When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

One Hundred and Eight - Design Breakdown

ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

Design Breakdown

Tristan’s sudden presence in the playroom is immediately registered by Catherine, even though her eyes are closed, even though her master’s footsteps are soundless, and even though he has not even approached her yet.

Just outside the door, Donovan and Logan exchange a look and wonder if they should enter as well, since Tristan’s behaviour, after all, has been rather odd, and, consequently, he  should perhaps not be left alone with his decisions.

As Catherine waits for her master to speak, his “I don’t care about that dumb contest anymore” and his “I don’t care about you” echo in her mind. She was aware of both sentiments before he spoke the words, of course, but a part of her nevertheless  firmly fixates.

“Do you believe that I’m weak, Lovely?” Tristan asks his female, once he has reached the back of the room.

Not a word that I would ever use to describe you, no. Please don’t make me speak anymore. I truly don’t think that I can survive the expenditure any longer, she replies, after the sound of his voice has broken the fixation.

“I certainly won’t miss all the words. I’m using too many of them right now. And you, so very few. Tables turned.”

Women look deep within themselves, and when they compose, it’s to make sense of their lives. But when men compose, they just make it all up, and it’s always about their dick and t-ts and ego and control and power. Is there a hallucinogen in the stay-up pills? When I took two . . .

“Did I forget to mention that some women stroke out, during this sort of event, especially when very upset? When dehydrated. When untended to. When abandoned, really. It’s not a pretty sight. Some die right away, and those who regain consciousness, it’s obvious that they’ll never be the same again,” Tristan adds, before sounds echoing in the room tell Catherine that her master is now looking for something among the many items stored or displayed in the back of the room.

I know that I’ll never be the same again. What are you going to do to me?

“When you took two stay-up pills after I warned you not to, you wanted to die, because you didn’t want to be with me anymore . . . ”

“I didn’t mean . . . those words. I never want . . . to die,” Catherine finds it most important to put the effort into replying.

“Newsflash: you’re not immortal, so you will die. Play with all your marbles, Lovely, before you can no longer play at all,” Tristan sternly warns her

“I meant that . . . there’s never a time . . . when I . . . ”

“Just shut up. Maybe it was forgivable, that you entered that secret room, but when you entered the tunnel, and then, when you lied . . . No, don’t speak. I mean it. You  just soil your lovely mouth with such garbage, now, whenever your lovely lips part and force your lovely voice to lie. How dare all of your loveliness feed me garbage when I’ve fed you nothing but . . .” He stops and shakes his head. “Well, creative material,” he then coldly adds, instantly sounding different. “You should be on your knees, begging,” he further adds, so very evenly.

“Untie me, then,” Catherine weakly replies.

“You know that there’s no clearing that slate now, no remedy,” her master most emphatically informs her, before turning to drawers next, in his continuing search for something. “‘Love cuts just like a knife,’” he soon sings.