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Heart of Steel Ch. 01

By: HammerGod



[Author's Note: Sorry I've been away for so long, everyone. School work has kept me busy. Here is Part One of a story I've been working on for a while. This is still a rough draft, but I do hope you enjoy it. Reviews are welcome.] 

Chapter 1: An Ancient Sign of Coming Storm

An eerie echo emanated forth from what seemed an endless void, yawning open in every direction, silent yet eternally present. The echo solidified into a faint, wailing scream, a cry of agony and terror, a protestation against one's grim fate. As the cry droned on in unheeded desperation, a crackling sound swirled out of the mist to surround and bolster it, a cacophonous torrent of static noise, dissonance in its purest form. Then, from nowhere, over this amalgamation of torment, came the laughter: low and grim, then rising in fervor, pitch, and volume to a maniacal crescendo that seemed to shake the unseen boundaries of this abysmal prison. And then the drums kicked in with a blazing blast-beat, the dissonance settled into a tremolo-picked guitar riff, the atmosphere and ambience of this void became an artfully played synthesizer swelling and fading into the mix, creating atmospheres perfect for this grimly operatic piece, over which soared, howled, shrieked, and gurgled the haunted vocals.

Necrosadist's album spun in the CD-CHANGER of Tristan's sizeable stereo. The unit had cost him a good sum of his birthday money two years ago, and had earned him the raised eyebrows of his parents when he'd carted it out to the car. / A/ /sixteen/ /year-/old,/ they said, /doesn't need a big stereo system for anything useful./ Sixteen year-old Tristan disagreed. Looking back on it, eighteen year-old Tristan disagreed, too.

Flopping back on the couch, brushing a black strand of hair out of his eyes, he let out a contented sigh as the sounds of the biggest local black metal band wafted over him like the scent of a fine wine that only the most discriminating of tasters could truly enjoy. The band, in Tristan's opinion, captured the symphonic elements of Emperor, the raw bombastic sonic smiting of Burzum, and the theatricality of Mayhem's stage presence, all in one perfect, evil package.

"Lo, into the void I walk," sang the seemingly-agonized vocalist, "and into its depths did I stare. Plunging in shadows my chains ripped asunder, and mountains I crumbled without care."

Tristan loved this part of the song. He leapt onto his couch, bringing up his hands into the mighty air-guitar pose. Up-turning his clean-shaven face, letting his long black hair flow out behind him, he sang along:

"And as from the moorings of mortality, I so blissfully tore. Now into the skies of wicked ascension, I gracefully spread, MY, WINGS, AND... SOAR!!"

The last word erupted from a deep scream into a heart-stopping operatic note, which Tristan strove to match. / Those vocal lessons are paying off,/ he thought, /this doesn't hurt my throat at all./ He sang along with reckless abandon in the privacy of his own abode, knowing no one would see him being so... natural, no one would challenge him for his bold, wild abandon.

Tristan was not usually quite so gregarious, not so outwardly expressive. He often found himself channeling his desire to leap about, to sing and perform, into his writing or his private thoughts. But today, this time, this place, was different. Firstly, he was home, in his off-campus apartment, away from prying eyes and scornful words. He was free to be silly, crazy, normal by his own standards, to be what he felt compelled to be. But one reason made today even more specifically special, more a reason to cut loose and relax. And that reason lay on Tristan's coffee table, the one his parents had provided when they helped him furnish his apartment for college.

Tristan hopped down from the couch, his bare feet padding softly on the carpet as he landed lightly on the balls of his feet, like he always did. / Silent/ /landing,/ he told himself proudly, /silent, cat-like, and deadly, for I am the warrior./ This brought a smile to his face, a creepy smile to others perhaps, but a smile of joy to Tristan. Leaning over, he picked up the piece of paper from his coffee table and looked at it again, looking at it once more as if to assure himself that it was real. / Necrosadist, live at The Den, September 31st, 9:00 pm./ And today was that very day.

Tristan's heart beat faster just thinking about it, his blood stirred within him an anxious fervor, a need to move wildly and revel in the excitement. Tristan was not a big guy, by any stretch of the imagination. At a roughly average height and a slender build, he was nowhere near the mighty barbarians hailed in his beloved heavy metal anthems. His pale skin and long dark hair did fit him in nicely with the metal crowd, though his hair was well-cleaned and not the least bit greasy. Tristan was much too picky to let his hair become matted and repellent. It just wasn't in his nature. The very thought made his skin crawl.

But now was a time for rejoicing, for Necrosadist was only three short hours away. Tristan had to prepare himself for the show. To that end, he strode into his bedroom, stripping off his clothes and entering the small bathroom. He worked the shower knobs until a warm stream issued forth from the showerhead, and then he stepped beyond the curtain and let the water surround him.

Tristan always loved water, ever sense he was a child he'd loved it. Swimming, running in the rain, even bathing. Water was so relaxing, so comforting. When you floated in it, it was like you were being held, cradled by an unseen but benevolent presence, kept safe and comfortable. Now, in the shower, he simply stood as if in a trance, his hands mechanically moving through his long, thick hair, letting the hot water wash it out. The sensation was pleasurable beyond compare.

When he felt clean, Tristan stepped out of the shower, firmly turning the knobs to ensure the stream entirely ended and didn't continue with that irksome little trickle that would so annoy him later. After drying off, he enshrouded himself in his black bathrobe and walked briskly into the living room, shivering in the cold air. From over his bed, his poster of Milla Jovovich from a promotion for the movie UltraViolet stared down at him, menacingly. He smiled up at her, even as she brandished an automatic weapon in the general direction of his CD tower. From another wall, Manowar's faceless Immortal Warrior held aloft a flag on a poster festooned with flags of the world's nations. This soon had Tristan humming the chorus to Manowar's "Warriors of the World" as he opened his closet to procure his attire for the night.

Heavy metal fashion was, to the outsider, paradoxical. If heavy metal fans, these metalheads, listened to this music to rebel, why did they all want to look the same? How could they criticize others for following a crowd when they looked similarly themselves? Tristan and any other knowledgeable headbanger knew that this view was full of shit, like those people who unleashed such gems of wisdom as: /tattoos are so popular now, the rebellious thing to do is to not have one./ Metal, for its fans, was a source of solidarity, it was something that linked them all together. They were alienated from the mainstream culture, but like moths to a light they were drawn to metal, for it espoused their views, intrigued their intellects, made real their fantasies. They wouldn't all be grouped together listening to the same music if they didn't share at least something in common, and an aesthetic naturally arose from, or perhaps helped stimulate, this fact. What good was a subculture that so based itself on rebellion that it had to rebel against itself? Metal wasn't founded on rebellion, it was founded on individuality, independence, a ferocious speaking of one's mind, and barbarian warriors fighting demons and evil wizards. If that happened to be rebellious, so be it.

Tristan mused on these facts as he laid out his clothes on the bed. Black jeans, a sleeveless black shirt sporting a Slayer logo on the front, studded leather wristbands, a gleaming silver bullet-belt, and of course, his black, steel-toed boots. Add to that the silver Thor's hammer pendant which he never removed, and Tristan was entirely geared up for the glorious events of the evening.

Tickets were only $15, and Tristan had managed to scrape that cash together selling some old movies and books at a local used bookstore. It was all worth it, all going to pay off in just a little while. Tristan couldn't believe it was really happening: his first heavy metal show, and with his favorite local group no less. With that in mind, he pocketed his wallet, cell phone, and apartment key, and strode boldly from his apartment, locking his door and double-checking its security before he stomped down the stairs in his heavy boots.

Tristan was not normally so publicly confident. But everything was different tonight. The atmosphere charged him, his clothing was his armor, metal was his fuel and his objective. He was strong this night, despite his lack of actual muscles, he was ready to be heard despite his shy demeanor, he held his head high despite his tendency to keep his eyes downcast. This night was different, it would all be different from here on out. He could sense it.

Chapter 2: Caught in A Mosh

The bus screeched to a halt, its breaks wordlessly begging for attention from a mechanic, from anyone with the capacity to repair them. The doors swung open and Tristan exited the vehicle amidst a stream of others, some dressed similarly to him, some less so. With a loud roar, the bus trundled off on its route, belching a cloud of foul-smelling exhaust behind it as it clattered along.

The night sky was dark, the air cool but not cold. The city, the more developed area of the Pine Ridge community, bustled about its night-life all around him. And there, only a few feet away, was the long line snaking its way toward the entrance of The Den, Pine Ridge's venue for "alternative" performers. That is, anyone who wasn't seen as "marketable" by the media powers-that-be. Checking and double-checking his right front pocket for the ticket, Tristan moved forward and took his place at the back of the line, behind two tall, bulky guys in Cannibal Corpse t-shirts.

"Fucking line!" one of them growled unhappily. "This sucks."

"Been here forever!" the other agreed.

"Hey man," the first guy said to Tristan, "you see this fucking line here?"

"Uh yeah," Tristan replied, doing his best to sound like them, deep-voiced and intimidating, "yeah it's going nowhere, man. Fuck this shit."

The two men agreed rather vocally.

Slowly, despite his companions' statements to the contrary, the line did in fact wind its way past the ticket-taker and into the club's dim interior. When Tristan reached the ticket taker, he had a brief moment of panic as he scrabbled in his left pocket for the ticket, before recalling it was in his right pocket and handing it quickly to the man at the door, who admitted him with a short nod and a grunted utterance of no particular meaning.

The interior of The Den was illuminated with simple, unimpressive lights. The building was packed, wall-to-wall with leather-clad metalheads in all shapes and sizes. A girl in a skin-tight leather top rode astride a hulking man's shoulders as he plowed his way up to the stage to stake out a prime place in the impending mosh pit. Tristan looked on in awe until a teenager of about his height, but twice his muscle-mass, slammed into him with jarring force.

"Hey, wake up man," the other boy said, "you're going to get yourself trampled just standing around all zoned out and shit."

"Oh yeah, sorry. Thanks, man." Tristan replied in his best Cool, Laid-Back Concert Attendee voice.

"No sweat," the other kid said, "let's get up front, you and me bro, come on."

Without any further warning, the kid, a blonde haired teen in a Celtic Frost shirt, dug into the crowd, elbows out. Tristan, experiencing this all for the first time, followed along, trying his best to look imposing and as if he knew what exactly he was doing. Then at last, he was near the stage, touching it, in fact. His mind boggled at the fact that Necrosadist would be so near to him, personally. Could this really be happening, was this all not some dream of roaring fans and stifling air? And then, the lights went out and the crowd went silent.

Slowly, a red glow washed over the audience like some infernal wave bathing them in its unearthly essence. There, on the stage, figures emerged, backed by the red glow, taking up positions on stage, seen only as shadowy forms, wraiths in the glow. Then, as the light began to grow brighter, the roaring of the crowd returned, increasing in volume until the stage erupted in an inferno of light and sound, to a tumultuous reaction from the crowd as Necrosadist launched into a fast-paced track.

Tristan couldn't believe it. How was it possible that they sounded even better live than on their albums? The clarity of the guitar, the pummeling drums resonating in his rib cage, the mind-blowing synthesizer work, and those terrifying lead vocals being barked, shrieked, and sung into the microphone mere feet away from where Tristan stood. The crowd went wild, and Tristan found himself fighting for his balance, elbows extended to fend off pressing attacks from all sides. For a moment he stood there, a pillar amidst the tide, and then he was swept away, riding the current of the pit in haphazard directions, flailing about, heedless of the firsts, elbows, and knees that jabbed at him and of those he returned.

The band, in perfect form, filled Tristan with their sound as though it were a liquid and he a vessel; everything else was pushed out. His social anxieties, his claustrophobia, his discomfort with crowds, his concerns for the future. The music at once seemed to anchor him in the "here and now," so to speak, and yet removed him from his own limitations. It was as if all that existed was the mosh and the metal, and Tristan could not be happier. Was this what those people who writhed about and spoke in tongues felt at their tent-revivals? Probably not, because no one here was trying to show off for anybody.

The big guy with the scantily-clad girl atop his shoulders bludgeoned Tristan in the side of the head with his elbow, and sparks danced behind the smaller man's eyes. But it didn't matter, what was this pain, what did it concern him?! /I am the warrior,/ he assured himself, /I have a heart of steel, I am invincible here./ And the music that both infused and surrounded him did nothing to dispel that notion as he fought to clear a space and began to headbang in the classic "windmill" style, his hair spinning as his head completed one quick circuit after another.

"Rock on, man!" said Celtic Frost Shirt, taking up a position by Tristan's side.

Soon, the two teenagers had a crowd of hair-spinning headbangers gathered, all facing outward in opposite directions as the band launched into a blistering fast song called "Tales of Ancient Deception." The mosh pit around this shield wall-like enclave of headbangers began to form into the visually astonishing circle pit: metalheads continuing to mosh as they all ran in a circle with Tristan and his headbangers as the hub of the wheel. Truly, it was glorious to see that improvised coordination, that perfect, primal flow of the circle pit.

"Going up!" came a loud voice in Tristan's ear.

Before he could react, the two guys from the line were hoisting him up between them, and were quickly joined by others from the hub of the circle pit. Tristan was lifted up on all of their hands, he was being passed along. He was /crowd/ /surfing!/ The audience churned beneath him like a black ocean, yet he rode strong. Necrosadist's singer looked out at him. Tristan quickly flashed the "Devil Horns" symbol, coined by Ronnie James Dio during his career, a metal salute returned by the singer on stage. To Tristan, there could be no greater honour than this: to have exchanged Devil Horns with this singer whose work he so loved.

Then the crowd lost interest in holding Tristan aloft and he was let down, gaining his feet again shakily and striking out toward the stage once more, sweat stinging his eyes, his hair a tangled mess. But that was not a setback, it was an encouragement, it was all part of this metal ritual, it was all meant to be. With a mighty, metal scream, he plunged into the pit once more, gleefully reveling in the fray. / How/ /is/ /it,/ he asked himself, /that I can plunge into a pit of violent strangers, but I can't get up the courage to ask a girl on a date? By the Gods, I don't make any sense /sometimes./

But this question was gone from his mind as quickly as it had come, banished by the beauty of the synthesizer as it took over the sound for a melodic bridge in one of the bands longer epics: "Fate's Condemnation." The crowd began to clap and chant in rhythm with the double-bass drum, Devil Horns filled the air, and the ritual was clearly at its height of momentum. The singer walked to the edge of the stage, microphone in hand, and he spoke.

"You mother-fuckers always put on a show for us," he proclaimed, "and it never fails to please. This is our last song of the night, so let's put this night down in a blaze of glory!"

With that, the music erupted again and the vocalist's voice soared to a nigh-inhuman pitch. The lights blazed, the crowd surged like a tide somehow unleashed in every direction at once. The room was thick with the smell of sweat adrenaline, and pot smoke. In a daze, Tristan spun, whirling in circles, aimless in direction, only moving as he was carried by the power of the metal. And then, with a final roll of the double bass, a swell of the symphonic keyboard, and prolonged notes from guitarist and vocalist alike, the song came to a crashing end. Two hours of music gone by, and it had felt like only a moment.

"Thank you Pine Ridge," roared the ever-energetic front man, "you never let us down! Goodnight."

/It's/ /over,/ Tristan dazedly thought, /it's over just like that./ The crowd quieted down and began a steady, surprisingly calm exodus of The Den, making for their cars, taxis, or other means of transit. Tristan stepped out of the concert hall, and was amazed by the chill in the air. Had it been hot inside? Had he been so wired on adrenaline that he'd not noticed the sweat pouring down his face and moistening his shirt? /Apparently/ /so,/ he mused, shivering slightly as he looked for a northbound bus with the number designated for his route. But just as he finally discerned that bus in the darkness, it's doors closed and it pulled away from the stop, leaving him waiting for another.

"Fuck," he muttered eloquently, clutching his Thor's hammer pendant by compulsion, "fucking bus."

Turning momentarily away from the bus stop, Tristan saw three girls getting into a car. Like much of the audience, they were dressed in black, but otherwise he got little in the way of a visual on them. One of them saw him glance over at them and then turned to say something to her friends. / Crap,/ Tristan sighed, /I was just looking in that direction, now they'll think I'm some kind of freak who watches girls... get in cars, or something./ But the girl who'd noticed him did not come back with some reproachful quip. Instead, she beckoned him over with a hand motion.

"Hey," she called, "you need a ride?"

"Huh?" Tristan dumbly asked, his ears still ringing from the show.

"A ride!" she repeated.

"Oh, oh yeah!" he replied, picking up the pace. "Yeah I just missed my bus home, I could definitely use a ride if you're going north."

"Good thing we saw you," said one of the other girls, who sat in the backseat, "the buses just made their last run for the night."


Heart of Steel Ch. 01



"Get in." said the first girl, having already climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

It sounded more like an order than an offer, but who was he to turn down a free ride. An audible "click" told Tristan that the rear driver's side door had been remotely unlocked by his benefactors, and so he made for that door. As his hand touched the handle and the door came open, he sensed something was wrong, but he couldn't say what. Something about the silence in the car, the stillness of the atmosphere, the predatory gleam in the backseat passenger's eyes.

It happened in a second that seemed to stretch on for an eternity. The girl in the back seat dove across the car and pulled Tristan all the way into the vehicle, slamming the door behind him, which the driver remotely locked. He was too dazed, too concert-weary to have struggled much, but even if he had, her ferocious grip was astonishing. An attempted scream was muffled by a black bandanna forced over his nose and mouth, and at that same moment a sharp scent assailed him from the cloth gag. / Drugs,/ his mental voice said in a panicky tone, /they're/ /drugging/ /me./

Already his senses were swimming, a strange "falling" sensation dropping into his belly as the girl pinned him painfully to the seat. He felt the sharp bite and heard the raspy "zip" of a zip-tie as it cinched around his wrists, which were painfully pulled behind his back. The bandanna fell away and he let out a groggy croak of a scream, his voice catching in his throat. Was it the drugs or fear that kept him from screaming, from kicking and biting and ramming his head into his assailant?

He gazed out the window into the dark night, at the silhouettes of people walking to cars or hailing taxi cabs. He watched and he did his best to cry for help, though his cries were quiet and feeble. He was /not/ invincible, not here. He had /no/ power. But why wouldn't they, those people out there, help him? Couldn't they see him? Didn't they know what was happening? /No,/ he told himself, /they don't know because I don't even know what's happening! Oh Gods, I don't know what's happening to /me!/ As the car backed out of its space and pulled away into the night, as Tristan was painfully pushed down to the floorboard, his face pressed to the mat by his attacker's boot on the back of his head, as the drugs took their final hold and began robbing him of his consciousness, Tristan became acutely aware of the possibility that he very well may die.

