ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

Flexing, Within Boundaries

Why doesn’t it ever matter at all that I’m infuriated? Catherine exasperatingly inquires.

Because you can’t back it up: Tristan’s always in control. Well, of you, if not always of himself. Just don’t let him lose control now, Catherine, not in a room like this one, healer warns.

Playroom is so the wrong word. And why did he mention his own, when there have been times, this weekend, when I saw him roll his eyes, and even a few times when we were on the same page, thinking this or that ridiculous. Weren’t we? Or did I just imagine that we were?

I don’t think that Tristan has to fully subscribe to the code of belief of this master/submissive association for him to have a playroom like this one, for him to have use for one.

“Eyes on me, Lovely,” Tristan interrupts.

When Catherine grudgingly obeys, her master’s face contemptuously mimics the smile that remains frozen upon his female’s lips, one that still taunts and provokes him following its appearance seconds ago, after she succeeded to hit him in the eye with what she was biting on. He can interpret that smile in no other way than as a challenge to his dominance, of course.

Although the fierce eyes that accompany his imitation soon cause trepidation to regain command of Catherine, Tristan, however, does not notice this return to submission, since, as he has no intention of revising what her insolence and his impulsive response to it have put in motion, he just does not want to see it. He consequently commands the flex to abruptly separate his female’s legs horizontally, before another of his directives then has them yanked up towards her, with her knees reaching up and back. Without a pause, stinging aching is then further generated all over Catherine’s body as a few adjustments are  made next that force her to flex even more, to be ever-so flexible. Since Tristan does not hesitate and makes no mistake, and as he is so very swift and efficient in his commands, it is obvious to Catherine that he knows exactly what end result he seeks, one that to her, however, remains a frightful mystery.

“This room, in my mind, is plastered with page after page of graphic depictions of the oh-so tragic terminations of females that occurred here, females who just had to be ended because, to have allowed them to go on with mutilations or handicaps following my ‘mistakes,’ or to go on with . . .  missing hair or scratches or . . . broken nails . . . that would’ve been just so inhumane,” Tristan evenly informs his submissive, before reaching for one of her nails and breaking it. “Oops,” he then feigns, as his eyes dance into Catherine’s in just the right way to push her further towards the edge.

As terror once more grips her, Catherine no longer screams at Tristan within herself, and feels her chest tighten much when, after a moment, her master falls to his knees, dropping himself into the nook between her legs that he had the flex create for him for that very purpose.

“If you cry, if you moan, if you do anything because you’re too sore, then you’ll have to be put out of your misery as well,” Tristan then warns his female. “Do you understand? I’ll put you out of your misery, for humane reasons, because, if you couldn’t  handle your master’s impressive, humbling, awe-inspiring dick anymore, then what kind of life would you have? Simply unbearable. Just not worth living. And believe me, I will show you that compassion, Lovely, if you cry out in any way. It’ll be my last gifting to you,” Tristan reiterates, before making the flex sway just enough, in just the right way to cause his female brief, shooting pain, and thus sternly impress upon her that the contraption has much more flex-imposing fierceness to inflict, including all the way to her end. “Ready, Lovely? I hope for your sake that you can handle me,” he maintains, before sending this hardened maleness forward to penetrate her, before sending his prodigious pulsating plumpness, his ultra-rigid, unyielding, uncompromising firmness to be embraced and tended to not only by those pleasure-creating ridges within his female, but by the inside of her long nether lips as well, with the outside of one of them now destined to pain her very much, until it heals.

When she first feels herself filled up this way, Catherine struggles indeed not to cry out as this tender wound is pushed to the side by Tristan’s inflexibility. She finds herself agreeing with healer that how rashly and impulsively her master now behaves, whether when regaining control of her in this manner following her defiance or when ending her, has much to do with her own behaviour, and, since his yet immobile organ currently has her shaken by way of most unpleasant tingling travelling throughout her body as the latter awaits the activation of her master’s master, she is well aware that much worse pain is yet to come.

Was that smile worth this? Healer needlessly reiterates, just as Tristan’s imposing appendage is set in motion, just as his disciplinal switch, baton, cane begins to vigorously  push itself  into her, not only reaching her very limits, but, as always, desiring and seeking an avenue beyond them. Catherine clenches her teeth.

