When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Thirty - Play Must Go On

THIRTY 

Play Must Go On

During the master/canvas hour, Tristan observes the masters around him as they first contribute to, and then work on, their canvas. He is once again lying on the cot, while Catherine stands behind her pedestal, which is in front of the table in her master’s station. She is most certainly off this pedestal, and in more ways than one. As her eyes also find sex scenes and climax scenes everywhere around her, her own art, however, remains untouched. She remains untouched, because of the mini-contest tie-breaker at the top of the hour, because of her wiping Tristan, her master, off herself.

After some minutes of awkwardness for Catherine, since Tristan continues, on the one hand, to calmly observe -- as in making a point to ignore  his submissive -- but also, on the other, to happily scrutinize activities around him as if sitting with a remote control and flipping through adult channels, the submissive from the station behind Tristan’s takes the few steps necessary to reach Catherine.

“Please tell your master that something is very wrong with mine,” she nervously tells Tristan’s female, since everyone else around her work station is very much unavailable at the moment, busy in a way that should not be interrupted.

Catherine takes two steps towards Tristan, certain, however, that he heard. “Tr . . . Master,“ she corrects herself, remembering where she is, “something is wrong with the master in the station behind ours. Yours.”

“Don’t care,” he replies, without turning his face to look at her.

“If it were you . . . May I leave the station to advise a contest attendant?”

“If it were me, would you waste time asking a female to advise her master, or would you run for an attendant yourself, to help me, to save me perhaps, and just take the punishment afterwards, if it were to come your way? True submissive doesn’t mean stupid,” Tristan snaps at her. “Tell me, Lovely, would you allow me to be wiped off the face of the Earth as easily as you wiped me off you, during the contest?” He quickly adds. “Which was most certainly not lovely . . . ”

He’s not “even.” He’s . . . Catherine sees.

Why would he ever need to be?  Healer interrupts. He can freely swing from one extreme to another, without repercussion. He can do what he wants when caught up in extreme anger, and then swing to being purely sexual and then demand whatever he wants from you, and, after that, he can choose to sulk to the extreme, to wrap himself around needing something from you, even if petty. And nothing will change between you two because you can’t call him out on any of those swings. He can just enjoy the ride, and you have to take it. It’s not that he’s different than most men. It’s that you can’t refuse to accept what he does. And, being a master hushes any whisper that another man might hear in his head about being reasonable.

Catherine takes a few steps towards the edge of the station.

“Don’t,” Tristan warns her.

“This is a weekend of fun and games for masters. Not one of death,” she replies.

Tristan is quickly on his feet. If it were not for his art upon her, he would send her flying back towards her pedestal, but since she might hit the table there, trip on it, and fall, he instead grabs her by her hair, which is a necessity, if he wishes to restrain her now, since her arms are mostly designed. “I said no,” he barks at her.

A contest attendant happens upon the master in distress, which Catherine and Tristan both realize when they hear a male voice call for medical attention. The submissive rushes back to her master’s station, but Tristan does not release his right away.