THIRTY-ONE
Shameful Spice Delight
Fifteen minutes before the top of the following hour, when the next circus show is set to begin, Tristan rises from the cot, takes the few necessary steps to reach Catherine, who continues to silently stand off her pedestal, and, with the help of a twirling finger before his face, instructs her to turn away from him. Catherine sees his eyes, behind that twirling finger. Registers their look.
“With each addition, he fixates, and designs, and creates, and then fixates again with the second spray,” a master jests, as he walks by. Tristan does know several of the men present.
“Not now,” he warns the man, without turning to look at him, keeping his eyes on Catherine’s rear instead, allowing it to feed desire.
“He now leans her forward onto a table, careful not to smudge any of his come sprawled over her boobs and backside, and sticks his dick up her tight little rear, which is not forbidden to him, being her master. In a room full of carnal activity, any movement of his head in any chosen direction allows for some messed up sight to add to his physical experience, and Tristan is no exception to that male augmenter of blissful might and vigour: sight.”
“What the hell?” Tristan calmly interrupts, as he indeed slips himself into Catherine in the way that the master described.
“I’m going wild-life channel. Describing the natural hooking-up ways of masters. Here. Now. You know, back to nature, spreading come around. Just not usually on females, but in them, but anyway . . .”
“Get lost.”
“The male pulls back on the female’s hair, roughly bringing her head back towards him. He then pauses as he feels the rush before the rush, and then, he exits her, expertly manipulating himself to deposit his creative material where his artistic eye desires it . . . Can’t say certain words on a nature show, can I? Have to improvise. Okay, actually, I’m done,” the master concludes, before walking on.
Catherine closes her eyes, as her master’s depth-reach is restricted only by his size and whatever resistance her body succeeds in presenting against it. If it even does. There is pain, and she once again wonders if there is always to be pain. She hates the urge that comes with his thrusting within her. She takes no pleasure at all in any of the sensations that accompany such a trespass upon her.
“Most hated laxative method ever,” she recalls a non-refundable say.
Instead of observing what is happening around him, Tristan’s eyes remain on the ins and out of his manhood. He allows himself to be hypnotized by the penetration, allows an array of images and a variety of male-fantasy propositions to compete for his attention, to combine, and to make every inch of his body feel alive, in this most basic of male ways.
“I want the back of your arms,” he half-whispers to Catherine, after minutes of thrusting, his voice, his tone, appropriate to the finish that he is presently pursuing and nearing.
When he stops pushing, she quickly sends her arms backwards, and holds them there, side by side, together, in order that they be near his line of discharge when he adjusts to the last coordinates necessary for a landing. His release comes within less than an hour after he has last done so, for the tie-breaker contest. Recommendation of every two hours? So, what about approximately forty-five minutes after the last “gifting?” Catherine vaguely considers.
Why do you bring it up? Do you want him to drop dead behind you?
Tristan’s aim is true, and her top limbs are therefore the two latest parts of her body to feel his powerful spewing. He does not have much time to design what he has just added to her arms, and when the circus show begins at 11 p.m., he is still not done, and does not rush.
After Catherine finally senses and hears the sound of the second fixative being added to her body, she does not turn around, not even when he steps away afterwards.
“You have to be where I am,” he reminds her, noticing that she is not following him. Those are the first words that he has spoken to her since the master’s swelling, aside from informing her that he wanted to work on the back of her arms.
A few minutes later, when the couple joins the audience gathered before the already-in-progress show, Catherine wonders if Tristan will hold her responsible for his missing most of it, and if he cares that he has. She wonders if he will claim to care, only to have reason to punish her.
The show soon demands that she shake such thoughts from her mind and that she turn her attention to it. She then sees a woman lying on a table with her private area prominently displayed, her legs and knees bent and flopping sideways on either side of her. Beside her, Catherine sees a woman facing away from the audience, with her lower legs on the table, the back of her thighs folded upon them, and her torso leaning forward away from both layers, thus allowing her rear orifice to be most prominently displayed to the audience, cheeks divided and out of the way. The women are faceless and bodiless aside from those two areas, since purple silk blankets cover the rest of them. The performer presently on stage is a magician, and dressed the part, as any magician at a child’s backyard party.
His act first consists in pulling out of the “hats” items that are normally pulled out of such small enclosures, or out of sleeves, since the holes before him are smaller than that of top hats. And so, a long stream of colourful scarves comes out of both orifice-hats, and flowers, and then a bunny out of the female part, and a lizard out of the unisex one.
