TWENTY-EIGHT

Seeing Red

 When Tristan returns to Catherine after his dealings, she looks down the corridor and sees that he is bringing with him three submissives to play and to amuse himself with, which means that three men will have to be pleased by her. As the group enters the instantly-crowded-work station, she notices that other masters are combining in larger groups as well, and knows that, in those combinations, everyone will truly mix, whereas in hers and Tristan’s, the masters, who are most interested in her, will stick to her, leaving the women to descend upon Tristan, which is naturally just fine by him.

You would rather mix with the females as well, the non-refundables? You would rather mix and blend with more bodies? No, you wouldn’t. So this setup works out better for you, healer reminds her.

I would rather mix with no one.

When the top of the hour strikes, the first thing that Tristan does this time, however, is push that redhead towards Catherine. Her master then orders the non-refundable to do to Catherine what Tristan fantasized about after his own submissive stepped off the slab, following her being at the redhead’s upturned nether region.

Since Catherine’s legs are designed, the submissive is supported by the three other masters in order that she be able to do what Tristan demands. She therefore lies in their hands, face up. After a moment, Tristan walks to the pair and scrapes off a little of his creative material from one of Catherine’s upper thigh, which he then places with a finger upon her nether lips, as well as at a little depth within her. The fixative should not be ingested, but the redhead is a non-refundable. Her own master then commands her to do as Tristan obviously desires.

Catherine looks away at first, her eyes meeting with no one’s, but Tristan then orders her to appreciate what his happening. When Catherine does not, he further instructs her.

“Get with, Lovely,” he orders. Three words, but a couple threatening notes sounded through them nonetheless.

Catherine therefore most unhappily commands her face to do as ordered, and it then changes, but she is not certain how desirable of a change appears on it, as measured by Tristan. She looks down at the annoyance and wishes that the woman there would choke on the fixative that she is being forced to ingest, since it is mixed in with Tristan’s emission, or that some of the fixative would somehow fall off her and into the woman’s eyes, and cause her pain.

Tristan is actually pleased with the face on his submissive, one that is the obvious result of such thoughts. One or the other expression was acceptable to him : either this hostile, power one, with that sneer, or one of extreme pleasure, with only worship upon it directed at how great the redhead’s tongue felt, how great it was seeing her there, taking all of it in, and loving it.

When the redhead stands up, after spending a little time at Catherine’s neighbouring orifice, Catherine glares at her. Uncontrollably. She hates everything about the woman. Looking into her face makes her blood boil.

Even.

Tristan’s eyes rest upon his submissive’s face, but she does not register the look at all, since she is so otherwise absorbed. After a moment, his index finger instructs the redhead to come to him, which she does with a great big smile upon her face, and then he, she, and the other two submissives take over the work station’s cot, and its spillage area all around. Catherine is very much aware that, for a moment, Tristan is like his persona-self with the women, as he first sniffs around his new playmates. Not literally. The hypocrisy further fuels her anger.

Even, healer repeats.

What am I supposed to make of his having that whore lick him off me? Catherine screams in her head. She then controls herself enough to discreetly look in his direction and sees that the three women’s hands are now all over him, and that his are alternating between the choice parts of the three female forms now set to pleasure him.

Even though she is not looking at him directly, Catherine’s eyes remain a little too long in his general direction and Tristan, who is about to completely lose himself in all the attention focused upon his body, in the physical stroking set to add to what was aroused in him by the show and then the mini-show just now, notices Catherine’s immobility.

“We set the rules,” he tells her, to reassure her, as that immobility to him can be nothing else in her but apprehension.

Catherine looks away and commands her attention onto the men, as it should be. Handsome enough men. In pretty good shape. Young enough. But there are too many, and I . . . I’m feeling ill. I don’t want them touching me. I don’t want to touch them.

Then die, inner healer replies. There is nothing else to say, since she is so very deep into the lion’s lair that there is no escape.

Don’t the other men lose out here? We just split down the middle, Catherine nervously adds to herself.

So you want the redhead at you again? Healer once more points out, about what would happen if the group truly blended. Catherine, what is this really about?

And what were the negotiations? She asks instead.

Females are kept out of the loop. You are your master’s.

Catherine looks into each of the men’s faces. They do not think that they are losing out, since they want to touch her. The might of that desire may surprise them a little, but it is not shocking, since she is an interesting form. As for other physical blending, it is not something that these men cannot enjoy elsewhere, and that they are therefore desperate to participate in here, at this event, as masters among the collective. But as for Catherine, however, as for Tristan’s very possession . . .

