TWENTY-FOUR

Effortless Mini-Contest

Once Catherine and Tristan have returned to his station, the master once again lies on the cot, and his eyes once more either scrutinize women and the action around him, or the action on the screens, since they offer additional sexual sustenance. Posed on her pedestal, Catherine can either look at her feet, or keep her head up and also observe the sexual goings on around her. In the end, her feet and human forms at play end up sharing her attention while she waits for the next top of the hour in the cycle. When men look at her, however, her feet most definitely get all the attention then.

When 9 a.m. nears, Catherine yawns, which makes Tristan stand up, walk to the kit, and give her a stay-up pill. As the hand that has just received the tablet from Tristan’s sends it to her mouth, the artist checks his art, his canvas. Catherine’s eyes follow her master’s face as it does so, until he is behind her, and she can then only sense her body being studied. She shivers, after a tightening of her nether area annoys her.

A few seconds afterwards, the final event of the weekend’s second cycle is announced over the speakers.

“Aren’t you tired?” Catherine asks, once the host’s voice stops echoing in the grand room.

“No. Let’s go,” Tristan replies, with nothing of his body offering Catherine evidence to contradict his answer. He appears to be as fresh as ever, from head to toe. Catherine shakes her head as the words leave her mind. From head to toe, really? This pill better kick in fast . . .

A minute after the two reach the assembled guests, everyone learns that male creative material will be at the center of the second mini-contest of weekend play. It makes sense that it would be, since, not only do the masters’ bodies create so much more of the substance due to that drug they continue to take, but because it is also presently propelled with such force.

In this contest,  submissives will bring their master to climax, quickly get out of the way, and then, the distance travelled by their master’s ejaculate will be measured and recorded. Since the contest makes all masters break the recommendation that men take a two hour break between orgasms as often as possible, Catherine tells herself that organizers are showing poor planning. She is so very relieved, however, that this mini-competition involves nothing more than her taking Tristan into her mouth, something that she does on a regular basis, that she does not hold it against them. 

This is nothing, compared to the first mini-contest. Blow job to Tristan. Wow. Take a walk on the wild side there. If I had clothes on, this contest might actually be fun to watch, she adds to herself, her chest agreeing to loosen up, for now. Pleasant feeling. Not that she can dismiss the fact that she remains nude, among fully-dressed men.

“Females, you know that to allow the athlete before you to compete at his best, to allow him to put forth his finest effort, you must do more than use a mere moist and warm  body part to bring him to his competitive moment,” the host tells the women by way of a microphone, since people are divided into two groups already.

Each group is situated in one of two competitive areas set up in either one of two passage ways created by a ballroom wall and the backs of the work stations, which make up two opposing sides of the rectangle created by the rows. Lines taped to the floor in both areas will keep the men apart as they compete, creating corridors in front of them, as if they are about to race. Each line has measurements written on it, and each judge will observe four consecutive men, lined up side by side, as they compete. Twenty men will compete at the same time at each of the two locations in the grand room.

Words that flatter the master, extol the wonders of the master/submissive lifestyle, praise his power, appreciate his worth, acknowledge and show acceptance, insist that he is everything to me, Catherine thinks to herself, following the host’s words. Got it. But will things get back to my allowed kind of “normal” after we leave here?

Females are weak, healer adds. Females need to be taught how to be real females, and only certain men can teach them. True masters. Worship his dick, and what comes out of it. Admire, adore, adulate. Be in awe of him, all of him, and all that he does, thinks, says, decides, is. Mention graciousness and the divine, in this master/submissive design.

Thanks. Some of them don’t mention the divine, however. They mention nature. So, some masters are religious, then, and some are not, and that’s fine by this association of insanity.

Catherine.

I know. The words. Use the words. Tristan and I have exchanged so few words in a year. And what man in the real world ever says that he wants more words? Most men just want women to shut up.

Not about what they want to hear, healer replies.

I want to go back to few words, both spoken and in my mind, when we leave here. Simple A to B. You can make that happen again, right?

Since eight rounds must take place within fifty-minutes for all masters to compete, only five minutes per round will be allowed for sexual-pep talk and for achieving climax. Masters and submissives will watch the competition from the front, in order to see the “jump,” but, when the master of the pair is to compete in the round following the one that is in place, the he and his subservient will immediately make their way to the back of the competing line, in order that no time be lost, while on such a tight schedule.