For his part, as he first travels in and out, Tristan immediately questions his decision to have placed the T on the outside of Catherine’s lip, on the outside of that nether female fold, and imagines what it would feel like now to have located it on the inside instead, and to consequently have her damaged skin rubbing up against his ultra-sensitive stretch with every push and retreat. However, since he decided that his mark should be seen, he lets go of that tactile fantasy in order to better enjoy reality. There is much to enjoy, after all, in his reality.

When his hips then change gears to more competently contribute to the attainment of what his malehood desires both physically and egotistically, Tristan’s eyes once more travel his female’s body. They elatedly and hungrily enjoy her flex-created and flex-supported position, and even the minutiae, the finer points of his connection to his female’s self-effacing pose, of his connection to this arrangement of her body that solely serves his desire, is of intense delight to Tristan.

Along with this scrumptious sight, sensation, confidence in what he is accomplishing, sounds of his female’s difficultly delicate breathing and gratifying memory of his permanent trespass upon her times-two not only further enhance the intensity of the moment, but also vow to add much to the bliss to come, to the imminent, ever-so-pleasurable nether-area sneeze that all of him is so very concentrated upon, and most enthusiastically devoted to, creating, and which his body, thanks to the master’s fantabulous weekend medicine, will manage, despite its recent exertion and gifting. Finally, as icing on and in between the layers of the cake, the accelerant effect of the playroom itself, of its myriad of toys, not surprisingly also contributes to the thrill of Tristan’s infringement, to the ecstasy of his multi-layered violation. Thus, even before the KABOOM, invalidating and overturning his female’s defiance in this very way powerfully satisfies him.         

By continuing contrast, and not unexpectedly so since Catherine is restrained so very well, her master’s forceful thrusts can be nothing else but exceptionally painful to her, since her body cannot give in any way, cannot move up at all, neither to spare her tender, inner world even ever so slightly, nor to put an end to the agonizing pain being generated over and over again by the tender wound upon her newly-altered nether lip being rhythmically pressed up and flattened, being forcefully battered against her inner thigh, due to the unyielding rule of her master’s relentless fullness in motion. Although her respiratory deficiency has all of Catherine on highest alert, especially with her master’s repeated ins and outs forcing the collar to dig in more and more, forcing its unalterable boundaries and inflexible edges to more fiercely attack her neck, what has Catherine currently dearly fighting groaning, however, is that inescapable pain in her nether area.

How incredibly weak of you, Tristan, that you needed break-up s-x . . . She attempts to shore herself up with by striking, as her nether valley is struck.

That nerve quickly softens, however, when her master’s ample breadth begins to thrust even faster.

My breath should be audible. It should be . . . a witness to . . . this activity, but I can barely breathe, Catherine vaguely puts together, before she bites her bottom lip hard and winces with just as much might, as utter terror that she might nevertheless find a way to scream out loud washes over her. I can barely breathe, but leave it to Tristan to find a way to have me nonetheless terrified of somehow managing to scream out, despite having so little breath. Despite having none to spare. The expression “take my breath away” is . . .  I wish that I were stronger, that my body could just absorb the pain, or at least not have it affect it so visibly, so I could . . . so I could stand up to him, but you’re right, healer: this pain, right now, is so unbearable as it is, that to invite more . . . Pause. Since I’m actually striving not to make a sound as commanded, does that mean that part of me still holds the ridiculously stupid and pathetic small hope that . . . that . . .

That smile was most inappropriate.

His breathing is most inappropriate! Catherine snaps back, wishing that she could warn her master against making noises just like he warned her, since his moans and laboured breath, which is in that state for reasons different than her own, are at present like daggers to her ears, and are in fact so thoroughly hated, in this moment, that their sound soon fades in and out of her mind, before they are so fully despised, in this incarnation, that the pressure in her ears changes, cycles, in an attempt to avoid registering them altogether.

But rather than because of emotion, could this strange recording be the result of blood pressure failing me, due to lack of oxygen and to my heart going without, being deprived, and aiming to therefore just give up? Doing without blood, I mean, she puts together, a second before, as she continues to be both pained and yet anaesthetized as well by the backs and forths of her master’s empathy-less ins and outs, the room spins for her, the floor sways and makes her feel as if she is on a ship navigating extremely rough seas, and tempest-battering then seizes and dominates her so that she feels most collapsible against the waves’ wounding wedges. There was no curtailing, no reining in his intense, throbbing stiffness below, of course, once he . . . No matter what I said, did. It would’ve neither appreciated nor easily accepted that course of action. I . . .  Where do I begin? Where do I end? She fuzzily wonders.

