When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Eighty-Six - Denial, Squared?

EIGHTY-SIX

Denial, Squared?

As Catherine stands before her master, still physically controlled by one of his hands grasping her chin, as well as by his stance, which reminds her of just how much of an overall force he is, she very much wants to answer his question “correctly,” since she does not want to be punished, and since she very much wants Tristan to remain calm. Her own calmness, however -- that is, the tranquility that she felt a mere moment ago during his careful designing upon her -- is now quickly slipping away, and, since she remains uncertain as to what to tell him that she supposedly “really” wants, every second that ticks by erodes it even more.

“Just say it?” Why did he say that? What is he thinking? This game has never been so difficult to play. If I were rested and if . . .  I have to say something.

As the fingers that restrict Catherine’s movement dig in more tightly into her chin, thus conveying their master’s growing displeasure and reiterating his command for her to speak, Tristan’s stare intensifies.

“A . . . A . . . kiss,” Catherine therefore finds herself nervously whispering, despite the whole of her reason. And how stunned and alarmed the whole of her right mind is indeed, at the sound of that word, at the sound of that irrational, of that illogical declaration.

She quickly looks away, feeling not quite out of control, since she is aware of having replied something absurd because Tristan pressured her into answering, but not feeling quite in control either, because of the part of her that is not only not annoyed, but in fact pleased.

“That’s what you really want?” Tristan steadily returns, after seconds of silence that unnerved Catherine, since she feared having angered him so much -- either because her reply was nothing like he wanted or expected, or because it crossed an important line -- that he was beyond words. Although it is in Tristan’s repertoire to answer calmly one second and then to lash out the next -- calm before the storm -- she does not, however, feel that this is the case, in this instance.

“Yes,” she therefore replies, the word half whispered and half vocalized, even if just a one-syllable word.

No! I want a pillow, a bed! I mean, to sleep! A part of her is quick to backtrack, after Tristan lowers his eyes to her lips. As she observes his study of them, she feels that time has slowed, if it not stopped altogether. This strange notion makes her heart race even faster, and causes her breathing to so sparsely distribute its oxygen gifting within her body that the process once more barely sustains her.

When more seconds tick by and this intense “study” of Tristan’s continues, Catherine, despite her previous belief of no storm on the horizon, is struck by a sudden sharp chord of terror, which increases her anxious state, following its conversion into a flurry of most unpleasant shivers playing up and down her spine.

Stupid master game! Of all the things that I could’ve pretended to have wanted . . . Despite her annoyance and anger, her lips, however, nevertheless eagerly part, unconcerned with any hold-up that her mind possesses. No other part of her body, in fact, is objecting, and, were it not for her art, every inch of her, at this very moment, would be contemplating a plunge towards Tristan, against him and into him, just like her lips so very explicitly and unmistakably desire a connection with their own counterpart.