THIRTY-FIVE  

Shooting for the Moons

After Catherine’s coughing bout, she and Tristan return to the contest. He accompanies her all the way to the wall, which makes many female hearts feel faint at his attentive behaviour. They wonder who Catherine is, to merit such attention from someone like Tristan. They know about his persona versus his true self, but they choose to ignore the latter, since it is convenient at the moment to see him as the man that he puts on for the world.

Once her master walks away, Catherine is once more positioned by an attendant, on her hands and knees and facing the wall. A different non-refundable, since Tristan now belongs to a different round of shooters, then takes her place somewhat above her, facing away from the wall, and thus able to see the shooters while she keeps Catherine’s target visible for their aim.

As he observes the masters of his new lot when competing begins, Tristan soon realizes that the shooters ahead of his effort are not aiming for Catherine. They don’t want another man to be allowed to sample her, when they couldn’t, he deduces, incredulously. A true shot from a master reaching her target, does, after all, allow another master to penetrate her, as part of his warm-up for competing. The men either fear that that warm up will give other shooters an advantage, or they are  indeed unwilling to allow another man what they themselves did not get to enjoy.

When it is Tristan’s turn to be allowed to penetrate a target hit by the previous corresponding shooter in line, this target is located right next to Catherine. The shooter hit only one. Many shooters hit none at all, at least not perfectly well, and imperfect hits do not count.

Tristan would normally swagger to his allowed rear-end and penetrate it masterfully, without care, while freeing his mind to happily play alongside his manhood. However, after his approach, his eyes instead find Catherine’s, since, from where he was standing in line, he could not see them in order to gauge the progress of her recovery.

She frowns slightly, when his eyes enquire, and her own then respectfully tell her master to get on with it, and so, to lower his pants and to allow his mind, by way of his eyes on the posterior mounds of flesh now before him, to get him hard. Catherine then turns her face forward again, since looking backwards and up hurts her neck. Weekend experience has taught her that such contortion of her body, however, does not damage the art upon her skin.

With the help of a few deeper breaths, she then prepares to look back, once Tristan’s shaft is inserted, once his firmness is within and enjoying slipping itself in and out. She knows that, just like he takes pleasure in partaking in every type of weekend-play blending, her master will no doubt expect to look down and see a combination of her face and her contorted position, with her own behind made prominent, in addition to the connection in front of him, as well as to the nude non-refundable who remains somewhat above his submissive, holding her rear cheeks apart. As for the non-refundable whom Tristan will be penetrating, she will briefly not display her target, as he makes use of it, and the woman responsible for the task of insuring that it is seen once again after he vacates it will remain close by, as another present to the master‘s eyes. True submissives are never cheek holders.

When Catherine turns her face up and back again, however, she set eyes on Tristan looking back into hers, and nowhere else. Not within himself as he entertains some sex scene in his mind, nor at a connection before him, since none is achieved.

I don’t want the Tristan-persona! She screams at him, within herself. You fake, hypocritical . . . You . . .

His eyes leave hers and travel down her back all the way to its drop-off area, as she kneels, and then travel all the way back up again. Time soon runs out, and Tristan has not played, has not kick-started his turn, has not penetrated the exquisite rump before him that Catherine is certain that he very much wanted to spread apart and enjoy.

Is he angry? She then worries. Was it my fault that he didn’t? In his opinion, anyway. Is he unhappy?

She draws in a deep breath, registers a part of her reminding her that that deep breath is possible thanks to Tristan’s care, and then raises her eyes to the wall before her. Another deep breath, and she is able to stop that wall from feeding a recent obsession.

Catherine then realizes that she is most interested in knowing whom Tristan has chosen to get him to shooting form, and refuses that any part of her mind judge her because of it. Looking all the way backwards, however, is impossible, from her present position, since she must remain so very still. Or face consequences. Unruly non-refundable targets already have.

 Tristan won’t miss, and he would never throw a game, so, at least one man will be at me again, she thinks to herself, the queasy feeling that she felt at the wall threatening to return to her. There’s no one to help me. No police to go to. This is my life, and it can be my death, in a heartbeat, depending on how I behave. Right. Behave. As in obey. Whereas this line of thinking was initiated with the purpose of reiterating the facts of her life, including attaching the label of “bully” to Tristan, it does not quite end that way, however, and, instead of separating herself through those facts, something within her finds some small attachment. Oh, he saved me?! So what? I wouldn’t even have been here to begin with, needing to be saved, if he hadn’t made me his prisoner! Of course, I could be dead instead, with everyone else who was murdered a year ago . . .