However, when her master leans his upper body forward towards hers without breaking his connection to her, and when a part of him thus comes to rest atop the other T that he “gifted” her, atop that first mark that he left behind, Catherine’s mind manages to register the new unevenness of her skin, as it is now being offered a flat surface to assess itself against.

You’re on your knees, but you’re still powerful, still in control. Stupid master drug. What men devote time and money and resources to developing, when so many other medical issues actually matter because life itself hangs in the balance . . . Men’s priorities, just never right.

“Thank me, Catherine,” Tristan orders, powerfully but also rather breathlessly as well, after leaning forward upon her some more, as much as is possible, while still remaining connected to her by way of the flex.

His thrusting pauses when his female remains quiet.

“Thank me, Catherine,” he repeats, with more power than breathlessness this time. After another moment of silence, Catherine’s master leans back and resumes his deeper thrusting, but at a slower pace this time, with each entry a sharp, distinct stab-ing aimed to persuade, to induce his female into replying, into obeying him.

More silence, however, follows.

“Oh, you will thank me,” Tristan then evenly menaces, before sending a hand to the collar’s tail.

The effect of the one small, tiny pull of it that ensues is all that is required for Catherine to desperately will herself to speak, despite all that her body is going through, despite all that is currently working against her ability to communicate, to have any voice at all. 

“Thank . . . you . . .  sir,” she manages to whisper.

“What?”

“Thank . . . you . . .  sir.”

“What for?” Tristan demands, still thrusting in a slower, spearing motion.

“For . . . this . . . honour.”

“You’re so very welcome. My . . . pleasure,” he replies. “Now, you’re going to be my good girl, during the remaining cycle, aren’t you?”

Since Catherine must concentrate more than ever on breathing, following the exertion of her double reply, not only does she not answer her master, but in no way does she even acknowledge his words either. Her eyes remain closed.

“You had better be my good girl, Lovely,” Tristan firmly warns her, but without punishing her, this time, because, in his mind, the very edge before the point of no return has been reached, as recognized by way of his opened file.

Consequently, since he believes that that edge applies and not the point of no return itself, despite seeing his female struggling, despite seeing her wilting right before his eyes, master Tristan, believing himself fully knowledgeable, allows no part of himself to even consider reaching out to loosen Catherine’s collar, nor to move the flex in any way that will lessen its might against her neck. Neither does he allow his mind to even whisper to him that he is perhaps much too much in the moment to effectively evaluate his female’s current predicament, which means that, in typical male fashion, he is perhaps currently overlooking much, as nothing else in the world matters to him right now other than reaching bliss, which is a male principle that is of course always faulty, as well as so very often appallingly destructive.

“What dire, calamitous consequences arise without fail from any behaviour that one cannot stop, once begun. What monstrous, hideous conduct such behaviour therefore always is,” Catherine hazily recalls her writer friend commenting.

Catherine. Catherine.

I can’t hold on, she returns to healer.

Just a few more seconds. He’ll loosen your collar, healer insists.

All for his pleasure! More important than my very breath, my very life!

Hands would no doubt waver and could therefore not guarantee continuous airflow, neither could rope or . . . but the command of this fixed collar by way of the hand that commands it is stable, unchanging when . . . Just a few more seconds. Retain consciousness.

Convince my body to do so. Coax it, if you have the power, she faintly pleads with healer. I most certainly don’t want to once again be unaware around Tristan. Before this weekend, I refused to sleep while he was around, because I never trusted him enough to be unconscious in his presence, and I have even less of a reason to be in that state now. But I’m slipping away. I can’t even open my eyes. My mind is deprived. My heart is . . . My heart is so very slowed . . . My heart is . . . She stops when a deep thrust is accompanied by a culminating sound that she knows oh-so well.

