catherine’s hands inexplicably once more reach towards Tristan’s pants, she chides them and reminds them that he wants something else, that that is the reason why he is thinking. Her master does not notice.

It’s okay, because silliness doesn’t feel the same now, not as awful as it did before the race. That was just . . .

Don’t stress yourself out, healer interrupts.

They’re all more in control, but they’re still standing next to their master, and enthralled. How is that possible? They are more themselves, so . . .

When Catherine hears that the non-refundable behind her master’s station -- the weekend submissive belonging to the master whose nether area caused him such pain earlier on when it filled with fluid -- is now also enchanted with her weekend master, she frowns.

It’s their body’s betrayal, right? Not because of the fixative’s effects, but because of . . . well . . . How can they not know that falling in love is absolutely nothing like this?

How do you know?

Tristan is a fine male specimen, hot even . . . No! Okay. It’s just a fact that he is. He just is. And . . . well, falling implies that one’s going to get hurt, because one gets hurt in a fall, and so, who would want to fall to begin with? Or is it that the idea of falling is involved because the guy better be worth the pain of falling, or otherwise, why fall? But none of the women here has fallen for a gem, for one of the few men in the world who are more than the petty and selfish and empathy-less ones. Men just open their mouth or post on social media these days, and it’s so clear who and what they are.

Catherine.

Are we given different substances, the true and the non? 

“Could you just stop the babbling altogether?” Tristan interrupts. “I’m trying to think.”

“I didn’t say anything. And since when is it so difficult for you to think?”

Silence.

Since the non-refundable in the station behind Tristan’s continues to say things that grate Catherine’s nerves to no end, Tristan’s female repeatedly bites her tongue and bottom lip, in order to maintain the quiet that her master has requested. Moreover, since she fears that if she dares to think right now, the words will spring from her lips as well, she also works at keeping her mind clear. Success soon becomes so demanding, however, that she finds herself tapping one of her feet, among other things, before nothing can distract her anymore. Her high heels are then heard clicking their way towards the back of her master’s play area, while he continues to think.

“Have you ever heard the song ‘I Don’t Wanna Fall in Love?’” Catherine asks the weekend submissive within the other station, once she has laid eyes on her. “It says that ‘love cuts just like a knife’ and that you have to fight it to the end.”

“What?” The non-refundable replies.

“‘I don’t wanna fall in love. Love cuts just like a knife. You make the kn-fe feel good. I’ll fight you to the end,’” Catherine sings, before the image of the lost ear returns to her yet again. Knives never feel good.

“Lovely,” Tristan snaps at her.

“If I ever did that, I think I’d have a heart attack,” Catherine finds herself singing to herself, skipping to another song, to one written two and half decades after the first one.

“She has such a lovely singing voice,” the master in the other work station compliments Catherine, to her master.

Tristan, who cannot be seen by the master, rolls his eyes. “Get back here, Lovely.”

“If the boards had been closer to the master line-up during that contest, our hearts wouldn’t have raced as much, from jogging back and forth, from running, at times,” Catherine comments, once she is close to Tristan again, away from the back of his station.

“Stations are close together, and you’re being loud. Watch yourself,” her master warns, since Catherine must not reveal to all the women around her what she was told in confidence, about the fixative.

“We sometimes make females run a race near the end of some weekends so they stay awake during the final stretch,” the master in the back station, however, nevertheless offers, making Catherine and Tristan realize that he is now standing at the back of his own station, and looking into Tristan’s.

“You could become impotent, having stayed to play,” Catherine reminds the man.

“Lovely,” Tristan warns her yet again.

The man, however, just shrugs a shoulder.

“He addressed me,” Catherine reminds her master.

“I know. I was right here,” Tristan replies, before turning away. “Just shut up. Lovely.”

“Why are you having such a hard time concentrating, Tristan?” His female inquires.

Her master frowns.

“Fine. Think, then,” Catherine relents, after he does not answer, and, even though he cannot see her, she nevertheless pretends to lock her lips.

“If only that ever worked.”

“What?”

Tristan turns to face her. “See? You talked. If only that ever worked.”

“Oh,” she realizes, before locking her lips again and then pretending to tuck the key away into one of his front pant pockets. The key is pretend, but her hand, however, touches for real.

My chest feels clear. My body obviously got smarter after that coughing fit and didn’t do that again. Way to go, body. Way to learn. Good job. I feel okay. What’s . . . What’s he doing now? She wonders, as her eyes follow her master as much as they can while he circles her, his own eyes all over her body as he does. Soft Curls  . . . I’ll have to look up her channel, when I get out of here.

“Lovely.”

Catherine turns her face towards her master.

“You’re humming. Stop it.”

Catherine frowns. What? I was not.

“Neither one of us was born when that song was popular -- and I use the word ‘popular’ loosely. How do you know it? Late night TV again?” He inquires.

Catherine points at the pocket in which she placed the “key” that “locked” her lips. He did tell her to shut up, after all, and furthermore dared her, as she sees it, when he wished that such a lock of the lips ever worked.

"‘Cuts just like a knife,’ at an ear . . .” Tristan, however, then firmly states, to put her back on track.

Catherine swallows hard. “Search on YouTube, actually. Late at night.”

“Songs about not falling in love?”

Yours were pi-sing me off to no ends that night, after you made me watch you perform again, she has the wherewithal not to reply out loud. I was searching for non-hypocritical works.

