When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Ninety-Four - Tumbling

NINETY-FOUR

Tumbling 

“Why not use alcohol?” Catherine evenly asks, as she and Tristan continue to await the beginning of the mini-contest of the penultimate cycle of weekend play. It is not that much time has gone by, but that every second has been loaded with so much since she and Tristan gathered with the others that it feels like it has. “Stumbling totems might not manage to protect their art, but there’s always the abstract competition, so, if what masters want is more women standing so very close to their master . . . ” She adds, her mind yet again processing this ridiculous behaviour that her eyes continue to register.

“Booze offers nothing but useless, fleeting compulsion, without even an ounce of real, neither during nor after,” Tristan replies, himself impatient for the host to begin. He is not the only master who finds the delay unacceptable.

And “real” matters how? Catherine wonders, as she sips the rest of her water. Ego? But men always just gobble up all put-on, fake ego-stroking, so . . .

Tristan removes the empty bottle from Catherine’s hand and deposits it in a specially designed side-satchel worn by a water server who is walking by.

There’s a breakfast or something, afterwards. Will I be dressed, then? Tristan’s female ponders, after reminding herself that there are still five hours to suffer through until weekend play officially ends. A non-refundable singing “To Sir, With Love” interrupts further thoughts, and her eyes immediately roll at the absurdity.

“Men are the real objects in this world, with most of them devoid of humanity, lacking empathy, and with all of them being slaves to boobs and their dick. So then, how can those objects ever teach women -- who are persons -- anything of worth? Besides, the only thing that most men ever want to ‘teach’ us is to believe that we’re inferior, that we deserve less, little, and/or that we’re to accept being mistreated and being nothing more than dick-attachments,” Catherine remembers her writer friend jotting down, which she recalls a moment after the plot of male high school teacher towards female student returns to her, plot of the old movie the song belongs to.

“How do you know that old song?” Tristan interrupts her recall.

“What? Uh . . . American Idol rerun. And I caught a little bit of the movie too, late one night.”

Silence.

“You can’t be ignoring me,” Catherine next registers her master fishing. She knows by his words and tone that she missed something, but is struck once more by the realization that the mere thought of Tristan’s anger, which usually terrifies her, is still not paralyzing her.

“Of course not. I just . . . You want me to be careful.”

“No, you want to be careful, unless you want to suffer all those punishments that you so justly deserve,” her master firmly returns.

When Tristan’s fingers reach out, grab her chin, and then turn her captive face towards his, Catherine has no choice but to look up at him, and the glitches that then occur against her standing-order that absolutely no part of her react to Tristan in certain ways, annoy her very much.

His body mastering mine just by it being ever so close, just by its proximity . . . She closes her eyes, to remove his lips from her sight. Will this contest ever start? I have to concentrate on something. Focus on something. On winning. For Tristan. I know that that sounds pathetic, but I have to be centered on something.

“Eyes, opened.”

“What if . . . What if I stumble during this contest, or . . . ” Catherine begins, once she is once again looking up into Tristan’s eyes.