Chapter 3: Welcome to Hell

Fog clouded his mind. He walked amongst it, amongst the mist, a wanderer in his own head, shrouded in confusion and displacement. / Where/ /am/ /I?/ he asked himself again and again. But there was no answer, and the environment around him stayed in that same, murky, intangible form, such that he gained no sense of direction as he walked forward through the mist.

He knew he was in his own head, like a dream, but not quite. He was aware of his body, or so he thought, and yet aware of himself in this strange place. Like some sort of astral projection. This made no sense at all to him! /But/ /wait,/ /what's/ /that?/ A light in the distance, faint, almost indiscernible, but definitely there amidst the fog. With that in his sight, Tristan began to run (/was it really running?)/ toward the light. It grew brighter, solidifying into a single orb, /there just in the distance, just out of reach./ Tristan threw himself toward it...

He awoke in a cool, but not cold, room, laying on his back on a soft bed. The light he'd seen in his semi-lucid state was a single white bulb set in a ceiling fixture. A ceiling fan whirred quietly, keeping the air moving between the unadorned walls of this rather austere chamber. Tristan took stock of his surroundings, which were not much. A bedside table with a single drawer, closed of course. The floor and walls were of no particular note, and he could see no windows. On the wall in front of him, from where he lay on the bed, there was a door situated somewhat left of center. Plain, white, with a small knob. Nothing of note... / nothing/ /describable./ Nothing he could ever link to this place.

But Tristan could not rise and approach the door, though his curiosity overwhelmed his fear at this moment. Attached to his left and right ankles, tightly so as not to slip off, but not tight enough to cut off his circulation, were steel rings, locked tight and attached to the bed's footboard via a short chain. They were spread apart, not absurdly so, but enough so that his legs were held apart from each other. Tristan quietly pulled at the chains with his legs, but to no avail. He sat up and examined them, but that proved fruitless as well, for the chains were sturdy and the footboard was far too thick to break.

Yet, Tristan did realize that his arms also were adorned by these steel rings. / Shackles./ But his wrist-shackles were not attached to anything. / Yet./ But he could be, easily. Twisting around he saw chains already hooked to the headboard, their ends complete with little locks to secure them to his shackles. / Where/ /am/ /I,/ he demanded silently, /what is going on here?!/ Why was he lying here, helpless, why hadn't they killed him, or robbed him and left him by the roadside. He was still clothed, save for his boots and socks, and his pants pockets still contained his wallet, but his cell phone was missing. / I can't call anyone,/ he thought, /I'm/ /helpless./

"Hello?" he called out, his throat dry. "Hello, is someone there? I have no money, please let me out of here."

Then he thought about his situation a moment more. What if this wasn't a robbery? What if this was some sort of sick ritual and they were going to mutilate him for some sacrifice or other? What if they were going to steal his organs for the medical black market? What if it was some sort of government facility and he was being falsely detained for an interrogation? His mind ran wild with potential scenarios, but nothing could have prepared him for what lay ahead.

The sound of a dead-bolt being drawn back caught Tristan's attention. He sat alertly, though a cold sweat now stood out on his pale skin, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Then came the click of another lock, this one sounding like the turn of a key. Finally, the door opened enough to admit a person.

A girl, tall and raven-haired, with skin as white as liquid paper. From her hair to her boots, she was clad in black. A long-sleeved black shirt, tight black pants, and what sounded to Tristan like fairly heavy black boots. She strode into the room with a brisk pace, almost business-like in her actions, looking Tristan over, but not meeting his eye. In her right hand, she held a cup. One of those red, plastic cups that you can buy a pack of for seventy-five cents at any corner store.

"You." Tristan said, recognizing the girl from the car who'd drugged him. "Look, this must be some misunderstanding. I didn't do anything, I don't have any money, you've got to let me go."

She just laughed.

"I've got to?" she repeated, her voice smooth and commanding. "I've got to do what the helpless, scrawny kid says? Or else he'll what? Huh?"

"I uh... no I just meant that--"

"You aren't in command here," she explained, walking closer and sitting on the bed, "you don't get to give orders and expect anyone to follow them."

"You have the wrong guy, I don't do that." Tristan insisted.

"So I'm wrong too, am I?" she demanded, a hard edge coming into her voice.

CRACK! Tristan didn't even see it coming. She set the cup of water on the table and with that delicate, slender, pallid hand, struck him a terrific blow across the face. His face stung, his eyes watered, his nose briefly throbbed with that sensation one gets from an impact of any sort in the nasal region. And then another blow, two blows, one with the front of the hand and another with the back. CRACK CRACK! Tristan threw up his hands, covering his face.

"Stop hitting me." he whined in a tone too weak, too childlike, not at all as commanding as he'd intended.

Now she was on top of him. In a second, she had him flat on his back, her left shin planted across his belly, pressing down until Tristan grunted in dismay. Grabbing his head, painfully pulling his hair, she held his face inches from her's, their noses almost touching.

"Listen, you little /fuck,"/ she snarled, her breath smelling of mint and cigarettes, "you had better drop this attitude right the fuck now, or this is going to be a miserable time for you, do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, yes I understand."

"Good," she snapped, pushing him back down and getting off of him, "now drink this water, to get you hydrated so you don't get sick and then bitch about that too."

"Okay, thank you."

"There you go," she said, a smile crossing her lips, "see, you're doing better already."

Leaning down, she sweetly kissed his forehead, as though she'd not just been yelling at him and striking him, as though she were rewarding him for his kindness. She handed him the cup of water, and then left the room, shutting and locking the door behind her, leaving Tristan alone again, to drink his water and to wonder just what she intended to do with him.

He was alone for a while then, left with his legs shackled to the bed. He grew bored, his fear smoldering without new fuel, his helplessness tiring him. He wanted to reach for his Thor's hammer pendant, to feel the comfort of the thunder god's strength, but the pendant was gone from its usual place around his neck. Instead, he merely lay back on the bed, resting his head against a pillow. Apparently, he drifted back off to sleep, because when he awoke, three white faces, framed in jet-black hair, were staring down at him from the sides of the bed. He started and the three girls laughed.

"Rise and shine," said the tallest one, who'd given him the water, "we have a gift for you."

From behind her back she produced a thin band of leather with a lock at one end and a small metal ring at the other. / A/ /collar,/ realized Tristan, and he began to squirm in dismay.

"Girls," the apparent leader barked, "get his hands."

"No, please!" begged Tristan.

The two girls on either side of him took his wrists. He couldn't fight back, he was genuinely not strong enough to resist as his hands were pulled up and his wrist-shackles secured. The lead girl set the collar on the bed and reached into a pocket of her pants. What she held up next glinted in the light, and Tristan screamed in terror. / A/ /knife!/

"Please," he beseeched, "please, oh Gods please no, don't do this."

"Shut up." snapped the leader.

"Just lie still," said the girl on his left, a shorter girl with equally black hair, "we're not going to cut you."

The girl on his right sneered derisively, as if to silently say, "We might."

Moving over him, straddling him, the lead girl moved toward his body with the knife. Tristan whimpered incoherently, closing his eyes and tensing up for the cut, the cut that never came. The knife sliced like a razor, but not through his skin, only through the fabric of his shirt. The cloth parted easily to her careful incisions, and soon the shirt was pulled away. She had a harder time with the thick cloth of his jeans, but somehow managed to cut them off as well. At last came his only remaining bit of clothing, his undergarments. Tristan's begging redoubled as she slit both sides of his underwear, pulling them away and leaving him helpless and naked.

"And now, the collar." she proclaimed.

The two other girls held his head in place as their leader took up the leather band and fitted it around his neck. The "snick" of the lock was a clearly audible tone, and it echoed in Tristan's memory like a door being slammed on his freedom, on his control over his own body. The girls laughed and smiled with glee at their accomplishment, before departing from the room once again.

Tristan was alone for a third time, but now the fear was not going away, not ebbing like the waves of the ocean, but constantly around him, over him, cloaking him like the garments that had been taken away by his captresses. / Captresses,/ he couldn't keep calling them that, couldn't leave them inhuman. If he did, he would feel at the mercy of some unearthly beings. They were people too, he had to humanize them, had to keep himself feeling some sense of power, some sense that he was not a helpless little pawn in the hands of deities.

/Crystal./ That was the leader, Tristan decided. She was beautiful, they all were. But despite her beauty she was cold, her features sharp, like a crystal: gleaming yet cold and jagged, there was no comfort in its touch. That was perfect.

The girl who'd stood on his left, the one who'd told him to be still, he'd call her /Mai./ He wasn't sure why, but it fit. Perhaps because the name Mai was (he believed) Japanese, and her eyes had a noticeable slant to them. / A/ /bit/ /racist,/ he admonished himself, /but I can't think of another name, so it'll have to do./ So that girl became Mai.

During his life as an avowed metalhead, Tristan had been exposed to bands from nearly every corner of the globe. As such, he'd picked up some interesting words and phrases from other languages. One of those was a Finnish name, Hilja, which he recalled to mean silence, or silent, or something of the sort. The third girl, a tough looking girl with a compact build, short hair, and a piercing on the cartilage of her right ear, had not spoken at all. He'd call her Hilja. For now, she was silence.

There now, they all had names. Names gave him power, the power at least to remind himself that these women were not inhuman, not all-powerful. They were people, mortal flesh and blood just like Tristan himself. They held the upper hand now, but that would not last forever. (/Would/ /it?)/ Crystal, Mai, and Hilja were not perfect, unstoppable, they were just people.

"They're just people." he whispered to himself again and again, hoping he'd soon start to believe it.

Chapter 4: A Nightmare to Remember

"Hello," called Tristan, "girls, may I please go to the bathroom?"

It had been about a half an hour since he was given his collar, and that cup of water from earlier had made its way through his system. Naked and ashamed as he was, he had biological needs that he would not ignore. That and if he was slapped repeatedly for demanding his freedom, he'd probably get a lot worse for pissing on their bedspread. To that end he called out a few more times, his voice rising in volume, until the door was opened.

"Please, not so loud," Mai said, entering the room, "we heard you the first time, there's a baby monitor plugged into the wall under the table."

"Oh, okay." Tristan said. "Uh... sorry I guess. But I need to piss."

"Right."

Mai approached the bed and, with a small key taken from her pocket, unlocked all of Tristan's chains. / That/ /was/ /it,/ he marveled /I'm free just like that?/ Then, the knife came up, leveled at him as Mai motioned him out of bed. The blade's tip prodded his back, forcing him forward. Having only just been freed, Tristan stumbled a bit, but Mai's free hand caught him by the forearm, steadying him. Her grip was firm, but the hand was soft, warm even. Gentle? Perhaps. But the cold steel blade was not, as it pushed him forward, on out of the room and sharply right, down a short hall and into a small room at the end.

"Take care of your business," Mai said, not angrily, "and be quick. We have plans for tonight."

/I do not like the sound of that,/ Tristan noted.

He made to shut the bathroom door behind him, but Mai gently pushed his hand away.

"No no, boy," she chided, "we're not supposed to let you free without observing you closely. Just go."

"But I can't with you here."

"Please," she murmured quietly, "please don't make this hard on me, okay? Just, just go."

Tristan went. That tone of voice she used, it was imploring, threatening but at the same time, imploring. It made him pity her. And so he walked into the bathroom, turning on the lights by reflex, even though the light from the hallway adequately illuminated the rectangular room. A double sink unit, with cabinets below, occupied much of the space, and a bathtub ran the length of the far wall. Between the sink and the tub was a toilet, on which Tristan sat to relieve himself.

While he sat, Tristan looked at Mai. She wore a long-sleeved black shirt, like the others. But instead of pants, she wore a skirt, whose length had it ending well above her knees. She also wore boots, though they looked more "fashionable" than practical. They were "cute," not heavy or durable in their appearance. Between the tops of her boots and the hem of her skirt, a generous portion of her light-skinned legs was exposed to Tristan's eyes. He caught her eye, realizing she'd (of course) seen him looking her over. A light blush crossed her face, but the innocence of it was marred by a smile, and that smile was something more sensual, more charged with intimate intention, than any smile Tristan had ever seen.

When he was finished in the bathroom, Tristan flushed the toilet and rose, returning to Mai, who guided him back to his room. / My/ /room,/ he thought, /already I'm calling it my room./ The hallway opened onto a living room, whose walls were adorned with posters for movies and musicians, some of which Tristan recognized. But he didn't have much time to look at them before Mai firmly shepherded him back into the room. Guiding him back to the bed, she shackled his legs again, but let him keep his arms free.

"Thank you." he said, genuinely meaning it.

"You're welcome."

Then, she leaned in and kissed him, hard on the mouth. Having sheathed her knife and put it away after shackling him, her hands were free to hold his head in place as her lips pressed against his. The kiss was moist, lightly so, her tongue gently probed his mouth, and she moaned lightly into him. Tristan was so taken aback, he couldn't do anything. He wanted to push her off, to turn away. His first kiss shouldn't have been like this. Even if she was the nicest of the three girls, he couldn't pretend she wasn't his captress too. He didn't want her kissing him, doing ANYTHING intimate with him, especially not for the first time. Tristan found himself wishing now, more than ever, that he'd been better with talking to women, so he might have had a chance at not having his first kiss come at the age of eighteen, from a girl who'd shackled him to the bed after escorting him to the bathroom at knife-point.

As Mai pulled away from him, leaving Tristan dazed and out of breath, he recalled something that had, until this moment, dropped from his attention. His necklace, his Mjolnir pendant that always hung around his neck, was missing, as it had been ever since he'd woken up bound to the bed.

"Hey," he said to Mai, before she left the room, "did you or your friends take a Mjolnir necklace off me?"

"A what necklace?"

"Mjolnir, Thor's hammer."

"Oh, oh that!" she exclaimed. "I have it, don't worry, it's safe."

"May I please have it back."

Mai came back to the side of the bed and sat down, moving to be nearer to him and hugging him affectionately. Smiling down into his face, she addressed him like a... not a friend, but not an evil captress.

"Look," she sighed, "we all had a hand in capturing you, and we all have our reasons. But mine don't involve wanting to see you hurt."

"What were they?"

"That," she continued, ignoring his query, "and I want you to be as comfortable as you can be while I have you to myself. I took your necklace so the others wouldn't take it and throw it away or sell it."

"Well thanks, I guess."

"I'll let you wear it when we're... together." and there was that predatory smile, that intimate gleam.

And with that, Mai patted his head gently, running her fingers through his long, black hair, before striding quickly out the door, locking it behind her and leaving Tristan, once again, alone. This was already becoming routine to Tristan: a sudden entrance, a brief interaction, and then he would be alone once more. But for how long? For that matter, how long would he be here? Would they ever let him leave, could they ever let him leave? They weren't hiding their faces from him, did they intend to keep him here forever? /Or/ /worse?/ The thoughts raced through his mind like a derailed train hurtling through the walls of his now tenuous grip on composure and rationality.




Heart of Steel Ch. 01



An hour later, the door opened again. The draw of the dead-bolt, the rattle of the key, and the door came inward, admitting Crystal. She wore a robe of what appeared to be a soft but light cloth, which cloaked her body but did not conceal its beauty. Her hair was gleaming, it appeared to be wet, and the smell of a scented lotion was lightly drifting across the room. Tristan watched as she let the bathrobe slide off her shoulders and then off her arms, pushing it aside like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. And under that robe, she was entirely naked, her body a firm, curvaceous, genuinely beautiful figure of light skin, shapely limbs, and an ample bosom.

"It's time you get acquainted with your purpose here." she explained, moving toward the bed, her hips lightly swaying with each step.

"Please," Tristan said, calmly for now, "please don't do this to me. This is my first time and I just don't feel this way about you."

"You're tied up," she explained to him, as though his shackle-bound ankles may have escaped his attention, "my will is your reality from here on in, little boy."

Now she was on the foot of the bed, crawling over the footboard and moving over Tristan, whose free hands tried to keep her back. This action earned him a savage slap. His hands retreated to his sides, which seemed good enough to please Crystal as she loomed over him now, sitting erect, her thighs on either side of his waist. The smooth, cool skin of her inner thighs was tempting, alluring to Tristan, but this was just not what he wanted. He couldn't make himself be excited about this fear, this helplessness, this complete disregard for his will.

"Please, don't do this to me." Tristan implored in a weak, frightened tone as his helpless state became all the more apparent.

"Oh come on," Crystal said, "do you know how many guys would just kill to be in your position right now? You're ungrateful."

"I don't want this," Tristan insisted, his voice increasing in pitch and frantic tone, "I don't want any of this! I'm not the guy you wanted, I'm not into this!"

But his protestations and beseeching cries did nothing to stop Crystal from reaching her right hand down, trailing her nails over his chest and down his belly, until her hand reached his manhood. Tristan's legs tensed, his body shuddered in response to her warm hand closing around his most sensitive of regions, squeezing it firmly. Tristan shut his eyes tight, he hated himself for how his body reacted, how his penis grew hard in Crystal's hand as she held it clenched in her fist, pumping her arm up and down until she was satisfied with the results of her careful actions.

"See, little boy," Crystal cooed, "you wanted me all along. You just don't know what you want."

But it wasn't true, Tristan didn't want her, not at all. This was horrifying, this was unwanted intimate pleasure, the most terrifyingly paradoxic sensation. Why was his body reacting so... / positively,/ when all he felt was fear, fear that was quickly turning to self-loathing as his own physical form betrayed him. Why couldn't he tell himself to go limp, to lay still and do nothing until Crystal lost interest in him? But what would happen then? He didn't know, and wouldn't know, because his body was responding to Crystal's caresses as eagerly as if she were the love of his life.

With an eager, hungry look, Crystal raised herself up, then lowered herself down slowly over his erection. Her body pressed down upon him, his member pushing into her, squeezed between her tight inner walls. Crystal let out one squeak of excitement after another, getting louder as Tristan plunged deeper into her. Her hips began to move up and down in rhythm, her hands pressed on his chest, nails digging into his skin. The sensation around his penis was astonishing, warm and inviting, yet in the context of this encounter, repulsive and oppressive. He felt inhuman, like he was just an object for Crystal to use as her body moved up and down, her breasts bouncing, her head thrown back in animalistic gasps of ecstasy whilst she worked herself to a long, slow orgasm. Tristan felt his pleasure building as her tightness squeezed his full length, bringing him well past the point of orgasm, leaving him drained and disgusted with himself as Crystal finished off her climax.

"What a good boy," she panted, laying upon him and kissing him feverishly, "what a good, good boy. You'll do just fine here."

Tristan was crying. / Damn/ /it,/ he was actually crying. Not great, wracking sobs, but tears rolled down his face, and he lay perfectly still as Crystal lay upon him, kissing him, invading his mouth with her tongue. He just lay there, tears blurring his vision. After all this trouble naming them, making his captresses seem human, he was now the one who felt so much like a non-human. But not like an immortal, not like a deity. He felt like a pebble helpless in the current of a river, like a feather in a wind tunnel, like a chess pawn in the hand of a vicious player. All he could do was cry.