“That sound, at the very moment when bliss comes over a male, it can express a sentiment that contradicts whatever niceness was put on by him, whatever likeability he first exhibited to coax a woman into being intimate with him. But does true male niceness and kindness ever even show up at all to begin with, nowadays, or are those traits no longer even a part of the makeup of most young men, seeing the intimate violation culture that surrounds us?” Catherine recalls her writer-friend recording in her work. Since she feels fainter and fainter, her friend’s voice seems louder to her, closer to her, even though the words themselves do not all come in clearly.

“‘It’s just s-x,’ men say, especially young men, who want all women to be wh-res. But if it is, then why don’t those young men just go without it, uh? If it’s ‘just’ something? If it’s just a nickel, you don’t pick it up. If it’s just worth one percent of a grade, you don’t stress out or even do the work, if you’re too busy. But there’s of course nothing ‘just’ about s-x. And women are now being manipulated to the point of breaking, and not just to bending a little this way or that way,” Catherine hears another voice from the streets add.

“Which nobody can deny,” she then drowsily finds herself singing, as if adding the chorus after a rapped verse. “Which nobody can deny,” she repeats. But men do deny. Women spill their hearts, their guts out, and men offer them nothing but a cold wall, no understanding, and worse, threats and hatred. “Which nobody can deny. Which nobody can deny. For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow. For he’s a jolly good fellow . . .” Catherine’s oxygen-deprived mind lightly loops.

Her singing ends abruptly, however, when she registers Tristan’s spewing landing upon her womanly mounds, and then upon her neck and face. One of her master’s fingers is then felt caressing one of her breasts, and when she next senses this digit against one of her brandings, she guesses correctly that it is spreading there what it just acquired of her master’s gifting, higher up. After a return to her chest, this finger then spreads creative material into her other raw marking as well. Although Tristan’s touch is light, Catherine nonetheless ever so softly moans in pain.

“Guess that’s not linked to handling me,” her master concludes. “Still sore to the touch, of course. Some say that creative material helps with healing. I’ve never tested the theory before,” Tristan  adds, before he stands up, wipes his hand, and walks to a cupboard.

Catherine barely registers her master’s words and moreover only faintly realizes that he has walked away, since only a fine thread now keeps but a small part of her in his world, since she now feels pulled away so much more than she feels grasped to stay.

When Tristan returns, he holds a camera. He would normally use his phone, but it was taken from him at the start of the weekend.  No electronics allowed.

“Don’t you smile, now,” he jests, before taking photos of his female from different angles, including a few that highlight her brandings.

He is not capturing pictures of her art and designs, however, but of her as a whole, as she is currently tied up, as she is currently positioned exactly as he wants her.

“They’ll look different once your body’s processed them, after it’s accepted them and made them it’s own. It doesn’t have a choice. You don’t,” he comments, referring to her brandings. “Open your eyes,” he then commands his female, wishing to take a couple more shots.

“Can’t . . . breathe,” Catherine struggles to mouth.

So little sound escapes her lips that a rock star like Tristan, whose hearing should be affected by touring, should not be able to pick them up at all. But they do.

“Of course you can breathe. Stop saying that. You’d be dead otherwise, so you can breathe,” he corrects her, before reviewing the photos that he just snapped, since he concludes that his female will not open her eyes. “You mean that you can hardly breathe,” he evenly adds, before removing the memory card from the camera and slipping it into one of his pockets.  “I’m a master at this, Catherine. You just have to trust me. Now, I have to fix the art on your neck and in your face,” he casually informs her.

A corpse can be entered in the end contest, then? In the abstract competition? A  part of Catherine vaguely considers, as it is her next breath -- one that must continue to be of service to her body at least in some small way -- that occupies her mind, a mind that now almost fully operates in the background, away from consciousness, and that uses up there, for the purpose of survival, most of the oxygen that manages to find its way in.

“What I did is only slightly against the rules,” Tristan decides, before he removes more of his creative material from his female’s body -- but with a tool this time -- and spreads it onto the lid of a small case that contains a “toy.” “When I take your collar off, I’ll  use this come to fix the mess that it’ll leave behind, and then I’ll fix the mess that you created by talking, a mess that I remind you came to be because you broke a rule, and then, after you did, you had to talk. So, it’s all your fault. All of this. Punishment is always the punishee’s fault,” he informs her, before he sprays the first fixative upon what of his gifting remains on her body.