Until the time when they have almost reached his moment of challenge, masters and submissives will not be allowed to speak, since it would be unfair to have a woman work up her master for forty minutes, while the “athletes” of the first round only benefited from five minutes of ego-stroking, before they competed. Tristan and Catherine therefore stand side-by-side in silence, watching men climax, watching ejaculate travel forth, and comparing distance. Oooh. Aahh.

The masters either climax during the five minutes, or at the buzzer, and then step away, their competing done. It is not a simultaneous effort, which the professionals from the circus performances could no doubt achieve. Five minutes per line. Distance recorded. Next wave. And there is video replay, in case something is missed or miscalculated. The images, however, do not include recording of the masters’ sex organs, but only visuals of the distance travelled by what these organs propel. If such an organ happens to be seen, then the rest of the man is not.

I wonder if the porn industry has its porn-Olympics. They could get some ideas here. I’m sure that something could be worked out, Catherine considers, as another line of “athletes” takes its place. Their submissives immediately fall to their knees before them, on small stands adjusted to just the right height. Twenty men, unzipped, and twenty instances of mouths at work, with many heads in motion and female rears for eyes to travel upon, up and down the line, while this process is in progress.

When Tristan is to take his place behind one of the men who are presently being brought to their competitive state by their submissive, Catherine follows him. Once he is where he should be, his eyes look down into hers and wait for her to begin. She can tell that they expect much.

Whereas most non-refundables speak to their masters of sexual things that are mere tricks of the body and nothing deeper, nothing more significant -- which is not the most powerful way to get the particular men here to climax their hardest, even if such dirty talk does get the basic job done -- Catherine’s words and her demeanour, on the other hand, boost the cooperation of master Tristan’s mind tremendously, and, therefore, will increase the power of his physical competitive effort. Tristan does not stop to think of the probable artifice of her words, and instead allows them to pleasantly do their thing fully, completely, without doubt, and with no small, sneaky, nonsense smile appearing on his face either. Not now. Right now, the words are all truth, and nothing but the truth. Bliss.

After this pleasant ode on everything marvellous that is a master, and a master/submissive bond and relationship, and a master’s gifted “nourishment,” Catherine kneels before Tristan and approaches her lips to his already stiff manhood in order to embrace it. She does not allow it within at first, however, teasing it instead with the spreading of warm moistness that, in the grand, cool room, quickly cools once shed, once hit by the air, and that then rouses mini-shivers to stir, to pop up here and there along his shaft, as it does. Once Catherine does wrap her lips around her master’s pride, its hardness and inner dancing tell her that it will not be long before Tristan competes. Nevertheless, her every move while attached to him in this manner continues to show him, as do sounds from her throat, that there is nothing that she would rather do in the whole world than what she is presently doing. To him. Not generally, of course. But to his manhood, to her beloved second-in-command master.

Catherine does not need a sign from Tristan to let her know when he is about to take his shot: she knows his body well. She therefore stops, and his loaded weapon does its thing. Her own competitive side then immediately surfaces when his impressive effort lands on the floor and puts him in the lead by far. She reveals this competitive trait by way of one of her hands closing into a fist and pumping once, as her face backs up her pleasure at his advantage in the contest. This competition is so much better than the first mini-contest was, and Catherine is so very relieved at not being on the hook this hour to do something that disgusts her, that a relaxed and lightened part of her allowed that side of her to come out.

When her eyes are found by Tristan’s, her hand is still closed and her face is still appreciative of her master’s might. Feeling the oddity of her reaction at that very moment -- silly come game after all -- she immediately opens this hand, and her face changes as she looks down.

Once her eyes are lowered, however, she sees that the “athlete” is still seeping material, and what she does next reveals that she is not quite over her reaction over a “silly” game: she sends the same hand that was recently clenched in victory to Tristan, and then slowly slides it up his shaft and to its head, in order to collect what is still coming out there. Once the ejaculate is on her hand, she is not certain what she should do with it, but then knows a second after posing the question to herself that it is too late to consider doing anything else but licking it all off, since masters are watching. She therefore allows her tongue long strides against her palm, lapping up all that is there, before then sending each finger into her mouth, one by one.

“You’re helping the competition,” Tristan discreetly points out to her, small smile upon on his lips, a big one in his eyes. His hands are reaching out to put away his “athlete.”

“You can’t compete twice,” a master jokes, since Tristan’s most recently relieved manhood shows small signs of life already, just as it is being restrained once again, as Tristan zips up.