Crystal rose from him eventually, pleased with herself and thoroughly satisfied. Donning her black robe, she gave him a last, lingering smile, before exiting the room. But there was no loneliness this time, no chance to lay still and reflect. The door opened almost immediately afterword and Hilja entered, closing the door behind her. She was clad in the same loose-fitting pants, heavy boots, and black shirt that she'd worn earlier.

"Having fun?" she asked, eyeing Tristan's sweat-soaked, tear-stained face.

"N-no, no I'm not, I don't want this." Tristan replied weakly.

"We'll see about that." she replied. "I've got a very special treat for you."

/Oh Gods, how can this get worse?/ Tristan thought.

Hilja began to take off her clothes. / Oh/ /this/ /again,/ Tristan sighed unhappily, knowing he was about to be subjected to another bout of unwanted sex. Again he was going to be used, again ignored in his dismay and discomfort, again worked to an unwanted climax by a pretty girl he didn't love, but feared.

Hilja stepped out of her boots and slid off her socks, pants, shirt, underwear, and bra, in that order, tossing the clothes onto the wood floor of the room. It wasn't proper wood, some sort of laminate that looked nice but sounded hollow and artificial underfoot. Hilja moved to the end of the bed and then suddenly unlocked Tristan's ankle restraint with a small key she'd held in her hand, and which she now placed on the side table.

"I know what you're thinking," she noted, a faint laugh to her voice, "you're thinking that you're free and could just run out the door and go find help, aren't you?"

"No no," insisted Tristan, a guilty blush covering his face, "I'm not, I promise."

"That is good," she replied, cracking her knuckles ominously, "because I KNOW I could take you, boy, and I promise I wouldn't be gentle. Now, turn over."

"What?"

"TURN OVER!"

With that shouted command, she seized Tristan and painful jerked his shoulders, twisting him around and forcing him to lay on his belly on the bed.

"I do NOT like to repeat myself, do you understand?" she commanded.

"Yes, yes ma'am." Tristan said, without thinking, driven by fear.

"What a fast learner," praised Hilja, "now hold still."

Hilja pulled his hands above his head, bringing them to the headboard chains and locking them in place, leaving him immobilized on the bed once more, on his stomach, his head laying on its side so he could watch her movements. Then, seizing the pillow on which he'd been resting, Hilja folded it in half and forced it under Tristan's hips, propping him up in an awkward, arched position. / What in Hel is she trying to do?/ Tristan demanded internally, not wanting to anger her into another outburst.

Hilja moved back to the table, opening the unlocked drawer and produced a peculiar amalgamation of straps and a few buckles, like a harness of some sort. Hilja stepped into it, pulling it up to her waist and securing it, such that it strapped around her waist and had a loop around each thigh. It held now, at its center, directly in position with Hilja's most intimate of regions, a sort of aperture, a connector for something. Next from the drawer came a device altogether more recognizable, and alarming for its familiarity. Tristan had never seen one in person, but how could he not recognize it? The smooth material, the large and phallic shape. A strap-on, double-ended, intended for mutual pleasure.

"Oh Gods," he whimpered, turning his head away, "oh Gods please no, no no no."

"Relax," Hilja said, "it'll make this go much smoother, and this is a nice small one."

/Small?!/

Tristan couldn't watch, but he could listen, and he could feel. He could feel Hilja climbing onto the bed, moving astride his propped up hips. He heard a popping sound, the sound of a bottle or tube being uncapped. Then he felt Hilja's hand, now slick and slimy with a healthy dollop of what he presumed to be lubricant, moving down his backside, sliding her fingers into him slowly, first one then another, moving them around, lubricating him. Preparing him. He couldn't relax, even though his mind screamed for him not to tense up. How could he relax? That cold, invasive sensation of her fingers, that would seem like nothing when the true torture began.

"I'll do anything," he begged, his voice cracking, "I swear, anything. But don't do this, I'm begging you, please please please, don't do this to me."

"Stop whining." Hilja ordered callously. "You're going to love it."

"No I won't."

"Then you're just going to take it, just lie there and take it like a fucking man."

He heard her lubricating the device, heard her slide it into herself, locking it in place in the harness. Then there was another sound, a button click and a sharp humming sound. / Vibration./ Tristan cringed and squirmed, but Hilja's strikingly muscular legs held him still, immobile and prepared for this most cruel of violations.

The tip of the device was rounded, of course, slick with lubricant, vibrating wildly. Tristan couldn't help but tense up as it brushed against him, pushing against him from behind, trying to enter. Tears streamed down his face, he did his utmost not to outwardly weep as Hilja just kept pushing, not letting up, just forcing the awful thing against him until slowly the lubricant did its work and the rounded, helmet-like head began to slide into him.

"Oh," he grunted, "ah, no! Ah, it hurts, please. Ah!"

"Yeah," Hilja sighed, falling upon him and grinding her hips, "yeah, you like it, I knew you would. Take it, you little bitch, you little slut. Take it."

The full length was pressed into him, widening him out and filling him with the most peculiar, vibrating sensation deep within his body. It had to be seven inches long, and thick as well. The pain, the complete discomfort and sense of invasion was overwhelming, it was invasive in the most deep, disturbing way. Hilja was laying on him now, her breasts pressed against his back, her well-muscled arms wrapped around him, holding him to her as she panted with pleasure, her hips arching up and down, sliding the device in and out of him, slamming the tip of the strap-on hard into his insides.

"Fucking take it!" she hissed in his ear. "You little fucking bitch."

The device slammed in and slid back in rhythm: in and out, in and out, over and over again. And Tristan realized, with horror, that it was hitting him in just such a spot so as to bring his manhood back to its erect state. Worse still, it was making him come closer and closer to a climax, his second unwanted one in this terrifying day. Hilja's increased panting, her louder and higher pitched shouts of "take it," the tightness of her legs increasing, and the faster, harder ramming of the device with her hips, told Tristan her climax was near. He came to his orgasm first, whimpering and shuddering, trying feebly to stop it from happening, but to no avail. As his seed spilled out of him, onto the pillow, he lay still while Hilja finished herself off, before sliding the device slowly out of him.

"What a good slut," Hilja growled in her post-climactic fervor, "I'll train you well yet."

Tristan felt broken, defeated. Why had he climaxed from that, how could he have let himself do that? His backside was hurting, it felt slick from lubricant, and his bowels ached like he had to go to the bathroom, which he knew he did not have to do. Hilja climbed off of him, wrapping up the device in a little sheath of plastic, presumably to take it to the bathroom and clean it. Then she dressed, sliding back into her clothes and petting Tristan's head firmly, before departing from the room, whilst Tristan cried quietly, his body still quivering in absolute, broken dismay.

Why was this happening to him? Sure he'd been socially awkward all his life, made few friends, fewer close ones. Sure he was a bit odd. But he wasn't a bad person. Why would his Gods do this to him? Why would any human being do this to another? Was this what so many women endured, what they suffered at the hands of abusers, or at least something similar? Could he, a man, really now know what it was like, the horror of being raped? /Rape./ That was it, an ugly, painful word. It sounded so much like "rip," as though he were being ripped away from his innocence, as though his freedom was being ripped away from him. Had he just been /raped,/ by these two girls?

/No, no, that can't be it, this can't count as that. I'm supposed to like this, these girls are hot, they're beautiful, they just... they love me, in a unique /way./ But if that was true, why would they have drugged him, tied him up, beaten him, collared him, ignored his pleas for mercy, and taken his virginity. / Does a guy even have a virginity to take?/ He didn't know, but he definitely felt like something was gone, something that, when gone, left him feeling cheap, violated, robbed, and defiled. They had no regard for him, for his needs and wants, for his fears and his discomfort. Maybe this was rape... maybe.

The sensation of warm hands made Tristan jump, as much as he could, letting out a startled yelp. He hadn't heard the door open and then close, nor the sound of footsteps on the laminate floor. But there they were, hands upon him, unfastening his hands and turning him over.

"Hello," Mai said gently, "are you having a good time?"

"A good time?!" he all but exploded. "No I'm not having a fucking good time, are you fucking insane asking me a stupid question like that?! I'm chained up, naked, getting fucked by psychotic bitches and you ask me if I'm having a good time?!"

Mai's eyes went wide, her lips trembling. / Damn, I actually feel bad,/ Tristan realized. Mai looked like she was about to cry, her eyes wide, her face tightening up to hold back tears. Looking away from him, she set about to shackling his limbs once more, leaving him on his back and unmoving.

"I'm sorry," he said, guilt tingeing his voice, "I didn't mean to scream at you. I'm just in a lot of pain and I'm, well I'm scared, and I hate all of this and I..."

He trailed off as Mai, already stripped naked, climbed into bed, moving to sit astride his hips, but facing away from him, sitting on his chest.

"You yelled at me." she said, a hard, bitter edge climbing into her sweet little voice. "You were very mean, and now I must punish you for what you said."

"Punish? Oh no no no, please I'm sorry I'm so so sorry." the words came out in a wild jumble of terror.

"You will be sorry," Mai said, "you're just saying you are now because you're scared, but I'll make you be sorry for saying I was stupid. I'm doing this for your own good, little Tristan."

Tristan didn't like when she said his name, which she'd presumably learned from the ID in his wallet. It made everything feel so personal, so close, like they knew everything of him. But he liked what happened next even less.

Mai's hands moved ominously downward, past the base of his manhood and to his testicles. Already, Tristan was squirming, pleading over and over again with her to stop, that he was truly sorry. But Mai persisted, taking one of his testicles between her left thumb and index finger, and doing the same with the other and her right hand. Then, she began slowly to squeeze, applying more and more pressure slowly.

Tristan began to grunt, to strain at his bonds and to try and pull his hips away, all fruitlessly. The pressure grew harder, until his grunts turned into yelling, screaming, high-pitched crying. His head thrashed about desperately with the pain, and he truly thought he would pass out as the agony exploded through his groin and lower abdominal region. At the moment when he felt himself at the brink of passing out or vomiting, Mai lightened up the pressure, allowing Tristan a chance to catch his breath. Sweat stood out on his forehead, he felt like he was going to be violently ill.

The pain was only gone for a while, it returned hastily, and without the build up of the first time. Mai squeezed hard, then released, again and again, keeping no tempo, doing her work at random so as to increase the fear, tension, and resultant pleas for a mercy that was not forthcoming. When she'd had her fill at last, she wrapped her index finger and thumb around the base of his scrotum, locking them together to form a ring so that his balls were sealed, trapped within their sac, unable to retract in case of pressure put upon them. Then, raising her left hand, she brought it down, flat and hard with a resounding "smack" against his captive testicles.

Tristan's entire body tensed up, his stomach locking up, his eyes rolling back, a long, wordless, animalistic groan issuing forth from his mouth. Then she struck him again, twice, three times, four times, and finally one more terrific blow, before releasing his bruised, agonized testicles from her vicious grasp.

"Tristan," she asked, turning so she was now seated astride his hips and facing him, "sweetie, are you sorry for what you said?"

"Oh Gods yes, yes, I'm so sorry. I was wrong to speak out of turn, and to speak to you that way. I'm so sorry, please forgive me." Tristan wept openly with great, heaving sobs.

"Oh Tristan," she squealed, "my poor, sweet little boy. I'm sorry I had to do that to you, I'm sorry you made me do that. But you learned, you learned, you're so so good!"

She fell upon him, seizing his head in her hands and drawing him into another kiss, her lips covering his, smothering his mouth as her tongue invaded, exploring his mouth at length before she pulled away, biting his lower lip affectionately. Mai cuddled Tristan happily, heedless of his shivering, his trembling from the still resonating sensations of pure agony that she so recently bestowed upon him.

"You are such a good boy," she cooed, nuzzling his neck, "thank you for being sorry for what you said. I knew you would learn if I gave you a firm hand, a loving hand."

"That really hurt." gasped Tristan. "I think I might be sick."

"Hush sweetie," Mai insisted, kissing his forehead, "you're okay, I'm going to take care of you. And now you can have your reward."

Mai moved on top of him, her hips over his, her hot body pressing down against him, her lips brushing his neck and collarbone. But before she had him, she reached over to the table, whereupon rested Tristan's necklace, the silver Thor's hammer on a silver chain. With a smile, she put it around his neck, before returning her attentions to more carnal matters.

The sex was slow with Mai, it was intimate. It was not the dominating rough ride of Crystal, or Hilja's brutal violation. Mai's hips moved against him gently as his manhood, somehow still erect despite the pain in its vicinity, filled her tight inner depths. The movement of her body was slow, deliberate, and seductive, enticing him to move with her, which Tristan did, even as he mentally begged his body to be still, to lay quietly and do nothing. Biology betrayed him again, his manhood throbbed with pleasure, his hips moved in complete synchronization with Mai's, and he moaned quietly all the while, even moaning into her mouth when her lips wetly smothered his once more.




Heart of Steel Ch. 02



[Author's Note: Well part 1 of this little tale doesn't seem to be doing to hot in the ratings department, but that's okay, let's carry on with part two, shall we? I'd definitely love to hear what you all think of the story, and suggestions are always welcome.] 

Chapter 6: The Ruins of My Life

That night was not an easy one. Much of the food in Tristan's fridge had gone bad and he'd been forced to throw it out and order a pizza for dinner. / Not a terrible fate, really./ But dinner was not the problem. He turned on the television to try and relax, to shake off the gloom that his sudden freeze-up had left on him. It made him feel like, even though he was free, the girls still had a hold on him. And that sensation disturbed him more than he could have imagined.

The television didn't much help to alleviate the tension, though the warm and wonderful pizza did put him in somewhat better spirits. When he'd finished his meal, Tristan decided that he needed to take a shower. But as he stood, naked inside the tub, the warm water washing over him, he couldn't shake off the feeling of hands.

He remembered what each of them felt like, each of the girls who had, until just the night before, bathed him. Crystal's touch was so cold, so unfeeling, like she was scrubbing clean a tool or instrument of some sort. Hilja was deliberately rough with him, her hands prodding and squeezing him, delighting in his squirming and yelps of discomfort. And Mai, gentle Mai, so tenderly bathing him, so softly caressing his flesh. He could still feel them, all three of them on him at this very moment, as if they were there now, all standing in his bathtub-shower, clustered around him, bathing him in that way that never left him feeling clean.

It took Tristan a while to realize that he was crying, just standing there in the shower, bawling like a child. He sank to the bottom of the tub, sitting there with the water raining on him, his knees tucked up to his chest, and he cried without end. Some moments he just sat there, shaking and letting the tears come. Other moments, great sobs wracked him, making his chest hurt with their force, making his throat ache. He was screaming, he realized that too. He wasn't screaming loudly, just louder than typical talking. Over and over, he repeated it, "Why? Why? Why?"

When Tristan finally pulled himself together and cleaned up, before emerging from the shower, it was much later. He stood in his room, feeling a wave of elation wash over him. How badly had he needed that cry, that outpouring of raw emotion? He felt lighter now, he felt more free for having expressed himself. And, on top of all of that, he finally felt clean.

Without donning any clothes, Tristan threw himself into bed, wrapping up in blankets and cherishing the fact that he could sleep without any of his limbs shackled. And on the wall over his bed, his Milla Jovovich poster watched over the room, looking tough and beautiful. / But not like Hilja./ Not that kind of tough. Milla looked strong, she didn't look evil, not scary. Tristan reflected on that as he drifted off into a deep, dreamless, and truly restful sleep...

The next morning, Tristan awoke. He looked up and around. / Where/ /am/ /i?!/ He didn't recognize this place at all. The walls were decorated, the bed was softer, he couldn't feel his shackles. He sat up sharply. Then it returned to him, he was home, he was free. His necklace was the only thing he wore, no collar or shackles. He was home and safe. A smile crossed his face briefly and he rose from bed, dressing in his typical clothes: black pants, boots, and a metal band shirt. This particular day he selected a Sonata Arctica shirt. A lighter band, but a good one. / It's nice to think about metal again./

Attention had to be paid, he realized, toward salvaging his school career for this semester. He was going to have to contact his teachers and explain... what? Explain why he had disappeared for a month? He'd have to come up with something. Failing this semester was not so much a possibility as an inevitability, but he had to make sure he was still in good standing for the coming semester. But all of that could wait for now, as it was Saturday and his teachers would not be likely to check their email. One thing was for sure: this would really piss off his parents, he'd have to work fairly hard to calm them. The tentative lie of a lost cell phone battery wouldn't explain his absence from class. But one thing might help matters, one thing might show that he was trying to be responsible. If he was gainfully employed.

Discs and Records, or Records for short, was a little music shop south of Pine Ridge University, on a street lined by little shops and restaurants. To Tristan, it was always special because it actually housed a respectable, if not commendable selection of heavy metal albums, both on CD and vinyl. Tristan made many of his purchases there, and his friend Dave worked there, a manager employed by the shop's owner, an older, bald man, named Tony. Tony, the few times that Tristan had met him, seemed like a nice enough guy, very gruff in demeanor though, which is why he seemed to get along with Dave so well.

"Tristan," Dave's raucous voice erupted from across the shop, "you son of a bitch I thought I was never going to see your ass in here again!"

"Hey man," Tristan said, striding across the shop and into a rib-cracking embrace, "how have you been?"

"Good as Hel," Dave replied, "can't complain."

Dave was large in every respect of with word. He was tall, broad shouldered, and fairly big around. Today he wore a sleeveless shirt, a cloth wristband that read "Fuck You, I'm Irish," and a Mjolnir pendant large and heavy enough to debilitate a lesser man. His hair was long and his arms were adorned with a number of tattoos, some better than others. He patted Tristan on the back, hard enough to make the smaller young man nearly fall over.

"So you come by to pick up the new Sonata Arctica live disc?" Dave asked.

"No. Well yes, I'll take it, but no I was actually coming by to ask about the job."

Dave thought about it for a moment, then he looked Tristan over. His face fell.

"Sorry man," he said grimly, "but you're not going to get it."

"Why not?"

"Because we don't hire dudes whose moms I've slept with. Store policy!"

Dave erupted with laughter at his own crude (and thankfully entirely fictional) joke. Tristan couldn't help but smirk. / The world could be thrown into the depths of a tempest the likes of which none have ever seen, upsetting civilization as we know it, and Dave would still be a hilarious ass-hole./

"Seriously though," Dave said, "I'll hook you up with an application and push it through to Tony, okay bro."

"Yeah, that would be great. Thanks."

