TWENTY-ONE
Be the Man
The next race during the first mini-contest portion of the weekend has the women on their hands and knees, with the chocolate now smeared on a different part of their body. Since masters objected to their true submissive licking a certain area, the race was set up to accommodate their concern. The overall visual effect, however, is almost the same, even without the depth.
The masters once again to do the smearing, and Tristan enjoys a few squeezes and a few slaps of the body part presented to him by his submissive, before he reaches for the melted chocolate and applies it. As he paints her with sweet brownness, Catherine sees masters kneel and unzip, before sending their manhood to touch the chocolate-covered area in front of them, to enjoy the sight and feel of it. Afterwards, the submissives must of course lick off the chocolate was introduced by that touch to their master’s organ, before the men zip up again. More chocolate is then applied to replace what was displaced.
Tristan, however, does not unzip. He instead leans in close to Catherine and reminds her to keep winning, before returning to the line. Catherine has licked chocolate off Tristan’s body before. More than once. Among other foods. But this is not the same at all.
Once all the masters are done, a contest attendant once again walks down the line of submissives to insure that there is enough chocolate on each woman’s body, in the interest of fairness.
During this race, every woman will contribute to the cause at the same time, licking the chocolate off while her own is being licked off as well. When a woman is done cleaning and is cleaned off herself, she will stand up, and, the first chain to have all of its participants standing, will win, after contest verifiers check each body area for spotlessness. Catherine’s cheek art created by her master’s creative material is covered-up as best as is possible in order that no chocolate be blended in with it.
When the race begins, masters love the sight of the endless chain of mouths at work, as well as the display of tongues simultaneously toiling, and, with a little imagination, the brown smears once more become something else that makes certain organs stand up to attention. But others, not.
Once their submissive, or the action of her chain, is done, masters once again look up at the screens, where they continue to see close ups of the action taken place around the room. Split-screen views, side by side displays, or multiple action, on each screen, do not disappoint.
Since the women remain in the same line order during all of the races of this mini-contest, their bodies become quite intimately acquainted with one another. An orgy with nineteen women indeed, Catherine thinks to herself, afraid of what the next race will be. To calm herself, she wonders how the scoring system works, and what the prize might be for winning, since Tristan so wants her to be a part of the winning team.
For the following race, the women strap on an imitation manhood made of a substance that will burst after some thrusting. Since these items are by nature of one-time use, and since no mouth is involved, Catherine’s chest loosens a little more, not that she can forget what she had to do in the first two races.
The women remain on their hands and knees to compete. A sound warns of the impending climax, and the bursting that follows leaves colour within and without the woman who was penetrated, as well as over the lower abdomen of the woman who was thrusting. Twenty different colours per line.
“I always wanted to know how it feels,” the non-refundable who is about to penetrate Catherine comments, when it is her turn, down the line. The one who is about to be penetrated, for her part, just wants the penetrator to get on with it.
Catherine hates the feel of the connection that is soon upon her.
“Whoa!” The prostitute exclaims a moment later, when she “climaxes.” She then separates from Catherine, and the two now share a colour.
Many of the non-refundables indeed have colourful things to say, upon penetrating, thrusting, and then climaxing, upon getting to play the man, and, in their case, the john. It is clear that many quote clients of theirs as they penetrate and thrust, and so, they express a slice of what their sexual experiences are like, with the tables turned for just a moment, during this race.
Such overt behaviour is against the rules of the association, but no master expects to put an end to it where non-refundables are concerned, and, furthermore, now is no time to take links out of the chain for punishment. For the most part, masters are amused by the women putting on these male characteristics, both verbally and physically, although some comments do hit a little too close to home, for some of the masters, ego-wise.
Having been burst into, Catherine now must take on the other role.
“It’s not like she’s tight or anything,” a master jokes about the non-refundable, when the connection between her and Catherine is difficult to achieve. “Plenty of room for a landing.”
“Why aren’t they sticking it the hole closest to them?” Another master asks, referring to the one between the women’s lower mounds of flesh, to the orifice in the back.
Connection continuing to fail, Catherine momentarily considers throwing the race, not only for herself but for her entire line. A contest attendant, however, is soon helping to achieve the bond, and then, union achieved, Tristan's submissive begins her contribution to the race. Approximately one hundred rapid, vigorous thrusts are required for the bursting to occur, and “climax” therefore causes breathlessness. Odd thoughts come to Catherine's mind as she moves her hips and pushes, male thoughts. Powerful ones.