Tristan gives her new instructions, and Catherine slips herself into the position that he has finally decided upon. Once her fingers do their thing again, she once more has nothing but her master’s package before her eyes.

When I slipped it in and out of my mouth during the contest, all the saliva that was on it from other women, she once again considers.

Definitely more like yourself, healer throws her way.

Except that . . .

“No. This won’t work,” Tristan interrupts, before she can slip him in again beyond her lips. The tip of his maleness thus leaves them a second or so after reaching them.

She looks up.

Is he really reconsidering his instructions, again?

Tristan steps away from her in order to adjust her pedestal.

Complicated servicing, to get this next gifting, this second-to-last contribution to my art, she adds to herself.

As Catherine’s master climbs up on the pedestal, he makes a face when it complains about his weight, at the increased height that it has been set to. He remains upon it nonetheless, however, and sends his eyes down upon Catherine, whose eyes are once more upon his all-important appendage.

What he beholds, looking down, is in and of itself a most satisfying sight for him, she tells herself, as she senses his eyes, as he awaits her taking him in yet again.

“In addition to sensation, the sight and knowledge of a woman disappeared at a his beloved member, being faceless there, being shut up there, with her only purpose in life to bring pleasure and gratification to his manhood, which, although beloved by him, is nevertheless mishandled every day in ways that make this woman taking it into her mouth following that mishandling somewhat of a repulsive act for him, one that is therefore a turn on, as he knows what his manhood has touched, knows what his personal hygiene is like, knows where he has carelessly stuck it in. Perhaps even what diseases it has. Despite all that, however, her taking it into her mouth is nevertheless falsely deemed by him a most wonderful and desired experience by and for her, one that she so wants and appreciates and loves, and just can’t get enough of,” Catherine recalls her writer friend recording in her work.

Why go there again? Healer demands to know.

Probably because Tristan’s dick is covered in yucky other-women saliva, Catherine replies. Which means the possibility of diseases being caught, through that saliva. Which is irresponsible, uncaring, and cruel. He was so touched by that master who lost his true, but I don’t matter. Line racing was bad enough. He could’ve cleaned up.

“How can men not love their children more than their dick and keep them safe at any cost rather than keep themselves satisfied intimately at any cost, whether they have affairs or to go paid women, which of course spreads diseases? Blood from a cut in the kitchen, or on a razor, or anywhere in the house, and their kids come into contact with it and they’re infected. Not to mention saliva and the sharing of food, plates, glasses, utensils. How can men be so utterly self-centered and cold? Answer? Because no one ever, ever comes before a man’s pride and joy, before his favourite child in his pants. No one EVER. Not even his real children, or he wouldn’t otherwise EVER risk bringing diseases into his home by cheating or by going to paid women. It’s just as simple as that. The only good father, therefore, is the one who can ignore, day after day, his dick’s selfishness and tantrums, and who can therefore limit his bratty kid to playing only with his one and only partner,” another file opens up in Catherine’s mind.  

Catherine, stop.

The pregnant one.

I know, healer replies. But there’s nothing new in any of those files. So keep them closed.

As the submissive in question walks by with her master, Catherine sighs.

My hands were eager, but they didn’t realize what my mouth would have to deal with once their part of this was over with.

“Are you done?” Tristan asks.

“Are you?” Catherine snaps back at him.

“That d--n look in your eyes,” he replies, before he pulls himself away from her face and mouth and walks to the table in his station.

Once there, he pours water over his manhood. It falls to the floor after it has travelled everywhere along his shaft and head.

“Make sure you don’t slip on that wet floor,” he warns his female, once he has returned to her pedestal. His hand then returns his preciousness directly to her mouth. “If giving in to those eyes of yours were ever responsible for you slipping and falling and ruining my designs . . . ”

Water? Just water, really?

Seconds later, when Catherine’s eyes shift to the left as the old master walks by Tristan’s station, he looks most intently at her, as she tends to her master’s hardness.

Did you disappear for a while? Are you in on some plot against Tristan, against me, then? In it with the host? No. I just didn’t see you in a while, surely. There are many rows, after all, many stations for you to spy upon, peeper.  And the host was probably just stupid. Is. Then again, where were you when that rule was broken, when a true was brought up on stage, when I was? Seems like you, of all masters, would’ve spoken up. Were you napping, or in on it, on something?

“This won’t work either,” Tristan informs his female, wincing as he puts on the brakes and removes himself from her yet again.

It won’t? Why not? Seems to me like you did enough thinking to come up with something good.

“If you could somehow rise, when it’s time,” her master adds.

Sure, Tristan. I’ll levitate. Mind over body, just for you. What? Is it too difficult for you to aim down, after your poor manhood’s been used so much this weekend? Or aim however and wherever you see fit. Is . . . is fluid retention making it more difficult? Hurting you? What? The angle looks possible to me, unless you can’t . . . Or would you like me at a different height because it’ll offer better coverage? Yep, I actually just calmly thought that through. So much more myself.

“Follow me,” her master instructs her, after he has pulled up his underwear and pants and lowered his shirt over his crotch, rather than squeezing in his colossal hardness by zipping up. “And no humming.”

I’m not humming. I wasn’t humming. Why would I hum that song? It would be like . . . the lady protesting too much, or something. No way. I’m so much more myself, right now. So calm. Hey, old master, get out of the way. You’re not coming with us. He’s taking only me with him, because it’s master/canvas hour. So, beat it. And I don’t mean tending to that old thing of yours.

“What?” She asks Tristan’s look.

“Walk.”