The men who compete in the lanes closest to Tristan indeed also do very well, having been privy to Catherine’s “pep talk,” listening to her words more than to those of the feeble attempts of their non-refundables. But in the end, the words, the looks, her touch, and her eyes were not directed at them, and neither were the men the young, powerful man whom she belongs to.

Tristan wins. Out of three hundred men.

There is no prize handed out, but Catherine is certain that there is something for the winner, even if submissives do not get to see nor know what it is. How much did each man pay to be here, to enter this weekend contest? Wealthy, powerful men. What could they possibly reward the winners among them with?

When Catherine takes a step to leave the area while still wondering about the prizes, Tristan’s hand catches one of her arms in order to make her stay.

“Sorry,” she immediately apologizes, knowing that she should not leave before her master does, that she should follow him, of course.

“The clean up,” he replies, his eyes inviting her to return her look to the competition lanes.

When Catherine does, she sees that this cleanup of the floor to rid it of the plentiful creative material of the hundred and sixty men who competed in this location, with a hundred and forty more having spent their contribution at the other competing area, very much interests the masters. And she soon sees why when it begins: the clean up is done by nude, non-canvas women who roll around on the floor in order to pick up the bodily fluid there by coating themselves with it. Since whatever does not stick to them or to their hair after a few minutes they have to lick off the floor, they have great incentive to remove the ejaculate with their bodies and attached hair-mops. Screens show the same cleanup procedure at the other “shooting range,” and so, once again, no master misses a thing.

This is fun, then? Okay . . .

On and on the rolling-about goes, as far as Catherine is concerned, until time is finally up, and whatever the women’s bodies and  hair-mops have not picked up must now be licked up, off the floor. Contest judges point out the spots, and tongues soon embrace what only hardness usually does, by the way of soles and heels of shoes.

Once the good little housekeepers have the floor cleaned to the men’s satisfaction, they stand up again, face the crowd, and allow eyes to study the deposits of creative material upon them. Their hair is especially adorned by it. The women are then sprayed with the second fixative, and thus become abstract art canvases. 

Catherine notices that no care is taken about their eyes as the women are sprayed from head to toe, and from back to front. Their eyes are closed, but nothing more is done, even while their hair is sprayed. She therefore keeps her own eyes on the women’s when they open theirs. Are they pained? No direct hit of the fixative to their eyes, but still, with the mist from the spray spread in the air all around them as others were sprayed in their vicinity as well . . . The attendants, of course, wear protective glasses.

An allergy would no doubt reveal itself quickly, with all that fixative sprayed all at once, Catherine thinks to herself, as images of the submissive who fell earlier return to her. What happens when my face has to be sprayed? Pause. My light? “If I want to keep my light?” I want to keep my light. Not lose it for even a day. Or two. Just how long would I lose it for, because of that fixative?

Once the women are sprayed, the lines on the floor are pulled up and burned, and the floor is washed with bleach, not that that clean up is made a production of. Catherine, however, notices the process set in motion as she and Tristan begin to walk away. And so, no DNA is left behind, and Catherine realizes that the creative material of these powerful, wealthy men, but, most importantly, their personal identifying material and the proof that they were here, will not make it out of the mansion in any way that the men are not aware of.

Non-refundables will shower, of course, and true submissives always have access to that “life-affirming nourishment” anyway, Catherine thinks to herself. DNA on the cots? Fire and bleach all the way? The great big cleanup on Monday.

When Catherine and Tristan reach his work station, the third cycle of the weekend event is about to begin, as it will soon be 10 a.m. With the simple push of a button, Tristan therefore raises the pedestal in his station, and then instructs Catherine to climb on.

In the name of added excitement, masters wait for the assigned time in order to begin, since three hundred pairings simultaneously partaking in sexual exchanges all at once, everywhere in the ballroom, every few feet, up and down all the rows of stations, is more exciting. Some masters, however, take longer to reach bliss than others, some on purpose as they play, and others, not.

Cameramen, who guide their shots during this hour by operating small cameras mounted on mechanical arms that move above the rows, are careful to transmit to the screens only female faces and bodies, as well as nothing more than the male parts interacting with them. The screens offer a sexual aid for masters, whether airing live shots, or shots from contests, or porn scenes, since it is a forty-eight hour event, after all, with the same woman every four hours, for every man there.

