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The Brand Ch. 01

By: Abraxis



It was the green fire of the homeless woman's eyes; dazzling in the September morning sunlight, that kept Victria's attention. Otherwise, the woman, somewhere in her early to mid twenties, was remarkable only in that she happened to be picking through a curb side trash receptacle; wearing a thread bare Cowboys sweat shirt, dingy gray jeans with a plastic shopping bag tied to the belt loop above her left hip and a fairly new yet quite hideously electric orange pair of tennis shoes. But, as Victria crossed the temporarily empty four lanes of Main Street, the clack of her high heels resonating between the insurance high rises on either side, the young marketing executive, age twenty-seven, was stirred by the woman's despairing yet valiant regard.

Under normal circumstances, Victria wouldn't have bothered to devote such attention; not ever having been the kind of person to give one in such a pitiful state much more than the time of day. The woman had been oblivious to Victria's approach along the cross walk, gathering returnable bottles and cans and stuffing them into her bag, until the click clack of Victria's heels drew her attention. The woman looked up, quickly assessed Victria from shoes to shoulders, and then matched her gaze.

Victria didn't look away, but turned her body toward a different direction than she'd originally intended. In that instant, a new look of shame and defiance burned in the woman's eyes, which only served to provoke Victria further. It was the homeless woman who looked away first. Pauper or princess, Victria was not accustomed to having it any other way. She was an alpha female, evolved through middle management to finally become a junior executive. Now, she had an office in her financial firm's executive suite, and as long as she continued to make hairline fractures in the glass ceiling, she would earn her way to becoming the firm's next chief risk officer.

Dressed in her work life finery; severe in her black blazer, blouse, pencil skirt and gleaming black pumps, Victria made her way in a confident, easy pace. The street's hustle bustle bled back into the world in a rush of bass booming cars, city buses, colorful folk languages and profanities, cell phone chatter and the occasional rippling coo of a pigeon. Slowing her stride, Victria looked over her shoulder to see that the woman had moved on to another trash can. 

From a distance of thirty or so feet, Victria stopped, and turned to watch the woman rummage for more returnables. A staunch conservative, she never once wavered from her belief that everyone should pull themselves up by their boot straps and make a life for themselves. Surely, the homeless could find opportunity beyond the rim of a trash can. Yet the woman gave Victria the sudden sense that perhaps not everyone was truly able to surmount certain circumstances. Victria knew she could be wrong, at least once, maybe twice. Ultimately though, it was also her policy to never assume anything about anybody worth taking seriously, and the woman struck her as someone to be taken as such. 

It was the mystery behind the woman's intense green eyes that drove Victria's curiosity. What was the more that had yet to meet my eye, Victria asked herself. It was the bottom line gut question that guided her problem product assessment in the office, and certainly had its application in the world outside of work. How do I brand her? What kind of packaging is going to dazzle the buyer? As Victria watched stray strands of the woman's otherwise bun bound brown hair glow in the early morning light, she felt a sudden blush dally its way along her chest, neck and cheeks.

Victria began to casually stroll her way back. She observed the woman, having plucked enough bottles and cans to fill her first bag, tug another from a back pocket and secure it to the belt loop over her right hip. Victria surreptitiously scanned the faces of passersby before letting her eyes fall back on the woman and affecting her lips to rise slightly to form a small, roguish smile. Briefly, she'd entertained the notion that the woman wasn't actually homeless, but fishing through trash as some cover or possibly as some method of diversion; like those that enjoy attending the funerals of strangers or those who pretend to be sick just to get into a hospital. 

However, upon further assessment, Victria became certain that the pretty green eyed woman was truly without a home of her own. It was in the way the pigeons crowded around her feet, as if they'd been accustomed to the woman finding them crusts of bread, and how she simply ignored what looked like a small swarm of bees buzzing around her long fingered hands as she sifted through the garbage. Closing the distance, Victria mused over the fact that if she hadn't driven in as early as she had, to take part in a Women in Business Network breakfast meeting, she wouldn't have the opportunity to take the risk she was about to take.

The street woman, her face glowing with the light of the risen sun, seemed oblivious to the small swarm of bees flying tight holding patterns around her arms. Reaching into the trash can, she pulled out two honey bee spotted plastic bottles at once, gave them a sudden, slight, shake, which sent the bees hovering off beyond the rim of the can so that she could tuck the bottles into her second bag. Reaching back into the festering garbage, four more bees began to crawl across her knuckles as she reached for a can of orange soda, which she slowly turned bottom side up to drain its remaining contents into the trash. The bees followed the drips, leaving her to withdraw the can.

"Hey!"

The street woman turned her gaze down toward the pigeons that had flocked around her feet, and were now parting, some nervously flapping away.

"That's my trash can!" announced the voice.

The woman blew a frustrated sigh, rolled her eyes, and then settled them onto the person behind her: a tall, blonde wigged, stern faced black woman, wearing a black hoody that was much too small and black jeans that were much too big.

"Those be my motha fuckin bottles and cans." She continued, wide eyed and scowling, "Give em here!"

The smaller woman slowly raised her hands, open palms up, as if to make an appeal; her expression a spluttering squall of consternation, defeat and ultimate resignation. It wasn't the first time the big woman bullied her for her returns. She knew her from the self organized black section of the Main Street shelter's dorm room. She'd tried to reason with the big woman before, whom the others called Hennessy, but it never worked. Speechless, the small woman hesitated before finally reaching to loose one of the bags hanging from her waist.

"You don't have to give those to her." 

The two simultaneously turned to face Victria; smartly dressed, poised, no nonsense, arms folded across her chest, a musing finger stroking the small valley between her bottom lip and chin, straight and shiney chestnut shoulder length hair topping her not so imposing five foot four frame.

"She took her sweet time getting here," continued Victria; leveling her gaze at the big woman, "And now expects to just take the spoils of your efforts? I don't think so."

"What the fuck you tawkin about lady?" the big woman blustered as she took a step toward Victria, "This ain't none ya biznis."

"I just made it my bizniz. This woman is clearly driven by the entrepreneurial spirit and as an American; she is entitled to keep the fruits of her labor. I saw you three blocks down, strolling over here like you had nowhere to be. And then you just roll up on this girl and expect her to just give up her booty?"

"Yo I ain't be wantin no white girl booty. I just want the mother fuckin cans yo."

"She can have the cans." the other woman said, glancing at Victria.

"No she can't Miss."

The two wayward women exchanged looks; their expressions seeming to ask the same question of one another: Well; aren't you going to take care of this? Presently, the black woman took another step closer to her fellow vagabond. 

"Yes I can." She growled, "Come on yo, give em up."

It was Victria who made the next move; taking a step nearer to the big woman. 

"Absolutely not." She insisted, "Give me the bags Miss."

Victria quickly unfolded her arms and held out an open palm, her gaze never leaving the large woman. The smaller woman, though perhaps an inch or two taller than Victria, paused, and then glanced between the rich looking trouble maker and her large nemesis. Presently, she untied the bags from her belt loops. The woman paused a second time before finally handing them to Victria.

"That's my money bitch."

"The hell it is bitch. Come on Cowboy."

Victria didn't wait for either street person to follow. Stunned, the original possessor of the bottles and cans remained behind, but only long enough to shrug at the black woman and wave good-bye.

"Was that really necessary?" asked the woman as she scurried up beside Victria.

"You were going to just hand these over to that leech."

"I guess so; yeah."

"Then it was necessary.

"Okay. Uhm, can I get my bags back?"

"Not yet."

The street woman glanced back to see her shelter mate conferring with two other homeless neighbors. 

"Okay." She said, returning her attention to Victria, "So, where are we going?"

Victria answered with an impatiently beckoning gesture as she rounded the corner. Melody followed; noting the empty sidewalk, the row of parking meters and parked cars. 

"What's your name?" asked Victria.

"I don't think I want to tell you my name." answered the street woman, "I don't want a friend. I just want my bottles and cans back."

Victria stopped and swung her body to face the woman.

"You look like an intelligent woman to me Cowboy. Exactly how long is it that you want to stay at rock bottom?"

The woman furrowed her brow, and then cast her eyes to the sidewalk. Victria appraised her; admiring the lush gravity in her eyes, the neatness of her hair's bun, the smell of at least three day old sweat coming off her body.

"What's your name?" Victria asked a second time, softening her tone.

The woman met her gaze again. As the street sounds blared, sputtered and waned, she studied the alertness and shrewd depth in Victria's brown eyes. 

"Melody." she said, glancing over her shoulder to see the tall black woman in the distance, kicking pigeons from around the base of another trash can.

"Melody." repeated Victria, "That's pretty, refreshingly old fashioned. My name's Victria. Not Victoria, Vickie or Vic. I am opportunity and my door's wide open. I can turn your rock bottom into rock solid success. Are you interested?"

"Lady, I don't know you."

"If we were in my office, and you walked in looking for a job, you still wouldn't know me. Who really knows anybody anyway? I'll tell you the first truth about me you need to know. I'm worth the risk."

"Really? Worth what? How much?"

"How does sixty grand a year sound?"

Melody's reaction seemed muted to Victria, making her think that the woman might have been used to more than that in her old life. She decided to wait the woman out before sweetening or upping the ante.

"I'm listening." Melody said finally.

"You'll be my live in help for a while, until you start training to be my executive secretary. I'll give you three hundred dollars a week to start. You'll get an allowance of that, and the balance will remain in an account I'll set up for you. You meet my expectations and your pay will increase incrementally. Sounds good?"

"Too good. What's the catch?"

"Oh there's just one little thing before we start. Roll up your sleeves and let me take a look at your arms."

Melody glowered, leveling her eyes at Victria.

"Ooh," sang Victria, smiling at Melody's darkened expression, "If looks could kill. Come on now. If you have nothing to hide, then you have everything to gain."

"I'm not a crack head."

"So you say. Prove it."

"I don't need to prove anything to you."

"You're absolutely right. You owe it to yourself. Look, I just want to give you a job so that you can rebuild. Maybe your old life was worse than rock bottom, and your current state is a step up. All I know is that if you're drug free and honest, I will do right by you."

"You some kind of lesbian Unitarian or something?"

"Oh I'm something alright."

Melody made her own appraisal then, trying to read, put a value, some definition to the truth she saw in Victria's eyes.

"Come on now," the business woman continued, "Show me your arms, and your ankles too. I need to know I'm not wasting my time and money.

Melody lowered her gaze to the sidewalk, seemed to consider for a moment, and then raised her gaze again to idly scan the faces of passers by.

"As my secretary," Victria explained, trying to allay Melody's trepidation, "You could stand to make up to seventy grand a year. Once you've proved you can manage the job, you can stay or you can find work somewhere else."

Victria paused to check her watch; letting her last term hang there for Melody's consideration. She allowed herself three seconds more before urging the woman for what she'd decided would be the last time. 

"You want me to show you the money," she said, "Show me you're clean. Come on Melody, let's go!"

Melody cast her eyes back down to the sidewalk, and focused on a very sun baked and weather beaten piece of pink bubble gum; its cratered moon face reminding her of love struck lunacy, pie in the sky men, children under foot, getting walked all over and over again and all the rest of the steps that led her to that very moment. Never raising her gaze, Melody slowly pushed her right sleeve and then the left to expose the hollows of her elbows. Proving there were no track marks, she then slipped out of her sneakers, raised one foot and pulled up her pant leg for Victria's scrutiny. The young executive nodded and Melody bounced to exposed her other ankle; revealing that it too was free of needle marks. 

Satisfied, Victria consulted her watch again as Melody slipped back into her shoes. Then, raising her eyes back to her new charge, she observed that the found wayward woman had lost her struggle to keep from crying. She was wearing the same stoic defiance Victria had seen upon their first visual contact. Though now Melody, her back straight, her head high, her bottom lip trembling as a single tear dripped from her left eye, would not meet her gaze. 

Victria wasn't certain whether the tears were because she'd challenged Melody about sobriety or something else. Moving on, watching to see that Melody was still following, Victria mused over the possibilities. Was the woman perhaps too beat down to be happy about the prospect of help? Had she maybe been reminded of the pain that brought her to such lowly circumstances in the first place? Or was she still hiding some other addiction, vice or compulsive preoccupation that would break the deal? It's all about the marketing, Victria thought as she switched both bags to one hand and withdrew her keys; once lost, now found, was blind, now I see. 

Melody had wiped her tears away with the hem of her sweat shirt as they'd arrived at Victria's sparkle Barbi doll purple Lexus SUV. The woman wagged her head and rolled her eyes as if unable to believe Victria's vanity and arrogance. Melody shrugged as she looked over the odd spectacle of such a large big girl toy and its pink purple glitter paint job. Her attitude all too familiar, Victria could only smile smugly as she unlocked the passenger door. Once they'd hopped in, the young executive immediately locked them inside. 

The mechanized sounds of each door's locking shut seemed to unsettle Melody. She stared about the cabin, the look on her face like someone who'd just been strapped into the seat of a roller coaster and wasn't exactly sure they could stomach the ride. As Victria dropped the bottles and cans behind the passenger seat, she glanced at Melody to see that she was glowering anew. She dismissed the look, and then, almost in one fluid motion, Victria put her keys into the ignition, started the vehicle and then pressed one of the buttons near the radio before regarding Melody again, but with a raised shushing finger. A young male voice came in through the speakers, and Victria explained to it that she'd spilled tomato juice all over herself at the breakfast meeting, and that she had to shoot back home to change. 

Melody stared out her window for most of the ride. It seemed to Victria that she wasn't familiar with the area as her gaze bounced and curiously flitted across the changing scenery from feature to feature and site to site. Victria was prepared to hear anything the woman had to say and answer most if not all of her questions. But, Melody never uttered a word during their journey. She simply studied the landscape change from bustling city, residential outskirt, industrial parkway, highway, townships and finally to a quaint hamlet, surrounded by acres of horse farms, drying stalks of corn, ripening pumpkins or other winter squash.

Victria eventually turned onto a graveled road, and followed it through thick stands of oaks, maple, evergreen and pine until a very large farm house came into view. She cut the engine, unlocked the vehicle and stepped out. Victria had gotten as far as the veranda when she turned around to see Melody, still in the Lexus, staring up at the house as if it was some oddly compelling yet very bad piece of art. .

"Let's hustle Cowboy!" called Victria; poised on the top step, "I ain't got all day.

Melody uneasily regarded her new employer as she slowly pushed the passenger door open. Leaving her cache of returns in the Lexus, she casually crossed the door yard, observing the flagstone walkway and the thick green grass on either side. Mounting the three steps, Melody fell in behind Victria as she crossed the wide veranda to the front door. Presently, she was allowed inside. 

Closing the door behind her, Melody stopped to admire the spaciousness of the foyer, living and dining rooms; realizing in the same instant that Victria obviously seldom to never used the rooms. While her hostess advanced into the house, Melody took in the sun dappled layer of dust over each piece of furniture and other beautifully crafted features of the place. Stepping into the kitchen, its square footage and appliances rivaling those in major hotels or catering facilities, Melody saw that it was the most lived in and filthiest of the rooms so far. Scowling, she took in the double sink, both basins overflowing with soiled, crusted pans, pots, utensils and plates, their odor more rank and fêted than her own.

She heard the click clack of Victria's heels on the parquet floor behind her, and turned to see the woman approaching her with a few stapled sheets of paper and a pen. Melody raised a quizzical brow and tilted her head slightly toward the sinks. Victria took her meaning, smiled innocently and shrugged before handing Melody the papers and pen.

"When I first laid eyes on this kitchen," said Victria, "I really wanted to make the most of it. And then, well; my time just got more and more expensive."

Melody stepped deeper into the kitchen as she read the document's title and sub headings. It was a job application and a contract replete with lists of responsibilities and clauses of legal jargon. Glancing up, Melody found herself in front of two enormous stainless steel refridgerator doors. She opened the right door, and saw that it was full of Chinese take out containers, a pizza box, bottles of orange and apple juice, vitamin B shots, a bag of moldering carrots, two white paper bags full of fresh red deliscious and honey crisp apples and a lunch meat drawer containing recently dated packages of sliced cheese and turkey breast.

"I can only imagine what your master bath and bedroom look like." She said, stepping back from the refrigerator and closing the door.


The Brand Ch. 01



"Oh you have your work cut out for you." Answered Victria as she turned on her heel, "Follow me please."

They headed back down the hall into the foyer, and then mounted the steps leading to the second floor. Melody only gave a cursory glance into the bathroom at the top of the stairs before following Victria to the right. Entering the master bedroom, Melody saw that it was even worse than she'd expected. The room, remarkable in its spaciousness, closetry, cathedral ceiling, sky light and polished mahogany furnishings, had no floor that could be seen. It was, in stead, carpeted in layers of discarded clothes and empty hangers like so many twigs and fallen autumn leaves on a forest floor.

"Have a seat at the desk," said Victria as she sat on the bed and removed her shoes, "Please complete those forms and sign."

Melody watched Victria get back on her feet and begin going about undressing. Averting her attention, she high stepped her way through the piles and bundles of clothes, stumbling over a hidden boot or two before finally reaching the desk chair. Melody then went immediately to task; filling out the forms to the best of her recollection. Presently, she sensed her new employers approach behind her. 

Do you; like to cook?" asked Victria.

Melody turned to see the business woman clad only in black lace bra and panties; her supple body and smooth taut skin creamily pale, the top of her dark brown hair glowing under a blade of sun cutting down from the sky light. Briefly dazed by the sight of the woman's bared flesh, Melody watched her lean down to pluck two articles of clothing from the floor at her feet. It seemed as if the woman knew exactly what she was looking for and where she'd left them, as if she depended on the chaos in order to remain organized.

"Uh, it's been a while," she answered, "But, I think I can get back into it." 

Over Victria's squatted body, Melody happened to look into the second of her two walk in closets. The bar, from which clothing was intended to be hung, she estimated to be eight feet long, was entirely bare. On the floor lay wide heaps and mounds of random varieties of shoes, boxes and lids. It was inconceivable to Melody. Even some desperate thief looking for some hidden treasure, turning the closet's contents asunder wouldn't leave such a mess in his wake.

"Good." Said Victria as she jumped into a surprisingly wrinkle free pair of gray slacks, "I would be delighted and honored to have a home cooked meal some night soon."

"Yeah well," Melody laughed a small laugh of irony as she returned her attention to her forms, "It still might be a long time coming, considering; what I see as to the extent of my obligation."

"What a nice way to say I live in a fucking seriously messy house."

Melody glanced up at Victria as she shook the wrinkles from a gray and brown strip patterned blouse.

"I wonder," she said; her eyes back on the page she was working on, "Will having this place all cleaned up and organized interfere with your dependence on chaos?"

"I don't depend on Chaos Melody." Victria intoned as she buttoned her blouse, "I'm just lazy when I'm not otherwise busy."

"What happened to your last help?"

Melody had almost completed filling out the contract before realizing that a silence had settled between them. Turning again to glance at Victria, Melody observed that she had her back turned as she fit herself into the blazer that matched her slacks. Victria's posture and lack of a spoken response added weight to the silence. Somewhat bothered by it, Melody thought to repeat her question, but thought again. She cursorily looked over the last clause of the document in stead before finally inscribing her signature on the bottom line and dating it.

"It didn't work out."

Melody turned to see that Victria was facing her again, trying to artfully arrange a scarf beneath her collar that didn't exactly match.

"What?" uttered Melody, "Oh; your last help you mean?"

"Yeah. She couldn't cook."

"She couldn't clean either aparrantly." Remarked Melody, "And speaking of things not working, that scarf has got to go too. Do you have a broach or some kind of string tie somewhere?"

She watched Victria stare about the room, scan the area around her feet, drop down, and then rise again, a handsome white gold broach shining in the palm of her hand. Melody, speechless, looked down at the spot where the woman had found the thing. Slack jawed, Melody peered back up at Victria to see an impish smile playing around her lips.

An hour later, having been given a change of clothes, towels and a fresh set of toiletries, Melody emerged from the shower; thoroughly washed, her arm pits and legs cleanly shaven and feeling quite revitalized. She watched herself in the guest bath's mirror as she blow dried her hair; not having been able to admire her long silky golden brown hair for over six months. A sudden flush of contentment colored her face, but soon faded as a memory suddenly burst its way into her now typically elusive sense of well being.

The color returned to her cheeks, though it was now the red of shame. Melody sadly looked away from her reflection as she shut off the hair drier, and then set it down beside the sink. She peered about the slightly soiled splendid bathroom as she switched her towel for the clothes Victria gave her. The jeans were a little snug, but the sweater was roomy and soft. Trying to sooth herself, Melody stroked the sweater's hem with her thumbs. 

She turned to face the mirror again, unable to avoid what felt reflexive when putting on new clothes, and stopped suddenly. Phantom images of fluttering hands and trampling feet seemed to blend in with the wall, the door and the towel hanging behind her. Faded echoes of shouting, crying seemed to come like insubstantial whispers in her ears; distant, directionless.

"Melody?" called Victria before rapping her knuckles twice on the other side of the door, "You okay?" 

"Yeah." Melody said over her shoulder.

"Well come on then. Chop chop! Time is money."

Melody opened the bathroom door to see Victria seated at the top of the stairs; holding a copy of the contract in one hand and eating an apple with the other. When Melody clicked the door shut behind her, Victria turned. Melody became aware that the woman had stopped mid chew before swallowing and clearing her throat.

"You look like you feel better." She remarked.

"I do." Melody agreed, "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it."

Victria extended the hand that held the contract. Melody took it.

"That's your copy. Everything seems fine with it. I'll have your account set up by tomorrow afternoon."

Victria got to her feet and took another bite of her apple. Then, speaking as she chewed, she said:

"You're a long way from home, it appears."

Melody only answered with a quick nod of her head as she looked over the contract a second time. It seemed to her that there was something about one of the subsections of the document she wanted to ask about, but it had escaped her. She let another moment pass before the weight of Victria's stare demanded that she look up. The woman had folded her arms, the half eaten apple held in her hand as she pensively stroked at the small space between her bottom lip and chin. It made Melody think of that morning, Victria's sheer confidence and the way she'd played big Hennessy.

"I started to make a to-do list for you." said Victria as she took another small bite of her apple, "But I didn't know where to start. And then I thought; let this be her first test. She'll either figure it out or she'll, well, walk right out the door and hitch a ride somewhere."

"I'll be starting in the kitchen." Said Melody, "The kitchen is the center of the home, the holiest place in the house."

Victria tilted her head at that. She seemed to want to ask something, but she took another bite of apple in stead. They eyed each other for a few seconds more before Victria turned to descend the stairs. Melody followed, two steps behind.

"I have to get back to the office." Announced Victria as she crossed the landing and stepped back toward the kitchen. 

Melody stopped at the foot of the stairs, and peered out through the closest of the living room windows. Victria returned seconds later, without her apple, and regarded Melody as she reached for the front door's knob.

"Feel free to eat whatever I might have that's still consumable." She invited, "There's plenty of apples and I think there might be some canned stuff in the basement. If you're still here when I get back, we can make a shopping trip."

Melody's brow furrowed at Victria's second allusion to her skipping out. 

"I'll make a list."

Again, Victria tilted her head before studying Melody for a few seconds. 

"Right." She said while pulling the door open, "Enjoy your afternoon."

Melody crossed her arms as she watched Victria disappear behind the door. The swoosh click of its weather stripping and the lock echoed briefly through the foyer. Then there was the silence that held a finality, as the closing of most doors have, that defied definition. It was the unknown Melody knew. She listened to the Lexus's door close, its engine roaring back to life, and then its wheels crunching gravel until it faded with the vehicle's distance. 

The silence grew louder then as she remained there at the foot of the stairs, staring at the door, pondering the unknown, realizing that Victria had not locked the bolt. Presently, Melody stepped to the door, wondering why it was so important for Victria to let her know she could leave at any time. Was it a dare, a test; like the to do list? Or was Victria, her kind, bold, stranger and benefactor, afraid to truly commit to having help again? Melody turned the knob and pulled the door open slightly, and then locked and bolted it shut.

Her time alone in the house had passed by quickly enough. First, Melody went about looking for Victria's cd collection, which she found in the bedroom's other walk in closet, shelved in two cardboard boxes. Having taken note of the counter top CD player in the kitchen, she thought some music might do her some good. She also thought that she might learn something about Victria by examining her musical taste. 

Melody discovered that it contained no country music, which was favorable. Beyond that, there was a dominance of 90's pop and R & B, which didn't suggest much to her because they were genres she could take or leave. But then, somewhere between the Phantom soundtrack and some 1980's compilations, Melody hit pay dirt: big band swing, at least eight disks worth.

Between having freshened up, filling her belly with almost half a bucket of chocolate fudge ice cream and bouncing her hips to the lively strains of the late 30's and early 40's, Melody turned Victria's nightmare kitchen into a spotless, gleaming, safely disinfected show place. Next, she tackled the sweeping and vacuuming of the remaining rooms on the first floor, and then cleaned the first and second floor guest baths. From there, she dusted and polished the living and dining room furniture, taking a short break in between to watch someone fat showing her audience how to cook something really fattening.

"Hey Cowboy?" Victria called as she entered the house.

Closing the door behind her, she looked quickly around and stopped in her tracks. Impressed, eyes wide, Victria took in the sights and smells of a clean house as she slowly advanced up the hall to the kitchen. Crossing the threshold, she scanned the great gleaming room. She was about to call out to Melody again, but she noticed the sound of music coming from somewhere.

"On the golf course, I'm under par." Sang Melody from the depths of Victria's walk in shoe closet; the CD player perched on the desk where she'd completed her application, "Metro Goldwyn has asked me to star. I've got a house, a show place. Still I can't get no place with you."

Melody looked up mid lyric, erupted with a start, and then quickly cupped her hands over her screaming mouth.

"I'm so sorry!" I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm fine! Just surprised, that's all."

"You sing really well. I'm going to have to revise your job description to include serenading me."

"Oh? Do I strike the chords in your Unitarian Lesbian heart?"

Victria tossed her briefcase to the bed, and leveled a stern look at Melody. Melody, struck silent but not averting her gaze, looked on as her new employer trod toward her, kicking a path through the blanket of clothes that still covered the floor. As Victria advanced, Melody scolded herself for poking fun at the woman in what she now decided was a sensitive area. Then, as Victria's brown flats crossed the closet's threshold and cleared a place for her to stand, Melody looked away. Victria admired her help's position; kneeling on her heels, hands on her lap, palms down on her thighs, her head down. The junior executive brought herself down before Melody, and rested on one knee.

"Maybe I do like to mix religion and pleasure." Whispered Victria; leaning her face down to Melody's left ear, "Maybe I can see people so clearly, through to their core, that I know things about them that they don't know about themselves."

Goose bumps suddenly crawled across Melody's arms and shoulders as she felt Victria's breath warming the tendrils of hair draped over her ear. 

"Did you read your copy of the contract?"

"No Ma'am." Melody respectfully intoned, "I just went straight to work. I mean, I read through it twice, while I was filling it in and-" 

"No Ma'am," Victria repeated, interrupting Melody; speaking her words through a smile yet still not uttering them above a whisper, "I just went straight to work. Your ethic and your respect, I knew you were something special when I found you. Girl, I advise you to re-read the fine print, later this evening sometime. For now, I will tell you this."

Another wave of goose flesh sent Melody's skin tingling as the weight and tone of Victria's words, the warmth of her body's closeness and the gentle scents of her gently sweat triggered passion fruit sandle wood perfume held her captive inside the moment; extending it in a way that was not altogether unpleasant in its magnetism. .

"Let's just say that I'm never a bottom."

Victria eased her head back then, and let her words hang there between them.

"The kitchen looks fantastic, but it doesn't appear you made dinner."

Melody finally looked up then, and peered directly into Victria's eyes.

"Oh my God," she said; her expressioned colored slightly with hints of panic and dismay, "What time is it?"

"It's around 6:30." Answered Victria as she got to her feet again.

Melody looked at the piles of shoes that still lay jumbled about her as she shrugged and raised her hands and gestured helplessly.

"It's okay." Said Victria, a small warm smile quickly crossing her lips, "We'll eat while we go grocery shopping. It'll be fun. Come on."

"Okay." Uttered Melody as she rose, "I want to get ingredients for this recipe I saw somebody make on TV. I mean there's absolutely nothing healthy about it, but it looked so good!"

"Oh my God, you seriously put those shoes on your feet?"

Melody shifted her gaze from Victria's suddenly not very amused face down to where she was looking: at the ruby red slippers she'd found an hour or so before.

"Yeah, I guess we have the same shoe size. I love that movie. I always wanted a pair."

"Take them off. Those were for Halloween like five years ago. You will not be wearing those in public with me."

"Okay, okay."

Melody hastily searched through the clutter of shoes about her feet and checked under the lids of a few of the boxes stacked behind her. Though only a few seconds had passed, she still hadn't stepped out of the gaudily glistening ruby sequenced shoes. Dithering, unsure as to what she might actually put on her feet, she looked up to see that Victria was scowling at her. . Realizing her displeasure, Melody finally slipped her bare feet from the shoes and kicked them aside.

"I mean; yes Ma'am. She said; her guarded regard shifting between Victria's expression and the pile of shoes at her feet.

Melody caught the woman raise an admiring brow at her bare feet, though it wasn't as if Victria was trying to hide it. Then, with the same speed and miraculous clairvoyance, the young junior executive scoped out each mate of a pair of black running shoes; the left just off to her right; the other, just a step forward, buried under a nest of sandles and stilettos. She tossed them to Melody, who was once again struck amusingly baffled by how masterfully her new employer managed disorganization.

The grocery store was a small operation; quaint, about as large as a pharmacy, but adequately disguised with a deli counter, fresh meat section and a prepared foods station. Melody was impressed, marveling at the variety of items organized on the place's shelves as she and Victria strolled along, dining on sandwiches of imported prosciutto, fresh mozzarella and slices of tomato blanketed in six inch lengths of fresh Vienna baguette. 

It was Victria who casually ate and pushed the cart along, while Melody scurried ahead from time to time, nibbling her dinner as she cheerfully gathered and picked items that excited her for one reason or another. Victria caught herself smiling a bit more than she thought she should. But Melody's enthusiastic forays away from the cart, the sight of her overladen cradle armfuls of packaged or bottled items while biting on her sandwich and the child like joy she radiated, made it very difficult to resist the feelings they inspired.

"When was the last time exactly you had access to decent food?" asked Victria as Melody carried her latest load to the cart, and then carefully arranged the items in the remaining spaces.

"Uhm," she hummed between bites of sandwich; tilting her head as she stared reflectively toward the lighting overhead, "There was a nice old couple somewhere outside of New Albany Mississipi that let me come in from the rain one night. Althenia, the wife made Gordon, her husband, and me a big tray of fresh fried chicken. Oh my God, it was so good."

Melody paused to swallow.

"She said, Althenia, that she had the worst time cooking for only two people, even after their kids were long gone away. That's what makes this country beautiful; beautiful people like Gordon and Althenia: work hard their whole lives so that their kids can have what they didn't, and then those same kids never come back home. They wanted me to stay, but I couldn't. I wanted to leave them what money I had, but they got mad when I begged them to take it. I left the next morning with the left overs. God; even cold and wet, they were awesome. After that, if I went into a supermarket, it was to buy the cheapest stuff that lasted the longest and didn't take much to open, like chips and candy."

"I'm surprised you've still got decent looking teeth in your mouth." Remarked Victria as she assessed the contents of their cart so far,"When's the last time you were seen by a doctor?"

"For what?" asked Melody; suddenly sullen and wary, "What kind of doctor?"

Noticing the change, Victria raised her gaze at Melody and searched her eyes.

"Any kind:" said Victria; clarifying, "Ddentist, general, gyno; you know."

"Oh." Melody Answered; looking away, "I guess it's been like; almost two years now. Why?"

"Two years? Well I'd say it's high time. I'd like to set up some appointments for you. I hope you don't mind."

Melody stepped away, and then distractedly resumed eating her sandwich.

"Sure; that's fine." She answered; her tone now flat and somewhat cool.

"Good." Said Victria, suddenly entertaining her own suspicion as she carried up the rear with the cart, gazing watchfully at Melody's good posture, swaying hips, attractive rolling bottom and easy gait.




The Brand Ch. 01



"You didn't happen to maybe leave any medications behind at the shelter, did you?"

Melody glanced quickly behind her. Victria caught the rapid eruption of anguished contempt that crossed the woman's face before she wagged a brief "no" and hurried around the next end cap. As to how many more nerves there were to touch, Victria couldn't tell. But, a series of doctor visits would help to clarify, as long as Melody made the appointments and answered honestly. As for any psychological evaluation, Victria would put that off. Since that seemed to be the touchy area, she'd give Melody the chance to unravel the painful truthes of her past on her own terms. 

Victria rounded the corner and saw Melody scanning the offerings in the yogurt section. She looked healthy enough; pink cheeks, clear complexion, decent teeth, good looking nails and lustrous hair, but what about the inside of her head or even her heart? Two years being homeless, trying to scrape up money or food or a safe place to sleep every night, couldn't have been that liberating or stress free. Victria thought of Melody's trash can bully and wondered how many other trials had come before her. The woman had yet to talk about the home she lived in before her homelessness began.

Time was what Victria knew she needed. She could give her that; time enough to work it out or time enough to collect enough money and experience to take off and keep her secrets safely hidden. Victria had seen it all before. Melody wasn't the first and she wouldn't be the last. The silence between them continued for a few more aisles. Then Melody, in the midst of transferring no fewer than ten cartons of ice cream into their cart, smiled hopefully at Victria's cool astonishment, and then flat out howled with laughter as the junior executive added another six boxes of chocolate éclairs to the already mountainous pile.

By the time they'd arrived at the rightmost of the two registers, Melody had returned to the level of contentment she'd walked in with. She happily transferred their items to the conveyer, and Victria couldn't help chuckling along with her as they watched their little old lady cashier reach under the register and pull out a pair of mittens. Then, just as Victria was about to tug a credit card from the inside pocket of her blazer, two black clad men, their faces obscured with women's black nylon stockings, burst into the store and ran to each of the cashiers.

"Don't nobody move." Demanded the taller one, the one that had their cashier; growling his directive through a Spanish accent, "Just open the registers and give us the money; nice and easy."

Victria glanced at his partner; shorter, darker skinned, black, maybe Dominican. She quickly took in his gun, and then glanced the one in the taller man's right hand; wondering if it was fake too.

"Do your mothers know you're robbing a supermarket?" asked Victria.

The shot rang out immediately then. Victria was surprised that she could still hear the ejected shell bouncing on the store's floor. She didn't flinch as she turned to see that Melody didn't appear to be behind her.

"Does your momma know you one dumb mother fuckin bitch!?! Shouted the big man with the real gun, which Victria turned back around to see was pointed at her, "Lay down bitch! All of you; lay down!"

But Victria didn't lay down. She wouldn't lay down. The man fired another shot above Victria's head. Again, she didn't flinch. She was aware though, of a soft keening on the floor behind her.

"You crazy fuckin bitch! Lay the fuck down, I said!"

Now she was getting angry.

"Fuck you." She said; her tone imperturbably patient.

Even through his pantyhose mask, she could tell that the man's eyes had gone wide, their whites a dirty yellow under the black weave of the stocking. In that instant, both registers were open, and each man threw their hostages to the floor, and then scooped up all the bills, flung the trays from the drawer and pulled out the other bills hidden there. Seconds later, they were gone. 

It was only then that a rage filled Victria's head; the sound like FM static, as she turned around to see that the fifteen or so other customers had begun to get back up on their feet. Near as she could tell, the two shots hadn't hit anyone. Drawing a deep breath, she ran behind the counter and checked the old woman. Her pulse was rapid, but not shallow, and there was a swelling bruise on the side of her head. The other cashier, older, but not as old as the other woman, had slowly stepped to the door, opened it, looked around outside and came back in. She then immediately went to the phone at the customer service desk. As Victria listened to the cashier describing what had transpired to 9 1 1, the store manager, a red head in his late forties, came to help tend to the little woman's wound. Victria got back to her feet, and went around the counter to check on Melody. She found her behind their cart, huddled prostrate on the floor, her arms wrapped around her head. Thankfully, she didn't see any blood; but she now recognized the source of the high keening sound she'd heard after the first shot was fired. It was Melody, crying pitifully, breathing snot sputtering breaths from her nose, a wide puddle of urine spread beneath her.

In the hour that followed, Melody was inconsolable. First, she refused to get up. Then, she refused to talk to the police. When she refused to leave with Victria, the seemingly too cool for her own good young lady went about paying for her purchases, bagged them, and then loaded them into the car; stating her concern that the ice cream would melt if she didn't get it home. So Victria drove them home, put the sixteen boxes of ice cream in the freezer, left the rest of the food on the counters, and then drove back to the store. 

She walked back into the market, and saw that Melody still hadn't moved. Two men stood on either side of her; a paramedic and a police officer. Victria gave her statement, and the officer disapproved of her brazen stupidity. Dismissing him, she excused herself, and then; with seeming effortlessness, hoisted a piss soaked, dead weight, glassy eyed Melody over her shoulder, and carried her out of the store. Once back at the house, Victria stepped to the passenger side of the Lexus, unbuckled a limp and dazed Melody from the seat, hoisted her back onto her shoulder, and then carried her into the house.

Victria knew, as she carefully laid Melody on the kitchen floor, that there were so many things she could tell her about taking risks, about failure and fear, and love, and death. But she didn't. As she went about putting away all the groceries, she understood why she'd egged the man on. They were masked, security cameras or not, they wouldn't be identified, but a spent shell could be connected to someone's gun, maybe the tall, yellow eyed man's gun. But, there was no point in Victria's wasting her breath, telling Melody that.

There was no point in dragging her up the stairs, stripping her and throwing her into the shower, as angry as Melody had made her. That wasn't the way to play it. Two nerves in one night, thought Victria, was apparently too much for Cowboy to handle. She gave Melody, prostrate, indolent and still glassy eyed , one last look before shutting off the kitchen light and heading up the stairs.

The doors and windows locked, the alarm set, Victria got into bed and picked up the copy of One Hundred Years Of Solitude she'd been trying to get through. Bored once again with its cleverly contrived absurdity, Victria set it aside for one of the installments of the Gor series. The reading kept her up for a few more hours. Then, as the words on page 214 blurred between her closing lashes, Victria marked her page, tossed the book aside and switched off her bedside lamp.

Listening to the silence of the house, she thought of Melody's staggering green eyes and the undefinable pain behind them. Presently, her heart calm, her mind settled by the knowledge that she challenged fate and would live another day, she drifted off into sleep.

Meanwhile, Melody, her head throbbing, her body aching from being in the same position for hours, stared unblinkingly across the kitchen's hardwood floor. Victria had left the hall light on, and Melody watched the polyurethaned strips of gleaming wood alter into the ripples of a calm moonlit sea. Then suddenly, with the effort of one who has struggled to stay awake night after night because slumber brought more pain than it did good, Melody made the effort to move before the inertia of sleep could draw her into the charnel maw of nightmare.

Slowly, she reached her hand across the floor before her, trusting the cool solid reality of the smooth wood. A safe recollection had risen to the surface of Melody's working memory. She had read a book on lucid dreaming once, and Night after night, over the summer between seventh and eighth grade, she'd tried to train her mind not to dream. But, her mind still constructed dreams for her, in spite of her efforts. She wanted life to reveal itself in its own due time. She wanted no premonition's, bad omens or waking up early in the morning feeling puzzled and essentially violated by a chain of images and dialogues she didn't choose for herself.

Even after she'd learned that the brain requires the dream state for the regulation of its own sanity, Melody felt betrayed by her mind, for its sheer disregard for her intentions and ruminations and resented it for its control over her. Then she'd read some Eastern philosophy, and it was reinforced for her that nearly all people were controlled by their minds, and that it took great discipline to take back control from it. So she lived life, and studied, and worked, and meditated until she no longer had dreams she could remember.

Yet, when she needed it, there had been no book detailing the methods of how to lucidly change nightmares back to innocuous dreams. And memories can suddenly lose their harmlessness just as reality can turn, in a split second, from a perfectly enjoyable, benign, string of experiences to such an explosive event that it radiates deafening echoes of itself

Until no dream is safe and nightmares are inevitable. 

Certain she was still awake; Melody shut her eyes tight and clenched her teeth, bracing herself against her corrupted memory. By the sheer force of will, Melody got up onto her hands and knees. She was cold now; the dampness of her piss saturated jeans chilling her skin. Slowly she crawled, feeling better about opening her eyes again, and focused her vision on the splashes of light in the wood flooring until she crossed the hallway and arrived at the foot of the stairs. Still on her knees, Melody limply crawled up each step, reaching her right hand up to support herself with the bannister. Once at the top of the stairs, she got to her feet and crossed into the guest bath.

Victria, normally a very sound sleeper, was roused by some subtle resonance. It seemed to be coming from the wall behind the headboard. Then the night's events came rushing back to the front of her mind. A moment more and she was totally awake. Victria lay there for a time, not moving, her eyes still closed. Presently, she turned on her lamp, crept out of bed, and then stumbled into the master bath. 

When she came out again, Victria saw Melody standing in her doorway, illuminated by the lamp's light, wearing the long pink night shirt she'd left on the coverlet of the guest room bed. She'd obviously showered, her hair looking damp, the fresh perfume of soap filling the room. Their eyes met, but Melody didn't keep her gaze for long. Victria studied her, reflected on her behavior during each event of the day, and came to a decision.

"If you've come in here to seek comfort in my bed," Victria announced in a soft measured tone, "Then you must kneel at my feet and beg me for the privilege." 

Melody glanced briefly at Victria, and then looked down at her own clasped hands. Eventually, as she raised her interlocked fingers and lowered her chin to them, Victria saw Melody's lips quiver and watched fresh tears welling in the corners of her eyes. An instant later, she watched Melody step forward, round the side of the bed, and then drop to her knees.

"Please Ma'am," uttered Melody as she began to sob anew, "May I sleep in your bed tonight?"

Victria savored the moment, the sight of her there; pathetic, lost, afraid and in despair. She found her perfectly beautiful; captivating in her sorrow.

"Yes girl," Victria answered finally, "You may find comfort in my bed. You may have the left side."

Melody quickly rose to her feet, slipped passed her tough yet benevolent hostess, and crawled under the covers. Victria made her way around the foot of the bed, crawled in onto her side, and switched off the lamp. She listened to Melody sniffle in the darkness, and turned to reach for her. There was no hesitation. Melody snuggled in close, cozying into the spoon of Victria's body. 

After a time, Victria leaned on one elbow and began to gently stroke Melody's hair. The act, intended to sooth, seemed to trigger a greater fit of crying. Melody blubbered and shuddered before finally turning around and burying her face against Victria's chest, warming the woman's breasts with her hot tears. They remained that way through the night and into the early morning; one embracing the other, Melody softly weeping as Victria held her close, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head, not a word spoken between them.



The Brand Ch. 02



 I just wanted to mention my thanks for the encouraging comments. I'm glad to have the support of interested readers.

*****

Victria smacked her alarm's snooze, and rolled over to find that Melody had already gotten up. The stretch of mattress was still warm, evidencing her recent departure, and Victria breathed in the lingering scent of her new help. Had she gone down to the kitchen to make breakfast to serve in bed? No; that was too presumptuous. Melody was too abruptly immersed into her new reality, and still too distressed by the events of the night before to assume that she'd do such a thing for her new employer. However, Victria was certain at least that there would be a breakfast of some kind.

The pleasantly sobering aroma of dark roast gradually came to overpower the fragrance in Melody's pillow. Victria eventually drew herself out of bed, and trudged to the master bath to wash her face. Still in her red and pink striped boxers and her late grandfather's "Kill Them All" t-shirt, Victria dazedly made her way downstairs. At the bottom of the steps, she could see into the kitchen. Melody, still in her pink night gown, was seated at the right end of the table, sipping from a mug, reading through what appeared to be her copy of their contract.

Melody met her new employer's gaze as she strode into the room. Victria thought she looked fairly fresh faced in spite of having been traumatized the evening before, and having cried most of the night afterward. She saw that her help had fetched the morning paper and, rather than spreading it apart to read for herself, set it along the opposite edge of the table.

"Are you feeling better this morning?" asked Victria as she padded around the opposite side of the table to the coffee maker.

Melody eyed her benefactor, keeping pace with her every step, her expression conveying a somewhat restrained astonishment. 

"I am." Melody answered; her tone soft and distant, "Thank you. How about you?"

Having a knack for processing harrowing experiences in an uncannily speedy and efficient manner, Victria gave a small shrug as she recalled the masked thieves in the town grocer's and the two shots one of them had fired over her head and left shoulder.

"I heard one of the other customers in the store say that you; you didn't even flinch."

"There's no point in flinching when you don't know when it's coming." Said Victria as she took a mug from the dish drain, "I figured that their being masked was going to make it harder for the police to catch them, so I decided that they ought to leave a shell casing or two behind."

A glassy look came into Melody's eyes as she watched Victria pour herself some coffee.

"By the way;" the bold young executive continued, "Did you step out to get the paper this morning in just your night shirt?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Bare foot?"

Melody paused, her eyes widening slightly and roving brief, dubious circles before fixing them back on Victria. 

"Yes." Melody sang; an uncertain smile coaxing her dimples out of hiding, "Why?"

Victria glanced at Melody as she leaned her hip against the counter and spooned sugar into her mug.

"No reason." She said; an irreproachable shine in her brown eyes, "I see you're looking over the contract?"

Melody didn't take her eyes off of Victria as she held down the bottom right edge of the document's last page with the finger tips of her right hand and then brushed its surface with the palm of her left.

"Yes. She answered; her astonishment now tempered with some degree of unease, "I thought I should take a second look, especially at the release of liability clause." 

"And?" intoned Victria as she took the opposite chair, set her coffee down and unfurled her paper.

She turned to the financial section and checked the stocks while keeping Melody in the corner of her eye. Victria was very familiar with the language of the liability clause. She had drafted it herself, though she'd received some assistance from one of the lawyers in her Business Women outreach group. She knew it by wrote; admiring its sophistication, its all-encompassing essence and its boldly elegant subterfuge. Although, given that Melody was smart enough to read between the lines, and given her acquiescence and obedient entreaty the night before, Victria gathered that her deception was surely exposed. 

"I, said Melody; reading aloud, "In consideration of my participation in the Charpentier Work Study Mentorship Program, hereby release Victria Charpentier, and any other people officially connected with this Work Study Mentorship program, from any and all liability for damage to or loss of personal property, sickness or injury from whatever source, legal entanglements, imprisonment, death, or loss of money, which might occur while participating in this program. Specifically, I release said persons from any liability or responsibility for my physical condition and or mental stability as they pertain to the extent of rigor inherent in said individuals' selection of instructional, vocational or behavioral habituation and for the presence or actions of any other participants."

Melody paused to glance at Victria. Victria suddenly reached her left hand to a nearby drawer, withdrew a pen, and then proceeded to circle three sets of numbers.

Melody drew a slow, deep breath when she'd finished. The sound seemed to imbue some palpability to the ensuing silence, like the echoes of a lover's sigh; a resonance that remains constant whether uttered during the first mouthfuls of seduction or while reaching the crest of a climax.

"Imprisonment?" Melody repeated; sitting up and raising her gaze to Victria, "Death?"

Rather than meet her gaze, Victria shrugged slightly as she continued to circle another series of numbers. 

"Those potentialities are in the liability clauses of most contracts," she dismissively intoned, "Corporate contracts; university sports programs, amateur stripper night. However, I must confess: my program can be very; arduous." 

"I see." Melody guardedly intoned, "And what do you mean by; behavioral habituation?"

"Oh, well; we can go through some right now." Victria Answered; sitting back and putting her pen down onto her paper, "Ask me if I'd like some breakfast."

Melody glanced away, her gaze slightly bewildered.

"Uh, can I get you some breakfast?" she asked, her gaze flitting, lashes fluttering like the darting flight of a finch.

"Yes you can. "said Victria, gazing with an undefinably mirthful smile in her eyes, "I would like some Eggs please?"

Melody sat motionless for a few more seconds before eventually rising from her seat. Her movements were simultaneously graceful and irregular, as if her body was moving ahead of her mind's direction.

"How would you like them?" she asked, turning her head yet not making visual contact as she crossed to the refrigerator.

"I would like you to prepare them naked. The eggs I'd like over easy. Do you think you can manage that?"

Just short of the refrigerator, Melody stopped. Seeming uncertain as to whether she'd heard her correctly, Melody turned a weary eye on Victria, who was eyeing her back; alertly indifferent. For a time, they remained that way, and then Melody broke the stare, gazing down at the floor before her diffident feet, her steps slow, nervous fingers scratching the back of her head as she reached the other hand to the refrigerator's door. Opening it, she nearly fumbled the egg carton to the floor before closing the door again.

Victria watched her pass behind the table, set the eggs by the stove, and then search about the lower cabinets for the rest of what she'd need. Presently, Melody found a bottle of vegetable oil and a frying pan. Then, turning to place the items on the counter and the stove, Melody was startled by Victria's sudden proximity and the pair of kitchen shears in her right hand. Her left hand, one silencing finger aloft, stood firm between them.

Melody's anxious gaze went down to the heavy frying pan on the stove; her fingers still wrapped around its handle. Her eyes stared wetly at its Burnished steel elliptical edge as she felt Victria tug at the section of night gown four inches below her breasts. Melody sighed, and then looked away from the pan as she let go of its handle and dropped her hand to her side.

She then met Victria's stare as she made her first cuts, the cool depth of her brown eyes moving from Melody's gaze and the points of the scissors. With gentle, careful effort, Victria cut the night gown open, up to the collar, and then used the shears to expose Melody's left and then her right shoulder. Victria held her help's gaze for a moment; delighting in the infuriated beauty in their limpid green depth. She gave Melody a chance to remove the night shirt herself, but Victria soon realized that it wasn't going to happen. 

So, as their eyes remained locked, she set the shears aside, and then ripped the gown open to the hem. Victria's effort wasn't hurried, though she saw Melody's fingers linger on the frying pans handle and the sharp scissors were quite within the maddened woman's reach. Unconcerned, the junior executive took her time to admired Melody's lovely feet, strong lean legs, smooth thighs and unruly dark brown pubus. Eventually, Victria rose back to her full height, stepped around her hire, and then tugged the ripped night shirt's sleeves down the length of her arms. 

Melody was still motionless as the ruined garment fell to the floor. Victria heaved a prolonged sigh as she took in the extraordinary beauty of Melody's shapely buttocks and the inspiring clef that divided them. For Victria, a sweet ass wasn't just a secondary component to the visual aesthetic checklist or some ancillary bodily point of passing interest. It was the snazzy hot rod to take for a joyride, a mouthwatering delicacy to savor the musky juices of, and a mistress's ultimate means toward the end of her slave's opposition.

"It's okay Cowboy." Said Victria over Melody's shoulder, trying to reassure her, "You may continue."

Melody was still motionless as Victria used the toes of her right foot to pull the ripped night gown away. As Victria kicked the pink garment around Melody's bare heels, she could hear the frustration and anger in her breathing. She was pushing, sooner than she'd anticipated because everything, events Victria could never have predicted, had fallen into place; revealing to her the naked flesh of coincidence. Securing the kitchen shears once more and dumping the pink gown into the trash, Victria recalled the first sign of Melody's submissive inclination; her kowtowing to the big black woman, then the utter terror she'd exhibited during the robbery and the swiftness with which she'd first knelt before her; pleading for the chance to be comforted in her bed. 

What sort and how many nightmares, Victria wondered, would have forced her to wake if Melody had slept alone the night before? And yet, there was Melody's obvious revulsion to being asked if she abused drugs, being told to kneel and instructed to remove her clothes. Victria liked knowing that there was at least some fight in Melody; some resistance in her she could exploit if the training went too easily. She was seeking a happy medium. The wonder in Melody's eyes, like a rock star groupie, was a pleasant thing to behold. But, total and complete submission, initially anyway, might only serve to turn Victria off. Ultimately, the humiliation game is all the sexier when the slave you humiliate fights it enough that she responds well to being put back in her place, even if her mistress has to beat her a bit to get her there.

"Make sure you make enough for yourself." Victria instructed as she returned the shears to the drawer from which she'd quietly removed them, and then went back to her seat, "I want you to eat with me."

Melody said nothing nor had she even given a nod of her head.

"You didn't acknowledge me just then Melody. I expect you to acknowledge me each and every time I address you. Is that understood?"

"Yes Ma'am." Melody said flatly; cracking two eggs in one hand and pouring their contents into the hot pan, "Will I also be having my eggs over easy Ma'am?"

"That won't be necessary. Prepare yours as you like."

"Yes Ma'am."

Victria set the paper down to devote her complete attention to Melody. Her hire limited her gaze to the task at hand, salting and peppering her employer's eggs, her expression vacillating between incredulity, apprehension, calculation, reflection and sorrow. Still studying her girl, Victria took up the pen and began to slide her fingers along its length, turning it end over end, again and again. She hoped the woman wasn't going to indulge in another crying fit, at least not yet. Ultimately, Melody regarded her employer with a look of pained defiance as she carried the emptied egg shells to the trash and dumped them. Victria checked the stove's clock before riveting her eyes back onto her girl. 

Her naked skin, brightened with a lovely shade of shame, had the rough textured appearance of goose flesh. Victria took in the subtle curves of her ass, her lovely legs and the ugly red scar running horizontally four or so inches down from her right hip. What's this, thought Victria; her brow furrowing. Melody stepped to the refrigerator, fetched a gallon of milk, and then briefly glanced toward the front door as if contemplating the chance of running out. Turning, she met Victria's stare with the same venom she'd briefly trained on her the day before, when she'd asked her to show the insides of her elbows and ankles. Victria had to contain her smile as she watched Melody cross back to the stove, noting the smooth dual sway of her delicately conical C sized breasts and their candy morsel nipples.

A moment later, Victria gathered her paper and pushed it toward the center of the table as Melody brought her a dish of eggs and buttered toast. The eggs were fine, very tasty actually; not too runny or well done along the edges. It would be nice to have regular home cooked meals again. Glancing at her stark-naked personal chef scrambling another pair of eggs, Victria wondered how extensive Melody's culinary repertoire actually was. How divine the providence, she mused, how fortunate the accidents that led this one to me.

Upon Melody's plating of her eggs and toast, Victria quickly got to her feet and met her hire at the other side of the table. She was not as startled as she'd been the first time Victria had advanced to her that morning, but Melody was just as taken aback when her employer took her plate from her and returned to her side of the table. Then, saying nothing, though her eyes shown with the confidence of one who was never given no as an answer, Victria pointed her chin at the space of floor beside her chair. Fuming, Melody looked toward a variety of directions until she settled her gaze on the gallon of milk she'd left by the stove.

"Don't worry about the milk." Victria intoned, "Take your breakfast on the floor beside me."

As her cheeks and chest reddened, Melody regarded the gleaming fork in her hand.

"I; I would like a glass of milk; Ma'am." Melody requested her voice tremulous.

And I'll bet you'd like to stab me with that fork too.

"Then by all means girl; get yourself a glass of milk."

Under Victria's watchful eye, Melody went about meeting her own request. Then, with glass in hand, the woman stepped around the table, lowered herself to her knees, and then rested on her heels as she set the milk down beside her. Victria extended Melody's plate to her. She obediently took it, held the plate up before her breasts, and then began to eat. As Victria made short work of her breakfast, she saw that Melody was taking small, indolent bites, as if there was an increasingly bad taste in her mouth.