On his way back up to the front register, Tristan caught sight of the new Sonata Arctica live album. It had come out in October, he remembered hearing about it and seeing some previews for it online. He wondered what had been happening to him the day the album came out. Which of the girls was having her way with him on that day? What torture had he been enduring? Dave's sudden intrusion cut into his thoughts.

"You going to buy that or just ogle the lead singer." he chided.

"Whatever dude," Tristan muttered, "yeah I'll take it."

Dave rang up the album and Tristan paid him for it. Dave also gave him an application, a simple form with name, contact information, and a few questions about potential work schedule-effecting factors. Tristan took the time to fill it out and hand it back to Dave, who assured him that Tony would see it and it would come with a strong recommendation.

Then Tristan bid his friend farewell and walked out of the store into the chilly November day. He found himself wishing he'd brought a jacket, yet likewise not wanting to go back home to retrieve one either. He didn't want to be alone, in a room, in any room right now. Seeing his friend just reminded him how much he missed human contact. His late-night talks with Mai didn't properly count, given that they always came after she was done taking what she wanted from him. So to the end of not wanting to go home quite yet, he wandered into a little restaurant that sold pizza by the slice, amongst other things.

The interior of the restaurant was quiet, relatively unoccupied, and some accordion-based music floated down from speakers mounted on the walls. Tristan had never much anticipated liking the accordion, but ever since he discovered folk metal music, he had grown to quite love the instrument, especially when backed by electric guitars. But this was just quaint folk music, though Tristan still found it pleasing to the ear. He ordered some warm soup and a cold drink, a winning combination, and sat down at a booth to eat by himself. But he was not alone for long.

Alan Jefferson was an older man, but not terribly old, early middle-ages at the oldest. He had short, dark hair and tan skin. He was a teacher at Pine Ridge University. More specifically, he was Tristan's English literature professor. Professor Jefferson spied Tristan sitting alone and hurried over to join him.

"Tristan," he said excitedly, "where have you been?"

"I've been," Tristan started, feeling suddenly and inexplicably compelled toward honesty, "I've been in a uh... in a really bad way."

"How so?"

"I can't talk about it really." Tristan replied. "I've failed your class, haven't I?"

"You were dropped, it's policy." Professor Jefferson replied. "Sorry man, I hate to have to do that. But it was a whole month."

"Yeah, I know."

"So uh... are you okay now?"

"Yeah," Tristan replied, "I'm okay I guess."

"Good," the cheerful professor answered, "but hey, don't forget that we have counseling up at the university, okay? Free for students."

"Oh? Oh yeah, thanks Professor."

"No problem, I'll let you get back to your meal."

Professor Jefferson left Tristan to his lunch, which he ate slowly, enjoying the atmosphere of the restaurant. What his professor said got him thinking: /Do I need some sort of counseling?/ Maybe it would be good for him, to talk to people, to let someone know what had happened. It had felt nice being somewhat honest with his professor. Maybe that would be good for him. / Well, if I'm dropped from everything I might as well spend my days on campus doing something of use./ He was still a little anxious, nervous about telling someone everything, but he could always try. / Right?/

At last he could sit around no longer without seeming to be loitering. And so Tristan rose and made his way through the afternoon chill, crossing his campus and returning to his apartment building. He let himself in and lay down on the couch, feeling consumed by a lethargy that he'd not noticed earlier. He felt like he had nothing he could do. They'd taken everything from him, his time, his academic pursuits, he couldn't just sit here all day, but what else was there to do?

Tristan fell asleep on the couch that night and stayed there for much of Sunday. There was little point in doing anything else, save for sending a few emails to his other teachers, all of whom replied with apologies for whatever circumstances had kept him out of his classes for a month, but informing him that he'd been dropped. Dropped, from everything. He was going to have to work really hard to explain this one to his parents. Maybe that counselor he was hoping to get would help out, somehow. Only time would tell, and hopefully lift this shroud of ruination that seemed to blanket him when he wasn't actively distracting himself with work of some sort.

Chapter 7: Working Man

The next week started out as a hard one for Tristan. He started counseling that Monday, having happened upon an available appointment with a friendly female counselor named Amy Morales. She allowed him to call her Amy. Amy was a young woman, seemingly calm in all situations, professional, but sympathetic and nice. That first day in her office, Tristan sat across from her and fumbled awkwardly with his words.

"I went to a concert in September," he explained, "and I left and went for a bus but I..."

"You missed the bus?" she prompted.

"Yeah, and these girls offered me a ride," he explained, now growing tense, twitching nervously and laughing awkwardly, "I went to get in the car and I... well they, they just..."

"It's okay Tristan," she assured him in that calm tone, "you can take your time. You're safe here."

/I'm/ /safe/ /here./

And just like that, the valve was released, the cap removed, the pressure erupting out. Tristan exploded forth with a deluge of words, sometimes stumbling over themselves, sometimes backtracking to clarify previously mentioned events or thoughts, but all of the words honest. Too honest perhaps, too raw and vulgar, for he spared not a lurid detail of his month in captivity. He couldn't, even if he wanted to, the words wouldn't stop coming out, until he had told the whole story: his capture, his abuse, his freedom, all of it finally coming out. When he stopped, Amy Morales sat silent for a moment.

"Tristan," she said at last after that long silence, "I am so sorry that all of this happened to you."

"You, you believe me?"

"Of course," she exclaimed, "why wouldn't I?!"

Tristan had to think about that one for a minute. Why wouldn't she have believed him? It just seemed so... unreal. Sounded like the plot for some sort of erotic movie, not something that would actually happen to a real person: a man enslaved by beautiful women. That just couldn't happen. Yet it did. And someone believed him. The joy that belief brought him, the comfort, was bottomless.

"Tristan," she cut in, "I will help you however I can, but you have something you have to do for me."

"What's that?" Tristan enquired, now apprehensive.

"You have to tell the police."

"What?"

"I'm serious," she repeated, "these are very, very serious circumstances you've told me, you have to report this. It's a crime, and they're still out there."

/They're still out there./

"But how can I do that?"

"Just go to the station," she replied, "just tell them what happened. If you don't, the law says I have to, to protect others. Will you do it before our next session?"

"Yes ma'am." he answered sullenly.

"I'm sorry to make you do that," she added soothingly, "I know this must be so hard for you, but that's how the system works. You can call me if you need anything."

Tristan left counseling that very same day and resolved to go to the police station, a few blocks westward, and tell them everything, to get it off his chest. But he found this a harder task than he anticipated. When he at last got an officer to talk with him in a private room, he found himself freezing up on those same words he'd just so recently and comfortably revealed. He stumbled through his sentences in awkward, jagged fragments, flushed with discomfort and sweating from the unpleasant heat of the police station. The officer, to his credit, sat there and listened to the whole, long-winded story, without interruption.

"Son," the officer said at last, "I'm uh... I'm going to need you to wait here for a moment."

The officer rose from the room, a private office Tristan assumed, and walked out into the hall. Five minutes later, he heard a great deal of commotion, loud voices. Other officers? Were they mobilizing that quickly? Tristan marveled at their speed, their effectiveness. Then the door opened and a party of several officers, most of them men and one woman all looked in at him.

"Son," said the lead officer, "do you have any idea the consequences of reporting a false crime?"

"Consequences? Of what?"

"Reporting a fake crime," repeated another officer, a squat, balding man, "you know, misleading us police officers."

"What are you talking about?"

Tristan was genuinely perplexed. Why were they asking him this? Did they... did they not believe him? The realization must have shown on his face, because the officers parted to let him out of the office.

"Kid," the officer he'd spoken to said, "you've got a good mind on you, and a great plot for some hardcore porn, but you can't be running around spouting fiction to law enforcement. We're letting you go now, but you can't just say stuff like that."

"We have real rape victims coming in here," said the squat officer, "that need our help, ladies getting abused by their boyfriends and husbands and shit. We can't play with some kid just because some girls were mean to you or whatever the Hell you're saying they did."

"But they, they abducted me..."

"Save it for Penthouse Forum." the roundly built officer continued. "Just get the Hell out of here."

"Yeah," one of the others chimed in, "but first, give me their number. My wife's been out of town on business, I could use a little abduction, you know what I mean?"

The officers, most of them in any case, erupted into a chorus of laughter. Tristan's face burned red, and he thought he was about to cry. But he rose, shakily, and made his way out of the office as the police dispersed back to their work. Save for one: the female officer who had not said a word. She moved after Tristan, coming alongside him.

"Will you please step into my office?" she asked, firmly but politely, before indicating an open door a few paces down the hall.

Tristan nodded, his face expressionless, and followed her into the office. She shut the door and looked at him, scrutinizing his face. / What does she want from me?/ Tristan thought. / She has handcuffs, is she going to arrest me?/ He started to panic, his eyes darting around nervously, perhaps looking for an exit, or somewhere to hide. Then she spoke:

"I am so sorry about how my colleagues treated you. I can see it in your face, that you're not lying."

"I... I'm not. Thank you." Tristan stammered, taken aback by her kindness.

"I understand that this is hard to hear," she said, picking her words carefully, "but we really can't do anything for you. We're required to investigate, but in a case like this there's really nothing that can come of it for you."

"What? Why not?"

"Rape," she explained, "is very specifically defined in our law books and we can't pursue a case like this, as we have no legal ground on which to arrest them, except for abduction and detainment, and we have no proof of that."

"But I'm not lying!" protested Tristan.

"I know," she soothed, "I believe you, but they don't and I'm stuck doing desk work."

"Oh."

"Are you seeing a counselor?" she asked gently.

"Yes."

"That's good," she said in response, "that's very helpful for people in your case. And here," she handed him a card, "this is my number. If you need anything, call me, okay?"

"Thank you, ma'am." he murmured, placing the card in his wallet.

"It's the least I can do. Now head home and get some rest, you look like you need it."

Despite the police woman's kindness, the events in the station still left Tristan feeling disgusted, angry, and most of all: marginalized. He wasn't a sexist, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he felt like, if he'd been a young woman, coming in to report an abduction and multiple counts of rape and torture, he would have at least gotten some police attention. / Some,/ /right?/ He would have been taken seriously by more than just one person. / But no, this isn't the right way to think, those ass-hole cops are not any female victim's fault./ He had no good reason to be mad, or to compare himself to female victims. But why did those officers scorn him? Why did they not believe him?

Tristan returned to his apartment, having little to nothing else to do with himself that day. Counseling? Done. Humiliation at the hands of the police? Done. But he was not expecting the call he received on his phone that evening, while he lay on the couch watching an episode of some survival show about men "roughing it" in the wilderness. The phone rang and Tristan pulled it from his pocket. / Dave,/ read the Caller ID.




Heart of Steel Ch. 02



"Hey Dave." Tristan said, trying to sound cheerful.

"Good news brother," Dave roared loudly into the phone, "Tony likes your application. Can you come in for a debriefing tomorrow at noon?"

"Yeah man," Tristan exclaimed, his spirits raising slightly, "I've got nothing to do."

"Good, I'll be in class." Dave replied, referring to the community college in the neighboring city. "But Tony will be waiting for you. Congratulations, man!"

"Yeah, thanks Dave!" Tristan replied, hanging up the phone and feeling a bit better.

The rest of the night was spent in a confused state of mind, anger about the way he'd been treated, contentment about how well counseling had gone, and excitement about the prospect of a new job. He slept comfortably enough that night, watched over by his beloved poster. He had no dreams. That was odd, he'd anticipated, even feared, having nightmares, vivid nightmares, of his traumatic stay with the three girls, but nothing of the sort happened. / Good, that's the last thing I need to think about./

The next day, at noon, he arrived at Records, clad in his usual attire. His father had always told him how important it was to impress your boss with a professional facade, but given that the place of employment was Discs and Records, and the boss in question was Tony, Tristan felt that his usual black clothing was very suitable. Tony sat behind the counter of the shop in jeans, work boots, and a muscle-shirt, exposing tattoos on his arms, the most notable of which was a dragon that flew down the length of his left bicep.

"So, you're Tristan, right?"

"Yeah, uh yes sir, that's me." Tristan replied timidly.

"You're a scrawny kid, ain't you?" Tony noted, without any hint of malice.

"I uh... I guess so." Tristan muttered somewhat awkwardly.

"Ha, relax," Tony laughed, "I'm just fucking with you, kid. Anyway, nothing much to tell here, you're on shelf duty for now. Just see if any of the albums are out of stock on the shelves and replace them, if we have any, with copies from the storeroom, okay?"

"Yeah, okay, I can do that." Tristan replied.

"I sure as Hel hope you can do it." Tony laughed. "That's what you're getting paid for. Oh and, this goes without saying, but help out any customers you can, okay?"

"Yeah, absolutely."

Tony went back to reading the magazine he had laying before him on the counter. From the look of the semi-nude woman and the vintage vehicle on the front cover, Tristan could only assume it was not a critique of literary theory or anything of the sort. Tristan moved off to get the lay of the land, from the perspective of an employee. Like any music store, the albums were set up such that they could be easily viewed, with aisles between the rows for customers to move through. The store housed a selection of everything from classical to hip-hop, but it's "Rock and Metal" section was by far its dominating feature, both in CD's and old-school, vinyl records.

Tristan was walking down an aisle, looking down at a few albums. There was a Saxon album "Wheels of Steel," that caught his eye. Not that he'd never listened to it, he loved Saxon and much admired their role in the New Wave of British Heavy Metal. But he'd never actually owned the album, never done more than listen to it online. / Why not treat myself to a little First Day of Work Gift?/ He reached out to pick up the album, sliding it out of the stack of other Saxon albums. It was right behind a copy of "Long Arm of the Law." Then he heard the voice, a female voice.

"Hey."

Tristan turned, and almost screamed.

She was pale of skin, clad in black clothes, like your typical metalhead. Heavy boots, pants, a silver bullet-belt, and a long-sleeved Burzum shirt. She was looking at him. Tristan leapt back, holding the album close to him like... / Like/ /what?/ Like a shield? Like a sacred object to protect him, to keep him anchored here in this spot and not pulled away back to that awful room? Then he got a better look at his "attacker," and calmed considerably. She was shorter than any of the girls that had abducted him, and her features were gentle. She was slender and did not appear to have much in the way of musculature, though her eyes were a fierce, blazing green, and her moderate-length hair was a beautiful, fiery red.

"Sorry man," she laughed, her voice was of a pleasing pitch and quite melodious but not particularly soft or quiet, "I didn't mean to scare you or anything. Just wanted to grab that last copy of "Wheels of Steel" before you got it. I fucking love Saxon."

"Oh shit," Tristan replied, his heart still beating fast, "here, take it, I'll find another one in the storeroom for myself."

"Oh, you work here?"

"First day."

"Bad-ass," she declared, "this would be such a kick-ass place to work. I'm way too busy to work here though, with classes and homework and all that, you know?"

"Pine Ridge University?"

"Yeah, you too?"

"Indeed." Tristan sighed, somewhat sheepishly. "But I've been dropped this semester, for uh..."

"Being too fucking metal!" she loudly proclaimed, to alleviate the tension.

"Yeah, Hel yeah!" he cried in agreement, responding to her small, raised fist with his own in the classic "fist pound" gesture of the metalhead.

Tristan couldn't believe it, he was actually, so quickly, talking to a girl, a girl who appeared at least somewhat similar to his assailants. This felt so... odd. He should be afraid, right? He felt like he may have been in any other circumstance, but this girl was so disarming of his discomfort with her blunt but kind demeanor and boisterous charm.

"Hello," she called, knocking him out of his thoughts, "are you trancing out on me?"

Tristan flushed. In his thoughts, he'd gone silent, just standing there and staring dumbly.

"Oh shit, sorry." he exclaimed. "What were you saying?"

"That it's nice to find another kid from the university who likes good music," she reiterated, "and that we need to hang out and jam out to some real music some time."

"Oh, yeah, absolutely." Tristan agreed, before he could really think about it. "Just call me."

"What should I call you?"

"Huh?"

"I'm kidding." she laughed. "That sounds good. Just give me your number and uh... oh well your name, that would be important."

They both laughed somewhat awkwardly, nervously. / She's a little nervous too,/ he noted. It felt good to talk to a girl who had the capacity to feel nervous, to feel joy, to feel anything other than absolute control and tyrannical satisfaction.

"I'm Tristan." he informed her.

"Cool, I'm Molly." she said in response.

"Molly, huh?"

"Yeah," she sighed, "but I don't much like the name. So my friends all call me Maul."

"Maul, as in: you'll MAUL anyone who calls you Molly?"

"Precisely!" she exclaimed. "You catch on fast."

Another round of laughter, and then they exchanged phone numbers before Molly... or Maul, rather, had to go on about her business, apparently having a class later that day. Tristan wandered off to the store room to retrieve a copy of the Saxon album she'd taken, and to refill the stack of Metallica records, which had been rather depleted. But once inside the store room, he sat down on a step-ladder in the dim light of the room, and began to think.

/Maul, what an interesting character she is./ But had he done the right thing in opening himself up to her? She didn't seem like a bad person, just a friendly, gregarious metal chick. But... what if she... / What if she did what, exactly?/ Tristan didn't know, but now that they weren't together, talking and laughing and basking in the high that envelops metalheads when they find each other, he found himself feeling apprehensive, even a bit frightened at the prospect of some harm coming to him. / Stop thinking like this, you're not some misogynist who's afraid of all women,/ he commanded himself. But he was afraid. Of intimacy, of vulnerability.

"Hey kid," Tony's voice jerked Tristan from his thoughts, "you getting high back here or something?"

"What? No sir, just thinking." Tristan responded, leaping up and fetching some Metallica discs to fill in the empty spot on the store shelves.

"Whatever floats your boat, kid." Tony laughed, flicking a lighter on and lighting a cigarette.

"You getting high in here?" Tristan asked with a laugh.

"No, just don't like to make the rest of the store smell like cigarette smoke." Tony replied.

Tristan laughed and wandered back out to the store proper to restock the shelves. The day went uneventfully until Tristan's shift ended. He kept everything topped off as supplies allowed and helped a few customers find albums. Finally, it came time for Tristan to leave. Bidding Tony farewell, he made for home, calmed by a day's work, but his thoughts gradually returning to Maul. What would their friendship be like? Could he ever properly trust her? He knew he should, for there was no reason not to trust her, but his experiences just left him feeling... apprehensive. What could happen, realistically, did not play at all into what his mind feared could happen.

Chapter 8: Princess of the Night

The week went by quickly, now that he had a routine to follow. Get up late, grab some lunch, go to work, return home, eat some dinner, listen to some music, and go to sleep. It was nice to have a routine, a simple pattern he could easily follow, something to give his life a touch of normality. He'd have counseling early the following Monday, but that was not at all unwelcome. In fact, Tristan found himself looking forward to it, excited to have someone to talk to about everything. Though that begged the question of why he could not simply tell more people, his friends, even his family. Ultimately, it all boiled down to the fear of not being believed, and not wanting to upset his family with the thoughts of his discomfort and distress.