His act then shifts to items that do not appear at a child’s party. A fish comes out of the female zone, and long links of sausage out of the rear one. A vial of something with a cross and bone upon it next exits one, and cylinder-shaped fudge with a ribbon around it that identifies it to be that, out of the other.
Several items of bad odour then come out of the female area, and out of the unisex one, cylindrical foods, like bananas, and carrots and popsicles. All an illusion, of course, and the magician is very skilled at making it look real, with the music and the lights adding credibility as always, while brains open up files of childhood magicians, and are struck with an odd sensation when what is seen now does not match those files. That odd sensation can be reinvented as a sexual one, through dichotomy, and that is what the magician is going for.
A fake manhood is then removed from both “hats.” And then, out of each as well, very realistic-looking male organs all connected in a chain, just as when colourful scarves are, exit as well, rubbery and shaped. The fake-organs are of different sizes and colours, to represent the many partners of both orifices\“hats”, and the larger ones -- the very much exaggerated larger ones -- get an amused reaction from the men, followed by typical male wisecracks directed at the non-refundables, with “looseness” as their recurring theme.
The next item to appear on stage from the “hats” offers a changeup, as it is liquidy, which shows the magician’s skill. In coming out, it spurts out from both “hats,” and lands in a roped-off area where no master is standing. There, however, non-refundables who are not being designed upon officially this weekend -- the extras for the other activities and in case of emergencies -- stand, and allow every drop to drench them, and to drip down their nude bodies.
“Why can’t we drink? If I were drinking, this would all be so much more . . . Is it because of insurance purposes?” A master jests. “Because of the old geezers here?”
A cat next comes out of the metaphorical pussy, and a plush toy ass, as in a donkey, out of the other.
A succession of symbols representing male repression by females then exits the female area, including strangulated rubber testicles -- and the masters boo -- before symbols of males controlling females successively then exit from the rear area, and the masters cheer.
Catherine’s eyes look around her at the men. She now knows what the cheering and booing that she heard while still being worked on was no doubt about: everything male power and control over female, versus the opposite. She sees, however, that the older masters, as well as those with true submissives, are not cheering with their voices. Their eyes do appreciate the symbolism, the message, however, but only a certain type of master is booing and cheering outright. Typical.
The last items to come out from the two “hats” are fecal matter from the behind, and an aborted fetus from the other. Catherine believes that both items are reproductions, fakes, but she is not certain. The group of masters cheers the loudest for the removed “attention-stealer” from the female part. A flushing sound is then heard, as the magician allows both items to fall to his feet, before taking a bow.
The next act displays a female being “cut” into pieces while within a vertically-standing elongated box, coffin-like. After the box is separated into three sections, the magician opens the door to each of the three parts, and the woman’s behind is mooning the audience in the middle box, with her face in the top one, and her feet, in the third.
“Now she can kiss and kick her own ass,” the magician announces.
The knife-throwing act that follows offers a circus performer making knives land around the figure of one of the huge-breasted non-refundables hired for this weekend. She stands sideways to him against a six-foot high board decorated with drawn, sparkly images of female choice parts. His apparent hand-eye coordination manages to apparently propel the knives to land along the curve of the woman’s huge breasts, which are supported up and out from her body, and then to land following the curvature of her rear, before the man then puts on a blindfold and succeeds in landing most of the knives in the right place in order to complete the perimeter of the rest of her shape. The last knife, however, pierces through the woman’s outer breast, directly in the middle of it, and continues on into its neighbour beside it, and through it, before sticking to the board behind it.
When the woman on stage naturally screams out, submissives react as well, and immediately receive severe, if not brutal, handling from their masters for doing so, for being “typically female” at the sight of pain and blood, at the sight of a stranger’s suffering.
Catherine recalls Tristan’s words about empathy when she felt awful for the non-refundable who was made to gag during one of the shows. “It’s no way to live life, empathizing. Just a waste of time and energy. If it’s not you, then why suffer as if it is? Just be happy that it’s not you,” she remembers, as his eyes now look into hers and remind her as well.
“Accidents do happen,” the host announces. “A round of applause for our almost perfect marksman,” he then warmly adds.
As the masters’ hands obey, because their minds appreciate, it is not enough for them to clap their hands: every submissive is forced to do so as well. All while the woman remains stuck to the board.