When Tristan is announced as the next shooter, Catherine learns that her master is now not far away. However, since she continues to face the wall, she cannot know exactly when he is loaded up and ready to shoot, from behind the line as per the rule, and, consequently, anticipation plays upon her, as the whole of her mind concentrates on the area of her body that he will be aiming at, that will be touched by a part of him. Her mind did no such thing when other masters were up.

When she soon feels herself hit, spewed upon, her frontal nether region unexpectedly contracts, pulls itself in, at this sudden touch of her master’s creative material. She closes her eyes and her mind combines the tingling sensation that comes next with a flash of her master’s blissful face, and with the recalled sight of his powerful discharge. More contracting, more life. Moistness.

Catherine quickly opens her eyes, displeased at her reaction. A look around her then reveals to her that her master not only hit his three targets, but also hit the female faces that are at cheek height, holding them apart. Swagger is back.

“You’re such a show off,” a master jests, one of several who are amused. All in good fun. Entertaining, come games. Thanks to such a wonderful drug, empowering the masters so.

Tristan hitting his three targets means two things: one, that he will compete again, against the other men who were just as skilled, which will therefore make Catherine a target once more, and two, that a shooter will soon use her as his kick-start in this very round, along with the two holes beside her.

Tristan’s submissive tenses up when this man kneels behind her and sends his hands to the part of her body that presently interests him the most. His paws soon give each half of that body part a few appreciative squeezes, as well as a few naughty-discipline slaps that bring life to his face, dancing in this eyes. The master then sends the tip of his manhood against the circular wall in between the two presently reddened mounds, and his hardness pushing against it makes it give way, allowing him to penetrate Catherine. He moans as he first does so, and then repeats the sound with every single thrust after that. The noise is so very grating to Catherine, but this irritation of her mind, however, does not succeed in cancelling out the feel of the physical irritation perpetrated by him upon her body.

Catherine does not know who the master is. No face is on her mind, as none can be. He is just there. And she hates him, the act, and that non-stop pleasured breathing, when she, in fact, does not want to give him any enjoyment nor satisfaction at all. As the noises continue, she imagines herself scratching his eyes out. Get the fuck out of me!

Catherine.

I’m alive, she tries, to distract herself with, to regain control with. The words, however, take on slightly more than their physical sense -- ever so slightly -- and Catherine finds herself yet again most annoyed. Sir? And now this? Okay. Enough. Tristan is no hero. Hero!!

When the master finally does exit, Tristan’s submissive takes a deep breath, teeth clenched. All of her body, in fact, is clenched, and visibly so.

A moment later, she knows that the master’s manhood is within another of the two warm-up holes allowed to him, but not a sound he makes now, which irritates her even more. She debates whether or not to attempt to see his face, and, after a moment, does look backwards and up. Because it has to be better to know. At least. To hate something known, and not some great unseen, like an invisible force. Like God.

Even, healer reminds her.

After no other shooter hits Catherine’s rear target during the round, she is instructed to stand up. The protective plastic that was placed on her legs and held in place firmly in order to reduce the likelihood of smudging is then removed from her by an attendant, and he studies her art closely afterwards, which means a close examination of her nude body, while she stands still and allows it. Catherine has not become comfortable with such scrutiny. The attendant then takes a snapshot of a non-disqualifying-contest smudge, enters it into her digital file, and then moves on to the next canvas.

When Catherine rejoins Tristan, his hands offer her a water bottle while his eyes immediately seek the smudge that he saw recorded. The erasing of a little bit of art earlier on in order to allow the injection will not count either. As she looks into her master’s eyes, a part of Catherine wishes that he were not so competitive, and not so skilled, while another part of her throws her for a spin that she cannot and will not define as anything else but altogether annoying. The word of the moment.

