When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Thirty-Four - Sir?

“So, prostitutes aren’t submissives by profession.”

“Of course not. They get paid to attach to a man’s dick, to detach when the job’s done, and to just get the fuck out immediately after that. But you, you’re not a zombie like a whore is expected to be, with no feelings, and never coming out of herself at any time, under any circumstance, while her body just does what it‘s paid to do. That’s not a submissive. Moderation is a submissive, and moderation in being is the best thing for any female because no female’s happy being all over the place, due to all those emotions and anxieties that your gender is so prone to.”

So, “even,” Catherine thinks to herself. I can’t argue with that. But I do have a problem with you telling me anything about your childhood, Tristan, and, by doing that, making me forget for a second that you’re cruel and cold, and that you’re my captor, who now calls himself my master by title. And I don’t want it to happen again. Because then you made me stand against that wall, and I felt so sick. And whatever I felt when you came to me last . . . I would very much be all over the place right now, but I have a lot of practice at “even.” And not because you order me to be that way.

When Catherine and Tristan stop walking, he takes one of her hands into one of his and guides it towards his lips. She is taken off guard, and it feels to her like the short travel of that part of her to him happens in slow motion. When he kisses her hand, as he looks into her eyes, the room spins for her, and then she feels nauseous.

You’re playing with my mind, and you’re good at it, she reminds herself, her hand still a prisoner within his gentle, and yet strong one. She wonders if he planned the wall, right down to his slipping in last. She wonders how masters learn to be masters, to punish and discipline. To manipulate. There is perhaps a strategy to it. An art. Tristan the artist. Tristan the rock-star persona, she reminds herself.

Her mouth feels dry, and she therefore sends her tongue up, down, and around within it, to try to rectify the situation. Her lips then turn inwards into her mouth as well, with the same goal, since their inner state does not feel as moist as it should. She can still taste and smell the outcome of her mouthwash offensive on herself, once saliva revives it.

With Tristan’s eyes still within hers, she realizes that her heart is racing.

You can’t have my mind, she tells him, eyes locked into his, and glistening some. You must absolutely not have my mind . . . How would I remain “even” then?

Tristan releases her hand, and Catherine quickly returns it to her side, as she turns her face away. After a moment, her master turns his attention towards the front as well, where the host is speaking with a few attendants.

The mini-contest rules are soon explained, and Catherine is not surprised to learn that yet another ejaculation game will take place, since the drug makes the masters most happily feel that they have a wonderfully improved favourite toy to play with, through their manhood’s acquired stunning super-ability, and they of course want to take full advantage of it while it lasts.

“They all feel supernatural,” a non-refundable comments to another. “Because of their dick. Holy shit.”

Since the non-refundables keep commenting no matter if they are hit for doing so, Catherine has decided that they do not have enough self-control to keep their mouth shut, even under threat. And so, words leave their lips before consideration of the consequences stops them.

The host announces that the mini-competition will turn the canvases’ faces away from the audience, place them close to a wall, and have the men shoot for each submissives’ behind-ring, which will be maintained in plain view by another canvas holding each target’s rear cheeks opened, if necessary.