“Men don’t care that bigger boobs means surgery that has risks, just like any surgery. Something goes wrong with the anesthesia and she’s brain damaged or killed. Or, if other things go wrong, she gets a serious infection, or she bleeds and bleeds, or the doctor or the nurse or the hospital makes a mistake that really messes her up, or kills her, or the surgery tools aren’t clean right and she gets a disease that kills. And she didn’t have to suffer any of that. It wasn’t for her health. It was to get male attention. It was just to be a play toy. And those things have to be replaced every few years, with more surgeries and all those risks taken again. And a woman gets older, and her health is worse, and she still has to have those surgeries. And if she doesn’t have the money, later . . . But men don’t care. And then, they stab them,” a non-refundable within the roped-off area where women are still covered with the liquids spewed from the show earlier on says loudly, over the clapping, and close enough to Catherine for her to hear her. The woman sounds as if she is in desperate need of her drug of choice, most probably to chase away depression.
“Aren’t you working this gig to get your boobs?” A peer beside her replies.
“It’s stupid. But I live in a stupid world, where stupid beings rules, so I have to act stupid,” the woman replies, looking down at herself and at what she is covered in.
“Easiest money I ever made,” the other counters.
“No one’s helping her. Do you not realize what we got ourselves into? What we’re seeing them do?” The former non-refundable replies.
“They’ll help her when she’s backstage. She’s not going to die because she’s leaking boob-fluid. Why did I even tell you about this casting call? Shut up.”
Catherine continues to clap because Tristan continues to put much of his weight onto the toes of one of her feet, by way of one of his. He needs his hands to clap, and therefore cannot use them to bring about desired behaviour from her. He would have placed his foot somewhere else, or would have perhaps used a knee, if she were not presently his canvas not to smudge.
The woman is finally wheeled off the stage, her cries of pain drowned out by the continuing applause. Once she can no longer be seen, all male hands cease to meet, but do not allow submissive hands to do the same right away. The masters then observe as the females applaud violence.
The non-refundables who will come up on stage for the next few acts will not see the ones before their own appearance. Whatever acts the twenty-eight non-refundables chosen for this show participated in, Tristan and Catherine missed them, since they occurred at the beginning, during all that booing and cheering that Catherine heard. The feeling of that misogyny remains thick in the air, with an added echo of those odd words describing masters as doing so much for the sake of their submissive.
“I could volunteer you for any of the acts to come,” Tristan cautions Catherine, lips by one of her ears in order that she hear above the noise. “You’re a smart girl. You know what’s going to happen,” he adds, before kissing that ear.
“Would you volunteer the redhead?” Catherine finds herself inquiring, censoring herself too late.
“You know that I would. That would be fun to watch. And the bitch from that race, and . . .” He replies, coldly, before quickly putting an end to speaking his list and taking a deep breath instead, before speaking again. “I’ll never think of that whore again, once we leave here. And before you wiped me off you in front of everyone, I was sure that I’d still like you after this weekend, but now . . . I thought that you’d be happy, because I won. Perfect score. But you weren’t, which you didn’t have to be. But knowing what this association is, you know that what you did was huge.”
Catherine looks down at the floor and once again considers how, before this weekend, Tristan never expressed his power and control over her using the association’s words, but how he most certainly nevertheless adhered to the mentality, since Catherine was his from day one, as he repeatedly told her, and since he spread himself somewhere within or upon her more than once daily every day, when he was not away. She also once again wonders how many of the masters speak the words of their beliefs to their submissive every day, if doing so comes with age, or with complete acceptance of the lifestyle. And, she once more wonders what Tristan will be like, after this weekend, when they return to the real world, where women are not treated nor spoken to in the way that they are here, but where, in Tristan’s world around him, anything can be, and whatever he wants, is.
“How can I ask men to put literal objects within my living body so that it truly becomes part object, before I’m then objectified even more by men after that, in the hopes of having worth in their society, by being less than them?” The non-refundable still within the roped off area is heard to say. “You know that he hosts parties like this without you around, when he’s away. And his being with the pack at any party like this one always pushes him to do more, like it does all men,” she adds to Catherine, surprising her.
“What?”
“They took away her antidepressant, street-strength. Never mind her,” the other non-refundable tells Catherine, after a contest attendant threatens to hit her again for not keeping her friend in line. Organizers approached her first and asked her to sign up “professionals” who understood their work, and their place, and so, she is responsible for any of their misbehaving.
“I saw him ‘feed’ you. What a joke,” the street walker who spoke before adds to Catherine, attracting many of the masters’ attention now. “The younger the male, the more the idiot spews, of course. The whole world is his. All this grooming, here, this attempt at normalizing what they’re doing, it’s all brainwashing. They repeat the same things over and over again. Different men, different voices. Because that works best. And they do it in groups, so that every woman subconsciously believes that the other women in the room believe, so they should as well. That’s the power of the male collective, to surround a woman and to keep telling her the same things, over and over again, and then to punish her or supposedly reward her, because the rewards are always good for them, not for her. They just make her believe that she’s rewarded in a way that she wants, when in fact, she doesn’t want the goddamn reward that they give her, if she does as they say.”
