When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Forty-Seven - Favourite Insult

FORTY-SEVEN

Favourite Insult

A moment before Tristan and Catherine leave the contest area following the body-part guessing contest, he reaches for one her hands. The gesture does not affect her at first, means nothing to her, since he has guided her this way before, but when his fingers continue to mingle with hers as the two turn down a row of stations on their walk back to his work area, and when she feels that she could most certainly walk along the rows of work space without such guidance, “even” once more begins to slip.

One more step, two, three, and there is nothing more in the world that Catherine wants than to slip her delicate, obedient hand out of Tristan’s, but when she lightly manoeuvres it to make the separation gently occur, the strong hold of his bigger, powerful male hand does not allow it. It instead automatically corrects what his mind records as a deviation caused by the couple’s forward motion as they walk, or by anything else but her desire to break the connection.

One more step, two, three, and as the blood boils more and more within her, Catherine considers pulling her hand away from Tristan’s in outright manner, no matter what the consequences.

Even.

Even? She snaps back at healer. I should’ve attacked his words, back there. Countered them. I mean, for him to think that I have a favourite hour, amidst all this madness, that’s madness.

It’s no surprise to anyone that you, and maybe all true submissives, prefer the  master/canvas hour out of the four segments, out of the four slices of every cycle of weekend play. Because there are no other bodies, then, no palette of diseases, and there’s personal attention.

Giving in to me back there, accepting the tie, that doesn’t equal you making progress with me. I mean, with my mind, she fights with Tristan, instead of pursuing her thoughts with healer.  And you didn’t even give in to me: it just made sense to leave and for you to contribute to my art. Your art. Why do you want to destroy me by getting into my head?  Your master’s game, Tristan, is just as obvious as when any artist manipulates any creative material in order to make it their own, completely. In order to shape it in a way that it has to accept as its own for the rest of its existence because it can never go back to being what it was before the artist’s touch and guidance. It’s forever lost from what it first was. Well, I don’t want the peace and quiet of a master/canvas hour with you. It’s not my favourite, because I have no favourite. Because this is all sheer madness. And to even think, for just a moment, that I could have a favourite in your insane world, that that word could even be used at all . . . I just prefer what is least of madness. That’s all. And that can’t be wrong. She pauses. But that would be the shows, she then reconsiders. Nothing to do, then, but watch, she finds herself countering. And why is it a whole hour of master/canvas time when most masters are done in less? Even the old masters don’t take an hour to come. So why a whole hour? Teaching time? Learning time for the females? More brainwashing? Time for masters to walk around and see other men’s art? Why an hour? Why is it so short? I mean, so long . . . Let go of my hand!

“Why haven’t you finished my tummy?” She blurts out, somewhat sharply, since the mood of her thoughts and the nicer, gentler one by contrast that she wants to put on outwardly end up blending, despite her wish that the first die out. She speaks to push away her thoughts, but that tone is no help.