"Eat up." Victria advised, "You'll need your strength. You still have the rest of the house to get through. Oh, but stay out of the basement for now. These eggs were wonderful. Thank you for making them."

"They're just eggs Ma'am." Melody remarked, her tone bitter and haggard.

"You could be a nuclear scientist and still fuck up an egg. Number one: never put down anything you do, even if it's easy."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Tell me about the scar."

Victria noticed a flashing fearful glance shot in her direction. In the same instant, Melody swallowed her last bite of food with some difficulty. Coughing, she cleared her throat, and then took a long draft of milk. 

"There's nothing to tell Ma'am." She answered, setting her milk back down, "I got burned. I was dumb and little. We were having a big family picnic on the beach and we had a big bomb fire going. I wasn't paying attention and I was too cold from running back from the water that I didn't realize that I had backed up against this glowing stick of wood, and there you have it."

Victria leaned back in her chair, and gazed with warmth tempered incredulity.

"Really." She remarked, using her fork to herd the remaining bits and crumbs of her breakfast toward the center of her plate.

"Yep." Said Melody; nodding and looking away, "It could have been much worse. I was lucky."

"You were lucky."

Victria knew it was a lie, but chose not to challenge Melody about it. Instead, she waited her out, giving her the opportunity to say more. But, Melody never did. She only managed to finish her meal, and then waited for permission to rise. She doesn't want to talk about it, thought the young executive as she glanced at the stove's clock for a second time. Then I suppose I'll challenge her another way. 

"When I'm finished with you this morning, you may clear the table and wash the dishes." Victria instructed, "For now, I want you to set your dish and glass on the table, and then go and get the box of wipes and the tube of lube I keep under the vanity in the downstairs bath."

Wide eyed, Melody leveled her gaze at Victria. Then, shaking her head, as if to rid it of some creeping, vile insect thought from inside her ears, she said:

"Why?"

It was the wrong thing to say. She should have known. But, she hadn't, and so Victria exploited Melody's error for her own good.

In a series of rapid actions, Melody realized the flying and crashing of her dish and glass, the seizing and jerking about of her body and then its seemingly effortless dragging through the kitchen and out into the hall. Through a whirl of colors and flashes of light, she felt herself drop to the tiled floor of the bathroom off the kitchen. Stunned, she watched helplessly as Victria hunkered before the vanity and withdrew a tub of wipes and a small pink tube.

Then Victria swiveled in her direction, and flopped her over with the frightening ease of a wild animal. Melody felt her legs being parted and straddled. A silence ensued, though it was punctuated with Melody's quick whimpering breaths. Then she felt the gentle application of a wipe along the inner walls of her ass and around her anus, which was followed by the feeling of something being lathered just inside the breach of her sphincter. Melody stopped whimpering suddenly as she felt a sudden pressure filling her ass. It too, like the application of the wipe and the cream was gentle. She assumed it to be Victria's long index finger; safe enough, though the feeling of it deepening and probing her rectum held some portence. Thinking it was wise, Melody relaxed her lower body and hoped for the best, or at least the not too bad. Ultimately, the pressure inside her ass steadily increased over half a moment, and she felt particularly full in there for a short while, until the pressure was gradually diminished.  

"You do what I tell you without question. " Victria scolded; uttering the words in even, husky breaths, "Do you understand girl?"

"Yes Ma'am." Melody sniveled; unable to turn her head to face the woman, "I'm sorry Ma'am."




The Brand Ch. 02



"Alright then. Now get up and wash your ass off my finger."

Victria carefully withdrew the first and last of her fingers from inside her help's ass, and then rose to her feet. With guarded effort, Melody also made her way to standing, and then joined Victria at the sink; her glistening finger pointing toward the stop. Her heart pounding in her chest, her breathing rapid, Melody set the tap to a decently hot temperature, and then took Victria's soiled finger. Glancing into the mirror above the sink, she saw that they were both flushed red in their faces and necks. She tried not to look directly in Victria's smoldering eyes, though something in her was making it hard not to. After all, the road had been hard, the prospect of regular work certainly had its appeal, and then there was the phenomenon that was Victria herself: bold, powerful, utterly fearless and paradoxically tender; enough anyway. But the enforced nudity, the power play and the obvious sadomasochistic kink: how much could she, would she; bear?

Presently, having washed her mistress's finger clean, Melody reached for the towel and dried their hands. With that, her eyes still averted, Victria escorted her back into the kitchen. Melody caught herself still sniffling, and quickly stopped. They stood at the outer radius of the scattered shards of Melody's plate and glass, and she felt Victria's hard stare and her soft breathing against her right cheek.

"You will take care of this mess." Victria intoned; her words landing softly against Melody's ear, "You will remain naked for the rest of the day, and then you will not dress until I say so. You will finish organizing my shoes and my clothes. I expect a proper dinner when I return this evening and tomorrow morning I will be observing that you fetch my paper without a stitch on you. Do I have to repeat any of that?"

Silence grew between them once again. Victria waited patiently as Melody stuttered; pieces of words sputtering and dying in her throat, until she said:

"I was free where I was."

Victria watched Melody tense; bracing herself from whatever she thought would be coming. Oh you are too funny Cowboy, she thought. I know you're not that stupid, so... You're venturing to test me; is that it? 

"Free; really? Whispered Victria, "Living on bottle return refund junk food? You are free Melody; free to leave at anytime. If you're still here, then I expect you to follow through with the directives I just related to you. Now just for that-" 

Victria steered Melody toward the space of counter by the sink. Pausing by one of the drawers along the way, she sifted through the utensils inside, found what she was looking for, and then pushed the drawer closed.

"Lean over the counter." Commanded Victria.

Melody did as instructed, and then looked over her shoulder to see Victria washing what appeared to be a long, bulbous tipped solid glass pestle. As if by its own will, Melody felt her rectum clench. She looked away as Victria stepped behind her. With resolute feet, she kicked Melody's ankles further apart, and then moved in close. Melody shut her eyes tight in preparation. Again, she tried to relax as she felt the initial sensation of coolness breach her anus. Then she felt as if the glass dildo was being twisted while driven deeper. Melody suddenly felt such pressure that she tried to clench her teeth tight, but she couldn't, not, for some reason, without being able to clench her rectum as well. Presently, she felt some sudden new source of sensation, as if something had popped inside her ass. That didn't hurt; really, she thought. Shouldn't it hurt, at least a little more? 

Melody turned to see Victria, her face a picture of perfect concentration. With that, Melody realized another feeling, its source still interior, but frontal. Am I? Is that? I think... Next Melody, Victria had reached a free hand to ply open her pussy, and then start a rhythm of circles round her quickly swelling clitoris. It wasn't much longer before Melody had deduced, as her face began to relax and her pussy began to drip, that Victria was rubbing her clitoris against the flat tapered end of the pestle. She felt the woman's chest against her back and her quickening breaths against her shoulder. Melody's flight into orgasm was fairly quick, not having had a decent one for over a year. She believed that there were just some things you couldn't or shouldn't get away with doing in homeless shelters. But in that moment, her ass filled with a rock solid cock of glass and her equally hard clit shooting jets of girl cream into Victria's fingers, Melody let herself go; whimpering and moaning with rapturous delight.  

Later, in her corner office in the firm's executive suite, Victria reflected fondly on the memory of having come against Melody's scrumptiously round ass. It had been a good long time since she'd last indulged in such sweet domination. Victria took her personal tablet out from her bag, and unlocked it. Thinking of having left Melody to remove the big glass pestle herself and just walking away was the best close she could have put on that session. Now with her tablet, Victria went to her home security app to see what her slave was up to. Camera 1 was in the kitchen. Not there. She checked camera 2, 3 and 4; living room, dining room, and master bedroom, and there was still no sign of her. 

Had she left? No. Why would she do that, and so soon after coming as hard as she had? Victria wondered if Melody's orgasm was as intense as it seemed in part because of the big glass dildo in her ass or in spite of it. She checked camera 5, the basement; though she'd instructed her not to venture in there. No; still nothing. Maybe she went back to sleep in the guest bedroom or maybe she was taking a shower. She had demanded, after all, that Melody trim her bush. Then Victria saw her live-in help, just entering the master bedroom, still naked, her head bound up in a towel, her dark brown pubic hair trimmed up in a neat strip. Good girl.

"Victria?"

She instantly looked up to see Simon Dobbs standing in her open doorway.

"Simon." She answered, flipping her tablet's cover shut and tucking it back into her bag, "What's up?"

"The Foster's Market account," said Simon, dressed in his every Friday steel gray suit with the ridiculous chrome tie, "We've decided to put that on your plate."

As if there was room asshole. Victria expected as much from Simon, and Dick, and Bruce, and James, the quartet she'd convinced to sing the Victria pitch to Colman Cheevers, the company's CEO. Sure we'll get you into the suite. We know you can handle the work. You're just the right sort of person for the position, but don't think for a minute that we're going to make your work life easy woman. You've got to prove yourself because even the smallest of our cocks are still bigger than yours.

"I'll take care of it Simon." She replied; a cold fire burning in her chest, "Anything for the team."

"Great to hear Victria." Said Simon as he advanced into the room, "So what are you up to this weekend?"

"I haven't thought about it. I don't know. I might just hit the course or go to the range; get some practice in with my .45."

"Nice!" said Simon; seeming amused, "You shoot?"

"I do." Lied Victria.

"Really? How long have you had your permit?"

"Seven years now."

"Seven years. How many guns; do you have?"

"Oh you know how it is Simon: if you can count how many guns you have, you don't have enough."

Simon was struck silent, raising one brow slightly. Victria smiled faked warmth in return.

"Right." Simon said, "Anyway, I wouldn't tell anyone else in the office that you shoot."

Yeah right dick weed. Like you're not going to blab it all over the place. Anyone that meant anything in the firm knew Victria had just renewed her pistol permit, but they didn't know that she had yet to actually buy a fire arm of her own . Getting the permit was a good thing to do for a variety of reasons, but primarily because she liked to know things she wasn't expected to know and it helped kick up the power impression factor, which seemed to be working that very moment with Simon.

"Duely noted Mr. Cobbs." Said Victria as she turned to look over the latest messages in her in-box displayed on her desktop monitor.

"So thanks for taking Foster's on." Intone Simon, as he backed toward the door.

"Not a problem Simon. Enjoy your weekend."

Victria was already digging her hand back into her bag as Simon stepped out into the suite proper. Flipping her tablet back open, she unlocked the screen and saw that Melody was working on uncovering the bedroom floor. She'd already cleared out a small corner of the room by the bed, and was now working her way around. Victria watched as she reached down and plucked a plum satin cocktail dress from atop a high pile of clothes. Melody shook it out, held it before her to admire its quality and design, and then smoothed it down across her chest as she turned to face herself in the bureau's mirror. Oh don't you even think about it missy. The rule is naked all day; remember? 

Transfixed, Victria stared as Melody slipped her body into the dress, and then removed the towel from her head. Tossing the towel to the bed, she began to slowly swivel her hips and admire how nicely the dress fit her. Victria admired her too, certain that she was quite beautiful in it, but just as certain that Melody would catch Hell for having put it on. Victria had meant to tell her help about the cameras, but she'd somehow forgotten. So; there would be a price to pay, and Victria was already looking forward to facilitating the consequences to Melody's actions.

Setting her tablet on her lap, Victria reached her right hand back into her work bag and withdrew a black enameled strong box. Setting that too upon her lap, just in front of the tablet, she then retrieved her keys from her inside blazer pocket. Glancing at Melody now trying on her charcoal dress suit, Victria singled out a small key from the ring, and then unlocked the strong box. Lifting the lid, Victria revealed a set of four stuffed rag dolls, each garbed in his own business suit. There was Dick Rancourt, Bruce Duffy, James Ricchio and Simple Simon Dobbs. The Simon doll, of course, was wearing his customary Friday, kick off the weekend, chrome tie. Ricchio was stuffed a little more than the others in his tan suit. Duffy was in blue and Rancourt was the doll in black. 

Victria lifted the Dobbs doll from the box, and then withdrew a pin from a little red foam stuffed cushion in the bottom of the box. Glancing quickly through her open door, Victria slowly drove the pin deep inside Simon's head. She'd never actually researched Voodoo. All she knew were the occasional references on television or in film. But she liked the idea, and wanted to find out if it actually worked. She reviewed the pins she'd left in the other dolls; Rancourt's chest, Ricchio's crotch and Duffy's stomach, and then locked them all back up in their box. Returning the box to her work bag, Victria fixed her attention back on her lovely, disobedient slave and proceeded to muse over exactly how she'd punish her later that night.

It was around two o'clock when Melody finally finished returning all of her mistress's clothes to hangers in the closet or tossing the most soiled and rumpled into the laundry hamper. She'd debated remaining in the last outfit she'd tried on for a bit longer, but didn't want to push her luck in case there were camera systems set up where she couldn't see them. So Melody returned to the shoe closet. But, before she got back to organizing the mess there, she located the ruby red slippers Victria had gifted to her, and then slipped back into them. Otherwise, she was totally bare, squeaky clean and neatly pubic trimmed.

Melody rested her hands on her hips, and then blew a halfheartedly exasperated breath as she surveyed the heaps and piles of shoes at her ruby slippered feet. It was good for her and Victria both that she enjoyed cleaning and organizing chaotic messes because she was certain the busy executive would always leave a mess in her wake. Melody found it soothing to clean and tidy up. It had always served to distract her into positive or even simply empty thought. It even allowed for some spiritual replenishment, but not enough of course; it would never be enough.

Presently, Melody got down to business. She started by taking the shoes she'd boxed the day before and hoisted them to the shelves that were waist high. Next, she proceeded to part the sea of footwear; dividing heels from flats and winter shoes from sports shoes. Gradually, she lost herself in the pairing two by two rhythm of organizing. Her mind conjured lingering thoughts of her mistress and rapid fire reflections of the experiences they'd shared so far. . 

Melody paused, felt the weight of a sudden stupefaction pull her down to the floor, and then let drop the shoe she'd been holding. She'd become dazed, lost in her thoughts. She tried to wrap her mind around the astounding inconceivability of the last twenty-four hours, and couldn't. She'd succumbed to the undeniable, unfathomable truth of it all. Melody was rational enough to know that her relationship with Victria was evolving much, much too rapidly. Considering her behavior, and Victria's own audacity, Melody thought of them both as obviously insane; two perfectly crazy women, freely captive in the psych ward of their lives.

I am free to go at any time, Melody recalled Victria saying. Bull shit. Unlike you, I can't just twist my arms and legs temporarily out of their sockets and wriggle away from my straight jacket. Beautiful, wily, heroic, kindhearted, cold and nervy as all get out; where do women like you come from anyway!?! Melody was absently picking at the ridges of ruby sequins along the heel of her right slipper as her nipples and clitoris tingled with the thought of Victria's powerful fingers pushing her glass cock into her ass and rubbing her to orgasm. Who am I kidding, she thought. There can't be anyone else like you.

Melody was no stranger to the explosive, emulsive effects desire's wrath had on the mind and heart. That was why, in part, Victria's humiliating her, was acceptable, especially after she'd so generously held her close and gave her sweet kiss after kiss on her hot, aching, dread muddled, sobbing head. The power play, being stripped naked and subsequent orgasm, whether Victria had been aware of it or not, played on Melody's deeply seeded, buried, desire to have it, and so was inevitable. Victria had charged her; either unknowingly or on purpose, through practiced skill, and brought Melody to a place she hadn't been for a good long time. 

Melody shook her head, and snapped herself out of her stupor. Her last thought was of Victria, dressed in an artist's smock, poised at a canvas and in the act of brushing fine strokes while she herself was the model; reclined naked on a chaise, legs partly open, head turned in profile toward an open window beyond her. And though she could not see the actual painting, Melody knew that the image included Victria as the painter; painting the scene of herself painting the scene of herself painting the scene in perpetuity. As she got back to work, Melody began to wonder if Victria had actually orchestrated the robbery. Powerful people could make happen what they wanted, couldn't they? Coincidences that crazy didn't really happen, did they? 

Sure they did, thought Melody. Of course they did. They happened all the time. So, Melody resigned herself, no; committed herself this time, to the conviction that the world creates all of who you are, and will suck the life right back out of you if you resist. The robbery, time suspended, shots fired, Victria there because of Melody and Melody there because of Victria; the world got the outcome it wanted. It's decided then. Since the world is such a strange and dangerous place, Melody surmised, and then I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

Melody was in the kitchen by the time Victria let herself into the house. She was at the sink, washing up the last of the pans she'd used to cook up apricot glazed chicken breasts, butternut squash bisque and Spanish rice. She could feel Victria's eyes noticing the bun she'd bound her hair back in, then roving them down her naked back, buttocks and legs. Melody was setting items in the dish drain as Victria advanced toward the artfully set table. She's quiet, thought Melody, still not turning. Why isn't she saying it's beautiful? Oh, maybe she's waiting to find out how the food tastes first. Just as Melody thought to turn, Victria was suddenly beside her at the sink, washing her hands.

"Good evening Ma'am." Said Melody as she tucked the last rinsed utensil against the rest of the drying cookery, "How was your day Mistress?"

Victria took the dish towel and studied Melody as she dried her hands. Melody's eyes shyly fluttered under the woman's stare.

"The day was fine." Answered Victria, "Yours?"

", I've finished everything I'd set out to complete for today." Melody said with an emerging smile, "At this rate, I believe I'll be able to start that online marketing course work ahead of schedule."

Victria said nothing as she removed her blazer and draped it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Not knowing her well enough at all, Melody wasn't sure if she was starting a new game, lying about how her day actually went or whether she was still upset with her from that morning. She watched Victria move around the table and start to get into her chair, but then saw that she'd doubled back to her jacket. Melody obediently stood by, glancing as Victria pulled out a few bills from the blazer , and then briskly tuck them into her right front pants pocket.

They ate in silence for a time; Victria seeming satisfied enough with the meal as she read through the rest of that morning's paper, while Melody took her meal on the floor beside her. Baring the weight of the silence, Melody was reminded of how many quiet, picturesque lanes she'd walked on her way to that very moment. Then she followed the trail of remembered images of walking mile after mile in the trusty, already beat to Hell hiking boots she'd started her journey with, all those months ago. It made her think about how many shoe stores Victria raided over that time in order to fill her closet the way she had.

"You're thinking of something amusing." Remarked Victria; having noticed the smile on Melody's face.

Melody shrugged and nodded as she drove her fork through her rice.

"With all due respect Ma'am;" she said, "You have a lot of shoes."

"Well no shit Cowboy. I have a lot of clothes to match them to. Is that what's funny to you, my; luxury and abundance?"

"No Ma'am. It's the irony that's funny to me." Melody explained after swallowing another morsel of chicken, "The shoes themselves are a personal symbol for me. I had to decide what I was going to wear on my feet when I walked away from were I started, and I chose this sun bleached water proofed pair of Summits I got when I was eighteen. It was in those that I turned my back to my past and started walking."

"From Greeley." Said Victria; reminding herself of the town in Colorado Melody had indicated on the application.

"Yep." Said her hire, "Greeley.

Melody related bits and pieces of a tale about how she'd left everything behind; out west, where the land was high, flat and wide, where you'd think you could see anything coming from every angle. But, you never did, not really. Events were just as unforeseeable then as they were now. So Melody walked across the country, avoiding getting picked up, keeping her pocket knife and mace right at her side, hoping that her big bad boots would take her safely away.

"There was this first real nice lady," Melody went on, "Older, handsome in this blue gingham dress she had on; working in the town library. I remember she wanted me to take some books with me; because you know I had plenty of time to read at rest stops and such, I guess was what she was thinking. Anyway, I got washed up at her place, and I stayed over one night. And then I stayed over another night, and then I stayed with her another night after that; until her husband came home. He was a trucker, and he wasn't supposed to be due back, but I guess he'd made good time, and there he was."




The Brand Ch. 02



"Was this before or after Mississippi?" asked Victria.

Melody looked up suddenly to peer into the woman's eyes, and seemed both strangely surprised and alienated by the fact that she had been paying attention.

"Before; New Mexico. She continued, "I had to hide in the attic, until after they'd gone off to sleep. So I quietly gathered up my stuff, and I guess I was a little mad about his showing up and her having a man and all, so I left my big boots there, for them to find, and I took this really nice pair of these black trainers she had; and I headed off into the cold night."

"Did she ask about your scar?"

A sudden fury deepened the shade of green in her eyes just before Melody nodded.

"And what did you tell her?"

"The same thing I told you; Ma'am." Melody answered flatly; her eyes blazing at her employer, her benefactor, her savior, her dome.

Victria studied her a moment more before swallowing her last bite of food and setting her fork down. Presently, she rose from her seat, withdrew to the dining room, and then returned with a bottle of Canadian whiskey. Victria made two drinks and set one of them on the corner of the kitchen table. Before leaving again, she instructed Melody to join her upstairs after she cleared the table and cleaned the dishes.

"Yes Ma'am" answered Melody; not without a lingering contempt in her tone, "but what about dessert? I made that brownie chunk cookie dough butterscotch toffee crumble thing I told you about yesterday."

"I'll have dessert later, thank you." Victria answered from the bottom of the stairs, "And if you're a good girl, you can have some too."

Melody eyed the drink Victria had left behind. It was a gesture, an invitation. She didn't take a sip, not until the table was otherwise cleared and the dishes washed. Melody took her first drink of the iced amber liquid as she went about returning the dried dishes, pans and silverware to their places. Ten minutes later, her drink nearly finished, Melody grabbed the whiskey bottle Victria had left on the counter, and then made her way upstairs.

Entering the master bedroom, she saw that Victria had changed into a paint spattered red T-shirt and a pair of faded, equally paint spattered, jean shorts. She turned to see Melody's approach and the bottle extended to her. With no clear sign of displeasure, Victria took the bottle and went to the emptied glass she'd left on her desk.

"You may kneel."

"Yes Ma'am." Melody agreed; resisting the urge to challenge the woman.

She knew that it would go much easier if she just continued to oblige Victria. She'd be a fool to just walk away from the opportunity of a free education and a decent paying full-time job with benefits, especially after she'd walked far enough away from what she'd left behind. Here, is where I'll stand my ground, no matter what this woman puts me through. Victria got to her feet, took Melody's empty glass and filled it. It might be alright, us using each other for a while.

"Tell me; Melody," asked Victria as she handed the glass back and pulled up her desk chair, "Do your instincts say to trust me?"

Melody took a drink as she regarded her hostess, and winced from the pure whiskey's bite. Briefly, she looked away before settling her eyes on Victria's for a time. We're strangers, she thought; on the surface, books and their covers, everyone's a mystery, anonymous souls in the asylum.

"Yes Ma'am." Melody answered finally.

"Why?" asked Victria; downing half of her glass.

Again, Melody glanced away and took another very small sip of her drink.

"Because I believe that when two strangers click, they make one clean slate together." She explained, "I'm a clean slate because I stopped living my last life so that I could assume another."

"Really now?" Victria laughed, "Then you're not a clean slate. You're more like one of those etch-A-Sketches; your guts full of old shaken away designs, all still in there, hoping that no one else ever re-draws any of those buried impressions of you,and waiting for someone new to come along and help make you an image that suits you."

Stunned, Melody stared at her benefactor. Victria took another drink, and then looked around her perfectly tidy, organized bedroom before training her gaze back on her girl.

"So." Said Victria.

"So." Repeated Melody.

They gazed at each other for a time; their eyes riveted, firery emerald green and warm yet nebulous brown. 

"Give me your drink," commanded Victria; extending her hand, "Then get on your hands and knees and face your ass toward me."

"Yes Ma'am."

Once Melody had assumed the position, she felt the gentle sensations of Victria's fingers caressing her smooth buttocks and then venturing against her puckered anus.

"What can I expect will be inserted into my ass this evening Mistress?"

"Oh so I'm your mistress now."

"Yes Ma'am. I mean; yes Mistress."

Victria hummed with satisfied laughter.

"No Slave." She answered while carefully setting Melody's drink on the straightest plane atop her ass, "I won't be putting anything in there tonight. See to it that you don't spill your drink, will you?"

"Yes Ma'am." Melody answered uneasily.

"Tell me though; Outside of a doctor's digits, have you ever had anything pushed in here before this morning?" asked Victria; still gently playing with her slave's tight pink ass hole.

"Uh, just my fingers Mistress, and- And a brush handle; once."

"So you don't have any reservations about the prospect of a strap-on?"

"No Mistress. I know you will fuck me right with it."

Victria raised an eye brow.

"I will in deed fuck you right slave." She said, "And, for the sake of further clarity; what personal limits do you wish me to observe?"

"Well," answered Melody; suddenly very thirsty, remaining perfectly still so as not to topple her drink from her ass, "No blood, no surprise balloon popping and no kiddy fetish stuff. Mistress"

"Does that mean no diapers?"

"Diapers? Hmm. Sure, I'll wear diapers."

"Piss play?"

"I'll try it, but I don't think I'll be hot lunching."

"Fine then. How about fire play?"

"Fire play. That actually sounds; sexy."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I mean; yes Mistress."

Melody then felt the glass removed from its perch, though she did not rise until instructed to. Seconds later, commanded to stand, Melody rose to her feet and accepted her drink. As she took two small sips, Victria's slave watched as her dome dragged the cold, wet side of her glass across her left nipple. Melody did her best to remain still and keep her excitement to a minimum. Glancing at Victria, she saw that her skin was flushed once more, perhaps from the alcohol, perhaps from something else.

"May I use your bathroom Mistress?"

"Yes, you may."

Victria politely took Melody's drink, and then set it on the edge of the desk. Once finished in the bathroom, Melody emerged to find no sign of Victria. But, a glance over her right shoulder proved that she'd stepped into the shoe closet, and was scanning the rows and rows of shoe boxes; each with notations written on the side of each box, indicating which outfit or outfits each pair could match with. Smiling to herself, Melody entered the closet, and before she could advise her benefactor that it was now as easy as putting the right shoes back inside the right box, Victria took her wrists and locked them in stainless steel cuffs.

"You didn't mention hand cuffs, Mistress." Said Melody, looking down at her manacled wrists.

"Neither did you; Slave." Answered Victria, "Now go kneel, facing the center of the foot of the bed."

Melody, though slightly hesitant, did as she was told. In the same instant, Victria stepped to the bureau, and withdrew items from the bottom drawer. Her eyes rivet to Victria's every move, Melody watched her dome return; a short length of chain with a lock at each end in one hand and a vicious looking cat o' nine in the other.

"You didn't say anything about whips either!" Melody anxiously remarked

"I'm playing the dome card." Intoned Victria as she set the flogging implement on the bed and withdrew a set of keys from her pocket.

"But why!?!"

"Because I saw that you looked perfectly lovely in that dress you tried on today." Answered Victria as she connected the chain from Melody's manacles to a thick metal ring that happened to be welded to the bottom center edge of the bed's steel frame, "And don't think I didn't see you put those red slippers on too Dorathy."

I'm so stupid. I should have realized. I just wanted to- Wait? I said no blood. This might; work out.

"Lay down on your belly and keep your legs close together." Victria commanded.

Melody didn't move right away. She tried to utter another protest, but was silenced by the surprise sting of the cat's tails across her back, to the left of her spine. She shuddered, huddled and tried to twist as far away as she could. 

"Oh please Slave," said Victria, "I hardly hit you. Now do as I say: lay face down with your legs together. You said you trusted me, so just trust me. Come on Cowboy!"

She was right. It wasn't that bad; just really scary. And being scared lingered in Melody's pulsing heart as she hurried to assume the position she'd been commanded to. Settled, Melody covered her face with her chained hands and tensed for the next strike. Smack it came suddenly, to the right of her spine and no stingier than the last hit. Her heart racing, Melody clenched her buttocks tight, assuming it would be the best defense against any pain that might occur there.

"Relax girl." Said Victria; her tone mildly exasperated, "You're risking getting hurt that way. You have to ride the sting; you know, like rolling with a punch."

"Yes Mistress!" said Melody; her voice, though muted inside her cupped hands, pitched higher than usual.

Again came the cat, and Melody received it that time with slack muscle as the implement's tails were gently dragged down the length of her body. Then again it came, on her right, but lower and dragged smoothly down across her relaxed buttocks. Oh, thought Melody, that's sort of; nice. Six times more, Victria hit her with the same intensity and the same slow downward stroke, until Melody moved her hands from her face and settled into a posture that was more like one lazing on a summer morning at the beach.

Then there occurred a brief interlude: Victria stepping away, taking another drink, sifting through a drawer, and then returning. Next Melody knew, Victria had parted her legs slightly, drew out some of her pussy's juices and used them to work something smallish inside her lips. Melody's notion that it was a little vibe was confirmed when Victria pressed its on button, and then closed her thighs back around it.

The lashings resumed then, and were now almost exclusively restricted to Melody's ass, though Victria did get her on the back of her arms just to keep the element of surprise going. You dirty bitch, mused Melody; you cruel, hot sexy bitch. Melody clutched at the chain between her manacles and the bed frame, dragging herself closer, squeezing her insides against the little vibe and pressing the cool metal of the chain against her lips. Victria took in the sight of her; the redding welts on her ass, the pink glow of her back and the growing excitement in her face. Competent with her cat, Victria gradually poured it on, steadily increasing the power of each precisely placed stroke until her slave began to scream and moan and shiver into an eruption of pure, unrestrained delight.

"That didn't turn out to be such a bad punishment. " Melody remarked as she tried to catch her breath.

"Oh your punishment isn't over yet." Stated Victria as she lay down on the floor beside Melody; gently rubbing a layer of aloe and almond oil against her red striped buttocks.

She glanced at Melody's astonished face.

"Nope. Not by a long shot." Continued Victria, "For your disobedience, you will remain, fastened as you are, to my bed for the rest of the evening, and this is where you will find yourself waking up in the morning."

"You can't be-"

Melody stopped herself, no longer ready to take on any more lashing. Of course Victria was serious. But I thought- All I did was- And we were having such a good time- Oh great, now my ass is starting to throb. This sucks now.

"And what if I scream all night?" asked Melody; raising her head from the carpet. 

"Oh, I'll just whip you until you realize that it's a better idea not to." Victria answered; as she snapped the cap back on the bottle of ointment, "I'll turn on some of that big band you like on so you can be inspired to saranade me when I come back in here."

"Your holding me against my will! " Melody exclaimed, "You can't do this!"

Victria rose from the floor, and then crossed the room to the desk. Glancing at Melody, she set the ointment down and then opened the desk's top drawer and took out a digital camera. 

"This is a contractual relationship." She said; poised to take a shot of her bound slave, " I am not a police officer nor a criminal.

I can hold you against your will as long as I can break it."

Wide-eyed, Melody turned on her side in order to face her captor and winced from a sudden increase of pain. Turning back, she rested on her elbows, her legs slightly spread, her pretty toes turned inward. It was then that Victria snapped a shot. Melody sighed in defeat.

"You don't even know the slightest thing about me." She said, choosing not to look at her mistress.

"I know you like swing!" Victria replied; turning on the CD player Melody had brought up from the kitchen, "Then start sifting through that pretty little Etch-A-Sketch head of yours and fill me in. I'd be happy to hear all there is to know."

Melody said nothing as the music began to play; a Cab Calaway tune. Victria set it on low as she prepared to leave. She pocketed her keys, slipped the camera's lanyard around her wrist, tucked the bottle of whiskey under an arm, and then picked up the two glasses. Halfway to the door, Victria stopped beside Melody. 

"Go on." Urged Victria as she hunkered down by the corner of the bed; the camera swinging from her right wrist, "Let's hear it."

Melody got up on her elbows, met her domme's gaze, and then frustratedly sighed. Seconds later, she looked away.

"Fine then." Said Victria as she rose and headed toward the door, "I'll check on you later."

"Wait! I'm so sorry Ma'am. I promise, I won't do it again. Please, let me climb into bed with you tonight!"

"Not tonight." Victria Announced as she crossed the threshold.

"Please Ma'am; I'll do anything you ask, please!"

Victria stopped and turned around.

"Anything?" she asked.

"Yes, anything!" Melody repeated; a desperate hope in her eyes.

They studied each other as Victria downed the rest of her drink.

"I'll let you do whatever I want," she said, "Tomorrow."

Then she was gone. Infuriated, Melody stared into the empty hallway outside Victria's bedroom and drew in a great breath for the sake of screaming a litteny of expletives. But, chose instead to clench her teeth and growl deeply until the muscles in her face hurt. She decided to stop because her ass already hurt enough. A head ache wasn't going to make anything any better. Cab Calaway sang mournfully on; Melody searched around the room, as if there was even the remotest possibility that there was some way to free herself. Presently, her gaze happened upon the little vibe. 

Victria had taken it out of her when she lay beside her to apply the soothing cream to her wounds. The thing was on the floor beside her. She forgot it, thought Melody. She forgot it on purpose or did she forget it by mistake? Melody glanced down the hall, and then set out to try and retrieve the tiny vibrator. Pulling the chain to its fullest extent, she reached with her left hand, but the vibe was still too far. Then, with careful effort, Melody extended her left leg, and then used her toes to push it closer. But, it was still too far. 

Checking the hallway once more, she got on her knees and scooted over, until she could use the side of her left knee to bring the thing even closer. Finally, Melody was able to gather up the little vibe into her hand. Excited by her success, she carefully lay back down on her side to consider her next course of action. She could get herself off at least; pass some of the time firing off a few more endorphins. 

Pressing the vibe's button switch on and off, and on and off, she thought of Victria that morning waiting for her breakfast, sliding her fingers along the length of her pen, turning it end over end, again and again. Melody frowned then, and heaved a great, resigned, breath before ultimately tossing the vibe back out of her reach. Big Sister's watching, she thought. If I knew there weren't microphones set up in here too, I'd call her a freaky fucking bitch out loud... That freaky fucking bitch.



The Brand Ch. 03



There was a jauntiness in Melody's step as she walked proudly naked from the house. Her brazen exposure to the early morning sun was a baptism, her easy breathing a soft heralding to the world that she was on her way to becoming a very proper slave. Her Mistress stood in the doorway, commemorating the event, proud of her girl's first steps; snapping shots of Melody as she bent over to gather up the Saturday morning paper. Rising back to her full height, her brown hair spun with strands of golden sun, Melody paused to admire the scenery around her. 

Still wincing from the lingering pain across her buttocks, she tried to massage more of the tenderness out as she regarded the sprawling fauna around Victria's farm house. The property was hidden from the road, the view blocked with thick flowering patches of sun soaked brush, dense clusters of embraced red maples and the tall army of oaks and firs who's shade had their growth under their control.

Having spent the last two years living on the capitol city's streets, Melody saw only concrete and asphalt roll away from her feet. Now, as a gentle breeze touched her bare skin and sent the stray hairs at the edges of her bound hair a frollick, she stared down at the lush carpet of bright green grass, each and every blade crowned with its very own glistening jewel of dew. What is freedom; really? Melody pondered the question as she regarded Victria; still snapping away with her camera. I suppose it's flattering to some degree, though Melody as she padded back to the house, but what does she intend to do with all those pictures. And anyway; when will it be my turn to take in your naked body long enough to take pictures of it, Ms. Charpentier?

"Might I inquire Mistress," asked Melody as she followed Victria back into the house, "What do you intend to do with all of those nude photos of me?"

"Oh splatter them all over the Web, of course." Said Victria; as she strode toward the kitchen; dressed in white crew socks, a pair of red bicycle shorts and a loose black T-shirt, "That is what you're thinking, right?"

"Seriously Ma'am?" Melody shouted as she closed the door behind her. 

Melody stopped by the stair landing and held the paper over her breasts as she shot her employer a look of surprised indignance.

Victria turned suddenly to face her girl. Oh crap, thought Melody, as she lowered the paper to obscure her sex, don't tell me I just earned myself another flogging. Then, eyes leveled, Victria stepped back toward her slave. As she nervously tapped the ends of the folded news paper, Melody's eyes darted in every direction but her domme's face. In the next instant, Victria snatched the paper away, leaving her slave to nervously twiddle her thumbs before her bared sex. 

"Chillax Cowboy." Laughed Victria as she carried the paper back toward the kitchen, "That would be so incredibly unprofessional of me."

"Unprofessional?" Melody repeated as she marched after her, "As if your brand of behavioral habituation is anything but? If my world hadn't fallen apart, I wouldn't be here, letting you-"

Melody cut herself off and looked away. Victria studied her during the resulting silence; a mystery of guarded emotion passing unseen by the lost naked woman before her.

"And where would you be Ms. Melody May?" asked Victria in a measured, patient tone, "Did I have a plan for you? Yes. Can I help that we were caught up in a robbery; the experience of which has apparently affected you profoundly? No."

Melody had suddenly begun to sniffle as she began to gesture, as if to prepare to speak, but still not looking directly at Victria nor taking the opportunity to speak.

"Have I exploited your fear? No; I have not. Am I guilty of exploiting you? Yes. Am I enjoying exploiting you? Yes; very much."

"If I walk out of here," Melody whimpered; arms folded across her breasts, "I will lose everything."

"Yes." Victria affirmed, "And by sticking it out with me, through what I'm certain you believe is my sick little game, you will stand to gain everything, and you will have a brand spanking new life you can be proud of, and you can go back home to tell everyone about it or you can share your success with only those you care to. Hell, Cowboy; you will become the queen of your own world and I will have the satisfaction of enjoying you, as I choose, while I help you create that world. Face it gorgeous; it's a win win."

Melody stepped to the kitchen table to withdraw a napkin. Quickly, she wiped her tears and blew her nose as she pondered the logical insanity of it, the truth of her circumstances and the word Victria used: gorgeous. She then went to the sink, tucked the soiled napkin into the trash and washed her face before stepping back toward her benefactor. 

Seriously Mistress! What's so worth preserving for posterity about; me?" asked Melody as she rubbed the raised skin of her scar. 

Victria took in the sight; her expression the picture of impassivity until what seemed to Melody like playfulness came into her eyes. Sstepping backward to the edge of the kitchen counter, she slid her seat upon it, and then scooted back.

"Well gee slave," she said, "If it's that important to you that you receive a compliment-"

"It is not important that I receive a compliment," Melody interrupted; arms folded across her chest again, "And; you are not just taking pictures of my eyes. 

Fine." Said Victria, "If you must know, after I've fondly gaze upon them, I save those that best exemplify your beauty. Then, I will venture to reproduce them in another medium."

"Another medium?" asked Melody; genuinely surprised, "You're an artist too?"

"No." said Victria as she pulled the paper out of its blue plastic bag and shook out the front page, "I like to pretend I'm an artist. I admire the process of celebrating beautiful things and crafting beauty through photographed, pencil rendered or painted depiction. It's the only true way to extend the beauty of things, of us; taking materials at our disposal that last longer than the elasticity of our skin, the supple sculpture of the flesh on our bones and the brief span of our lives, and turning them into enduring monuments and artifacts."

A brightness came into Melody's eyes as a tingling warmth trailed down her spine and triggered the not altogether unpleasant sensation of pins and needles across her buttocks. Victria turned her attention to the paper. Melody realized a phantom of a memory streaking across the back of her mind, as she, in spite of the strange turmoil in her heart, looked favorably upon her young, beneficent dome. Seeing that she was thoroughly engaged in the morning news, Melody finally stepped back to the stove.

Her gaze went to the pancake batter she'd prepared just before having been instructed to fetch her mistress's paper. Distractedly reaching for the ladle in the mixture, she began to ponder over how her dome might allow her to please her later that evening. Melody couldn't deny it. The nature and dynamic of the relationship had become very unnegotiably complicated and very confrontationally stimulating, all very much accelerated by the robbery's trauma, as if the very world itself had manipulated Melody into circumstances she was not meant to escape. 

So why not make the most of it then? Why not exploit Victria for herself. There was the warmth and safety of her home. There was the bounty of her food. Her power made her very alluring as did her sharp beauty; narrow hipped and fine lined with small, perky breasts. Melody had begun to hunger for a taste of her devil's details, her mistress's secret textures and flavors. I suppose I will bide my time, like a good slave, earn my chance.

It had been between the unanticipatedly arousing effects of having been flogged, Victria's gentle after care and Melody's suspicion that the little vibe was left behind as a test, when Melody realized that she desired to find a way to return the favor, to violate her dome through as many methods as it would take to satisfy her own enslaved hart.

It had been the first thing that morning, as Victria unshackled Melody from the foot of her bed, when she'd requested banana slices and chocolate chips in her pancakes. Melody would be opting for a handful of butter scotch morsels left over from the ridiculously sweet dessert they'd shared the night before. It had been around two in the morning when Victria stumbled up the stairs, thoroughly drunk on whiskey, carrying the entire dish of the super chocolate chunk cookie dough, brownie and butterscotch toffee thing, and a fork. Melody, of course, was quietly sobbing, secured in her punishment place, manacled and chained to the frame of Victria's bed.

"Mistress? May I be permitted to call you a miserable fucking twat?"

"Absolutely not. Did you get anything out of the book I gave you to pass your time?"

"I don't really like the genre myself, but it certainly works as a slave's handbook, that's for sure."

"Would you like to join me in some this divine piece of confection you so lovingly prepared?"

Melody sighed then, content with her defeat.

"Yes Mistress. If it pleases you." 

So Melody sat up and was fed her wickedly sweet dessert, and Victria gently wiped her lips with the hem of her shirt, and then she told Melody that she was a very good slave for not using the vibe without permission. It was at that moment that Melody realized that she wanted to smackthe the woman across the mouth, almost as much as she wanted to kiss her there.

"Why are you staring?"

"Huh? What?"

Oh my God, thought Melody, I am! When did I- Melody's eyes flitted from Victria, to the ladle in her hand and to the puddle of batter in the center of a cold frying pan.

"I'm sorry Mistress." She said; turning to Victria, "I guess I'm really surprised that you; make art. May I see your work?"

Neither said a word as they stared. Then, without giving her an answer, it was Victria who looked away first, which Melody found out of character; out of what little she knew of her employer's character anyway.

"What's wrong Mistress?" Melody asked.

"My picture's in the fucking paper is what's wrong! Oh I'm going to ruin the prick that allowed this to happen. Did anyone ask me!?! I don't remember anyone with a camera asking me if I wanted my fucking picture taken!"

Melody set the ladle down, and then slowly walked to Victria's side. Angling her head, she saw the picture; Victria kneeling beside the little old lady cashier. The quality of its grain looked like a cell phone shot. Someone from the store must have showed it to a reporter and a copy was e-mailed just like that. Melody read the byline: Heroic woman risks her life to protect store customers and staff. Skimming the article, Melody saw that the store manager was quoted in his description of Victria's method of distracting the thieves. "I think she was either very crazy or extremely confident. Either way, she must have realized that the cops were going to need some kind of evidence to catch those guys."

"Try to understand Mistress that everyone in that store was grateful for your standing up to those men," Melody explained; each word spoken in velvety morsels of awed esteem, "Even if you helped to scare the shit out of them."

Victria shot a suspicious glance at her, drew a frustrated breath, and then flipped to world affairs. Melody lingered there, still skimming the articles and moving in closer. Again, Victria quickly glanced at Melody, her mild annoyance going unseen. 

"In the basement," Melody probed, "Is that where you do your work?"

"Yes Girl, in the basement. " Victria sighed, "You've found me out. Please attend to my breakfast now. You can have the paper when I'm finished with it. Go on."

Melody immediately complied with her dismissal and went about attending to their breakfast. Before long, the smell of frying batter filled the kitchen, and the sound of pancakes being flipped and flipped again drew Victria, her nose still in the paper, wandering to her seat at the table. Presently, Melody had two heaping platefuls made. It was something she'd recalled the enjoyment of doing on a Saturday morning; making enough pancakes to last throughout the weekend so that she didn't have to make anything else, and just doze away the rest of her free time between snacks.

They each sat quietly engrossed in their meals; Victria's feet propped up on the seat of the chair to her right as Melody knelt on the floor by her side. Victria had folded the paper over so that she could read it with one hand and eat with the other. Melody was fishing small forkfuls of pancake through small puddles of melted butter and syrup; her mind working out what she might say next and how to say it. Then suddenly, she laughed; an all be it brief titter, but enough to get Victria's attention.

"You're amused by something; girl?" inquired Victria.

"I am, Mistress." Answered Melody as she set her dish upon her lap and met her benefactor's gaze, "You have an art studio in the basement! I'm quite astounded and proud that you've unveiled your first layer of psychological intimacy to me.

Glowering suddenly, Victria pushed her empty dish further onto the table, opened up the section of the paper she was reading to its fullest extent, and then proceeded to hide her face behind it. .

"Please forgive me Mistress," Melody pleaded; her eyes fixed on the front and back pages of the financial section, "But can we have a little time out from the mistress and slave thing, for a bit? Can I just be Melody, for a while; please?"

"Fine." Came a mildly irritated voice from behind the paper, "What is it that Melody wishes to say?"

"Well I mean; without me here, you wouldn't have been able to put your fingers or that big glass thing up my ass. You wouldn't have me to cook these nice meals I've made so far or all the nice cleaning I've done and you wouldn't have had me to humiliate for your own pleasure. And considering how psychologically intimate I've been with you, I think I deserve some important details about who you really are!"

As Melody spoke, Victria came to gradually lower the paper and stare at her until she slowly raised it to cover her entire head again.

"Come on Victria! I'm serious. I mean, I thought doms or domme's had vanilla intimacy with their partners, employees, and maids, whatever, long before they ever brought up the subject of their kink. And; it's my impression that in some very darkly circumlocuitous way, we're also nurturing some level of friendship here also, I like to think, and-"

Victria's paper came crumpling down then.

"Okay!" she said, "You want to see my work? Fine. I hate to share my work, but fine!"

"Victria! Art is the artist's gift to the world. You shouldn't not share it!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah; just give me a minute to clean up down there first, okay?"

"Okay!" sang Melody; beaming. 

"And after you get your little show; we're right back to being domme and sub, understand?"

"Yes Victria." Said Melody; not altogether seeming saddened by the prospect, "But may I put a robe or something on for a bit?"

"Absolutely not, Cowboy. You ask for an inch; I give you an inch."

Her eyes still bright, Melody watched as Victria set the paper down, left her seat, and then marched from the room.

"So I'll be able to wash this all off; when you're finished, right Mistress?"

"Yes Girl. It's water based."

"Good. And; how much longer until, you know, you're finished?"

"Not too much longer. Maybe you can pass the time by telling me what this great country of ours means to you; something that, oh I don't know, to help foster our psychological intimacy?"

Finished with the breakfast clean up, Melody descended the stairs toward Victria's studio, imagining that the woman's work perhaps would be primarily abstract in nature, linear and geometric with cleanly crisp edges and everything rendered in the same stark opposing black and white the artist perceived the world through. But, as she stepped into the space and took her first cursory look around, Melody recalled Victria's lounging clothes from the night before. They were actually work clothes; stained and marked with ribbons and stains and drips of a wide range of color , and that range was reflected in the studio from floor to ceiling.

Though still seeming somewhat amateurish, which Melody could attribute only to Victria lacking the time necessary to hone her craft, her work was vital, visceral; her colors varying from straight out of the tube to exquisitely subtle shade arrangements and presentations, her theme and scope ranging from impressionist, realist, art deco and surreal.

There were landscapes behind amazon women at war; fighting dragons and slaying their masters. There was a tableau of the midsections of two naked women; the vulva of one blended into the head of a brown mouse, the other blended into the face of a cat that hungrily eyed the former. There were a number of female nudes, either viewed from the front, rear or in profile; each posed with mostly horses, but a number of other animals as well: a lion, gorilla, deer, cow or elephant. There was a murky underwater scene, what Melody assumed was some post apocalyptic impression, depicting a great cathedral around which lay rows and rows of human skeletal remains.

As she slowly paced around, taking in the dozens and dozens of huge canvases leaning against the walls, Melody saw that Victria painted very few male figures. Then, when she arrived at the corner of the nine hundred square foot space, she'd found perhaps nearly a hundred sculptures. Among them were a variety of baby animals; bear cubs, lions, wolves, lambs and a number of seated, prone or crawling human infants and toddlers. 

Against the very corner stood the tallest figure, a solitary male nude. Standing at thirteen or so inches, the figure's body was sculpted with obvious care, even reverence, but his head and sex told another story. His hair was a massive tangle, a lion's mane; his face a brutal, jagged mask of wide, glaring eyes and a gaping mouth of teeth. His sex was fully erect, a dissymmetrical set of testicles hanging from the shaft and what was clearly a very detailed death mask over its head.

"It's an incongruity, I know." Said Victria from the seat of her drafting table, "But because it came out pretty nice, I keep it.

Melody glanced briefly at Victria as she carefully took up one then another sculpture of the infant series. In awed silence, she studied the finer details in each piece. Out of everything in the room, Melody realized, the figurines were the most painstakingly crafted and she came to believe had to be the subject the artist herself most devotedly revered. Glancing once more over the table, and then across the collection behind her, Melody was unable to get her head around the sheer intensity, the intellectual depth and the extent of psychological implication she'd just been allowed to see the surface of.

"Their faces," Melody sang softly; her heart touched, "They're so real. Everything Victria; everything is so beautiful."

Victria said nothing from her seat at the draft table as she touched up a pencil drawing, the bright morning light shining in from the wall of patio doors behind her. Melody quietly walked to her side, and then peered down at what the artist was working on. Taped to the upper right corner of the drafting table was a glossy print out of the photo Victria had taken of her the night before; her body prone, her bare, diminutive toes pointing inward, leaning on her elbows, her wrists in gleaming chains, her head in profile, her expression that of contented defeat. Victria's piece was a perfect black and white photograph of the exact image. All it lacked was the sheen inherent in the original's photo print stock.

Melody drew closer still. As she remained riveted to the drawing, she breathed deeply of the room's air, having acquired an appreciation for the scents of drying oil paint, turpentine fumes and linseed oil. Suddenly, she felt the gentle creeping of the artist's free hand along the graceful elliptic split of her buttocks. Again, the pleasurable pins and needles pain across her ass and the backs of her thighs rose; this time to meet the tingling affected by Victria's soft and powerful fingers. No one's stopping us from making mutually gratifying love but you; Empress.




The Brand Ch. 03



"Well," said Victria; clearing her throat, "Now that you've taken a fairly large glimpse into me, let's get back to our regular programming, shall we?" 

"Yes Mistress." Said Melody as she fell to her knees at her domme's side.

"Now; tell me the truth about your scar."

"I told you the truth about my scar Mistress."

"Hmm. I don't believe you have. Tell me the truth, and I will grant you three nights off."

Melody said nothing. Victria regarded her for a moment, and then began to gently unfasten the hair bound at the back of her head. That done, she gently loosened the tresses with her fingers and draped it around Melody's beautiful white neck. Taking her by the chin, Victria considered the green depth in her slave's eyes. Then she said:

"Tell me; and I will set you up in your own apartment nearby. You will continue to work for me eight hours a day and you will take your marketing courses at the local community college."

Victria watched wounded clouds roll into Melody's eyes, dimming their emerald light to a sweet shade of pain. Then, as the anger and grief brought stubborn tears to her lashes, Victria knew she had her answer.

"Fine then." She said as she left her slave to wipe her own tears, "I think I'll paint you."

Melody had perked back up almost instantly as she watched Victria leap from her chair and go about clearing a work space by the patio doors and collecting materials. She'd happily assisted in the spreading of the drop cloth and the arranging of the artist's paints, palette and brushes. But, when it came time to settle into the pose, Melody became somewhat dismayed that it was to be her very body, her sore ass in particular, that would actually serve as Victria's canvas.

"And you're video taping this." Melody remarked; laying face down against a pillow on the floor, knees bent and ass up.

"Definitely." Said Victria as she set the camera on its tripod, "I happen to be very patriotic."

Melody wasn't able to see the grand old flag Victria was painting across her buttocks, but the coolness of the body paint and the gentle strokes of Victria's brush were certainly soothing. Melody did her best to relax however else she could, given her position, head to one side, cradled in the lap of her folded arms. 

She'd fixed her gaze on a landscape that was leaned against the far left wall. It depicted a sun spotted and shade dappled winding country road, bordered with lush green thickets of crab grass beyond which was flanked by stands of mountain laurel that were guarded by an army of high oak, maple and spruce. The road, beautifully detailed with a few rugged edged pot holes filled with shimmering puddle remains of some hard rain that had fallen during the night before, meandered off into the distance. 

Standing along the rear edge of the central pot hole was a little girl, staring down into the puddle at her feet. She wore bright yellow rain boots, white tights and an incongruously pink party dress, her hair in pig tails, her expression revealing a poignant union of joy and regret. This is my very own puddle to jump in, but I might catch a switching for it later, was what it said.

Melody's perception of the image turned celluloid inside her open mind. She saw herself wander down the road, her back to the child poised at the edge of her puddle. Also to her back, unseen in the foreground, was a small town, full of families and schools and churches. Melody had walked away from one of the churches and the families gathered there. She walked home, to the house of her parents, a little place with clean surfaces, old quilts covering the living room furniture and old white lace curtains blocking the windows. She crossed the room and went up the stairs. Inside her room, it too quilted and curtained, had a desk with library books upon it she'd never return. Melody sat out the rest of the day, and then through dinner, and listened to the dark. Gentle knocks on her bedroom door came and went, as she told her mom and dad that she'd feel more like talking in the morning. 

That next morning, Melody got up with the neighbor's roosters, packed her back pack and slipped silently out of the house. She rode her bike to the Wells Fargo in town, withdrew four hundred dollars, thinking that she would get a bus or train ticket, but then she started to cry. Drying her eyes, Melody left her bike leaning against the back wall of the bank, and then walked to the Pigly Wigly by the school. Taking one last look, she stepped into the convenience store to buy a road atlas, a few bags of trail mix and some bottled water. 

Melody remembered thinking of her favorite alternative band's front man then, and how he used to keep his money inside his socks, so she'd put the better part of her three hundred and eighty -five remaining dollars inside her socks after she'd made her purchases at the convenience store. And, as Mr. Super Star decided that even though he could just walk right out the front door of Betty Ford, he chose to climb over the high brick wall in the back, Melody decided to leave her bike, forget about any bus or train ride, and just start walking all the way across as many states as it took to feel better, to forget or to get killed trying to feel better or to forget.

"Girl?"

Victria's face gradually materialized, rising into the scene, looming as if pushed through a window pane of still water. Her hair was dangling vertical as her head was tilted somewhat horizontally; her eyes shining with concern.

"Are you among the living or what Cowboy?" she asked.

Melody seemed to stare right through her as she took in a long slow breath. Victria swung her head around to see what Melody might have been mesmerized by.

"I walked away from my mother and father on a warm day in early March." Uttered Melody; drawing Victria's attention back to her, "I took only a few things in my back pack. I stepped out of the house, walked out of the neighborhood, trudged onto the highway and I never stopped once for the offers of rides, of most help. The old black couple and the librarian showed up at just the right times; when I; well..."

Victria laid down beside Melody, and rested her head against her arm as she waited out her model's pause.

"I slept under trash bags and news papers behind buildings." Continued Melody; staring blankly into Victria's face, "I got rained and snowed on, city after city and town after town until my money ran out in Raleigh. From that point on to Connecticut, I lived on a bottle return funded diet of snack chips, nutty candy bars and bottles of water, as well as strung along soup kitchen meals from shelter to shelter. Finally in Hartford; it turned out to not have been exactly the safest, but it seemed the most far enough away."

