When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Twenty-Two - Winning Praise

TWENTY-TWO

Winning Praise

What are the rules?! Catherine nervously asks herself, after allowing herself much leeway in her handling of the prostitute while the latter was competing in the race.

Tristan’s submissive is well aware that she is nowhere close to knowing all of the rules yet, much less their exceptions and nuances. She did, after all, learn just a few hours ago of her new title and place within Tristan’s world, and therefore within all of her world. She believes, however, that many of the rules are no doubt similar to the ones that she has already been living by for a year now, under Tristan’s command. Ownership. Just with more words. More words in order to get to her mind. To acquire her acceptance. To hope, wish, and desire to do so, anyway.

“You have a fuckin’ master that you worry about making angry because he beats the shit out of you when you do,” Catherine’s line mate now deliciously points out. She is on her feet again. “Look at your eyes now. Holy fuck! Where did you go? You’re not there anymore. But you forgot not to be anyone at all, for a second there, didn’t you? You forgot that you’re not allowed to be anyone. Just something, there, with a master. Fuck. Obeying a man, that’s knowing shit-fuck-all. You know nothing.”

“Because obeying this,” a master counters, after reaching for a hundred dollar bill from an inner pocket, “is knowing so much more,” he adds, sarcastically.

“You hypocrite: it’s what you love about women, that some of us do! And all men love money, and some of us women obey the call and lure of it the way that men do, and you love that, because then you can just wave it at us with no further effort needed for you to get all that your dick wants! Not even a word, much less anything human on your face! Money makes the world go round,” the whore replies, which gets her hit by her weekend-master, as both her words and addressing another master are inappropriate.

Catherine decides that Tristan is not upset, and that he is perhaps even amused. Not with the non-refundable, however, whom his face appears to be expressing as  much disdain for as the master who just spoke, and the one who just struck her. And yet, Catherine knows that prostitutes are brought around on his tour. Escorts. Other specialized services that involve a sexual aspect. For the crew. For management. For the band. And probably for Tristan as well, she imagines, as she herself was first introduced to him as one, and Malika was also there doing her thing. She knows that all of these powerful and wealthy men in attendance this weekend hire the services of whores as well. She just knows that they do. They have the money and the opportunity, so they do. Simple as that. She recalls the writer-prostitute saying that if a woman truly wants to be happy in love, she should marry a man who does not have the money nor the opportunity to go to whores. No business trips. Not much disposable income. She commented how stupid women are to want the rich men, to expect love and faithfulness from them, because a man with power uses that power. Alpha power.

They all use the services of whores. No doubt about it. All these wealthy men. Unless having a submissive puts an end to that, but I doubt it. Or . . . does it? Does having a submissive replace a man’s desire to have so much power that he can buy a woman’s body and use it at will, get exactly what he commands, before just walking away from the used-up object, as from any other used and discarded item? Like tissues, floss, ass-wipes? In one case, money is the power, his power, but in the case of the submissive, so much more is the power. He is. Completely, and he still gets what he wants, Catherine ponders. She wonders what her deceased, would-be-author acquaintance would add on the subject, from her life-acquired knowledge.

Catherine then realizes that she made all the men look at her. That wasn’t “even” of me at all. Will any of them suffer now? The men in the stations next to Tristan’s will be there all weekend and I just  . . . But it’s only forty-eight hours, and they have rules. Peers. Structure. Like healer said. Like I said.  The old master in Tristan’s station, that double-dose, no effect. But then again, he was in and out. Tristan’s men had rules and structure as well. They knew not to touch his whore. And several of them lost it and fell. Pause. Even. As always. For everyone’s sake, she adds, before closing her eyes in order to achieve that inner steadiness. No swinging to extremes.