Anywhere else, and they could be dead for just thinking something like they will actually do now, and doing it remains dangerous even with Tristan’s permission, since, once out of here, away from this atmosphere and from all the sexuality around him that is distracting and possessing him, he could change his mind and give in to his resentment, being possessive as he is. His reputation precedes him. Furthermore, if he should later reject the masters’ code for any reason, at any time, the men might also then find themselves facing Tristan’s jealous, vindictive wrath. These masters, however, chosen by Tristan firstly for the appeal of their submissives, and, secondly, for their okay appeal for Catherine, as he figures -- not disgusting, but not him -- are incapable of allowing reason, or any possible anxiety, stop them at this moment.

Why do they look at me that way? Is it that they can see, in me, what my past has been? They have a special sense that makes them want me because of what is within me, because of what they sense that they would desire and enjoy, if, well, they only knew? Tristan wanted me right off, from a picture. Ordered me up. That bitch licked him off me.

She also kissed two areas of yours because he wanted her to.  He didn’t make you kiss her behind. Even, Catherine. No swinging to the extreme.

Look at those three: augmented to the size of beach balls. If that’s what he likes, then why am I his prisoner? I should be free. All of this should’ve never happened. I would be with Malika and . . .

Dead with her, at that serial killer’s hands, then? If you’d been on the streets, you’d be dead as well.

What’s the something that he, and the men who want to touch me, see? They want to measure themselves against my luck, do they? Is that what they sense? A sense of danger, of . . . 

Except that Tristan is immune to the craziness, and has several men around him who are as well.

Tell me why.

Could just be Tristan’s umbrella offering them his protection. He’s a lucky guy. A very lucky guy. Has some to lend to his closest attendants. Now pay attention to the men, Catherine.

The men are rough with her, taking turns, combining, manipulating her into positions that do not smudge the art on her legs. They are able to do it well, manipulate her, since two men can support, while the third enjoys. All three have removed their pants in order to be freer to achieve such positions, and they do not mind helping each other even while stiff.

As Catherine’s eyes yet again catch sight of the three organs reaching up as they buzz around her, a part of her wants to laugh at the silliness of it. The folly. The childishness, even, since all three are sharing a toy, finding ways to play with it well. Together. Another part of her, however, is in no laughing mood at all.

Some women would enjoy it. They’re not bad looking and restrictions make what they’re doing to you . . .

I’m not enjoying it, Catherine interrupts. I don’t want my lips, my tongue on any more men.

Since the three masters must wait for Tristan to be done with their non-refundables before allowing themselves to climax, Catherine must continue to entertain the men with her sounds. She knows that they want her to show them how much she loves what they are doing to her, how much skill they have, and on and on. It is always what they want. So, she does what she must, throwing in the breathing and the soft moaning, as they do this and that.

While Tristan thoroughly enjoys his being treated like a king, Catherine could do without this queenly moment during which her big thing is faking loving all that the men are doing to her, as it is they who are presently doing, although not with skill and not for her benefit, really. She is not enjoying herself since her mind cannot get into such a thing.

Tristan looks towards her, guided to do so because she once more does not sound like she normally does, with him. Although the men are content, he, for his part, would not be, if she were like that with him, if that hollowness is what he had to deal with every day, twice or three times. With him, however, she is mostly quiet, and whatever sounds do come from her are genuine. He is certain of it. As in when he pushes so very deeply within her that it hurts her, and she just misses hushing herself.

Catherine senses Tristan’s look and turns her face towards him, without thinking before the move, as people sometimes do due to a sense that has no name in humans. She sees that one of the non-refundables is at his lower front, that one is at his lower back, and that the other is keeping his hands occupied where one expects to find man’s hands on a nude, female form, and, if Catherine listens carefully, she is certain that she can hear that squeeze-toy sound that dogs’ toys make when played with. Squeeze, squeeze.

“I want to play volleyball,” Tristan soon announces to the women.

He has done everything that he wanted to do with them, and has had done everything that he wanted to have done by the three combining upon him. He has penetrated only their mouths, and their breasts have been the benefactors of his attention, of kissing, licking, nibbling, and touching. The women’s necks have also been fortunate enough to entice him and to have him there as well. Earlobes sometimes get that attention from him, nibbled on and kissed, in order to replace kissing a mouth during other simultaneous activities, but not these women’s. Their mouths, on the other hand, were everywhere on him. Everywhere. On Tristan Maller. Who never fakes experiencing pleasure. Who is always pleasured. Or else.

Catherine turns her face towards him at his volleyball words and sees him “serve.” One of the women on the cot is hurt, and when she turns away from him, he roughly turns her back.

“Are you disobeying your master?” He snaps at her, eyes instantly colder. “Next,” he soon announces, turning towards one of the two other women. 

Catherine returns her attention to her chore, to the men at her, and  continues to fake her way through their assault upon her body. Silly assault.