As a silence followed, the two young women stared into each other's eyes, neither blinking or letting their watchfulness drift. Again, Victria waited Melody out; giving her the chance to say more, to shed more light concerning the secret source of the scar. It was redefined now; a lie, a glaringly peachy pink fact shrouded in fabrication. You are mine, my mystery, for now, mused Victria. The longer you keep the truth from me, the more I want you and so the harder I will be. But, I will not push, not for the truth. I will play. I will push you; my sweet slave.

"Well;" Victria intoned; breaking the silence, "Thank you for sharing that little snap shot of your past. But now you can get up on your hands. It's time to put the final touch on this piece."

Victria rose to her feet, and then stepped back behind Melody, who was now poised hands and knees, her back straight, her head held high. Peering over her shoulder, Melody watched as Victria adjusted the height and vantage of the video camera. Next, she rummaged through her toolbox and withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She then pulled one from the pack, set its filter against a sticky spot on her bottom lip, and then tossed the rest of the pack onto the drafting table.

"It was my impression you didn't smoke." Remarked Melody as she watched her artist ignite the cigarette.

"I don't., not really" answered Victria, "I lit it for you."

"For me? But I-"

With the cigarette still hanging loosely between her lips, Victria kneeled behind her slave. She pushed the insides of Melody's knees with her own, and then carefully tucked the smoldering cigarette at a height between her buttocks that made the best aesthetic sense. With one last little push, Victria set the cigarette so that it's white shaft pointed slightly upward, and then scooted back to take in the sight.

"You have to be fucking kidding me?" said Melody as she felt the slight sensation of the cigarette tucked inside her ass.

"Shush!" Victria commanded as she brought a strong hand around her slave's ankle, holding it fast, "Quiet! Concentrate."

The next thing Melody knew after Victria's grip was gradually loosen and withdrawn, was that the burning cigarette's warmth was suddenly palpable, and seemed to feel as if it was drying the paint around its most immediate circumference.

"Now give me your rendition of the Star Spangled Banner." Ordered Victria, "Try not to sing it too fast. You should have plenty of time before you start to feel the burn.

No, really, this is okay, thought Melody. I'm committed anyway. We're all here in the loony bin, committed, committed to each other, each one to the other; enslaved by our animal hearts. 

"Oh say can you see," sang Melody between frightened laughter.

"Ah! No laughing slave! We're saluting our nation here.

"By the dawn's early light."

"Beautiful. That's it; sing it baby."

By the time Melody arrived at the song's climax, the top of her lip became sweaty and her eyes were wide as the heat of the smoldering tobacco started to bake the inner walls of her ass.

"Nicely done Slave!" praised Victria, offering Melody a small round of applause.

"Oh my God!" Melody cried, "Take it out please!"

A long cylinder of ash suddenly fell to the canvased floor while Victria tried to nagotiate the filter from Melody's ass. It was Victria then that began to laugh as Melody started to whimper.

"I can't seem to get a grip on it." Said Victria after sticking a burned finger tip in her mouth.

"Jesus Victria; splash some water on it; do something!"

Breathing hard with laughter, Victria scrambled to the sink in the basement's bath, dampened a folded up square of paper towel, and then ran back to Melody. The sight of her, on her hands and knees, seemingly helpless to swat the burning thing away from her ass, her face tear stained and wide eyed, Victria found perfectly priceless. In the next instant, in one deft motion, the artist simultaneously put out the cigarette and plucked it from between her model's unmarred, broad striped and bright starred, buttocks.

"That; was awesome!" Victria exclaimed as she began to spray the bright tempera colors from Melody's graphitized glutiai.

They'd begun to laugh together when Victria pointed out her duck waddle tip toe walk as she led her model to the basement bath. Helping her into the tub, Victria tenderly wiped Melody's tears away and whispered her gratitude for how good a slave she was. Close enough to kiss, their eyes lingered, searching for more depth than there was between innocent skin and a whip or burning cigarette. But still, no kiss came. Instead, Victria hunkered down along the outer wall of the tub and proceeded to spray soft, warm jets of water, guiding the extendable shower head in slow vertical patterns across Melody's illustrated bottom. 

"I feel incredibly stupid Mistress." Melody pouted, "Do I have tobacco stains around my ass hole?"

"You're not incredibly stupid." Laughed Victria as she took a soft sponge from the edge of the tub, "You're just beautifully mine. Uh; as for any marred flesh, I'm not sure yet." "I'll let you know when I've cleared the paint from there. Now spread your legs a bit more."

Melody's chest was against the shower's wall, her fore arms above her breasts, her nipples hard against the cold tiles. Victria's after care was gentle; a careful spraying and dabbing away at various patches of red, white and blue. Gradually, the beautiful creamy white of Melody's buttocks came to be fully exposed, and Victria rose to her knees to better admire it. Presently, she adjusted her spray's angle of approach and return so that it might stimulate her slave. It obviously had; causing Melody to spread her legs further apart and raise her ass higher. Victria continued to spray Melody's warming sex and lovely perineum as she'd done for herself after a hard day's work. Then the whimpering began; interspersed among Melody's soft moans of pleasure.

"Am I marked Mistress?" asked Melody after she'd reached her hands down to grip and part the clef of her ass, exposing the bright pink of her diminutive anus, "Does my ass still please you?"

"You are just a bit red in two spots." Victria intoned; spraying down straggling trickles of paint along Melody's thighs and calves, "But I'll take care of that soon enough. Otherwise, your bottom is as divine as when we started. Now; turn around and show me the rest of my property."

"Yes Mistress."

Melody turned, and quickly steadied her legs, setting them apart, reaching eager fingers down to pet the hair of her mons, to part the curtain of her vulva as she stared hungrily at her dome. Victria glanced up to meet her girl's wicked gaze to watch her reaction as she brought the spray from the shower head slowly up from between her perineum. First there was wide eyed delighted shock. Then, Melody closed her eyes and slowly rolled her head back. Victria looked down at her girl's mons and watched as her lips swelled and parted to let loose the small red glistening beckoning beacon.

More and more she sprayed, keeping her slow back to front pattern, coaxing the bright red genie from Melody's lamp. The clitoris shown proudly, like a doted on queen, her head held high, poised to accept her crown. Melody's moans evolved into shudders of pleasure; her hips shaking, her thighs quaking, her fingers daring to touch her bold little empress of a clit. Then, just as Victria saw Melody's eyes close again and her mouth go wide, she took the spray away. As her girl took gradually shallowing breaths, the dome studied the woman's sex. Her honey suddenly began to drip from her inside; welling in her gorgeous nooks and crannies, and then seeping along the edges of her vulva's clef, oozing thick like a tapped maple's sap.

"Please Mistress," she sighed, "Let me come. Have I not been good to you?"

"You have."

"Then please Mistress; permit me to show you how I masturbate. Or would you prefer to taste me, and bring me there yourself?"

Victria reached a probing finger, the finger she'd burned with the cigarette, and dipped it into Melody's thick juices. Then Melody watched her dome lik it clean.

"It is yours Mistress." Melody whispered, "Take it. Take it; please."

Again, their eyes were riveted, one to the other's. Presently, Victria resumed stimulating her slave with the shower head. Again, the ecstatic shock of joy shot through Melody's body; rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. Finally just as she was making a down stroke with the shower head, Victria saw the sudden jettisoning of Melody's come. It made a high arc, followed by another, and then landed on Victria's chin and then bottom lip. Meanwhile, her body twitching, reaching a hand to brace herself against her domme's shoulder, Melody cried in frenzied delight.

"Do you have; many friends Mistress?"

A comfortable silence had preceded Melody's question and, as the question hung there in the air over Victria's bed, the silence gained the weight of supposition. The dome had begun the second phase of her after care, drying her girl off, leading her to the bed room and inviting her to lay down. Leaning beside Melody's bare slightly yellow bruised bottom, Victria smoothed creamy aloe over the small stretches of buttock burned by the cigarette. 

"I have what you can call friends Girl;" said Victria, "Though I treat them all as if the enemy within any single one of them might come out to show their true face."

Victria trusted no one; men and women equally. There were the ladies among their group, trustworthy within the loose lipped exchange of big business small talk. Otherwise, they were imperfect strangers; walking, talking family theme park characters without the disguises of mouse, dog or duck.

"I limit my participation in the world to work and to my meeting with the professional women's group I belong to. Otherwise, I generally prefer to stay away from the masses of sheep out there. Besides, what are friends for anyway?"

Melody turned to face her mistress; a look of pained concern.

"Are you not a friend to me, Mistress?" she asked, "As much as I slave for you and let you humiliate me; isn't it the bond of friendship that fills in the cracks of what you wish and how I please?"

Victria met her slave's lingering stare. In the next instant Melody realized that her dome was once again pushing a slick finger inside her ass, smiling devilishly as she thrust.

"Then please accept this friendly; gesture." Said Victria as she drove her come hither finger deep inside Melody's rump.

A frown soured Melody's face, though she firmly clenched her Keegle's around her domme's digit.

"You don't have to be mean about it." Said Melody before bringing her head to rest on Victria's pillow.

Melody had gradually become less sore at Victria; realizing that holding a grudge in their relationship just wouldn't do. So she'd perked up, and cleaned, and made her mistress a fine lunch, and then cleaned some more. But, when Victria announced that she would be out for the night, her slave appeared once again thoroughly displeased. Even when Victria told her she could have the night off, order any take-out she wanted, and could wait for her in the master bed, Melody still looked sullenly about; her gait slow, her effort lax.

"She's right you know." Remarked one of Victria's dinner guests for that evening, "Establishing a foundation through the honest exchange of psychological intimacy was the better way to start things off."

The restaurant where they'd met was one of Victria's favorites, dark, heavy wood furniture, plush seats, her usual table set far from the main room, and the back rest of her chair against the far wall, her vantage over the whole scene and through the entrance beyond. Pamela Serrano, of the premier vegan restaurant chain in the northeast, sat to Victria's right, while Geralynne Tucker, the second vice president of Hartford Metro Special Care, was seated on her left. They were the only two from their business women's collective that truly met eye to eye with Victria, and though they didn't have any of her faith, they had her ear. Beyond that, they were bound by their respective kinks, and could scene together as easily as they could blackmail each other with the evidence.

"I couldn't stop myself Pam!" Said Victria, "It's like everything fell into place. I knew it when I watched her dealing with the black chick, and then during the robbery. I mean, all those sheep in the store, I think they just trusted that it was going to turn out well enough. They just did what they were told. But Melody, she just went down before the guy told them to."

"And you?" asked Gerylynne; pushing her stylishly shaggy hair away from her eyes to gain better vantage of Victria's face. 

"I wasn't laying down for that bitch." 

"Oh my God!" hissed Pamela; her blue eyes narrowed at Victria, "That was you in the fucking paper this morning!?! No shit! You could have been shot!" 

"Well sure I could have been shot, but I would have been shot standing up and facing the despicable mother fucker! Anyway, I knew she was ripe, so I just; took a chance."




The Brand Ch. 03



"Well it sounds like you took a few too many chances that night." Gerylynne remarked as she drove a fork through her brazed truffles and shallots. 

"I'm here, aren't I?" said Victria between bites of her smoked salmon. 

"I can't argue with that." Pam intoned, "So when does this; Melody get her collar?"

"I'm not sure. That all depends."

"On what?" asked Gerylynne, "You said she's as good as yours."

"It seems that way, but..."

Victria took a sip of her wine, and set it back down again.

"It depends on whether she's already wearing someone else's brand."



The Brand Ch. 04



 "A memory is what is left when something happens, and does not completely unhappen." 

-Edward DeBono

1

"Has anyone seen Vic?"

"Nope; not me Mom."

"Ne neither."

"No? Vanessa, Veronica; neither of you? How about you Vance? Didn't you guys walk home together?"

"No Mom. We stopped walking home together."

"What? When the Hell did that start?"

"Like a couple days ago. She said it was time for her to start walking home from school with friends of her own and not her older brother." 

"Oh my God Vance, she's not old enough to walk home on her own! How did you think that was okay?" 

"I don't know Mom! You know how Vic gets!"

"And who are these friends?"

"I don't know Ma!"

"It's after dark and she's not home Vance!! Veronica? Get your coat. Vanessa? Take the lasagna out of the oven in half an hour. Vance? Go to your room!"

"What!?! What did I do!?!"

Not a single one of us is created in a vacuum. Each of us depends on others to help build who we are; to paint in the foundations of our layers, so that we can see, from our foreground, across the panorama of our environs, between the subjects and props, into the background; diffuse with the light of reflection, until the penciled vanishing point of the original conception is obscured. Some of us get painted into a corner. Some of us paint ourselves into a corner, and still others of us have the forethought to block in an open window or a hatchway in advance. 

Hidden among the rows of canvases leaning against the walls was a particular composition, the face of which is pressed against the face of another; complicit, their surfaces tacky to the touch. The canvas was not meant to be seen. Its back faces the tame and hungry green eyes, her artist calculating that she will take the hint and move on to something less; personal. The artist could have destroyed the piece, but then she'd have to do away with everything else she'd composed after the original conception, the original corner.

It was a picture of wanting to be liked. It was blocked in the vivid reds and pinks of wanting bigger and better things and bigger and brighter friends. There was a straight purple line of wanting to be taken seriously, and it blended into the better and brighter green of a pretty girl's eyes. Samantha's eyes they were; the kind that never leave you, no matter how far off to the left or right you walk away. She used to think that was such a pretty name: Samantha; the name of a woman who brought down kingdoms or tamed great beasts with the merest glance. .

They all met on the playground as school let in; Samantha with her not so pretty sidekicks Maddie and Shailo, and Vic with her three little friends who were too scared to tag along. Then they'd started chumming around after school; smoking cigarettes in the park, flying on the swings, baring each other to jump out at the apex of their arc. Vic had surprised them. She'd surprised herself, soaring a good twenty feet before landing on her back. It wasn't until she felt someone kicking her that Vic realized that she'd had the wind knocked out of her. It was Shailo, the uglier one of the ugly two, kicking her, laughing and saying: yeah, okay; you win.

Samantha was perfect; shimmering blonde flowing super model hair, emerald eyes and light creamy brown skin. Vic thought she knew she adored her. Looking back, they each looked like they'd figured out pretty quickly that she adored her.

It had been two or so months earlier when Vanessa and Veronica started to affect her differently when they were naked around her. It had made Vic mad at first, how easy it was for them to be naked like that, how her feelings changed about it. Then she caught Vance with his hand down his pants while he stared at one of Mom's women's magazines; the one advertising the bathing suits and the underwear. Vic found the magazine the next day, and scrutinized the model's bodies, their long hair, their eyes and their creamy strawberry ice cream lips.

She'd bought her new friends ice cream that afternoon because Samantha mentioned that she'd like to have some ice cream. Vic had some money then. She always seemed to have money and if it wasn't hers, it was Vance's; such a push over. The ice cream was good, and it was fun to watch Samantha eat it. From the corner of her eye, Vic relished the sight the of the slow, fluid, animal motion of Samantha's lips and tongue, and realized that it made her want to kiss them.

After a time, the foursome went to Shailo's house, where she pilfered a bottle of something. Then they went to Maddie's house, where she'd taken a bottle of something else. Limited to the eight block radius around Vic's home, the girls went back to the park and started drinking there. Bored and wishing to avoid prying eyes, Shailo dared Vic to risk to leave the neighborhood and head over to Shackleford Road. Secluded and over grown with brush and tall grass, Shackleford was a dead end of variously framed out houses, their construction stopped because the contractor had run out of money. The girls waded through the sea of tall grass until they found the house at the end that was the most finished and safest to hang out in. 

The windows were broken, shattered with pelted rocks, of which there were a few scattered across the plywood floor. Maddie and Shailo made a game of throwing them back out the windows while Samantha and Vic took in the beer cans everywhere and the dirty mattress on the far side of the room. Later, as they ventured more deeply into the house, it was Maddie that had shuddered when she came upon the odd, macabre, fact of the dog crate, a steel cage, the skeleton of a dog inside, its bones collapsed, their color the pages of a very old book, it's smooth teeth a lighter yellow and catching the light of the waning afternoon sun.

Vic tried not to drink too much, but Samantha kept coaxing her in a quiet, gentle way. As the hour wore on, she began to feel it, felt a lot of it and what Vic drank went right to her head and wrapped itself around the crush she had on Samantha. Eventually, the first bottle was empty, and Vic realized that Maddie had started spinning it around on the floor. They started looking at each other then, brows jumping, smiles perking. Samantha was giggling too and Vic remembered her getting red. Vic just sat there, her arms wrapped around her knees, while she waited and watched Shailo make the bottle spin. Then it stopped; the neck pointed at Samantha. All of a sudden Shailo lunged at Samantha, grabbed her ears and gave her a big kiss on the mouth. Then they rolled all over the floor, and laughed as Shailo fended off Samantha's slaps. 

Then it was Vic's turn to blush. She was angry. It didn't occur to her that Samantha would like girls who looked like Shailo or even like Maddie, who had nice hair at least. A minute later, they'd calmed down, and it was Samantha's turn to spin the bottle. It went for a while, round and round; until it finally stopped; it's neck pointing at her. Vic thought she'd be smiling inside, but she wasn't. She felt a little sick, especially when she saw the way Shailo and Maddie were looking at her. Samantha set the bottle aside, and then scooted closer to Vic. She couldn't move. She couldn't think as Samantha's pretty face loomed closer. Vic knew nothing in that moment but that face, her eyes and her soft strawberry ice cream lips.

The gag covering her mouth wasn't a surprise, not at first. It felt more like an interruption, as if Samantha's beautiful lips were curtained behind it, and would come out right the next second. But, they didn't come out right the next second. Vic was too stupid with alcohol and crush to know the difference between Samantha's lips and the dry, scratchy feeling against her mouth. Then, as Shailo was tying her wrists behind her, the others were arguing about whether or not to blind fold Vic too. Shailo wanted it while Samantha didn't. 

Samantha won, and then it was Maddie that stripped Vic naked. She struggled, but got punched in the kidneys for it. Then the heat of the alcohol got to be too much, and Vic started to choke on her sick. But, Maddie untied her gag just in time, and Vic puked butter crunch and vodka, what seemed like gallons of it. When she was finished, someone wiped Vic's face off with her little shirt, and then they dragged her across the floor.

Next Vic knew was a new, rank, odor and the sound of rattling metal. The dog crate seemed larger from the outside, and Vic remembered barely fitting, especially because Shailo, Maddie and Samantha had left the bones in the cage. Vic remembered getting all scratched up as they shoved her in. She began to cry then as they slapped her little ass and told her to stay quiet or they wouldn't let her back out. So Vic controlled herself, took deep breaths and clenched her teeth as hard as she could. The others were quiet too as they stepped around the cage and shared the other bottle. In time, Vic felt the cage shake a bit, and she looked up to see Samantha standing over the cage, straddling it: half naked, a fresh downy coat of dark blonde hair over her vulva. Vic was mesmerized by her wicked smile, by the dainty way she was holding up the hem of her sweat shirt, by the sight of her exposed sex and the sudden rush of piss she was painting her with. After Samantha was finished, Vic watched her walk away, watched her wipe herself off with her little jeans and listened to her say: Let's see if you still have a taste for pussy after that, you little fucking dike.

Vic closed her eyes and began to cry once more before Maddie or Shailo, she didn't know who went next, took their turn to relieve themselves on her. Between the second and the third time, Vic had started vomiting again, dry heaving and choking from the smell of old dog bones and the slimy shit that was all over her body and face. She guessed she'd been vomiting for a while, because Samantha and her friends were gone when she'd opened her eyes again.

Victria remembered laying there for a long time, her eyes stinging, glimpsing through her filthy hair every so often to see the day gradually turning to night. She remembered falling asleep, and then being wakened by the cold and by the sounds of animals. Then, when the big raccoon had found her, it's nose close and sniffing wildly, Victria let it have it. She screamed and screamed and kicked and kicked at her cage until the animal sped from the place. Still, she cried into the night, her feet in pain, her mind bent, her heart broken into so many tiny pieces, there were sure to be fragments she'd never recover.

Then day rose again, and Victria was still there, the shit and piss dried on her skin, making the feeling of tiny bugs crawling. And she thought: how am I supposed to live after this? How am I supposed to go to school with those girls? I need to start liking boys. I need to start right away. That way, I won't have to tell mom how sorry I am for wanting a girlfriend. I'll get a boyfriend, and he'll do everything I say and no one, no one, will ever do anything like this to me again.

They finally found her that afternoon. At school that morning, Vanessa, an eighth grader at the time, was approached by Sally Anne Mazer, one of Victria's 4th grade classmates, and was told that she saw her smoking in the park after school with three older girls. They'd sent a woman cop in first. She could hear that Victria was breathing and said: oh my God and then said her name. She pulled Victria out, checked her pulse, and then yelled for Mrs. Charpentier to come in. Then the woman cop yelled to have one of the other officers call an ambulance.

Victria supposed that she could have grown up to be more severely sociopathic than she actually had. She could have been among the ranks of the few women she saw on late night true crime shows; the vagabond hitch hiker murderess that made her male victims horny, promised them a good time, and then stabbed them to death. But, Victria knew there was no good money in murder, none that she could earn anyway. Sure, she could have talked her pain out with one shrink or another, but she didn't. She wouldn't. Instead, she cultivated a private, healthy, interest in all things kink, and learned to separate the girls from the women.

It was Samantha and her crew that had to leave for another school, so Victria got to stay behind and stitch her heart back up the best she could while deflecting the stories, the rumors, the truth. Eventually though, Victria followed. She'd started fighting a lot with boys and girls too. She was eventually prescribed with anti-anxiety drugs. Then she started pretending to take them, and eventually found her way into educational facilities where she could get specialized treatment, and restraint and seclusion whenever necessary. Still, somehow, Victria found her way to the business savvy, creative, relentless, fearless, power hungry, though still quite narcissistic diva she'd become.

The way Victria saw it; she had Samantha to thank for it all. Her experience, the corner she was painted into, could have been worse; a mauling by some wild animal, a more lingering sort of PTSD or actual death. Years later, after Victria had earned her MBA, she'd searched the Net for Samantha. She discovered that she'd become a pediatric nurse, of all things. And she was married too. Her husband, Bruce, was a civil engineer and they had two lovely children; little Cheyenne and Conner. Victria still wondered though: Does Samantha ever give Bruce a good yellow shower and think fondly on the little girl she locked in a cage and left to rot in a bed of old dog bones?

2

Victria unlocked her front door and stepped inside. After her dinner with Pam and Geralynne, she realized she wanted nothing more than to come back to her clean and fragrant home, and to the pretty thing she hired to make it that way. Before Victria had left, she'd handed Melody the pay she'd owed her so far. Without so much as a smile or a frown, she took it and dropped it into the night stand drawer in the guest bedroom, the room where her clothes were kept for if and when Victria allowed her to put them on.

She listened to the quiet of the house beyond the brief echo of her heels on the kitchen's wood floor. Victria dropped her keys on the table, and looked around at the spic and span sparkle. Checking the fridge and the trash, she saw that Melody had made herself a dinner of left overs, rather than having bought any take-out. It was her money to save, after all. Being homeless for as long as she had, Victria suspected that Melody would prefer to save what she got as soon as she got it. Next time, Victria thought, I'll leave her extra.

As she mounted the steps to the second floor, Victria could hear the quiet strains of big band coming from the master bedroom. Crossing the threshold, she scanned the room, trained her eyes on the little stereo CD player on her desk, and then let her gaze fall on the young woman in her bed. Melody had the covers up to her chest, her head propped up on two pillows as she read book two of the Gor series.

"Back so soon Mistress?" she said, without taking her eyes off the page.

"I'm back on time." Victria answered; crossing the floor to the bathroom.

"How was your date?"

"It wasn't a date." Victria said from the bathroom, "It was a dinner engagement with friends."

Victria returned to the bedroom proper and began to undress. Glancing at Melody, she removed each article, jacket, blouse and slacks, and returned them to their hangers. Taking notice, Melody said:

"Keep that up and you won't need me anymore." 

Victria gave her girl a small smile before picking up her flats and disappearing into the shoe closet. Seconds later, she stepped out and paused, waiting for Melody to regard her again. Presently, she did and Melody gave a playful sour look as she gazed at her mistress; dressed in white lace panty and bra, the sparkling ruby slippers on her feet.

"I think I want these back." Said Victria.

Melody raised an eye brow as a smile played around her lips.

"That's fine." She said, "I'll just buy a pair of my own someday."

Her expression Sober yet warm, Victria stepped back into the bathroom and began to brush her hair. Through the vanity's mirror, she watched herself and, over her shoulder, saw Melody watching her.

"I wonder Mistress;" she said, "Do you date?"

"I used to. Then I realized that I had more luck finding better fish in the sea with seductions disguised as business proposals."

"Oh my God, so this has worked before for you?"

"Kind of."

Victria set the brush back down and exited the bath. Arriving back at the bed, she kicked the ruby slippers from her feet, and then sat along the edge. Anticipating Melody's next question, she began to study her face. 

"What went wrong?"

"Let's just say I caught her stealing."

"Oh."

Their gazes lingered for a time. Melody marked her page, and then set the book aside. Victria reflected on her day, their time together that morning in her studio, the fireworks she'd put in her slave's ass, her dinner conversation with Pam and Geralynne, the artist's intentions and the secrets chained from painting to painting. Victria, not unlike most, supposed that some things just shouldn't happen to little girls. Still others might perceive her, armed with the conviction that being victimized to such a degree is still no excuse for not becoming a decent human being. The thing was; Victria felt quite like a decent human being, and was armed with her own conviction that anyone who believed the contrary should go fuck themselves.

"I'm starting to think that I'm not making a very good domme." She announced.

"You're not; Mistress." Answered Melody; venturing to laugh, "But, you are exactly what I deserve."

"And how have you come to believe that, Slave?" asked Victria; her brow gently furrowed.

"Because I haven't suffered nearly enough for my crime."

"What crime Girl? Surviving?"

Melody said nothing. She looked away instead; glancing at her closed book.

"We were all meant to survive that night." Victria continued.

No longer interested in the conversation, Melody took the book, and resumed her reading. Victria felt as if she was being dismissed. A warmth rose in her cheeks. Then she looked sidelong at Melody and thought better to soften her approach.

"How's your ass?" she asked.

"My ass is fine; Mistress." Melody answered; her nose in her book, "Why? Have you found some left over Fourth of July sparklers?"

Victria looked away. She saw her slave in her mind's eye, on all fours, the American flag painted on her ass, numerous bright streaks of sparkler shooting over her blessed bottom. Damn, she mused, that would have been so much better. Suddenly then, Victria leaned across the bed and took the book from Melody's hands. 

"Push those covers back," she demanded, "And turn your body wench. I will see for myself, since it belongs to me." 

Melody remained still as Victria returned the mark to its page, and then tossed the book to the floor. Haughtily aloof, Victria returned to the foot of the bed and sat back down. Seconds later, Melody drew back the comforter to reveal her naked body. Then, as she was about to turn, Victria reached a hand and held her girl's ankle fast. Melody looked on as her mistress led her keen gaze to meander along her slim lines and subtle curves. She was thoroughly flushed by the time Victria let her go and gestured for her to carry on. Melody rotated her body and settled back into a comfortable position. 

Seconds later, she began to feel her right foot being massaged. With strong fingers, Victria worked circular patterns into the hard flesh of Melody's sole. Five minutes later, after giving her right heel some gentle pressure, Victria moved on to Melody's left foot. Six minutes after that, Melody seemed to have fallen asleep. Victria crawled upon the bed then, and poised her mouth over her girl's ankles. Gently, she kissed them, and then worked her way up to Melody's calves, which she massaged, kissed and dragged her teeth over again and again.




The Brand Ch. 04



Gradually, Victria massaged her way from the backs of Melody's knees to her thighs, her mouth playing a larger role with each advance. Then, at the beautiful juncture between thighs and buttocks, Melody began to whimper, giggle and sigh with delight. It was at those places that Victria began to kiss a little longer and bite a little harder, sometimes causing Melody to lift her head and shudder. Presently, the mistress trailed rows and rows of kisses along her sub's back; the ends of her hair raising goose flesh in their wake.

Then it stopped. Victria had drawn away. Melody sighed, and then turned her head to face her domme. Victria was seated, crossed legged, at the far corner of the bed, still in her underwear, her arms folded over her chest. Pouting, Melody turned on her side, and then bent her right leg behind the other. Victria eyed their glorious junction. Seeing her interest, annoyed at her hesitation, Melody moved onto her back, and then spread her legs slightly more apart.

"It is yours Mistress." She whispered; reminding her domme, "Don't you want to take your first real taste of it?"

"I do." Answered Victria; meeting her slave's hopeful regard, "But what if I like it too much?"

"But what if you like it too much?" Melody laughed, "Is that a threat?"

"No. It's a; concern."

"Well Mistress; I don't believe I can be truly yours if you don't conquer me with your tongue."

"You should hold yours; bold wench. You will be truly conquered when you are collared."

"That, I understand Mistress. But, you cannot deny that taking me in your bed, granting me the freedom of your mouth is a necessary step in the process toward owning me completely."

Such a good student, thought Victria. Pleased, she narrowed her eyes at Melody as she watched her spread her legs further. Then she parted her luscious pink lips open with her slender fingers to reveal her rosy vault. For the sake of comfort, Victria finally removed her bra and flung it away. Melody stared soberly at her domme's high round breasts and their pert nipples. Then, on her hands and knees, Victria crossed the threshold of her slave's temple. Kneeling, she breathed the incense of her musk and bowed her head closer to the gleaming red chalice set upon her alter. In a slow, swooping motion, Victria breathed in and kissed her slave from inner thigh to thigh until she could no longer resist taking her first gentle draft. 

Its taste was as divine as she'd imagined; sweet blood wine and citrus flesh. VICTRIA drank deeply, as if there was some narcotic property to Melody's vaginal exudate. The more she drank, the harder and taller Melody's mouthful became. It rose regally between Victria's lips and against her tongue, awake and free to dance delightedly in her mouth. And so it did, slipping side to side, twirling around Victria's tongue, sending shivers and quakes into even the darkest corners of Melody's mind and body. Victria could feel Melody's screams coming. She could feel their origin in her mouth as she flicked her slave's clitoris around and around her strong tongue until Melody's cries came as she arched her back and jabbed her sex against Victria's dripping wet face.

The next morning, Melody got up bright and early to streak across the door yard and fetch her mistress's Sunday paper, and then came in to crawl across the kitchen floor to lap up her morning milk from a bowl Victria set out for her breakfast. Not once displaying the least reluctance, Melody rested her ass on the backs of her legs and folded her arms beneath her chest so that she could dip her tongue in to take lapful after lapful of milk from the pet food bowl.

"That's enough, my pretty little pussy." Commanded Victria from her perch on the kitchen counter, "Look at me. Nice. Lick that milk mustache off. You're so cute. Now get up and put your bowl in the sink please."

So Melody did.

"Now take each of your pretty little kitty titties and clean them all up with your tongue."

That too, Melody did, grabbing up each breast, coaxing her nipples to rise higher with each mouthful, making each gleam wetly, fervently eyeing her mistress as her tongue slid round and round. Victria looked on; a moist patch of vaginal sweat collecting on the counter top beneath her. She had in deed conquered her wench the night before; lavishing her with her tongue until Melody could hardly beg for mercy. And the very least she could do was allow her slave to return the favor. But, Victria had no interest in receiving such gratification, so she ignored Melody's appeals. It struck her slave as odd, but she eventually chalked it up to just another part of Victria's methodology of control.

3

"Good morning Victria!" Simon said after knocking twice on the partially opened door to her office. 

"Simon." Victria Answered flatly as she busily interfaced with her desktop.

Advancing deeper into her office, Simon cleared his throat and checked the knot of his Monday tie; black silk, an air brushed under water scene of killer whales across the tie's broadest point.

"So how'd your shooting go this weekend?"

Oh what the fuck Simon, she thought; leave me alone.

"Fine." She said, "I was making three inch patterns; head shots and center mass. She fires nice; really nice."

Put on the spot, Victria contrived her report from the memory of the second time she'd been at the range. She'd met up with her fire arms course instructor, a gentle but firm soft eyed old marine veteran by the name of Sargent Dennis Macavoy. He'd shown her a few 380s, 9 millimeters, 40s and some 45s. She'd paid him three hundred dollars for a full day's session and he'd made it entirely worth it. Macavoy had Victria start with the smallest semi-automatics, the 380s, in order to get a feel for weight, posture and hand eye coordination. She'd done well, taken her instruction and gradually decreasing her patterns to three inches, not so much with the head shots, but very accurate at center mass. Then, by the time Macavoy had her shoot the 45 semi-automatics and revolvers, Victria could not, for the life of her, get properly re-steadied after the initial shot of each more cumbersome and heavier weapon. It was a concern for them both because he had convinced her that it was ultimately a 45 she should have for protection.

"The primary reason one becomes a gun owner is because they expect a guarantee that the fire arm they choose will immediately neutralize the threat;" Sargent Macavoy had said as Victria looked over the compact Sig he handed her, "Particularly if the threat happens also to be armed. So, avoid 22s. Properly placed shots into the eye is one thing, but not likely to happen under the stress of threat. A 380; fine if you're shooting hollow points and you're within less than ten feet. I suggest that you might purchase one for carrying concealed when away from home."

As Macavoy spoke, Victria gently turned the weapon between her hands; admiring its stout yet sleek frame, its light weight, polymer base, its black steel muzzle, its sights and the cris-cross etched custom rose wood grip.

"But, for home protection, when there's the potential of having only a split second to be sure you need to shoot because there's a single armed intruder or maybe more than one, and armed with shot guns, in your home; you'll want a 45. With the reliability of a 1911 design, its action, the ease of its trigger pull, with eight plus one hollow tipped rounds, that's grunted stopping power, whether the intruder is seven feet tall and four hundred pounds and high on crack cocaine and you just get him in his thigh, he'll be feeling it enough to make him want to crawl back the way he came or surrender before getting hit a second time."

Macavoy stopped speaking as Victria aligned her sights and prepared to fire. In spite of the greater kick of the weapon, Victria's recover was quick, and she had eventually come to shoot the same three inch wide patterns as she had with the smaller 380 calibers. Victria was making consistent head shots as well, and had lost herself in the gun, clip after clip. Macavoy looked on like a proud father. Victria took a break to once again admire the gun, running her fingers along the warm muzzle; happy to play with fire and not get burned. Glancing up, she regarded the old instructor. It would be the one, she'd told him. It would be the gun she'd buy when the time was right.

"Hey what do you think about going to the range together next weekend?" suggested Simon; having taken a seat in one of the two leather upholstered high backs set against the far wall parallel to her desk.

"You shoot; Simon?" asked Victria as she glanced down at the tablet on her lap; a video stream of Melody masturbating for her in front of camera one. 

"I do, every now and again." He said; taking a mint from a bowl she'd set on the marble topped coffee table set before the two chairs, "I have a few choice arms in my gun safe. After our conversation on Friday, I realized how long they've been just; sitting there, which, I suppose, says something positive about how safe it actually is, around here, in spite of all the crap you hear about in the news."

"Right, right." Victria intoned as she carefully slid the tablet back down into the bag under her desk, "So why didn't you tell me about your gun enthusiasm on Friday?"

"Well, it's not the sort of thing you normally bring up during conversation at work." Stated Simon.

"True." She said.

Really asshole, she thought. You never would have brought it up with me; even if I'm the office's alpha female, I'm still just a female. And, as if you wouldn't bring it up in the men's room after you just saw that the VP has a bigger dick than you. "

"And I realized that if, well, it was an area of interest for you, and you brought it up, well than I could be honest about my; interests."

Do tell. Interests now, he says.

"By the way," Simon went on, "I saw that article about the robbery in the paper Saturday morning."

"You did." Said Victria; sitting back suddenly, her attention now keenly undivided, "I want it understood that I gave my name to no one nor had I made any comment of any kind."

"Relax Victria. You were the hero, it appears. You didn't commit any crime."

They held each other's gaze for a time.

"The chief was actually quite impressed, and feels inclined to reward you himself."

"For what?

"Having a pair of the biggest balls in the executive suite, apparently. But I gotta' ask: why didn't you shoot the guys?"

Victria hadn't wanted to, but she'd paused just a little too long, and she saw Simon's eyes change in response.

"There was never any trouble in that town before that, so it's like you say: the guns just sit there. I don't know. I just didn't carry that night."

Victria fixed her gaze back on her desktop's screen, getting back to assessing the risk involved with the Jiffy Clean account. Through her periphery, she saw that Simon hadn't stopped studying her.

I don't need shit from you bitch. I just got to this level. I don't need to be fucked with. I just need you to stay the fuck out of my way.

"So what do you say; you think we could shoot together, maybe next Saturday?"

Victria sighed. You prick, she thought. Now you've got a game you want to play Simon? Fine. You are going to get three needles today for this ass hole.

"You know what?" she said, "Let's do it. Meet me at the Wolf's Den, in Bristol; let's say around ten on Saturday morning?"

4

Victria arrived home later that evening, struggling her way through the front door with a few ungainly bags of variously sized boxes. As far as she knew, Melody was busy at the laptop she'd been loaned to take her online courses with. Victria closed the door behind her, scanned the living room and the dining room, and then headed down to the basement. 

At first she thought that it didn't matter whether Melody saw her walk in with two new fire arms, a small gun safe, pocket and shoulder holsters, boxes of magazines, a gun cleaning kit and a dozen boxes of ammunition. But then she'd thought about her behavior during and after the robbery, and decided to ease her in a little bit at a time. As for the trip to the gun outfitters, Victria would have made the purchases sooner or later, without Simon's provocation. However, he had provoked her, called her bluff and dared her. So there she was; forced into doing something outside of her own good time. Fucking dick, she thought as she stowed the items inside the little crawl space under the basement stairs.

Presently, Victria made her way back upstairs and found Melody just where she thought she'd be; reclined naked in the master bed, the laptop set on a bean bag tray over her lap.

"Whose bed is this Slave?"

"Yours Mistress." Said Melody, looking up. 

"Put that down and come here." Victria demanded.

Melody stepped immediately to it. In less than three seconds, she was kneeling at Victria's feet.

"Love my shoes slut."

Melody paused, but only for half a second. Then, she scooted quickly back, brought her lips to her mistress's burgundy flats and proceeded to stroke and kiss them. Victria watched her for a time before instructing her to stop. Melody then eased back up, cast her face downward and settled her hands onto her thighs. Victria suddenly grabbed her by her hair, wrenching the back of her head so that she faced her.

"Mistress, please!" she cried.

"Where is my dinner?" Victria asked, loosening her grip slightly.

"I prepared you a meal, but you hadn't come home, so I put it away. And I decided-"

"Well here I am." Said Victria as she let her grip loose and then pushed Melody's face away, "Now go get me my dinner."

"Yes Mistress." Whimpered Melody as she rose to her feet.

But before she could make her way out of the room, Victria grabbed her by the arm, threw her face down onto the bed, and then gripped her wrists together at the small of her back. In the next instant, her finger thuroughly lathered with saliva, Victria poked her index into Melody's pussy.

"You ungrateful little whore." She growled, "There is a time and a place for your studies, and it is not in my bed nor is it on my time."

"Yes Mistress." Whined Melody as Victria's finger found its way into her little pink anus.

"Is this deep enough slut?"

"No Mistress. I deserve deeper."

Victria worked her finger into Melody's anus past the knuckle.

"How about this whore?"

"Yes Mistress!" grunted Melody, "That's it. Forgive me Mistress! I won't do it again!"

Victria relented, and carefully extracted the digit from her slave's ass.

"Now go get some whipies and clean this shit off my fucking finger." Victria hissed, "You know what? I don't want your fine food tonight."

"But Mistress!" Melody whimpered as she ran back from the bathroom with the wipes, "I made a nice vegetable casserole."

"Oh I'm sure it's splendid, but I suddenly feel like fast food drive through. So when you're finished with my finger, I want you to go outside and wait for me in the car."

"Naked?" shuddered Melody as she finished rubbing Victria's finger clean with a third wipe. 

"Of course naked!" Victria confirmed, "It's exactly what you deserve and exactly what I want. Now go."

Victria let Melody sit and wait in the car while she took her time changing out of her work clothes and into a worn pair of jeans, a cashmere sweater and track shoes. Eventually, she made her way to the car and hopped in beside a very nervous Melody; her arms folded across her breasts.

"It's dark out now." Remarked Victria as she turned the ignition, "You won't be that visible. Put your arms down and do not cross your legs for any reason."

Nervous, dejected, Melody did as she was bid. Victria pulled out of the driveway and headed east. She drove them through the center of town, passing by the grocery where the robbery had taken place. They both peered in the front window to see that it was business as usual inside. A mile more, Melody having been corrected twice for slouching, they arrived at the town's Jet Burger. 

They were third in line when Victria instructed Melody to switch seats with her. That done, Melody slowly drove up to the window and placed Victria's order. The young man at the pay window took his sweet time about handing back the credit card to his topless customer, and he seemed to be happily suffering through the dilemma as to what he could stand on in order to see if she was bottomless as well. The girl at the food window was stunned deep red and had been so brain dulled with shock that she nearly dropped the bags before Melody could grab them.

"That wasn't so bad Mistress." Said Melody as she carried Victria's food to the house, withdrawing some fries from the bag and munching on them.

"Oh, really?" questioned Victria as she unlocked the front door, "Is that supposed to be some reverse psychology so that I'll decide not to put you through that again?"

"No. It's the truth. It wasn't so bad. I mean, come on; you don't want us to get arrested for having that kind of fun. I mean; you had fun, right Mistress?"

"I did." Admitted Victria as she ushered Melody into the house.

"Was it fun enough that it made you wet; Mistress?"

Victria didn't answer as she watched Melody head to the kitchen table and begin to set her domme's food on the dinner mat before her seat. Finished, Melody looked up to meet Victria's gaze. They stared at each other for a moment more, and then Melody slowly advanced to her domme. Once again, standing close, the chance for either woman to bestow a kiss came and went. Then, falling to her knees, Melody removed Victria's track shoes, got back to her feet, and then led Victria to her seat. As she sat down to finally eat, Melody ushered the track shoes upstairs to the closet and then returned to her dome's side. Back onto her knees, Melody nestled in beside Victria and rested her head against the woman's thigh.

"Mistress?"

"What is it Girl."

"Tell me: what punishment must I endure in order so that I might have the pleasure of tasting the nectre of your sex?"

Victria went about quietly eating her meal, making Melody wait for her response.

"You must agree to wear my collar." She said finally, "Any punishment you endure will be for the sake of our pleasure or mine alone, depending on my desire at the time." 

"Then tell me where it is Mistress, and I will fetch it so that you might lock it around my neck."

"It's not that simple Wench. It needs to be specially commissioned and engraved. It's, the locking of the collar, the binding of you to me, is essentially a long term civil union. Do you want to pleasure me with your mouth that badly that you would give yourself entirely to me, show the world outside that you are owned exclusively by me? Do you always let your lust lead you so lightly to make such decisions?

"As if it wasn't lust that compelled you to take me in? An admiration for my entrepreneurial spirit in deed; you didn't eat my pussy the way you had out of any good business sense. You ate it out of sheer desire."

"Enjoying tasty pussy is a natural compunction for me."

"And not for me?"

"Yours is mine to have. Mine is mine to give."

"Then give it to me Mistress. Or do you have; concerns about that as well?"

Victria sighed and looked down at her slave.

"You took your introductory class today?"

"I did Mistress."

"What is marketing then?"

"Marketing is all activities conducted to prepare for sales. Sales are all activities required to close the deal.

Hence marketing is a branch of business as much as it is a social science. We buy goods from a vendor, which creates a transaction."

It was then that Melody lifted her head up from Victria's thigh, and looked thoughtfully off to her right.

"Then there is the exchange process; the way two or more parties give something of value to each other to satisfy their respective needs. The marketer, a company like Jet Burger, offers goods and services desired by the market, its customers. In return, the market; the customer, gives back something of value to the marketer. Both parties receive something of value in the exchange process. The exchange process is the beginning point for marketing. The exchange process creates utility or on-going interdependent supply and demand."




The Brand Ch. 04



Melody had begun to beam by the time she'd finished.

"Very good." Victria intoned.

"So." Sang Melody.

"So?" said Victria as she finished her fries.

"So that means that you need to give me what I want in order for you to gain the profit you expect."

"Meaning?" asked Victria, a sudden look of concern on her face.

"Meaning I don't need to wear your collar if I don't want to, but if you don't want to hit a brick wall the next time you expect me to ride around naked in your car, you'll have to let me enjoy your pussy sooner or later."

Victria regarded Melody, her expression confounded and amused.

"Now may I be dismissed Mistress? I wish to complete my homework and send it along to my teacher. She seems very nice, even if she's basically just a bunch of words on a computer screen."

Victria nodded her consent, and Melody was off. Done with her meal, she tossed the wrappers and boxes into the garbage, and then went into the living room to watch some TV. Sprawled on her chaise, Victria stared absently at the hundreds of channels she was flicking through. Her mind was on Melody, how beautiful she was how intelligent she was and how foolish she'd begun to feel. I should let her go, she thought. No you shouldn't. She's perfect. She wouldn't leave anyway. I should be honest about the guns. Should you? No; maybe not. She is smart though; maybe just a little too smart.

She's a gold mine, mused Victria as she settled for some prime time adult themed cartoon sitcom. She thought about their ride to Jet Burger, and how well she'd stood up dealing with the drive through staff. Melody gave her seemingly endless ideas for her art, photography, painting and humiliation scene play. It was exciting, Victria admitted to herself, to have such help: a live in maid and model that would lick your boots at an instant's notice. Now to see if she'll do it in public. 

What else might she do in public? Would she carry a doll or toy around? Private golden showers wouldn't be a problem, but would Melody eat food Victria urinated on? Would she eat from her hand or without utensils? Victria thought she would. Would she let her display her naked in a cage at the Hot Spot? Melody had already eat from a pet bowl. What about eating off the floor? Yes, Victria thought, we'll try that tomorrow night. Oh, I know; we'll have a charity slave auction and I'll invite Pam and Geralynne. 

Victria's clitoris had swollen with the idea of iinspecting Melody's body cavities in public, of handcuffing her in public, then handcuffing her to a shopping cart while shopping. I can choose her food, she thought, her clothes. Victria glanced toward the ceiling, as if she could see Melody through it. Then she smiled wickedly; having conjured the thought of Melody holding a ping pong ball or coin against the wall with her nose while kneeling.

I want to watch her wet her pants in the middle of Victoria's fucking Secret. Victria shut off the TV and tossed the remote aside. I want to spank her in public. Victria rose from the chaise and headed upstairs, taking two steps at a time. I want people to see her sucking a dildo while I drive her around. I want to take her out wearing a cat collar and a little bell around her ankle. I want her to drink my piss.

"Close your eyes." Victria instructed Melody as she walked into the bedroom.

Melody shrugged and did as she was commanded. Victria went through a few drawers, and then ran into the bathroom.

"Okay, you can open them now." Called Victria as she went about turning on the shower.

In the midst of undressing, Victria got two final ideas: taking Melody in public with a sign pinned to her shirt that said slut or whore or painting the word slave across her belly for display at the beach. Her clit was throbbing by the time she entered the tub. She washed quickly, yet thoroughly, dried herself off, and then combed out her silky dark brown hair. Ten minutes later, she was standing at the foot of her bed, dressed in a thin strapped, thigh length, black satin lingerie with black lace sown in the bodice and along the bottom edge. Melody gazed up from her laptop and took Victria in, realizing her intention, her beauty and her obvious shyness. Melody shut down the laptop, smiled at her domme, and then set the computer on the floor.

"You don't look very comfortable." She remarked.

"I'm not." Said Victria as she rolled strands of her hair around and around the index finger of her right hand.

"Why not Mistress?" pressed Melody as she crawled to the edge of the bed.

Victria cleared her throat and said:

"Because I'm not at all used to being, you know; physically satiated by someone other than; me."

"How long," whispered Melody as she kneeled before her dome; their faces close, "Since someone; touched you last?" 

Victria shrugged, and then looked away. Melody began to play with the left strap of her domme's lingerie as their breaths crossed, inhaling and exhaling mouth to nose and nose to mouth. Melody's eyes were watching Victria's face intently. Victria's cheeks and neck had quickly reddened. Melody's lips lingered just mere inches away from a first kiss. She was torturing Victria and she enjoyed it. Then it happened. It wasn't earth shattering, but it was sweet; a small kiss on Victria's cheek, soft, gentle, almost not there. Then came a second, on the side of her nose. Victria's breaths came more quickly in spite of the seeming insignificance of Melody's gentle kisses. 

Then the third, something more of a graze along her bottom lip. There Melody waited; her lips still, their heat smoldering, Victria's eyes closed, her heart pounding, her sex pulsing. And there it was, neither unable to delay it any longer. They did not crash, but they melted one into the other; draped one over the other. The kiss was like a drug for Victria, though she was already high from her imagination. Their mouths still together, Melody tugged the other strap down, and then pulled the bodice away from Victria's breasts, letting them free. The domme still standing and the slave still on her knees, they remained breasts to breasts; their hands exploring, their lips drinking in the substance of one another's divinity.

Eventually, Melody broke the kiss, but only long enough to pick it up elsewhere, leaving electric remnants of each as she drew her lips ever downward along Victria's now naked body. Victria stared in wonderment as Melody devoured her breasts and sucked her nipples. Then Victria watched as she made her way down the slopes of her ribs, the shadow beneath her sternum and the flat of her belly. Then, like the good little pussy she'd been the morning before, Melody hunkered down to sniffed lovingly at her owner's dark haired sex, trailing her nose here and there and breathing in deeply of its fragrance.

Melody slipped from the bed an instant later, turned Victria around, and then pushed her hard enough so that she could do nothing but fall back. So Victria did, and then crawled back to the head board, where she tucked two pillows comfortably behind her. In that way Victria watched Melody crawl between her open legs. Wanting another kiss before she started, Melody brought her lips in to Victria's once more. Victria reached gentle hands around the back of Melody's head, so that she could have control of when the kiss ended. In time, she let Melody go, and then stared watchfully as her slave went about kissing her dripping sex.

Victria began to shudder almost immediately as Melody coaxed her clitoris clear from between her labia. With mouth agape, Victria watched as Melody ate her. The only sound was that of Melody's mouth, her breathing caught in the limited space between her face and Victria's pussy, the sound of her tongue working tight circles and the sound of her sucking her domme's juices into her mouth. A moment more and Victria's hips were shaking. She reached curious fingers to touch Melody's glistening cheeks, her lips and the place between the tip of her tongue and her own little bud of swollen flesh.

Seconds later, Victria went rigid, her chin up, eyes shut tight, the veins and muscles in her neck strained, her breathing stopped. Presently, she took a deep gulp of air, and then another while Melody continued to affect her rapture. Then she slowed her tongue's pace, aware that Victria hit her climax, but no less interested in helping her reach another. Yet she would not, not then. Instead, Victria played with her slave's hair and simply stared as Melody continued to ring her tongue around the rose of her domme's sex.

It was shortly after two in the morning when Victria left a very solidly sleeping Melody. Quietly, not bothering to dress, she stole away into the basement. There, she took out her bags and inspected her purchases. Looking over the manuals to her guns, the Rugar 380 and the Sig Ultra Compact 1911, Victria broke down each weapon, and then reassembled them. Know your guns inside and out, Macavoy had said. Just because they fire them once at the factory doesn't mean you shouldn't know your guns the way you should from the start.

She debated loading them, but thought better of it. Instead, Victria packed the guns, clips and the dozen boxes of ammo into the safe and locked it up. The gun vault had a biometric, finger print sensitive, lock she'd set later. But, for the time being, she'd access it with the key that came with it. Presently, she pushed everything back into the crawl space and closed the door, went back to the first floor, found her keys, and added the safe's key to the ring. Standing in the kitchen, exploring her own naked body with her fingers and palms, Victria listened to the silence of the house. Regarding her keys again, Victria grabbed them up and carried them with her as she headed back upstairs.

She stopped just inside the bedroom door and gazed thoughtfully at Melody under the dim light of her night stand lamp, her gaze lingering on the shining red scar on her right leg. She was protecting her investment, thought Victria as she quietly put her keys inside her night stand's top drawer. That's how she'd put it, how she'd start off. But, that was all she had; a start. Victria then wondered where she would mount the safe. In the bedroom, of course. Suddenly, something didn't feel right about lying to Melody. She should just come out with it; just wanted to let you know that I brought two guns in my house, yes it is my house, with six boxes of full metal jacketed target rounds and six boxes of hollow points, for when I care to shoot the very best into the scum bag mother fucker that breaks into my house and tries to take anything or anyone that belongs to me. After all, no matter what corner I get forced into, the gun will be my way out. 

Victria yawned, shook any further thought from her head, and then crawled back into bed beside her slave. I'll tell her tomorrow, she thought as she brought her face in close to Melody's. Or maybe I'll tell her the day after that. Sighing, she felt Melody's slow shallow breaths against her cheek until she herself finally fell asleep.



The Brand Ch. 05



Reflections: white kisses, soft, pale, pink to pink, encapsulated behind glass; snow drifts mounted like lovers, smooth to the eye and cold to the touch. As a fresh snow began to fall, Mel found herself inside a small town blanketed in snow, slush strewn streets, curb sides flaky brown like pie crust, cars passing churning up slush. She crossed the intersection of Chelsey and Vine, imagining the snow as a great shower of tiny plummeting angels, dancing and spiraling down to die and reincarnate into their next lives. 

That day, work had let out early, affording her the option to nestle into her favorite corner booth in The Second Cup to enjoy a good book. She would wait there for Dory to finish her shift. A rambunctious, dark eyed beauty with a tattoo around her right wrist, Dory was Mel's carnival come back to town; exciting, fragrant, brash and amusing. She looked up as soon as she'd heard the bell over the entrance ring. Her brown eyes smiled when she saw Mel stroll in, but they didn't linger. She quickly averted her gaze, glanced at the few faces of that morning's regulars, and then went back to starting another pot of house roast.

Mel went to her corner booth by the window and slid into her seat. Absently, she fished through her back pack and watched the snow whirl and drift and obscure the slow traffic and the carefully treading parents with their snow day children trailing behind them. Presently, Dory arrived at the table, set down a mug and proceeded to pour her secret lady fair a share of piping hot French roast. There was little exchanged between them; beyond a few knowing smiles and playfully furtive glances. Nodding her thanks, it was Mel that finally spoke, timidly asking as to whether she might be brought a blueberry scone.

Mel had imagined their mutual fondness as a crystal ball between them; their gazing eyes and dancing fingers conjuring what magic they could before each time they had to cover their secret again with the black silk of discretion. Their home town, a hamlet nestled between two foothills skirting the east face of the Rockies, was too small for the honesty of their feelings and too crowded with the prying myopic eyes of inflexible convention and the conservatism of evangelized generations. 

Mel didn't watch as the other departed for the back of the counter. Instead, she brought her vision to bear on the search for what she wanted to read by the soft gray light of the snowy sky beyond the shop's window. Her green knitted hat still on her head, she withdrew her latest favorite book, cracked it open and curled up in her little corner of the coffee shop's big front window. Mel had lost herself almost immediately among a village of thatched huts in a remote African jungle, dense with lush flora; a proud white man, his wife and four daughters standing beside him, preaching to a gathered mass of naked tribes people; their eyes glazed dumbly with astonishment and doubt.

