When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

One Hundred and Three - The Playroom and the Kitchen

 

 ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

The Playroom and the Kitchen

Tristan’s staring at you, from across the room, healer warns Catherine, as consciousness struggles to return to her mere minutes after she was deposited in the room of her master’s choosing.

Despite her barely-conscious state, healer’s words return to mind Tristan’s anger, and this thought then so consumes Catherine that no consideration of the non-refundable she struck finds a way in, since all that matters in her limited world, of course, is her master’s mood. Thus, his foul humour and disposition are most frightful to her.

“We might make the show in time after all,” Tristan smugly remarks.

Catherine nervously looks up towards the sound of her master’s voice and realizes only then that she is off her feet. There is no relief to be felt, however, as she is instead instantly gripped with further horror, since she cannot imagine any scenario in which her being horizontal, and therefore in a position that is undoubtedly smudging Tristan’s art, can be to her advantage in any way.

As her heart increases its gait due to mounting anxiety, Catherine impulsively orders a hand to her face -- having once more forgotten the art that is now designed upon it -- but finds this hand incapable of reaching for it. Since her immediate repeat attempt is unsuccessful as well, the distressing realization that this hand is restrained at the wrist strikes her hard.

Most apprehensively, she urgently dispatches a try-to-move order throughout her body, and swift returns reveal that not only is her other wrist held down as well, but that her ankles are also suffering the same fate.

Very much agitated, Tristan’s female then attempts to turn her face in order to see more of what now surrounds her, but resistance makes that impossible as well, which allows her to conclude that a collar is now also pinning her down. Panic-stricken, she further registers that her neck is supported from beneath, just as her rear, wrists, and ankles are, but that no other part of her, however, is.

What is this? What’s he doing? My hair . . . I mean, its design. It must be affected as well, she finds herself adding, before the absurdity of the thought, when so much else obviously currently matters much more, quickly files it away. What does this mean? What has he done? What will he do? What is this contraption that I’m on that’s just a few feet off the floor? I . . . Well, the way that my body is supported does allow breathing room for most of my art, doesn’t it? She then considers, drawing upon what little hope she can muster, since the dark alternative is impossible to process in any positive way.

“So many options, in this room, but I have to choose something that’s in no way enjoyable for you. Something that’s all punishment. But what here will give you absolutely no pleasure at all? I see gratification in all possibilities of chastisement in this room,” Tristan declares, an odd smile upon his face.

It isn’t the tied-up women -- the ones who were in the coatrooms and who were so out of it during the sleep cycle -- who now stand so close to their master. It’s the women who didn’t end up there, except for Soft Curls. It’s the women who were brainwashed and who therefore didn’t speak up and end up tied up and drugged up because of it. They were easier to brainwash, of course, without their clothing, and therefore in a position of inferiority and vulnerability. People about to speak publicly are told for good reason to imagine everyone in front of them in their underwear: it’s to make themselves feel superior. And in death camps during World War II, they made people undress immediately, to dehumanize them. I . . . Catherine finds herself nervously putting together, before struggling once more against the leather restraints that hold her captive, as if her unsteady mind doubts her previous conclusion of being Tristan’s captive in this way.