When the top of the hour strikes and it is officially master/canvas time, Tristan instructs Catherine, who is now on her pedestal, to turn around. She is not pleased with the direction, but nevertheless turns her back to him. Tristan then hops on behind her, not requiring the step-stand to do so.

His hands then travel upon her body, wherever they can do so without affecting his art, and they soon dip to her nether area as well. And when he does penetrate her from behind once again, since he wants to complete her lower legs, he takes her by way of front-orifice this time, as a reward for her enthusiasm at his win.

Catherine is both relieved and yet still somewhat appalled, since they are on her pedestal, which is raised up. Since they are on a stage, as he takes her. She is obviously not an exhibitionist by nature. Tristan, for his part . . .

When he is about to spew, Tristan slips off the pedestal in order to create some distance up and down between himself and Catherine that will allow him to aim towards her lower legs, which he then does.

You could be part of the show, with that smooth athleticism, Catherine muses. Not that she saw his dismount.

After she once again feels his surge of creative material hit her body in brief cycling, she hears him exhale, and knows that the moment is passing. She then feels the first fixative being applied, and then the touch of his tools, as he works upon her once again, fashioning his ejaculate as art. The oddity of that sentence has somewhat faded.

In a way, being here is the most normal thing that I’ve experienced during the last year, since I’m among so many people, and doing different things, and since I’m not hidden away from hotel to venue, and from hotel to airport, and from airport to hotel, and  from venue to hotel again, and to airport . . . And just fucking. Watching TV. Playing games off whatever game console is in the suite. Bit of fresh air off the balcony when there is one, which there often isn’t. Super-expensive suites and no outside space. The ones with terraces are nice.

Some minutes later, Catherine notices that the submissives close to where one fell earlier on due to the second fixative are more tense about the chemical when it is being applied on them than the women further away, who remain blissfully ignorant about one of them having been carried out on a stretcher because of that chemical blend.

They should close their eyes. How can I tell them to close their eyes? How do they not know? She asks herself, before recalling that the women were told that the spray is only dangerous for the master’s eyes, since the men must look at what they are spraying. Looking away was therefore said to be enough for the women. A gradual accumulation of the chemical . . .

Catherine imagines a contest during which women cannot see. They are afraid, and the game is cruel. She shakes her head and then stretches her neck to one side and then to the other. She has been up almost twenty-four hours and Tristan sees fatigue in her eyes. He therefore reaches into an inner pocket and gives her one of her pills, which he has done a few times since their arrival, and then reaches into the kit bag in order to give her yet another from the bottle there.

“How many of these can I take? I’ve never taken  them before,” she asks.

“Not that you know of,” he replies, his eyes already on her body once again, on the art there. “And I don’t mean during your mysterious past.”

Catherine does not process the words much. If she were to start worrying about what is perhaps added to her every meal, the wondering would never end, since something could easily be added to her room service orders. Medicating her would also be easy for Tristan to do since he could force her to take whatever, under threat. No. She has enough to be anxious about without including such a fear to the list. She feels that Tristan, after all, will not kill her that way, that it would not be satisfying for him.

Unless it was a slow death, as in a poison, and he could rub it in my face, and play upon all my fears of what comes after death, when there was nothing that could be done for me to save me. She shakes her head. The file of worries is full. No space for more scenarios.

When drugs are involved, however, a death can always happen by accident, either by allergy, or by overdosing due to a person’s weight or intolerance or medical condition, or due to the drug not mixing well with medication that the person is taking, or mixing badly with alcohol. People who slip people drugs ignore all of those possibilities, and put their own amusement first. Put themselves and their desire, first. They’re not doctors, not pharmacists, and with all drugs having side-effects and interactions that should not be, with people who should not take them because of medical conditions . . . Anyone found guilty of slipping someone any drug should therefore suffer a serious sentence under the law.

Catherine looks at the pill in her hand and sends it to her mouth.

“Forty-eight hours, plus the twelve before we got here, and then the time after the contest ends, when things wrap up, that’s a long time to go without sleep. And you could’ve rested, at the very least, and maybe even snuck in a few winks,” he reminds her, as if she has forgotten. She disobeyed. She had to be punished. “Don’t you feel a surge of contentment, when you look at your legs and see my come there?”

“It’s pretty, actually. You’re very good.”

“At coming so abundantly or at designing?” He replies, his eyes demanding more as they now look up.

“At both, of course.” As if you don’t know that you are . . .