Mel loved to lose herself in a good story, to give herself up to the all be it temporary but godly sweet escape of it. Of course there were other, more deliciously tangible escapes, fleeting flights of clandestine interludes with Dory that certainly were just as temporary, yet so much more deliciously stimulating. But, they only left Mel hungering for more; leading her past page after page, tempting her with the juicier parts, only to find them written in snap shot bits of haiku and flash verse.

The two young women could only imagined having the freedom to drink as deeply of each other as they could swallow. Escape, as from most prisons, was easier said than done. Small towns like Bear Lake had their degrees of barricade; from the invisible bars and chains of familial love to the strong gravity of self-imposed fear of failing or suffering alone beyond its borders. 

You know the score Melody May, she'd told herself. Do you really want to be the selfish sort of person that disappoints her family for the sake of being true to herself? Would it really be so bad to settle for going to college in the next big town over, earn your degree and come back home to maintain your disguise while you pay off your student loans over the course of the rest of your life because the average income in this part of the country makes it so that it takes that long? Right now, your only consolation, for what its worth, is that even a life sentence is temporary. So just take the ride Mel. Everything; is temporary.

She sighed and turned the page before breaking off another chunk of scone and popping it daintily into her mouth. Briefly, she glanced at Dory; her eyes betraying hope and longing. Dory glanced back, and then looked up at the wall clock above the bar. An hour and a half more, and they would meet outside and take the long way home together.

The two young women had grown up, neighbors living a block apart, forging their friendship through their years in grade school, and as Girl Scouts. They'd developed the harmony of their voices as they sung their Girl Scout songs in the basements of local churches and around camp fires, were together for every cookie campaign and earned badge after badge together. They'd even gone as far as becoming cadets together, eager to join the ranks of scout leaders. 

But, school had gotten harder and more time consuming, and new friends had gradually caused Girl Scouts to be less interesting and much less socially acceptable for them both. Mel had hung on a while longer and was on the cusp of becoming a Girl Scout Senior when Dory stopped by her house one day after nearly a year's absence to show her new tattoo; a stylized bracelet of thorny vines wrapped around her right wrist. 

They were seventeen at the time. Mel, five years into the certainty of her orientation, as sure that she was that having Dory as a girlfriend would be nice, still feared too greatly to take the risk of finding out whether such a thing could happen. Then there she was, over a year passed without having seen her, pretty in her tough way, eyes sparkling, daring, just as loud mouthed as she ever was, and now with a tattoo of all things. Perhaps, Mel had thought, there was a chance.

Their friendship renewed; Mel's sexuality continued to blossom in the silence of her heart while Dory's evolution happened in emotional fits and starts. She was weary of their sleepy, conservative, little town, ranted freely about the local social and religious orthodoxies and started smoking a little pot. Mel didn't approve, but didn't feel it was worth condemning her for. In time, possessed by the allure of Dory's boldness and her reporting of cannabis's effects, Mel asked to try it out.

It was the height of summer. Mel had just turned nineteen. Dory had finally earned enough money to buy her first car; a beat to shit little Honda. She'd told Mel to dress warmly because she was going to drive them up to the top of Rocky Mountain National for her birthday, an elevation of twenty thousand feet. A mile after having passed the park ranger's booth, Dory lighted the joint and handed it to Mel. She advised her to just take two puffs and then wait the feeling out. By fourteen thousand feet, the temperature outside of the car had dropped thirty degrees. Mel knew it would be so, no stranger to the rules of altitude, but she could still hardly restrain the joyous laughter over the fact that she'd traveled from July to January in the matter of half an hour.

After another twenty minutes, they'd passed the sign that said that they'd arrived at twenty thousand feet. Dory coasted to the side of the road and cut the engine. Mel stared wide eyed and slack jawed out the passenger window. The scene was desolate, like a craterless moonscape, cluttered with crags and boulders, strewn with the rubble of elapsed eons. She found it uncompromisingly beautiful in all its sheer, ancient, factuality. I've lived my whole life only an hour away from here, she thought. I, I just can't believe it. Mel turned to face Dory. Her hair was bound up inside a baseball cap, her face flawless, and her eyes warm and smiling.

Putting on their winter coats, they stepped out of the vehicle. Dory leaned against the car and rekindled the joint. Mel took another puff, was advised to walk slowly or else she might pass out from the high and the height, and then stepped off into the terrain. The temperature wasn't any more than twenty-six degrees as she strode across the remnants of some of the most ancient rocks in the park. She took in the marbled gray, white, and black bands of minerals in granular streaky gneiss and darker, finer grained schist. Interspersed in piles and heaps were silver plume granite, distinctive in its gray-tan and pink-red.

"It takes something like this to show you just how small we really are." said Dory as she climbed upon a large outcropping of the silver granite. 

Mel had been too mesmerized by the sun sparkled flecks of feldspar crystals along the granite slab by her feet to notice Dory's having mounted the great stone beyond her.

"But I'd still bet," Dory continued, "That even if you brought every last corporate criminal and creationist proponent up here to face their own arrogance, ninety percent of them would never change a single thing about how they rape the planet or what lies they tell their flocks."

Mel looked up and regarded her friend. Dory was staring toward the northwest, her cheeks pink, and her eyes squinting from the wind. She suddenly wanted to shout at her: Dum ass; why don't you stop getting high and go out into the world and follow your convictions and do something about it if you think it sucks so bad? But, she didn't. She wouldn't because she couldn't. Her own ambition was little more than getting up every day, going to work, collecting her meager pay check and living the rest of her life out through the passive vicariousness of reading. Still eyeing Dory, Mel felt a sudden twinge in her sex, and then decided to mount the huge boulder upon which her friend stood. 

"Dude!" cried Dory as she struggled to keep her footing, "Are you high? Careful!"

Dory turned around to help Mel achieve balance on the small flat area available for them both to stand on.

"Well; yeah!" answered Mel; starting to laugh and shriek as she lowered herself to a safe place to sit, "We're probably now; what, like twenty-eight thousand feet high?"

They giggled for a time; their laughter ringing in sputters and snorts, before they eventually calmed down and resumed quietly staring out across the top of the country.

"Is this when I'm supposed to start being hungry?" Mel asked, "Because I am. Are your eye balls pulsing? My eye balls are pulsing. God, I'm so loud inside my head. We need music. We need food and music."

"Sing for us then." Dory suggested, she too now sitting.

"No. I'm too shy. It's too cold."

"Okay, I'll sing then."

"Please don't. You suck."

"Well happy fucking birthday to you too."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. You want to go somewhere else?

"Like back to July? Sure. Soon. But please, don't make me go near any people."

"That's cool. I have just the place."

Ten miles later and at an elevation of seven thousand feet, Dory parked her car at the foot of Old Falls Trail. She'd made one stop, at a gas station, where she re-field and bought them birthday munchies and sodas. Dory packed everything in her book bag as Mel closed the passenger door behind her. Just beyond the car was posted a sign that read:

"Hikers beware of mountain lions crossing the trail?" said Mel, "Seriously?"

Familiar with the sign, Dory glanced at it quickly, and then shrugged as she approached Mel. Regarding her, she answered:

"We'll find really sturdy hiking sticks, I guess. Whatever you do, if you see one; don't crouch or anything. Just stay standing and make a lot of noise. That way, it'll think twice about messing with us because we'll seem less like targets."

"Less like targets," Mel repeated, "Uh huh. And how had you come upon this knowledge?"

Dory considered Mel, scowled, and then wagged her head.

"All those years of Girl Scouts," she said, "And you don't know shit." 

"Really? Hello, I can build a fire."

"Yeah, but can you field dress a squirrel to spit roast over it?"

"Ew, no! That's gross. Besides; Mrs. Reba never showed us that."

"That's right, because Mrs. Reba told us that all good wives should have a good fire built up by the time their men came home with the meat. Come on now Mel. We'll be safe."

With that, Dory hitched her backpack higher onto her right shoulder, and then set off down the trail. Mel kept pace, her eyes searching between trees and low lying brush for prowling mountain lions. Five hundred or so yards in, Dory found a decent hiking stick for Mel, and then found another for herself a dozen yards further along the path. Eventually, Mel had stopped worrying, and admired the foliage around her and the vistas beyond the immediate trees and brush. Another quarter mile along the trail, Dory stopped to fish through her pack and withdrew a lunch of corn chips and orange soda. 

Arriving by the bend of a babbling stream, they sat and partook of their processed repast. Suddenly, there was a rustling behind a nearby tree. Mel shuddered, turned toward the sound's direction and sat frozen to her spot. Dory got to her feet, and was about to lift Mel by the arm when she saw a chipmunk slowly poke it's head from around the base of the tree.

Mel sighed with relief as Dory sat back down, and then tossed the little creature a corn chip. Quickly, he scooped it up, sat on his haunches by the tree, and proceeded to gnaw away at his prize. Dory remarked at his little paws and how he gripped the chip like a little man. His meal devoured, the chipmunk lingered expectantly. 

Mel withdrew another from the bag, and extended it to the handsome little rodent. Wearily, it eyed Dory as he side stepped his way closer to Mel. The sheer laughter the sight would have produced would have frightened the little thing away if they each hadn't been so transfixed by its behavior. The chipmunk casually strode its way to Mel's hand, plucked the chip from her grasp, and then remained by her side, contentedly munching away as it kept its eyes on Dory.

"Un-be-fucking-lievable." Dory Remarked as they passed their second joint between them further up the trail, "And then, when the second one came out and they both just sat there eating corn chips out of your hand; you're like the fucking...chipmunk whisperer dude. Stop smiling. You're gonna' break your face."

Mel suddenly began to laugh and cough smoke from her mouth and nostrils.

"I am so fucking wrecked." admitted Mel after regaining her breath, "How long will it take to come down from this stuff anyway?"

"Why?" You got a curfew Cinderella?"

"No shit head. I just want the paranoia to go away."

"I don't know. Give it a couple hours. It'll go away. Then, when you're feeling safe and secure, the libido kick will settle in."

"And?"

"And; you'll have to rub yourself off a good one or find somebody you want to fuck."

"Really? So who have you been fucking?"

"No one. I mean, out of the crowd I smoke with, no one's worth the effort. Besides, it's nice enough by yourself. You'll see."

Mel instantly blushed. Dory took back the joint and looked away before taking her next drag. Wrapping her pot addled head around the word crowd, Mel thought of the ambiguity of pronouns; crowds, clicks, full of he and she, him and her, the genders of significant friends disguised with the drop of a consonant to the masculine. In case you didn't notice Doreen; I'm a stage two lesbian, she mused. Here I am, in my closet, being honest with myself, a single yellow light bulb shining over my head as I look down at the boxes of shoes around my feet, wishing that I could just slip into a comfortable pair of gay and pride and walk right out of here. God Dory, it would be so nice just to kiss you.

Mel turned away, and then began to advance up the trail. Two steps, four steps, six, seven, and then smack: came Dory's open hand against her ass.

"Ow you bitch!" Mel screeched; laughing, rubbing her butt, "What the Hell was that for!?!"

"Birthday beating." Dory answered as she smothered the last bit of the joint under her shoe, "Come on now. Take it like a woman."

"No." Mel quietly refused.

"Yes." Answered Dory, imperious.

Mel brushed her hair back as she searched Dory's expression. Dory leveled her gaze, confident, their look daring to be defied. Presently, Mel turned her back again.

"Bend over." Dory whispered, insisting.

Mel briefly looked over her shoulder, and then brought her hands down to her knees. Two: slap; linger. Three: smack; brush some dust off. Four, five, six: more of the same, the woods' silence echoing, Mel clearing her throat. Ouch! A little harder by ten. Dory paused, stepped around: eleven, twelve; somebody seems to be meaning some business, Mel thought. Fifteen, sixteen; oh I do believe that was a caress. If she doesn't kiss me when this is over, she is going to be in big trouble. Eighteen, nineteen, and one more for good luck.

"What made you think that was okay?" asked Mel as she turned back around and rubbed her left buttock.

"You." Dory answered, "Why? What are you going to do about it?"

Mel was thinking back on their first kiss, it's long awaited commencement, its gentleness and sheer magnitude as she walked side by side with Dory along the path they'd picked up behind The Second Cup's rear parking lot. She was hyper aware of the feeling in her gloved hand, the hand that swung close by Dory's swinging hand; her open palm tingling with the electrical animal impulses that radiated from her very core. Mel looked around; peering into the windows of houses and parked cars, wanting to just remove her glove and interlace her naked fingers with Dory's.

"So," said Dory; breaking the silence, "How was your day?" 

"My half day?" answered Mel; her eyes still scanning the immediate area, "Oh it was fine; just more of the same. I mean, you know Leanne is cute as all get out, but man; she just looks at me when I'm trying to reinforce the lesson with this expression that says: Are you kidding me? I'm not capable of understanding this! And so like I try to ask the Sped teacher to do her job, and level the stuff for her, you know, so she can experience some success, but she just ignores me. I don't know. I'm just going to start doing it myself."

"You should."

"I will. The coast is clear now. Can I hold your hand?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Nope. Not yet."

Abruptly, Dory dashed away. Mel gasped, and then bolted after her. Dory bounded ahead, nearly slipping twice, but still putting some distance. Slowed by the weight of her backpack, Mel wasn't gaining much ground at all. A moment more and Dory was out of sight. She'd ran around the small cluster of Aspens that marked the beginning of the woodland trail that rounded the north side of their neighborhood. Mel arrived at the spot, stopped, tried to calm her breathing, and scanned the path. Normally, it was pocked with the prints of raccoon, skunk, deer and dog tracks. But, a fresh six inches of snow covered it all. Seeing no sign of Dory's tracks, she scowled.

Turning around, Mel finally saw her, poised ten or so feet away, the snowball she'd just launched not registering until it knocked the knitted cap from her head. Gasping again like an affronted nanny, Mel dropped down to scoop up some snow. Once back to standing, she took another to the neck. Startled, suddenly cold with the snow falling into her shirt, she yelped before firing her return shot. Dory dodged it easily. Mel dropped her backpack, gathered up another handful of snow before sprinting across the trail. Dory glanced at the hill rolling down behind her before turning back around to see Mel start her dive. Trapped, she took the wad of snow Mel had thrown at her chest in midflight, and then crouched for the tackle. Screeching, Mel crashed into her. Clutching at each other, hooting with laughter, they tumbled down the hill.




The Brand Ch. 05



"You're psycho." said Dory after they'd come to a stop, half buried in snow, settled under the weight of each other.

"I happen to be in desperate need of a kiss from you." Mel intoned as she climbed upon Dory's chest, "In fact, I'm desperately in need of a whole lot of things from you, with you...for you."

They held each other's gaze a moment longer; each marveling at the features of the other. Finally, Mel breathed in deeply at Dory's neck, raised her head again, and then took her kiss.

"You mean you don't have any money set aside to get that car fixed?" asked Mel, composed, lips and hands again to herself as they crossed onto the empty street leading toward Dory's house.

"No dude!" said Dory as she shuffled along, "Like all my money goes to my mom for rent."

Bull shit, Mel thought. It goes to all that weed you smoke. In the distance, they could hear the sound of a solitary snow shovel being dragged along wet asphalt.

"Well," Mel continued, "How much do you need? Maybe I can front it-"

"No Mel."

"But I want for us to go somewhere so-"

"Stop Mel."

"But Dory-"

"Shut the fuck up right now Mel!" Dory growled as she quickened her step.

"Okay, okay!" Mel pleaded; catching up, "I'm sorry. I'll stop."

Her joy squashed by its very inspiration, Mel stared pathetically at the toes of her snow boots as they advanced down the road. Her heart heavy with the weight of the silence between them, the sound of the single someone shoveling snow getting louder, Mel mused over what it might look like inside Dory's closet. She imagined a bare wood bar of empty hangers, cardboard boxes of Salvation Army clothes stacked on the floor, a single pair of worn brown loafers tucked into a corner. It was actually how it looked in there, the one in her room anyway. But it pretty much summed Dory up; no room to turn around, everything not in its place, potential going unexploited. And that was when the shoveling stopped.

"Hey!"

Mel looked up. In the driveway to her left stood a very tall, gaunt, hollow cheeked, knobby kneed boy; his black hair shaved so close that it was grey, grey like the silver grey of his eyes, green tinged like the camo pattern of his t-shirt, ragged like the cut-offs hanging from his narrow waist. On his feet were a pair of black combat boots. He held his shovel before him, in both fists across his midline, ropes of veiny muscles coiling up inside his short sleeves. 

"You're Leanne's para, right?"

Mel's gaze bounced between his and Dory's. Dory's expression seemed to ask: Who is this guy Mel wasn't sure exactly. She tried to think. He was vaguely familiar, but...

"Yeah." She admitted finally.

"Yeah that's my boy's little sister." he continued, "You're a dike, right?"

Jesus Christ where had that come from? Mel flushed and scowled.

"Fuck you ass hole!" she shouted. 

"I'm sorry. I meant to say; lesbian. Lesbian; that's okay right? That's when a girl kisses another girl and they eat each other's pussies. Sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said pussies either?"

"You know what?" Mel hissed; stepping away, glancing to see that Dory had continued walking, "Shut up and go fuck yourself!"

"You don't remember me." He went on, "You helped me find those books in the library one time?"

The library? A tall, skinny, black haired boy; with the mole on his right cheek. Books; he could hardly read them, but he had really enjoyed looking at- Randy? Randy Allwine?

"Whatever Randy." Said Mel, "Just go back to your little job there and stop talking shit to me."

"I wasn't-"stuttered Randy; banging the business end of the shovel on his parent's driveway, "I didn't mean-"

Pausing, he regarded her, took a deep breath, and then wagged his head as he let it back out.

"Fine." He continued, "Fuck you too then."

Mel moved briskly away. Dory was yards ahead. As Randy's shoveling resumed, Mel could still hear him say:

"I was just trying to be friendly."

Profoundly saddened and stunned, Mel glanced over her shoulder to take one last look at the young man before sprinting after Dory. God damn it, she thought, you're just going to walk away like that? Yu spineless shit! It's not my fault that the unforeseeable happens! The faster she ran, the further away Dory seemed to become. It's not my fault you can't tell your mother that you don't intend to find a nice boy or that you can't handle it when your friends talk shit about gay people or if some complete stranger threatens to out you before you're ready to do it yourself! You think I don't have my own problems honey?

The things that should never happen, happen, and then, often enough, happen again. As temporary as everything is, chain reactions of grim certainty carry their unfortunate weight and, depending on the individual's salt, the Burdon of personal truth can be as dreadful as the force of 12 Gas or as light as floating on a raft down a meandering river, bouncing smoothly from bank to bank.

It started to snow again; flakes billowing around her, her pace eventually slowing to an easy walk, step after step, her body warm, the past retreating, smooth glass gleaming, her eyes peering into her crystal ball, a swirl of snow inside, floating around a tiny church tower, brown stone buildings and a tiny busy street.

"My brother Vance got me that when he went to Canada."

Melody snapped to attention. Victria was standing to her right, and looking back at her with some concern.

"Yu can stop dusting that now." She said, "It seems clean enough to me. Are you okay?"

"Sure." Melody answered, her voice soft, a melancholy in her eyes, "I'm fine Mistress. I was just thinking."

"It looked more to me like reflecting. I mean, I can see your pretty face in the glass, but I meant, you were-"

"Thinking?"

"Uh, yes; the reflective sort; of thinking."

Victria cleared her throat. I'm sure she didn't see me bring the guns and ammo into the car, she thought. I should lock the crawl space. No. That won't look good at all.

"Forgive me Mistress." Said Melody as she put the snow globe back onto its place, "Reflection it was."

"I forgive you."

Melody then turned to face her.

"You seem nervous Mistress." she remarked, "You're dressed casually, but will you have to play a significant role at your meeting today?"

"No. It's just that I would rather be here; with you."

Melody stared fixedly at Victria for a long moment. Her domme gazed warmly into the depth of the green eyes she had so admired from the very beginning. A smile crept into Melody's lips. 

"You honor me Mistress." She said.

Melody lowered her head then, and Victria realized that she was preparing to lower the rest of herself to kneel at her feet. But, she stopped Melody, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Her slave raised her eyes again and watched as Victria moved in to meet her lips. Lost in their proximity, one's hand found the other's cheek and they began to trail loving fingers along the smooth contours of each other's faces. 

"Then stay with me Mistress." whispered Melody against her domme's parted lips "Let me serve you this morning."

"I can't." said Victria; pulling away and moving off across the living room toward the foyer, "I'll be back. I scheduled for you to have a physical at one this afternoon. I expect you to be showered and dressed in the clothes I left for you."

"Yes Mistress." answered Melody as she watched her domme depart.

"Be standing by this door promptly at one; slut."

"Understood Mistress."

Naked, clasping a feather duster between her fingers at the small of her back, Melody stood in the middle of the living room, her back straight and her feet together. Victria drew the front door open, passed through it, and lingered there to stare at how the morning light shown against her slave's naked, ravishing, body before finally pulling the door closed behind her.

"Ladies first." Simon said as he stuffed a little foam marshmallow of hearing protection in each ear.

Victria glanced up at her colleague as she fit a last round into her gun's magazine. She wouldn't say it out loud, but Victria thought he looked much better in his dress down jeans, loafers and burgundy sweater. She, in her black stretch jeans, black track shoes red Polo and faded denim jacket, gave Simon a slight nod of gratitude as she pushed the magazine into her gun's grip. 

Feeling it click into true, Victria tucked the weapon into an inside pocket of her denim jacket, and then stepped up to the counter of her lane. Other patrons of the indoor range were firing on her left and right as she put her own ear protection into place. Then, settling her vision on the black silhouette target Simon had set for her at five yards, Victria reached for her new .45. A compact Sig, The Commander model, fit comfortably in her hand. The weight of it, even with a full magazine, was still a wieldy, friendly reminder that she was in complete control. 

Dissatisfied with the distance of the target, Victria reached to send it back another five yards. No, she hadn't shot for a while. Yes, she was being arrogant. But, if she focused, let her muscle memory remember everything Macavoy taught her, Simon would have to beat her at forty-five yards. Which, he could quite possibly do. Victria didn't know how good of a shot he was. For all she knew, he was a serious deer hunter or he practiced at his local range on a regular basis. The point was, Victria was being dared, and the only way she knew how to deal with it, was to take it. 

Racking the slide, she chambered a round, disengaged the safety, and then got into her stance. Keeping her trigger finger along the frame, Victria tensed her arms and then relaxed. In a matter of a few seconds more, she curled her finger into the business side of the trigger guard, aligned her sights, leveled the barrel, tightened her grip, trained her dominant eye on the front sight while keeping the silhouette's forehead within her periphery, and then firmly yet smoothly squeezed the trigger.

She didn't pause long enough to see where the bullet had punched through, but reoriented her aim instead, and fired a second shot. Then Victria fired again, and again, and again. Seven rounds later, the magazine empty and the slide locked open, she drew in a great, cleansing, satisfied breath. As she ejected her magazine and thumbed the slide back closed, Simon stepped in to press the target retrieval button. Victria looked up to see its advance, and noticed where her rounds had penetrated: over the left eye, across the bridge of the nose, thrice across the neck, twice in the right ear, and once in the white just beyond the left ear. Simon stared at the puncture marks as he pulled the cardboard target from the clip. Not bad, thought Victria, for not playing with guns in three years.

"Nice." Said Simon as he fastened a fresh target to the clip and then sent it back.

Victria took her time before shooting again, watching Simon take his first aim of the morning. He started with his .45, a Kimber, a very good gun, but high priced. He'd set his target, as she'd expected, to forty-five yards. Presently, Simon fired once, then twice more, set his gun down, and then brought the target back. Victria took note of where he'd placed his shots: one three inches into the white by the left ear, and the other two by the silhouette's right shoulder. Victria reloaded and tried not to smile as she saw that Simon had initiated his gun's laser site.

For the next hour, Victria fired round after round, her mind focused, her confidence soaring, her patterns tightening with each clip. Between the two of them, she and Simon had fired nearly three thousand rounds. The high point had been after Simon had obliged her when she'd asked to try his Kimber. She'd shut off its laser sight, set her target at forty-five yards, and then fired a pattern so tight between the target's eyes that it made a perfectly ovoid triangle.

As much as she wished that it had been Melody she had shot with, Victria was in great spirits by the time she and Simon had packed up their gear and headed out into the parking lot. She had never felt so at ease with Simon, or with any other man for that matter, as she did over the last forty or so minutes.

"Benchmark Marketing Function," Victria explained as she helped Simon load his trunk, "Is how we're going to stay alive in these times. The developing intricacies of business are increasing marketing risks. For our stability and growth, we need hardy marketing and sales functions. We have to identify strategic inflection intervals in the market and adapt as necessary. These days, client's interest, values and budgets change. Think about it Simon; with increased competition and fluctuating regulations, we all need to reinvent our models. Which is why you need to help me get it through to the chief that I need to be allowed the flexibility to benchmark the organization's functions."

"You're at the top now Victria." Simon said as he shut his Mercedes's trunk, "You're a big girl. You can pitch it to him yourself."

Her face had been bright as she'd explained her perspective, but now it paled, her eyes darkening, her face flushing as the words big girl reverberated in her brain.

"Uh-oh." Simon continued, "Did I say something wrong?"

Victria looked away.

"No." she answered, "I mean; yes."

She turned back to face Simon, craning her neck to look into his eyes.

"I mean; look. I demonstrate in the office on a daily basis that I am your equal. As equals we came here, and I just shot circles around your ass. I am not a big girl Simon. I am the vehicle of fucking change in our corporation. We are equals and you will only address me as such."

"I'm sorry." Simon sighed, flipping his keys and catching them again in his palm, once, then twice more, "You're absolutely right Victria. Please accept my sincerest apology. You can't be a big girl because sensible, business savvy, self-respecting women don't; play with dolls, do them Victria."

Once again, just as he'd done in her office a few days before, Simon led her to pause just a little too long.

"Excuse me?" Victria intoned.

"Dolls Victria," Simon repeated; keys up and down, up and down, "Voodoo dolls, to be more precise."

"Simon, I have no idea-"

"Spare me Victria. The Voodoo dolls of me with pins in my fucking head, in Rancourt's chest, Ricchio's crotch and Duffy's stomach. Ricchio's crotch? Really? What the fuck is that about? You're attempting to use black magic to get us out of the way so that you can get to the top? Really? Isn't that just a little; I don't know, childish, weird, and psychotic and pretty fucking stupid?"

"Absolutely not. I happen to be a member of the Eastern Apostolic order of Chow Fung Voodoo. It's hard to find a good belief system you can live with now a days."

"Victria; what you have been recorded doing in your office is a deranged expression of malicious intent."

"Hello; it's ancient Chinese Voodoo! That is actually symbolic of acupuncture. It is my prayer to the Voodoo pantheon that you never suffer from brain cancer and Ricchio never suffers from; erectile disfunction."

"Oh. Well then; my mistake. How nice of you."

"Don't mention it."

"Seriously Victria. I just can't get over that you never noticed the camera."

"It's just a dumb; artistic thing I do to let off steam."

"Yeah, it's fucking dumb alright Victria; and you're dumb for bringing it into the office."

She thought of her personal tablet then, and whether she'd also been observed observing her slave. Victria scanned the immediate area. She watched two men with a range bag each leave Wolf's and make their way toward the other end of the lot. Turning back to face the man before her, Victria said:

"What do you want Simon?"

Melody was waiting by the front door, happy to be wearing clothes again, even if the ensemble included a t-shirt with the words "I am a slut" embossed upon it. She suspected that reactions among the general public would vary over the following weeks and months. A cashier might gaze just a little too long or a little too coolly, and Victria would give it right back and subtlely demeaned the person in the process. A doctor's office though, Melody asked herself. Is that really where I should be seen in this shirt for the first time?

Melody checked her watch. It was five minutes after one. There must be traffic. Five minutes after that, Melody was leaning against the wall and tapping her foot. At a half past one, she toasted herself a bagel, cream cheesed it, and then took it to eat by her designated place by the door. At two o'clock, she went into the living room to grab the remote so that she could watch some TV from the appointed spot. By a quarter after two, resigned to catch a few whacks with the nine, Melody sat herself down by the front door. It might have been another test, but she felt too good about that morning to believe that. At three o'clock, Melody shut off the television and began to pace through the house. Why the Hell didn't she leave her cell number? I have her office line, but she's not at the office. What the fuck Victria!

Suddenly, Melody heard the slam of a car door. Her heart racing, she went to her designated place. If she'd arrived not two seconds later, Victria would have slammed the front door in her face. Her domme burst in, her eyes wide, her hair and clothes disheveled as she sped past.

"Mistress?"

"Something came up." answered Victria as she sprinted up the stairs, "I rescheduled the appointment. We have twenty minutes. Come upstairs and change that shirt into something more socially appropriate."

"Are you okay?" called Melody as she followed her domme up the stairs.

"I'm fine." said Victria as she dashed back down the stairs, her work bag tucked under an arm, "I'll meet you in the car."

Victria rounded the bannister, headed down the stairs to the basement level, and then slammed the door behind her. Nostrils flared, muttering a litany of obscenities between clenched teeth, she withdrew the black enameled strong box from the bag. Fumbling with her keys, Victria eventually opened it, and then looked inside for a long moment. They were all there; each business suited floppy rag doll, pins and all. She took Simon first, withdrew the pin from his head, tossed it to the floor, and then proceeded to vigorously stomp upon it, teeth clenched, grunting like some crazed she gorilla. Tired, dizzy, she took up the flattened doll and set it aside. Presently, Victria removed the rest of the pins from her executives, and then set them beside Simon. 

Checking her watch, she grabbed all the other things she needed, and then opened the patio door. On the flagstones outside her studio, Victria set down a wide steel bowl. Next, she dropped Simon's doll into it, and then sprayed it with turpentine. She then struck a match and dropped it onto the saturated rags. Up in smoke Simon went. Victria paused to regard the remaining dolls. She looked briefly back and forth between the three dolls in her hand and Simon's scorched effigy. Finally, she dropped them into the flames and poured more turpentine. 

Victria checked her watch for a second time as the flames rose. Feeling the heat on her face, she stepped back. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then took in a deep breath. Opening her eyes again, Victriapeered into the woods that ran the length of her back yard, and thought of the idiom: You can't see the forest for the trees. But, she could. She did see it. She saw it all, inside out and around, keenly objective, from every last blade of grass to the smallest veins in the leaves of the highest trees. She was a witness to sheer potentiality, and for the time being; it was a secret between her and the smoke that billowed up before her field of view.



The Brand Ch. 06



"I'll bid eight hundred for the wench!"

"Eight hundred and fifty; right here!"

"I bid eight seventy!"

While Melody's wide green eyes darted from bidder to bidder, fluttering wings of excitement beat down the anxiety that had been churning in the pit of her stomach. She was the third slave of the evening to stand naked on Victria's living room auction block; the burgundy colored silk shift she'd been instructed to put on now gathered around her feet. 

There were twenty men and women, all Victria's guests, staring covetously at her servant lover's finer features. She'd informed Melody months before of her desire to host a Christmas charity fund raising soiree. Now, the party in full swing, after all her preparation and hard work, Melody would have to also be auctioned off to the highest bidder, and for a period of forty-eight hours, serve at that stranger's pleasure.

"I don't think so my dears. "called a confident voice from across the room, I bid "Eleven hundred."

The sudden jump in bid hushed the crowd. From her perch atop the heavy wooden chest Victria had set at the foot of the living room's west wall, Melody appraised the woman that had called out the bid. She was older, yet appealing, perhaps in her early sixties, her body slim with the effort of regular workouts, her olive skin smooth and tight, her modeled shoulders and legs exposed, dressed in a lavender, frilled edged torso hugging cocktail dress, her white blonde hair bound in a tail that flowed from the back of her head.

Victria hadn't gone into detail as to how she'd come to know most of her guests, but Melody had a good idea. People who were comfortable with public scrutinizing a domme's naked sub, and then pay good money to keep her to themselves for a couple of evenings, didn't exactly come out of the wood work. Surely, there were upscale LGTBQ clubs Victria likely frequented, but there were surely other places she went to find other likeminded scene heads that fancied bondage, whips and humiliation play. Otherwise, as Melody carried trays of hors d'oeuvres around to each guest, she learned that there were also present a few prominent business women Victria had befriended and consulted with over the last few years.

"Eleven fifty." bid the woman Victria introduced as Pam; she, with her stylish bob cut black hair and steel blue eyes, who had kissed Melody on both cheeks as she'd entered the house.

"Thirteen hundred." raised the older woman; feasting her eyes on Melody's subtle curves.

Melody reddened, but not because she was self-conscious about her nudity. Her embarrassment at having stripped before the crowd had faded shortly after the first bid. Now, she was flushed with pride; flattered by the assemblage's obvious admiration and the highest bidders' steady raising of her value. It was a week before Christmas, and the proceeds would be going toward Victria's chosen charity; The Healthy Children Project. The slaves would not be getting a percentage of the money generated, but they would have the honor of fulfilling their temporary master's or mistress's every wish over the course of a fort night. 

Through her conversation with the two women that had mounted the block before her, Melody learned that they were no strangers to being shared among their master's or mistress's friends. It was, after all, a slave's honor and duty, and, moreover, the surest sign of a very secure, equally gratifying, relationship. For Melody, the concept, though the prospect of its becoming reality still made her uneasy, had lost its original outlandishness in her mind. Between the training and her intimacy with Victria, Melody was certain that she'd become a proper slave. She'd become happy enough to serve without recompense and she no longer felt in the least demeaned by being thrust into the most humiliating experiences she could have imagined.

It had taken much more sweetly spoken enticement and persuasion than Victria had anticipated it would. But, through their relations over the last few months, slave to mistress, model to artist and as lover to lover, Victria had ultimately convinced Melody that she was indeed a singularly impressive piece of living art, a perfectly sumptuous luxury and a slave of remarkable distinction who was likely to bring the prettiest penny at the auction.

Melody had, of course, winced at the original proposition. She'd opposed Victria's entire plan; from having to prepare for such a large party, do all the cooking and then having to be rented for a perfect stranger's pleasure. Melody had once believed that it was one thing, to work, indentured, in your beneficent lover's home and give your entire self for the sake of her every whim, and entirely another to surrender oneself to be sold, your mind and body commodities, to another. But, that was then. 

The first mention of any auction was brought up back in early September. They were in the waiting room of Victria's primary care office, anticipating the last of the results of Melody's blood tests. A thorough physical and accompanying set of fluid analyses had been in order for Victria's own certainly legitimate reasons, but primarily for the simple fact that Melody had not been to a doctor over the more than two and a half years she'd been homeless. The domme's new slave had been given, at that point, a clean enough bill of health. Her heart, lungs and blood pressure were determined to have been fine. Her bloods too would all likely be at optimal levels, and because Victria had the connections she had to get all of Melody's examinations done in one afternoon, her gyno had affirmed that all was in deed safe and sound in the areas of her choicest, delectable bits. 

As for her mental state, Melody wasn't confronted by any lengthy, probative, examination from a doctor of the discipline of psychology. However, each practitioner that saw her had as Melody perceived it, snooped appropriately enough with questions like: Were you ever verbally, physically or sexually abused as a child? Can you ever recall having had nonconsensual sex? Have you had more than one sex partner at a time? Has anyone ever complained to you that you drink too much? Have you had an abortion or multiple abortions and are you experiencing any decline in your sex drive? Melody's responses were always the same. Unnerved, though assured, Melody answered honestly by simply wagging her head to indicate the negative. 

It would still do, she was certain, to have a private mental state, for both her own and Victria's good. Melody would continue to be generally fine with enslavement and humiliation, and okay enough inside her head, as long as her ghosts stayed right where she'd put them, and as long as there were no further upheavals like being caught in a robbery, with men shouting and guns shooting. The experience had certainly been harrowing, and it had made the ghosts crowd around the inside of her eyes, reaching and crawling, kicking and screaming to be let out, but Victria had stopped them. Her lovely, fearless, domme had forced their retreat and Melody's gratitude was so deep that it could not be expressed in words, but through her ambition to serve, to surrender as totally and to submit as completely as her soul could manage.

"Well hello there Geralynne!" said Victria as she watched the tall, lean, artfully cut shaggy blonde haired woman walk regally into the waiting room, "Good to see you."

Victria rose to her feet and walked to the woman. 

"This is my friend," said Victria, gesturing toward her slave, "Melody May."

Melody tossed her magazine aside; stunned by the certainty that it was that very woman who had just conducted her gynecological examination. Uh hello, she thought, the hand that rocked my cradle? Blushing, Melody rose from the chair and watched the doctor withdraw the long fingers of her hand out from Victria's. How closely, exactly, do these two know each other anyway? Speechless, Melody nodded slightly at the woman, and then gave her a forced smile.

"Actually," said Dr. Tucker; smiling warmly, "We've already met." 

Yes, we certainly have, Melody mused, feeling more than a little awkward as she slowly sidled back to her chair. She found herself suddenly imagining Victria, clad in a paper gown, her pretty bare feet held in the stirrups of an examination table, the good doctor preparing to test the taste and texture of her patient's naturally lubricated, gleaming pink vaginal topography.

"Ms. May is the picture of health." Dr. Tucker spoke discreetly into Victria's ear, "I just checked the last of her labs, and all is perfectly in order."

"Good. Thanks Geralynne."

"Anytime. Now tell me Victria; are we still on for the auction?"

"We are. In fact, Melody will be catering the entire affair herself."

Melody cleared her throat as she reached for the magazine she'd just been flipping through.

"Really?" said the doctor; glancing at Melody once more as she stepped toward the waiting room's exit, "Wonderful. I'll be looking forward to it. I'll see you soon Victria?" 

"Absolutely." answered Victria, nodding.

It was nice meeting you Melody."

Tucker gave her a final smile as she pulled the door behind her. Melody, another forced smile raising her lips, gave the good doctor a quick wave good-bye.

"Auction?" said Melody after she and Victria had entered the empty elevator, "What; auction?"

"Oh," sighed Victria after the doors closed, "I'm just hosting an auction to raise money for the charity of my choice."

"What will you be auctioning at this; auction?" Melody probed, searching Victria's eyes as they watched the light descend through the numbers over the elevator's door. 

"We'll be auctioning slaves, of course."

"And when were you going to tell me Mistress?"

Victria suddenly swung her head to face her slave.

"Watch yourself Girl!" she hissed, "I just informed you. You still have plenty of time to prepare."

"Prepare."

"The menu Slave, the menu. I'm certain you will prepare a fine spread for us."

The elevator arrived at the hospital's lobby and Victria briskly stepped out its opening doors. Melody scurried after her. 

"But Mistress," hissed Melody; trying to keep her panicked voice down, "I've never prepared a; spread before. What if I can't?"

Victria walked on. Melody followed after her, weaving through lobby traffic and quickly stepping through the automatic doors at the hospital's entrance. Once street side, the domme stopped in her tracks and leveled a vicious stare at her servant lover. 

"You can, and you will." she commanded, her voice silky, her words edged with scorn. 

It was final. She knew enough not to challenge or argue with her domme any further, so Melody dropped the matter as she hurried to keep up. Once back at home, she'd prepared a quick meal for Victria, and then continued with her studies. As days passed, Melody continued to focus on her course work, met her mistress's needs as they came up and took occasional breaks to consult the Internet for all things related to executing a formal dinner party for between twenty and thirty people.

So life went on for Melody May as she completed the first semester of course work toward her Bachelor's in business administration while continuing to serve at her mistress's pleasure. Between her being pleased with Melody's excellent grades and seeming to enjoy discussing the marketing principles her indentured girl had learned, Victria's mood had warmed eventually, though she did still turn frostier than usual at times. She'd remained somewhat morose and distant for a few weeks after that strange Saturday she'd come home late, over two hours late, from her meeting. Melody had tried to ask what happened, but Victria either simply ignored her inquiry or venomously scolded her for being far too curious for a slave's good.

Over time, Melody came to realize that the key to Victria's working herself back out of the funk, initiated on that odd day, was evidenced by a steady increase in her domme's artistic productivity. From mid-September to late November, Melody had modeled for a staggering number of paintings, installations, short films and photographs, all of which she decided were totally brilliant.

Most of the work had been done in the barn behind the house. It was utilized as a second studio, its spaciousness allowing Victria to work on larger canvases and create enormous installations to photograph or film. Its structure, dating back to eighteen hundred and forty-nine, had an extremely weathered exterior, which both women admired. It also appeared from the outside that it always seemed on the verge of collapse. But, Victria had updated the old barn's interior to code, reinforced it for safety and wired it for power and light.

It had been primarily in that large, bright, space that Victria started her Pollock inspired experiments; what Victria referred to as adventures guided by the notion of psychic autotomotism. She'd had Melody apply four or more coats of gesso on a series of four by eight foot panels of Masonite, and then sand their surfaces smooth. Then Victria applied a base coat to establish a color theme. Once it was dry, Melody undressed, crawled onto a given panel and was then posed in a variety of ways; prone, supine, fetal or arms and legs spread wide. 

Then the fun happened. Victria would mix gallons of body paint, gather a variety of brushes, spoons, ladles and spray bottles, set a step ladder along the edge of each side of each panel, and then dropped bucket after bucket of paint onto her slave's body. It was very messy business, but Melody began to get sexually charged by the process, particularly from the feeling of anticipation and then the ultimate sensations of cool paint being splashed upon her body.

Their admiration of each other had grown through the extended series of photographs Victria had taken of Melody in her varied colors and states. The artistic component to their relationship had become one of Victria's regular means of effecting Melody's mental and sexual conditioning. After each session, there occurred the loving enrichment of Victria's washing the paint from her slave's body, using the shower head to bring her close to orgasm, only to deny her, dry her off, rub her down with moisturizer, and then inform her that she was not allowed to come until three days later. 

There were a few occasions when Victria would immediately spray Melody into an orgasmic frenzy or devour her pussy until she shook and whimpered with satisfaction. But, most times she didn't. Most times went according to Victria's plan and pleasure; making her slave wait so long for it that she started to also become sexually charged by eating her entire dinner from Victria's palm, answering the door naked for the parcel delivery man or when, out in public, she wore the shirt that had the words printed across her breasts: "I am a total slut."

Another of their psycho-sexual artistic ventures began with the checking of the weather to determine if they could get three days in a row of the same kind of sun light and climate. Victria would then take a photo of a sun rise or a sun set, print the shot and then paint Melody up so that she matched the scene for the very same time on the following day. The effect was to get her model to match as seamlessly as possible into the world. Victria had become so adept at mixing color that Melody was almost indistinguishable from the background. There was the sun lit series, magical in Melody's bright yellows, blues and greens, and the series done under the sky of an over cast day; beautifully somber in her subtle greys, browns and ambers.

The air had gradually come to hold the inexorable fragrance of dying summer, but those mid-September days passed warmly enough to continue modeling nude and be painted outside. Meanwhile, Victria punctuated the time between sessions with hours of contrasting extended caressing between the impact play of spanking and flogging, sensual oil massages, intermittent orgasm denial or forced multiple orgasm and forced squirting. Though it was all for the sake of pleasure, Victria had come to invest as much time and effort into her slave's training as her slave had in her course work and domestic responsibilities.

Ultimately, her sexual domination techniques and sadist impact play served to heighten Melody's sexual response; there by causing her to be more readily amenable, compliant and more disposed to Victria's most stimulating bad ideas.

In due course, it had been on a particularly balmy day, as Victria was tuned to shot after shot, under the threat of rain that Victria herself had finally succumbed to her own game. One drop after another, a shower began to fall, the warm fat droplets becoming more and more numerous, and then falling faster and faster, until she watched Melody's lovely brown hair wilt and her skin become washed free of paint, leaving Melody utterly joyful and Victria keenly aware of the sheer beauty of it. Taking a last few pictures of Melody dancing under the plummeting torrent, Victria set her camera down on the patio table, and then proceeded to undress. 

By the time Melody had turned around again, she was stilled by the sight of her domme's naked body. They stood facing one another, laughing at each other and drinking the rain. Then Melody reached her hands and Victria took them. Locked in a tight, though slippery, embrace, the two women began to ravage each other with kisses until their passion took them toward the muddied earth, one wrapped upon the other, Victria almost immediately climaxing in her slave's mouth as she devoured Melody's sex, the fragrant earth in her nostrils, the taste of divinity and paint on her tongue.

"Fifteen hundred." called Victria; reclined on her chaise, hoisting a goblet of spiced wine to her lips, her ankles crossed, someone else's collared girl kneeling by her feet.

The collared girl, radiant, obviously of Puerto Rican descent, dressed in an elfin forest green cocktail dress with puffy shoulders and layers of lace under skirting, had dyed her long, luxurious hair a shimmering, Christmas red. Both she and Melody had turned to meet Victria's sullenly arrogant gaze, as had most of the rest of the crowd. 

Her being their hostess, the guests agreed that Victria should also be designated as auctioneer. Over the holiday swing music whispering from the living room's surround sound, a soft throaty laugh came from somewhere within the back of the crowd. Melody turned in that direction, and though she saw Dr. Geralynne Tucker leaning against a space of wall just inside the hallway to the kitchen, she didn't know for certain whether it had been see that had uttered it.

"But she can't bid on her own slave; right?" spoke someone from the sofa, "I thought-"

"Quiet slut." came another voice.

"Sixteen hundred." answered the attractive white haired woman as she rose from her seat by the tree.

Melody watched the woman walk over, settle into a standing position by the entertainment center, and then begin to eye her body more closely. Someone among those crowded on the sofa across the room muttered something under their breath, though it had been spoken loud enough apparently to elicit riotous laughter from the tight gaggle of guests seated there. The white haired woman glanced gloweringly in their direction while Victria gently shook her glass and studied the rippling surface of her wine.

"Sixteen fifty." said Pam as she stepped out from the hallway and sidled through the crowd.

A very successful vegetarian specialty restauranteur, Pam had spent most of her time that evening in the kitchen, tasting and praising Melody's culinary delights and skills. Now, with a brandy in hand, she settled into a spot by the coffee table, and lingered her gaze between Victria and the white haired woman. Melody, as a result of the older woman's nearness and scrutiny, suddenly began to feel self-conscious again, particularly about the scar on her right outer thigh. Though she'd gone so far as to have forgotten its presence for the last month, Melody still crept timid fingers over its angry red sheen. 




The Brand Ch. 06



But still; what about it, she asked herself. The first slave sold, a brunette, lovely and large breasted, was auctioned off for six hundred and fifty dollars. Then the second slave, a shimmering blonde, tawny and athletic, sold for seven hundred and seventy. Melody couldn't imagine why her bidding price had gotten so high, but she could safely assume that every eye in the room had come upon her scar certainly more than once. Presently, as her eyes bounced from face to face, Melody removed the hand from her scar, and then nestled it into the palm of the other hand behind her back. An instant more and she finally noticed the bright eyes and warm smile of the red head Latina that happened to be kneeling by the foot of Victria's chaise.

"Turn around once for me dear." asked the white haired woman.

Melody slowly turned one hundred and eighty degrees, allowing the rest of the group the same perspective the old woman had sought. 

"Hmm." Said the woman sharply, "Seventeen hundred. You may turn around again." 

"Seventeen fifty." called Victria.

"Nineteen hundred." said Pam.

Both the white haired woman and Victria turned to regard Pam. Pam smiled back at them both, and gave a slight shrug.

"Really Pamela?" Victria intoned, "Has it been that long that you're between slaves?"

"Now now Ms. Charpentier." Pam replied, "Don't be nasty. No worries; I'll bring her back the way I got her. Promise."

"Three thousand." The white haired woman announced.

Hoots and hollers burst from the crowd. Melody shrieked, and then tried to tone down her giggling fit by putting her hands before her smiling mouth. Victria raised an eye brow as she regarded the woman. Pam burst into laughter and scanned the faces of her fellow guests.

"Three thousand five hundred!" shouted Pam before taking another sip of her brandy.

The crowd returned to silence.

"Thirty-seven hundred." Bid the older woman as she went back to her seat by the Christmas tree.

"Four thousand." said Pam as she leveled her gaze at the woman, "You're Eleanor, Eleanor Hydleman, right?"

With a look of smug contempt, the white haired woman met Pam's gaze.

"Forty-five hundred." She said; staring Pam squarely in the eye. 

"Ten thousand."

The astonishing bid had been uttered by a new voice. Huskily feminine, her tone was somnolent, imposed upon, as if intimating that her time would have been better spent asleep. A murmur of inquiry percolated through the assembled guests. The white haired woman got to her feet to better scan the room. Victria leaned forward, her view only to be blocked by milling bodies. Pam remained as she was, though she'd raised an eye brow and smiled slightly just before she took another short draft of her brandy. Melody stood motionless and wide eyed, her hands still covering her mouth. Dr. Geralynne Tucker peeked back through a wavy curtain of blonde hair, raised her glass to Melody, and then took a sip.

The view from Geralynne's penthouse was dazzling; a moonlit city scape, twinkling ribbons of flowing traffic, towering high rises and gleaming spires and the black river meandering through the snow blanketed distance. Melody stared through her own dim reflection, lamenting the phantom of herself as she studied the scene beyond the glass. 

The party had ultimately not ended well for Melody. Though flawlessly executed, its guests leaving full bellied and jubilated, her confidence and excitement had suddenly devolved and withered into a dry husk of degradation and self-loathing. Blinded by her own happiness and contentment, Melody had made an error in judgment, there by displeasing her mistress.

"Oh I certainly am her model." she'd confessed to a keenly interested Pam, "She does absolutely amazing work. Has she ever shown you?"

There was a break in the auction as Victria's guests returned to the kitchen and refilled their dishes. Geralynne and Pam approached Melody after she'd descended the block and dressed. There they stood together for a time while Victria organized the second round of the evening's slaves.

"Actually," said Geralynne; regarding Pam, "We had no idea. Is she really that good?"

"Oh Dr. Tucker," Melody continued; excitedly animated, "My Mistress's really just incredible. You really must see it; her paintings, photographs, film! "

Victria's slave raved on and on. She described her domme's inspired efforts, the full body painting ; turning her into various things, animals or objects that stood out from the background of an installation, and were quite worthy of recording through photography or short film . Melody made particular mention of the series Victria had taken of her; describing off hand the shaving of her vulva so that Victria could paint every last inch of her in the colors of the changing foliage, camouflaging her so flawlessly, so undetectably that it took nearly an hour alone to find her eyes.

"And not to mention her experiments in the psycho automatic-"

"Slave?"

Melody turned immediately, tuned to the familiar voice.

"Mistress! I-"

She was about to relate to her domme the nature of her conversation. But, Victria's eyes had shown her that she already knew. Suddenly fearful and ashamed, Melody stopped herself from speaking any further, and then looked away.

"Victria!" said Pam, "Melody was just telling us about your art work. We had no idea! Can we have a look?"

Victria didn't answer, but continued to stare intently at her slave's reddening face.

"Come on Charpentier," Geralynne appealed, "Surely there must be something hanging around here we can take a look at. Slave? Go and fetch something."

"I'm sorry Mistress Geralynne," Melody intoned; her voice unsteady, "But I can't do that."

Geralynne and Pam glanced at each other. Victria regarded them both coolly, giving them a single slow nod.

"But you were so excited to show us!" said Pam; staring sympathetically at the slave.

Tears welled then at the corners of Melody's limpid green eyes and her cheeks reddened more deeply.

"I, I presumed too much Mistress Pamela." answered Melody; crying softly, "I have over stepped my boundary as a slave, and I mustn't say anything else."

"Victria?" said Pam; regarding her hostess disapprovingly.

Victria tapped at the wrapped gift she'd been holding, making Melody and the other two suddenly aware of it. Leveling her gaze at her friends, Victria gripped one edge of the box in her right hand, and then began to beat its opposite edge rhythmically, firmly, against the open palm of her left.

"It is not my wish to be inhospitable." she stated; her words measured, icily sincere, "But the slave is correct. Please do not take offense, but understand that there will be no impromptu art show. Slave?"

"Yes Mistress." sniffed Melody; her cheeks shining.

Victria turned to face her.

"I want you to stop your crying and be a big girl now." she said; extending the package to her slave, "It's still a party, and you've done a marvelous job. We'll discuss your punishment when you get back. Now Buck up, Cowboy."

Melody dried her eyes, smiling slightly.

"That's right." Victria continued as her friends looked on, "Now; take this, and open it.

Melody did as she was instructed, removing the festive bow and opening the box to reveal a gleaming choker of solid platinum, a series of seven small emeralds mounted along its front and its rear meeting in twin loops. Resting at the bottom center of the box's lustrous cushioning was a matching platinum padlock and key. Her tears then falling anew, Melody let herself get turned around by Victria. That done, she fit the collar around her slave's neck, passed the padlock's shackle through the collar's twin loops, secured it, and then dropped the key into her pocket.

Hours later, her eyes dry, her face refreshed, still poised before the window in Geralynne's apartment, Melody regarded her collar's reflection. Slowly, she reached keen finger tips to it, and felt its closeness to her skin, its warmth, and its obdurate firmness. Sighing, she glanced to the stretch of window to her left and saw that Geralynne Tucker, still dressed in her slacks and ugly Christmas sweater, was standing on the far side of the room, regarding her. 

She'll want to know more about me, thought Melody. That's what we're supposed to do, people; we learn about each other. Beyond chasing dragon orgasms, that's really all there is to do here while we build ourselves up to who we want to be or tear ourselves down or just wait to die, waiting to just; die. Shush Melody. Play your own game. Lie. Tell her whatever the hell you want while she has her way with you. 

"I need to apologize to you."

Melody turned briskly, her long skirt swinging and settling back to stillness around her legs. Victria had picked the plum colored dress for her to where for Geralynne that evening, the very one she'd caught her wearing months before. She'd been told that morning to remain nude until told otherwise, but Melody had tried on clothes as she'd tidied her domme's room and earned her first major punishment. Yet it hadn't been a punishment at all. She'd been afraid of the first few lashings, but it had only been an excuse for Victria to show Melody, to teach her Exactly how good her body could feel once she surrendered and trusted the hand that wielded the whip.

"I should have asked someone else to examine you that afternoon." Geralynne continued; no longer seeming as tired as she'd been at the party, "It was unprofessional, an impropriety resulting from my desire to; satisfy my curiosity."

Geralynne's words had initiated a silence. Beautifully demure, her light brown hair artfully gathered upon her head, her lovely neck, her gleaming collar and soft white shoulders exposed and her fingers loosely interlaced at her midline, Melody remained silent and waited. Beneath her flowing skirt, she clenched the muscles around the places that the good Dr. Tucker had investigated, and squeezed the second gift that Victria had given her that night. On the bed, beside the dress, had been a tube of anal lube and a bright green silicone vibrating butt plug. It was comprised of five fairly large beads, largest at the base and smallest at the tip, the tip diminishing to a point.

"Mistresses," Melody said finally, "Can afford to; satisfy their curiosity."

Geralynne, one arm folded under her breasts, the other holding up the first upon which she'd perched her chin, slowly closed her eyes, and then opened them again. There, Melody mused, you're forgiven. So now what? For a long moment, the two women continued to regard each other. Melody recalled preparing herself, not an hour earlier, for her two nights with Geralynne; packing her bag, washing up, lubing her ass, calling Victria upstairs to insert the gift into her ass, getting dressed, and then doing her hair.

She'd then descended the stairs, prepared to leave, and saw that the party was still in full swing. Geralynne was seated on the arm rest of the sofa, by the Christmas tree, where the white haired woman had been sitting. She watched as her temporary mistress swung her ring of keys quickly around her long index finger. Following her gaze, Melody saw that Geralynne was looking at what everyone else was looking at; the latest slave on the block. It was the Puerto Rican girl; her bright red hair loose around her naked, shining, olive shoulders, her beautiful slightly outer weighted round breasts, her flat tummy, long brown legs and the pale brown clef of her cleanly shaven vulva. The woman, Yazmina, was Geralynne's girl. Again, she smiled back at Melody, though there seemed something more to it, something less friendly than the smile before.

