When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Thirty-Nine - To Not Be Blinded

THIRTY-NINE

To Not Be Blinded

When Catherine learns that the next mini-contest is yet another that centers on shooting precision, and that the competition lies in one climax successfully producing five exact hits from a certain distance and angle -- with the five targets to be a master’s submissive’s center forehead, eyes, nose, and opened mouth -- she exhales audibly, which prompts Tristan’s eyes to shift sideways to find hers, without any other muscle of his stirring at all. She, however, as she stands beside him, turns all of her face towards him, and apologizes with her look.

“Your submissive’s eyes must remain opened at all times,” the host repeats to the competitors, as Tristan accepts the apology and returns his attention to the front.

Masters don’t have to compete in the mini-contests. But what master would just sit them out? No way. Not even to respect the host’s recommendation that masters not come at intervals shorter than every two hours, for their health. The pleasant presence of the pack, the perfect atmosphere, and the money they paid . . . Come into my eyes, uh?

“You’ve definitely seen a lot, in a year,” Tristan whispers to his subservient, just as attendants begin to direct people to their competing area.

Catherine looks away, either because of his spoken words, or because she and Tristan have just been ordered to join a certain group. Her master, however, reaches for one of her wrists and holds her back.

When she registers the sensation, Catherine knows to look up into his eyes, into his beautiful eyes, and when she does, the echo of his touch, of his skin against hers in one of the few areas of her body where the absence of his creation allows it, causes a most unexpected tensing up of her nether region.

No!

“You’ve learned to appreciate being mine, in the way that you are mine,” Tristan adds, velvety smooth, as he stands so very close to his female.

As “sirs” once more dance in her mind, every inch of Catherine’s body is very much aware of just how close every inch of his is. You own my life, not me, she nevertheless manages to scream above them, above both the “sirs” and the whisperings of her flesh.

“I love a good challenge,” the smooth voice counters.

Catherine knows very well that Tristan is most skilled at reading her eyes, and so, when she looks away this time, it is most definitely because of her master’s words. With her nerve somewhat unsteady, she then wobbles, when she takes her first step in the direction pointed out by an attendant. Slippery indeed.

Since a master's own submissive will be his target, another submissive will therefore once again bring him to competing form. Skin-tone bracelets prevent the submissives who wear them from being commanded by a male to be that “trainer,” that “coach,” but otherwise, a master can choose any man’s non-refundable. When Tristan’s eyes look around him for that purpose, Catherine’s look away.

Round after round, she and Tristan then witness most submissives close their eyes during their master’s one and only possible attempt, and, as a consequence, the lightness and amusement of the previous contests go missing from this competition, since many masters become infuriated with their female, and, art or no art in their face, strike the women, discipline them in this most basic of ways.

“How hard is it to keep your eyes opened? Are you stupid?” Masters ask in turn, choosing their own words, but sticking to the same point.

A submissive’s eyes must remain open. She cannot close them after they have been hit, not until her master has completed his turn, and the timing-clock has stopped. If she blinks after the hit, she had better make her eyes big before she does, in order that they mostly remain open, and even then, the judges differ in their calls from one case to the next.