When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Eighteen - Another Punishment That Fits

EIGTHTEEN

Another Punishment That Fits   

“Still not happy with you,” Tristan makes it clear to Catherine, as the audience disperses after the first adult-circus show ends.

She looks away from his cold eyes, feeling herself ill-equipped to handle much of who he is during forty-eight hours of such close contact, at this peculiar weekend gathering. Masters are already heard negotiating in delicious anticipation of the next top of the hour, when the first combo or group session of the weekend will begin, but Catherine does not want to make sense of the words that she picks up, and so, in and out they go, detouring any processing.

“You scored points telling me just how much you love my come, but that wasn’t enough. And part of your ‘everything’ includes what you don’t like. So, I still have to punish you, because no submissive disobeys her Dominant without appropriate consequences. It’s called discipline,” Tristan adds.

His last word is still ringing in her ears when she feels her head pulled back once again by his treating her hair as if a puppet’s strings. Nothing new there. She is then made to look up into his eyes from this painful backwards positioning, as he pulls on the strings some more. A pained moan from her throat escapes her before she gets a hold of herself.

Catherine sees by the corner of one eye that Tristan’s displeasure has drawn a correction attendant towards them. She knows that the man is holding one of those wooden paddles. Without needing to see it happen, she also knows that he is offering it to Tristan in order that the displeased master utilize the collective’s way of disciplining a submissive: one paddle used, one hand controlling it, but with all the masters unified behind its strikes. When she closes her eyes, Tristan increases his grip. Another pained sound escapes her.

“Open,” he commands her. She looks back up at him.

Seconds tick by, with each feeling like a minute to her due to the pain of his unrelenting grip and to the unpleasant expectation of having that paddle make forceful contact somewhere upon her body at any time. Tension reaches out towards every extremity of her body as none knows which will suffer. Her heart and breathing cannot be made to normalize.

Tristan then brings the paddle into Catherine’s present line of vision, and looks down into her eyes as she now sees the threat at hand. His eyes are cold as he does, and hers, afraid. After a moment, however, he returns it, unused, to the correction attendant.

“I’d rather feel my hand force its way against you, coerce you into being my good little female,” he tells her, before releasing her.

He does not strike her, however, turning his attention instead to studying the men around him, as they return to their work stations. Catherine’s eyes, for their part, look to her feet, to the beautiful ballroom floor that she once again tells herself is too exquisitely crafted and designed to be supporting all that it is this weekend. All this filth.

Spanking is used by Dominants who live in the real world, where both partners play within rules that don’t involve an “accident” threat, because all submissives’ lives are not threatened, are they? Truly threatened? Out there, where men are subject to the law, to automatic arrest for assault, and who can therefore have their lives ruined by a submissive going to the police with evidence of assault or confinement or restraint, whereas spanking evidence, on the other hand, comes and goes. Are those sex-slave contracts between a Dominant and a submissive  legal? Would they make assault charges go away?  If an adult gets a sexual high from being spanked, then what does that say about parents who spank their kids, and of the connection between the two, from childhood to adulthood, that is the high? Remembering being loved so much by one’s parents that one was spanked, and then associating spanking to . . .  Catherine frowns slightly. But pain does heighten . . . things. How afraid are you of your masters, ladies? Mine killed a woman for no good reason. And it’s called your darkness, Tristan, and your love of feeding it, like owners of pets who must be fed live animals. Speaks volumes.