When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Twenty-Two - Winning Praise

Catherine runs a hand through her long hair.

I wanted to live so very much when I had nothing to live for, when I was freshly pulverized, when I was frozen, that to want to die now, when there are moments of  . . . peace, physically, and even emotionally, since the vault is holding, that wouldn’t make any sense. Who knows what comes after death? She cannot help but to repeat to herself, to obsess about. Round and round in her mind some thoughts go.

“You did really good,” Tristan clarifies, drawing her out of herself. His tone of voice and eyes express pleasure, with recent images of her dancing on his mind still. Setting, lights, atmosphere, male collective assembled as masters, and more, they all further add to the appeal of the acts that masters witness their submissive involved in, that masters force them to participate in as a show of submission, alongside all the other nude women in action.

“And where will you next put yourself on me?” She asks, her voice perfect in keeping with his tone and eyes, hitting the mark despite her thoughts of a moment ago. “Where am I to enjoy feeling all that come that shows me your nurture and my worth in your eyes, because you allow me to have it? I wish that I could speed up time and be covered up already with your gracious gifts.”

You’re good, Tristan thinks to himself, as, even at an event where the collective, the pack, stands together and feeds its master and male might to the extreme, he sometimes cannot help but briefly take a step back from the master/submissive ideas that are lauded to the max all around him by some very serious masters, and just . . . chill.

“You’re fortunate that I’m gracious. That I was blessed with divine grace, compassion, and mercy in my patient dealings with you and all of your faults, in my seeing to all of your needs, needs that you don’t even recognize for yourself as necessary for your own happiness and fulfilment,” he replies, having stepped up to her, his body just a few inches from hers now. So very serious.

After a moment, however, a small smile cracks the corner of one side of his lips as he looks into her eyes. “So many words,” he whispers into one of her ears. “I own your life. And I can end you. Keep talking to me like that. I like it, from you. When you speak those words, I feel myself drawn completely to this lifestyle like never before, like maybe I don’t want it to end, when we leave here. I don’t know. But I can’t hear just any bitch spew them. Irritates me. But you, it’s so much fun with you,” he stops. “The other masters like hearing those words from you too. I’m happy to be me right now, and that’s great for you. And you know that. Everything,” he reminds her.

“Everything,” she repeats, in a tone of depth and commitment, of devotion, after he returns his eyes to hers, his lips away from her ear.

“I’m going to finish your legs,” he then announces.   

The top of the hour strikes, and master and canvas get to it, with this submissive easily teasing out her master’s next contribution to her body art, since Tristan remains aroused from the contest, and from Catherine’s behaviour, and is therefore quickly offering her his next “nurturing gift.”

She sees the creative material exit his body in powerful and abundant emissions before she feels it come to rest upon the front of her legs. She knows that there is pain with pill-induced ejaculation -- she sees it in the men’s faces -- but she also knows that it is the pleasant kind. Obviously.

Once Tristan is at work on her, Catherine once again looks down, past her breasts, past her genital area -- all exposed as she is -- at him.

Since she cannot sit due to his art on parts of her behind, and since he furthermore will not allow her to do so in the only way that she could and did during one of the races, she must continue to stand, as she has been doing for the last four hours, except for a little time spent on her hands and knees, and for sitting in that crotch cut-out contraption just a few inches from the ground during competition.

She now wonders how often Tristan participated in a weekend of this theme, always with a non-refundable, and if he had immediately competed well, then, being Tristan, or if he had had to learn from his mistakes and was now applying his knowledge.

I bet that artist Tristan didn’t need to learn from mistakes, that he was  able to plan out a canvas, with his intelligence in other areas of life backing up its efficiency, while the artist in him designed aesthetic worth. Just needed to get used to the substance with which the art was being created. So very odd to be using that. Really. She pauses. I seem to have too many words again . . .

“I was waiting for you to lose it like you did with Nora,” Tristan calmly comments as he works, when he is almost done designing. “With that whore who insulted your wondrous skills during the race,” he clarifies. He does not look at Catherine, but Catherine nevertheless looks away.

Nora. The woman who died before Catherine and Tristan travelled out here for this weekend play, the one whose mouth Catherine smeared.

“Made me hard just hearing about it, what you did to Nora, putting me on her, from inside you. Then I saw our security footage of it,” he adds, working still.

“She lashed out at me at the wrong time. I was upset. You, uh, beat up someone,” she adds, choosing her words, aware that someone might hear, even though her voice is almost in a whisper. She will not say that he was allowing a man to die after assaulting him. She believes that saying anything more would only get her a most painful death, after much torture. Something awful.

Tristan, however, could probably find a way out, if Catherine were believed, either through something that he has on people here, or through something that people he knows possess, or, by way of checkers-like leaping: by using what he has on someone else, to get them to use what they have on another someone, and so on, until everyone involved was under control. And what would happen to Catherine after that, if she purposefully opened her mouth to hurt Tristan? Would she be dead no matter what?

“So, is that what it would take to see that in you again?” Tristan asks, referring to that deadly attack of his upon the man who died. “To see that complete abandon in your eyes?”

“No. The guilt is . . .”

“Where was that guilt before I brought it up? Easy to shed, your guilt. I like it,” he interrupts.

“You’ve put so much on my plate, this weekend . . . They should’ve just been kept away from me,” she adds, referring to all the men who died, being around her.     

“I would’ve known. No one gets away with betraying me.”

“But these men here, they’re allowed to . . . and you’ll just forget, when you see them again? The others did so much less, and you couldn’t forget? They dared so much less against me, against your property . . . ”

“The men here are masters and have my permission. I admit that it would be better if I could do the same to their true submissive, since I offer them mine, but that’s impossible this weekend. However, I did it before. I took their true submissive when they could only take my non-refundable, when they had to be satisfied with that, so, it evens out.”

Did they just need his permission, then? Is that all that it takes? Who else will he give it to, then, having broken the ice like this? Catherine uneasily asks herself.

Minutes go by.

“Was she about to knock me out?” Catherine then asks, referring to the non-refundable’s attack, the one who got her shoulder dislocated by Tristan and who would have no doubt suffered so much more had they been somewhere else.

He does not answer her and instead briefly sends a hand to one of her cheeks. He then walks to the table and retrieves the protective glasses from the kit bag there. Once he is wearing them, he once again uses the clipboard to shield Catherine’s face and eyes from the second fixative’s escape into the air as it is being sprayed.

The second four-hour cycle has begun.