It was Friday evening when his phone rang, while Tristan sat on his couch watching some sword-and-sorcery TV series based on a book, or something of the sort. The vibration and loud ring of the phone startled Tristan, and he hastily pulled it out. / Maul,/ read the Caller ID, as he'd entered her name (or nickname) and number the day they'd met.

"Hey Maul." he said, timidity rising to prominence in his voice.

"Hey Tristan," Maul said, chipper as ever, "I've got nothing to do tonight, can I maybe come over and jam with you?"

"Oh uh..." Tristan tried to think of something to say, anything.

"Is now a bad time?" she asked, not at all sounding disappointed or angry.

"No no," Tristan answered, once more disarmed by her friendliness, "I'm free, you can come over if you want."

"Where are you living again?"

"That apartment complex just north of the university," he responded, "apartment 201."

"Cool, see you soon."

/Why did I just do that?! Why did I tell her where I live? Why would I do /that?!/ Tristan berated himself for his folly, his inability to say no. / But why should I say no, what has she ever done to cause me harm? She's been nothing but nice to me. ... Then why do I feel so /scared?/ His mind warred with itself, wrestling his fears of the unknown and potentially awful with his enjoyment of Maul's company and his hatred of coming across as sexist for his fears. / Women are not bad, just because three people who happened to be women caused me pain,/ he scolded himself again and again. Then the knock came at the door.

Tristan rose, as if in a fog, a daze, gliding to the door as though drawn to it magnetically, against his own will. All of a sudden his politically-correct, progressive side was muted, all he felt and heard was his fear. / I don't want to be alone in my home with a woman, I don't want her, I don't want this./ But he just kept moving, like a piece in a machine whose role was to walk to the door and open it, smoothly, mechanically, free will not factoring into the matter in the least. Then he was drawing back the bolt, turning the knob, pulling the door open.

Black clothes, pale skin, a female shape, all of these features greeted him at the door and Tristan sprang back, not knowing what else he was expecting, but not expecting to have been so startled when he knew Maul was on the other side of the door. What was he expecting? Why was he startled when he saw her? The dark clothes and light skin gave her a resemblance to the girls who'd harmed him, but she was not any of them, she didn't really look like any of them, not with her short, slender stature, fiery hair, and piercing green eyes.

"Scared you again, huh?" she asked. "Who were you expecting?"

"I don't know, really." he admitted in a moment of total clarity as Maul sauntered in and made herself at home on his couch.

"You're jumpy." she noted. "Do you have any chips?"

"What?" Tristan asked as he closed and locked the door, taken aback by the non-sequitur. "Uh yeah, I have some chips."

"Sweet, I've had like nothing to eat all day." Maul graciously responded.

Tristan walked over to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and procuring some potato chips in a large bag held shut by a chip clip. He brought the bag over to Maul, who was sprawled out on the couch, her heavy-booted feet resting comfortably on the couch cushions. / She sure knows how to make herself at home,/ Tristan noted. Maul took the bag with a greedy but playful jerking motion, hugging the chips against herself possessively, in a purely comical manner. She sat up, sliding her feet off the couch so Tristan could sit down, which he did, keeping a little distance between himself and her. / Don't want to send the wrong message,/ he reminded himself. / But what message would that be, exactly?/

Maul opened the bag of chips, leaving it on the table, and began to eat from it. Tristan did as well. He watched her though, marveling at just how /small/ she was. Not unnaturally, but still just so short and so little. Her hands, even filled with greasy potato chips, seemed so little and delicate, even with her dark-maroon-painted nails. Maul must have noticed him after a moment.

"See something that interests you?" she asked casually.

"What?" Tristan all but yelped. "No, oh Gods no, I'm sorry. It's just, I mean you're so..."

"Little, right?"

"I've offended you already, haven't I?" Tristan muttered, shamefacedly.

"Ha, no it's okay." she laughed. "Yeah I'm small, five feet even. But I am a mighty force."

Maul leapt up onto the couch now, dramatically gazing down at Tristan.

"See how in a moment I bound to such great heights." she exclaimed theatrically. "And what great strength may the Gods have placed in this tiny frame?! I am the warrior! I am awesome!"

"Right, right," Tristan said, amidst a genuine bout of laughter, "you have a heart of steel, and all that!"

"Don't you forget it." she replied proudly, plopping back down on the couch.

Tristan was already relaxing. How could he have been scared of Maul? /She's so little, and silly, and nice, and cute!/ And her personality was so much like Tristan's own, albeit a far more extroverted Tristan. But they shared the same love of theatrics, the same musical tastes, it was so nice. He liked being able to relate to her. Already were his fears so distant that they seemed a dream, a distant and impossible nightmare. This little, sweet, peculiar girl couldn't possibly want to harm him, and the very thought of her doing so was foolish. Not just because she was tiny, but because she was so warm, so kind.

"So what are we listening to exactly?" queried Maul.

The stereo was spinning a copy of Hortus Animae's "Waltzing Mephisto," an album that Tristan felt was just perfectly atmospheric, with a certain dark elegance to it. And the cover of Mayhem's "Freezing Moon" present on this album simply could not be beat. Tristan passed this information along to Maul, who sat and listened for a while, staring at the stereo.

"I'd say," she mused in a serious, scholarly tone, "that this version of Freezing Moon is definitely more adept from a technical standpoint and it is altogether more well orchestrated and artfully blended with those other songs they fused into it."

"Right?" Tristan encouraged her to continue.

"But," she added, "it's just not the same, as far as atmosphere and significance goes. Mayhem's more loosely put together, poorly produced version just has a simpler, more raw ambience to it. This version belongs in an epic horror film, Mayhem's version belongs at a Satanic ritual in the woods."

Tristan laughed appreciatively. Finally, someone else got it. Maul beamed, for she could read the praise in his acknowledging laugh, his pleased smile. She had struck a resonant chord with Tristan. They sat together in silence and let the progressive black metal wash over them for a while. Then Maul started upright and reached for her backpack, which sat on the ground by her feet.

"I brought you something." she said. "A gift for letting me come over."

From the bag, Maul produced a bottle of spiced rum and a six pack of Cokes, which she set on the table. Tristan eyed the beverages, the gift.

"How did you get the rum?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, that," she explained readily, "I have a friend who works at a liquor store and never cards me."

"Bad-ass."

And it was a nice gift, truly it was. / But can I really afford to get drunk, to lose control of my senses?/ Tristan thought about this for a while, before reason caught up with him. / I was just a moment ago saying how sweet and harmless she was, I can't go back to being afraid!/ Easier said than done. But it was a nice gift and he owed her at least the politeness of enjoying it with her. And he did love a good rum and Coke. / Who/ /doesn't?/ And so he went to his cabinet and procured two glasses, which he returned to the table.

"Allow me." said Maul, taking the bottle of rum and a can of Coke.

She mixed a drink for each of them, a bit more rum than Coke, but that was hardly a bad thing. Tristan was far from a drink snob, he just liked anything that tasted good, and the sweet, burning sensation of the spiced rum mixed with the carbonation of the Coke was definitely delicious. It was also potent. Tristan had a tendency to drink quickly, and with such a heavy-handed mix, he found the rum was quickly taking hold of him. He hadn't eaten much this day, and it was a strong drink. Already, by the bottom of the glass, he felt a bit foggy-headed. Not much, but a bit.

"Another?" Maul offered.

"Sure." Tristan accepted as the warmth of the drink flooded his body, radiating outward from his belly.

Maul mixed them each another and they sat together, drinking and listening to music. It was peaceful, Tristan felt as though they really were content just to sit in each other's company, to do nothing but enjoy the metal.

"Hey Maul," he slurred a few drinks later in that sort of drunken pseudo-seriousness, "did I hurt your feelings earlier when I said you're little."

"No." she replied, giggling slightly and smiling at him. "It's okay, I know I'm little."

"Good."

She looked up at Tristan, smiling deviously, then put on a mock sad face, feigning absolute dismay.

"But if I was offended," she choked out through her false sorrow, "would you give me a hug and make me feel better?"

"A hug? I uh... maybe not right now I guess." he stammered.

Now Maul looked confused, the pretend sadness erased from her face. She looked at Tristan curiously, moving closer on the couch, putting a hand on his arm.

"Why wouldn't you hug me?" she enquired, drunken but genuine.

"It's not you, it's just, something else." Tristan said, now tensing up at her proximity and the touch of her hand on his arm. "It's just... I can't."

"Are you sure?"

She was moving closer, leaning against him, her head against his shoulder, her body against his. He could feel her breathing, he could feel her hands, her breasts pressed against him, moving as she breathed, the smell of alcohol on her breath.




Heart of Steel Ch. 02



"I can't!" he exclaimed, shrugging her off sharply. "Just let it go, okay?!"

"O-okay." she stammered, her eyes going wide with shock and hurt. "I'm sorry. I was just being silly."

She backed off, moving to the other side of the couch and fixing her gaze on the stereo. / Did I really shout that loud?/ Tristan thought. / Yeah, yeah I did. That was too /much./ He sat there in silence for a while, the stereo having brought the album to its end and paused itself, having reached the end of the CD changer. Only the faint clicking of a wall-mounted clock behind the couch gave any sound to the room. It clicked out a dull rhythm to the stillness. / It's like the slowest doom metal song ever./

Guilt welled up inside him. She was so kind, and a newly made friend who'd brought him such a nice gift. / Why did I react like that? It was just a /hug./ But something in the situation had just struck him so vividly, so strongly, that he couldn't hold back the fear that had so quickly rushed to fill him. It was like a river that sprang up out of nowhere, with villagers hastening to build a dam to halt it. They could work as fast as they wanted, but you just can't stop nature when it catches you off guard.

"Maul." Tristan spoke at last.

Maul was looking away from him, and when she turned back to him her face was tight with some strong emotion. Anger perhaps. But the few tears welling in the corners of her eyes suggested something far deeper. / Did that one shout really upset her so much? Was I really that /bad?!/

"Maul I didn't mean to yell." Tristan apologized. "I can't explain it, but I just got really uncomfortable just then."

"You're not mad at me?" she asked, her voice now quiet.

"Mad at you?" Tristan asked, taken aback. "No, no! Gods no I'm not mad at you, it was just a... a weird reaction I can't explain."

"I have a hard time making friends." Maul suddenly confided in him. "I've never really fit in well with other people, I've never found myself surrounded by others who understand me, who get what I like and the weird way I act."

She moved a little closer and Tristan did not back away from her, letting her drunkenly rant, listening to her let out the pressure that she'd probably held in for so long, pressure that the drinks and friendly atmosphere had helped to release.

"When I met you," she explained, "I was just so happy to meet someone else who was into the same music, and I thought maybe we'd become friends. I have plenty of friends online, but I can't hang out with my online friends in person, I can't lean on them for support or be with them... today."

"Today?"

Maul took a deep breath. Reaching up, she stretched down the collar of her shirt just enough to reveal the beginning of a long but faint scar on her torso, an angular line against her ivory flesh.

"When I'm not in college, living at the dorms," she explained, "I live with my grandparents. When I was younger, much younger, I was in the car with my parents. Neither of them had been drinking, it wasn't their fault, but the man in the truck had been drinking, a lot. We were in a small car, I was in the backseat, sitting in the middle, leaning forward between the seats to talk to my parents."

Tristan listened intently.

"The truck swerved into our lane," she continued, "my father tried to avoid it, my mother pushed me back into my seat when the truck hit, at full speed. The doctors said my parents died instantly from the impact, but I remember them screaming after the truck hit. The doctors said that was just an auditory hallucination, that the sound of the crash was so loud I was hearing ringing in my ears, not screaming."

Maul tightened her expression, fighting back tears, and failing slightly.

"I avoided a lot of the broken glass," she went on, "but a big piece of something, glass or metal or whatever, slashed across my chest. It cut me deep and left that scar. Tonight was the anniversary of the day it all happened, and I didn't want to be alone. So when you yelled at me, I thought you were going to ask me to leave, and I'd have to be alone tonight, and that I'd lose my only real-world friend."

"Oh Maul."

"My grandparents just don't get me at all," she carried on, her voice rising in anger, "they don't get what I like or why I like it. They think it's all a problem, like I'm sick or mentally damaged because of the car crash and that's why I wear black and like metal and all that stuff. They don't like me to hang out with people who encourage my "dark tendencies," so I never had many friends over when I was young and I was never allowed to hang out with people that my grandparents didn't meet and approve of."

"Maul."

"They're not my fucking parents!" she cried, now openly weeping. "I just wanted to have some friends. And I didn't want to have already lost you, so quickly, just because I was being weird."

Tristan wanted to tell her everything, to tell her she wasn't being weird, that it was all his fault, or the fault of those who'd done him harm. He wanted to ride the wave of emotions she'd just let loose, to open up to her and tell her of everything so they could both just sit there together and listen to each other, know each other. / This is all happening just too fast,/ he mentally exclaimed. So he settled on reaching out and drawing Maul into a hug. A firm embrace that let her snuggle against him, burying her face against his chest.

"You know there's a reasonable metalhead community around here, right?" he soothed. "You don't have to resort to only making friends online."

"I know," she said, hiccuping slightly, "but I've not been free from my grandparents' influence for very long now, and I've had such little experience making friends with people I actually like, you know?"

"Yeah, that would be hard, I bet." Tristan replied. "But you haven't lost me as a friend already. I think you're great. Funny, clever, knowledgeable about metal, outgoing..."

"And little?"

"Oh yeah and little." he laughed. "I just don't get how someone so out-going couldn't have made so many friends already."

"It's the damned grandparents." she replied, cheering up a bit. "I can be as crazy and out-going as I want, but it's hard to maintain friendships when my grandparents try to govern who I hang out with, how I dress, and even how I act. They say I'm too loud, too weird, and that I need to "get normal" to meet more people."

"Poor Maul." Tristan said gently, enjoying his comforting role in this situation.

It felt good to hold her, to gently pet her soft hair, to listen to her rant about how her grandparents "totally suck," and to truly feel like he had the power to comfort her, to make her feel good. She had opened up so readily to him, like she already trusted him somehow. It was amazing. / Can I ever trust someone like that, so easily, so completely?/ Tristan didn't know the answer to that. But Maul trusted him, and he loved that, sudden as it may have been.

Eventually she calmed down, sitting up but still leaning on Tristan, who no longer felt discomfort in her proximity. They both apologized profusely, Tristan for overreacting and yelling at her for reasons upon which he did not elaborate, and Maul for spilling her guts like that, as if they'd been close friends for years. Eventually, mutual apologies turned to them both blaming the rum, pointing at the bottle accusingly and chastising it for its devious mental manipulation. Then they were laughing, joking, and listening to another good metal album on the stereo. An album by Misery's Omen. Gone was that dark passage of the evening from only a short while before. Now, once again, they were happy together, cracking jokes, telling stories, and comparing music and film preferences. And then, out of nowhere, Maul kissed him.

It must have been the rum motivating her, or influencing her judgment. / Surely it must be the rum./ They were just talking about whether or not Darkthrone was genuinely enjoyable music (the consensus being a resounding YES), when Maul turned so they were properly facing. It was a quick movement, sudden, too sudden for Tristan to react to effectively. Her face moved closer to his and then her soft lips were pressed against his, her arms wrapping around his neck, and they were leaning back on the couch, Maul on top of him, the kiss unbroken. And then, she pulled away from it, a drunken smile on her face as she leaned on Tristan.

"Maul... I... wasn't expecting that." Tristan murmured, a whirlwind of emotions mingling in his gut. "I don't know what I did to make you think I uh... wanted that..."

"Oh," she murmured, noticeably crestfallen, "I'm sorry, Tristan. I'm really drunk. Didn't mean to gross you out."

"No! No it's not that." he exclaimed. "I wasn't grossed out, I'm just not really into that, right now."

"Oh." now she was confused. "Oh okay. Hey, I guess I should get going."

Tristan sat up, as did Maul, who began to rise from the couch. / Great, now I have offended her. This is all just too fucking /confusing!/

"Maul," Tristan insisted, "don't be mad at me, I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting that."

"It's okay," Maul assured him, giving Tristan a gentle hug, "I understand. I mean, I don't mother-and, but I respect your boundaries."

"Thanks."

"I do need to get going though," continued Maul, "it's getting really late. Can I come hang out more often? This was a lot of fun."

"Of course," Tristan replied excitedly, "and we can always meet up elsewhere too. Just call me, or email me, any time, okay?"

"Rock on!"

Maul gave Tristan the Devil Horns, accompanied by that devious smile of her's, before departing from his apartment, leaving him alone. Tristan sat there for a moment, thinking about what had happened, how he'd been so startled by an offer for a hug, how he'd listened to Maul share her sorrowful story with him, how he'd felt comfortable enough to finally give her that hug, and then the kiss, out of nowhere. / And how did that make you feel?/ Tristan's internal psychologist asked of him.

Quite frankly, he didn't know. Startled at first, then excited by the sensation. Then, as it continued, uncomfortable as recent memories dragged themselves to the surface of his mind. That was when he'd had the chance to tell her to stop, and he did, just as his memories were flooding his perception with vivid recollections of Mai, Crystal, and Hilja, and how each of them had kissed him. He could still recall how each of them kissed differently, could still almost feel it. And that prolonged kiss with Maul had dredged up these memories, so strong as they were. Yet he still found himself thinking of it as he wiped a smudge of her lipstick from his mouth, and not all of his thoughts were of painful memories and fear. Did part of him want that kiss to happen? /Maybe.../

Chapter 9: Pain Redefined

Maul and Tristan hung out more over the weekend and during the next week. Regularly they met for lunch, at the record store while Tristan worked, or at his home. He of course told his counselor everything. About meeting Maul, spending time with her, the openness she had with him, even the kiss.

"And how did that make you feel?" Amy asked him.

"I don't know," he admitted, "confused, I guess. I mean, I liked it, but it also gave me strong memories of the girls, you know, from before."

"Of course." Amy replied. "You must understand Tristan, what those girls did to you was profoundly damaging on a deep level. For a full month you were deprived of your will and your sexuality became their plaything."

"Yeah." Tristan dumbly answered, not knowing what he could possibly say to that.

"Don't you think," she asked him, "that after a month of non-mop torture, you may have become somewhat distressed with your own sexuality."

"Distressed?"

"Well tentative, shy, hard to trust people, of course," she explained, "that's the obvious outcome, and I think that's evident in how you reacted to this Maul girl's advance. But have you thought about how this may effect your sexuality as far as your own desires?"

In all honesty, Tristan had thought about it, ever since that last Friday night.