"The auctioneer bids eighteen thousand!" shouted Victria from the chaise upon which she still held court.

The guests screamed with approval. Melody was suddenly stunned, embarrassed and crestfallen. Eighteen thousand dollars, she thought. What the fuck is that about?

"You're drunk Victria!" Pam howled; seeming drunk enough herself, an arm around the shoulder of a fairly soused Eleanor Hydleman.

"Oh God Pam please." laughed Victria as she raised an arm, "Going once!"

Victria pointed an index finger at the pretty, collared, creature on the block. An attractive bald man was standing close by, in tight leather pants and a bare chest, his nipples apparently pierced with a matching pair of gleaming spheroid ornaments plucked from Victria's tree. Defeated, he wagged his head. 

"Going twice!"

Victria extended a second finger. Geralynne, seeming resigned, yawned.

"Sold; to me!" Victria shouted, leading the crowd in an uproar, "Yay me! Wrap her up! No wait; stay just like that! You can put that back on later. What's your name again honey? Oh yeah, Slave; forgot."

Melody remembered how Victria's prize had bounced on the block, sending her undeniably lovely breasts into a jiggling fit for her audience, for her Joan domme. As she stood there in Geralynne's vast living room, watching her taking her first steps to decrease the distance between them, Melody still felt the sting of jealousy. It was wrong, she knew, selfish, to let such feelings linger. 

There were mutually agreed upon standards. It had been explained to her, to Yazmina; there was to be no kissing on the mouth nor any attempts to put anything into any private place that happened to already be filled with something. The somethings, Melody's anal plug and Yazmina's very expensive Vulvulator, were each Victria's and Geralynne's reciprocal lines in the sand and talismans of control. Everything else; was fair game.

"Who are you?" asked Geralynne as she stepped behind Melody and began to undo her hair.

"I am Slave." Melody answered with conviction.

"Why do you exist?"

Geralynne walked slowly back around to face her slave for the evening, and then began to run her fingers gently through her hair.

"To serve my mistress." answered Melody, looking away.

Stepping in closer, Geralynne began to sniff at Melody's left ear, temple and forehead; her lips caressing her slave's skin as she made her way along the delicate contours of her face.

"Who is your mistress?" she asked, lowering her voice.

Melody raised her head, and leaned back slightly, so as to better look upon Geralynne's face. Then, a recognizable impudence in her eyes, she said:

"Victria Charpentier."

Geralynne paused to study Melody. Her slave did not look away, not until the domme resumed the lingering of her lips along Melody's cheek and jaw line. 

"And who is your mistress through this night and the next?" 

Geralynne had spoken the words softly against Melody's chin. The slave closed her eyes as she began to tighten her lips in uneasy anticipation. It was in that instant, as Melody's perfect stranger's lips verged dangerously close to Melody's, that Geralynne's cell began to fitfully vibrate, its buzzing bounce echoing from the counter across the room.

Victria was seated backwards in one of her kitchen chairs, one arm draped over the back rest, the other holding her cell up to her ear. She was intently staring at Yazmina, standing across the room, naked but for her collar and a pair of dark green pumps, working at the kitchen's sink. She'd been instructed to put her dress back on after she'd come off the block, and remained clothed until Melody, Geralynne, and all the rest of the guests finally departed. Then, after the last straggler was ushered out, Victria commanded her eighteen thousand dollar slave to once again remove her clothes.

Yazmina Maldonado, Geralynne's slave of three years, went immediately to task. Then, after she'd draped her dress atop the chaise, the slave lowered herself to her knees at Victria's feet. In the silence, her eyes wide with sweet obedience, she peered up into her domme's eyes. Victria, her expression solemn and confident, stepped out of her slippers and kicked them aside. Smiling, Yazmina brought her face down to meet her mistress's bare feet, and then kissed them until they shown with the effort of her exquisite submission.

"It's a bit late, isn't it Victria?" said Geralynne, foregoing her usual polite hello.

"Then let me not cut into your precious time any more than I need to." answered Victria as she studied Yazmina washing dish after dish, taking particular interest in the subtle sway of her sweetly round ass, "Now, please; hand the phone to my girl."

Victria's eyes were tuned to the music of Yazmina's body, her quick steps between the sink and kitchen table, her tawny body stretched, wrapping left overs, her firm breasts jiggling slightly with her effort, carefully scraping serving platters clean, washing tray after tray; all the while humming serenely to herself.

"Hello?" came Melody's voice.

"Hi Cowboy."

"Hi Mistress. Oh my God, I just realized. A lot of the pots and trays I used have to soak!"

"It's all being taken care of. No worries."

"Oh."

"Now; are you being a good girl for Dr. Tucker?"

"I think so?"

Melody glanced at Geralynne. After having handed over the phone, she'd stepped into the kitchen, and had gone about pouring two glasses of wine. Her back was to Melody when she'd heard her begin to laugh softly into the phone. Eventually, as she carried one of the glasses to her slave for the evening, Melody began to answer Victria in hummed yeses and noes, with short giggling bursts in between.

"She says you should show me your bedroom." advised Melody as she took the wine from Geralynne; her expression soberly timid.

Geralynne quietly beckoned. With phone still to her ear and wine in her hand, Melody followed. Once inside the bedroom, Melody rounded the bed, drank two gulps of her wine, and then set the glass down on the night stand. Then, stepping briskly back to Geralynne, the slave turned her back and said:

"She wants you to take my dress off."

Sighing impatiently, Geralynne reached her long fingers to unzip the back of Melody's dress. A moment more, and she'd peeled it to the floor around the slave's feet, and then carefully removed it from around her ankles. Then, as Geralynne hung it in her closet, Melody, still humming and giggling in the phone, crawled onto the bed. By the time Geralynne returned to the foot of her bed, the slave had lain back, fit the pillows comfortably behind her head, raised her legs, and then spread them far apart.

"Please Mistress!" giggled Melody; still holding the phone to her ear, "Would you mind turning on my butt plug?"

Geralynne slipped out of her shoes, and then crawled onto the bed. Kneeling between the younger woman's legs, she located the button that buldged from Melody's anus and pressed it. Her crossness and impatience having given way to focused concupiscence, Geralynne sat back to admire the scene. 

"Now watch." whispered Melody.

Extending her legs, the phone remaining at her ear, the slave began to stare at Geralynne.

"Yes." Melody sighed into the phone.

Geralynne's eyes wandered over every beautiful inch of the slave until finally letting her gaze come to rest on Melody's blossoming vulva.

"Yes." again she whispered into the phone, her stare, though intent on Geralynne's face, becoming glazed.

The good doctor continued to gawp, watching Melody's labia begin to part, swelling and glistening; light catching drops of dew forming along its inner most hairs.

"Yes." Melody whispered again; stretching the word, the lids over her eyes getting heavier.

With her free hand, the young slave gripped her left breast firmly, and then thrust its nipple into her mouth. Geralynne began to flush, her eyes flitting between the sight of Melody's sultry stare, the wet place between her tongue and her nipple and the gleaming bud of flesh that was rising from her pussy.

"Yes, yes!" moaned Melody as Geralynne watched the young woman's clitoris rise higher, peaked like a pink mountain in miniature, the valley below flooded with the juices of its tectonics.




The Brand Ch. 06



The doctor could no longer resist beginning to undress, and flung the first of her garments, the ugly sweater, from her body. Quickly, she returned her attention to Melody. Her eyes still open, Melody stared hungrily into Geralynne's face. Slowly, the handsome, older woman crept closer.

"Ah, yes, yeah, oh, oh, oh! Oh God, oh God, uhhhmmm!"

The phone still pressed to her ear, Melody's hips began to quake as her juices dripped, painting the clef of her ass and puddling in the folds of Geralynne's comforter. An instant more and the slave's body went rigid as her triumphant clitoris reigned over the sudden jettisoning of milky streams of liquid up into the air. Mesmerized, Geralynne watched the spurts fall again to the sloping terrain of Melody's sex, belly and breast. 

Melody's eyes had closed only for an instant. When they opened again, she leveled them once more at Geralynne's, reached her free hand down to her pussy, dipped her first two fingers inside, and then brought them sopping to her mouth for a good drink. Geralynne removed her bra, breathing heavily, and exposed her pale conical breasts and their pale pink nipples. Then, as she went about undoing her slacks, Melody extended the phone in her direction and said, smiling:

"She says she wants to talk to you."

Geralynne leaned in and took the phone while the slave luxuriated in her own juices and intermittently clenched the muscles around the segmented plug still vibrating inside her ass.

"Tucker?" Victria said serenely.

"Yes?" breathed Geralynne as she brushed her pants down around her ankles.

"Enjoy."

Victria pulled the cell away from her ear, tapped end, and then regarded Yazmina, a sly gleam in her eyes.

"Mira!" she shouted.

Her slave for the evening suddenly turned, her expression alert, her body relaxed. In her light brown hands, her red nails sharp and shining, she held a large glass platter and a dish towel.

"Si signora?" Yazmina said demurely.

"I bet you're glad you didn't have to go home with that bald guy with the pierced nipples." said Victria.

"Hell yes," Yazmina answered, "And what was up with that old lady?"

"You're also lucky you didn't go home with her." Victria remarked as she rose from her chair, "She's very much into needle play and not very good at it."

"Oh my God; so why did mistress Pam go with her?"

Shrugging, Victria pushed the chair back under the table, and then tossed her cell to the counter.

"Because she happens to also have a very long tongue she can use very well, I heard."

Yazmina laughed heartily as she set the dried platter onto a short pile she'd heaped by the dish drain.

"I'm sorry," said the Latina sweetly as she began to wring the dish towel in her hands and looked down at Victria's feet, "But I don't know where these should go."

"Of course you do," answered Victria; folding her arms before her, "You're just being a lazy fucking bitch; just like you're Puerto Rican mother raised you to be."

Yazmina scowled, but did not look up. In the growing silence, Victria watched as the Latina's eyes reveal the sudden insolence that was filling her mind. That didn't take much, she thought.

"Your mother," Victria continued, "I bet she's really loud, all the time, huh? And; I bet you go visit her, and still all she makes for dinner is rice and beans, every time."

"She doesn't yell." Yazmina insisted, "That's just the way she talks; Mistress."

"Right. And I bet she lets you know when you've put on weight, and then tries to make herself sound like she was being cute. Hey, does she introduce new cousins to you like every couple of years?"

Yazmina didn't answer.

"Does she?"

Slowly, Yazmina raised her head just high enough so that Victria could see her angry stare through the strands of gleaming red hair that hung over her face. 

"No." she said; annunciating with venomous clarity, "She; doesn't."

"Did Geralynne make you shave your pubes because they were infested with lice?"

"What is you're fucking problem bitch!?!" hollered Yazmina; as she balled her hands up into fists, "Don't you think you're crossing a line here?"

"No." Victria answered, "I've only just walked up to it." 

"Really?"

"Really. Me cago en la su madre. There; now I've crossed it."

The Latina's eyes went wild. Victria watched her every move; from her stunned dance of disbelief, to her quick retreat to the sink, her wide eyed search for something, anything, until the crazed naked woman withdrew an enormous kitchen knife from the dish drain. Entirely sober, her senses on edge, Victria watched her slave fling the blade in her direction, side stepped it, and then watched it fly, spinning, through the hallway, into the living room, where it finally disappeared somewhere inside the Christmas tree.

"Shit on my mother?" the slave screamed as she pulled one high heel, then the other heel, throwing them both at Victria, "So pendeja! Maldita sea la madre que te parió! My pussy is fucking clean slut!"

"Mama bisho." Said Victria with a smile, not certain if she'd told the maddened Latina that she sucked dick or that her mother did.

Screaming again, the slave lunged at her, and threw blow after open handed blow. Focused, Victria held her own, blocking swipe after swipe. Her intention was to tire the wench out before she got a good grip on her hair. Yazmina had come close once or twice, trying to gain purchase on her ears, to grab an ear ring and rip it out, but Victria knew enough to take them out ahead of time. Suddenly, she was surprised with a sucker punch to the gut. Keeling over, Victria propelled her falling body into Yazmina's. Together they fell, and rolled across the floor. 

They were a mass of swinging arms and legs. As Victria tried to grab Yazmina's clawing hands, the Latina managed to rip off Victria's sweater and bra. Then, as she tried to protect her breasts, she gave Victria a good punch to the mouth. Suddenly more furious and sexually charged, Victria landed her own blow, an upper cut to the slave's chin. Though stunned, Yazmina put Victria in a choke hold as she pumped her legs and used her feet to scrape Victria's slacks and panties down to her ankles. But, the domme slipped one leg out from the tangle of clothing, got a good footing, gripped the Latina's head, and then slammed her back against the side of the refrigerator.

Victria felt Yazmina's body go slack. Breathing heavily, Victria kicked her clothes away and staggered toward the counter. She withdrew two sets of shackles she'd placed in the drawer earlier, and then returned to the wench. Once she'd bound the woman's wrists and ankles, Victria commenced to drag Yazmina by her thick red hair; her body moving smoothly along the shining wood floor. Once at the foot of the stairs, she thought better of continuing to drag Yazmina that way, so Victria picked the woman up in her arms and carried her up to her bedroom. 

"Aye Mami! Yes baby. That's right. Eat my pussy. Eat that fucking pussy bitch!"

"Ouch. Easy. My lip still hurts."

"Oh yeah cabrona. So what? So does my fucking jaw; not to mention my back. Aye, aye, oh yes, yes Mami!"

Victria's face was slick with the drippings from Yazmina's delicate pink folds. Geralynne had insisted that her slave's vagina be off limits and aroused only through the very expensive Vulvanater; a wonder of modern technology, designed to bring its wearer to new heights of orgasm. However, both Yazmina and Victria agreed that was bull shit, that there was nothing like a practiced tongue and warm, soft, lips and that what Geralynne didn't know, didn't hurt her. They did however, honor the kissing code. They always had and they always would. 

"Come on. Come on. Aye, aye, uhmmmmm oh Mami!"

Yazmina's body tightened into stillness and her mouth went agape as Victria affected her climax. Crash, came the first small wave. It was the sign, Victria knew, having eaten the Latina's intendedly forbidden pussy on a number of other occasions, to pour on the crisscross wagging tongue thing Yazmina liked so much. So she did, kicking it up, sending the woman's pelvis into an uproar. Victria felt Yazmina's finger tips trace the outer edges of her ears, and she winced as her pubic bone jabbed her swollen lip again and again.

"So," sighed Yazmina as they lay beside each other in Victria's bed, "Do you love her?"

The Latina studied Victria's eyes as she waited for her answer, thumbing her domme's clitoris into a harder shade of red. Victria regarded her and saw the past reflected in her eyes; all their days and nights of training, fighting, mutual devouring, Yazmina's ultimate thievery, her final whipping and then expulsion. She'd popped up again, somehow crossing paths with Geralynne, bleeding heart Geralynne, can't train her own slave Geralynne. 

Yazmina begged Victria to keep her crime, the pilfering of eight thousand dollars' worth of jewelry, a secret, because life with Geralynne was just right: not too hot and not too cold. She'd never gone without, under Victria's care, but she'd been desperate to help pay off her sister's bond. For Yazmina, it was a matter of being at the right place at the right time, so she seized the opportunity. Then, once she'd gotten back from hocking the stuff in New York, she found Victria waiting in her mom's apartment, her mom and sister bound and gagged, Victria ready with shackles, chains and a switch she'd cut from one of the trees on her property. She'd ung Yazmina from a rafter in her mother's attic, gagged her and painted an artful geometric order of raised lines across her back, buttocks and thighs. Then, after Victria had taken photos of her work, unchained the girl and removed her gag, Yazmina begged to be kissed. So Victria kissed her, long and deep, for the very last time.

"I'm; starting to think so, yes."

"So what's the problem?"

Victria drew a great breath, and then let it out. The Latina watched as her domme's brow furrowed, she having only a surface understanding of the woman's turmoil, and knowing nothing about the memories inside her head; drab colors, rattling bones, cold metal, big money, angry red scars, Melody's beautiful eyes, the grim faces of men, Simon says, Simon saying nothing more.

"Jesus Yazmina, we have to talk about this now, while you're about to eat me?" 

"Ooh, so sensitive. Okay, okay, okay."

Yazmina, though still sore from her beating, quickly crept across Victria's leg, and nestled her face in close to her swelling pussy.

"Did I hurt you well enough?" she asked before taking her first lick of Victria's clitoris.

"You did." Answered Victria; smiling, "Thank you. But next time, you need to make better use of the knife." 

"Jesus, you're one crazy gringa."

"Hmm." Said Victria as she cleared her mind, let herself luxuriate under the practiced tongue of Geralynne's slave and imagined herself with Melody, their bodies intertwined, like lovely green flowered vines, rising into the plunging sky in spite of, as much as because of, the loving rain.



The Brand Ch. 07



The world is a lusty and ravenous whore. Her chewing us up and spitting us out can't be prevented. Nothing can keep her from sticking her fangs into the ripest of us and sucking us dry. She fattens us for her slaughter; enriches us, lets us drink heartily from her breast until we are so full enough of happiness and contentment, that, when she comes to finally show us her gaping inescapable maw, we accuse her of betrayal, as if we'd never had any prosperity, success or love to show for our lives. 

Living; is being set up for ultimate failure. So; why try? We try because that is the construct; to grow from the known, to venture, to create, experiment, mold, synthesize, postulate, establish, fortify, secure, illuminate, perpetuate, preserve, prolong and extend.

These are all viable methods of waiting, of killing time. Because who can really die; without living first?

It was on Saint John's Eve, a week after her eighteenth birthday, in New Orleans, two years after Katrina's deluge, where Victria found herself facing the fire. Its flames rose high, but was otherwise constricted for the sake of jumpers. Such is the tradition, for over two hundred years now, that bonfires are lit on the evening before the 24th of June, so that any person, devotee or drunkard, might leap the flames to celebrate the birth of the Saint that prepared the way for Christ's coming, to dare the city's devils or to ward off the demons in their own troubled hearts. So had Victria been told by an old Octoroon woman selling purses on a street side table. Alone then, she wandered; drawing ever closer to the steady beacon like a moth to an ever fleeting moon. 

Once she'd arrived at the east bank of Bayou Saint John, Victria's path became wrought with singing and dancing revelers and devotees; drunken with their own natural happiness or happiness induced by libation. She too would be drunk, but not until she'd jumped the fire. Victria had walked its perimeter as sweating men, their bare chests and backs gleaming black or gold, built it up. Slowly she walked, deliberately; studying the bomb fire to find its shallow spots, its faults, its weaknesses.

The men fueling the fire, arrogant and playful, flirted with her, taunting her to jump. We'll tell you when to go, they'd said. We'll catch you on the other side, they'd assured. So they'd spoken until Victria had made her seventh pass, when suddenly she'd become transfixed by the sight of a young black woman. She stopped, blocked by the creature in her path; the bright black and white enigma in her eyes, and the glowing dark brown skin of her face, neck and bear arms. She wore a sleeveless blue dress; simple, tailored, by her mother, an aunt or perhaps by her own hand.

"Where are your friends?" the young woman had boldly yet pleasantly inquired, "Tourists always have their friends or some; companion."

"I didn't bring anyone." Victria had answered, "I'm just; me."

The pretty black woman, matronly yet alluring, assessed Victria in her tight white jeans, sleeveless white shirt and yellow discount store flip flops. 

"Hmm. You have no one to care for you after you jump through the fire?"

Victria turned to glance at the dancing flames, writhing like spellbound phantoms, and then brought her gaze back to the woman.

"Well; I'm not sure I'll be jumping through that fire." Confessed Victria.

"But you want to."

Victria paused to study the woman. She was of a maternal yet sensual port in air; her figure slim, her back straight, her neck slender and inviting, a necklace of simple black cord arrayed with a variety of dried leaves and twigs covering the clef of her breasts. From her ears she'd hung a variety of gold loops, and her long hair was tied back with a blue silk scarf, the rich wiry black weight of it, thick and long as a horse's tail.

"I'd like to; yes." Victria finally answered.

"Well alright then;" smiled the handsome New Orleanian, "So let's get you wet."

Victria became suddenly flushed and was so caught off guard by the woman that she'd realized too late that she'd been seized. Eyes wide and mouth verging on uttering some protest, the tourist looked around her to see that her arms were being held by two men she recognized as the keepers of the fire. Then a third, a Creole man, came round the front of her, carrying a five gallon pale of what looked to be fairly murky water. Victria's objections came in nervous laughter and high pitched screams as the man hoisted the pail over her head and dumped its contents. 

Victria screamed with raging laughter as the briny water drenched her hair and saturated her clothes. Then, the men laughing and letting her loose, Victria regarded herself. She looked down, aghast; her white clothes pasted to her skin, the pink and pride of her nipples visible through her shirt as was the dark patch of hair between her legs. Her arms still out stretched, as if poised for flight or crucifixion, Victria raised her eyes to the woman smiling before her. She had been uttering something in a language Victria didn't recognize, her long fingers intertwined in a single fist, the knuckles held beneath her chin.

"What name do you go by?" asked the woman; dropping her hands and then folding them again behind her back.

Water beaded and dripped from the tip of Victria's nose as she glared at the woman.

"My name is Victria." She said.

"I am Francisca Botchwey." Said the other, "And I say go on now! Jump! Show these lambs! Send those demons back to where they belong Victria, mighty Victria!"

Seething with anger and sensual zeal, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks, Victria regarded Francisca Botchwey. The woman stared defiantly back. Then, in a sudden burst, Victria sprinted toward the fire, leaped into its center, and boldly lingered inside the controlled inferno. 

Its flames licked her body as her vision became obscured with the steam of her baptism. Then, before fear could take its hold, Victria catapulted herself out from the blaze and landed on the other side. She fell just short of slamming her knees against the paved walk, crouched, hands out, the sudden sting of asphalt scraping the skin from her palms. 

Quickly, she rose again and turned to look over her shoulder at the conquered fire. Her senses were suddenly keen as her heart beat wildly in her chest and a storm of jubilant applause rang in her ears.

Victria prepared to move. But, realizing that she was rooted to the spot, she looked down and saw that her flip flops had melted to the pavement. Gasping, Victria laughed, slipped her feet from them, and then searched the crowd for Francisca. 

As the delighted Creole men settled another log onto the fire, the woman suddenly appeared at Victria's side. She looked down and raised a quizzical eye brow as she probed Victria's melted flip flops with her own sandaled feet. Then, turning her gaze back up to meet Victria's, the radiant black woman said:

"You are born again this night brave Victria. Shall we find you new shoes to commemorate the occasion?"

As they whiled their way back through the French Quarter, the two women exchanged brief histories, though Francisca spoke long to answer the many questions Victria had about New Orleans, its people and how they were getting along after Katrina's floods receded.

Francisca's accent was West African in nature. She'd emigrated from Ghana, where English was as native as the language, Twi, that she'd spoken in her mother's house. Arriving in New Orleans, three years before the storm, Francisca stayed with relatives, worked at odd jobs throughout the city and saved her money.

Then, over those fateful twelve hours in August of 2005, Francisca watched the sheets of rain fall, the bayous rise, the levies break, homes crumble and the dead float by on flooded streets like so many rolling logs of fallen timber.

Her uncle's home had floated away. Along with countless others, he was lost. Francisca had only time enough to gather her six little nieces and nephews and herd them up to the older part of the city. Her intended destination was the great Cathedral Saint Louis. 

Together they ran, hands linked, avoiding piles of bricks in the road that were chimneys hours before. Francisca and her charges just put Burgundy Street behind them when a two-story brick and mortar structure, a former slave quarters, collapsed and shook the ground.

Screaming, crying, blinded by the plummeting rain, Francisca called for the children to run to the Cathedral Saint Louis. They'd scurried up the steps to the two hundred and eighty year old church and banged their fists against the door, but no one came.

Then they hurried around the back, looking for another way in, but that too was closed. In that instant, sheltered enough under the church's awning, Francisca gathered the children around her. Whirling her head, her attention was drawn by two sharp cracks. 

Peering into the courtyard behind the cathedral, where the great marble statue of Christ stood, his left hand outstretched, Francisca watched in terror as two large oaks, at opposite ends of the courtyard, pulled up earth and nearly thirty feet of wrought iron fencing as they plummeted, in crisscrossed paths, down upon the statue. 

As the huge trees shook the ground and settled against the earth, Francisca stared incredulously at the great stone Christ that still stood, unscathed but for the index finger and the thumb of its extended left hand.

"Why do you look at me so Victria?" asked Francisca.

The two young women sat across from one another at one of the tables set outside Vieux Carre on Bourbon Street. Victria lazily stirred her gin and tonic as she studied Botchwey nursing her glass of wine.

"I'm sorry," she said, "It's just that I'm frankly astounded; by you, your experiences."

Francisca slowly closed her eyes and shook her head.

"I am nothing." She said, "I am a creature seeking comfort, trying to keep the peace in my heart, to survive in a city I came to love, was broken, and still love."

Francisca gazed off toward the canal. Passersby had become numerous; the French Quarter at its liveliest at the witching hour.

"And your nieces and nephews," asked Victria, "Where are they now?"

"With the money I'd had earned up until then," Francisca answered, "I sent them to our extended family north, in Chicago. I had been; overwhelmed. I; broke down gradually, over the course of the following days, as the flood waters rose and then receded."

Francisca paused and, unable to see the canal through the boisterous crowd, she rose to her feet and gestured for Victria to follow. They walked a few blocks in silence, until they arrived before a dimly lit, ramshackle shoe store.

"This is my friend Roba's shoe store." Francisca intoned, "Please buy your shoes here. He too has seen fit to stay, though his wife and two sons were lost."

A sudden glaze of helpless pain coming into her eyes, Victria began to stare at the woman. Presently, she sighed, took Francisca by her hand, and then dragged her into the store.

"The herbs around your neck," inquired Victria after they'd left the store; each carrying two large plastic bags of four boxes of shoes each, "That's; that's a Voodoo thing, right?"

"They are an everything thing." Francisca laughed, "Voodoo, my Voodoo, is what Christians have termed as Pagan, interwoven into one system of Christianized beliefs and practices. From parts of West Africa, like Ghana, Voodoo gave the best of itself or was adopted by the early Spanish and Haitian New Orleanian that settled here and lived among the generations of freed slaves."

As Francisca spoke, Victria stared about her, to the brightly colored FEMA funded housing projects on one side of the street and the vast open fields of tall grass on her right that bordered the Mississippi.

"The herbs represent the collective wisdom of the ancients," Francisca continued, "Passed on from woman to woman. Voodoo respects that wisdom. Aida Wedo is the West African counterpart to the Virgin Mary, while Legba is counterpart to Saint Peter; the keeper of the keys to the-

"Oh my God." Victria said; interrupting Francisca.

Botchwey followed her gaze. A solitary house stood, abandoned, crumbled foundations on either side. Over the second floor, the face of the house was wounded, cut through, hacked from the inside out, perhaps by an axe or hammer. Below the wound, on a stretch of storm beaten shingles was spray painted the message: 1 dead in attic.

"Karma," Francisca said in a hushed voice, "Karma is ultimately what we remind ourselves of through Voodoo. It is not possession, reading the splattered blood of a slaughtered chicken or hurting people by sticking needles in dolls."

Victria stared at the fluorescent yellow words on the ragged gray shingles. Her skin began to crawl as she sniffed the salt air, testing it, in spite of herself, for corrupted flesh, and then imagined a pile of forgotten bones, an old woman's skull, leather skinned and wisps of white hair raised by the living wind that came off the great river.

"We do our best to live well," continued Francisca; facing Victria, "To pay homage to our ancestors, so that we might die as well as we'd lived." 

Victria met the beautiful African's gaze.

"Come mighty Victria. I will show you my Voodoo."

A quarter mile later, the dawn still more than an hour away, the two women arrived at a lot, marked at the curb by a single standing stone lion, its twin having been broken off and carried away by the flood. Victria followed Francisca passed the lion and along the walk through the door yard, sleeping chickens nestled together beside the porch. The structure was obviously not the original home. Victria could hardly conceive that, whatever size it was, that the former dwelling had been carried away by water. But, it was true, and in its place stood a modest cabin of heavy oak planks. Francisca quietly opened the screen door, withdrew a key from her pocket, and then unlocked the door.

"Sit." Said Victria's hostess as she stepped to the right, around a card table upon which still burned three candles floating in a shallow bowl of water.

As the woman stooped and rummaged around the room's back wall, Victria whiled her gaze around the small space that served as Francisca's kitchen. In the far corner were stacked packages and whole three gallon containers of drinking water. To the left of them sat a large, white topped, red cooler. Scanning ever left, Victria saw that the whole place, though bare bones, was perfectly clean. As she breathed, she realized the place held the fragrance of rosemary. Looking off into the space's depth, through the dim light of the candle light, Victria could make out what seemed a larger room, a mattress, properly made, on the floor and a blonde wood armoire against the far wall. It seemed to her that there were things set upon the armoire, things that shown or glistened weakly from the kitchen's candle light.

"Show me your hands." Instructed Francisca as she set things down on the table and took a seat beside her.

"My hands?"

"Yes; your hands. I saw that you'd injured them when you leapt from Saint John's fire. Come; let me see."

Reluctantly, Victria raised her hands, and then opened her palms to Francisca. The picture of tranquility, Francisca gently took one hand and then the other, delicately probing the areas of Victria's palms that had been scraped clean of skin. Next, reaching to the table, the woman took a Ziploc bag that contained more of one of the varieties of herb that hung from her necklace. Withdrawing the nest of limp leaves and twigs, Francisca divided the stuff in half, and then laid it upon the worst of Victria's abrasions.

"What's that?" asked Victria as she began to feel the soothing effect of the herb's cool dampness."

"It is yarrow." Francisca answered as she unraveled a length of gauze, "It is used for healing wounds. Its oil has anti-inflammatory effect."

Victria watched as Francisca wrapped one hand, and then secured it with a safety pin.

"Also," she continued, "It is said that yarrow can ward against evil."

"And you; believe that? Victria asked shyly.

"Of course I do." Said Francisca; smiling warmly as she met her patient's gaze, "Pain, damage, are effects of harm. Medicine, healing, are good intentions. Wounds are therefore manifestations of evil and healing magic are simply wisdom and good will."

Comforted, enchanted, Victria stared at Francisca's passive face as she bond her other hand.

"The gods and their universe," the woman continued, "Are no more complex than that. Voodoo, magic, the calling upon and the aid of spirits, are natural things and so not a mystery at all."

Sighing, Victria looked away; returning her gaze into the dark room beyond.

"This is a haunted place," she heard herself suddenly whisper, "I mean; New Orleans, since, since Katrina."

"This; has always been a haunted place. That's why people keep coming here."

Victria swung her head back around to see Francisca thoughtfully regarding her. Then, after having gathered her materials, the woman rose from her seat, and went about returning the things to their proper places. Presently, a freshly lit candle in her hand, she returned to her guest and beckoned for her to rise. As Francisca stepped into the larger room, Victria followed, suddenly keenly aware of the odd feeling of her skin inside her damp clothes and the fêted smell of bayou water in her hair.

Stepping around the bed, Victria looked on as Francisca placed the candle in a square plate set at the front center of the armoire's roof. Arrayed behind the candle's light, and flanking it on either side, was a menagerie of represented people, animals and places. Diamond flecked stones, jagged and smooth were laid across the alter. They were arranged in pairs and trios, and held up photographs of family members and friends. Francisca explained who they were; her mother and father back in Ghana, the aunt and Uncle Katrina had taken for herself and the nieces and nephews she'd protected and then shipped off to better care and stability in Chicago. 

There were branches and twigs, bound clusters of rosemary and dried lemon grass. There were small sculptures of indigenous wildlife and fish. Patchwork dolls of both male and female persuasion were seated on some of the rocks or stood beside them; their costumes artfully sown, their heads sculpted in clay and carefully painted. Then, along the wall, the saints and gods stood over them all; John, Peter, winged Gabriel, Mother Mary and the crucified Christ himself, peering up from his cross rather than down at the assemblage beneath him.

"Now express your gratitude." Francisca instructed.

Victria, suddenly embarrassed, leveled her gaze at Francisca. It was true, she thought. I suppose I do owe her some thanks. As for herself, she never expected any formally expressed gratitude, at least not from those closest to her, and she didn't expect any thanks from Francisca because she'd been happy to help her friend Roba at the shoe store.

"I'm sorry." She said; turning her body to face her healer and hostess, "Thank you; very much."

"Oh no Victria." Francisca laughed, "Not me. Thank God, the saints and my ancestors. I told you. I am nothing."

"Nothing." Victria repeated; turning her gaze back onto the alter.

"Yes; nothing." Francisca maintained.

"So then; I'm nothing too." Said Victria, beginning to play with a few matted strands of her hair.

"Well, I cannot speak for you." Francisca laughed gently, "Whether you can convince your ego as to whether you are nothing, is your problem. I certainly won't be able to help you solve it here and now. I can only speak to you from my truth."

Victria glanced at Francisca then, turned to face the alter once more, bowed her head and said:

"Thank you; everyone."




The Brand Ch. 07



"Very good. Now; do you wish to bathe?"

Victria, confused, turned to regard Francisca again.

"Uh; bathe?" she said.

"Think of it as another baptism; perhaps." Said her hostess; drawing closer, "Though, it can be just a bath. You do, after all, smell terribly of the bayou."

Victria smiled as Francisca took her left hand. Standing very close, she proceeded to unwrap it. Then, together, they looked at the open palm. The redness of exposed muscle was still quite vivid, but there was no pain to the touch. Quietly amazed, Victria watched as Francisca poked around her palm. Presently, their faces very close, the woman took the other, and unwrapped it as well. It too was pain free. Victria stared in charmed disbelief; at her hand, at the stark contrast between the whiteness of her palm and the rich dark brown of Francisca's long fingers, her lovely chin, full red lips and gently sloped nose.

The kiss had come, not unlike the taking of her hand had in front of Roba's shoe shop. It was an innocent thing, a gift; an expression of trust. Victria had grown eager over their hours together, but it wasn't that eagerness that drove her to find Francisca's lips in that moment. Communion was the word that had whispered through her mind as the exotic woman met her lips and took both of her hands in her own.

The tub, vintage, enameled cast iron, its short legs tapering to four ball clutching lion paws, dominated what was obviously Francisca's bathroom. She explained that, unlike the kitchen, the original bathroom's pipes had remained, and so her friends in the community were able to rebuild an adequately functioning replacement. So a decent tub had been salvaged, as well as a toilet and a fairly good conditioned pedestal sink. From the ceiling, Francisca hung a lantern. Under its light, she drew a bath and proceeded to undress as Victria looked on, her arms folded, from the opposite corner of the room.

Naked, her full breasts swaying in time with her every move, Francisca carefully smoothed her blue dress for hanging. As she carried it, draped over her arm, out of the room, she indicated that it was one of only three dresses she owned. Upon her return, she saw Victria playing with the hem of her muddy brown tinged white shirt. The women's fingers met and the hostess helped her guest remove the soiled garment. From there, Francisca went to her knees and helped Victria peel the damp pants from her hips and legs.

It was Victria that had entered the tub first, Francisca bracing her as she climbed over the roll rim of its edge. In silence, she submerged herself, happy to feel the fresh warm water through her hair. So they remained for a time, saying nothing, Victria in the bath, Francisca, outside, kneeling beside her, gently shampooing her hair. Soaping a washcloth, Victria washed her face, shoulders and arms. Then, when Francisca indicated that she'd finished soaping her hair, Victria submerged herself again.

The sound of rushing water and the splashing of her fingers through her soapy hair filled her ears. Again, she rose above the surface, took another breath, and then submerged herself once more. Then she saw them; greenish white bloated faces, eyes staring wide and black with hemorrhaged blood, naked bloated bodies rolling, skin floating off in ribbons, flesh disintegrating in purple brown clouds, crabs crawling free from gaping mouths, bayou red fish darting, devouring morsel after morsel of Katrina's dead, Francisca's dead.

The sound of the water in her ears had suddenly become the sound of her quickening heartbeat. Victria felt herself reaching, to breach the water's surface, to grip the roll rim edge of the tub. But, the water seemed to stabilize, thicken and solidify as the bottoms of her flip flops had on the asphalt beyond Saint John's fire. Then she saw her, approaching, shambling through the hardening murk; the old woman, 1 dead in attic, her naked skull smile, high jaundice yellow green forehead and the floating wisps of cob web hair floating as she reached a pointing bone clustered hand and tried to pull Victria, drag her down with her, pull her out of the living side of the world.

With a splash, her speeding heart bent on explosion, Victria burst from the tub, tripped over its edge and then scrambled to the corner of the room where she'd stood before. There, wide eyed, her lungs drawing quick deep breaths of air, she stared at her healer, her hostess, her witch. Drenched, seated naked on the oak planked floor, Francisca regarded her side long and said:

"Tourists come and go, and they see nothing, they know nothing. But you; you have been given the gift of understanding. There is no truer love than that; mighty Victria."

Then she rose to her feet, emptied the tub, and then refilled it for herself.

"Come Victria." She called; stepping into the tub, "You have nothing to fear from me. Our ceremony is not yet finished."

Still huddled, her breaths shallowing to their normal speed, Victria felt drawn, pulled; the tide of her to Francisca's moon. On hands and knees, she crawled her way back to the tub, and then kneeled on the bath mat. Spellbound, she watched Francisca slowly lower herself below the surface of the water, never closing her eyes or taking them off of Victria's. Still the image of tranquility, Francisca rose slowly again from the water, broke the surface and then leaned her face in close to meet her guest's lips once again.

Later, their bodies cool and dry, they drank more deeply of each other in Francisca's bed. Her mind quiet and her heart settled, Victria lapped hungrily at the Voodoo priestess's dark pink folds. Deeply, she probed her fingers inside her hostess, eliciting her morning's dew. Outside, Francisca's cocks began to scream their proclamations of the dawn and her hens began to worry and cluck. Inside, Francisca had turned to her side and pulled Victria's hips, and the vulva between, to her own hungry mouth. Together, they indulged ravenously; each covering the other's face with their virgin dew, tongue polishing hard red morsels, their eye teeth dripping succulent juice, their fangs biting, their throats growling, their feline hips grinding and quivering with goddess ecstasy.

Still, the roosters crowed as the morning sun loomed high outside. Francisca had provided Victria with a shopping bag in which she stowed her soiled clothes. Dressed in a scarlet sun dress, given to her by her lovely priestess, Victria regarded the woman from the kitchen chair she'd occupied the night before. Francisca was still in bed, passive, alert, her head propped up on an elbow. Victria smiled brightly at the woman; the passionate lover, her wise teacher, her amazing stranger.

Taking her wallet, Victria got to her bare feet, and then crawled to Francisca. Kneeling, reverent, she brought her lips to the priestess's and kissed her mouth gently until Francisca returned deeper kisses, and cradled the back of her head. Then, taking one last deep breath of the woman, Victria rose and stepped around the mattress to the alter. There, she opened her wallet, uttered a solemn expression of gratitude, and then left as much as she could afford on the plate upon which Francisca had burned a candle the night before.

"Do not forget mighty Victria." Said the priestess as her guest strode to the front door, "The laws of Karma, of fate, are real. Everything we think and do has power and consequence. All is well; that ends well."

Victria studied the woman as she used the toes of her left foot to flip off the lid of one of the eight boxes of shoes stacked by the front door. Francisca rolled onto her belly, her lovely back and buttocks exposed, and looked on as Victria slipped into the odd ruby slippers she'd purchased at Roba's.

"I'm leaving the rest with you." She beamed.

"You're much too generous my friend." The priestess intoned, "Do not forget what I've told you."

Victria said nothing as she looked at the woman one last time. Then, as if it had been her cabin, Francisca that was the guest and Victria that had healed herself, her face darkened as she flung the door open and squinted her eyes to the brightness of the Louisiana day.

"Come in Ms. Charpentier."

The firm's CEO, Coleman Cheevers, regarded his chief risk officer from his seat at the far end of the boardroom. He was an imposing man, though in his late seventies, standing a full six and a half feet when he wasn't seated in his high backed leather upholstered chair, steepling his index fingers, his legs crossed in listening to reports or expressing the decisions he'd made.

They had been talking before her arrival, but Victria's entrance had initiated a silence. Quickly, she looked around to see who was also present. There was Dick Rancourt, seated to Cheevers's right; Bruce Duffy, down three seats from Rancourt's right and James Ricchio, two seats to Cheevers's left. Most of the rest of the seats were occupied by a handful of underlings from other departments. Simple Simon's seat at the far end of the table, where good old Dobbs used to signal Coleman through a pre-arranged system of eye contact and gestures, was appropriately vacant.

"How are you?" Cheevers asked.

"I'm well sir."

"Good."

A new silence echoed. Cheevers's fingers, rather than stepled beneath his chin, were folded in his lap. Why aren't you asking me to take a seat? You're going to grill me and give me shit;Hell, maybe even trim my ass from the budget, and you can't invite me to take a fucking seat after-

"Look;" continued Victria's CEO, "I certainly don't want to devote any more attention to; what happened than we need to. So, uh, I just want to ask:"

Cheevers paused. Throats were cleared. Foreheads were rubbed and glances shot.

"The; items, recorded on our surveillance cameras; where are they currently?"

Flushed, though working very hard not to be, Victria held her head high and leveled her gaze at her CEO.

"Everything's been destroyed." She said.

Ricchio breathed a harsh breath of displeasure.

"Destroyed." Cheevers repeated, sighing.

"Yes sir."

"And may I ask-"

"I never made one; sir, of you."

Jesus Christ, you pompous shit! You couldn't ask me that in the privacy of your own office? Even you; at the very top, a total pussy. You are embarrassing me out of your fear? This is unbelievable.

"Sir," she began just a little too loudly, "I just want to say-"

"Ms. Charpentier." He interrupted, "This matter is closed, I'm not afraid to say."

Oh please pussy.

"But sir-"

"What I am expecting at this time; is that, in the face of so many of our clients reducing their advertisement budgets, you prepare a presentation to show me, as my risk manager, the soundness of the decisions we might take to reduce our costs."

No...fucking...shit.

"Yes sir. Thank you sir. Will that be all then?"

"Yes. Thank you Ms. Charpentier.

Victria closed the door behind her, glanced at the executive suite's secretary seated behind her desk, and then walked briskly back to her office. Closing the door behind her, she threw her back against it and closed her eyes. Never in a million years- how inconceivably absurd it- How could I have been so stupid? Trying to calm herself down through a series of deep breaths, she remembered how she'd forgotten. I feel ashamed that I'd forgotten, she thought, seeing Francisca, dressed in her blue dress, in the fire light of Saint John, watching a naked Melody weaving out of the crowd beyond. I was foolish. I am; foolish, and now; I must atone. Exactly how, I don't know. But, I will.



The Brand Ch. 08



1

You are my trickster angel, my sheep in wolves' clothing, my dark temptress, with wicked, wicked hands and sweet, gentle mouth, you drive me to my uttermost distraction. There is the barrier, the angry open sea that keeps me from getting to shore. Then you, my rock; so slippery in the crashing waves. I grip your jagged slopes, and I slip, but you remain; solid, rough to my touch. Victria, I love you so much, my hero, my empress, my queen of the floating island of me. The open angry sea carried me to you. You are impervious to it, so I am now clung to your firmament. My sand washes around you, speckles your surface. How long I wonder, will we remain this way, together, against rip tides and surging storms.

Absently running her fingers along the edge of her collar, Melody read the love poem over again. Geralynne was finishing in the shower. The doctor wasn't all that bad. She was gentle and kind in the use of her body, and always very good about observing the no kissing rule. And of course, she was very smart, the conversation very stimulating. But, Melody had still, for the most part, been preoccupied with Victria, her true mistress.

"Slave?"

"Coming Mistress!"

Melody closed her diary, withdrew its key from her overnight bag and engaged its lock. Geralynne had commanded her to shower first. So she did; doing her hair afterward, applying appropriate hints of makeup, and then putting on the silk robe as instructed. Her forty-eight hours of service was nearly at its end, and Geralynne wanted to make the most of what time remained. Melody tucked the secured diary into her overnight, zipped it shut, and then went to answer her mistress's call.

"Yes Mistress?" said Melody; poking her head between the bathroom door and the jam.

It was a vast, southwest color themed, tiled room with a high skylight and a very tall, potted, rubber tree. There was no tub, but a single person shower, a kind of raised square dish in the floor, at the far corner of the room. There was no curtain sectioning it off; only the shade of the rubber tree's great drooping frons. Before the shower, to the right, sat the commode. By the far left corner, stood the vanity. Dripping, brushing lazy droplets of water from her breasts, Geralynne stood waiting in the shower.

"Come dry me." She said; her eyes beckoning.

Melody advanced into the room, and went immediately to the towel rack. She couldn't deny it. Geralynne was very attractive, very well put together for her age. Glancing at her light brown, fastidiously trimmed, rounded triangle of pubic hair, Melody recalled the first taste of the soft pink folds of flesh hidden within, its aroma, its bouquet; familiar certainly, but distinct, like faint lemon zest, the taste of a penny on your tongue and the lingering flavor of dry red wine in the back of your mouth. Then, somewhere in between, unifying the taste, was Geralynne's signature scent; pleasant, assuring, somehow, strangely, like the smell of fresh cut hay drying in a field.

"Rub harder." Geralynne directed, "It's not going to dry by you patting it."

Melody hummed her laughter, smiling as she scrubbed Geralynne's head with the towel.

"I don't want to hurt you." She admitted. 

"You're not going to hurt me, silly." Geralynne answered, "Not unless I ask you too."

"Yes Mistress."

Melody would be surprised if she actually asked her to. She'd had the time to take out items for impact play, but she'd never had. Besides; that wasn't Geralynne. That, Melody could tell, as much as she had come to know other things about the good doctor over their nearly two days together. She still might ask for a spanking though. Melody wouldn't put that past Tucker, but the doctor would most likely have her stop before the imprints of her hands appeared on the sweet slopes of her ass cheeks. Of course, Victria would never ask for a spanking. But, she would happily give one and neither she nor Melody wouldn't be satisfied until she saw the vivid red finger and palm prints of a severe enough beating.

Distracted with persisting thoughts of Victria, Melody let her eyes dawdle down the length of Geralynne's beautiful naked body as she patted and stroked the moisture from it. The half of her mind that was with Geralynne knew her duty and was from where her staring and gentle caressing was compelled. It was no different than how the good doctor separated herself between the passionate creature coiling inside her skin and the respectable woman that demanded its disciplined silence whenever she was required to don the white lab coat of her professional vocation and status.

Melody had briefly entertained the notion of asking Geralynne as to how difficult she found it to contain her desire when examining her most attractive patients. But, she knew better. She'd recalled the doctor's very genuine ringing apology for having exploited the opportunity to get an advanced, intimate, look at the more private elements of Victria's merchandise. As a lesbian, Geralynne was in the same position as a male gynecologist, and therefore held to the same standards of conduct. And, after all, a nurse had joined them for the examination; the requirement of her presence likely so because of some male doctor's betrayal of a female patient's trust.

I am slave, she reminded herself. My body is play thing for the mistress. In Melody's mind, there hadn't been the need for Geralynne to apologize. Tucker was in a position of power. Her staff had her back. Victria would have her back, Melody assumed, and, ultimately, Geralynne was a mistress and Melody was nothing but a poor, lowly, slave girl. The apology was a simple kindness, a gift on Geralynne's part; not any old thing Melody could just reject or ignore, but a beneficent gift to accept with grace.

Still, in the space inside her compartmentalized mind, where she was keeping her thoughts about Geralynne, Melody continue to wander, to wonder. Presently, the tall woman stepped down from the shower's basin, and then spread her feet across the bath mat placed before it. From her knees, Melody looked up at Geralynne's flat tummy and conical breasts as she rubbed a towel down her long legs. Then, rising back to her feet, Melody looked into the woman's eyes as she carefully dried her pubis, perineum and buttocks. She imagined herself a nurse then, and Geralynne as her feigningly helpless patient. 

Melody had entered Geralynne's home, believing that she would be asked questions she didn't wish to answer. But, during the intervals between gratifying each other sexually, she and Geralynne had discussed an eclectic range of matters including health, hospital administration, social policy, the city's BDSM community and her life with her slave; Yazmina. Melody listened and understood. This was life: the game they were all playing; Geralynne, Yazmina, Victria and all those that had attended the charity slave auction: the concentual, mutual, exchange of power, managed risk, pain derived pleasure and complete submission. It was now Melody's world too. There might have been an opportunity of escape, but she hadn't taken it. Now, with how she'd come to feel about Victria, there was no chance of escape.

Melody dutifully followed Geralynne back to the bedroom. There, she was instructed to wait at the foot of her bed while Geralynne stepped round to the night stand. From there she withdrew a few items and set them on the stand before ultimately crawling onto the bed. Propping her pillows, Geralynne studied Melody. Settled, she told Melody to drop her robe, but remain at the foot of the bed. For a long while, Geralynne continued to stare. Presently, Melody began to feel that it was some kind of tactic. Still waiting for further instructions, she found that she was covering her scar again.

"I want to start this time with a back massage." Geralynne said finally as she rolled over onto her belly, "Climb on, take some of the contents of the little blue bottle and work it into my back."

Melody gathered up the bottle, and climbed onto the bed. Still in her robe, she straddled Geralynne's thighs. 

"Wait."

"Yes Mistress?

"Crack open my ass, dig your sweet little tongue in there and tell me how it tastes."

"Yes Mistress."

Melody set the blue bottle by her side, crawled back a bit, and then gripped Geralynne's buttocks apart. Presently, she lapped at the pink depth inside the mistress's ass. After a time, Geralynne said:

"So what of it slave? How does my ass taste?"

"Marvelous Mistress." She answered; hoping to sound convincing, "Quite yummy. May I have another few licks?"

"Of course you may."

Melody did so, faking only long enough for Geralynne to bid her to desist, and then direct her to continue with the massage. So Melody did, lathering her palms with the cream from the blue bottle, and then working it into Geralynne's back until the woman began to moan and purr with delight. Lower, she'd prompted. So Melody worked Geralynne's lumbar. Lower still, the mistress had demanded after another twenty minutes. So Melody obliged, kneading the lovely flesh of Geralynne's buttocks, and ultimately driving her to intone various grunts and groans of pleasure.

"Now," Geralynne huskily intoned, "Exchange that bottle for the pink one, lube your finger and drive it carefully into my ass, girl."

Again, Melody did as she was bid. Geralynne spread her legs to better accommodate her slave. There, Melody kneeled, painted her finger with lube, and then carefully drove it into the mistress's ass, to the knuckle. Three or so strokes later, Melody inserted her middle finger as well.

"Very good. Now fuck me just a bit harder."

So Melody fucked Geralynne's ass, slowly jabbing her fingers, pretending that it was a thrusting cock. After ten minutes of that, Geralynne twisted her body back around, Melody's fingers still inserted, and then scooted her filled ass closer to her slave. Melody stared down at the woman's swollen, gleaming, clitoris. It was lovely. But, if it had been Victria's, Melody would have already been salivating, just by the sheer sight of it.

"Keep that finger in my ass." Geralynne instructed, "Rub me with your thumb."

It was twenty or so minutes more, Melody's arm aching, her fingers slipping as a pool of Geralynne's vaginal juices stained another one of her comforters. The woman moaned, seeming to utter Melody's name, and then gestured to the top of the nightstand. Melody glanced in that direction, and noticed the pack of wipes.

"Forgive me Mistress," said Melody, "But do you wish me to wipe up and then start fucking you with my mouth?"

Geralynne nodded. 

"May I remove my robe now Mistress?"

Again, Geralynne nodded. Melody carefully removed her fingers, and then quickly reached for the wipes. Clean enough, Melody slipped out of her robe and tossed it aside. Then, she kneeled once more at Geralynne's dripping sex and immediately went to task. Seconds in, she found that either Geralynne was playing a cruel game of keep away or she had been rendered so enthusiastic by Melody's ass play and gestured clitoral stimulation, that she could not keep her hips from quaking long enough for her slave to settle her tongue. So, she herself feeling a sudden enthusiasm begin to drip down her inner thigh, Melody braced Geralynne's legs, and hugged them around her head. 

Within the breathing space, Melody began to imagine that she was eating Victria, and so devoured the mistress; sucking, lapping, dragging her lips and nibbling until Geralynne's legs tightened, giving her less and less breathing space. Ultimately, the good slave held her breath as the mistress squeezed and moaned and bucked and sprayed short bursts of come into her face. Then, as her heart began to pound inside her head, quite in spite of herself, Melody thought if she took a breath now, she would likely drown because it took, as they say, only a thimble full of water. Finally, as Melody's lungs were near to burst, Geralynne loosed her grip, and Melody sucked deeply at the air as she collapsed beside her. 

"Do you; masturbate, Mistress?" Melody asked after a time; having wiped her face as she watched Geralynne luxuriate in her after glow.

Melody had taken a position at the far corner of the bed. Lazily, Geralynne turned her face around to see the slave dabbling her fingers along the length of her open legs and golden brown pubis.

"Of course I masturbate, silly." Answered Geralynne; beginning to play with her own satisfied sex, "Does knowing that fact please you?"

"Yes Mistress."

"Good. Show me then, how you masturbate."

Melody paused before crawling languidly over to a space of bed where Geralynne can get a better look. She reflected on their first session together, Victria sweetly uttering her commands over the phone. Melody gazed into the mistress's eyes as she probed her fingers deep inside herself, and then withdrew them again, slick with excitement.

"And, if I may be so bold," she said as she began to effect the spin of her fingers around her clitoris, and sent her breasts into an admirable jiggle, "What is it you fantasize about when you masturbate Mistress?"

"You may." Geralynne answered; rolling onto her side, "I have fantasies of Yazmina. I watch her eat my pussy. I see her beautiful ass very close to my hungry mouth. I watch myself flog her, leaving lovely strips of red on that ass, and I imagine her lovely full Latin lips against mine. I would hope that you; ponder over the delights and punishments of your mistress. Do you?"

Melody blushed.

"I do." She whined as she approached her climax; closing her eyes, rubbing more and more franticly with each new breath, "I see her holding me tight. I see her beautiful eyes, her smile. I watch her stroke brushes full of shining paint on my body! Oh; I watch her skin melt into the sky! AH; I see, I see her pretty pussy, her strong hands, her round- Yes; oh, yes, yes, ah!"

Later, five hours remaining, mistress and slave lay side by side, Geralynne trailing her fingers along Melody's lines and curves while Melody stared off into the framed print of a Grecian sea scape hanging on the east wall of the bedroom. She felt gradually more strange after she'd come for the mistress's pleasure, and then crawled back beside the woman. The silence between them, though nothing more significant to its weight than their leisure, troubled her, as if she'd said or done something to displease Geralynne.

"So," said the doctor; suddenly breaking the silence, "Tell me; about who shot at you?"

The words weight had to settle into her consciousness. Who? The robbery, she thought. It was in the paper or; she and Victria must have talked. Then, staring wonderingly, Melody turned to face the doctor.

"I didn't know them." She answered; somewhat robotically, "They had stockings over their faces. One sounded Spanish. Why are you smiling; Mistress?"

"I'm sorry. I'm smiling because you are too; funny."