The bodies of the eleven men who qualified for the second round are allowed time to reload. When they are ready, Catherine, alongside the other ten submissives of the competing masters, finds herself a target once again, and once more carefully positioned by an attendant, right by the wall

As it is determined that these eleven men are naturally “skilled” before the drug blesses them with even more, a change of rules is put in place: the winner this time will be the man who hits the most consecutive targets. Since Catherine is positioned in the center of the target range, she will definitely be aimed at, since successfully hitting her target will be necessary in any winning sequence, which in turn means that she will be penetrated again  and again by manhoods given that right by a previous successful shooter.

They could’ve let us see the winners, during the break. God, why do I keep thinking such stupid things? Nothing is ever for the submissives. That we don’t know, that’s part of their fun. That we don’t know who the hell is inside us, using us, screwing us, that turns them on, both the men doing, and the men watching. They’re all cruel and heartless. Thinking only of themselves and their fun and their games, Catherine bemoans, as soon as she realizes that she must be hit to win, and all that that entails.

Since this extra round begins during the master/canvas hour of the next cycle, some masters elect to remain in their work stations, to do their thing there, and to watch the end of the contest on the screens, with nice close-ups of hits and connections. Other masters, however, prefer to return to watch the shooting live and up close. As it is masters who are competing, no one will be punished for the competition spilling past its one-hour time slot.

Catherine is not surprised when she is hit, and hit again, and again. On and on. And so, whatever reservation that the men of the first round had about aiming for her may very well have reflected their belief that the other shooters were not skilled enough to return the favour and to get them into her as well. The skilled men participating now, however, do not care, and want to win, so they hit their mark. Her target.

Every time that she feels a man’s spewing precipitated against her, Catherine swallows hard. She very much wants to wipe those men off herself, and the feeling is nothing at all like what she felt when she wiped her own master off her body.

God, I’m just an ass! One of a near dozen posed to amuse men, up against another wall. If my skull were hard enough to at least dent that wall, then I might . . . But there’s no way. It’s reinforced by . . . everything.

When it is Tristan’s turn to kick-start his preparation to compete, he works his way down the line of consecutive behinds that a previous shooter’s skill allowed him, and he happily penetrates this time. Catherine is third in that arc.

“Home sweet home,” her master whispers, when he inserts his stiffness within her. She would most certainly not want him connected to her in the male-female way now, after his visit within two other women’s rear orifice, before slipping into hers.

Back to doing what you want to do. All about you. Thanks. I hate you. I really do. Just pushing it all deeper inside me, what you picked up, what’s on your dick, she adds to herself, before wincing, as he thrusts deeper. His manhood is definitely one of the more impressive ones at the gathering. I really don’t think that other women are in as much pain as I am when . . . Well, whoever’s getting you there, to shooting form, have a nice taste, she concludes, hoping now that it is the redhead. For the first round, however, Tristan made use of another submissive, one that Catherine had not even noticed before, which made her angrily think that Tristan respected the redhead too much to have her endure such a thing as taking him orally, after he had taken anally. If he had taken anally, during that first round.

Tristan softly taps the back of Catherine’s head twice as his departure signal, before he withdraws from her and moves on to penetrating the submissive beside her. Even though she does not want to, Catherine looks up and back at him again, as he thrusts into that other rear, because that is the thing for a submissive to do. She looked up at him as well, when he was within the submissive he poked before sending his manhood into her. The women on either side of Catherine are standing, while she is once again on her hands and knees. She can tell by the look on Tristan’s face that he is very much into the moment. All fun and games. Most definitely back to what he wants to do.

Just Tristan being Tristan. And I’m not stupid: whatever you do, you’re just messing with my mind, and nothing more. And you do it on purpose, because masters teach each other how to do it, how to get what they want. How to win. But I’m on to you. It won’t work. You can’t have it. All of me. My mind. And how can all of you just keep at it, everything sex, for forty-eight hours? How can every master here not be sick of sex? Well, how can you not at least be sick of your true submissive, after forty-eight hours of this? She adds, before the masters’ repeated words that true submissives are not like most other women return to her mind, and annoy her, like so much does at this very moment. Brainwashing.