When she hears the warning sound, Catherine pushes three more times before feeling the burst, and then feeling wetness snaking its way on her by way of colour exiting the other woman. The lower abdomen of Tristan’s submissive is then adorned by a blend of the colour from the woman who penetrated her, and from the one whom she penetrated. As Catherine quickly withdraws from the woman, taking with her what remains of the fake organ, her ears catch yet another wisecrack by a master about the sad, pathetic state of those “organs” after they have done their thing.
By the end of that race, the women’s chains are even more colourful, since the different dyes that were released have dripped along thighs and legs from their areas of initial smearing. The women also display colour on their faces, with their noses still chocolate-brown, along with other stains applied there from the previous race. Catherine looks down at her coloured skin and then back up again, wanting to hear “that was the last race.” But it is not.
The same kind of imitation members are used in the following race, but this time, the women must work to create the climax of the fake-manhood by using their facial orifice.
The imitation organs require quite a few ins and out, as well as pressure upon them, and even a certain technique of tongue, lips, and mouth interior, all working together, in order to make the process to their bursting faster.
“So, now we see who wouldn’t get their license for whoring if they had to pass a test,” a master jests.
“I’d love to work at that licensing bureau,” another adds.
“We should place bets on the true submissives. Their master’s teaching skills are on the line, after all.”
“Depends on what the master likes.”
The longer the race takes, the more some non-refundables become most impatient with the poor form of some submissives, and the more some of them become extremely vocal, seeing how long it takes for some of their team-mates to “pleasure” the fake organ in their mouth. The name-calling that ensues amuses the men very much, since these women’s every concentrated thought, effort, and word presently center on how to best please a manhood orally, with uncensored advice flying back and forth, and the whole tutoring thing so very factual, business-like, without any emotion at all.
So many men wish that that would always be the case when it comes to getting blow jobs. Just factual, without emotion. By any woman, at any time. First date. Co-worker. Woman on the bus next to him. Teen girl sitting next to teen boy in biology. Any woman. Just like that. No more shaking hands with women. Take a taste instead. “Nice to meet you, now get on your knees.” “Excuse me, I don’t know you, but I’ve had a really bad day, so blow me now before we reach my stop.” “Oh, was that a cough? Have to move away. Don’t want that cold. Have to wash my hands not to catch a virus. I expect sterile medical instruments, but when it comes to any dark cave offered to my dick, in I go, no matter what is probably breeding and hiding there. Whatever lasting disgusting thing, or deadly thing, I get because of sex, that’s fine.”
Enough.
I’ll have nightmares about those first races. Can’t just get tested in a few months to forget about them, because cancer can take up to ten years to develop from viruses that are introduced sexually . . .
Snap out of it, healer sends to her. Survive now.
If they could just get it on the bus, just . . . Catherine halts her thoughts, the loop, as she is reminded that Tristan does not even need to use words with her to get such service: his finger at first telling her to come to him, and then pointing to his crotch is enough. The unzipping of his pants with his eyes then telling her to get to it is enough. The sight of his exposed private part in the back seat of his vehicle as she walks to hers means that the cars remain where they are for a moment, while she does her thing, before walking to her own car afterwards. His entering her suite with an erection sticking out of his robe with some part of him then indicating to her that he will not use it upon her body in anyway, that is enough as well. His boredom on a flight, at his desk while forced to go through business matters, and even during a meeting, when she is called in and kneels before him to pleasure him while the meeting has hit a lull. When it gets back on track, she has to leave the room, of course, but never before Tristan is satiated.
Doesn’t affect our power-relation: he has all the power, always. Before I’m on my knees, during, and afterwards. Doesn’t change how he thinks or feels about me. Owns me. No feelings. There’s no relationship, so nothing sexual ever affects it, she reassures herself.
Catherine once had a nightmare in which Tristan offered her services to all of the men in the room, during a meeting. She then just moved from zipper to zipper, remaining on her knees, not even seeing the men’s faces, just seeing organ after organ plopped out by a male hand, and then, doing her thing. Just doing. And keeping everything in the room clean, without DNA available for blackmail, and so, swallowing all evidence. One man after the other. Organ out, and shoved back into pants once pleasantly delivered of its load, all while the other men chatted and went on with whatever.
“Do you feel all of their guys swimming in your tummy?” She dreamt Tristan asked afterwards. “Wash your mouth out. I’m not kissing come. Don’t want it on your breath either. And don’t burp it in my face.”
Well, that’s just not allowed here, Catherine now thinks to herself, aware of a new rule. And if these rules carry into the real world, then, great. But if they do, then what other ones that aren’t so great will as well? She takes a deep breath. It is so easy for her to work herself up into an anxious state. The more someone does not want to die, the more anxiety they have to cope with.
“Bet goody-two shoes here’s gonna cost us a lot of time. Maybe even the race,” one of the women who flanks Catherine tells the one beside her, referring to Catherine.