“It’s not just dumb women who end up on the streets, and when one takes away what keeps them numb and dumb, then their brain returns to power with wisdom,” Catherine recalls her philosopher-friend saying.
Teaching moments, refresher lessons, indoctrination, when nothing but the rules of this lifestyle are lauded and have any weight at all in the world. This non-refundable’s words, however, don’t offer a lesson that the masters’ want taught . . . I knew that I had to be better than good, this weekend, that I had to be careful, Catherine adds to herself.
The next act begins, and there are indeed several “accidents” during the following performances. The host, however, laughs them all off and encourages the magician who is the cause of the mishaps to just rehearse a little more in order to get it right next time, to not make those mistakes again. He also calls upon the audience to encourage him by applause, to praise his efforts through such appreciation, despite his “imperfection,” which the masters do, while once again demanding that all submissives show their encouragement as well. It is of course mostly certain body parts of the nude women that are the recipients of the bad consequences of those “faux-pas” on the magician’s part.
The men also make their respective submissive watch and not react, force her not be female, and hurt her, if she responds in the slightest way in a caring or empathetic manner to the pain on stage, even if through mere subtle cringing or involuntary shivering. The men thus team-teach submissives to care only for what matters to masters, while caring only about one person: their master.
And that personal power over a submissive who needs to be “corrected” while watching does more in itself for most masters than watching what happens on stage, Catherine observes to herself. “That was the S&M show, then?” She dares to ask Tristan, moments later, despite his foul mood against her. The two are walking back towards his work station.
“No. That was a dumb magician messing up. And don’t use big words that you don’t understand. We don’t do S&M. Sadomasochism is both inflicting pain and enduring pain, for sexual gratification. If we’re anything, then masters are sadists. We inflict pain,” Tristan adds. “But, since we inflict pain to guide females, and only because females need boundaries and correction . . .” He adds, a small smile upon his lips.
“Are you not in physical pain, as you come this weekend, because of those pills?” Catherine replies, continuing to be daring in addressing him.
“I don’t take the pills to experience pain when I come. I take them to drench you in come,” Tristan firmly replies.
And Catherine believes him. Tristan is not the type to do otherwise. Not in a big, obvious way, anyway. It is her pain that sometimes gets him off, her pain that comes from his power over her.
The men around Catherine appear to her to be very much self-satisfied with themselves, following the show. Women were hurt, on a bed of nails, in a coffin of nails, on a spinning wheel, and in other magician’s contraptions “gone wrong,” and the men applauded when the magician “needed encouragement” for making so many mistakes. The joy of cruelty and male justification for their power, however, seem to have won out, in Catherine’s opinion, rather than sexual arousal.
Catherine almost catches up to Tristan, and walks a few more steps before closing in on him. “Please stop being upset with me,” she then dares to say, uneasy whenever he is displeased with her, since displeasure exists on the path to tiring of her, and tiring of her means ending her. Moreover, since she believes that he will later be angry with her for “ruining” certain parts of the weekend for him, she wants to make those parts fewest as possible, which means ending this present upset. Must always try to foresee, when one wants to continue to be.
Tristan stops walking. “Tell me what you can possibly do to make it up to me, to make up for what you did, here, of all places, and with the spotlight on you.”
“I’m certain that you can think of several ways. You’ve punished me already, this weekend.”
“And then I rewarded you. Was it the praise that made you lash out at me that way?”
“I wasn’t thinking of you when I . . .”
“You should always be thinking of me,” he interrupts her.
She looks up into his eyes. “I was thinking that if she were to replace me, then you’d kill me. I was thinking of my life, during that second when I did what I did,” she gently reveals to him.
Would what Tristan has invested in Catherine be nearly as much fun if she were not so afraid of dying? He knows that she has limits beyond which the option of death would take the wheel. He knows that she will not do just anything, rather than die. Or rather, that she will not do certain things for just anyone. She even remains tentative still when it comes to certain things, to certain behaviour, when with him, after all, but she eventually does as ordered, with him.
Tristan knows that he brings her right up to the line through certain demands, and that, of course, he has managed to push that line. He intends on testing her more this weekend, with more men, and more activities, although all within the limits of this association. And here is another opportunity to do so.
“Tell me how to make it up to you,” she repeats, aware that he may demand something that might hurt her, aware of the next top-of-the-hour activity.
