Thread: No one like you -CandyXAlan

Every action, say certain philosophers, is connected to every other action. Some actions, however, are more obviously conencted than others. Lucas Thorn Fenwick leaned upon the balustrade of the club, and watched as Mistress Chenee sashayed by. Had he paused to consider, he may well have affirmed the truth of the philosophical truism. Mistress Chenee was trailed, at the usual respectful distance, by Gori, her submissive, and the wriggle of the domme's slim hips as she passed, coupled with the bright smile and appreciative look with which she favored him were directly, and causally coupled with the look of hate Gori directed at him. Impotent hate, yet paradoxically, also smug, for both submissive knew that Lucas could have taken Gori apart without raising a sweat, yet they also both knew that tonight, and many nights and days in the future, it would be Gori and not Lucas that enjoyed her exotic favors, the blood-soaked ecstasy that bonded Mistress and slave. Lucas got the smiles, but Gori got the love. Lucas watched as the domme and her sycophantic shadow vanished across the polished wooded floor of the club, and lit a cigar. The way in which Mistress Chenee's various piercings twinkled in the sconced candelabra that lit the premises almost tempted him to follow, to beg the woman's favors, and risk Gori's enmity. But he knew that etiquette, while not exactly forbidding one submissive to encroach upon another's territory, nonetheless did not look especially favorably on it. If he would learn to truly appreciate his own capacity for submission, this was a rule he need force himself to heed. He did, however, while puffing reflectively upon the cigar, give pause to consider just what it was that was causing such a look of satisfaction upon Mistress Chenee's fine, patrician features. Surely not Gori's loving - pretty as he looked, he doubted Gori was that much of a lover. He didn't have enough imagination, for a start. And Chenee's look was not so much that of a cat that had stolen the cream as one who had trashed the shit out of another feline. A look of triumph rather than satisfaction. He changed the direction of his gaze, backtracking the path she had taken, and immediately a possible answer for her look of satisfaction met his gaze. True, the evidence was merely circumstantial, yet, he conceded, strongly so. He spied Mistress Moira, standing forlornly alone, biting her lip, her face a bright scarlet, and obviously trying so hard to look unconcerned that she was drawing attention to some recent humiliation as much as if she'd worn a sign saying kick me. Obviously, then, some insult had passed from the confident blond to the far-from-confident redhead, and the latter had, as was inevitably the case, been unable to reply. It was, he concluded, an irony in the extreme. He, Lucas, was no natural submissive, and was acting so for a purpose. Whereas poor Moira Jamison, though she dressed as a Domme and official held the status, was anything but. The fact that she was physically too frail to beat any of the other Dommes in a fight could be overlooked, as could her obvious shyness and lack of self-faith. Other women had dominated with far greater handicaps. No, it went further. Something deep in her psyche. Domme Moira just did not have the presence, the chutzpah, the nameless what it takes to live up to her title. Thus, she had been unable to attract a submissive follower, despite her seniority at the club. Even the submissives, though they outwardly paid her the formal respect her position demanded, nonetheless made their dutiful obedience with a subtle casualness, making it obvious they despised and pitied her. And in such a way that everyone around, including Moira herself, could not fail to notice. Lucas had not, perhaps, had the easiest of lives, yet his sense of empathy had survived. Knowing the value of a kind word, particularly from an unexpected source, determined his action. He approached her, remembering to change from his usual confident stride to a slightly hesitant approach, as was the correct form for a submissive approaching a domme. He knelt on one knee before her a submissive only went on all fours to their own mistress and touched his left shoulder with his right hand, the accepted respectful greeting. My pardon for interrupting your thoughts, mistress Moira, he said, in his soft Western British tone. I wanted, if you'll permit, to congratulate you upon the portfolio of sketches you produced. The one of various world leaders. I chanced upon it in the club library, and I was enraptured. And then, before she could reply, added the other thing. The thing he knew she would really want to hear. And also, if I may be so bold, point out that today you look even more beautiful than usual?