Again, you apologize. A mistress that apologizes as much as she does, thought Melody, doesn't seem to me a much respected domme.

"I'm funny; Mistress?"

"Yes, you're funny Melody. I know about the grocery store; those men. Perhaps they'll catch them; one day. No; actually, I was talking about your scar."

Melody's eyes went wide. Geralynne's did also, mimicking, joking, but they suddenly frightened Melody, their glare and the woman's odd smirk.

"Yes, your scar. You got that scar because someone shot at you. Who shot at you Melody?"

Melody stared helplessly at the doctor's oddly contorted face for a few more seconds before abruptly bolting upright, but only to be seized by the arm and thrown back down.

"Let go of me!" she cried; wriggling, fighting to get away.

"Who shot at you Melody?" said Geralynne as she rose and wrestled the slave beneath her, "You were what; twenty-one, twenty-two? Hmm? Come on. I saw it in your medical records; white female, gunshot wound on the right outer thigh. Think back."

"No! Melody screamed, "Stop it! Somebody help!!"

Instantly, she began to scream again, but it had been a shrill, staccato sound, cut off by the sudden weight of the ball gag Geralynne happened to have available to thrust into Melody's mouth. Then, with the speed of practiced skill, Geralynne bound Melody, hand and foot. Next, she took a scarf, wrapped it around her head to serve as a blindfold, and then tied it. From there, the domme lifted Melody up, threw her over her shoulder, and then carried her out of the bedroom. 

Without a word, Melody fitful in her restraint and sobbing, Geralynne dropped her at some other location within the apartment. She couldn't see a thing. But, somehow the room was familiar; the echo, the temperature, its odor. Still sobbing, Melody realized the feel of the shower's basin under her buttocks and feet. She could also tell that Geralynne was still close by. Then, the slow drip began; falling one drop after the other, each perhaps three or four seconds apart from the next, over and over and over, dampening the top of her head. 

Melody's stomach roiled with more furious contempt than with fear. Really, she thought. Chinese water torture? This isn't going to work. Did it ever work? Wasn't it one of those things you only ever heard about? You stupid, fucking, pathetic excuse for a domme! When my mistress finds out- Melody tried to move her body, move her head away from the slow, slow drips. But, Geralynne was still there to give her one good kick to her head. Melody screamed helplessly against her ball gag.

"Put it back." Geralynne said quietly, "Put your head right back where I put it; slave."

Melody wept. Her eyes stung from the scarf. She wasn't entirely sure, but she thought that Geralynne left. That, she had, but Melody, out of fear of being kicked again, remained still. Then, moments later, she felt Geralynne's return, felt her bind her around her shoulders, down the length of her arms and around most of her legs. Then came the strap across her forehead that, she assumed, was anchored around the hot and cold taps piping. Melody keened miserably as she felt Geralynne draw away again.

"You have four hours until I'm finished with you." She said, her voice echoing from the far side of the room, "If you feel like telling me what I want to know, grunt or something; I'll come to remove the gag, and you can pour your heart out."

Then there was silence. Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Ultimately, Melody began to wonder, to guess, to hope, that one hour was down. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn't. She couldn't be sure. She was only certain that the incessant dripping dripped on and on, and the steady splashing upon the top of her head became louder and louder until she thought the drops would begin to sting and sting and sting some more.

2

Rage isn't such a bad thing. You just have to know how to put it to good use. Rage is putting on the heat; the boost you need for when the bad thing has ended and you have to come up with a backup plan, to revise that recipe for disaster; so that you have instead a recipe for success.

Simon said: Follow me. No; don't ask any questions. Just follow me. If you don't, I will advise Cheevers to ruin you. You don't want that, Victria, right? No; I thought not.

The city was behind them. The outskirts ended and then there were the woods; miles and miles of woods. Victria kept Simon's Mercedes in view as she turned on the radio, shut it off, and then turned it back on. Then, scanning the stations for something hopeful and decisive, but finding nothing, she turned it off again. Mother fucker, she thought. You despicable mother fucker. I will survive this, and then I will make you pay; bitch. Somehow; I will make you pay.

Simon gestured; out his window: follow me down this secluded, in the middle of fucking nowhere road. Oh how about that, Victria thought. The wind is picking up. The sky is getting darker. How fucking nice. The road began to wind and turn. Seizing the opportunity of cover, Victria, while steering with her left hand, felt around for her .380, fished for a full magazine and used the side of her center console to push it home. Then, keeping her eyes on the back of Simon's head, yes I know he might see me in his rear view, she brought the firearm to her left hand and chambered a round. Then, trying to move as smoothly and slowly as possible, she tucked the gun in her back pocket. Bring me to the middle of nowhere? Fuck you Simon; fuck you.




The Brand Ch. 08



Two hundred or so yards further, the road became rutted and grown over with tall grass. Then the memory came, unstoppable, whirling up between the grass and the brake lights of Simon's Mercedes like so many windblown dead leaves: the dead end street of her childhood, the weather beaten shell of an abandoned house, Samantha, Maddie, Shailo; their evil eyes, their smearing mouths and their strong hands.

Victria burst from her vehicle and ran to Simon as he opened his door.

"Who else knows about the dolls?" she asked; drawing her weapon and leveling it at Simon as he drew up to his full height and closed his car door.

"They all know about it; "answered Simon; seeming not in the least concerned, "The other senior execs you've stuck your pins in, and Cheevers."

"I don't believe you."

"You should. And; you should hand me your gun. If you care anything at all about remaining as the company's senior risk manager, you'll hand over your weapon. I mean, I'm with you. Risk has its allure, its beauty. But, ask yourself Victria: will shooting me really be worth it? All that you've worked for; all that you've fought for; all the time and investment you've made, you will shit on just for the sake of seeing me die? Give me the gun."

"The dolls were just a fucking joke Simon!" shouted Victria, "You're making something out of nothing!"

"Pretty much." Simon agreed, "But, your stupid dolls are something enough I can exploit. And because I have Coleman's confidence, as you well know, we can see to it that you never work again."

It was the truth. Simon, by virtue of his having had Cheevers trust, had beenVictria's ace in the hole. Without his support, the company's CEO never would have hired her as its chief risk officer.

Victria remained where she was: her gun's barrel pointed at Simon's forehead, her arm's straight, her stance solid, her sights aligned. You shit, she thought. You had this all planned and you knew exactly how you wanted it to turn out. She remembered believing that her fire arm would be the ultimate decisive factor; the final means to getting the drop on the prick that thought he'd get one over on her in the places where she was supposed to be safe. But, there, out in the open, Simon had shielded himself with shrewd and cruel armor.

There he stood: cool, at ease, no sweat, smug as a bug in a rug, calling her bluff. Then the words came into her head, she couldn't tell from where. She only knew they weren't her words. Delusion is the aphrodisiac of desperate focus. Stupid God damned dolls. Victria knew they had much in common, her and Simon. They were cut from the same rough cloth; bold with the colors of calculation, manipulation, ruthlessness, audacity and guile. He might have made a good friend, if he hadn't exploited her stupidity and wasn't about to make his ultimatum. 

Finally, surrendering, she made a show of her submission; an impotent self-indulgent act, her last measure of control over the situation. She lower her weapon, slowly ejected the magazine, tucked it into a back pocket, racked the slide open, dropped the chambered bullet into her palm, tucked it into her denim jacket's front left pocket, and then handed the clearly empty gun to Simon. Approaching her, he took it, thumbed the breach closed, and then tucked it inside his jacket. 

Suddenly, he was in her face; thoughtful, confident narrowed brown eyes, angular jaw, vaguely stubble, gentle musk cologne, a man's scent beneath; like, strangely enough, a fairly decent cheese and freshly baked bread. His imposed proximity was much much too close for her comfort, though he blocked most of the wind. Then, as he reached gentle fingers to grip her chin and raise her face to his, Victria's eyes went wide with pure contempt.

"Now," said Simon as he stepped closer, "I have this philosophy."

Eyeing the man warily, Victria tried to push back the hair the wind was still blowing back against her face. It had swelled to a din. Their open jackets flapped between them. The shade of clouds passed quickly overhead, causing her to squint from the bright sunlight in their wake. 

"Oh yeah? She said loudly; forced by her contempt for him and by the roar of the wind, "What's that?"

"Life," Simon said with a smile, "Is just something that happens between blow jobs."

As the wind died back down temporarily, Victria wagged her head.

"You're all the fucking same." She told him, trying to look away.

"So are you. You women fight for your right to compete, to succeed. Half of you fight to bare children and the other half to murder your children before they hatch. All those hard to do things, take all your energy things to get over; we get over it as soon as we can. Why? Because we're practical. Thinking too much is the providence of the fairer sex. Getting to the fucking point; is ours. Now get on your knees and suck my dick."

"Put that thing near my mouth, and I will Bobbitt you with my teeth mother fucker."

Victria leveled her eyes at Simon's. She saw his mistrust, suspicion, his calculation. 

"Fine then." Simon said as he reached back to open the driver's door, "Go in the glove box and take out the bottle of lube."

"You keep fucking lube in your car?"

"I like to be prepared for anything. Now just do it."

Victria eyed him scornfully as Simon gestured toward the open Mercedes door like some premier hotel valet.

She passed him, climbed into the Mercedes, fished through the glove box, found the lube, and then climbed back out of the car. As a tumult of emotion raged under the hateful mask she wore, Victria held the bottle tightly in her fist. Then, she moved numbly as Simon herded her toward a patch of shorter grass. Remaining behind her, Simon undid the snaps of her jeans, and then thrust them to around her knees. A few seconds passed without event, at least nothing more than a rustling of clothing behind her. Then she saw the rope come down before her eyes, felt it go against her chin, against her neck, and then she felt the noose go tight; or at least tight enough. Victria got the point as Simon dragged her jeans and panties down the rest of the way.

"Hand me the lube please." Simon said.

Victria did as she was bid. Once both hands were free, she did not feel the sensation, inside her fists, of her nails biting into her palms. She did not hear the grinding as her teeth clenched nor was she aware of the flaring of her nostrils. But, she did feel as Simon's hands gripped and probed her exposed, most private flesh. Still the winds blustered and raged as Simon coiled his serpent fingers around, over and in between; first dry, then moist, slick, with the fabricated lubrication. 

Her ears full with the wind's whistling drone, Victria felt her ass being parted and prepared for Simon's way. Then, after the first finger and the second finger, he forced himself in. It wasn't that he wasn't gentle. He was, at least Simon knew he was being gentle. But, Victria knew that it wasn't his ass to fuck. So, in spite of herself, because of herself, she fought it. In response, as his hard cock filled the space that his fingers had just left, Simon pulled her noose, choking her, cutting off her air in fits, startling her. Melody, she thought, because there was nothing more to think. My beautiful girl, my sweet. And still the winds blew, lashing her hair against her face; spreading her tears across her cheeks; tears that hadn't fallen in years.

Meanwhile, throughout, under and overhead, was the rest of the world. A thing of beauty, the rest of the world; distant, remote, yet always just within sight or reach. Masked by the wind was the song of fledgling birds, a brood of house wren hatchlings, their egg casings cleared from the nest, their mouths ever upward and opened for their mother's bounty. Beneath their nest, was the crotch of a high, thick, branch? Beneath the branch, was the rest of the tree; straight and strong, an oak, perhaps a hundred or more years old. 

Beneath the tree, a common male homosapian stood behind a female. Neither one of the creatures, locked in their courtship, were aware of the tree, its age, its stature. To them, it was but an insignificant, inconsequential, tree; one in a forest of many. So, the wind blew as the wind has always blown ever since the first dawning of the sun's warmth upon the face of the earth, after the moon became caught in her gravitational field, the ocean's tides began their ebb and flow and her forests grew lush green and tall. 

It was to be a special moment for the little wrens, as their mother postured and preened, she too oblivious to the human man far below; nearly finished with the woman. The woman, who was weeping, had worked so vigilantly, spreading and strengthening her wings for a flight that was to take her far above the prospect of such a terrible thing happening to her. But, apparently, the work not being enough to stop the day, on that very day, it had come time for the birds to leave their nest. 

Mother Wren poked them one by one, with her benevolently intended beak, out of the nest. There were five birds ready, or not, to take flight. The first was immediately carried off by the furious Wind. He spread his little wings, because after all, that is all a bird has, and finds a new perch on the branch of a nearby maple. The second little bird was too, forced from the nest, and the wind too carried her. She faltered, spiraled, weaved, was lifted, batted around by the wind, but ultimately found purchase on a swaying limb of a small sassafras tree. The third fledgling feared its mother's pointed beak, and so tumbled out of the nest and plummeted until it was picked up by the great wind, righted itself, and then found that it had landed on the forest floor. Then, as the mother wren herded the remaining two of her brood toward the edge of the nest, she could hear the first crack, the second and then the third.

She had known, since the afternoon her suitor had shown her the nest he'd built in the hollowed cavity he'd so proudly stuffed with sticks and straw, that there was an unsettling draft of air coming in from beneath. The couple had squabbled over the issue, and the female wren had gone so far as to drag a few sticks out from the nest and dropped them to the ground below in protest. But, he had built it, and he was a fine, very nicely feathered male, so she settled in for the season.

It had begun sometime after the dawning of that new day that the wind became strong enough to make their tree sway. Presently, the mother wren realized a new source of light coming into her nest, from somewhere below the network of straw and twigs. Still, the crack cracked and the shaft of light brightened. And, unlike the woman's filled crack, the fissure in the branch was emptying, disconnecting. The tree was bound to lose its limb. But, that was one of the miracles of a tree. A tree feels no pain in its dead winter sleep nor does it care if it loses a dying piece of itself. It will live on for another hundred years or more, of course, so long as no common homosapian chops it down.

With a sudden sense of urgency, mother wren pushed the last two of her brood to the edge of the nest. The second to last of her offspring spiraled and tumbled head over tail until it righted itself just in time to crack its little skull against Victria's passenger window. It bounced away, neck broken, and fell limp to the ground. Then, as the mother flew off, as the man grunted his pleasure at being stuck inside the woman's behind, the last fledgling stared about itself as the branch finally snapped free from the healthier part of the oak. It was not until the last little wren felt that the nest had gone sideways that it spread its wings and stared fearfully at the ground below. The man, still grunting, his head back and his eyes closed; and the woman, hands on her knees, her eyes shut tight, her face wet, are distracted. They saw nothing. They heard nothing; the wind still blustering, masking the snapping and cracking of the great oaks dead limb.

Victria realize that she had to trust the scumbag that happened to be fucking her in her ass in that moment. What else could she do? The corner was blocked in with Simon's ultimatum. For all she knew, her work life would be over on Monday morning. She'd walk into work; dressed in her best, security would inform her of her having been fired, and then escort her out. Perhaps though, as Simon happily drilled her ass, there would be a chance.

Sobbing, her rectum in pain, Victria tried to think only of Melody; her eyes, her sweet smile, her beautiful body and her lovely obedience. It hit her then. She was grateful for the woman's presence in her life. She couldn't ask for a better partner. If only she wasn't so sappy though.

Abruptly, the tall healthy oak's great dead branch fell, time suspended over the oblivious man and woman below. Time is fleeting; passing quickly and quicker still as the great branch fell, a randomly contingent event, falling ever downward, until...

A sudden blast of wind from a different direction whipped the hair around Victria's face. Then there was a rushing sound, the great thud coinciding with the sudden extrication of Simon's prick from her ass, her painful screaming and turning quickly around in time to see Simon being forced down as a huge branch crashed against his face.

Wide eyed and fixed to the spot, Victria stared in disbelief as Simon bit off the tip of his tongue, sending it flying onto his chest. From there, the small piece of flesh was then shaken off by Simon's flailing about, arms and legs akimbo, his erection spouting geyser ropes of semen up to his lapels, down his chest, and then down upon itself. Why the fuck- what the fuck- Why hadn't he pulled the noose. Why hadn't- She reached a hand to cover her mouth as the limb, its network of branches and their clusters of drying leaves, settled into quiet. With her other hand, Victria reached up to feel the rope around her neck. Now that hand joined the first, covering her gaping mouth, her eyes still fixed on Simon.

"Holy...fucking...shit." She gasped. 

Quickly, her jeans and panties still around her ankles, Victria sidled toward the fallen limb. Simon's head had been crushed, his nostrils pointing up at the sky, his brain matter spread out like so much spilled chunks of cauliflower, his skull cap and scalp like the broken half of a coconut. Then, after lingering her gaze back to the ejaculate that oozed down the length of Simon's dead white erection, Victria leaned over to vomit bile. She hadn't had much breakfast that morning, having been too nervous about her meeting with the man to really enjoy a plateful of Melody's banana chocolate chip pancakes.

Her vomiting over, Victria began to take deep sputtering breaths. She regarded the splashes of bile on her thighs and knees and wanted to find something to wipe herself off with. She moved back toward her car, her steps confined by the clothing gathered around her ankles. In spite of herself, Victria continued to stare at Simon's lifeless body and his shrinking, now left leaning, erection. She thought that if only the branch was smaller, she would have tried to lift it away from him. The thought struck her as inane, ridiculous, and absurd. There was never going to be a smaller tree. The world made sure of that.

Victria's eyes darted over the scene once more, wide and rapid like the eyes of a child, as if someone would blame her for Simon dying in such a way. Could they, would they blame her for his death? She laughed suddenly, a small, crazed, twitter bubbling from her lips. Her naked ass hit the cold metal of the passenger side of her big pink Lexus. As she opened the door, she looked down to see a little dead bird in the grass. Victria stared at it as she fished beneath the seat and withdrew a packet of wipes. 

Cleaning herself, she continued to regard the creature. Its head on its side, its wings slightly spread, it stared back at her with its lifeless black eye. Finished wiping herself off, Victria glanced from the bird, to the large fallen limb, to Simon's pale half naked body, and then up to the great tree above the scene. She saw its scar, as high as sixty feet up, a diamond shaped patch of light brown bare wood, adjacent to a small dark cavity, a tuft of dry brown grass spilling from its edge. A chill came over her, across her shoulders, along her back, and then down to her exposed buttocks and legs. Victria glanced one more time at Simon's body, his penis, it too finally down for the count, before reaching down to pull her panties and jeans back up.

She slowly stepped away from her car, and, as she began to walk a wide perimeter around the scene, she deliberated as to how she should proceed. Then it hit her. She stopped then, and stared about the woods, through shrubs and between trees. The woods were still. The wind no longer blustered. Instead, a gentle breeze blew, pulling only two or three strands of Victria's hair. 

Who's out there, she thought. Legba was out there. The Virgin Mother was out there; a spring beneath the ground, a shallow brook, fish eggs dropped from the feet of birds passing overhead, growing, nourished in the sweet water, little fish in little ponds, in a bird's nest, babies hungry and mommy sowing pre-digested food into their gullets. What wonderful mother's birds were; warming their eggs, cleaning the nest after her young hatch, feeding them until they're strong enough to leave, and then booting their little birdy asses out because nothing good can happen unless the fledglings have learned to fly.

Victria pulled her cell from a pocket. Where the fuck am I anyway? I think the last sign I saw said we were in Putnum. Should I get my gun back first? What's my story going to be? Let's assume Cheever's has reviewed the tapes for himself. It's still all just so stupid; nothing. Yeah, but Simon's dead. Victria recalled the pin she'd stuck in the head of Simon's doll. Yes, she thought as she glanced at the body's skull cap, he's dead alright. This is bull shit. I have appointments I need to get Melody to. Fuck it. Let the scene be the story.

"Seriously God?" she said; looking up into the blue skies over head, "You're really funny; I'll give you that. Fine then! Thank you. Now; what the Hell do I owe you?"

Silence, was her answer. There was only the bright sun, the calm breeze, the fallen limb, the hair atop Simon's crushed head being ruffled by the wind, a sudden cackling of crows in the distance, but getting steadily closer. Victria pocketed her phone. I don't know where this is, she thought. I have to drive out of here first. I'm sure my leaving won't disturb; the scene. The truth, she decided, would be the truth; especially after she got back home to destroy the evidence. There was absolutely no chance in Hell that the others; Ricchio, Duffy and Rancourt would suffer their own strange and untimely demises. It was preposterous. Victria was no Francisca Botchwey. She hadn't cast any spells or thought bad wishes on her colleagues at the office. She just; had very little respect for men, especially men at her level.

Then, filtering through her thoughts until it couldn't be denied, came the sound of droplets falling into a pool. It came from behind Victria as she was just about to take a first step back to her car. She paused, not turning. Again, it came; a quick cascade of water into water, as if, perhaps, wrung from a wash cloth. Pivoting on her heel finally, Victria first saw, in the middle of her nowhere, twelve or so feet behind her, and the gleaming white enameled edge of a vintage cast iron tub. 

As her eyes moved toward the left, Victria took in Francisca's naked kneeling body, her long brown arms, the wash cloth in her hands, wringing it out over the full tub. In the next instant, Melody's lovely light brown hair and sun bright body slowly rose from the water. Pushing the drenched hair from her eyes, she regarded the black woman at her side, smiled, and then turned to notice Victria. Melody reached long beautiful fingers to touch the gleaming platinum collar around her throat. 




The Brand Ch. 08



Meeting her domme's gaze, Melody appeared to sadden. Victria watched her slave glance past her, to look upon ruined Simon, the long length of dead branch and the tall living tree looming above them both. Still, came the distant cawing of crows, a seeming multitude of crows. Again, Francisca dipped her towel, and then wrung it over Melody's head. Victria saw that the water wasn't water anymore. It was blood, deep, rich maroon, thick droplets of blood. It had coagulated across the backs of Francisca's hands, but it thinned as it washed into Melody's hair and skin. 

Again, the Voodoo priestess dipped her wash cloth deep into the tub, painting her long brown arms red. Victria then watched Melody's face grow gaunt and pale, her hair white and her eyes sunken. Her own face paled then and her stomach sunk anew as she watched Melody's flesh begin to fall away from her bones, her hair whiten and recede from her forehead, her eyes blacken and her slave collar tarnish. Gradually, the flesh within the tarnished collar melted into nothing. Victria, rooted to the spot, watched as Melody's gift settled against her naked vertebra and collar bones.

Lost in the darkness, Victria flung herself bolt upright. Willing herself to stand, to run, she instead plummeted to the floor. She hadn't the slightest clue as to where she was. Crawling, feeling carpet beneath her naked skin, Victria reached an arm out, to feel something, anything else. There; the side of the bed and around the corner. Whose bed? What is this? Vertigo? I can't stand. I- I'm going to be sick. She followed the frame of the bed with her left hand. There; the ring welded to the frame. This is my bed, my room, my house. Where are my guns? 

Victria opened her eyes then. In the dim light of early morning, she could see the bathroom's tiled floor not three feet away. Again, she tried to stand. But, as if the world, gravity, a sudden led weight infused inside her flesh, drew her right back down to the floor. Quickly she crawled across the bathroom floor, beginning to sweat, her stomach roiling, her open mouth drooling, her throat gagging. Just a foot more, and she'd propped an arm along the back of the toilet's seat and spewed.

"Aye carramba Mami; you okay?"

Roused out of slumber, the young Latina had jumped out of bed and begun to watch her mistress from the bathroom doorway. Still vomiting, Victria wagged her head and tried to wave Yazmina away with the hand of the arm she was using to support herself. She would take the cue, but not until she found a hair band, and then tied back her mistress's locks. 

3

"Mommy? Do you think I'll grow up to be a doctor?"

Melody had taken a seat beside her mother at the kitchen table. She was eleven. Martha would be turning twenty-seven at the end of the month. After walking back from the Girl Scouts meeting at The Church Of Jesus Christ at the corner of Fulton and Custer, mother and daughter stopped at the house's side yard, where the sun shown for most of the day, and picked string beans together.

"I don't know." Said Mrs. May as she topped and tailed the ends of each string bean, and then snapped each again in half or in thirds, "Maybe honey. If not, there's other nice things to be?"

They sat at the kitchen table; Martha taking Dean's chair, since he wasn't home yet, again, and Melody in the chair that she'd sat in since she was old enough to climb into it. Melody was working on her own pile. Together, they randomly dropped handfuls into the colander set by the napkin basket. She was always slower than her mother because she liked the soft, seemingly incongruous, fuzz on the string beans. Peach's had fuzz. Kiwi fruits had; rough hair, and coconuts. But what vegetable, other than string beans, had a coat of fuzz?

"Like what?" Melody pressed.

"Well, like a mommy."

"I guess."

Martha paused and regarded her daughter; taking in her golden brown hair, lovely green eyes and pink cheeks. She was precious, adorable, nearly the spitting image of Martha and the best thing she'd ever done.

"You guess?" Martha repeated, "I'm a mommy. Don't you want to grow up to be like me?"

"No." answered Melody, not looking at Martha.

"No? Why not?"

Melody shrugged as her pink cheeks suddenly turned a rosier shade. A silence filled the kitchen then. Still, they snapped and piled string bean after string bean. Martha eyed her daughter now and again; watching, waiting.

"Why'd you marry Dean?"

"Man alive Melody May!" Martha scolded, "He's your daddy. You call him Daddy; you hear."

"Yes Ma'am. But, why'd you marry him?"

"Why did I marry your father? Well; for a lot of reasons."

"Like?"

"Like; tradition, and so that I could have you. And-"

Martha had uttered half a syllable more, but killed it, drowned it in her throat; made it safely helpless in her second thought. How had the song gone; first comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes baby in the baby carriage. Love had come first. That was true enough, right out of the gate; fast and furious like their hot lips and wet fingers. Martha had been a good girl in as much as she'd never broken curfew, and Dean seemed like a good boy because he'd never pushed her to take the risk. But, sex, even at its most purely consensual, becomes its own kind of crime; all motive leading to opportunity. 

Secured by deception and clad under the cool shade of conspiratorial love, the spell binding allure of Dean's charming words and the soft lips with which he'd spoken them had worn Martha's resolve, her once dogged protests succumbing ultimately to the crash and burn welling in her heart.

The third time had been the charm. It was up on the ridge of old man Garner's hill; a warm and sunny September afternoon, naked under the shade of clustered Aspens, unprotected, so enraptured with the beauty she saw in herself and Dean that to say no would be just so much betrayal. Then, after her blood stopped coming, after she'd peed on the stick and the stick said yes, the baby carriage got put before the horse. But, Dean May, a good boy, a farmer's son, did his very best to do honor after their mutual dishonor, and married Martha Doyle one Saturday afternoon in the Bear Falls town hall. Then, nine or so months after that, little Melody May arrived safely, and Martha had held her close and cried a good long time.

"But Mom," Melody said suddenly; drawing Martha out of her reflection, "Couldn't have you had me and all that other stuff without Dad or without getting married?"

Just as she was about to snap another pair of beans, Martha paused and leveled a look of bewildered dismay at young Melody. 

"Oh no pumpkin." Said Martha, "We have to find good men and marry. Or else, what would people think?"

"Who cares?" Melody said. 

"Jeezum Melody; people care!"

"Not all people, Mom."

"Melody Eunice May, I don't care about what anybody else thinks!" Martha scolded, "You are going to care about tradition and getting married and having children, by God!"

A new silence ensued between the mother and her young daughter. Come on now Martha; say you're sorry. Melody's smart. She could grow up to be a fine doctor. I'll say it later. I'll tell her. That's right; it's not her fault that no one told you. Although, Momma Doyle always likes to say that she did tell you that you could be anything you wanted to be. She said she saw the way you and Dean used to look at each other, and that changed everything. Let her be now Martha. Let Melody leave, do great things, and then come back to raise a family. But the world is big and ugly, fearsome, cold. That's not the world honey. That's Dean; at least the Dean you have now.

Stuck in a rut, thought Martha, an eleven year rut. Stop it now. You've got Melody. You're not alone. Turning twenty-seven; you're still young yourself. You could- I could leave. I could get out. Get out of what; the bed you made? The farm's gone and the only good thing about it is that Dean doesn't smell like cow shit all the time. As if the smell of car oil and axel grease is a step above. Good God, where would we be if he'd hadn't known how to repair tractors? Oh it's back to we again, is it? Of course. There really was no Martha anymore. There was only Dean and Dean's wife and the mother of Dean's only child; the little May girl, what was her name?

"Woman?" called Dean.

There was the sudden smack and bounce of the front screen door against its dry old jam.

"We're in the kitchen!" Martha replied.

"I don't smell dinner." Came his hoarse voice, booming down the hall with the echo of his work boots.

Good golly, will he never leave those shoes at the door?

"That's cause it ain't ready yet."

Dean stepped into the kitchen. Neither Martha nor Melody regarded him.

"Why ain't it ready yet?" he asked.

"Cause you been coming home late, so I just thought there wasn't any hurry."

The man paused before stepping around the front of the two young women, so that they might look up from their task and see him. Finally, they raised their eyes to him. Dean glance briefly at his daughter before stopping to stare at his wife. They regarded each other: she in her blue gingham dress and wash worn yellow apron; he in is dirty gray overalls, his arms and hands black with soil and grease, his ever widening paunch, his sallow sun tanned face, his narrow eyes and his short dirty blonde hair that looked more like a thin skin of light brown moss.

"You thought there wasn't any hurry." Dean repeated with disdain; uttering the words in a drawl that, when otherwise inflected and under certain other circumstances, had, and could still, disarm her into complete submission.

Martha opened her mouth to speak, was stared down, and then looked away. She could say she was sorry, again, but he'd only remind her that sorry wasn't going to cut it. Fearful of another one of Dean's door slamming, wall shaking, tirades; Melody commenced to more speedily snap her string beans. Had Mom taken a steak out of the freezer that morning? Melody glanced at her mother, and saw that she too had become unnerved and had begun to hurriedly snap the remainder of her beans. 

I'll get up, Martha thought. I'll put the pot of water on. Oh my God, why isn't Mom getting up? Did we really need to pick this many beans? Melody began to rise from her chair and turn to look at the refrigerator door. Come on Mom! Let's find something for him to eat before he starts hemming and hawing about how he works all God damn day.

Suddenly, Dean was gone. He'd quietly left the room, and ambled back down the hall, and then Melody heard the smack bounce of the old wood framed front screen door. What? Leaving without the usual shit fit? Mom couldn't be that lucky. It was late and only getting later. Finally, hoisting a great metal colander full of snapped beans, Martha got to her feet. Melody went to fetch a pot to boil them in. Martha went to the sink to rinse her beans. That done, she poured them into the pot that Melody had ready, and then filled the pot with enough water so that it rose an inch above the green beans. 

Melody had just started contemplating whether it was safe enough to make her way upstairs to hide in her room when her father returned. Martha was at the refrigerator, fishing for some accompaniment to the vegetable when Dean dumped a five gallon bucket of soil into the kitchen sink. Both Martha and Melody were speechless, though it was only the younger that gasped in fearful surprise. Dean shook the entire contents of his five gallon plastic bucket without looking at either one. Then, still not meeting their eyes, Dean left the kitchen again. 

Melody glanced at her mother, her eyes wide, and her face pale. Martha looked down at the still frozen pork loin in her hands, and then set it on the counter by the refrigerator. Closing the refrigerator again, the woman regarded the mess in her sink, along its edge and on the floor below. Melody studied the mess too, and saw that Dean had gone into the garden, into the string bean patch, to fill his bucket and make the mess. Again, came the creak and the smack bounce of the screen door. Again, Dean entered the kitchen, a second full five gallon pail of soil, strewn with the stems and leaves of Martha's green bean plants, swinging from his right hand. 

Expressionless, Martha looked away as her husband poured the second pail's contents over the first. Then, it was only when Dean gave the bottom of the bucket three good smacks that Martha was startled, her body seeming to convulse slightly, her skin paling, with each successive, resounding, slap of his hand. Never really having to fear Dean herself, Melody coolly regarded her father, narrowing her eyes at him as if he was some exotic black snake, captive inside his glass case, so motionless for so long that she questioned whether he was ever a living thing at all.

"The only thing worse than a cold dinner," Said Dean; his mouth shaped in an ugly snear, "Is no dinner at all."

Martha's eyes were fixed on a sudden land slide of soil that tumbled and showered down from the great heap of dirt, stems and root clumps in her sink. She had liked being his wife, once, starting after Melody was born. But, when had she stopped? Had it been when she'd fallen in love with her daughter, pulled from the orbit she'd been living around her husband and drawn into the symbiotic satellite of her glorious little baby girl? Or had it been since the night Dean had said off handedly, out of spite or jealousy over Melody or because it was absolutely true that the only good reason to get married was for the sake of having regular access to pussy?

Bang, went Dean's bucket pail as he dashed it to the floor; sending Martha into another quaking fit. Melody stepped back from the bouncing plastic pail. Martha crossed the kitchen, catching the pail's rim mid bounce, fumbling it, and then picking it back up again. Glancing at her father, his stern face turning her coolness to cautious fear, Melody walked slowly to join her mother.

"Give your momma a hand, won't you Mel?" said Dean, "

Of course she would. Melody would deny her mother nothing, ever. They were comrades, sisters, friends, mother and daughter, their pledge to each other sworn in the blood of anguished love and in the cries of Melody's first breaths of life. There was no coaxing, no driving fire of desire, no desperation or the signing herself away to the other's ownership. Together, in silence, they worked as the man in their lives made his way upstairs. There he would undress and shower; the stain and smell of oil, no matter how hard he scrubbed, would still be there, unsightly and mildly odorous as he'd leave the house, again. 

Then, while Martha went stoically about her work, her sentence for the evening, Melody helped as she could, tending to the boiling string beans, finding the broom, floor brush and dust pan, and then shuttling half-filled buckets of desecrated garden back to the now gloomy side yard as Dean ate and drank and caroused with his buddies at Lockly's. She would regard her mother now and again, passive and resigned, her eyes slowly leaking tears. And she wanted to speak, to tell her she was sorry about all the things that weren't at all her fault. But, seeing her cry that way, this time, this strange time that her father had gone to such lengths to abuse her mother's mind, she would instead turn away, too afraid to start crying herself.

4

Then Melody thought of chaos complexity theory: Sensitive dependence on preliminary conditions; bifurcation: the causing of division into two parts or branches, to fork, to fuck, to fork, fork you Geralynne; subtle, catastrophic and explosive. Disequilibrium is the wellspring of life. Melody had told herself stories and convinced herself of a few things in the darkness, under the ever present weight of the water droplets falling on her head. 

She'd had the whole world figured out in just four hours. Of course, all the answers, all having forked, fucked, away from the original stem, were all inside her head all along. That's how people became stupid. They ignored the good sense inside their own heads. There was nothing common about sense because not only does it more accurately reflect the idea of sense, but it is a misnomer. 

Common sense, she postulated from behind her scarf blindfold, is the collective perception derived from seeing, smelling, tasting, feeling and hearing a given thing. Which, contrary to popular belief, has absolutely nothing to do with one's understanding of how one should know, in advance of committing to the error, how to proceed or conduct one's self through situations of early experience. We all should of course, by a certain age, know when not to pick our nose in public view or not to slap a complete stranger's face as they walk by on the street or that we are certainly much better off if we wash our hands with soap after wiping our ass free of the remains of a good, dirty, shit.

Geralynne, Melody knew, had popped her head into the bathroom once or twice. She'd strolled in, use the toilet and washed her hands at the sink; because Geralynne was a very smart woman and because doctors had uncommon common sense.

Melody had spent her time listening, when she wasn't distracted by serious deliberation, to any and all sound that wasn't the result of water droplets plummeting upon her head. 

She'd thought at first that counting each drop would be the proper methodology of a sane woman, but that hadn't panned out to be the case. Oh she was crazed. That was for sure. But, she vowed to be the queen of her own insanity. She'd tried to reflect fondly on her interludes with Victria, but that always sent her mind back to having thought of her as she'd masturbated for Geralynne, that nosey fucking bitch. And of course, from there, Melody's thoughts would turn around the ugly notion of betrayal. Why would Geralynne have such information and reference it specifically? Because it was information Victria wanted to have. Well then; fork you too Victria. Fork you and the horse you rode in on; that big stupid pink Lexus SUV. Seriously? 

Then Melody thought about it again and again, mulling it over between the drip drip drop explosions on her head, the fractured echoes from her past, the sound of Geralynne talking on the phone with her mother and the aimless, disjointed communication of channel surfing. If she understood anything about Victria, she knew that she wouldn't play dirty. Victria wanted Melody to tell her all about her scar on her terms, when she was good and ready to confess it after either a particularly ecstatic session under the whip, after a divine romp in the sack or while they were outside together; she being patiently made glorious in the eyes of Victria. It was Geralynne, for reasons of her own, that was using the information against Melody, and would use to manipulate Victria, again, for reasons only the good doctor knew.

Ultimately, Melody tried to lose herself in the recalling of the content of her studies. 1. Product driven market driven. 2. Augmented product offer customer solutions offer. 3. Price, quality and value driven. 4. Reacting to competitor's bench marking; beating them at their own game. 5. Function oriented process Outcomes. Businesses like Jet Burger marketing strategies reflect these attributes. Isn't that interesting? Drip, drop, drip, drop. Yes; quite compelling.

"Slave?"

Melody jumped and screeched behind her blindfold; surprised by Geralynne's sudden presence. As her heart felt as if to explode from her chest, she felt the ball gag being pulled from her mouth.

"Do you have anything to tell me?" the doctor inquired.

"What time is it?" Melody asked.

"I said; do you have anything to tell me?"

Melody took a few deep breaths and worked her jaw for a time, opening her mouth wide and closing it again.





The Brand Ch. 09



It was early on that following Monday morning, that Victria was summoned to the board room. She passed by Aaron, the suite's secretary, staring at her somberly and dressed in a stark black suit behind his low semicircular desk. She too was dressed in her most severe and conservative black suit, her hair down, her make up negligible. Victria could hardly contain her shaking as she knocked, and then gripped the door knob. She'd rationalized her way back to her usual state of mind, but she still couldn't help but imagine that two or three large, well dressed, goons were waiting just inside the door to escort her right back out of the building. 

She heard nothing but her own heart beat pounding inside her head, her turning of the knob and the swoosh of the bottom of the door against the carpet. Once inside, she saw Cheevers at his end of the long, gleaming black granite conference table; his fingers interlaced under his chin. There was no one else. The other, remaining, members of the board were elsewhere, certainly not by choice, but elsewhere; fearful, mourning, or perhaps gloating or laughing. Cheevers said nothing, did not move, as she stepped closer to the table. Victria took the time to read, evaluate, her CEO's expression. He was worried, that was for sure. Though his eyes were shaded with thick white brows, there was something unfamiliar to his gaze, unfamiliar at least to her, not ever having before been allowed so much silence on his part. 

He's tired. There's no mistaking that either. Holy shit, she thought, his face is whiter than his hair. Hold on; that's because he's wearing black today. I don't know. I've seen him in black before. Then it struck her: his waiting in an empty room, the rest of the board not present, knowing who knew what about her, about Simon's discovery and his ultimate demise, the horrible fate of Ricchio, Rancourt and Duffy too, the remaining board members given the task of determining exactly how the company's responsibilities and power should be redistributed. It was then, that Victria abruptly stopped shaking.

"It is a sad day, I know, Mr. Cheevers." Victria finally intoned; breaking the silence in as mournful a tone as she could muster while she slid into Simon's former seat.

Cheevers raised his eye brows as he trained his blood shot, yellow tinged blue eyes on the insolent woman seated in his dead co-pilot's chair. She had provoked his ire. But, what of it? Now it's your turn chief. Give me what you've got. Victria's stare was respectful, but unwavering as she watched Cheevers' fluffy white brows slowly settle back down to shade his eyes again, his forehead lined with age sagged furrows.

"We have; due to the untimeliness of death, four vacancies on the board at this time." He said; clearing his throat, his voice harsh with weariness, "In order to have a quorum, we'll have to appoint at least three new directors. The board is discussing the merit and pragmatism of moving certain juniors up to the higher tier, prior to our advertising out of house."

In the ensuing silence, Victria could hear Coleman's slow, raspy, inhalations. There was a smell in the room, beyond her subtlely applied perfume; something acrid, human, base and animal, something that always smelled better coming from others.

"I am in agreement with the board," the certainly well to do, but very very old man continued, "That, once you've presented your budget proposal and it meets the collective bottom line, then you will be granted senior status and you will thereby have earned yourself a very, very coveted seat of influence on the board."

Again, silence. Victria closed her eyes, and then lowered her head in gratitude and feigned deference.

"Your proposal will be ready for review by the board this Thursday?" asked Cheevers.

Victria met Cheevers gaze again.

"It will sir; yes." 

"Very good then." Said Cheevers; sighing as he slowly sat back in his chair, "Now, it is also my wish that you accompany me at each of our colleagues' funeral services. Does that sit well with you Victria?"

Proposal my ass, she thought. You know I know how to save you money. The real test is seeing how I do with Rancourt's, Ricchio's and Duffy's widows and families. Or; maybe you want to keep me close, study me, get a better sense of the most powerful woman you've ever known, you know, just in case she's got some Voodoo doll of you hidden somewhere. Well then; I suppose I don't blame you.

"I would be honored; sir."

Cheevers slowly nodded. Victria rose from her seat, and then walked confidently to the door.

"Ms. Charpentier?" said Aaron as Victria closed the door behind her, "There's a man, in your office, to see you; a Detective Mangiafico?"

Victria glared at the suite's secretary; a handsome enough young man, thin, slightly gaunt faced, effeminate, as gay as they come. You dumb prick, she thought. Will all of these fucking chairs around here, you just let him go right into my office? Stupid bitch. Victria rolled her eyes at Aaron before stepping away from the board room door. And this ridiculous cop, he's a prick too; making me wrestle with my conscience. Fucker, I'm not used to this. 

As she made her way back to her office, Victria took mental inventory. It was already legal to monitor all staff e-mail, watch every key stroke and record every last click they made on both the Inter and Intranet. There really wasn't a need to install a camera system in each office, so Victria deduced that they were installed prior to the company's purchasing of the building. But, shortly after Simon's death, Victria had found the camera in her office. It was small, digital, one inch by one and a half inches, set in the corner of her window's molding, hidden by its matching color. Noticing it for the first time, she realized that it was new, and had to have been installed just before she'd moved into the space.

What about whether she'd been recorded looking at Melody on the tablet? It would be a truth, and nothing Mangiafico could use against her. Could the board? Would the board, who remained of it, and Cheevers; would they witch hunter her out of the building for being lesbian and watching her lover performing various acts from behind her desk? As soon as she'd gotten in that morning, Victria had regarded the tiny digital camera, took her tablet out, and then adjusted her posture and rolled her chair into her customary viewing position. Then, looking over her shoulder, Victria realized that the back of her chair was facing the camera. She checked her desktop's screen for any compromising reflection, and there was none. Of course I was seen playing with the dolls, she thought, because when I had them out, I pushed my seat back and turned it toward the right, allowing the camera vantage. Dumb ass.

Victria wondered if she'd been perceived as a security risk by virtue of her femininity. It was all so much bull shit. They could not question her general performance, since they watched her computer as closely as they watched everyone else's. She never betrayed client trust. She hadn't shared trade secrets. But still; why the camera? Why a new camera, just for her? Unless, she thought, it wasn't installed for the sake of spying on me. It was installed, just as electronic correspondence and web browsing monitoring software was installed, for the sake of the company avoiding liability. They were watching for the potential of discrimination or harassment; the possibility of Simon's sexually harassing her. It certainly would have been the case, if the man had a reputation, had discussed certain topics at the hitherto exclusively male executive suite water cooler, the company would have been held liable for any breach of conduct on his part. Because if there hadn't been surveillance, and Simon tried to pull some crap in Victria's office, Cheevers and the board would still have to defend themselves and answer for Simon's iniquity.

So, he'd pulled his shit somewhere else; gained her confidence, set his trap, led her chasing her fear like a desperately starved lamb and violated her with the brazen sleaze of his arrogance. But, Simon had paid, and he had paid dearly. Malicious intent, thought Victria. Hadn't that been what he'd described her doll play as? No. It was he that had motive. It was he that had opportunity and it was his own probable cause, not hers. Simon led himself to his own slaughter and, no matter what any video surveillance revealed, Victria had nothing to do with it. So then, to what did she owe Detective Mangiafico's presence in her office?

Victria entered the room to find the detective seated in one of the two chairs behind the low coffee table across from her desk.

"Detective Mangiafico." She said, extending her hand, not smiling.

"Ms. Charpentier." Said the detective, standing, taking her hand, smiling warmly.

Mangiafico was a thin man with a long face, high forehead and a mouth like a fish. His hair was gray, curly and cut short, on the Caucasian side of nappy. He was dressed in an old brown suit, threadbare brown tie, a beige overcoat and he was wearing a scarf, brightly colored, possibly a gift from some cute little granddaughter.

"To what do I owe this visit Detective Mangiafico?" asked Victria as she strode to the chair behind her desk.

"Well," he began; still smiling, seeming a very contented old man, "I was just wondering if you could tell me more about your exchange with Mr. Dobbs that day."

"There really isn't much else to tell. Which exchange? When?"

"Uh, in the woods, when you brandished your weapon at him."

"I asked him to think seriously about re-considering his offer."

"And?"

"And, he said if I didn't comply with his demand, he would see to it that I never worked again."

"And again, he was blackmailing you with what information?"

Victria paused, and eyed him squarely. She had entertained the possibility of having a little chat with Dick Vandermier, head of security, before the detective got to him. But, she immediately thought better of it. Mangiafico would certainly look at the case from the sexual harassment angle. He could conceivably come into the office, as he apparently had, and ask around about Simon's conduct, as well as her conduct with him. Still, Mangiafico had nothing, no gunshot wound, no bullet; just a huge tree limb fallen onto the victim's head. 

Why look hard at Victria? Because she was there? Because Simon had ejaculated, his pants down around his ankles? Victria wondered. Jesus, does Mangiafico think I fucked him after he died, before I called it in? She decided then that the detective was either very bored with his boring little one horse town of a jurisdiction or he was just being a typical male; aroused by the prospect of collaring the freaky necropheliac marketing executive. Victria shivered at the thought of a post mortem coitus, with a man no less.

"He threatened to expose my sexual orientation."

"As well as the fact that you'd been watching your lover on your personal technology while at work via a web based home surveillance system. I mean, I'm sorry; you do it through a home surveillance system, right?"

Victria kept her eyes on the man as she slowly nodded.

"I suppose it's a fact." She sighed, "I wouldn't know for sure. I didn't have access to viewing the films. Forgive me Detective, but I don't see what any of this has to do with Simon being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, I can see why you'd say that. However, I'm just totally astounded by the fact that it was also the right place at the right time."

"I don't follow you Detective."

Mangiafico paused, and checked his watch. She too regarded the time on her desktop screen. No; even if Mangiafico was granted access to the surveillance video, what would it prove? Well, it would prove that she lied by omission. Oh, I was recorded playing with Voodoo dolls? Yes, I do recall playing with dolls dressed in three piece suits. Who were they representing? Well, I never named them, actually. That; would be a little weird, wouldn't it? Their faces are very detailed, really? Why I don't see anyone in particular in each. Who do you see? Really? Nope, I still don't see any resemblance.

"Where there's smoke," Mangiafico said, "There's usually fire. And, from what I've heard, you're fire."

My, you have some balls for a little old dick from out in the sticks. 

"Detective Mangiafico; I suggest you tread carefully." Victria said with confidence, "You sir have no motive nor do you have probable cause, which essentially gives you absolutely no ground for slander or anything else."

"There is your ambition."

"And since when is it a crime to be ambitious? I'm going to ask you to leave now detective, and I expect that this will be the last time we see each other. Good bye to you sir."

The detective got to his feet, a smile still on his face, though a bit smaller, the look in his eyes more severe than amiable.

"You're right." He said; casually stepping toward her door, "I apologize. I'm sorry, and I'm sorry for your company's other, untimely, losses; Mr. Duffy, Mr. Rancourt and Mr. Ricchio. Such a shame; such, such a shame."

Opening Victria's door, Mangiafico paused once more.

"You know," he continued, "When I met security down stairs, he told me about what happened, the plane crash, all those other innocent people and I thought: There were such nice men when I interviewed them. Ah well; take care of yourself Ms. Charpentier."

The door clicked quietly closed, and then the detective was gone. For a long time, Victria stared at the door's smooth surface, finely beveled edges and fine grain. Meddling fucker, she thought. Presently, she lowered her head, closed her eyes and mourned, just as many others in the building were mourning. Eventually, the young, female executive slowly whirled her chair around so that she faced her office's high window and the great cold blue sky beyond it. Victria opened her eyes again, peered into the vast, limitless bright winter azure sky and suddenly began to feel as if one great nebulous eye stared back at her, burning its gaze through every layer of her, and then into the depth of her soul. I said thank you, she thought, didn't I? Now what do you want; an apology? For what? It wasn't me that put me in this mess.

"Oh, are we getting a dog?" Melody asked excitedly.

It was one afternoon, three days after their reunion, two days after Mangiafico's visit to the office, that Victria announced that she had a surprise. Melody knew her mistress was planning something, but she never suspected that it would mean a trip to the local pet store. The junior executive's slave could only surmise that they were going to get some kind of little companion of her own, to keep her company while Victria was at work. A little dog, she thought, would be nice. I've always wanted a little dog; maybe one of those pushed in face things. They're so cute, like ugly little hairy faced babies. Actually, a bird might be nice too.

"Oh God no." answered Victria; stopping to peer into a few fish tanks, "All that dog hair and slobber all over the floor. I think we can agree that you have plenty to attend to as it is. No; we're not getting a dog."

"Oh." Said Melody; once again affecting her new habit of gliding the tips of her fingers along her collar, "Then; what will we be getting? Fish are nice. Oh, those are pretty."

Victria shrugged as she turned to look into the clown fish tank and jangled the keys in her P coat's pocket.

"Well how about a bird?" Melody continued, "Oh, we could get one of those exotic parrots and I can teach it to speak French."

Victria turned to regard Melody, a quizzical look in her eyes, and said:

"You don't speak French."

"I know." Smiled Melody, "But I could learn it, and then teach it to the parrot."

Victria frowned, turned on her heel, and then resumed her walk through the store. 

"What?" called Melody, "That was funny! Come on!"

Melody dutifully followed; maintaining a slave's distance and locus beside her domme, keeping two paces behind and to her left. Goodness, she can be so weird, she thought; hot and cold running mistress. Was the surprise a gift? Goodness knew she deserved it; having suffered through her enslavement to Dr. Tucker. Dear God, please don't trade me away again. Yes, a gift would be nice. Why not? Melody was a very good slave, and more. She was Victria's ever present house keeper, her model, her muse, her protégée, her ward, her executive secretary in training and; her unequal yet significant other . 

It would be nice, she thought, something sweet and tender, like all those flowers she bought that day at the Super Shopper, after I was returned. Melody recalled that Victria had become quite nervous and oddly antsy as they got closer to the flower department. That, Melody attributed to her domme's disinclination toward sentimentality. But, once there, Victria had actually purchased dozens and dozens of various flowers, ferns and baby's breath. Then, once at home, while Melody put the groceries away, her domme had gone upstairs to arrange the hundred or more flowers in the master bedroom.

The love they made had been wonderful, cozy and luxurious, curative in its leisureliness; their bodies surrounded by thousands of silky petals and leaves, their varied scents mingling gloriously with the aroma of Victria's luscious skin. A cat maybe, thought Melody as she followed Victria past a display of scratch posts. Who am I kidding? The flowers, the love we made on them that was my gift. Victria is getting something for herself, something for me to take care of. A cat; hmm, I think she's asking for trouble. Victria, if anything, was a cat person. But, that didn't mean that they'd get along. No, it won't be a cat. They shed too, and those hair balls; yuck.

"Ah, here we are." Announced Victria. 

They came to a stop. Melody scanned the merchandise of the dog accessories aisle: squeaky toys, tug ropes, bones, dried pig's ears, oh that's so nasty, food and water bowls, collars, I don't get it, leashes, choke chains- Oh wait. Oh no.

"I thought; we weren't getting a dog." Said Melody; some degree of anxiety adding to her confusion.

"We're not." Victria answered, "We're getting a dog crate, a nice, roomy one."

Trying to keep her aversion to the idea as small as she could get it, Melody looked on as Victria kneeled to get a better look at a few long flat boxes stacked on one of the lower shelves. Then, without turning to meet her eyes, Victria said:

"This; will be your new sleeping arrangement for a while."

Yep, thought Melody, doing very well at keeping her expression as pleasant as she could muster, hot and cold running mistress; that she is. Dog crate? Jeezum! Oh well. I suppose I don't have much more to lose if I inquire, even if curiosity is not becoming of a slave:

"That is to be my punishment, Mistress; for my bringing up your art at your Christmas party?"

Victria turn to regard her slave; her expression placid, though a glimmer of danger shown in her eyes. 

"Yes." She intoned, "And yes; as glad I am of your return, I can't let your little breach of confidence go." 

Melody had wanted to forget. Having been reunited with her mistress, having been made love to so tenderly and having had the honor of serving at her domme's pleasure again; all of it had made it very easy to not remember. But, there it was: her punishment, her getting herself into the dog house, as it were. At least Melody hoped it would indeed be roomy enough to accommodate her. As she weighed the prospect out in her mind, the slave watched her domme pull one of the boxes from the shelf. Being manacled and chained to the foot of the bed hadn't been all that bad. Sleeping inside a steel cage, manacled and still likely chained, at the foot of the bed may not necessarily be so bad either. Wait! A nice big doggie pillow would be cool! Hold on. It's going to be at the foot of the bed, isn't it?




The Brand Ch. 09



Melody was afraid to ask as to where in the house the crate would be located. On the way home, she tried not to think about it, because she believed that thinking about how she wanted something to turn out jinxed it's positive outcome. She was hopeful though, since her mistress allowed the purchase of a particularly large and cozy doggie pillow.

"Now, here are the directions." Said Victria; once they'd arrived home and carried the box into the house, "Go ahead and set it up."

"Here?" asked Melody as she scanned the area of the living room where the auction block had been.

She absently took the directions from her domme's hand. The curtains were open, and a bright, white, light was shining through the big bay window. Not a single speck of dust could be seen floating amid the shafts that ended in a brilliant quadrangle of golden sun drenched rug. Victria still hadn't answered as her slave unfolded the directions. Of course she wouldn't. It was a stupid question. Besides, Melody should have known, since the doggie pillow's color matched the living room carpet. 

Presently, Melody slid the contents of the box out onto the rug, and then read through the product information. It assured her that the kennel was sturdy and easy to assemble. Oh, she thought, this is one top of the line dog crate; made of high grade welded wire mesh and electroplated for a lustrous and long lasting finish. It features two security latches, which require a 180° rotation prior to complete disengagement, guaranteeing that they will not be opened by your pet. Oh, my domme is good, yes she is. 

As for the assembly, there were nine steps in total. Melody went about putting her cage together, glancing occasionally at Victria, who had sat upon her chaise to attend to business on her laptop. Okay, let's see; step one: Unpack the box. Hmm. Step two: bottom crate panel on the floor, hooks facing up- That's unusual. My mistress seems dazed, lost in thought; rather than focused and assured. I wonder how her proposal's coming. Step three: side panels, loops facing up, overlap the side panels on the bottom panel so that; oh, okay. I got this.

The falsity of customer discounts, typed Victria; her brown eyes glazed with preoccupation, glancing up from her screen, looking past her slave, peering into the white sky outside her bay window, studying its whiteness for the god or the devil she'd come to realize had been watching her all along. Whereas discounts have been employed by clients as a means of increasing sales, this is a self-sabotaging practice in that discounts on principal products would detract from the revenue stream. If the angels and demons inherent in all things require cheaper products, cut the frills in the trouble you seek and introduce a bare, godlier, minimum model.