Hooks could hook up and come up, and, despite those moments that come upon her on occasion when she believes that she wants to remember, she truly does not. When she says that she does, the desire is just like fearing getting a bad news letter in the mail and wanting to check the mail only to be relieved that it did not come. But if it is there, then all is ruined and it was better to just not look, at least no so early in the day, and to just worry without knowing for sure. Wanting, hoping to end the worry for that day, actually ruining the day.
“Make a deal with that man again,” Catherine suggests, in a small voice.
“There would have to be ten of him, because your second offence was much more serious than your first.”
“Then . . . Make me have to make ten contribute to their canvas, in one cycle,” she says, in an even smaller voice.
“Ten like him?” Pause. His lips then display his acceptance. “I’ll have to look around. There are different rules, for twenty-two. We’ll need more space.”
Catherine does not move. She feels faint and fears that she might lose consciousness and fall to the floor, which would most certainly smudge the art upon her. And would she then be used by ten masters anyway?
She also fears that whatever Tristan obtains from her here, he will no doubt ask for again, out there. And then push for more. Give men an inch sexually, and they take more. And more. Always more.
She has already considered that, in every single city on his tour, he might now find events organized by this association, for the two of them to attend. She therefore hopes for Saturday night concerts every weekend, in order that no other forty-eight hour gathering be opened to them. Which does, however, leave the soirées, and no doubt non-mild ones.
While Tristan slept, Catherine imagined arriving in another city with the branch of the association there holding this very same themed-weekend gathering, and then having to participate again. That would be most unhealthy for Tristan, of course, due to the drug, but would that stop him?
Is one weekend enough? She considered, while he slept. Same theme, same shows no doubt for the whole year, with these performers travelling from city to city staging these acts as their livelihood, on weekends, just like any circus does. Organizers didn’t cancel this weekend despite the death of so many submissives because everything was already planned, and the money, spent, and everyone, hired. And because they didn’t want to miss out. The money was already committed to the stage, to the equipment, to the personnel, to the food, to all of it.
She lowers her eyes.
How did the true submissives die? She then asks herself once more. What disease killed them so quickly? Or was it the masters who ended them much, much earlier than the disease would have, seeing them spoiled by it, and not wanting to waste time on them, and/or not wanting to catch it themselves? What happened? And while the board considers that rule about intimate contact with non-refundables, how many more true submissives will be lost? Aside from the contests, my interaction with the non-refundables themselves has been limited, actually. Because of the non-blending of our combo hours. But Tristan blended with them. Even if not in ways that . . . Tristan does what he wants. Telling me to look for this or that on the men’s dicks, that was just playing me. Had to be. Because he doesn’t care.
Tristan now smiles. “Might work,” he concedes. “Make you realize how huge your offence was.”
Catherine raises her eyes to him and then follows him up and down aisles, as he pretends to be looking at other submissives’ body art, but, in truth, as he calculates the repulsive factor of the masters attached to the canvases.
While he takes in such sights, Catherine herself is ogled by all the masters that they come upon, or walk by, in the work stations. Every man, dressed, and near each, a woman, nude. Every little square in the grand room, with such a pair. One after the other. Most certainly a continuing sight of pleasure for the masters, as they walk and look to their right and to their left, and beyond.
As she now looks as well, Catherine remembers something else that the street-would-be writer once said: “nothing drives most men crazy more than not having seen the women around them naked. Once a man has, then he can deal with that woman, then he feels superior. He can move on, when he knows the finer details of her breasts, and he feels so much better if he saw all of her nude, from head to toe, a time when she was vulnerable and defenceless, by contrast to his power, and a time when she knew that he was judging her.”
If Tristan could see
what Catherine will have to contend with once the curtains rise from every crotch, as he now guesses what might be in this or that master’s pants by other clues, he might consider an “ouch” factor as well, since he knows that the host will lift a certain ban, before midnight. It is not something that Tristan has ever done before, guessing what a man will look like with his pants dropped, since, on a daily basis, he undresses in his mind women that he sees, but never men.
As deals each deal is struck and she and Tristan move on, Catherine feels fainter and fainter, and if the ten men could penetrate her at will, and demand that she bring them to bliss orally, she may very well be suicidal. But, as it is, she reminds herself that she herself will remain intact, mostly, since there is no kissing on the lips, and no penetration, and no climaxing in her mouth. Or anywhere on her, since the men must do so on their own canvas.
She remembers Logan telling her that he was told that the theme of this weekend was a mild one, that it was not so bad. She wonders what non-refundable, what whore as her bodyguard called her, told him that.
And then, she pushes away with all of her might the thought of what a worse-themed weekend event might be like, as staged by this association.
She has enough to handle seeing Tristan’s gathering of his combo party.
Of their party.
Unfortunately.