On that night, when Maul left, Tristan drunkenly flopped into bed and lay there, thinking about the kiss. He was perhaps too drunk to be fearful of it right now, his inebriation temporarily anchoring him in the moment, rather than drawing up the past as it had done before. / My mind is such a strange thing,/ Tristan noted. But his strange mind did not stop at the kiss. He couldn't help but imagining Maul taking their encounter further. He imagined her pale little body, slender yet shapely, the thin scar, a jagged little line on her chest. He imagined her breasts, firm and warm as the naked Maul lay upon him.

But even then his mind did not stop with its imaginative rambling. He was then, inexplicably naked under Maul, and they were on the bed in his room. He was shackled once again, spread-eagle on the bed as Maul smiled evilly down at him with that little smirk of her's that he found so alluring. Yet, bound and naked though he was, he was not in the least afraid, only unbelievably aroused, even as Imaginary Maul appeared to spontaneously don an outfit of tight black leather and wield a short whip that cracked across his skin.

"Maul." he moaned over and over again in reality as his fantasy played out.

Tristan relayed this fantasy to his counselor, blushing as he did so, along with the fact that it was far from his only fantasy about Maul that delved into that sort of sexual preference. Amy Morales listened intently as he told her of them, and then she spoke.

"You see, that is what I meant about what this could do to your sexuality."

"So, it's a bad thing?" Tristan asked.

"No, not necessarily," she was quick to clarify, "your sexuality is never inherently bad, and no person can change what is naturally in your brain. That is, your environment won't shape your sexual preference. But, what those girls did to you may very well have opened the door, subconsciously, to something that was always there, under the surface."

"Yeah," Tristan mused, "that makes sense. I mean, I always did find that kinky stuff kind of interesting. But what those girls did to me..."

"What those girls did has nothing to do with proper, healthy sexuality of any orientation." Amy informed him gently but firmly. "But tell me, how do you feel after you have these fantasies now that you've endured such torture in a non-consensual setting."

Tristan thought about that for a long while. He felt so many strong sensations. He had, for a long time, been aroused by the "darker" side of sexuality: S & M and such. And that had not changed. But until now, or recently, he'd not really thought about much in the way of sexuality. / Maul reopened that door within me,/ he realized. But how could he possibly still like that sort of interaction after what had happened? Wasn't that sick? Disturbing? Did it invalidate what had happened to him? Did it mean he should have enjoyed it? Tristan relayed these concerns to Amy.

"Like I said," she replied, "these sorts of events can be devastating to your sexuality, in that they will make you feel damaged for still having a sexuality, make it feel dirty to you to think as you do."

"Yeah," Tristan agreed, "that is how I feel, after I uh... have those fantasies now. I feel ashamed, like I shouldn't think like that after what happened."

"Just remember," Amy encouraged, as their session drew to a close, "a fantasy is something that only truly involves you, it is something to which you consent. And any consensual sex, of whatever sort, you have is just that, consensual. You should never feel ashamed for being as you are, it is perfectly healthy to explore your sexuality, Tristan."

"Thank you." he said, and truly he meant it.

Tristan took that to heart, but in a direction even he'd not anticipated. Upon returning to his apartment, in the break he had between counseling and work, he sat down at his computer and ran a search online, locally. More specifically, he ran a search for a local S & M dungeon, or a local dominatrix. / I have felt these urges for a long time, and Amy is right, that I do need to explore them. But I can't trust... anyone, right now. At least in this situation, it would be safe, I could get away from this if it goes bad, /right?/

Honestly, he wasn't sure what made him think it was a good idea. Perhaps the "professional" aspect made it seem non-sexual, sterile, just a way to get this out of his system so he could have "normal" thoughts about Maul, not thoughts that confused him when coupled with his past. That very well may have been the reason that he found Lady Jane's Dominion on the internet. It was a nearby dungeon, only a short bus-ride southward out of town. Tristan couldn't explain why he did it, but he called them, and he made an appointment with their receptionist for later that night.

After work, Tristan got on the south-bound bus, sitting quietly on one of the long, inward-facing bench seats, surrounded by others, mostly people returning home from work. / This feels so weird, so sudden, but I should explore this and I have to be safe./ He was deep in thought the entire ride. / I can't just let Maul tie me up, even if she would agree to it. I don't know her, don't know what she'd do. This place is a business, a place of work, they can't do anything I don't /want./ And with those thoughts rocketing around his mind, the confused young man dismounted the bus and took a short westward walk to the building with the simple sign: Lady Jane's Dominion.

"Can I help you sir?" asked the plump receptionist who sat behind a small desk in the pleasantly lit entry room.

"Yes," Tristan said, "I made an appointment for 7:30, with Lady Jane. My name is Tristan."

"Oh yes," the woman replied sweetly, "she's waiting for you just through that door. That will be $100."

"Okay, thanks." Tristan grimaced at the price, but this was all worth it, all for the sake of experiment, exploration.

The door was unadorned, unassuming. / What were you expecting, a heavy bronze door with chains and the haunting sound of screaming victims? ... Well, /yes./ Tristan opened the door and stepped into a little room with two chairs at its center, lit by a single florescent bulb.

"Tristan," came the pleasant voice of the blonde woman sitting in one of the chairs, "hi there, nice to meet you. I'm Jane. Please, sit down."

Tristan walked in, surprised by her kindness, her gentle tone, her politeness. He sat down, staring at her tight leather outfit, revealing much of her light skin, and the stiletto-heeled boots she wore on her feet.

"You're first time, huh?" she asked with a smile.

"How could you tell?"

"You have that confused look," she explained, "like you're wondering why I haven't pinned you to the ground and made you kiss my boots yet."

"Well, yeah." admitted Tristan awkwardly.

"This is just an introduction," she explained, "just tell me what you want, then we'll go into the other room and I'll become your worst nightmare."

"No," Tristan said, somewhat tensely, "I don't want my worst nightmare, trust me."

"That's fine," she gently responded, "we'll find exactly what you want."

Ten minutes later, they entered a dimly lit room lined with different equipment. Lady Jane firmly led Tristan by the wrist, pushing him forward over a bench with heavy shackles affixed to it. In moments, she had him immobilized on the bench, his shirt having been cast off and left in the adjacent room.

"You're mine," she purred, "my little slave, Tristan, my little slut."

"Please don't call me that." he said, quite seriously, instantly recalling Hilja and her fondness for that word.

"My little slave," she corrected, "my plaything. And I know just what to do with you."

The crack of the riding crop across his back sent a jolt through his body. His back smarted horribly, his heart raced, and his manhood came to an erection almost instantly. / This really IS different, I feel safe with this,/ Tristan exclaimed mentally as Lady Jane continued to whip him all up and down his back, before unshackling him and letting him fall to the floor. The leather-clad vixen strode over to a high seat, her heels clicking on the floor in an ominous rhythm until she seated herself. Then, perched in the chair, she slipped her feet out of the boots.




Heart of Steel Ch. 03



[Author's Note: Well here it is my friends, the final part of my little story. Thanks for all of your comments, they've been very helpful and encouraging. That note on character archetypes was much appreciated. You guys make all of the effort I put into my stories so worth while. This story was very personal and cathartic to write, so all of the feedback--both praise and criticism--is so appreciated. Oh and sorry about the slashes, I can't get my italics to work--the reason being fairly complicated--so /this/ will have to do. Hope it's not too distracting. Anyway, enjoy the tale. Reviews are always welcome.]



Chapter 11: Dreams



The Christmas day celebration was small, but warm with that familial intimacy so beloved of such holidays. They sat together around a decorated tree and opened gifts. Tristan's parents had grown to like Maul, even if they disapproved of her "familiarity" with Tristan. They'd purchased for her a gift: a pretty black dress that appeared to be just her size. Maul was, of course, delighted by the sweetness of the gesture. She had no gifts for the family at large, having not prepared, but something special for Tristan. It was not wrapped, but simply produced from her pocket: a small knife with a silver handle and leather sheath.

"My father carried this," she explained to him, "because he never wanted to be without protection of some sort. I want you to feel that same sense of protection, always, even when you are alone."

"Thank you, Maul." Tristan breathed, awed by the silver-handled blade with its keen edge and overpowering significance.



The day after Christmas, they returned to Pine Ridge, back to Tristan's apartment. After unpacking, the two started on a short walk around the town, just to enjoy each other's company and the brisk weather. Tristan noticed however, as they walked, that Maul was being somewhat reserved. An alarming shift, given her typical mood and energy. They stopped for a brief rest at a public pavilion and sat, across from each other at a small, circular table. Maul was still quiet, and Tristan could stand it no longer.

"Maul," he asked, "what's on your mind? You seem, regretful or sad. Did you not want to give me that knife? I know how special it must be."

"It is special," she agreed, "but it's not what's bothering me."

"Then what?"



Maul sighed, reaching across the table and taking one of Tristan's hands, holding it in both of her's, and kneading his palm with her thumbs. An odd habit, but one she defaulted to when she sat across from him. She took a deep breath and spoke.

"Do you think we moved too fast?" she asked, at last. "It's been so little time, can you really be ready for all of this. I don't want to force you into anything before you're ready."



Tristan looked at her, for a long time, quietly thinking. / She's right, this has all happened so fast it's overwhelming, but life doesn't just stop for me, and I feel ready for this./ Tristan assured himself of this mentally before speaking.

"Maul," he said, "I know this was fast, but I promise you that I would speak up, or panic attack out, if anything was happening that I didn't want. This was really fast, for both of us, but it feels natural, right?"

"It does."

"I can't think of how else our relationship would play out," he admitted, "fast, passionate, like a good metal song."

"That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard." Maul said honestly, squeezing his hand. "So you're okay with this all then, yes?"

"Absolutely."

And Maul kissed him.



The truth was, things had progressed far quicker than Tristan had imagined. But he couldn't imagine them taking a different turn. That is, a different turn with positive results. He could very much imagine himself, friendless and out of school, cooped up in his room and horrified at the sound of any female voice: the very picture of misogyny. But the way things had gone, the turn of events that had led him to this very spot now, with Maul, was just perfect for him. Not at all what he'd predicted for himself, not nearly so soon, but amazing nonetheless.



That night, Tristan and Maul returned to his apartment. After a few drinks, they lay together, naked, in Tristan's bed, cuddled close. Maul was semi-drunkenly rambling to Tristan about how much fun they would have if they could control the fabric of reality. Funny and innovative as her ideas were, Tristan was exhausted and drifted quickly into slumber. But his slumber was not peaceful.



He was lying in bed, his arms around Maul, his eyes closed. Gradually, his eyes came open and he looked down at Maul, whose head was buried in his chest. / Her hair is black!/ Tristan's realization propelled him back in his bed, just as "Maul" looked up. / Mai./ She smiled sleepily at Tristan and moved toward him.

"I knew you loved me, Tristan." she squealed excitedly, pulling him closer to her. "You can't keep me off your mind."

"No! No, get away from me!" Tristan protested. "Leave me alone. Maul! Help me!"

"Girls," Mai called, "Tristan is being mean to me."



Then Crystal and Hilja were in the room, so suddenly, /too/ /suddenly./ The three of them were pushing Tristan back onto the bed, holding him down as he struggled feebly, his arms pinned, his legs tangled with theirs. He couldn't fight, he was simply too weak. Their faces filled his vision, and they were laughing, mocking him. He couldn't look away, even as their faces grew larger, impossibly larger, their bodies likewise growing, crushing him as they became like giants to him, their laughter deafening. He was screaming. Not anything coherent, only an unbroken line of horrified shouting at the unbelievable sight he now beheld with maddening clarity.

"Tristan! Tristan!"



Maul shook him gently, again and again, snapping him out of his dream and into wakefulness. Tristan didn't imagine that, after such a dream, seeing a female face so near would comfort him. But Maul's face, her green eyes and fiery hair, her pixie-like build, all of these things calmed him. / I'm not afraid of all women,/ Tristan noted as he calmed down. But still, he was shaken, and threw himself into Maul's embrace, burying his face against her.

"Maul it was awful," he whimpered, "I was in bed with one of the girls and then the others were there and I was weak, and they were like giants and I was just a weak, helpless thing in their grasp and it was horrible and..."

"Oh, poor thing." she cooed, rocking him tenderly. "You're safe now, no one's going to hurt you, I'm here. Hush now, sweetheart."



She sounded so very maternal, so gentle and soothing. Tristan was lulled into a sense of calmness. His heart-rate slowed to a usual pace, his breathing steadied, and the tremors subsided.

"There now," Maul said, ruffling his hair, "see, you're okay, babe. How about you lay back down and I'll go make us some breakfast?"

"Yes please." Tristan answered, squeezing her in a passionate embrace before letting her go to scurry off into the kitchen.



Tristan stayed in bed, wrapped in a cocoon of his blanket. / I thought I was getting better,/ he mentally berated himself. / And now this nightmare? I thought things were improving. Am I moving too fast with all of /this?/ He found himself getting anxious again, worrying about everything. He'd have to see his counselor again once school started. Dreams like this could only be a sign that he was in fact not better. Far from it. Could he be getting worse, was that possible? Were these nightmares going to return with greater force? /I can't handle that, I really can't./ But what was to be done...



In time, school started again. Maul, to save money on housing, moved into Tristan's apartment with him and split his rent. Rather, her grandparents split the rent with Tristan's parents, since neither student was paying for the abode. But more to the point, Maul moved in so she could stay near Tristan, for her's was a comforting presence, and his nightmares had not gone away. They weren't every night, nor were they always the same, but they did come more regularly since that first night, leaping onto his mind like great predatory creatures assailing his sleeping self.



The dreams varied in their style. Sometimes he would dream he was back in that room, shackled to the bed. Sometimes he would be in his apartment, a captive in his own home. Other times, he would be on the street and see them, and no one would help him as he was attacked. Those scared him, for disturbing as the others were, Tristan's rational mind knew he'd not wake up suddenly in that room, nor did the girls have a means of finding or entering his apartment. / At least, I sure as Hel hope not./ But the prospect of running into them on the street was just too real. They might not be able to attack him freely, like in his dream, but they weren't gone from the face of the planet, he could still very possibly find himself face to face with any or all of them. / Surely they live around here, given where they picked me up and where they left me. Then again, maybe they don't, maybe they're from well out of town and left me in West Wood just to throw off my sense of where I'd been held. I have no way to /know./



But through it all, Maul was always there to wake him. She would shake him awake if he was noticeably stirring. If he wasn't, and merely woke himself with the fright of it, she was always kind about him waking her so he could talk it out and have someone to anchor him to reality, to remind him repeatedly that it was only a very vivid dream. For that Tristan owed her an eternal debt of gratitude.

"It's what a good girlfriend does." she assured him. "If I were in the same boat, you would do the same thing."

"So you're saying I'm a good girlfriend?" Tristan quipped, trying to lighten the post-nightmare mood with humor.

"Well," she mused, "you are always on the bottom during sex."

They both laughed while Maul held him tight.



School started again. Tristan was able to enroll in many of the same classes he'd taken the year before, so he could get the credits he needed. Mostly English courses and writing-centric classes. He'd tried a music class the prior semester, but Pine Ridge University's music department was frustrating in its definition of "art" music, and that closed-minded mentality was not in the least bit tolerable. But most importantly of all, Tristan was able to resume his counseling with the same campus psychologist, Amy Morales, and tell her of his dreams. He also told her of Maul.

"So you see," he concluded, "I'm just scared I may be moving too fast, and that I'm not healed, even though I thought I was."



Amy thought for a moment. Tristan liked that. She didn't just speak, reacting immediately to what he said. She listened and thought, gave insight to his troubles with well-phrased and clearly thought-out responses. It was what he expected and what he needed.

"Tristan," she said at last, "rape is something that people never fully "heal" from, in the traditional sense of the word."

"How so?"

"Well," elaborated Amy, "you will move on and live a normal life, as it sounds like you have with this Maul. But Tristan, this is essentially Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"That's not just for soldiers?"

"Most commonly found in soldiers, but not exclusively." she replied. "You may always have flashbacks, though not so tightly grouped together. You will enter periods where it will go into a sort of remission, and then periods where you will be thinking about it more often."

"Great."

"But that's why support networks are so important," she hastily added, "so that your friends and loved ones can always be around to help you when you're in need."

"That makes sense."

"And," she continued, "talking it out with people, like me, can be very cathartic and lessen the tension inside you that may lead to these more upsetting episodes. And doing things in general to make yourself feel safer, more comfortable with yourself and your surroundings, either mentally or physically."

"I carry a knife now." Tristan piped up.

"If it makes you feel safe, then that is very good."



Tristan thought on that for a moment. One thing both real and in his dreams that occurred to him, that filled him with the panic of helplessness, was the simple fact that he was weak. He was slender, with very little muscle-mass of which to speak.

"Have you thought about working out on campus?" Amy proposed when Tristan relayed this to her. "Anyone can use the gym, and you seem like you might feel safer if you felt stronger."

"You know," Tristan replied, "that's not a bad idea at all."



Chapter 12: With Strength I Burn



After classes on the following day, Tristan returned to his apartment. He'd taken to working certain week night's at Records, and day shifts on the weekend, now that school was once again exerting its all-consuming presence in his life. But this day, Tristan was not bound for work. Instead, he changed clothes into a t-shirt, a pair of basketball shorts he used to sleep in, and some running shoes. Maul, who was sitting on the couch, with her feet propped up on the table, looked up from her laptop.

"Going to the gym." Tristan said as he strode across the room.

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?" Maul laughed.

"Hey," protested Tristan, "I want to try and feel stronger, you know, so I can feel safe."

"No I get it babe," Maul assured him, "I'm just messing with you."

"Business as usual."



The weather outside was actually somewhat warm, odd for January. Not unseasonably warm, but the sun was exerting its presence, and it felt nice for Tristan. Once down the street a ways, he broke into a run, not too fast, but a steady increase in pace. It actually felt remarkable to move so quickly, to feel the adrenaline flash into him. He was impressed with his own pace, not too brisk, but constant. He was covering a good deal of distance and it felt amazing. At last, he arrived at the gym, having only slowed to a quick walking pace a few times. Best not to over-exert one's self before working out.



Inside the gym, Tristan walked past a few locker rooms, one for males and one for females, an open court of various sporting events, a room lined with mats presumably for stretching and perhaps some martial arts work, and finally he came to the weight room. Loud music emanated from within: the pounding bass and digital drums with rhythmic vocals and programmed effects. / Rap./ Tristan grimaced. / Not an auspicious start to the whole exercise thing./



The weight room had a long mirrored wall, large stacks of free-weights, and numerous, complex exercise machines. / Some of these look like torture machines more than workout gear. Wonder what it would be like to have sex on some of this /stuff./ Tristan quelled that line of thought and approached a machine that, if he was right, was meant to work his biceps. Sitting on the chair, he inspected the stack of weights with which he could set the machine. / How much is good for me? I'm just starting out, so maybe about a hundred should work, /right?/ Tristan moved the setting to 100 pounds. Then, he set his arms up on the machine, gripping the handles, and began to push. / Oh Gods, I can't even move it./ Tristan strained at it.

