When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Thirty-One - Shameful Spice Delight

THIRTY-ONE

Shameful Spice Delight

Fifteen minutes before the top of the following hour, when the next circus show is set to begin, Tristan rises from the cot, takes the few necessary steps to reach Catherine, who continues to silently stand off her pedestal, and, with the help of a twirling finger before his face, instructs her to turn away from him. Catherine sees his eyes, behind that twirling finger. Registers their look.

“With each addition, he fixates, and designs, and creates, and then fixates again with the second spray,” a master jests, as he walks by. Tristan does know several of the men present.

“Not now,” he warns the man, without turning to look at him, keeping his eyes on Catherine’s rear instead, allowing it to feed desire.

“He now leans her forward onto a table, careful not to smudge any of his come sprawled over her boobs and backside, and sticks his dick up her tight little rear, which is not forbidden to him, being her master. In a room full of carnal activity, any movement of his head in any chosen direction allows for some messed up sight to add to his physical experience, and Tristan is no exception to that male augmenter of blissful might and vigour: sight.”

“What the hell?” Tristan calmly interrupts, as he indeed slips himself into Catherine in the way that the master described.

“I’m going wild-life channel. Describing the natural hooking-up ways of masters. Here. Now. You know, back to nature, spreading come around. Just not usually on females, but in them, but anyway . . .”

“Get lost.”

“The male pulls back on the female’s hair, roughly bringing her head back towards him. He then pauses as he feels the rush before the rush, and then, he exits her, expertly manipulating himself to deposit his creative material where his artistic eye desires it . . .  Can’t say certain words on a nature show, can I? Have to improvise. Okay, actually, I’m done,” the master concludes, before walking on.

Catherine closes her eyes, as her master’s depth-reach is restricted only by his size and whatever resistance her body succeeds in presenting against it. If it even does. There is pain, and she once again wonders if there is always to be pain. She hates the urge that comes with his thrusting within her. She takes no pleasure at all in any of the sensations that accompany such a trespass upon her.

“Most hated laxative method ever,” she recalls a non-refundable say.

Instead of observing what is happening around him, Tristan’s eyes remain on the ins and out of his manhood. He allows himself to be hypnotized by the penetration, allows an array of images and a variety of male-fantasy propositions to compete for his attention, to combine, and to make every inch of his body feel alive, in this most basic of male ways.

“I want the back of your arms,” he half-whispers to Catherine, after minutes of thrusting, his voice, his tone, appropriate to the finish that he is presently pursuing and nearing.

When he stops pushing, she quickly sends her arms backwards, and holds them there, side by side, together, in order that they be near his line of discharge when he adjusts to the last coordinates necessary for a landing. His release comes within less than an hour after he has last done so, for the tie-breaker contest. Recommendation of every two hours? So, what about approximately forty-five minutes after the last “gifting?” Catherine vaguely considers.

Why do you bring it up? Do you want him to drop dead behind you?

Tristan’s aim is true, and her top limbs are therefore the two latest parts of her body to feel his powerful spewing. He does not have much time to design what he has just added to her arms, and when the circus show begins at 11 p.m., he is still not done, and does not rush.