Jesus woman, thought Victria, fucking focus! This adjustment will sustain the brand and revenue. Quickly, she glanced at her slave who was busily constructing the vessel of her temporary exile. Stop being a shit to her. No. Why? Because she's okay with it, duh. Again, Victria regarded Melody, dressed in loose jeans and a pink T shirt with the sentiment "Smile for No Undies" scrawled in red letters across the front of it. She is mine; that meek young woman who fell to the grocery store's floor so quickly, all those months ago, coiled up like a boweaval, pissing herself, the stink of fear all over her. She was sent for me; a gift, my chosen burden, my responsibility, my frisky little whore, my toy, my obedient slave.

"Mistress?"

Angels or demons, we all have the power of flight, of will. Is that it; demonic will? How can Hell have a sky? Now you see; that bothers me. Why should I pay for tenacity and ambition? How am I so fucking different? You know what? Every last one of us shelters a demon, and we all take our sanctimonious white spray paint, and our glue, and our few feathers and we just cover up our leather and our claws. What is a demon anyway, other than an artistic construct, an esthetic antithesis of the angel aesthetic?

"Ahem; Mistress?"

Victria hovered inside her memory; wings carrying her, spiraling, swinging high in the sky, only to plummet and black out, drunk and abused, shat on and left to die. Jesus fucking Christ, she thought, suddenly hit by the reality of it, like just stepping out of the way of a speeding car; I could have been shot in my fucking head. She met Melody's gaze. And what if you hadn't been there Cowboy? Would I still have taken the chance? Would I have died for it, for no one?

"Huh; what?"

Victria saw that Melody had finished putting her crate together, had gotten totally undressed, put her pillow inside, and was now resting cozily upon it; an issue of Modern Cuisine spread open before her.

"That's very nice." Said Victria; also admiring her slave's smile, "But I didn't say you could have the pillow yet."

Melody's smile quickly faded. Resigned, sighing, she took her magazine, crawled back out of her crate, and then carefully withdrew the plush pillow from her cage. Carrying it to the sofa, Melody deposited it there, picked up her magazine, and then retreated back into her cage.

"That's better." Said Victria, "Now let me know when you have to go to the bathroom."

Without the pillow, the cage had become roomy enough for Melody to sit up, cross legged. Her ass and thighs cool from the cold yellow enameled steel of the crate pan. Melody looked up from her magazine, her eyes narrowed, and her mouth about to utter a new question. Victria recognized her slave's query, and nodded the answer.

It was nearly an hour later when Melody felt that she couldn't hold her pee any longer. So, she announced her need, crept out from her cage, and then put on her snow boots. Her domme had fastened a five foot leash of 2.5 millimeter chain to the manacle of the collar's lock. Dressed in her lounging clothes, snow boots and P coat, Victria led her slave, naked but for the boots and her collar, down the stairs to the basement studio. They'd stopped at the bathroom, where Victria took a roll of toilet paper from beneath the vanity and handed it to Melody. Yes, my mistress is a good mistress. Then, Melody keeping two paces behind and to her domme's left, the two women exited out into the back yard.

"You aren't filming this for your personal library; Mistress?" asked Melody as they walked across the snow and ice covered terrain.

"Not this time." Answered Victria, "When you start coming out here on your own, is when I'll record a couple of events."

"Ah, yes, of course Mistress."

If not for her having grown up through Colorado winters, Melody would have begun to shiver as soon as she'd left the house. It was an advantage, but even a hardy native of the Midwest wouldn't last long naked, out in the southern New England cold. Presently, the two women arrived at a suitable spot, and Melody proceeded to hunker down. Squatting, she made her water and, of course, Victria played the spectator. She walked semicircles around her slave, the chain held loosely in her hand, watching from behind and then from in front as the flow of Melody's urine cascaded, steamed and splashed on the ice.

"It is interesting," said Victria, "Watching you squatting there and going."

"I am happy it brings you pleasure." Melody intoned as she went about wiping herself, "Mistress? May I ask?"

"Yes Slave?"

"Why didn't you go into the art field instead of marketing?"

Victria shrugged as she scanned the tree line that surrounded the back yard.

"The art business is no longer as lucrative as it once was," she answered, "Because the genius pool is not only determined by critics and agents, but by the self-important twits that pander to them. Art is for the rich. That kind of artist is a pawn, a hostage of an extremely long lucky streak, while the rest, blessed with real passion, the dreamers, starve. Why starve, if you can be one of the rich people?"

"But that shouldn't stop you now." Said Melody, "You can afford to fail."

Victria suddenly glared at Melody, as if her suggestion was the worst possible blasphemy she could ever speak aloud. Melody, her cheeks pink, her breasts as white as the frozen snow, her long hard nipples just starting to turn blue, looked away.

"Forgive me Mistress." She asked softly, her eyes sad, her body still not shivering.

"Please Melody; I'd be homeless today if I pursued art instead."

Victria turned back to face the tree tops; their limbs and branches swaying and shaking in the wind. Melody raised her gaze to look again at her domme.

"But Mistress!" she said, "You can't possibly know that! You're brilliant!"

Victria stared into her forest and through her trees. Through the wind came a new sound, a rustling, a frankness of nature, scratching, flustering, and feathered agitation. Still, she saw nothing, nothing distinct or out of the ordinary. 

"I can." She said, "If you looked at the trends, the number of starving artists compared to how many could actually feed themselves from their work, and statistically, I was doomed to fail with the majority."

"You could have defied the odds."

Victria uttered a small ironic laugh.

"Oh that's absurd! The odds were too defined to defy Melody! I had to survive. I made the right decision, and I've lost nothing. I-"

Victria's eyes narrowed.

"I still create."

"Mistress?" said Melody; following her domme's gaze, "What's-"

Victria, her face pale, her mouth slightly open, had caught sight of three crows, perched high on the limb of an elm. She'd watched them advance, flying from tree to tree from three different directions, though she'd not been able to pin their flight, their black wings beating, their beaks shut in silence. Not cawing to each other, in itself, was not unusual, nor was huddling together upon landing. But staring, staring without looking away, meeting her eyes with such patient menace; that seemed quite unnatural.

"Birds are amazing, aren't they?" said Melody; beginning to shiver, hugging herself in futile defense. "

"Really." Said Victria; not taking her eyes from the dark avians, "How so?"

"Because they can live out here, anywhere, and survive on whatever they find. That's a miracle; don't you think?"

"They're staring at me?

"What? No they're not."

Victria's eyes narrowed with suspicion as she turned to face her slave. Melody had begun jogging in place, her attention on the crows. Victria looked back up in their direction. The large black birds had drawn closer together, as if to warm each other as the cold wind ruffled their feathers. No, they were no longer staring at her, but they did look like they were conspiring, plotting, discussing tactic. Victria thought of that day with Simon, the woods, the heavy winds and the tiny dead bird at her feet and its shining, staring, dead black eye. 

Then, she recalled the scene playing out on the Super Shopper TV: Commercial flight 210 down in China, the living dying, flesh burning, crested terns chewed in the maw of turbines, shattering cockpit window, over two hundred people dead, Rancourt, Duffy and Ricchio, innocent and helpless. Victria shuddered at her final horrifying thought; feeling the solid weight of her fear drop from the anxious pit of her gut into her bowels, causing her to dread the suddenly very real possibility that she could piss herself right then and there. I'm carrying a curse. As simply inconceivable and absurd as that sounds inside my very pragmatic mind, I am; cursed. 

"Mistress," came the sweet, gentle grounding voice of reason, "I'm cold. May we go back in now?"

Melody quickly adapted to her new role as cute little puppy, and she felt that her domme was mightily pleased with her performances. Eventually, Melody had come to make a show of her scampering around the back yard, sniffing out good spots, circling, and then crouching down for a good long piss or shit. Victria, still preferring her yard clean, dutifully did her part as owner: bringing a plastic shopping bag or two up the rear, so that she could wrap up her pet's stool, and then tie them off for the trash. 

A few such events had been filmed. Others followed. As for Victria's interest in bagging Melody's shit, she'd quickly lost it. As a result, and as it appeared on film, Melody went out on her own with a roll of toilet paper in one hand and plastic bags in the other, which she'd transfer to her mouth when having to manage wiping. Also recorded on video were Melody's antics with chew toys, tug ropes and squeaky balls. Every other night or so, the couple would get together after one of Melody's fine dinners, pour each other a few drinks, review the footage, and then laugh together as they shared in the work of editing the films and choosing appropriately humorous sound tracks for each.

It was a strange love Melody was in, she knew it. And it seemed to her, as they lived each new day together, and as their drinking together steadily increased, that Victria knew it too. How, Melody began to think, can we possibly sustain this sort of; depravity when we get older? Don't we have to stop at some point, so that we can gracefully evolve into two prim and proper old ladies? Or will we grow old kinky; two white haired crones, naked and hangy boobs, boney in chains- Oh God, that's scary. I don't want to think about getting old, but I don't want to think about being without you either.

Melody worried about her domme. As much as she depended on her support and protection, Victria, she believed, would be a wreck on her own. She needed someone she could trust; not like Yazmina. Victria didn't talk about their past together and Geralynne was obviously jealous. But, Melody could tell, and she could also tell that the Puerto Rican girl would never be seen around again. Still though, Victria needed someone better, someone exactly like who she had now. Something was weighing on her, some new sadness, something black. 

Or maybe it wasn't something new, but something rekindled. What had they talked about, she and Geralynne, at the store? What did she know? Don't make me tell you; please. I don't want to talk about it. I'd rather just be everything you want me to be for you. I want to just lose myself in you. You want me to be your servant, I'll serve you. You desire that I be your dirty slut, I will fuck you silly. You want me to drink with you, I'll drink with you until we can round up all of our demons and execute them together, one by one: bang, bang, you're dead, hole in your head.

"Tell me Cowboy." Victria muttered late one night in a drunken stupor, "What Indian got you anyhow?"

It had been a fairly hard night of drinking. They'd shared some micro brewed ale, a twelve pack and a half gone between them, punctuated with frequent enough shots of Remmi Martin. When it was time to take the dog out, Victria face the cold by Melody's side, the two of them pissing and laughing, naked together in the ice encrusted back yard, too drunk to care about putting on nothing more than a pair of flip flops each. So they laughed and shivered as they came back into the house, stumbled back up the stairs, and then crawled together into Melody's crate. She was eventually allowed her pillow, and together they warmed each other upon it. As they dozed, Melody could feel Victria's fingers caress her outer thigh, and then trace the outline of her scar and linger there until the question came lazily from her lips. 

"You have some fucked up timing Mistress." Melody slurred, "Really? Is that all that's been on your mind lately?"

"No."

"Okay. So are you willing to tell me what's been bothering you for real?"

"No."

"Are you going to puke on my doggie pillow?"

"No?"

"Oh, that's some conviction there."

Then, as suddenly as one might be able to effect it in as a drunk a state Melody was in, she rolled around to face her crate mate. There, nose to nose, breath to beer soured breath, they inhaled of each other as Melody began to stroke Victria's hair. Slowly, the domme opened her eyes, and saw her slave's tears begin to pool and then verge on overflow.

"I'll get you a bowl in a minute." Melody whispered; sniffling, "But I need to tell you something right now, whether you're going to remember that I said it or not. I'm totally in love with you Victria Charpentier. It's totally fucking insane, but the greatest truth I've ever known. So, if you don't want to tell me what is hurting you lately; fine. You'll tell me when you're good and ready. As for me; the same thing goes. When I'm ready, you'll know. Even if its forever from now, you'll know."

I'll know, she says. Fine; have your little measure of control. I mean; you should have something you- You should have something- Something; out of nothing? Hey! Whered she go? Oh, my bowl; right. Victria took slow, shallow breaths; inhaling her lover's scent from the doggie pillow's plush casing. In with the good air, out with the bad. I'm alive and kicking. What the Hell Girl; what's taking you so long? Get back here Slave. Don't leave me here all alone. Don't leave me. Don't-

"Daddy?"

"Yeah honey?"

"I think that's way way too much red."

"That's the point Victria."

"Yeah, but where's the balance?"

Victor Charpentier stopped mid stroke; the four inch sable brush dripping. He glanced at the cut he'd made on the back of his right hand, and then looked at his youngest daughter, just about to turn five, destined to be a genius, and he was certain of it. Victor smiled at his youngest daughter, his biggest fan next to her mother, Sheila, and looked her over for the second time that morning. He eyed her like one of his works in progress, the only one among his four children that he knew for certain was her own evolving piece of art. Victria was working away in her own corner of his studio. He'd shown her Pollock's work, and she'd taken to it like ice cream. 

Victria stood on a three by four foot canvas, her bare feet in puddles of thick poster tempera. She was dressed in a paint smeared one piece bathing suit and her dark hair was bound up tight under a pilot's flight cap he'd bought for her at some garage sale. She'd lifted its goggles up to regard him; he too paint smeared in his black T shirt and cut offs, his limbs strong and wiry, his long dark brown hair hanging loose around his handsome, rugged face.

"The balance," he soberly told her; always talking to her as if she too was an adult, "Will come when this table I'm painting is placed juxtaposed with the rest of the installation."

"Okay," she said; scratching the side of her pilot's cap with a slick green right hand, "But, but what's; juckaposed?"

"Juxtaposed, sweetie; it means next to or near, kind of."

Victria assessed her father with a sidelong glance, suspicion in her eyes, and the deep brown of them seeming to ask -why not just say next to or near- as her goggles slowly slipped their way back down her forehead. 

"Kay, but; how the heck are you gonna get it into the gallery?"

"I'm going to rent a place."

"What's rent?"

"Borrow; I'm going to borrow a place."

"Can I come and see the show Daddy, after you set it up?"

"No honey," answered Victor; smoothing the blood red paint across the long table, "The show is only for grownups."

Son of a monkey!" Victria exclaimed; stomping on her painting; sending splashes of green and yellow across the illustration board and up her legs, "Oh Daddy; you're such a joy kill."

"Hey," laughed Victor, "That's what your mom says about me."

"Mommy says it because Mommy says it's true." Victria replied as she bent over to spread her splash marks with the tip of her little brush, "Hey Daddy; if someone buys your installation, do they have to buy the place you're borrowing to show it?"

"No Victria," laughed Victor, "They're going to pay. They're all going to pay to see it, to play a part in it."




The Brand Ch. 09



It was summer, 1992. Victor was at his prime as a fine artist. He'd been making twelve thousand dollars for each of the paintings and wall hangings he'd finished, and he'd started teaching as an adjunct at a small art college in southern Connecticut. 

Though he was always experimenting, it was time to take a leap, and constructing installations and putting social experiments on film was becoming his new vehicle of expression.

Victor was a fan of psychic automatism, and he much admired the installation and performance work done in the seventies. His first endeavor involved a nude model posed on a pedestal, standing behind a table full of empty palettes, cups of water, tubes of body paint and clean brushes ready for use. The public was invited to be the artists, and to paint the model as they chose. In reviewing the film, Victor noticed that individual painters preferred long, broad strokes, which suggested to him a passive eroticism; as opposed to the groups that came in and painted together, sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes mixed, but all would paint finer lines and use their brushes more provocatively, particularly around the model's most private parts.

Curious, his research led him to make a more thorough investigation of lesser known performance artists and their work, and to read up more on psychology. Ultimately, he discovered the darker side of performance: bloodletting for an audience, blood mold self-portraits, the Chinese artist that photographed grass being surgically implanted on his back, sculptures of feces and the release, just that year, of a music video, Happiness And Slavery, containing the work of an artist that expressed himself through self-injury. Then, he stumbled on two things: the book Obedience to Authority and the performance work of Abramovi.

It was in 1974 that Abramovi submitted herself to her audience's perceptions of pain and pleasure. Victor admired the woman because she had taken such a huge risk and, by doing so, set the scene for the creation of a living, feeling, visceral, vital piece of social art. Now, in 1992, at the peak of his prime, he would take her experiment and roll with it. He would slap on his spin, his color, his design, and make his contribution to the advancement of both art and social science.

The scene was set in an empty warehouse, just outside of Soho. It had been posted all over Manhattan, for all viewers and potential subjects to join Victor at his location, indicating that they could indulge in the experiment at twenty dollars per guest. Victor's best friends Jerimiah and Ceazer were there to help with the installation, take and secure the money and replenish the finger food and wine as needed. The lights went on and the doors were opened at nine o'clock. People, dressed in everything from fine evening attire to shorts and T shirts, flocked into the lobby, paid the fee, and then were allowed into the room proper. Once inside the room, the viewer first fed their eyes upon Victor's background on the far wall: a cloudless blue sky over a golden green meadow; pastoral and serene. 

Set like a barricade against the twenty by forty foot mural was a length of six foot tall chain link fence. Before the fence, arranged front and center, stood Victor's blood red painted table. The table, round, six feet in diameter, had arrayed upon it a variety of seventy objects. Organized in a spiral were items that ranged from the entirely benign to the potentially dangerous and included a Japanese folding fan, a long white feather, pumas stones, shards of broken glass, a braided whip, a high school science dissection kit, a mallet for tenderizing meat and Victor's own, licensed, .38 revolver.

Sheila, mother to Vanessa, Veronica, Vance and little Victria, the former Mrs. Charpentier, three years divorced from him at the time, but still his best friend and lover, told Victor he was stupid. Victor agreed, as he always did, but was smart enough to take Sheila's advice and remove the single round he'd put in one of the .38's cylinders and left it at home, in his night stand drawer, along with the other forty-nine rounds he purchased when he'd bought the gun eight years before.

The traffic flowed and ebbed like a cocktail party; half of each wave of guests mingling by the wine and cheese tables at the front of the room while the rest ventured to brush, poke and prod at Victor. From the speakers mounted across the ceiling pumped a pulsing loop of Buddhist chants, Chinese Kabuki morality play recordings, singing Franciscan monks and tribal African drums and songs, all expertly interwoven, sampled; their theme a celebration of spirit, nature and peace.

Sheila wanted to be there, as much as Victor had wanted her there. They'd parted the divorce proceedings smiling, laughing, embraced in each other's arms; all of their friends waiting along either side of the steps that led up to the entrance of the district court, ready to throw buckets of confetti at them and let two white doves loose as they emerged from the building. But, he'd made her pregnant, two times times two; the little family joke for having Vanessa and Veronica, twins, the first time, then Vance and finally Victria, and none were still old enough to watch over each other. So Sheila had to stay home in Connecticut. None the less, she was excited for her ex-husband, lover and Daddy to her babies, even if she still thought he was stupid, selfish and narcissistic.

It was Victor's kind face and marvelous talent that made Sheila keep coming back. Maybe he didn't think he was great, but she knew it and she'd told him every chance she got. So what if he was watching other artist's work going for twenty grand a pop. Their work was shit. You can't down grade your work just to increase your value. Victor agreed. Victor disagreed. Victor drank and worked, and sobered up and worked. Sheila also admired his consistency. If only she could have gone though. If only she could have been there to be one of the women that had taken the pair of scissors and clipped the clothes from his body. 

If only she was there, she would have seen herself on the video as she, instead of that exquisitely beautiful model with the butterfly wings sown to the back of her dress, sucked his dick in front of all those people and made it hard. Who knows? She might have been the one, rather than those two gay guys, that kept the erection going with the butterfly queen as they played his naked body with the feather. But, it wasn't she that had drawn his pre-seminal fluid out onto the shining head of his erection and painted his shaft with her tongue as another trio of men tied him to the chain link fence. 

Jerimiah and Ceazer interrupted and asked if he was okay with being tied that way. After all, it was only getting later and you hadn't accounted for the moon being full. No, he hadn't accounted for the moon being full and no, Victor didn't want to be untied. He was fit to be tied. I'll be fine. Can't you see I'm getting head here?

The next Victor's friends knew, at around midnight or so, other people, viewers, participants or subjects, were tieing others to the fence. It all seemed consensual, but Jerimiah and Ceazer weren't entirely sure. One had asked the other: Should we call the cops? No; said the other, Victor said not to, no matter what. Should we call Sheila? Oh Hell no, absolutely not! At that point, Victor was in a kind of ecstatic euphoria as a long drip of semen swung from his shrinking penis and slash marks across his chest ran down his sweat gleaming belly in rivulets. 

Butterfly queen was nowhere to be seen. She had left with her girlfriends or had been engulfed by the swelling, drunken crowd. Another man, a young man, close cropped black hair, gaunt faced and bespectacled had been lingering by the front wall, nibbling at cheese and crackers while he observed the gradually increasing debauchery. 

Eventually, full of brie and whole grain crisps, he made his way closer to the wide red table. He walked its circumference and eyed the table's contents between his scrutiny of those bound to the fence: Victor; being interviewed by some star eyed young reporter, a woman to their left; middle aged, naked and red with the marks of her companion's use of the braided whip and to the other side, where another man was getting something written with glass shards across his belly. 

Round and round he went, getting sweatier and sweatier, pushing his glasses back up onto the sweaty bridge of his nose, no one even once looking at him. He, Mr. Zero, at least that's how Victor's friends had identified him later because he was wearing a black shirt with the word "Zero" on it, stopped to pick up the .38. Victor came to realize the young man's approach. The artist saw the gun, the look on his face betraying neither horror nor pleasure. He was in the midst of asking the young reporter for a small art magazine to, if she didn't mind, untie him from the fence. And that, she was about to do, just until the young, bespectacled man raised the revolver to Victor's forehead; and fired. 

Click, click, click; click. Zero drew the weapon back. The reporter was too stunned to move. The young man opened the cylinder; empty. He regarded Victor; wide eyed, flushed. The reporter drew in a great breath, and then began to laugh. Victor, in that way that Sheila loved, smirked at the young man. Still wide eyed, still red faced, Mr. Zero tossed the gun to the ground.

It was a quarter after three when Sheila's cell vibrated the first time that morning. The second time was at four twelve and the third was at five. She, peeking through her thick mane of blue hair, squinted at her vibrating phone. Exhausted, having dealt with four toddlers the night before, Sheila groped and fumbled for her phone. It was a New York cop, and he'd told her enough as much as he'd told her nothing at all. Sheila wanted the devil, the details, but the cop only said that he was really very sad to have to tell her, but Mr. Charpentier was stabbed to death. 

After Jerimiah and Ceazer watched the video tapes with the cops, they were confiscated, and never returned. Sheila had no physical record of the event, nothing but the money that Jerimiah had smuggled to his car, hiding it in the bottom of a crumpled up Jet Burger bag. Sheila stared numbly as Ceazer counted it out, spreading the money on the coffee table, like a drug dealer dividing the cuts after some going out of business sale. 

The life style was over. Later, when she could get a proper sitter for the kids, Sheila went to accompany her lover's body back to the New Haven funeral home. His face, no less handsome than ever, was pallid, and she finally began to cry when she saw the expression of concern, darkening around his eyes and mouth, mournful that he had to be buried looking that way. The look; to see: the first rule in art, art imitating life, what you see is what you get. 

Their lives as Bohemians, their kind of Bohemia, was over. No more staring at rich people and their pet artists, egos stroking egos, life imitating art. The city's critics and their rich audience finally caught on, and Victor's work was selling at auction houses in New York, Los Angeles and the UK. Somehow, likely through some creep working in the NYPD's evidence room, someone had cropped a still from the video, made a hundred prints of it, and then sold it underground. Jerimiah knew about it, but he'd never told Sheila of its existence nor had he told her that it depicted Victor's disemboweled body hanging limp on the fence while the Butterfly queen beat Zero's head in with the spiked tenderizing mallet. 

Maybe he was better off dead; having given his life for the sake of art, dying in flash in the pan notoriety rather than dying in obscurity. Whether someone would do a documentary of Victor's life remained to be seen. At least the family was better off, after they'd gotten over it, if they ever got over it. Sheila never knew with Victria. There had been that time, after she'd turned thirteen. When they'd had yet another vicious spat, Victria had stolen away during the night. It was the worst thing she could have done, especially after the brutal incident with those girls. Sheila just numbed out again on her antidepressants while Jerimiah drove her around the city until it occurred to him exactly where Victria would be. They'd picked up her trail in the microfiche room at the New York Public Library, and then followed her to the old warehouse outside of Soho.

But, he'd been wrong. There was no sign of Victor's youngest daughter, no sign of any breaking into the warehouse and, when you looked through the high windows, absolutely no sign, the walls and floor painted in some industrial beige, that the artist's culminating work ever happened. Jerimiah was afraid then. He turned back around to see Sheila, slumped in the passenger seat of his car. He yelled to her: I'm going to check in the back, because he didn't know what else to do. 

So he'd sprinted down the block, the back street quiet, and a gentle breeze blowing scraps of paper across the sidewalk. Rounding the corner of the building, Jerimiah stopped. Nothing; nothing but a vacant lot, fenced in, strewn with heaps of trash, broken cinder blocks, a myriad of car parts, tires and the sound of two girls laughing coming from somewhere within. Jerimiah climbed the fence, leapt from the top and nearly cut his face open on a crag of cement. Getting to his feet, he ran the obstacle course of dead yellow mattresses and mounds of rusted scrap metal. Ultimately he came to what was essentially a clearing; shorter piles of rubbish, pbc and steel pipes, tall green grass thriving incongruously around them. 

He saw her then, framed by more heaps of rubbish, just off center from another, centered, figure. Jerimiah stepped deeper into the scene, toward the tall chain link fence at the far end of the lot, an absurd bright blue sky behind it. It was the naked woman who saw him first,, her wrists bound to the fence and thin streaks of blood dripping down her chest. Her beautiful face hadn't reddened, but it had soured, the smile she had for Victria gone. Victria, with camera in hand, turned around, her face expressionless, but warmed slightly upon recognizing Jerimiah.

"Oh hey Jerry." She said as she stepped backwards from the raven-haired woman, extending a hand to indicate her, "This is Zoritza. Zoritza; this is my Uncle Jerry."

Zoritza gave him a brief nod. Jerimiah met her doubtful, menacing gaze and blinked.

"Zoritza is a-" Victria continued; tossing her camera from palm to palm, "Well, she's this; working girl I sort of stumbled upon when I was looking for movie make-up stuff in 42nd."

"I was hungry," said Zoritza in a thick accent that Jerimiah was unfamiliar with, "And the girl bought me food. Now, she tell me we make art, and she say she give me more money. I don't do sex with children. I just want money."

"Right; thank you Zoritza." Said Victria; rolling her eyes for Jerimiah's sake, "Anyway, right: I needed a model, so the universe sent me one; because I realized Jerry, once I'd taken a look at what the newspapers and art mags said back then: the worst Dad would have had to deal with was some jail time if he'd hired a model instead."

"Victor wasn't the kind of guy who would risk someone else for the sake of achieving an artistic end." Jerimiah said.

"That's because he wasn't hard enough." Victria shot back. 

"He wouldn't have been the Victor we loved if he was hard like that."

"That was his mistake. He should have been alive. He should have been the one who killed the guy with the glasses."

"Let's go home now Victria. Your mom's in the car."

"Fuck you and her Jerry! We'll go when I'm finished."

Jerimiah flushed with impotent rage and regret as he looked into the young girl's crazed eyes. She's not Victor, he thought as he stepped slowly back. And she sure as Hell isn't Sheila either. She was, at thirteen, a skinny, knobby kneed, bright eyed, very intelligent and intuitive, miserable bitch of a little girl; friendless, offensive, insolent, reactionary to authority. No sugar, no spice, not anything nice, not since the day after Victor had died and she'd found a newspaper from somewhere, took it to Sheila and pointed to Victor's name, stabbing it over and over with her finger, her right hand fisted against her hip; screaming at her mother: Why isn't this a good review? Huh Mom; why isn't this a good review?

"We'll be in the car." Jerimiah called over his shoulder, trudging back through the piles and heaps of refuse.

"You have a funeral to go to today?"

"Hmm?" uttered Victria; propping her aching head up at the kitchen table, her eyes half closed, watching her fork pushing scrambled eggs into her catsup: yellow, orange and red, red, orange and yellow.

"Yes, I have another funeral to go to today."

Melody, kneeling at her domme's side, dressed in the terrycloth robe she was allowed the comfort of, spooned her breakfast into her mouth from her little red dog bowl. She chewed, swallowed and said:

"I'll head up after I finish breakfast and get your clothes ready."

"Hmm." Victria answered.

"After that," Melody continued, "I'm starting a protest."

Victria had just taken a mouthful of catsup sopped egg when she'd heard the words without processing them enough. Wait; did she say she was ho testing? Victria chewed briefly, swallowed, and then regarded her slave. 

"You're what?"

"I want a revision to our contract."

"You expect me to revise my contract."

"It's our contract, between you and me, Mistress. I am calling for its revision."

"Really. And which aspects of it do you wish to revise?" said Victria with a sigh of annoyance.

Melody set her bowl down and looked squarely into her domme's eyes.

"I would like all the alcohol removed from this house." She said; her hands folded on her lap, "I would like to be able to wear clothing more often. Goodness knows one's boobs could use more than the occasional support. And; I want to be able to go on long bike rides, by myself."

"You're know you're free to go any time you choose."

"I know. You keep saying that, but I don't believe it."

"Why not?"

"Because I believe you want me to stay."

"And why should that make a difference to you?"

"Because you need someone, and I want to find out whether I'm the one you ultimately need."

"I don't understand." Grumbled Victria.

"Really?" Melody intoned, "Fate? Chance; things happening for the reasons they happen for?"

"I'm sorry girl. I'm not following."

"True love Ma'am; star crossed, unconditional, totally selfless, I would die for you love; Ma'am."

Staring in disbelief, Victria swallowed the last bite she would take of her breakfast and let her fork clang to her half full dish.

"What's wrong Mistress?"

Victria rose slowly from her seat, took up her empty mug and went to the coffee pot.

"Other than people who are too lazy to make a decent living," Victria patiently explained, "There's nothing more that makes me angrier than love."

"I wasn't talking about love exactly."

Victria sighed heavily as she poured herself fresh coffee.

"Oh, no; you weren't talking about love." She said, "You didn't tell me you loved me before dawn this morning, did you?"

Melody looked down at her folded hands.

"Melody, I don't need to be threatened with love!"

"Threatened?"

Victria nodded as she spooned sugar into her coffee.

"I've worked very hard to create an image, to perfect the brand that is Victria Charpentier!"

"Okay, okay that's fine." Melody conceded, "But what are you going to do when you're too old to care about breaking anyone down anymore?"

Victria slammed her mug down onto the counter, sending hot coffee onto her hand and all over the counter.

"You're threatening me again slave!" she shouted, "It sounds like you need some behavior habituation!"




The Brand Ch. 10



Reprieve

"I did not direct my life. I didn't design it. I never made decisions. Things always came up and made them for me. That's what life is."

-B. F. Skinner

"S and M is only the expression in the bedroom of an oppressive-submissive relation which can happen also in the kitchen or at the factory, can happen between people of any gender. There is obviously something titillating about these relationships, but it isn't the sexual components that makes them ugly, they're uglier elsewhere. Nothing sexual is depraved. Only cruelty is depraved, and that's another matter."

-Marilyn French

"To split yourself in two is just the most radical thing you can do
So girl if that shit ain't up to you, then you simply are not free
Cause from the sunlight on my hair to which eggs I grow to term
To the expression that I wear, all I really own is me

Ani DeFranco

1

Tribal Vibes tattoo and body piercing salon was jam-packed with clients, their significant others and various additional spectators. It was decorated with wall to wall used books, furnished with a few black vinyl sofas and love seats, a lot of natural light coming through its huge windows and hundreds of potted plants and draped vines. With the intention of boosting business, because there was no crime in making good business better, its owner recently remodeled his four hundred square foot space to include a coffee and juice bar. 

It certainly had increased and changed his demographic and, as long as he didn't get a liquor license to boot, the bikers would continue to mingle peacefully enough with greater Hartford's Nouveau riche. That day, a Thursday, all sorts of folks plotted, schemed, gossiped and gawked; teens exerting their rite of passage, twenty something vegans looking for something else and the over thirty "no thanks, just looking" office break crowd stopping by to get a coffee or a wheat grass and carrot juice.

"Oh my God no, not there!" shrieked his latest client.

They were two friends, maybe lovers, and the odor of marijuana smoke fresh in their clothes and hair. Polly, the one who thought she wanted a clitoral piercing, was the prettier; small nose, diminutive chin, blonde haired and blue eyed, a small jeweled stud gleaming from the end of her left eye brow. The other, not having given her name, had brown eyes, wore a shoulder length mop of black hair streaked lengthwise with stripes of silver, a silver ring hidden under the shadow of her nose; her expression ghoulishly eager. The piercer, a kind man, handsome, suitably pierce decked himself, brown haired, neatly trimmed bearded and mustached, his eyes a disarming grey brown, still had Polly gently by her clitoris. Feigningly Bemused, he said:

"But, that's what you said you wanted; a clit piercing."

Polly stared fearfully down at the morsel of flesh between the man's latex gloved thumb and forefinger.

"This," he continued; shaking Polly's clit slightly, "Is your clitoris."

Polly simultaneously shivered, gasped and reddened as she turned to regard her friend, who had also just flushed with embarrassment as she folded the other's jeans and panties neatly upon her lap. It didn't surprise him anymore that there were still the client's, striving for worldliness and sophistication, who yet still didn't know their clitoris from their commissure.

"Tell you what," the piercer said serenely as he let go of Polly's dry little bud, "I know exactly what you're looking for. But, you tell me what you think."

The body artist, on his wheeled stool, pushed himself back from Polly's closing legs. From a stainless steel table on his left, he withdrew a single q tip from a canister of a hundred or so, lubricated it, and then wheeled himself back to Polly. He gestured for her to open her legs again. Polly looked to her companion for assurance. She got a shrug. Polly opened her legs. The piercer then scooted his way in closer, gently parted Polly's outer and inner labia, raised the lazy eye lid of her clitoral hood, and then carefully tucked the q's tip beneath it. The young women looked on, their fearfulness and shame abruptly giving way to puzzlement and fascination. 

"Clitoris piercings are actually very rare," he explained, his hands steady, his kind eyes fixed on Polly's, "But, to get the most bang for your buck, you'd be much better off with a hood piercing. This, is the q tip test. You can see that most of the tip is covered by your clitoral hood. 

This means you have enough tissue there for a vertical piercing. It would be very painless and very pretty, and fun, once you find the jewelry you want to see and feel there. See; how thin the tissue is? You can see through it. I mean; you're just right for this kind of piercing."

Polly glanced into the man's warm gaze, at the q tip jutting out from beneath her clitoral hood, and then back at the man. Presently, she nodded, a look of calculation changing her expression. Once more, she turned to regard her friend. The friend raised an eye brow, tilted her head, and assessed the artist poised at her companion's open legs, and then looked back at Polly and shrugged in agreement.

The body artist himself shrugged and moved on. He conducted a more thorough inspection, to be certain that Polly had no veins in the area he'd be puncturing. Finding none, he cleaned the area. Gathered his sterilized NRT, needle receiving tube, unpackaged a 14g captive bead ring, and then asked Polly to part her knees further. Focused, the piercer fit the business end of the tube beneath Polly's hood and, being able to see the end of the small metal cylinder through the membrane, he centered its position over the young woman's clitoris so that whatever jewelry she chose would ride nicely against it. Then, gently and securely poised, he prepared to push the needle; just as an insistent knock rattled the door. Again, Polly gasped and both she and her friend jumped in their seats. The body artist had learned his patience, and so slowly sat back, his needle still gone unengaged in his gloved hand. Sighing, he prepared to go to the door as Polly pulled her sweater down over her exposed sex. But, the knob turned, the door opened and, holding a glass of juice in her hand, entered a handsome young woman dressed in a black long winter coat.

"Wheat grass," she said, "Really Vance? This isn't tasty at all."

"Vic?" said Vance; stunned, "Oh my God, where have you been?"

"I've been busy." Victria answered, "I need to talk to you." 

Victria took a sip of her juice as she eyed the two other women in the room. A soured expression crossed her face, and Vance wasn't sure if it was because of the taste of her drink or because of the presence of the two other women."

"Okay." Vance replied, still astonished by his little sister's sudden appearance, "Just; let me get this piercing done."

"Does Mom know you do this?"

"Kind of."

Again, Victria assessed the two young women.

"I'll be outside." She said, "Excuse me; ladies."

Victria left the room and went back to the bar to exchange her juice for an expresso. Then, wandering through the building, she came upon what appeared to be Vance's office. Stepping inside, she scanned the prints of tattoos that covered his walls, and then made herself comfortable on the couch set opposite his desk. There, she sipped her coffee and waited; examining her brother's renderings of thorny roses, barbed wire, dragons and birds of paradise and the framed copy of his psychology degree hanging over his desk. A few moments more, she saw Vance round the corner and lean against the door jam. His arms folded, the jewels in his right ear, right eye brow and bottom lip catching the room's light, Vance appraised his little sister with an expression of concern. 

2

There is no mistaking that a dichotomy concerning the perception of shit exists. We are dismayed to find another's unflushed, but we bask in the glory of taking a good one of our own. One can be a total shit head while another can be the shit. We can work a shit job or we can do something for shits and giggles. It can be holy as much as it can be not given. It can be everything one owns, and it can encapsulate the extent of one's knowledge of a subject or procedure. BDSM? That's some crazy shit! While we know our shit, we don't know shit. And that naked girl right there, the one, hand cuffed and locked in that cage; she can't do shit. But, the truth is; she can.

I've been in deeper shit than this, she thought; the crying done, her eyes dry, her cheek still painful to the touch. I still can't believe, she thought, I actually bit her. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Inside her mouth still lingered the taste of Victria's flesh and blood; metallic, copper, like a mouthful of sex, only angrier. Melody sighed. She'll have to get rid of me now, she supposed. Or; not: maybe I'll be understood and corrected. I don't know. I thought you were supposed to shoot the dog that bit its master. Melody shuddered before finishing the thought, and then began to cry anew. It'll be a long walk to the shelter. I'm not aggressive. I'm just afraid. I didn't mean it. We do; we do need a revision to the contract. We need to institute a behavior intervention plan. I'll be better Victria, I swear. I promise, I'll be good. I was good, before. Before; I was good. 

Discrete Trial 1: 

a. Melody places one PECS picture card and one PECS word card on the table in front of Lianne. 

b. Melody says "point to the ball." 

c. Lianne responds by pointing to the picture card. 

d. Melody says "That's right! Great job!" 

e. Brief pause before a new discrete trial begins.

Discrete Trial 2: 

a. Melody places the same two cards on the table in front of Lianne.

b. Melody says "point to the card that has the word ball written on it." 

c. Lianne responds by pointing to the card with the word ball written under the picture of the ball. 

d. Melody says "You're right! That's awesome!"

Luella Harper was nice enough. She was kind to her students and good to her staff. But, she was lazy; stringing the days along until retirement. She had eight children in her resource room. It was a resource room, in name only, sometimes, when the principal was making his rounds. But, in reality, it was an MD room, a self-contained classroom for students with multiple disabilities. At least that's what it was in Luella Harper's reality; the verging on snow birding in Florida, reality. To her young paras, her adult support, it was another reality. You just sit there and do jack shit while the rest of us do all the work with the kids. There were three of them, Luella's adult supports: Zulaika, Kathleen and Melody. And still, within that reality, was another: the reality of Mel and Lianne.

Lianne, as pretty a little girl as they came, age seven, long brown hair, big brown eyes; had also been born with a set of cognitive circumstances her parents hadn't at all anticipated. At sixteen months, they had suspicions. By twenty-four months, Jim and Judy Childress, had concerns. Lianne fought everything; eating, walking, talking and potty training. 

There had been many nights at home when both Judy and Lianne, each being put through the rigors of the other's resistance, were inconsolable. The district's birth to three program could do nothing but include Lianne. Once there, Lianne resisted, fought, resisted again and retreated; isolating herself in a carpeted corner, under a bean bag, flipping through a single picture book of tropical fish. 

That, was essentially how Leanne's educational program went until early elementary: staff giving it their best shot to teach her something until they let her be, once she resorted, again and again, to scratching and biting as a means of avoidance. Then, finally, shortly after her sixth birthday, the educational psychologist conducted her assessments, which led to a certified BCBA coming in to make additional observations and conduct his assessments, which ultimately led to the irrefutable conclusion that Lianne was coming from somewhere within the autistic spectrum. 

Both Jim and Judy appeared relieved once given the news at a subsequent program review. It became their conviction then that, now that what was going on with their daughter had a name, she could be helped. But, the expressions, from across the table, the school psychologist, the vice principal and the BCBA, did not reflect that same hope. Beyond Jim and Judy, the only even remotely positive attitude in the school's PPT room that day was that of Leanne's new special education teacher, Luela Harper.

Shortly after, Luella Harper began to do what she could with what she had. She took her notes from the BCBA, went to his suggested web links, gathered his recommended text from the district's academic resource library and printed multiple copies of his template forms. Once she made her cursory review, Mrs. Harper decided that, while she would of course write Leanne's program, Ms. May would study all the material she'd collected, do the direct instruction, and then write up all the data on her student's progress. Luella didn't care how it appeared to her adult supports. That, was how it was done. Certified staff programmed and support staff executed the lesson plans; leaving Luella more time to snack on chocolate and search the Internet for antique porcelain figurines.

As Mrs. Harper expected, Melody took the materials without question, studied up and went about her work with Lianne, while Zulaika and Kathleen complained as they read to, fed or diapered their own severely needy students. What she hadn't expected however, was that Lianne was showing increasingly obvious signs of progress. The child's transition had been God awful, of course, for everyone. But, once Melody had gotten Lianne into her routines, the girl became settled into the classroom environment, fought instruction less and less and evolved from a wholly non-verbal child to one that spoke disconnected, though much welcomed, echolalic strings of random phrases.

"You certainly have taken that young lady a long way." Remarked Luella one day, six months later, "You know her parents are very happy with the program."

She was seated at her desk, during a quiet lunch with Melody; a turkey and cheese sandwich in one hand, Ms. May's latest data under the other. Melody was picking at her school lunch of tofu imitation chicken and potato nuggets when she turned to regard Harper. Their eyes met. Melody regarded the older woman's age gaunt yet pleasant face, and nodded. It was true, with or without the data. Melody had established a rapport, over the preceding five months, through regular communication with Judy Childress. Both she and Jim were elated. Lianne was communicating by behavior when she needed to use the bathroom. She was washing her hands with minimal support. She was sleeping more at night, using a fork to eat with and, though she was only repeating bits and pieces of whatever they were saying, Jim and Judy were loving the adorable sound of Leanne's imitative speech during dinner.

"Thank you." Said Harper, meaning it with her eyes.

Melody raised an eye brow, poked a bite of fake chicken into her mouth and shrugged. Chewing, she daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin. Looking away from Harper, Melody then began to nervously play with the ends of her long golden brown hair.

"For what?" she asked.

"All the great work you do that I don't." answered Luella.

Melody smiled inwardly and let go of her hair. Cover Your ass; is what they say. So, given the time she'd spent reading up on the spectrum, putting Lianne through her paces and recording the data, hers was covered. As for Harper's, that wasn't Melody's problem. And, it wasn't even Luella's problem. She still had her experience and seniority. She still wrote an appropriate Individualized education plan and drafted achievable goals. How hard can it be, Melody mused. Figure out where the kid is. Set a target for where she needs to go. Fill out all the blanks, cross the t's, dot the i's and always have the data to show the authority that wants to see it. 

"You know Mel," continued Luella, "If you get certified as a BCBA, you can just about write your own paycheck. All you really need is to go through one of those accelerated special education teaching programs, do your practicum, get a couple of school years in, pass the behaviorist test and you can just about work anywhere."

Melody would have asked what a BCBA was, if she hadn't been embarrassed for not knowing. I should, she scolded herself, and having read all that material Lue gave me to read. 

"Anywhere?" Melody asked, smiling, her gaze wandering off somewhere to the right.

"Are you kidding?" Luella laughed, "Autism has become so globally prevalent, you've got teachers from China, India and the Middle East traveling all the way here, paying big bucks, to learn what they can from our behavior gurus!"

After lunch, Melody had a few moments to phone surf. A BCBA is a Board Certified Behavior Analyst. Duh, I should have figured that out for myself. Hmm, Arizona State has a program. So does UMASS. Ooh; federally funded? Courses and tuition paid for by the government; all program fees waved after five years of employment in the field? Hmm, let's see. A. Degree requirement: Possession of, at minimum, a master's degree that was conferred in behavior analysis or other natural science, education, human services, engineering, medicine or a field related to behavior analysis and approved by the BACB. Okay.

"Time to get back to work!" said Melody as she took her seat across from Lianne.

She was observed by Kathleen and Zulaika to have had a fun time in music. Now, music over and Melody's lunch over, it was time to resume the trials. Sure, echolalia was alright, but not appropriate if you couldn't use it to make a request. Melody, through her reading and her discussions with Luella, understood that part of her job was to draw Lianne to the outside of herself, the self that had awareness of and could be engaged by others.

But, exactly how to do that was the question. What motivated Lianne? Staying in her inside motivated Lianne; picture after picture of tropical fish motivated Lianne and brushing her own hair motivated Lianne. So, which one could she get her to ask for today?

"Lianne?" asked Melody, "Use your words: do you want to see fishies or brush hair?"

Melody paused. Lianne slowly swayed in her chair, her big pretty eyes staring in no particular direction, her palms drumming a disjointed beat upon the low table between them. Then, suddenly, she said: 

"Do you want to look at fishies or do you want to brush hair?"

Good, thought Melody. An echo is a start. She's still in a good mood, but let's step it up, hopefully without her freaking out again. It was just the afternoon before when Ms. May wanted Lianne to use her words, but she ultimately ran away screaming to the book corner and buried herself under the pillows.

"Lianne?" continued Melody, "Choose one: see fishies or brush hair?"

Again, she paused. Lianne too paused. Then, seconds later, the child quickly went through a short repertoire of physical behaviors she'd demonstrated through past lessons: touched her head, touched her shoulders, touched her nose and felt the table before her, pushed her fish picture book, and then scraped the table with the brush. But still, no spoken choice. Melody marked her DT sheet. Okay, trial three, she thought. Everyone else was in the room, each set of adult supports and students doing their thing, but Melody was oblivious to them all.

"Lianne?" she repeated, "Choose one. Use your words; see fishies or brush hair?"

That's when the screaming and gnashing of teeth started, just as it had the day before. Again, Lianne pantomimed answers to questions she wasn't being asked. But now, she was upset about it, as if offended by Melody's audacity to ask her such a thing as to make a coherent and meaningful utterance. How dare she? But, why be offended? Why not come outside of yourself to do something you like? Why go through what you already know? Because you don't know the answer or because crossing the line to a social outside hurts your autistic brain too much to try? On and on Lianne screamed and howled, almost, oddly enough, operatically. She rose from her seat. Melody, ready for a scratch, ready for a bite, rose too from her chair.




The Brand Ch. 10



"Lianne? Tell me: fishies book or brush?"

Now, marching around the room, howling, her hands flying through the gestures to her head, shoulders, knees and toes, Lianne headed for the corner carpet and her pillow cover. Still, she uttered, shrieked, one thing or another. Melody drew closer, thinking she'd heard something; brus, brus, brus. Did that count? She wasn't sure. Melody glanced at Luella, watching from behind her desk. Harper slowly nodded. Go on, keep going, her eyes said.

"Lianne!" Melody shouted above the din of her student, "Say brush!"

Who was she kidding? Melody Eunice May didn't know jack about how to teach kids that didn't want to talk. Why try to get her to talk when she didn't want to anyway? Stomping, Lianne past close by Melody's right and then back again around her left. She had gone to the table and picked up the brush. Waving it in her hand, Lianne growled; ready to bite like some crazed little zombie. 

The young girl crossed the room, and sped past the rest of the crew to the area where Mrs. Harper kept the extra toys. Then, Melody, motionless, stared as her student dragged a toy, foil mirrored, pink plastic vanity table across the room, to the corner carpet with the pillows. In the next instant, Lianne set the brush down onto the vanity's surface and poised herself before the less than perfectly reflective mirror. Melody took a few steps closer and looked at Leanne's clouded reflection. Her wide, beautifully brown eyes seemed to say: I'm tired and I would like my hair brushed please. Again, Melody regarded Harper. Harper shrugged and gestured to the child. Melody sighed then as she crept to her knees behind Lianne, carefully took the brush, and then began to slowly, tenderly, run it through the child's silky hair.

They remained that way until Leanne's hair was thoroughly combed free of any existing snags. Then, as Melody set the brush down and prepared to stand, Lianne reached for the brush and began to wail. Melody expected to get whacked with the brush. But, instead, Lianne stepped behind her adult support, and proceeded to brush her hair while pulling her right sleeve down to get better access to the top of her head. She wants, thought Melody, she wants to brush my hair. This is new. Melody slowly moved into a cross legged position before the vanity, putting her face's reflection in the center of the toy's mirror. Cautiously, she smiled, looking to Luella. Harper looked back, her own expression reserved yet seeming pleased, her eyes filled with their usual warmth. 

"That's significant sunshine Ms. May," she said; sunshine being Luella's euphemism for progress, "I'll say she'll be on the phone ordering Friday take-out for us in a few more weeks. Good for you Mel."

Energized, the certainty of accomplishment in her mind and an unusual welling of well-being in her heart, Melody waited patiently at the end of the school's semicircular driveway. Dean had promised a ride home, since he'd be coming back into town after a doctor's appointment that afternoon. She stood, the March wind gently blowing about her face as she read through one of the pages she'd printed after bringing Lianne to her bus. 

Training and experience Requirements: The applicant must complete 225 classroom hours of graduate level instruction (see Acceptable Coursework below) in the following areas and for the number of hours indicated: Ethical considerations - 15 hours; Definition & characteristics and Principles, processes & concepts - 45 hours; Behavioral assessment and Selecting intervention outcomes & strategies - 35 hours; Experimental evaluation of interventions - 20 hours; Measurement of behavior and Displaying & interpreting behavioral data - 20 hours; Behavior change procedures and Systems support - 45 hours; Discretionary behavior-analytic content - 45 hours- 

Holy shit, that's a lot of hours, she thought. But, it would all be paid for; well, barring books. A tingle of excitement rose from within her very core. I could stay at work and take them online. I could go to Arizona State. No, that's too far. Is it? Maybe Utah has a program! Utah isn't too far. Wait; New Mexico. That's dumb. It might as well be Arizona State then.

Melody peered up into the blue skies overhead and the great purple majesty that rose to meet it. Life is like climbing a mountain, she thought, at least it should be. But, here, my life is a mole hill. Shit. My problem is; I need fire. I don't have any fire. Where does that come from if you weren't born with it? Her father, Dean, was born with it. Or; was it only because he was a man, a man who knew how to just take other people's fire for himself or maybe he faked it and others just gave it up without a fight. She thought of Dory then; bold, facetious, misdirected, her fire burning low like the orange glow at the end of a joint.

There was a sudden swirl of dry leaves then as Dean's beat to shit Chevy S 10 rolled into the school's drive way. Melody watched him through his road dusty windshield; his hair greyer, his face furrowed around his line of a mouth, his skin sun baked brown, his eyes narrow slits of too proud to wear a helpful pair of glasses. She quickly flung her back pack around, tucked her papers inside, and then reached slender golden fingers to the mud caked passenger door.

They sat in the cab, together in silence; its weight comforting to Melody only in that it meant Dean would not criticize, ridicule or rage. There would be no intellectual discussion of educational philosophy or of the merits of the Socratic method of inquiry. He might mention how expertly he pulled off the rebuilding of a 12.4 liter MaxxForce or that someone had brought in a restored Plymouth Superbird with its Magnum 440 cubic V-8. But, their trip home half over, Melody's father too had nothing he wished to say.

The radio had been on, old school country playing low. Melody quietly hummed along as she took in the muddy brown landscape of another early spring in Bear Lake. The town sprawled away from the mountains, its roads rising up and then shallowing again between channels dynamited through great shelves of granite. Dean wasn't driving in any great hurry. The doctors, she thought. He hasn't said anything. Should I ask? Yes, I suppose I should. It won't hurt; to ask.

"So what the doctor say Daddy?"

Melody turned to regard Dean, her expression alert and sweetly watchful. He glanced at her, his head lolling as he drove through a run off hidden pot hole. Shrugging, Dean looked back toward the road. Still, Melody watched, her green eyes bright in their depth, her mouth beginning to frown slightly. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again as he turned to peer out the driver's window. 

"I'm fine." He said; swinging his head back to face his daughter, "Just a little back pain some rest'll take care of is all. Say; why don't you call your mom on that cell phone of yours and tell her we're gonna'pick her up and go to Miller's for dinner."

Melody stared at her father, her eyes narrowing slightly. He wants to take us out to dinner? What does that mean; good news, bad news?

"You sure you okay Daddy?"

"I'm great baby girl. Go on; call your mother."

Worry; Concern, showing disquiet shows you care. But, Melody really wasn't sure exactly how much she cared. What had there been about her father, Dean, that gave her cause enough to care? Stop it; you care because we're supposed to love our moms and dads. That's just how its supposed to be. I mean its not like he's one of those family guy serial killers. How do you keep loving good old Dad after that kind of news comes out? You don't. You can't; can't you?

She cared about her mother, there was no doubt of that. But her dad; what had she felt for him? What had she admired about him? The smell of his after shave, the feel of his whiskers when she used to, as a little girl, hop up into bed between him and mom, when he'd make her grilled cheese, he would put two slices of cheese instead of one and he'd give her potato chips with it too. 

He hadn't been that bad to her. Her mom, Martha, had taken the brunt of it. He'd never actually hit either his wife or daughter or anything like that. Sure, there was the psychological abuse, for lack of a better way of calling domestic domination, subjugation and repression. But, Martha survived into older age relatively unscathed; the scars on her self-perception, her badges of honor: the cracked dry skin of her hands, her old lady hump at the back of her neck starting to show and the yards and yards of cushion covers she'd crocheted to cover the sagged shallows of her butt prints of day in, day out, year after year, for over twenty years, of sitting idly by, watching other people on TV pretending lives. 

Dean was well into his forty-ninth year of life on the planet. But, true enough; he looked about sixty-eight. He worked. He worked hard; toiled from dawn to dusk. Something had to be catching up with him anyway. Again, Melody shot him a glance. Dean kept his eye on the road. 

Presently, he turned right instead of left, and headed toward Beckman's Supply. Melody thought he was going to get some feed for the chickens. Melody took out her cell, dismissed her father's change of route, and then dialed the house. Across the span of a minute, she'd made the call. Martha too was a bit mystified, but no less grateful for the break. She'd be ready, she'd said. Melody turned off her phone and tucked it back into her jacket pocket. 

Realizing that she'd a little more time on her hands, now that they were taking a longer ride home, she withdrew the BCBA training program information from her book bag. They'd passed Beckman's as she read. Then, after another eight or so minutes, Dean drove the Chevy over the point where Junction 31 is crossed by the Amtrak line. There, he stopped, cut the engine, and then withdrew his keys from the ignition.

Melody lifted her gaze, peered out her window, leaned forward to look out Dean's window, and then considered her father: keys clutched in his fist, his fist against his chin, the fading afternoon light turning his skin an ugly mustard color. He was looking out his window, down the line where the California Zephyr runs through on its way to Grand Junction and then Denver.

"Actually honey," he said in his drawl, turned raspy of late, "I lied."

"Daddy?" Melody said fearfully.