The woman who now has Tristan’s attention slips herself off the bed  in an attempt to avoid being hurt in the way that the first non-refundable just was, but does not land balanced when her feet hit the floor, and therefore crashes down to it.

“Excuse me,” Tristan politely tells the three men at Catherine’s body as he slips by them in order to get to the escapee, who is now next to the table in the station. “Oh, carry on,” he then adds to the men, before forcing the woman to her feet, first by gripping her hair, but then, by adding one of her arms to the grip of his other hand when she does not stand up again, preferring to have some of her hair yanked out into Tristan’s hand rather than to meet him up there. “I don’t quit a game before the buzzer sounds,” he tells her, once he has her on her feet again, and under his physical control. “My serve,” he adds.

When he once again does “serve,” the woman is pushed back with the momentum and falls once again, hitting her head upon the side of the table this time, before hitting it even harder on the floor. She loses consciousness.

“Bad slip. Your art. I’m so sorry,” Tristan tells the woman’s master. They both know, however, that the master does not care, and that a submissive “slipping” does not have to mean disqualification. “I can’t play when the opponent’s unconscious. My father taught me to be fair . . .  in games, in sports. But not in life,” he then adds. “I’ll have to get back to her,” he announces, before he once again walks by Catherine and her three current appendages. The look that she gives him brings a tiny smile upon his lips. “Looks like you’re having so much fun. Sounds like it too. She’s having a great time. Don’t stop,” he adds to the men.

Catherine returns her face to looking like Tristan just reminded her that it should, and resumes her noises as well.

He then approaches the redhead, who instinctively wants to avoid pain, and therefore pushes herself away from him as well. “How dare you embarrass your master this way. He gave you to me to play with, so you could grow and learn, so your master/submissive bond could be reinforced. Oh, right. You’re a whore. Well, ruining our play date won’t turn out well for you,” he threatens, in classic Tristan form. The eyes, the face, the tone. Fans never get to see those. Nothing media ever does.

The woman looks around her, desperately wanting a way out.

“How can females be so stupid? You really think that you can get away? Think all the other little females will stand up behind you, and then you can just leave? Do you have any idea how vast the grounds are? Well, you’re not going to talk your way out of any of this because babbling doesn’t work on us, and you sure as hell aren’t going to stop us any other way. Oh, Reddy, I thought that you got it,” he adds to the redhead, cold and with fake disappointment in his voice, face, and eyes.

Catherine turns her face towards him, and Tristan senses the move, but he does not turn his face towards her. He abruptly leaps towards the redhead instead, and grabs her. Leaving her behind a moment later, he returns to the woman on the floor, who is coming to.  He looks into Catherine’s eyes then, as he walks by her and the men once more, before reaching the second woman and pulling her to her feet.

“Conscious enough to play,” he then decides. “Such a close game. Have to concentrate,” he adds,  before serving the way that he has done five times already. Tristan then lets the woman fall to the floor again, since she was standing up only because he and the table behind her were supporting her.

“Mark her,” he instructs her master. “Ready for more of me?” He then adds to Catherine, as he once again passes by her. “Try not to lose your mind waiting one more minute,” he further adds, just as his eyes catch sight of the return of the older master, the one who gave his blessing hours ago. “I was just thinking how wrong it is that the schedule of our events doesn’t include the nurturing of one’s submissive while here,” Tristan tells him, without skipping a beat. “Forty-eight hours without such nourishment isn’t right. Look at mine: she’s starving. Wilting. It’s been twelve hours since she was granted the deliciousness of my delectable and delightful female-life-affirming come,” he adds. The old master does not know that that is not true. “But if I am a kind master, a thoughtful master, and take my responsibilities towards her and her emotional wellbeing seriously, then I can’t nourish her, because I’ll be one contribution short of the necessary twenty for the contest, if I do.”

The master is most serious as he considers Tristan’s words, and looks at Catherine, who is presently all hooked up in manhoods. “Nourish her body and soul, if you feel that it must be done. You won’t be penalized. I’ll see to it,” he then just as seriously replies. “I’ll watch and report.”

Of course you’ll watch, Catherine thinks to herself, stopping herself from frowning. She does not reveal, of course, that Tristan has just “fed” her, after he awakened from the sleep cycle. She does not understand why he wants to “feed” her again.

One of the three men detaches from Catherine and supplies creative material to his submissive, on the woman who is on the floor still, which makes the old master’s eyes find her there.

“She slipped and hit her head,” her owner explains.

Tristan returns to the two women who are on the cot, and, despite his having injured them, he is soon made ready by them to “feed” Catherine. They have no choice. He soon hops onto the pedestal, and his submissive is quick to stand before him.