"Hey, whoa whoa dude," a voice cried out, "you're going to kill yourself with that much mass. Hold up!"



Tristan turned and nearly leapt in surprise. The hulking college student standing behind Tristan momentarily eclipsed his view. The boy was tall, broad shouldered and thickly muscled. His face was clean-shaven and his blonde hair buzz-cut. He wore a workout shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. Quickly, he leaned in and adjusted the resistance down to 45 pounds. Tristan flushed at the low weight.

"I think I can handle more than that." he boasted without any basis.

"Not if you're just starting out."

"That obvious huh?"

"A bit," the boy noted, "next time, I'd tie that long hair back if I were you, it'll just get in your way. See me, I don't have that problem."

"Yeah, I can see that."



The boy laughed and took up a spot in front of Tristan, encouraging him to start lifting.

"There you go," he encouraged, "come on, keep your elbows down man. Push it out! Ten reps, let's go!"

"Motivational." Tristan grunted as he worked the machine repeatedly.

"Don't talk, save your energy. You're doing three sets of this and then we move on!"

"I didn't pay for a trainer, you know?" Tristan gasped between sets.

"No sweat," the boy replied casually, "I got nowhere else to be. Finish out your next two sets, I'm going to go grab you some water, okay?"

"Thanks."



So Tristan worked out, a good set. The other boy guided him through several machines and some free weight exercises. At last, Tristan finished up his workout, or what the boy felt was enough for him for the first time at the gym. This was fortunate, as Tristan felt unrelentingly exhausted and his arms, far from feeling stronger, vaguely felt like gelatinous noodles dangling weakly from his shoulders, only strong enough to bring the water bottle up to his mouth and then back down again.

"So what's your name, bro?" asked the buzz-cut weight-lifter.

"Tristan, and yours?"

"Bradley," he replied, "but my buddies call me APC, like those Bradley military vehicles because I'm so built!"

"Really?"

"No, but wouldn't that be so fucking cool." laughed Bradley.

"Well yeah, guess so." Tristan laughed. "Thanks for helping me out though, Bradley."

"No problem man," Bradley replied, "I'm here every afternoon around this time, just keep coming by and I'll help you out when I'm done with my workout, okay?"

"Absolutely," Tristan agreed, "and now that I know my weight limits, low as they are, I should be able to run myself through this stuff if you aren't around."

"Totally bro," Bradley encouraged, "but it's always good to have a spotter, it's safer, you know?"

"Sure, sure."

"Alright man, well I've got to get going," Bradley said, "I'll see you around."

"Alright, see you later Bradley."



And with that, the two boys went their separate ways. Tristan began a brisk but leisurely jog homeward, his legs not nearly as tired as his still exhausted arms. / That was not bad at all,/ he thought as he ran, /Hel, I even made a new friend. That dude is pretty /cool./ Tristan was feeling good when he returned to his apartment, darting inside and shutting the door behind him.

"You look exhausted."

"Nice to see you too, Maul."

"Did you have a good workout?" Maul asked from where she now lay upon the floor, drawing on a piece of notebook paper with a set of pencils.

"Yeah," Tristan replied, "I met this guy named Bradley who helped me get through my workout without killing myself."

"Bradley?" Maul asked. "Big guy, shaven head?"

"Yep."

"Cool, he and I are in a history class together." Maul said.

"Nice."



Tristan walked over to Maul and flopped down beside her. On the paper, she'd drawn a picture of a long-haired warrior, hefting a heavy, two-handed broadsword. Tristan noticed something strikingly similar about the face of the warrior, about his eyes, though his build was of epic proportions.

"That's, that's me!" Tristan exclaimed.

"It'll be you in the future," Maul giggled, squeezing his arm, "once you bulk up a little."

"That is some good motivation." Tristan laughed.

"And it's how I see you." Maul added. "Strong, carrying a heavy burden yet striving onward anyway. That sounds pretty strong to me, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh Maul," Tristan exclaimed, moving in to hug her, "why must you always be so damn cute?!"

"You're sweet," Maul laughed, "but you smell like you've been working out, which you have been. Why don't you go have a shower, huh?"




Heart of Steel Ch. 03



"Oh right, sorry. That's a great idea." Tristan admitted, rising and strolling into his room.



Therein, he disrobed. When Maul had first moved in, Tristan had taken to disrobing in the bathroom, with the door shut. They'd seen each other naked already, but he felt sheepish about being so casual about it. Maul had, with his consent, put an end to that. / Nothing to be ashamed about for either of our bodies,/ he recalled her telling him, /so no need to hide yours away from me unless it really makes you unhappy./ And since it didn't truly, when he thought about it, then Tristan was happy to be exposed before Maul in the privacy of their shared home. And she felt of course the same way, though she did not go through that period of bashfulness.



Tristan walked into the bathroom and started up the shower, letting the water run until it grew warm and the mirror above the sink steamed up. Then, he stepped under the shower and drew the curtain behind him. The water struck him, warming him and scrubbing away the exertions of his physical endeavors. The shower had once been such a relaxing place for him, a place where Tristan felt free from time's passing, where work was held at bay, and he could simply relax. After all he'd endured, he no longer felt that sensation of safety, for it was replaced by memories of discomfort and violation. Tristan reflected on this as he cleaned his hair and scrubbed his body.

"Hey babe," came Maul's voice suddenly, "may I join you?"



Tristan wheeled about, his back against the shower wall, and beheld Maul, naked before him, having drawn aside the curtain. She smiled that devilish little smile and began to step into the tub, until she saw Tristan's expression, that familiar fear in his eyes, that trembling in his every nerve, the far away expression on his face, as though he were looking not at, but through her. She stopped short.

"Babe, it's okay," she soothed, "I don't have to join you, it's okay. I'll wait 'til you're done, it's okay."



And just like that, Maul was gone from the room, shutting the bathroom door behind her and leaving Tristan to conclude his bathing. Tristan loved her so much for that. As he exited the shower and dried off, she peeked her head into the bathroom.

"You alright, honey?" she asked gently.

"Yeah," he replied, "thanks for being so understanding about when I just can't do stuff, it means the world to me. It may pass eventually."

"Whether it does or doesn't," she assured him, striding into the room and entering the shower, "I'll always support you and help out however I can."

"You are just the best girl ever."



Tristan couldn't help but watch her bathe. So long as he wasn't in there with her, feeling other hands, even just Maul's hands, upon him while he was in that formerly-sacred place of relaxation and cleanliness, he wasn't bothered. Maul noticed him observing her as she shampooed her shoulder-length hair and returned his gaze with that winning smile of her's. She then began to put on a bit of a show for him, slowly running her fingers through her hair, rinsing it out slowly with delicate, sensual caresses. This pattern followed for the rest of her bathing. She positioned herself in rather pleasing, provocative poses and went about scrubbing her body with a deliberate flare, always making sure Tristan was watching her through the translucent curtain.

"You're trying to drive me mad, aren't you?" Tristan asked playfully.

"Can't drive you somewhere you've already taken up permanent residence." she quipped in a particularly flirtatious tone.



Laughing, Tristan strode from the room and flopped on the bed, laying there and enjoying the cool apartment air on his skin. A few minutes later, the shower turned off and he could hear Maul puttering about in the bathroom. Then she emerged, still naked and glorious and strode toward the bed at a sensual gait that emphasized the movement of her hips.

"You are just really amping up the sexy today, aren't you?" Tristan noted.

"Turned it up to eleven." Maul agreed as she crawled over him on the bed, her still-wet hair tickling his skin.



Tristan and Maul didn't get out of bed until a while later that evening. When Tristan finally did emerge from the bedroom, he was sporting several bite marks on his chest, and he could still clearly feel the path that Maul's nails had traced down his back. But he loved every aspect of it. Her rough play was so endearing to him, and she was always so conscientious about how he felt and what he was thinking. / I couldn't have ended up with a better girlfriend,/ Tristan noted happily. He only hoped he made Maul quite as happy as she made him.



The next few weeks went on by smoothly. Tristan's schooling was relatively easy. An English literature course, a history class, a basic mathematics course, a German class, and a course entitled "Feminist Debate." The debate class and the mathematics course were meant to fulfill basic school criterion, as the university demanded a well-rounded set of credits from its students. But the math was easy, and the debating of feminist issues was relatively interesting. Though sometimes, the anger expressed so vehemently by females in the class would make Tristan feel nervous and uncomfortable. Not that he disagreed with them in their approach to social issues, but just the raised, harsh tone of an angry female voice seemed to make his pulse jump a bit, his body tense up, and that wasn't pleasant.



After class, he would often go to work at Records, restocking shelves or (now) manning the register. Tony had taken to trusting Tristan in closing up the shop, so he'd often leave Tristan and Dave alone to work whilst he ventured off toward other pursuits. The two boys had fun, ordering food and wasting away the hours discussing music, life, girls, and other such matters. Dave never asked Tristan what had happened during his month of absence, it never really came up between them, and Tristan was okay with that. If Dave found out, he'd find out, but it wasn't relevant to bring it up. Oftentimes, Maul would join them, spreading out her homework on a table and working while the boys kept shop. She'd often make coffee runs for them when they were stuck working the closing shift.



On the days that he wasn't working, Tristan would return home, change clothes, and run to the gym. He and Bradley worked out together, each taking it in turn to spot the other on the heavier weights. In time, Tristan began to bulk up a bit more, adding muscle-mass to his slender frame. He started to really feel the difference: the strength in his movements, the solidity of his arms, it was all coming together. By mid March, he was really feeling the strength flow through him, and it earned him much praise from Dave, Maul, and Bradley alike. By the time Spring Break rolled around, Tristan was feeling good. Even his nightmares, while still present, were starting to subside as he grew back into a routine, into familiarity, and as he grew more comfortable with himself. This made the shock of a particular chance encounter all the more devastating when it at last came to pass.



Chapter 13: Tormentor



How could he have predicted it, how could he have ever seen it coming? His life was in the upswing, all was going well. Perhaps it all was doomed to come down eventually. But whatever the reason, he still could not deal with it. Tristan had avoided metal shows, even passing up some good opportunities, until Maul proposed they go see Necrosadist at the Den to start off Spring Break. Nervous as he was for his memories of his last concert, rather, his post-concert experience, Tristan decided to be bold and to go. / Those girls won't take away my love of metal shows,/ he assured himself.



And they did not, for he truly enjoyed himself. Nor were they present after the show to spirit him away once again to another long month of helplessness and misery. Instead, Tristan, Maul, Dave, and even Bradley, attended the show together. Bradley, it turned out, was rather more into heavy music than he was into the rap that saturated the school gym. In that fact, he and Tristan became even closer friends, and Bradley was warmly accepted by Maul and Dave, amiable as they were. And so the show was much enjoyed by all of them, particularly the mosh pit, which Maul survived by riding on the shoulders of either of the three boys intermittently, all of them able to carry her slender frame.



After the show, they retired to Tristan's and Maul's apartment to drink the night away and rant about school and other such irksome forces in their lives. And amongst them, Tristan was happy. He didn't think about his recent past, his fears, his anxiety. He only had time for the events at hand and drunken prospects of the future. He brought out his guitar and the four friends launched into loud renditions of their favorite metal songs with Tristan performing both guitar and vocal duties. Everything was going so smoothly, he never thought for a moment that anything could damage his world so quickly.



The Necrosadist concert was on a Friday, the first of Spring Break. That subsequent Sunday, Tristan went out to the grocery store to restock on food and other supplies for the apartment. The local grocery store was reasonably sized, and a typical store in every respect, with its well-lit aisles of packaged food, its produce section, and its frozen food section which Tristan always enjoyed for its temperature. Tristan was just rounding the corner onto the cereal aisle, ready to pick out some nice breakfast cereal, when he almost ran headlong into another person. He'd been humming along to a song in his head and not at all paying attention to his movements, which is why he stopped just short of knocking over the other person, who looked up at him.

"Tristan?!"

"Mai..."



At this point, Tristan expected the floor to cave in beneath him, the walls to come crashing down, the world to dissolve into some dream horror as always it did. Worse still, when no such thing happened, he expected Crystal and Hilja to emerge from behind him, to seize Tristan and march him out to their vehicle. / Maul will never know what happened to me,/ he thought, /I'll have just disappeared on a trip to the store. She'll look for me, but how long will it /take?/ Yet, strong as his fears were, nothing of the sort happened. Mai only stared at him, his more powerfully muscled build eclipsed by the look of horror on his face.

"Tristan." she moved closer.

"Get away from me." he said, so weakly, so quietly. "Get away."



Mai stepped closer and took his hand gently but firmly, holding it tight in her's, staring into his eyes with the ferocious urge to be heard.

"Tristan," she implored, "I'm not with the others anymore, I moved out after they made me get rid of you. We can be friends now, you and I, just friends. Wouldn't you like that? Nothing like before, I promise."

"Mai."

"Please Tristan, I've been so lonely since I left them. Be my friend?"



Tristan ran. He abandoned the groceries, he just ran, letting his newly-attained strength whisk him out of the store and down a side street, out by the store trash bins where he hid, crouched down, cowering, as though he were being pursued. And by his reckoning, he very well may have been pursued by Mai, or all of the three. / How could she be trusted to speak any truth?/ Tristan fumbled in his wallet for a card given to him shortly after his freedom from captivity, belonging to one Stacy Anderson of the Pine Ridge Police Department.

"Anderson." came the crisp response over Tristan's phone.

"Ma'am," Tristan stammered, his voice cracking, "my name is Tristan, you gave me your card last year when I tried to report a crime."

"Uh... yes, yes I remember you. Is everything okay?"

"No, I need help. I'm scared."

"Is someone hurting you, Tristan?"

"I ran into one of the girls at the grocery store and I'm afraid the others are around." he explained, panic filling his voice. "Please come help me!"

"Stay where you are." she briskly instructed, and the phone went dead.



Twenty-five minutes later, a knock at the door got Maul's attention as she sat upon the couch, painting her nails. She rose and opened the door to find Tristan and a kind looking woman in a police uniform, who let herself inside. Maul ran to Tristan, who was white and shaking. She embraced him tightly.

"He saw one of the girls." the police woman said, assuming Maul would appreciate the significance of it.

"Oh God, is he okay?" Maul immediately demanded.

"Just shaken beyond belief." the officer said. "I have to get back to the station, but call me if you ever need anything."

"Thank you." Tristan meekly murmured.



She departed from the apartment, leaving Tristan to collapse onto the couch, burying his face in a cushion. Maul moved over to him and, affectionate as she was, lay down on top of his back as though he were a body-pillow, her head next to his on the cushion. But she just lay there, not trying to pry emotions from him, not trying to tell him it was okay, she just lay there and made him feel safe while he shuddered and whimpered, venting his primal fear.

"Tristan," she spoke at last, "would you like to talk about it?"

"I saw Mai," he explained, turning his face so he could look at Maul rather than staring into the couch cushion, "just there in the store, I almost ran right into her. Gods, I touched her, she touched my hand."

"Poor thing."

"I didn't know what to do," he went on, "I just froze up and then ran. I have never been so scared, Maul."

"You're safe now," she assured, "Maul is here, I'll protect you, honey."

"What will I do?" Tristan asked. "I can't go out there, can't see them again. She said she wasn't living with the others anymore, but what if they're still around?"

"That's it then," Maul said, "strong as you're getting, you still don't feel safe. You need to learn to defend yourself."

"What?"

"You have to learn to fight."

"Maul..."

"Tristan, hear me out," she encouraged, "what good is strength if you don't know how to use it. If you can start to practice, to learn how to fight, and you ever see those girls again, you'll have the technique to protect yourself. If they move toward you, your mind will register how they're moving, how you can use it against them, instead of focusing on who they are and what they've done."

"I guess so."

"At least give it a try?"

"Sure, I'll try."



Tristan wasn't too sure about this one, but maybe Maul had a point. When Mai had approached him, had taken his hand, he'd been frozen in memories of her past actions and of those associated with her. If he could internalize defensive, even offensive combat strategies, then when an unwanted attacker took his hand, or grabbed him, or anything, maybe he'd just react, just know what to do, how to take action, thinking of this person just as an attacker fitting into a specific scenario needing a specific response, rather than thinking of who they were or what they'd done.

"But Maul," he said at last, "isn't it kind of fucked up to learn to fight so I can defend myself against women?"

"How so?"

"I mean fighting girls," he replied, "isn't it a bit... wrong? More traditional people think so, even progressive people think so. Violence toward women is evil, I can't participate in that."

"Tristan," Maul offered, hugging him tight, "it may be seen as wrong by people of every social or political camp, but I would rather you learn to protect yourself against these girls, even if that means enacting violence on these specific women, than have you in misery and fear or possibly worse."

"I won't be much liked by anyone if it ever comes down to that and I have to exert violence." Tristan noted.

"True," Maul agreed, "you really will have an uphill social battle if it does come to that. But you'll be safe, not captured or hurt, and I will be with you to defend you and stand with you."

"Thank you, Maul."



Maul was surprisingly quick with making arrangements, which is why the very next day, Tristan found himself in his exercise gear at the school gym, in the room with all the mats, standing across from a tough-looking girl also in exercise gear. Apparently she was an acquaintance Maul had made during class at some point. The girl was a skilled martial artist who taught Women's Self-Defense.

"So really," she said, "the ideal tactic if your being attacked in a non-tournament situation, that is a situation where you're actually in danger, is just to go for the balls. Just kick him in the nuts and run."

She laughed.

"Well," Tristan murmured, "that's kind of a problem because the attackers I'm worried about... well I can't rely on that tactic for them."



The girl, who was tall, tan-skinned, and broadly built, looked confused. Tristan recalled that her name was Sarah. Sarah thought for a moment, then spoke.

"You want me to show you how to beat up women?" she looked very upset now, even angry.

"No, listen," Tristan hastily corrected, "it's not that I want to hurt anyone, I swear."

"Go on."

"The people who have me worried," Tristan said, "are women, yes, and I want to learn to protect myself from them. But I don't want to indiscriminately harm women, I want to be able to defend myself from anyone. I don't want to have to rely on a specific aspect of the male anatomy as key to my self-defense."



Sarah thought about this for a moment. Even standing still, her musculature was startlingly visible.

"Alright," she said at last, "I'll teach you how to fight, Maul says your cool and she's trustworthy, if a bit odd. But if I hear about you hurting any woman on campus, I will not hesitate to find you and make things right. Understand?"

