A fine, bright line of humor sketched itself on the bleak surface of Gerlinde's mood as she saw Lisle maneuver so capably into position - so naturally.  It was good to see her work in all its living symmetry; to see how the abstract schemes of her mind could be manifest in the reflexive flow of newly shaped muscles into a posture that felt the opposite of how alien it was.  Gerlinde's hand, her thoughts and care, had changed Lisle into a new form.<br/><br/>The rush of power was undeniable.  A crescent of tingling, hard and white as bone, swept from her prostate to swell her penis to an indulgent heave.<br/><br/>She considered complimenting Lisle puss on her alacrity.  But no, the time for sweetness had passed.  There was no way to caress her way through the tumult of scar tissue that had formed about Lisle's heart and mind.  It had to be cut through.<br/><br/>"Don't you just look lovely.  Shockingly so.  Get that bottom churning.  Keep it that way."  Gerlinde's voice was sharp as she spoke, sliding from the bed and sauntering into the kitchen.  Her lips' curve gouged down; there had been a wet quaver in her tone - a sadness that was as obvious as a tear on her cheek.<br/><br/>She stomped harder as she made her way to her front door, chastening herself.  Now was not the time for wetness and quaking and warmth.  Those were dangerous qualities in a place so devoted to function as the Stalag.  Actions had to operate like cell doors, emotions had to be arranged like lines of inmates.  Anything extraneous was to be discarded.<br/><br/>This was because the Stalag was a machine.  And machines, Gerlinde knew, were built of hard parts, machined hard to fit together in rapid, precise function.  She unwrapped the package by her door and took the objects within it out of their box.  Boxes, she reflected, were not made of wet clay.  One did not make cars out of wool.  Taffy made for a poor scalpel.  And that was just what Gerlinde's heart felt like, tumbling in a tantrum in her achy chest:  A machine of taffy.  Salt water taffy.  The kind that tasted like tears.<br/><br/>Gerlinde returned to the bed and slid onto it sitting down.  She placed the box's contents out by her thigh, out of Lisle's sight, and squeezed the odorless mentholated lubricant on her hands.  Rubbing them briskly, she reached out to between Lisle's kitty's legs.<br/><br/>"Nice and steady now, Lisle puss.  We need to get you used to being decorated like the pretty kitty you are."<br/><br/><em>Like the bad kitty you are</em>, Gerlinde thought sourly.  All the same, her rage at herself and for Lisle pussy was beginning to fade.  Her lubricated hands cradled the stalactite of Lisle puss' clitoris, rubbing in the menthol lotion with deliberate pumping motions.  What Lisle was about to learn, Gerlinde would teach her without acrimony.  She would do so cruelly, yes.  But then, that was part of the lesson.