From there, his hand then quickly gets him all the way to that moment, and Catherine then sees him enjoy the first act of his climax, before she takes in the abundant creative material that comes during the second. So much more than a mouthful. More than what she took from him during his encore earlier on, after a recent explosion had reduced the volume. There had been much produced and spewed out anyway.

Tristan removes his manhood just enough to make it easier for her to swallow, and then immediately returns it deeper when she has. He spills out everywhere onto her chin and neck and chest. His emission drips down the sides of her mouth.  She almost chokes on what he is feeding her. She swallows again, and more enters her mouth.

Watching her handling him and his production is a very good way for Tristan to measure just how much more he is spewing by comparison. Once she is done coping, swallowing, there is enough of his creative material on her chest for him to reach for the first fixative and apply it, once he is recovered from his climax.

“Feel better?” Tristan then asks her.

“Much better,” she evenly replies.

“Your eyes have life again.”

The old master walks away.

“Two more to go,” Tristan then  instructs Catherine, since the two masters still in his station must be brought to their bliss as well, to their depositing of creative material upon their respective canvas.

Catherine takes them there quickly, while Tristan watches.

“Did you deliberately choose the biggest melons in the place?” A master asks, once the three couples have left Tristan’s work station. He obviously watched. It is what masters do.

“He did,” Catherine whispers, not stopping herself in time.

“I’m at a circus, am I not?” Tristan replies to the master, before looking at Catherine. “If your breasts weren’t good enough, if I wanted those huge, huge ones on you,” he adds, “then I would’ve had you under the knife, first thing. You wouldn’t have had a choice. You would’ve been knocked out wherever you were, when it was time, and then you would’ve awakened a circus freak. Done. Volleyballs inside your body. Actually, the skin has to be stretched at first, so, not as dramatic in real life, I guess. Well, after however many surgeries, then, all of them like alien abductions and probing, leaving bigger and bigger boobs behind, you’d be a freak worthy of  the circus.” He turns to the master who posed the question. “Did you see my great serves? I feel so bad when toys don’t get played with.”

The master raises an eyebrow. He himself would have enjoyed the humongous fake-breasts in a different way, but Tristan’s way was most definitely entertaining. So was the women’s pain.

Catherine knows better than to speak when Tristan is in such a mood, and reminds herself that that little bit of show-sadism set this mood within him, and within the room. She wonders how long it will last. She remains calm.

There’s no such thing as too big, in a man’s eyes, she thinks to herself. That’s not what you’re saying, through what you did. I don’t know what you were saying.

But what is most often attached to the resulting form following such pathetic behaviour undertaken to gain male attention, pathetic behaviour that makes a woman go so, so overboard, is either her deep-rooted insecurity or her very manipulative nature, which makes her set such a trap on herself in order to mesmerize and to compel men, and to then control them, even if only briefly, and even if really only in her own fantasy world. And Tristan hates that in women. He’s a master. Women don’t control, don’t manipulate. Women aren’t Dominant, Healer tells Catherine. So, he hates manipulation like all masters do. Female words, babbling, tears, emotions, and whatever else females use their body for, in whatever way, following whatever goal through it that they want to achieve, he therefore hates. Masters take what they want. They’re always in control. They always have the power. They are Dominants. And huge boobs will not cause a switch in roles. Whatever else these assembled masters are, they are not stupid and see right through all of that. All that female manipulation. But of course, they want to play with such toys, and do.

You’re reaching. Tristan’s just in a bad mood. I’ve never heard a man say that breasts are too big. The bigger the better, as far as all men are concerned. ALL men. And all men put up with the idiots attached to such toys. It’s called tuning out and ignoring. It’s called a man’s priorities. I just wonder why I’m trapped here when I shouldn’t have attracted his attention like I did.

Your eyes.

Men don’t fuck eyes. They do come in them . . . Even when a woman’s whole front is just two huge hanging things, men’s eyes light up and they want to play. Throw them over her own shoulders. “You put your left breast in; you put your right breast out . . .”

Typical. I offer you psychological, and you’re stuck on a body part. You don’t want those things. You’re not insecure and manipulative. And you don’t need them to get men’s attention.

Attention that I don’t want.

You do nothing and get it. And  so many women who want it have to go to extremes to get it. Isn’t that always the way?

Catherine keeps her head up, her face levelled, as Tristan designs the creative material that slipped out of her mouth and that landed on her neck and on her upper chest.

She sometimes feels his breath on her face as he designs, since he stands so very close. The feel of instruments on her neck is unpleasant to her, even though his hand is light, as is the tools’ touch in its control.

As he takes such care in his art, it almost feels like he is taking such care in her.

So very close to her right now, and yet, no fear comes to her at this moment of his calm turning into something else, in a mere heartbeat.

Catherine closes her eyes as he works, and shivers.

 (A restricted version of this chapter is in Demons Not Redeemed.)