"Yes, yes." insisted Tristan. "I just want to learn to fight, to defend mostly, but to attack if necessary if I'm ever attacked. By anyone. I just want to feel safe."

"Fair enough." she relented, looking a bit more kind.



Thus began Tristan's rigorous training. Sarah was skillful in her technique, and a good teacher. She would demonstrate moves, techniques of all sorts, both slowly and at full speed, and then coach Tristan through trying them. They worked for a long while, and planned to meet regularly. Between work, working out, and homework, Tristan was beginning to develop a rather packed schedule. But he liked it, he liked learning to feel safe by learning to fight. And he liked having much to do, little time to sit and feel sorry for himself or vividly recall his discomfort from the past.



Chapter 14: Hellbent for Leather



Maul and Tristan lay in bed next to each other. It had been a while now, Spring Break had passed, and this night was a Friday night. A fact for which they were both thankful. Maul was still breathing heavily from their very recent intimate activities.

"Tristan," she said at last, "are you thoroughly satisfied with all of this?"

"What do you mean? I love you."

"Silly, I know that," Maul laughed, pinching his cheek with her maroon-nailed fingers, "I just mean with the sex. When we finish up, you're always still somewhat excited it seems like, like you're still hard. You know?"

"Guess that's just how I am." Tristan offered in response.



Tristan was always honest with Maul, he trusted her and he loved her. Their sex was very satisfying, and very rough (these two things having a very strong correlation), but he found himself hesitant to tell her about his more... kinky interests. Would she except it? Would she be confused by it? Would she feel pressured into doing something she didn't want? The questions burned inside his head and he was terrified by the potential answers, his mind leaping to the worst case scenario in each instance. He couldn't tell her, it just wasn't worth the risk. He was satisfied and that was good enough for him.




Heart of Steel Ch. 03



"All is well," he assured her, "I'm totally satisfied with you, Maul."

"Good." she smiled and kissed him.



Tristan rose from bed and went to the kitchen to procure a drink for himself and Maul. They always liked sharing a nice mixed drink. There was something romantic and familiar about it. But apparently his precision drink mixing took a bit too long, and Maul was particularly tired, for when he returned to the bedroom, she was fast asleep.



It may have been immoral, a mistake, gross, whatever one wanted to call it, but Tristan did find himself still excited after their encounter, feeling a part of him was yet to be satiated. And so he set the drink on the desk next to his computer before activating the PC and browsing the net for a particular site he'd come to like. As he sipped the drink, he began reading a story, an "erotic" tale of a man captured on an isle of amazonian warriors, who wanted just one thing from this wayward man. Tristan found the tale alluring, the dominance of the amazons, the submission of the man to their will. He was enthralled by it, aroused, so much so that he lost touch with his surroundings.

"So," Maul said, leaning over his shoulder, "this is what you want, huh?"



Tristan sprang away from the computer, not expecting Maul's voice right by his ear. He stared at her, illumined in the glow of the computer screen. Maul moved to the screen and began to read the story. As Tristan reached forth to change the screen, to turn off the PC, Maul swatted his hands away, leaving him to wait. Eventually he moved to the bed and sat there, leaving Maul to take his chair and finish the story. When at last she did, she turned toward Tristan, her face split by a wicked grin.

"So, little boy," she said slowly, emoting dangerous intrigue, "this is what you're into, is it? This is what you want?"

"Maul, please," Tristan implored, "I had a really hard time accepting that this is what I like, what I still wanted, after everything I endured. I didn't want to tell you, didn't want you to be mad or grossed out."

"Oh I'm not mad," Maul hissed, moving closer, "but I do think a certain naughty little secret-keeper needs Maul to punish him."



Tristan was paralyzed with excitement as Maul strode forth, pushing him down onto his back on the bed. She then departed for a moment to rummage through the closet. She returned with a few scarves and in mere minutes had Tristan secured to the bed at every limb, despite his squirming. But he wasn't scared, even when Maul brought out a leather belt, tracing its tip across his body. She laid into him with incredible force, whipping his chest and leaving stark, painful welts on his thighs. Tristan screamed and bucked against his bindings, which held surprisingly well. Finished at last with the belt whipping, Maul leapt upon him and began mercilessly biting, scratching, and tickling his skin.

"Oh Gods, Maul." he moaned.

"Shut up, slave." she commanded sharply, sitting astride him. "You're this amazon's property now, and you will worship her."



Tristan's excited moan was buried between Maul's thighs as she moved up to sit astride his face. Maul's hips worked in a downward-thrusting, pivotal motion, rubbing her sweet inner warmth against his face, forcing Tristan to please her, for a good, long while, with his tongue, until she came to a shuddering climax, which Tristan was of course forced to enjoy in worship of his "amazonian" mistress. But he was of course rewarded by Maul, who worked him to a climax roughly with her little hands. Finally, he was freed from the scarves and left to relax while Maul went to fetch a drink for herself.

"Thank you." Tristan panted when she returned. "Thank you for doing that for me Maul, I know how weird it must seem that I want that."

"Your sexual orientation is not weird." she replied firmly, cuddling up beside him in bed. "And believe you me, I very much enjoy doing that. I just didn't want to try that with you, for fear of scaring you."

"You mean, you're into it?"

"Yes sir, my little boy." she cooed playfully. "And if you're into it, and if you'll tell me whenever it goes too far, then I'll happily play these scenarios out with you."

"Our safe word can be orange. If I say orange, then we stop right there."

"That's perfect." Maul said. "And maybe tomorrow we can go buy some fun toys to further enhance this sort of play."

"You, you are just the sweetest, most accepting girl on Earth." Tristan praised.

"Anything for my Tristan." Maul replied, snuggling close and kissing his neck.



The next day, the college couple rose late from bed and enjoyed a breakfast of their favorite cereal. After breakfast and a separate shower, for Tristan still could not bring himself to shower with another person, they took a bus southward, to the same town where Tristan had once visited Lady Jane's dungeon, and began walking around. On her phone, Maul had found the address of an "adult alternative" shop that they could explore, and with a bit of navigational trickery, they at last found it. It was a quaint, unassuming storefront with a little sign that read "The Ultimate Sin."



Bold as ever, Maul pulled the door open and strode in, leading Tristan along by the hand, like a child. But he liked it, he liked being cared for, being protected. And now, knowing he was becoming more and more capable of doing the protecting. The shop itself was surprisingly clean, Tristan found himself expecting something a bit more dark and unscrupulous. But here he had a well-lit, organized venue with soft music playing in the background. Maul was like a kid in a candy shop, darting around from one little stand to another, or dragging Tristan down an aisle to look at things.



Tristan was equally excited, but exponentially more subdued. Though biologically, he was exactly as exuberant as the vivacious, redheaded pixie that led him about. Every item, he wanted to buy it all, to have it all. And this was not aided by a sale that the store was having, a massive discount on many, many products as a promotional deal to commemorate something significant in the store's history, or something of the sort of which Tristan was not entirely aware, but for which he was very grateful.

"What about this?" Maul proposed, holding up a harness fitted with a double-sided phallic device. "Is this something that would interest you?"

"Not so loud." Tristan flushed.

"Is it?" she persisted.



Tristan looked at the device, long and thick, and rigged with a vibrating feature. He remembered Hilja, remembered what she'd done to him, and a shudder went through him. But seeing it in Maul's hand was somehow more exciting for him than it was startling. He could imagine it in use, with his consent, and that feeling of "bound yet free" was there inside him once again. / It's so odd, how the very same things done to me before could excite me now, if done with Maul./ It was the consent, it was the freedom to choose helplessness that made Tristan nod and say, "Yes, I'd like that very much."

"I think I will too." Maul agreed.



They explored for a long while. Maul found a changing room, which she entered and emerged from, clad in stiletto heels, skin-tight black leather, and little cat ears atop her head. Tristan was speechless and the outfit was added to the growing list of stuff they were somehow going to manage to afford. They were walking down an aisle to select a nice set of clamps when a familiar blonde-haired woman turned around and greeted them.

"Tristan," she exclaimed, "hi there!"

"Oh, Lady Jane, hello." Tristan said sheepishly.

"How do you two know each other?" Maul asked deviously.

"I uh... I went to her dungeon for a session before you and I started dating." admitted Tristan, expecting Maul to become flustered.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Jane stated, "confidentiality and all. Just thought I would say hi. I hope I've not caused a stir."

"Not at all," Maul exclaimed, "that's awesome that Tristan was exploring this with someone more experienced in the area. I could sure use some pointers."

"Maybe she should watch you work." Tristan joked.

"Yeah," Jane agreed excitedly, "like an internship. Except you won't get any college credit for it I'm afraid."

They all laughed.

"I'd like that a lot," Maul agreed, "maybe you could do a session with Tristan and I could do a bit of note-taking."

"That sounds perfectly reasonable." Jane said. "Just make an appointment and we can make it happen."

"Sometimes I wonder if my sex-life is actually happening or if it's just some unbelievably hot fantasy." Tristan laughed.

"Oh it's happening." Maul assured him. "Now let's get going, I'm already hungry for lunch."

"Yes ma'am." Tristan agreed.

"See you two around." Lady Jane called after them as they went to the register, paid the reasonable but still rather high bill, and exited the store with discretely-wrapped packages of sexual deviance.



The pair stopped for lunch at a German restaurant. Sitting outside on the porch, they dined on hearty sausages, thick bread, and sauerkraut pungent enough to alarm passersby. Both of them relished the food, eating massive helpings until their bellies felt full to bursting. The restaurant scored this lunch with a soundtrack of German folk music, which Tristan loved.

"So you like all this Germanic stuff, right?" Maul asked.

"Yeah, Germanic food, culture, and the lore of the Norse, who were an ancient Germanic people." Tristan explained. "As you can well see, and well know by my Mjolnir, I follow the path of the Germanic heathens."

"Heathen? Like evil, lawless people?"

"No no," corrected Tristan, "I can't believe we haven't discussed religion before. Heathen means: of the heath or wilderness, it just refers to the old tribal Germanic cultures: Norse, Danes, Swedes, all of them."

"Okay, that's cool." Maul replied. "I always figured something like that was the case, but it just never came up."

"Very true."

"Plus, I have other stuff on the mind right now." Maul added, eyeing their packages, which rested by her feet.

"Oh, me too." Tristan agreed.



They spent the rest of the day at home, unpacking and stowing away the wealth of items they'd purchased. It had nearly broken the bank, but Tristan wasn't spending much lately, so he was not concerned. Plus, it felt to be a worthy expenditure. So he was entirely happy with the products that they unpacked and then stored away in the closet and chest of drawers for later use. / Hopefully not MUCH later though,/ Tristan mused silently. From Maul's hungry expression, she was thinking something similar. That and augmenting her wardrobe with some of this stuff was hardly a bad thing in Maul's book.



That night though, Tristan had work, and Maul joined him and Dave in the shop. She was working on a large-scale drawing, not for class, but for recreation, and to that end she spread her poster-board out on an empty table adjacent to the register and set about to drawing. First outlining with pencil and then using a myriad of coloured markers to complete the design. Tristan was working register whilst Dave was taking his time about restocking the rap section with some new release or other of some grossly auto-tuned performer in whom Tristan had no interest and even less respect.



Finally, Dave emerged from the store room, without any fresh albums. He ambled up to Maul and stared down at her drawing with what at first appeared to be unyielding focus, though a closer look betrayed his eyes drifting off as though gazing into some deep hole in time and space. Maul looked up.

"You like?" she asked. "It's a clash of vikings with the Romans."

"It's beautiful man." slurred Dave.

"Dave," demanded Tristan, "are you high?"

"A little, bro, not going to lie." admitted the bulky metalhead. "Want to light up?"

"I can't. One of us has to work."

"Close up early," Maul suggested, "Tony won't mind, will he?"

"No," Tristan said upon a bit of thought, "he'd be okay with it just once. No one else is even here."

"Rock on, my brothers."

"I'm a girl, Dave." Maul pointed out.

"Oh yeah. I forgot, sorry bro."



Tristan was not sure how much of a good idea this was, but his "fun with Dave" sense was trumping his judgment, and so he went to the door, made sure no one was coming in, then locked up and set out the closed sign. / Tony's always closing early for trivial shit, it should be okay if we do it just this one time, right? Sure it /will!/ With that mental assurance, he joined Dave and Maul, who were already headed back to the store room.



Once inside, Dave lit up a pipe. Seated on unopened crates of albums, they passed the pipe around. The oddly sweet aroma of the marijuana filled the room, as well as a cloud of smoke. The drug hit Tristan nicely, filling his lungs and carrying through his body with that wonderful, lightening effect it seemed to always have on him. From the peaceful look on Maul's face, it was having the same effect on her. Dave was already far-gone.

"So Tristan and I are going to a dominatrix tomorrow." Maul mumbled happily. "She's pretty."

"That's cool," Dave said, "those chicks are pretty awesome."

"Yeah," Tristan agreed, "awesome and safe."

"Safe?" Dave asked. "I guess so, in a weird way."

"He means safe for him, like they're not going to rape him." contributed Maul.

"Maul!" Tristan exclaimed.

"Rape? What did that like happen to you?" Dave inquired.

"Yeah," Tristan admitted, mostly under the influence of the weed, "some chicks after a concert. That's why I was gone that whole month. When you covered for me with my folks, remember?"

"Dude, that's heavy." Dave murmured. "I didn't even know girls could do that to a guy, you know?"

"They can." Maul assured him. "Poor little Tristan found that out."

"Yeah." Tristan sighed.



This was not going in a fun way for him. He felt unhappy, miserable, emotional in all ways unpleasant.

"Dude," Dave exclaimed, "this is fucking depressing. Let's rock out, come on!"



Dave bolted from the storage room, leaving Maul and Tristan to finish off the remains of the pipe they'd been smoking and refilling. Soon, loud thrash metal, courtesy of the band Vektor, washed over the store. Tristan and Maul erupted into the aisles, singing along to "Black Future" whilst Dave ordered a pizza over the phone. This was of course a difficult process, given the brain-breaking loud music and the current state of mind inhabited by Dave. But he struggled through the complexities of pizza delivery and soon they had a pizza and a two liter bottle of soda to share between them as they ran up and down the aisles singing along to music and mocking the "lesser" artists stocked on the shelves.

"Tristan," Maul said as she ran toward him, careening off of him and giggling, "sorry I spilled your secret."

"It's okay," he mumbled dumbly, "just don't tell my parents."

"Why not?"

"They won't believe me, I don't think, and they don't need to know and I don't want them to know how I lost my virginity."

"Okay." she consented, taking Tristan's hands and leaping up onto his torso, holding herself there with her legs and arms. "You're so big and strong now!"

"Maul, you're tiny," Tristan cackled, "I could probably do this before I ever bulked up."

"I can hold her, throw her to me!" Dave called.



Tristan moved close and tossed Maul lightly, a short distance into Dave's arms. It wasn't so much a toss as it was a long-range handoff, but the gesture was enough to make Maul squeal and kick. Dave couldn't keep a hold of the squirming metal pixie and she hastily escaped, rocketing about the store, giggling like a maniac and chanting, "Catch me if you can. I'm a princess and you're evil trolls. Catch me!" And thus they entertained themselves for a long while until they at last, exhausted, collapsed to the floor in an aisle, laughing and reminiscing about fun times and telling rambling, aimless stories.



As fun and rambunctious as the adventure was, it wound down and they all returned to their homes for much needed rest. The next day, Sunday, Maul had paid for a mid-afternoon session for Tristan with the friendly Lady Jane at her dungeon. And to that end, they boarded the south-bound bus yet again and rode out of Pine Ridge.



The day was sunny and warm. Tristan still wore his black garb, as he was constantly wont to do, come rain or shine. Maul, as Tristan had been, was surprised by the dungeon's pleasantness and non-threatening decorum in the entry room and transition room that preceded the dungeon proper. The dungeon itself, with its walls lined in different devices and apertures, did not in the least threaten Maul. As she darted around the room like an errant pinball, eagerly inspecting the myriad devices, Tristan found himself thinking that she very much was not repulsed by this world of masochism and sadism. / Even though she's never practiced it, sure seems like my interests were not what made her start to think of it as intriguing./



For this session, Tristan was stripped totally naked and stood in the middle of the room, shivering in the chill of the air. With leather, forearm-length gloves, Lady Jane handled his lower extremities, fitting a ring around his scrotum and a locking device around his manhood.

"This," she explained to Maul, "is a chastity device, which only opens with a key. You," she added, handing the key to Maul, "hold it, so you control when your man is allowed to be erect and have a release."

"I like that." Maul purred excitedly.

/Me/ /too,/ Tristan's mind confirmed amidst a cloud of arousal.



Then Tristan was led to the same whipping bench he'd been shackled to in the last session and was once again shackled down. Lady Jane demonstrated, somewhat copiously, the handling of whips of varying length, and the proper use of two variants of paddles, those with and without metal studs embedded in the leather. Maul was then permitted to try her hand at it. Tristan's ecstatic screams were testimonies toward her success in quickly mastering the way of the whip. And the paddle.

"Are you happy, Tristan?" Maul asked.

"It hurts so, so good." Tristan answered amid gasps of pleasure and shudders of pain.



CRACK came the whip across his shoulder blades.

"What was that?!" Maul demanded of him.

"I mean, it hurts so, so good, Mistress Maul." corrected Tristan.

"Good boy."

"You're learning well." Jane praised.

/This/ /is/ /Heaven,/ Tristan thought. / I'm so happy I can still enjoy this sort of thing after all I've been through./



Tristan was moved then to another device, a simple mattress surrounded by studs to simulate bedposts, to which his limbs were shackled, spread out entirely, giving him no range of motion. Lady Jane then walked Maul through how to aptly find and exploit ticklish spots all over Tristan's immobilized form. Maul enjoyed this torture far too much, and Lady Jane had to rein her in "Before poor Tristan laughs himself into a coma. Maul moved on to learning the best places to scratch and bite, places that evoked the strongest reactions from the bound metalhead. When he was finally unshackled, Tristan was exhausted, but the two women were not yet done with him. / And I love that they're not done with me,/ observed his mental voice.

"You can order your submissive to do anything," Jane explained to Maul as they sat side-by-side on high seats, "and so long as it stays in his comfort zone, and pleases you both mutually, then you're having a good round of play."

"Tristan," Maul ordered, "crawl over here and remove our boots. Lady Jane and I deserve massages for our hard work pleasing you."

"Good!" Jane exclaimed, patting Maul on the shoulder, which elicited a smile from the metal nymph.



As he was commanded, so did Tristan obey. Both women wore boots with wickedly-pointed high-heels. Tristan carefully slid the boots from each of them, setting the footwear aside. First, he took up Maul's feet in his hands, but she uttered a displeased tone and pushed him away with a dainty foot pressed firmly into his face.