It is not long before she rolls her eyes when she feels Tristan’s spewing hasten to her once again, as he hits her target once more. His delivery feels more powerful to her than the other masters’.  She, however, feels nothing more this time, and shakes her head at what she experienced during the first round, the first time that his creative material made contact, when his aim had been true so soon after his care and after his not penetrating the woman allowed him. All a master’s game. And I’m feeling better now. So, tough for you.

She nevertheless turns her face to her left, upwards and back, and sees her master’s discharge also hit the target situated there. She is then able to see two more targets experience the same fate after that one, before her view allows for no more. All the targets are hit quickly, of course. Or missed quickly.

Please don’t let there be a third round.

There is not, since there are other decisive factors, in addition to hitting targets, that come into play to determine the winner, and, when all  is tallied up, Tristan is once again the top gun.

This just in: video of Tristan Maller coming, Catherine thinks to herself. And again, and again, she adds, as images of his hitting targets return to mind, before so many other such moments quickly flip by, as if one per card, in a deck brought to life by an expert shuffler. Enough!

“Maybe we would all be so skilled, if we had a submissive like his,” a master with a non-refundable comments. “Does she have sister?” He jests.

“I don’t know,” Tristan nevertheless replies, the thought of Catherine’s biological family, an entity that in its entirety or in any of its parts could come between him and Catherine and not make her all his anymore, without anyone in the world but him, annoying him.

Despite trying not to let it show at all, Catherine is visibly sore, as she walks to Tristan. She was tender from previous activities -- from the wall outside, as well as from other masters’ assaults -- but the added penetration during the second round of this mini-contest has made her discomfort more difficult for her to hide. She only somewhat fails at keeping it to herself, however, and the result is therefore not a blatant, ridiculous walk. But still.

When she reaches her master, rumination about his designing-to-be on his living-canvas draws his attention more than her soreness does, which just reminds Catherine once again that Tristan is Tristan. That men are men, she further adds to herself. Doing for their sake, and not caring at all about what it does to others, she angrily adds. More of that anger, however, is presently directed at herself than at her thought.

The protection placed over her legs for the second round left no additional smudging of her art, and, as her master’s eyes register that information and then continue to calculate whatever it is that they are projecting upon her naked body, Catherine exhales with more force than usual, before looking up at a very large screen. Although there was no such screen on the wall that she and the other submissives were facing during competition, Catherine nevertheless knew that the ballroom’s many electronic displays were alive with the contest because she could hear the masters’ “oohs” and “ahhs” that accompanied the replays of creative material shots, sounds that came from all over the grand room. She now sees those shots for herself, as the screen before her continues to replay round two of the rear-target competition. 

“Who got you to shooting form?” She asks Tristan, a minute later. The words leave her lips without full approval of her mind.

“One of the whores who wouldn’t shut up during the line races. I shoved myself  down her throat, and she didn’t gag: she choked,“ he replies. “You need a stay-up pill,” he then adds, after a quick look into her eyes.

Okay. We can agree on that need of mine. But you wouldn’t know of any others.

Once they reach his work station, Tristan commands her to stand on her pedestal, which he has elevated some more. She climbs up on it and then holds herself exactly as instructed by her master, in a position that allows men to see more of his markings upon her, of his art upon her, and from a height that allows more men to see her, from further away. She would much rather be sitting, due to pain, but that is not possible. She sends a hand to the bar that is now in place on the raised platform to help her steady herself if need be, to prevent a possible fall.

And, within seconds, it begins: eyes on her, on her nude body. Not that the men are not looking at the other disrobed, marked female bodies around them as well.

What men have already taken me, and now look at me, and think . . . what? Which ones will have a memory of me of that kind, whereas I . . . I just won’t know. And I’ll know that I don’t know, and I’ll wonder, whenever men arrive backstage to see Tristan, or join him for meetings. Or, if we ever spend time with another master and submissive, and something in that master’s eyes just . . . But I’ll never know. All the men’s eyes, their looks. And . . . certain sounds from them that might suggest to me that . . . Even though such sounds can signal a desired memory, and not just hint at one that is, that exists. Their great, big secret shared, about me, over me, between Tristan and them. But kept from me. But it’s my body. And no one here respects that. No one here cares. NO ONE. Did you fuck me? Did you? She asks passing masters.

She soon gives up on trying to guess, however, from looking into the men’s eyes, as they look at her body, at anywhere else upon it than into her eyes.