If I hadn’t left his side when he slept, none of this would have happened. This wouldn’t be happening. I know, the part of Catherine that remains capable of thought deep within her once again considers.

When he applies the second fixative, that’ll make a double dose of both fixatives in such a short period of time, and in your face and neck, of all places, healer replies.

I was doing so much better, after the race, Catherine returns, currently not quite capable of fully grasping that concern.          

“Open your eyes.”

When Catherine does not, Tristan uses his fingers to force them open, which she would normally hate, since she would never touch her eyes without having washed her hands first. But that does not register now.

“Not even a speck of red in them. I’m such a master,” Tristan commends himself, after inspecting his female’s eyes and allowing them to close again by removing his fingers. 

Red from the fixative, or as in signs of looming suf-ocation, a-phyxia?

Continue to take small breaths, healer encourages Catherine, as Tristan, despite being very much aware that his female’s body is complaining, that her respiration is, continues to believe more in his file than in what he sees, and thus begins to design upon his living canvas rather than loosening its collar. When doubt threatens to rear its head, he reminds himself that pushing his female is to his advantage, to his goal’s. Back on track.

“This’ll have to do,” he announces, two minutes or so later. “Simple, but it’ll have to do, because it’s almost time for the show,” he adds. When he reaches into his pocket for the second fixative, Catherine’s eyes open slightly. “No, you close them now. Hey, Lovely, close your eyes,” he repeats, when it is apparent that the words have not registered.

“Will doing that . . . make the . . . monster . . . go away?” That same part of Catherine that is barely holding on dares to reply, puts all of her faint energy into managing to reply.

“I don’t know. But I do know that dying will bring them all out, so watch your mouth,” her master returns. “I actually feel better, now that you’re branded. You’ll always be reminded, when you see my mark on you, that you’re mine. This punishment worked out well.”

Why do you feel better? Because I almost escaped? But you knew, when you brought me in here, that I’d never get the chance to get away, to ever even try again, so, you just wanted what you feel now. All for you. But those marks will mean nothing, buried with my rotting flesh, Tristan. Nothing.

He’s replaced the designs that you ruined, healer reminds her, counters. Now he’ll take off your collar.

Designs that he ruined, placing me on this torture-contraption, and putting that collar around my neck. My pain made him so hard . . .

You can’t talk now, not until the end, when the contest is over. Don’t move your face. He’ll remove the collar now, healer reassures her.

So much fixative, in so little time, and in my face and neck, of all places, absorbed there, she now processes. I can’t breathe . . . She then repeats, before Tristan’s cold response to those words returns to her. He knows that I’m dead. Either in this room, or when weekend play ends. He’s made the decision, and yet he talks as if . . . So cold.

He hasn’t mentioned any of that, Catherine.

He doesn’t have to, does he? He probably still wants my mind, just to be able to say that he won, but only a man could think it ever possible to get it now, to get any piece of it, after all this.

He’ll loosen the collar now, so you two can return to the ballroom, healer insists.

Ballroom! Oh, what a ball this world is! What woman wouldn’t want to be a part of it and enjoy it ever so much?!

He . . .

He can’t trust me! Catherine interrupts.

How much did he trust you before? He never told you a thing, so there won’t be much difference, really, not in the big picture. Just in how he feels, knowing that you betrayed him, healer replies. If . . .

The monsters come out, after death. He said so, Catherine interrupts once more. How am I even still conscious of his presence, and still capable of putting words together, at least in here?

Maybe he really does know what he’s doing.

Or maybe I’m stronger than he is. Why can’t you say that, ever? Maybe my resolve . . .

Your resolve was indeed strong, and stronger, healer slips, most unintentionally  interrupting.

I . . . I can feel that it’s thicker, now, the creative material and fixative in my face, on my neck, so I think that it would crack more easily, now, if I were to move my lips, my face much.  Pause. He doesn’t even care at all, that he sprayed so much fixative on me, in such a short period of time.

It was recommended that masters not come every hour either, let alone more than once an hour, and he hasn’t cared about that either.

Typically male, yes. No caring for himself, so none for his mate. Pause. How is it that I didn’t even consider that he might put that second T where he did? I told you that Tristan would always be Tristan. I told you all along, when you were saying stupid things, or hinting at them. If I were free . . .