“Women insulting each other about blow jobs. This can’t at all be what the masters enjoy,” Catherine sarcastically replies. She unfortunately knows the speaker’s body much too well, and is so intimately familiar with that woman that the woman’s words could almost feel like a betrayal.
“You better . . .” The woman begins, most threateningly.
Catherine, however, can handle her just fine, and feels nothing at all like she does when Tristan threatens her. “Before you insult me on not being a good enough whore, just shut up and watch me first,” she interrupts, evenly, with her eyes, however, striking, especially that her face has been rather blank by comparison to other female faces, during most of the racing.
While women continue to call out instructions to others who are slowing down the chain, the woman who has challenged Catherine occasionally glares at her. When it is Catherine’s turn to take her neighbour’s fake organ into her mouth, the prostitute that she told off makes all the other women hush.
“We have a pro here,” she says, sarcastically. “Just watch and learn, ladies.”
“Ladies?” A master cannot help but sarcastically comment.
Tristan is amused with the drama between the women. He gets the feeling that Catherine will indeed teach them a few things.
Making a point of not looking at Tristan, his submissive wraps her lips and mouth around the imitation manhood, does her thing, and makes it “climax” in record time. The masters who can see her with no need of a screen are the first to do so with their jaw slightly dropped. Many screens then pick up her performance and replay her contribution to her team’s effort.
“Don’t mess with me. You have no idea,” Catherine tells the woman, just loudly enough for her to hear. She is soon fearful of her own words, however. Of what they might mean.
“You were saying, about a master’s teaching skills?” Tristan brings up to the masters, obviously bragging. “But I do have to give credit where credit is due: I just have such a wonderful student,” he tells them, in a generous mood. “Sometimes mind-blowing,” he even adds, a small smile upon his lips. He then sends his eyes to Catherine’s, who vaguely registered the praise.
It was praise, wasn’t it? Does it count as praise when it’s all about . . . She shakes her head and herself out of her mind, since the woman who insulted her and was just proven wrong must now take Catherine’s fake manhood into her mouth.
“Now who’s slowing us down?” Catherine points out.
The woman finally kneels before Catherine, obviously hating this weakened position before her after what just happened. Catherine’s eyes are on the non-refundable’s head as the latter slips Catherine's imitation manhood passed her lips and into her mouth, to her tongue.
“I’m not feeling it,” Catherine soon announces, from the small stand on which she kneels, to the woman on her own knees before her. “I’m losing my hard-on. Tighter, and arch. What the fuck’s wrong with you? You get paid to do this?” She adds.
The angered woman bites the fake manhood, and no one misses it, since all eyes that are able to enjoy the scene by their own power are doing so. Sounds inadvertently escape several masters’ lips at the bite, and faces change, with eyes immediately becoming cold and mean. As they do, Catherine is just as swift in slapping the woman by the side of the head, and hard. She carries it off so very, very well. Her demeanour, her power.
“Who’s going to be the reason for our loss now?” Catherine reminds her.
The non-refundable resumes her fellating, and, a moment after she does, Catherine shakes her head, before grabbing the woman’s head by her hair and then guiding it up and down, amusing the masters even more, especially because of the look in her eyes, the small sneer upon her lips, as she does.
The screens therefore love Catherine once again, since the production team simply cannot ignore her. There are certain bodies that it finds itself incapable to ignore, and then there is Catherine, who is something more. Another submissive could do what she is doing now, and no great interest nor arousal would ensue, but Catherine is Catherine, as annoying as that might be to many women, especially to those who have put so much money into being super-valued by men, merely through their bodies, and who still cannot reach her natural status, let alone surpass it.
Since the non-refundable that Catherine currently has under her control has had a big mouth throughout the racing -- big as in talking -- many masters have already imagined shutting her up in the very way that is happening before them, with a more pronounced male-equivalent of Catherine’s facial expression on their face, as well as more male words springing from their lips, in that fantasy.
When the imitation organ finally bursts, the woman looks up at Catherine, without standing up, and glares at her fiercely.
“I watched you, and your sucking sucked,” Catherine calmly replies to the glare, her face back to normal now. “And I’m so not a goody-two shoes,” she then adds, before looking at Tristan and suddenly begin gripped with the wonder, and then the fear, of her behaviour and words having angered him.
She does not know if she broke any rules, doing what she just did, or if she perhaps even disqualified herself, or maybe her whole chain as well, one that, right now, she finds just as annoying as the Taliano one.
(A restricted version of this chapter is in Demons Not Redeemed/Chapter Twenty-One - Be the Man. It has added description/additional paragraphs. Weekend play otherwise continues here, in Chapter Twenty-Two - Winning Praise.)