When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Eighty-One - Removing Catherine From Tristan

EIGHTY-ONE

Removing Catherine From Tristan

At 7 p.m. on Sunday, all masters and their canvases are once more gathered before the stage in the grand ballroom. A small bleachers zone is now set up on one side of this raised performance area, and male professionals are seated there, alongside female pros in pig-tails -- who are obviously portraying kids -- and other female performers who are just as clearly meant to be the moms. These maternal characters are padded in all the wrong places, have silly hair, and are most definitely not desirable mom-incarnations. The “daughters” seated beside them are enjoying big lollipops, which they lick and lick. Each one also clutches a balloon, a stuffed toy, or some other souvenir from the circus.

Catherine is physically recovered from her purging, but Tristan, however, is not recovered from her not having been able to overcome, just for him, her hatred of apricots. When he turns his face towards her to look into her eyes, she realizes just how well he continues to control her, since the apricot ordeal that he no doubt purposefully devised worked perfectly well in reining her in. He looks away. 

How typical of him. Well, I suppose that I was rather defiant, when he awakened, which irritated him and riled him up. But now, no more of that, and I’m back to having to do everything that he says, and perfectly well. Back to obeying and pleasing him, or otherwise facing an escalation regarding what he thinks of next to keep me under his complete control.  The good thing is, however, that as long as he has complete control again, I don’t think that he’ll seek to see through me as much, and so, I’m much safer just obeying, just participating fully, because it’s easier then to hide what I know, and what I did. Those eyes of his . . . I just absolutely have to be “even.” The fact will always be that I could’ve run, but that I didn’t, and I have to get over that I didn’t, because it’s done now. Of course, that’s easier said than done, but . . . Well, as always, everything has returned to Tristan normal because, no matter what detour, he always gets me back to the main Tristan highway, which everyone around him has to travel, while obeying his rules. I wanted the voices in my head to stop so I could think for myself and make my own decisions, but screaming them quiet like I did was probably not the best thing. Would the women I’ve known, and who are the authors of those voices, those words, have all run away, had they been in my shoes, in the tunnel? Would they have all taken that chance, that huge risk? No. Because they all knew what it’s like, to face such incredible uncertainty in escaping, to be in fact trapped in a life that just can’t be escaped. They had pimps to fear, but they also had so much baggage that . . . It really doesn’t matter that Tristan happens to be a hot, handsome ass, because he’s still a stinky, disgusting asshole in the end. And it’s not even confusing anymore, really, that he does and then undoes, because it’s who he is, singing one thing, but being quite the other.

Catherine looks at the people on the stage for a moment, and then away again.

I wonder how masters will be brought back into the swing of weekend play this time, after their rest. Not that they need anything more than blood rushing to their crotch. And not that that’s difficult to bring about either. It’s us females who . . . Master, oh my master . . . Sir . . . She sarcastically adds, attacking the men around her, before those unforced “sirs” she spoke to Tristan return to her mind, those willing ones that slipped off her tongue as if “feeling” had dared to be their lubricant. Feelings?! Making me throw up to control me certainly nullifies you ever deserving that title! And . . . I saved myself, this time, by not trying to escape. And you won’t be saving my life again, so. . . so no more . . .