Like you were free to mess up and get yourself here? Healer cuts in.

Silence.

 Two T’s. One, not enough. Because he’s TNT. If a doctor saw, would he report it? Aren’t doctors supposed to report abuse, by law? It still burns. God, it burns. I burn . . .

No, Catherine. The pain is eased, now. You do not burn.

“For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow,” some part of her sings, annoyingly, sarcastically.

“Catherine, you’re not like the non-refundables who stand closer to their master with no good reason,” Laura’s words then cut in, before thought of Mars and Venus return to her as well, and something about pills to be able to survive the other world, the one that is not one’s own.

My medicine . . .

“The second one is always easier,” Catherine unexpectedly hears a female voice cut in, out of the blue.

“There are exceptions, however,” another female voice replies. “Tristan’s female can tell you all about that.”

Who are they, healer? I can’t speak with them.

Just your imagination.

Composing?

“Tristan had the two of them out in the middle of nowhere, overseas, at some desert palace for a private weekend concert, just a few days before her due date. She didn’t want to go with him, but he insisted. And she went into labour, and she almost died, because the doctor that he brought along with them -- because the obstetrician he trusted was needed back home by his older cousin’s side -- got drunk and passed out. Needless to say that that man was never seen again.  So, his female’s second wasn’t easier. She was so upset with Tristan that, even though the pain was excruciating and everyone was concerned that she might die before the sandstorm cleared out and flying in and out was possible again, she kept calling him names and assuring him that she wanted a divorce, if she survived. All the guests there that weekend witnessed that storm against him, or heard it, since they were all huddled in the ballroom, which was the only room where there were no windows and everyone could therefore be safe from the unusually brutal storm. But not from his female’s. There was a lot of screaming. Of course, Tristan found a way back into her heart, after she recovered, but it took him weeks, because, for weeks after the birth, whenever he tried anything, she’d just start counting out loud, drowning him out, while remaining perfectly calm otherwise, and thus mocking him, in this way, for his so-called contribution during delivery. She reminded him over and over again of how much she suffered while he didn’t suffer at all, and of how she almost died because he put himself first, forcing her to accompany him so he wouldn’t miss the birth. He didn’t need reminding, however: he was rather pale for days after the birth, I thought. Before she came into his life, no one had ever imagined any woman having enough power over Tristan to make him suffer for weeks like she did.”

“They went with all T’s, right?”

“Yeah. Tennyson and Tennessee , sons of Tristan and T . . . ”

Stop! I DON’T compose! And I can’t slip away now! I have to remain conscious! He branded me! Twice! He . . .

Catherine’s eyes open slightly and then close again, but a blurry peek is enough for a part of her mind to manage to return to the room.

“Hey, I need help with wh-re removal. The body’s by the elevator, in the staff hallway,” a voice sends into the room, before entering it. A few more steps, however, and the attendant sees that he has walked in on a master. He freezes. “I’m sorry. I believed that only another attendant could be in here,” he adds, before quickly exiting.

Catherine frowns slightly, as recall of the woman she hit with a statue returns to her, as the first thought of this non-refundable since she awakened in the playroom is now forced to return to what little of her mind remains to interact with the real world.

“You didn’t kill her,” Tristan’s voice breaks in, decides on the spot, lies to her. “Do you hear me? She would’ve been okay, but her master was furious at her petty jealousy, so he did her in.”

She died? Is all that Catherine, however, truly manages to process. Ear, tongue, life . . .

As Tristan’s eyes remain on his female’s face even though hers remain closed, he repeats to himself that Catherine completely over the edge would not do for what he wants from her, and he once more concludes that for her to know that she killed would be one of those huge things that she would not recover from, and that she would therefore allow to control her, which means that he could not control her. Since knowledge of what she did must therefore be kept from her, cannot be used against her, he further concludes that he did the right thing, just now, countering the attendant’s words as quickly as he did.

What he himself just put her through in this playroom, however, he is convinced will not push her over the edge.

I just have to loosen her collar, now, and then wait for oxygen to return sense to her, he tells himself, quite pleased that, after slipping at first, he had then recovered, which had allowed him to be amused and pleasured tremendously, all while effectively reminding his female of her proper place.

“Three more hours of play, Lovely.”

Stop counting!