"Hush now, and listen." Said Dean; still looking down the line for the 5:05, "I'm not fine. I went to see; a head doctor because your maw said I ought to give it a try. Cause ya see, I been worried about you cause you know your mom says; you're gay and all, and well you know; that don't sit well with me."

Melody, shocked into silence, looked away. Mom said? My diary? No; not my diary. There's a lock on my diary. Oh my God, I can't do this now! Why now? Why- Melody swung her head to face her father again.

"Daddy, I-"

"Shut the fuck up Melody," croaked Dean as he turned to face her, "Please. Don't say a God damn thing. I was always proud of you; good grades all the time, your teachers sayin' nothin' but good things about ya'. But now? Jesus H. Christ Melody Eunice May, I'd sooner been told you'd got pregnant ratheren find out you beddin girls!

Melody suddenly heard the Zepher's whistle in the distance. She looked up and down the line, north to south. The sound was everywhere and nowhere. Abruptly she jumped in her seat, startled by the sudden clang, clang, clang of the warning signal overhead.

"I busted my ass to get you everything you needed. I never once raised my hand to you. You bring one, just one, boy round the house to meet us. Seemed nice enough, but that's the last we see of him. So I bring it up with your mom, and well, it all makes sense, don't it? I mean; what the fuck are you thinking Melody? Oh, what you want; your personal freedom? Shit Mel; cultivatin your personal freedom round here can make you dead Mel!"

Again, the Zepher's whistle blew and again Melody swung her head rapidly back and forth and still saw nothing.

"Daddy please!" she screamed.

"Mel, it literally makes me sick to look at you." Said Dean, beginning to cry, "What are we supposed to do Mel? Huh?"

Melody stared wildly at her father's tears; so struck by them that she hadn't seen the Zepher coming over the rise five hundred yards or so up the line, not until Dean turned to see it barreling towards them.

"The doctor says you can't help it!" Dean cried as he turned to face her again, "Is that true? You can't help it? You can't stop yourself?"

The warning signal clanged on. The Zepher's whistle had become a single, insistent whine. Melody too began to weep. She thought of Dory, the experiments: successful, their love: a failure. Out and dead, she thought. Who am i? Who do I think I am? Out and damned; Mommy, why did you? Why? Melody closed her eyes, shut them tight. Her head pounded. Her ears were filled with the scream of the Zepher's whistle. She felt Dean's Chevy begin to rattle and shake. She held on, crushing the papers in her hand. More rattling, more shaking, more screaming, clang, clang, clang. Then, her heart pounding in her throat, she took a great deep breath through her nostrils and screamed at the top of her lungs:

"No!"

The world became a din of shrieking, rumbling steel; sparks spraying, wind blowing her hair around her face, a sickly feeling in her stomach as Dean's Chevy slowly rolled back, the 5:05 California Zepher passing not four inches beyond the beat up pick up's grill. Why hadn't I jumped out of the truck, she thought inanely as she opened her eyes again. Because he may be a sadistic shit and he may be an asshole, but he wasn't crazy. Melody again stared into her father's tear stained face, the keys still in his fist, a small smirk slanting his lips. He'd done this before, hadn't he? He'd practiced. Maybe, he'd done it to Martha too. It was like a great big "fuck you then Mel." Fine Dad. Fuck you too. Fuck you too.

3

"Seriously; she bit you?"

"She bit me; right through to the muscle."

Victria had taken the liberty, her coat hung on the rack and her shoes kicked off to the floor, of lying back on the sofa in her brother's office. After closing his door, Vance moved his chair around to the front of his desk, and then sat; his posture, body language and expression all patiently tuned to the frequency that was his sister's potential unburdening. He'd been put in the position so many times before, though when they were much younger, it had been more often that Vance was Victria's stress releasing punching bag rather than her most palatably honest critic and objective counsel.

"Did you go to the emergency room?" he asked his little sister while reaching for the sketch pad and pen set on the blotter of his desk.

"No!" answered Victria, "I just put peroxide on it, washed it out and bandaged it."

"Can I see it?"

"Jesus no Vance, you don't need to see it!"

"Okay, okay. Jeez."

Vance sat back in his chair, regarded his sister's handsome, troubled countenance, and then set his first mark upon the blank sheet of his pad. As he glanced between his model and his emerging rendering of her, he was allowing the time to wait his sister out. He believed, he hoped, that like the few times before that she would say what she needed. He'd felt perfectly awful all those years before, after the police had found her the way those girls had left her; naked, cold, locked in an old dog crate, degraded, abused, abandoned. He'd never left her alone after that. She'd had to beat him back when she was ready to try to have friends again, after the rumors and the truths had run their course through the school's gossip mill.

Vance was, not unlike so many other people, right where he was because of his love for his little sister and the rest of his family. He too had lost Victor, just as Victria had. It was just that he had studied his father's work and took more edifying lessons from his reflection; where as Victria had retained the pain. But, in as much as it was hurt that lingered, Victria could channel it through her hand much more profoundly than Vance could. Her art work was Victor evolved. Vance's was simpler, quaint; the extraversion to Victria's introspection.

Suffice it to say, it was no less gratifying to Vance that he'd found his way into tattooing and body piercing. It was its own art infused cultural phenomenon, the clientele varied, generally very kind and it pleased him to help to make them happy. The psychology degree too was, though compelled again by his family dynamic, something he'd done for himself. He could have gone into formal practice, but Vance was having a good enough time as it was, drawing on people, piercing their bodies and collecting anecdotal data on the more psychologically compelling individuals under his needles.

"I, I should have seen it for myself." Victria continued, "But, she made me realize that; I've gone back there again."

"Gone back where Vic?" asked Vance as he drew his sister's eyes and the subtle slope of her nose. 

"To drinking."

"Oh. And so; you've had her drinking too."

"Yep."

"Hmm. Yeah, that's got to stop."

"Right."

Vance regarded his sister during a growing silence as she stared blankly at his office's ceiling.

"Okay," he said, "So stop it."

"Yeah, but that would make her right and me; wrong."

Vance stopped mid pen stroke and leveled his gaze.

"But," he said, "You are; wrong."

"Yeah, but I'm the domme." Answered Victria, turning to face her brother's stare.

"Oh Jesus Vic," said Vance; wagging his head, "You know; there's a time and a place for the way you like your foreplay or your scene play or whatever it is you're into, but you can't infuse it into your entire life. I mean; it's a life style, right? That's like, I don't know, like being the nudist teacher in front of a classroom of textile kids."

"That's sick Vance." Said Victria, a sudden disgusted look on her face.

"I'm sorry." Said Vance, "I meant a nudist teacher in front of an adult end class of textiles. My point is; What's more important: having someone there for you to take care of each other with or having someone there to take care of you while you drink?"

Their eyes locked, Victria glowered at her brother while he waited for her answer. 

"You're an asshole." She remarked.

"Really?" said Vance with a quick shrug of his eye brows, "Then what did you come here for?"

"Because you're a very intuitive asshole."

"Oh, so you still have some capacity for sweetness." Vance chided, "It sounds as if this; Melody is a positive influence on you, I mean, even if you restrict her, mind, body and soul, through a system of dominance and control." 

"Right!" Victria intoned, "I've either met someone as totally fucked up as me, the woman of my dreams or both. I, I want to fix it. She's; she's so, so much."

Again, Vance suddenly stopped drawing and regarded his sister. He'd intended to feel out whether she'd express some remorse for having subjugated another human so completely that it had led to violence. But, what he got was no reaction, obliviousness, as if her and Melody's relationship was the most normal thing in the world. Yet, he thought, perhaps it was. Homosexuality had been taken out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders in 1980, but S and M remained as a pathology. However, it had come to be characterized as non-disorder/non- debilitating: meaning that if a subject is happy in her S and M, the subject is healthy, but if the subject is unhappy in her S and M, she is unhealthy. And, though there was definitely something that needed to be changed for the sake of both his sister's and her lover's sanity, Vance could not say with conviction that Victria and Melody, as sadist domme and passive sub, couldn't repair their relationship and bring it to new heights of soaring love.




The Brand Ch. 10



"So," sighed Vance, "Fix it. Tell her you're sorry."

Victria too sighed as she changed her position on the sofa, her body now laying sideways, her gaze cast toward the office's tiled floor.

"Vic," Vance continued, "Even if you're both wrong, and she's the sub; you need to tell her you're sorry. Then, see what happens."

Victria continued to stare, in silence, at the floor. Vance took a broader tipped pen from his blotter and continued to work on his sister's likeness. Then, after a few minutes, Victria asked:

"How's mom and Jerry?"

"They're fine."

"What color is her hair nowadays?"

"Actually, she's going with the grey. It matches her eyes, even better than when she was in her platinum phase."

"Really?"

"yep."

Vance regarded his work, and then glanced again at his little sister.

"Vic," he said, "Do you love her?"

"Melody?" said Victria as she laid her head against the inside of her right elbow, "Vance, I'm not sure I know what that word means beyond the abstraction we make it, once settling for one person begins to have its appeal as an option. I mean, I love Mom because she brought me to life and because she took my shit for so long. And I love you because, unlike Ronnie and Nessa, you always got me, you know?"

"Right. And does Melody get you?"

"Sure, Melody gets me. We get each other and we run with it."

"Okay. So you're friends. She's your muse. She does your bidding on a regular basis. She's entirely devoted to you. What more could you ask for?"

Again, Victria looked down at the floor, and shrugged. Seconds later, she raises her eyes once more to meet her brother's. 

"Nothing, I guess." She admitted, "So what do you think?"

"I think that you have developed an uncanny ability to sure pick them, and I think she has found her father in you and that she's playing her mother. As for the scar, I can only deduce that she survived somebody or somebody's something and that she's very likely still running away inside her head. But, as much as you make her feel better, needed, wanted inside your brand of love, your humiliation, whipping and domination, might possibly be feeding her pain in a way that, if it persists, won't aid in the growth of a healthy relationship. I think, actually, that her having bit you, was a very good thing for her to do."

"Really. How so?"

"Because it shows that there is an independent, resilient woman living inside the slave."

"You're a fucking quack."

Of course I am. That's why we're sitting here, discussing your emotional baggage in my tattoo and piercing emporium. Which reminds me: I should really go check on my staff. But really Vic; you're only saying that because you realize that I'm right."

Victria suddenly sat up.

"So what if you're fucking right?" she hissed, "It only means you have a flair for reading the obvious, you sheister!

"It's a racket, I know." Said Vance, unperturbed, "But you Vic, you are still the other half of the problem, the product of other people's behavior. You act and react based on what you've been put through. Under normal circumstances, and according to the behaviorist perspective; that's how life works. Accept what you can. Change what you can't. What needs to change, is your understanding of how much control you should have on your world, on others."

Vance leveled his gaze. In Victria's eyes, he suddenly saw his younger sister's pouty face, the face of the demanding little girl he'd fleshed out his love for those twenty years ago.

"How?" she said as she lowered her elbows to her knees.

"Let go, let go of as much as you can. Let Melody be herself, fight or flight, stay or go, whether she wills to continue to serve you under the capacity of slave or if she serves you, is submissive to you out of love, yes love Victria. As abstract as it is, the glue that makes a pair bond is the best means of that bond's longevity. You're only getting older. Get older with a good friend. Now that'll be three hundred bucks."

"Wouldn't paying you be some kind of professional breach?" asked Victria as she wiggled her feet back into her shoes. 

"I'm not a professional; therapist anyway. So don't pay me. But, I would like for you to do me and yourself a favor and go pay a visit to Mom."

Victria stepped to the coat rack. Vance watched the contemplation in his sister's face as she draped the coat over her shoulders. Shrugging into it, she stepped around the back of her brother to look down at his drawing. She assessed his portrait of her, and thought about how good it would look, sized down and tattooed over Melody's scar.

"Hmm." She said, stepping around to face him again.

That was it, hmm. That's all there ever was when she looked at anyone else's work; politely aloof in her criticism, conveying neither praise nor disapprobation. Although, as Vance reflected on the tone of his tough and talented little sister's "hmm," he was almost certain it rang of praise. In the next instant, as their stares lingered, Victria reached gentle fingers to trace the length of his jaw line before tugging playfully at his beard. Then, Victria grabbed his head in both hands and planted a small kiss just above the bridge of his nose.

"I'll make a point of seeing Mom; soon." Said Victria as she went to the door.

Vance, mutely awed, watched as his little sister left his office. Presently, he regarded the stylized portrait on his lap. Maybe she'd take a ride to Sheila's. Maybe she wouldn't. Either way, Vance would bring his drawing to their mother, and she would be pleased. They were between holidays after all: a time for family, comfort and joy. Victria hadn't come for Thanksgiving. Then again, she never came for Thanksgiving. Who knows? Maybe she and her Melody would join them for Christmas 

4

Melody cringed when she heard the key being fit into the front door's lock. Victria gasped and coughed as she entered the house. Melody closed her eyes and drew in a deep, bracing breath, the reek no longer an olfactory issue for her. She heard the house's owner step into the living room, pause, and then double back into the foyer. Totally mortified and still fearful, Melody wept anew as she heard Victria climb the stairs.

After a few minutes, Victria bounded back down the stairs and entered the living room again. Melody listened to the cage's rattle as her keeper disengaged its lock. She felt the woman's eyes upon her, upon the wide puddle of piss and shit near the foot of the cage door, with streaks of it trailing from Melody's ass. She'd tried to hold it. But, between the beer the night before, the late night snack and what she'd eaten of breakfast, nature had insisted. She'd thought to stretch from the far wall to which she'd been chained in order to void herself at least some distance away, affording to release her bowels as far away from herself as possible, without spraying the wall or getting any of it on the rug. 

She realized a new smell in the air. It was vapor rub; likely lathered beneath Victria's nostrils. It occurred to her then that her domme, rather than releasing her so that she could tend to it herself, was cleaning up her mess. Shamed, humiliated, horrified, Melody tried to cry as quietly as possible.

Not a word passed between them as Victria patiently worked. With latex gloved hands and a bucket, she scooped up Melody's more wieldy feces. She cleaned in silence, respecting the other woman's dignity. She listened as Melody wept, and thought to console her. But, something told her not to; told her to save the talking for later. Crying was fine, thought Victria. I wouldn't expect any less. Then, as she began to sponge up liquid matter from the cage floor, Victria was pleased that Melody had not cowered or cringed. It was then, with the consideration of that thought, a single tear began to fall from her own right eye. Victria paused, shook her head, breathed in her vapor rub, and then resumed her obligation to her slave.

Once she'd finished cleaning and disinfecting the bottom of the crate, Victria set about wiping Melody clean enough so that she could climb out of the cage. Though she'd initially thought it unwise, Victria avoided actually probing into the woman's nether parts, because that, she decided, Melody should tend to herself. Eventually, Melody had stopped crying and opened her eyes to watch Victria head toward the first floor bathroom with bucket and disinfectant spray in hand. Presently, the woman returned and proceeded to release Melody from her cuffs.

She sighed with relief as she rubbed her wrists. A moment more and she was leaning on her elbows and about to squirm toward the cage's opening. Turning, Melody watched Victria head back to the first floor bath. Seconds later, she heard the tub's faucet being run. She checked the clock in the DVD player's screen. She'd been chained and confined for five hours. It was relative, inconsequential, a walk in the park, just a step below the dull ache she still felt in her face. Melody crawled out from her crate, carefully got to her feet, and then gingerly pressed her fingers against her swollen cheek.

Victria was seated on the closed seat of the toilet, staring down at the tiled floor, and her folded hands between her knees. Deliberating, she tried to get her head around her desire, to find the place along its edge where the threads of emotion were originally anchored or where they had come undone. She wondered whether emotion had become the response to blocked desire. Meaning; if she had removed any and all barriers to the fulfillment of her every desire, had she created in herself no need for emotion? 

Perhaps she had. Maybe she was doomed to grow old alone, gaunt with emotional starvation and gnarled with rigid inflexibility. Seeing Melody's bare feet cross the threshold, she abruptly rose, met her naked guest's gaze, cringed at the sight of the huge purple bruise on her face, and then stepped aside. Melody advanced to the side of the tub and stepped in. Once in, Melody dropped beneath the surface, and then rose again to find that Victria had left the room and closed the door behind her. 

For a time, Melody stared at the closed door, and, in rationalizing her gift of privacy, felt strange, as if she'd been placed into yet another cage. She scanned the room and listened to the bulb in the light fixture buzzing gradually more and more loudly. Her gaze crossed to the vanity's mirror and she thought she saw Dean glimpsing, smirking, at her from inside the glass. Then, there was a sudden knock at the door, startling Melody.

"Come in." she invited, clearing her throat.

Victria entered, carrying a bowl of something in her hand.

"Is the water warm enough?" she asked as she kneeled on the bath mat.

"Yes, thank you; Mistress." Answered Melody as she began to shampoo her hair, "What's that you have there?"

"It's a home remedy for your bruise: crushed pineapple." Said Victria, "I guess it has bromelain in it and it works pretty good for after, you know, you didn't get a chance to ice it down."

Melody looked away.

"Oh." She said.

"I put it in one of those mesh bags." Victria said uncertainly, "Maybe you can lie there with it on your face; for a while, maybe?"

Melody met Victria's gaze and searched her eyes until her domme guiltily looked away. She was stunned by the woman's obvious remorse. She wasn't sure what to make of it. She knew to take it for what it was, what it ought to be, but still: there was something not right in her heart about it. Eventually, she too looked away and resumed washing her hair. That done, Melody rinsed, lied back, and then put the bag of crushed pineapple against her swollen cheek. 

Meanwhile, Victria went about draining and then refilling the tub, adding salts and lavender foaming soap. Melody luxuriated, though some degree of discomfort remained in her core. It dismayed her to be served. She'd never really liked it, but she was finding it even more frustrating to be served by her domme. Of course she knew she deserved it, but that didn't mean she liked it. Who knows, she thought, maybe I'll learn to like it.

"When you're finished," said Victria, "I'll do your hair for you."

"Oh no Mistress. You really don't have to go to all that trouble-"

"No, really. I want to. Please. Then, we'll take a walk outside."

"Oh, okay then." Melody agreed, brightening with the prospect of being taken out for a pee and a quick game of fetch.

Once out of the tub, Melody stood passively by, her eyes closed, as Victria applied moisturizing lotion over most of her body. As promised, Victria tended to Melody's hair. She'd taken a chair from the kitchen and set it before the vanity. Reluctantly, Melody put on her robe and sat down. Victria then gently brushed out her long golden brown locks and scrunched them up into a high pony. From there, they'd gone upstairs to the master bedroom where Victria dressed Melody in warm clothes.

The mistress of the house then began to change into more suitable clothes and kindly requested that her guest meet her down in the basement, at the patio exit to the back yard. Melody did as she was asked. As Victria changed into jeans and a sweat shirt, she reflected on Melody's tenseness and obvious discomfort at being touched. She wanted her tact to work, but couldn't begrudge Melody's reluctance and apparent mistrust. Sighing, she withdrew her winter jacket from the closet and tucked her keys into its inside pocket. Presently, she followed Melody down to the patio door in her studio, and was astonished to find her standing there by the door, with the lead chain in hand, naked but for a pair of flip flops and her collar, her smile wide and hopeful.

"You're right." Admitted Victria as they came to a stop nearly half a mile into her wooded back lot, "We do need to revise the contract. I don't know, maybe we should just tear it up or burn it."

Once Victria had helped Melody back into her clothes, they'd left the house and walked in silence, Melody untethered, deep into the woods. As the two women made their trek through the snow, they heard the sharp songs of blue jays in the distance and caught sight of one brilliant red cardinal or another. Crows cawed now and again in the distance, and sent a chill in Victria's heart as she scanned the sky for their approach. As she walked side by side with Melody, she recalled the funeral of that morning, of Duffy's closed, empty casket, his devastated wife and three young sons and the hundreds of his friends and associates gathered there to mourn his passing. Tomorrow would be Ricchio's service and the next days, Rancourt's.

"But first," she continued, "I want to take the time to explain why I'm so fucked up and stupid."

Melody stood motionless as she listened, her expression disconsolate, her lovely green eyes alert and intent. She'd taken every last word of Victria's relating her past to her; from the details she'd avoided telling her before about her father and his death, to her first time reporting of the incident with Samantha and her minions, to her running away to New York when she was thirteen to photograph her staged bound and bloodied hooker and to how difficult it was to go back home after she'd been such a shit, for years, to her mother. She'd also decided to bring up Simon's death, Though she only mentioned guns only in as much as they were Simon's guns that she'd fired at the range. Then, as she thought that she may as well tell her about New Orleans, Francisca and the Voodoo dolls, she restricted that retelling to what she'd told the irksome Mangiafico. After all, Victria had surmised, even if the world had its scrutinous eye trained on you didn't mean you had to go entertaining the possibility of curses. Sure, she hadn't made any doll that represented Melody, but that didn't mean that someone else somewhere else hadn't. Why tempt fate or at least why tempt it now, after you've spent the better part of the last four months doing it? The less Melody knew about all that bad juju Victria had brought on herself, the better. Vance had been right, just as he'd always been right when she'd tested him with her pain as kids. So, as the weight of Victria's tales settled into Melody's perception, the woman had one last thing to do.

"And finally," said Victria as she looked into Melody's troubled expression and the swollen puffy purple skin on the left side of her face, "I need to tell you that I'm so sorry for taking my warped sense of play to such an extreme that it allowed for what happened; to happen."

With that, Victria unzipped her jacket and withdrew the keys from her pocket. Struck silent, her mind still processing all that she'd heard, Melody hadn't been paying attention as Victria stepped behind her. Presently, she'd become aware that her collar had been unlocked and then removed. Speechless, numb, Melody touched her throat and felt its naked warmth. She turned then and watched Victria tuck the collar into her jacket's pocket.

"I release you from any and all obligation to me." Announced Victria, "You are free, free to come and go as you please, free to quit your education and go to work at some, I don't know, funky tattoo parlor coffee house somewhere or maybe you can go work for Pam, be a prep cook or something in one of her restaurants until you decide what you really want to do."

Low in the trees, cardinals called to one another. Melody looked away, her fingers still pressed against the spot where her collar had been. Suddenly, the gentle breeze that played at the end of her pony became a little less gentle. A few seconds more and she heard snow being crunched underfoot. Turning, she watched Victria begin her walk back toward the house. Melody remained where she stood, confounded, informed, stung, unrestricted, unrestrained, free, and free to; free to what? 

Go you idiot! Run. Go and kneel at her feet. Show her. Kiss her boots. I'm free. Mel; you will never be free, no matter how far you go or what you do. Your past is always at your back, just over your shoulder, ready to give you a friendly tap or pop up in any mirror you might be looking at. No. She's still playing with me. No; its not playing. Its, its how it is, how we are. She knows I'll kneel at her feet in the snow. She knows I'll drink myself to death with her if that's what she wants. Then why'd you bite her? Because; because- Because I was afraid. No Mel; you want to be free. Inside your heart, you want truly to be free. No, that's not true. Yes; it is, it is Mel. Fine then; I'm free, I'm just as free as she is. And together, we'll suffer for how fucking free we are.

Losing sight of Victria, Melody made a mad dash through the snow. After a time, her rapid breath, steaming before her eyes, obscured her view. Melody feared that she'd lost the trail. But, she soon caught sight of Victria's back and kept pace behind her, walking leisurely at a distance of forty or more feet.

Back at the house, Melody followed Victria inside. Without a word, they advanced together through the stair cases, through the halls and from room to room, their time now divided, allotted, each unto herself. Victria gave the crate one last antiseptic wipe down, dismantled it and then boxed it back up. Melody took four books from the living room shelves, stopped by the kitchen to concoct a salve of pineapple juice, crushed cayenne pepper and petroleum jelly, and then walked it upstairs into the guest bedroom. 

There, she laid back, applied her antienflamatory goop and dove into a book. A few moments in, she quickly became unimpressed with the first book and tossed it aside. The same happened with the second. The third had sustained her interest a bit longer until the story began to drag. Then, finally, Melody's forth choice put her to sleep. It was perhaps an hour later when she'd woken up to find a small, sealed envelope set upon the hem of her sweater. Opening it, Melody learned that an invitation to dinner was enclosed. It stated that Victria would be cooking Lord knew what, and that she was to arrive in the dining room, dressed formally, promptly at eight o'clock.




The Brand Ch. 11



Body Count

 The chapter isn't sexy, but it is the next necessary step in the sequence. Again, thank you for reading.

*****

"I mean to split yourself in two is just the most radical thing you can do
Goddess forbid that little Adam should grow so jealous of eve
And in the face of the great farce of the nuclear age
Feminism ain't about equality, it's about reprieve."
-Ani DeFranco

6

By the time Yazmina had slipped back to the van, her empty pizza box was covered in half an inch of snow. She'd parked Hector's big Ford Transit near the bottom of the long drive way. Once she got the call, as the plan went, she'd drive it up to the front door. It was the guy the others were afraid of, the big white crazy man, whose idea it was to do the job in the middle of a blizzard. Their tracks would get covered, he'd said, and they would be long gone by the time they'd call the Westbrook Pd, so that they could go and untie the girls. 

Yazmina had driven them to Victria's address. It was bad enough then, with what had started coming down. Driving back, she hoped to leave up to one of the guys. Hector, a tall, dark, sweet faced Mexican boy who'd worked and stole his way to New York, would do it. He'd been the dangerous living she'd fallen in love with in the very first place; he having taught her how to steal, and then how to get away with it; most of the time. But, it eventually got too hot for him to stay up north. Ultimately, time passed, most things changed while others stayed the same and there he was again, just a week ago; still handsome, dressed well with pockets full of money; asking around for her among their old Brooklyn haunts. 

Yazmina climbed in the driver's side, tossed the box into the back and closed the door. She sat for a time, shivering though still in her three layers, her hat down over the short, bristly skin of hair she refused to talk to Hector about, her scarf wrapped tightly around her face and her gloved hands tucked between her legs. She waited, unable to shake the cold, the feeling, staring through the windshield, snow plummeting like just so many bags of flour being dumped from the sky. 

Suddenly, she felt her phone vibrating in her winter jacket's front pocket. They were already ready to start loading the stuff? No, not this soon. Maybe they were changing their minds. But, it wasn't a call. Phantom vibrating, she realized; the latest phenomena to worm into our culture, according to those voices on the public broadcasts she'd gotten really sick of listening to on Geralynne's radio. I need culture? I need education? Fuck you bitch. I'm done. For real; I'm done. My Hector's back, so I'm going to get it good for a while. 

Yazmina had stolen away, very late one evening, though leaving Geralynne's wallet and jewelry where they lay. She'd grown quite weary of the woman and her nearly constant summoning; calls, tweets, texts. Wasn't it true enough though? How many of us were now in a regular habit of waiting for a call even when we weren't expecting a call? Call histories, post histories, tweets, hits, tags; am I it? Who the Hell is calling me now? What was so God damn important? Why couldn't we wait? Because who likes waiting? Waiting was being alone, even in a crowd, with her friends in line for a movie, waiting was the reminder of her loneliness. Yazmina touched her phone again, through her gloved fingers. Was it another phantom ring? Maybe I should take them off. 

Then she heard it; distant, muffled, a crack, like a hammer on hard wood. What's that? Seconds passed. Then a thunderous bang, a way bigger hammer. Oh shit! Oh no! Why? Why? They said they were just going to take her high priced stuff, her cards, tie them up, and then call the cops from a track phone they'd destroy and throw out the window on the way back down south. Oh my God, Yazmina thought, I'll have to go with them now. An adventure; that felt better, less lonely, maybe. It fell silent again, but for the falling static of the snow. Then her stomach roiled. Are they scaring Victria and her precious little Melody; or are they-

Bang, went another muted crack of thunder from inside the house. Oh my God, are they killing them? Yazmina didn't understand. What could have gone wrong? Victria was a feisty bitch, but three big guys with shot guns? And sure, now, Yazmina had firsthand experience that certainly bolstered her conviction that her former lover, drinking buddy and dome, also had the capacity to be a totally fucking crazy bitch. But still; three big, scary masked, guys with shot guns? What the Hell was happening in there? Going in masked meant you weren't planning on shooting anyone. It meant scare the Hell out of them and keep them cool while you took all their shit.

Yazmina took out her phone and checked for any missed calls. It hadn't been a phantom. It had been Geralynne, trying to get her to talk it out. Seriously woman? I've had it with psycho chicks! Should she go to the house, maybe peek through a window? Hell no! Maybe Victria gave them trouble. Of course she gave them trouble. Had she paid for it with her life? Did she deserve it? My burns, my scars, my fucking hair; fucking right she deserved something. Yeah but; getting killed? She heard a forth shot, a pause, then a fifth, sixth and a seventh. Yazmina's eyes went wide. She stared toward the lights of the house as she clumsily tucked her phone back into her jacket pocket. Something had gone very, very wrong. She groped for the door's handle, found it, and then burst from the Transit. 

Leaving the big Ford's door open, she ran from the van to the road. Frantic and stumbling, Yazmina kept as close to the side of the road as the high snow banks would allow. Icy snow blasted her in the face, attacking her like swarms of crystal needles. On and on she ran; no street light, corner or end in sight because she couldn't see very much at all. Suddenly, she heard the wet, sticky sound of tires driving through slush. Yazmina stopped, felt for the snow bank that should have been on her left. Finding it, she started to wave. Squinting, she thought she saw the glare of oncoming lights. The car shot past her. Of course; why should they stop for someone just because they were waving franticly? It didn't matter if there was a blizzard going on, she was a perfect stranger after all, a lone hitcher in a world of potential criminals. Then she heard the big rig coming. A trucker; he'll pick me up, pick me up and take me away. Still squinting, Yazmina waved, stepping away from the snow bank, the icy snow coming down in great surging swirls. Oh please; you have to stop. You have to stop, please. But, he didn't stop either. She watched him pass, what she could see of his rig anyway. Behind him came the sound of bouncing scraping on asphalt. The plow truck didn't stop either. He shouldn't have been riding that close to the semi's rear, but he was; and, because he was, and because he was distracted by the sexy money shot his girlfriend had sent him by phone, the snow plow driver didn't see Yazmina as he scooped her up, tossed her under the semi's rear wheels, where she got caught between the right wheel and its mud flap, was bat around for half a minute until her body, spine snapped on the second bounce, was thrown into the road and finally slid across into the snow bank on the other side.

Yazmina had one working lung at that point. It hurt, so, so bad, but she could still draw some breath. Moving however, was not happening. Seeing was happening, but only as much as breathing, breathing with one lung, the other punctured by three of her ribs. A sudden jet of blood shot up from her mouth. Yazmina stared up into the white sky as it undulated like a writhing, infinite mass of coiling albino snakes. They were her crimes and her punishments, Victria's and Geralynne's having rightfully whipped the mare of her iniquities. Victria had likely died a good death. Melody may or may not had gotten to watch it. Geralynne would not be alone facing her own.

Yazmina's breaths began to shallow. The plow man would soon be coming from the other side of the road. Maybe he would be paying more attention this time. Her mind wandered through how much time she thought she had left; minutes, hours? One never knew for sure. She recalled the voices on public radio also informing her that scientists had discovered that the brain is conscious three minutes after death, and that twenty-three percent of all dyeing people studied described memories in explicit detail during that three minute span. 

There was no one to speak to, yet Yazmina still made an effort to utter some confession or plea for mercy. But, she couldn't. No words would come. So, she thought and she imagined; the beautiful beaches of Puerto Rico, her mother, her sisters, the lovely church in San Juan, snapshot glimpses of Brooklyn, her in her Catholic school uniform, Victria's serious eyes and her lovely mouth. Then, Yazmina watched as the white snakes were parted, a circle, the night behind the storm, the white, gleaming razor edged, and feathers of her angel of retribution filling the gap in the storm. It was Victria, her hair down around her shoulders, her face its usual aloof solemnity, dressed in the Virgin Mary's blue tunic and flowing robes. It was so easy, she thought, to fuck everything up. She began to cry then, her tears melting the snow beneath her eyes as she listened to the bounding scrape of steel against frozen asphalt; getting closer and closer.

7

Never before had Victria rendered images with such brutal focus. Still propelled from the shattering events of two nights before, she was in momentum; alive after the psychological weight of her trauma, the shock, swallowed up in darkness, the sounds of men, flashes of light and touch, lightning strikes of pain as she was moved, and then suddenly awake again in a hospital room. Victria had locked her mind in a sort of linear retrospect. She'd restricted herself from the crime scene in her mind, staying outside the yellow tape, avoiding the peripheral reflection and the perceptual wandering beyond her meditations on Melody. 

There is nothing else, Victria mused; no recent past, no distant past; just Melody. She was somewhere else in the hospital, the nurses kept telling her, but no one would take her to see Melody or bring her up. In fact, no one was saying anything, nothing significant, nurses or the lab coated specters that waltzed quickly in and out of her room, perpetuating the mystery of Melody's whereabouts and having nothing definitive to say about her own condition. She should be with me, thought Victria. She's mine. I need- I can take care of her. She drew Melody standing in nude profile in the snowy back yard, Melody in portrait; collared, Melody's bright, soulful eyes staring back at her from behind the chrome finished rods of the dog crate and Melody standing at the top of the stairs; dressed in the folk inspired gown she'd worn those two evenings before. 

When she'd asked for drawing materials, all the nurses could give her were a few sheets of printer paper, a few # 2 pencils and a plastic sharpener. She'd created photorealistic drawings, wearing the pencils down to inch long nubs. Her work was so uncannily photographic, she'd had to make sure staff wouldn't look at them anymore because they just wouldn't shut up about them. If they wouldn't bring her to Melody, then all she wanted was to be left alone to draw, to narrow her thought to a thread, guiding it with Melody as the point of her needle; weaving it through a museum of memory, all of the other exhibits closed until further notice. 

I don't understand, she thought. Why can't anybody tell me how she is? It occurred to Victria to ring for the nurse, but she changed her mind. The flat chested one in the purple polka dot scrubs, with the big butt and the fake smile had told her the pencils were scarce around here since they'd switched to typing everything into a data base. Bull shit. They must have more pencils somewhere. Duh, there's like multiple floors with nurse's stations, a gift shop downstairs. I'll call Pam again. And where the fuck is Vance? It shouldn't take him this long to get here.

But, it should, she knew, take him this long. Victria hadn't known about the severe weather warnings and the ultimate blizzard that had barged its way through the state, devastating it while her home was being invaded. She had been informed by her nurses that, during the storm and into its aftermath, they were still plowing through and removing two feet of snow, still clearing what was left of the over thirty-two accidents that occurred on the state's major highways and still trying to restore power to nearly eighty-six thousand households.

Given the weather, it had taken the police and the paramedics some time to get to the house. As the fire of her pain burned, Victria had held on to Melody -who had been bound by the big Arian to one of the kitchen chairs, her eyes open yet wholly unresponsive- and stroked and kissed her foot until she could no longer resist slipping away into whatever darkness awaited her. She remembered having dreamt of being pulled away from Melody, fighting helplessly, naked, bloodied, people handling her, resisting, and the pain so bad she could only scream her way back into darkness. 

Then the sight of a hospital room materialized before her: a single, white walled, beige wanes coated, an empty blue cushioned chair in the corner by the window, the curtain partially drawn around the right side of the bed, the black TV anchored high on the wall across the room, machines, lights, clear plastic hoses and tubes, her legs covered with course white sheets: snow drifts and ripples across the cemetery of her legs and the twin tombstones of her feet. Her second night in the hospital, she willed herself to watch a dressing change; fragmented pink lightening branches of skin sown back shut, patches of chunky red salsa looking flesh, random black stains, little craters in the middle of flower petals of shredded muscle; and that was enough. She'd made it. She'd survived. How many lives, Victria mused, did I have left? I would give them to Melody; give them to her inside our kisses. She could swallow them up, hold them inside her, keep them safe and use them to live to a ripe old age, eighty-nine, ninety-four, maybe even a hundred and two. I want my Melody. Give me back my Melody; please, please give me back my Melody.

There was suddenly a knock upon her door. Before she could say go away, the resident was there at the foot of the bed: a short, thin, Indian man, lab coat over an old blue suit, stethoscope hanging from around his neck, smooth red face, warm brown eyes, dimples and a broad white toothy smile.

"Ms. Charpentier," he said as he reached down to take her chart, "I am Dr. Gupta. How are you feeling?"

"I can't feel my legs from the knees down," Victria answered as she tucked her drawings and pencils under her blanket, "Although, I can kind of feel something, I think, in the left."

"You have some nerve damage," the doctor replied; glancing up from her chart.

He slowly flipped through its pages, his smile still strong but faded somewhat.

"You have extensive gas and powder burns," the doctor continued, "You have annular abrasions and bruising. We were able to clean out the soot soiling in your wounds. It was fortunate that you were not clothed because such material would have interposed into your flesh. There was some degree of powder tattooing, which you may be able to eliminate through plastic surgery. You have nine elliptical wounds that are between two and four centimeters in diameter. It appears that the pellets lost velocity as they careened off the floor before entering your legs, which was fortunate because if concentrated-"

"Where's Melody?"

"I'm sorry?" he said; looking back up at her, "Melody?"

"The woman who was with me in my house when they took me away from it. Where; is Melody?"

"I'm sorry, but I was not aware of another-"

"She's safe; in another part of the hospital." 

Both the doctor and Victria turned to watch a fairly tall and lanky woman enter the room. She was dark blue eyed, wave black haired and smartly dressed under her worn grey trench coat.

"Ms. Charpentier?" she said; having withdrawn her wallet and flashing a badge and photo ID, "I'm Detective Cassie Powers; Westbrook PD. We can discuss Melody after your doctor is finished."

"Yes, well," Gupta continued, "There was some wadding from the shot gun shells that required removal from the depth of your wounds. And, there was significant carboxyhaemoglobin formation, which I believe had lent a great deal in the complication of the damage to your nerves."

"Will I be able to walk?"

Gupta glanced quickly between Victria and the detective. Powers turned her back and stepped back out of the room. Then, looking at Victria squarely, his smile, warm but small, he said:

"If you continue to have no sensation in three months, we will have to perform a second surgery. We were able to perform vascular reconstruction and it was good that your femurs hadn't been cracked or shattered by the pellets. However, your nerve ends required suturing to the underlying muscle fascia in order to prevent retraction. At this point, we need to keep you under close observation and, if all continues to go well, we will reevaluate your condition at a later date."

Gumpta paused. Victria looked down at her shrouded extremities, also taking in the doctor's hands as they hung the clipboard back onto its hook.

"Your nervous system," Ms. Charpentier," Gupta resumed; uttering his words more slowly, "Needs to encourage the endings in your lower legs to communicate with the muscles to which they have been reattached. So, your physical fitness will depend on your mental; fitness. If you have more feeling in three months' time, you may begin physical therapy."

Again, Gupta paused. Victria turned away to peer soberly at the cold blue sky beyond her room's window.

"How is your; pain right now Ms. Charpentier?" Gupta asked softly.

Victria shrugged.

"It's at a seven I guess," Victria answered with disinterest, "Maybe eight."

"I'll increase the dosage to your pain medication." Said Gupta, starting to move toward the door.

"No," Victria intoned; turning to face the man, "Don't. It's just; pain. I'm fine. Doctor? Who can I talk to about being moved into a double, so that they can bring Melody up here?"

Gumpta looked suddenly perplexed. He looked toward Powers. Victria hadn't been aware of her return until then; leaning her left shoulder against the corner of the wall, her sober expression lit in a dim twilight, just out of the window's reach and the lights shining in the hallway cast against her back.

"I'll take it from here doctor," she said while meeting his gaze, "Thank you."

Gupta nodded, acknowledged Powers with a somewhat lesser smile then the one he'd entered with, and then left the room. The woman detective lingered her gaze at Victria for a few seconds before taking up the doctor's former position at the foot of the bed. 

"What is your friend's full name, Ms. Charpentier?" she asked.

"Melody Eunice May. How is she?"

"She's catatonic," Powers resumed as she reached into her inside coat pocket and withdrew a note pad and a pen, "on-responsive; speechless, motionless, in a total, depressed, stupor."

Powers inscribed something at the top of the pad's first page, and then paused, like Mangiafico had paused; waiting her out, gauging her. Had they spoken, Victria wondered as she assessed the woman assessing her. Why would her being a woman make her any different? Depression; Melody could survive depression. Victria looked away, her face darkened, her pain, real but even, her heart aching. Go on Powers, she thought. What else?





The Brand Ch. 11



The detective flipped once, then twice.

"Age?"

"She just turned twenty-five in November, on the seventeenth. Who is treating her?" 

"A dr. Peebles; said he'd be up to speak with you," said Powers; looking at her pad, "But since he's not here yet, and because of the circumstances we found her in, I'm inclined to ask: had she ever talked to you about any early traumatic experience she might have had?"

Powers quickly raised her eyes again to gaze on Victria, and saw that the sadness and regret that had been on her face not a minute ago was now replaced with what she read as a guarded, detached expressionlessness. Powers watched, and tried to calculate how many layers regressed behind Victria's stare. The May woman was important to her. There was no doubt of that. Was it as simple as a friendship or something more complex?

"A rape kit; was done." Powers intoned; tilting her head, gauging for any further change in Victria's expression, "She hadn't been; sexually violated, thankfully. It appears that Ms. May submitted without a struggle and was quickly brought into the kitchen and tied to the chair. She certainly may have been quite traumatized by having witnessed you getting shot at, and then you taking down that last perpetrator, but Dr. Peebles believes there was something else at work, in her mind; shutting her off."

Powers waited. Still, Victria said nothing. The detective reflected; recalling what she saw of the living arrangements in the house. The more she thought about it, the more complex the relationship actually was. The detective didn't want to assume they were lovers, but there was little else you could gather. Hence, if the relationship was complex, Charpentier should have been in the know as to what personal trauma the May woman might have suffered in her past. Or, if May wasn't being honest, then there was something else at work. Privacy was fine. Powers didn't give a rat's ass. However, in a multiple homicide investigation, she would get her transparency, sooner or later. And that meant still another layer behind those hard, distant, grey brown eyes; a layer defined by Carpenter's will, her boldness, to fatally shoot three men. 

Were they righteous shoots: three intruders with a shot gun a piece, each fully loaded but for the shots fired; the serial numbers on each of the weapons scratched off? But those weren't the only shell casings we found. The woman has two decent hand guns of her own, licensed to carry concealed, a big house with lots of stuff and she had a legal right to protect herself. She'd been caught off guard. That too was for sure; Charpentier found naked; May wearing nothing but a night shirt; discarded clothes on the master bedroom floor around a bed that someone had occupied. 

Had Charpentier been aware that May had let them in? Someone into home protection wouldn't have let that happen, at ten at night, if she'd been aware. Unless; that was part of the plan? Sure; on the surface, they were justifiable homicides. But, Charpentier wasn't out of the woods yet. Powers reached into her pocket and withdrew something. Victria saw the detective's hand extended inside her right periphery.

"I also needed to ask you," said Powers; her voice firm, "Do you know this person?"

Victria took the photograph. She stared for a time, not sure of what to make of what she saw; until it came to her. Her rich brown skin drained of most of its color, her lips purple, her teeth brown with dried blood, her short stubble of hair frosted with ice, her lifeless eyes staring blankly back at her, Victria winced at the sight of Yazmina. Oh Yazz, you dumb bitch, she thought. Keeping her eyes closed, her stomach roiling slightly, Victria handed the picture back to Powers.

"She was found in a snow bank about four hundred yards north of your place." Explained the detective, "There was a Ford Transit parked at the bottom of your driveway, unregistered Jersey state plates, its driver's door wide open. We think she fled from your address, from the van-"

"I know her." Victria interrupted; staring at the cloudless blue sky outside her window again, "I knew her: Yazmina Moldenado."

"How did you know her?"

Victria turned quickly to face Powers, wincing in pain as she did so. She'd thought of Geralynne in that instant, wondering if she'd actually pay a visit, what she might say, or what she might not say; in the wee hours of the morning, slinking into her room, past a nurse skeleton crew, prepared with some sort of lethal injection. . Why not? It was all a game after all: life, death, love, hate.

"You know; a little Dilaudid could go a long way." Powers remarked.

"I can handle it." Victria returned, "Yazmina and I dated for a few years. I broke it off because she stole from me. That was like; three years ago. We started seeing each other again after that, on and off, under more controlled circumstances. You know; you give somebody a second chance, you try to forgive and forget. Anyway, she knew what I had and where I kept it. I guess it was only a matter of time before she'd try to get more of it."

"A matter of time?"

"Yeah, before she felt like it was okay to, I don't know, hook up with some crew so she could take all my shit while trying to scare Melody and me in the process?"

"Was she jealous of Melody?"

"Yes, I suppose she was." Answered Victria; her tone bordering frustration, "Look; please, can't you go get Melody and just wheel her up here? I mean; why can't she be catatonic or whatever right here next to me?"

Powers stared back at Victria. Take it easy little rich girl, she thought. I ain't your fucking hand maid. But then, In that very instant, the woman detective saw, imagined, the two women; both bound to wheel chairs, Victria attending to Melody, feeding her, wiping her drool, Victria struggling with her own physical pain, the PTSD of having killed in her own home, that home falling apart, her love for Melody being the only thing that might possibly keep her sane as her world gradually devolved to total ruin. Be careful what you wish for, doll. What? This is weird. Powers suddenly looked away. What the fuck is this, thought the detective as a sudden emotion choked in her throat. Get a hold of yourself Cassie. Powers pocketed the photo, and then turned to face the window. She felt the sudden turmoil in her heart, worked her emotions back in check, took a deep breath and willed her welling tears back behind the business of seeing a case logically and objectively through to its closure.

"I'm sorry Ms. Charpentier, " she answered, "Both you and Ms. May are too in need of help for staff to take care of you together. I'll let Dr. Peebles explain.

Powers did not see the anger flash in Victria's face as she turned away.

"Will I be able to keep my guns?"

Composed, the detective turned back to face Victria. From love to guns, Powers thought, that's extreme; I'd guess.

"I can't say beyond right now," she answered, "And right now, they're evidence."

That should settle that, thought Powers; for now. Charpentier might get her guns back in a month, but likely longer; as long as the DA rules the homicides as justified. The detective moved away from the foot of Victria's bed, and then stepped to the window and rested her seat against its sill.

"The thing is," Powers continued; referring back to her note pad, "I'm a bit troubled. Well, let me say; I'm perplexed?"

"Perplexed?" Victria queried.

"Hmm. I got a call from a detective out in Putnam; Mangiafico?"

"Of course you did." said Victria; wagging her head and uttering a small ironic laugh.

Powers paused; noting Victria's response.

"He gave me a breakdown of the Dobbs incident," she continued, "And his; impressions."

"This is truly farcical." said Victria as she leveled a disdainful gaze at the detective, "And your conclusions are?" 

"My conclusions are; that I think Mangiafico's a fucking crack pot. Excuse my French."

"I know, right?" said Victria, her gaze softening slightly.

A silence ensued, the one anticipating the other, the distant sounds of nurse chatter, and calls into the nurse's station and the occasional moan of pain from a nearby room. 

"So how's your own mental state; asked the detective suddenly, "I mean; since the Dobbs incident?"

Victria could not help glaring at the detective.

"It's just that," Powers continued, "You've got a string of; trauma here you're dealing with."

Oh here we fucking go again. Victria had hoped she would feel more comfortable with the attractive detective, to trust her, but it was short lived; snuffed out by the sight of the same doubt in her eyes that Mangiafico had had in his and by her new line of inquiry. . Oh well, thought Victria as she looked away. God harvests a few souls for itself and I get yet another self-righteous defender of mortal justice trying to pin the divine's dirty work on me. It's enough to make a pretend Voodoo practitioner want to throw a doll together with whatever the nurses might have handy. Total bull shit, I swear; total bull shit. 

"Not all trauma has to be life shattering." Answered Victria, "Let's say the recovery was really short, "Seeing as the world took him out right before my very eyes."

"Hmm; I see."

Hmm, she says. Fuck you too, fucking Clarice Starling. Let's cut to the chase then detective. 

"I bet he also mentioned the others;" Victria went on; sneering at the detective, "Rancourt, Duffy and Ricchio?"

"Yes," Powers answered calmly, "And your boss, Cheevers, mentioned them too."

A silence fell again as the two women waited each other out: Powers, alert, expressionless; Victria, eyes narrowed, wary, incensed. 

"Cheevers?" Victria repeated.

"Yes." Powers answered; nodding, "Actually, he came up here to see you early this morning. He's a very religious man, you know."

Victria stared; her expression a sort of amused incredulity. 

"Really?" she said; mockingly, "I had no idea."

"Sure. That's why it was so important to him that you joined him for their funerals."

Powers kept her gaze on Victria. Victria's never wavered. Holy Cheevers; yeah right. Praying I don't make his ass grass, is more like it. There would be no looking away. How many now were dead; Dobbs, the others, three criminals and stupid, stupid Yazmina? It seemed to Victria that she was assumed guilty for all the death around her, no matter how innocent she truly was, remotely connected, victimized by circumstance or even having acted out of clear self-defense. Victria suddenly felt herself losing control. No matter how innocent she knew she was: they would find a way to keep Melody away from her and to lock her up, the police, Geralynne, Cheevers. She'd had enough. She was finished. Oh my God, I give; I give- 

"Okay, so what the fuck?" said Victria; her voice rough with emotion, "You want to search my house for a fuckin Voodoo doll of Yazmina? Go right the fuck ahead detective. And let me know when you find Melody's too, okay? Because I need it, to tuck her in next to me so that I can fucking go to sleep at night while my real Melody is somewhere by herself or with a bunch of fucking strangers, prodding at her, drugging her with who knows what. This is utter bull shit lady; bull shit. Someone has to fucking help me here."

Powers continued to stare at Victria. She watched as a single tear fell from the outer corner of her left eye. Following its slow course, the detective tried to decide whether its soreness was that of a cold lire's weak effort or because Victria was a gravely prideful woman who could not handle any public showing of her true feelings.

There came a new rapping at the door, quieter but insistently repetitive. Victria looked away and wiped her eye as Powers met the caller's gaze.

"Dr. Peebles." She announced, "I'd like you to meet Victria Charpentier."

Her eyes slightly red and puffy then, Victria angled her head to the door, and looked upon a bespectacled man of average height and build. His brown tweed coat and cardigan lent also to his scholarly air, though he was otherwise in jeans and a fairly worn pair of hiking boots. Clipped to his coat's breast pocket was his hospital ID. His likeness was somewhat darker, his expression cool and his brown hair was shorter. Beneath the image was his name and certifications: Dr. Jeremy Peebles, MSSW, PsyaD,LCP, BCBT.

"Hey there Ms. Charpentier," said Peebles as she slowly advanced to the right side of Victria's bed, "It's nice to meet you."

Smiling pleasantly enough, the man extended his hand. Victria looked at it, her expression seeming Leary of some sign of MRSA or ringworm. He wasted no time with her hesitation and quickly stepped back and interlaced his fingers at his midline.

"I was hoping we could talk about the young lady that was brought in with you."

"Melody." Said Victria, not looking at him.

"Ah Melody!" he repeated excitedly; suddenly disengaging his fingers and clapping once, "That's perfect. And there I was guessing her a Zoei or a Christina."

Oh Jesus Christ, thought Victria as she met his eyes, they sent me a reject from Good Will Hunting. She couldn't, wouldn't hide her incredulity. His good humor certainly didn't boarder on obnoxiousness, at least not yet. But, Victria thought it would, and quickly.

"Would you mind terribly," Peebles intoned; both slowing and softening his voice, "If I ask you a few questions about her?"

Again, Victria looked away. What could she say? Never did she expect to be in the position she was in, to have to talk to a psychologist about someone she'd dominated and had been humiliating over the last four months. Has it only been four months, she thought. It feels like forever. Fuck, I don't want to talk to a psych. I can't. I don't, I don't; know her. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Damn it, where's Vance?

"Ms. Charpentier?" Peebles continued, "I can't try to pull her out of the vacuum she's been sucked into if I can't get an idea-"

"She was homeless when I found her; when we met."

Powers had been reviewing the notes on her pad, and was prepared to write when Victria spoke. The detective eyed Victria, the pen poised in her hand, and then glanced at the doctor. The doctor's eyes never left Victria's. Powers was certain that the doctor would ask her to please step out. Anticipating his request, the pretty detective tucked her pad and pen away, crossed to the door, told Victria that she'd be back, and then left the room. Peebles casually followed to the door, and then closed it part way. Victria watched him take a seat in the blue chair by the window, cross his legs, and then fix his boyish face and alert gaze on her. They stared at each other for a moment before Victria finally sighed and looked away.

"I just want you to know that I am a silenced clinical psychologist," Peebles said; his voice calm and quiet, "And I'm certified in bereavement trauma."

Wordy fucking do, Doc, she thought. So I should be comfortable enough, with all your acronyms and your peaked interest, to rat on Melody and spill my guts to you? Well; I can't rat on Melody.

"I have to say," began Victria, "That I don't know a whole lot about her."

"Well; what is it you do know?"

Victria paused, looking away, almost dreamily, to her right.

"She's loyal." She continued, "She's supportive. Melody is; very smart and nurturing and creative. And, I've seen her; totally shut down in fear; before."

"Hmm." Said Peebles, "Tell me about that."

"We were getting in line at the Westbrook Deli and these two guys came in to rob the place. They each had guns, but one looked fake. The other was real, as we learned. I think Melody hit the floor before he'd ever fired any shots. She'd, she'd pissed herself. The rest of us, I just-"

Victria trailed off, her gaze shifting ever leftward.

"Did anyone get hurt?" asked Peebles, "Did Melody?"

"No." Victria quietly answered; meeting his gaze, "But Melody has a scar; below her right hip; a bullet's graze."

"From when; where?" the doctor asked.

"Victria looked away again, picking and choosing her way through her thoughts. Peebles gaze remained fixed, his expression wrapped, deliberating.

"I, I don't know." Victria intoned distantly, "She won't tell me. I mean, we talked about her shitty dad, her spineless mom and the little one horse town she grew up in. She told me about a few of her experiences walking away from it, from them; I guess, walking across the country, telling me stories about some of the people she met and that was it. I found her in the middle of downtown Hartford-"

Again, Victria's stare roved up and to the right. When she spoke next, Peebles heard a woman who seemed suddenly transported; entranced, languid, and wistful.

"She was rummaging through garbage. Pigeons flocked all around her, just her, and there were all these bees all over the cans in the trash, just swarming on her hands and arms; and she never got stung."

Peebles stared in rapt attention. This one's smitten; very much so. But, she's not as trusted by the patient as she'd like to be. Why not? Minutes past. Would she say more? I need more, he thought, tell me-

"So," said Peebles; breaking the silence, "Melody walked away from dear old mom and dad; walked away from everything she knew and from something that hurt her very badly."

"She walked away from boring," asserted Victria; bringing her gaze back to bare gloweringly upon the doctor's, "She walked away from nothing; from people who walked away from her."

Peebles shifted in his seat.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Come on Doctor." Victria said scornfully, "She couldn't be gay out there. They're not progressive in those sleepy little Midwestern cow towns! She walked away to find freedom!"

"Well; did she find it?"

"Find what?"

"Freedom; was she free, being homeless?"

"Maybe? But, who was it that said that even freedom is a kind of oppression?"

"You just said it. And, it was you that took her in; saved her from the streets, per say?"

Victria looked away.

"Tell me; did she ever call home, while living with you?"

"I don't know. Maybe; when I wasn't around. I don't know. She never told me."

A new silence fell then; Victria staring off distantly while Peebles stared fixedly at her.

"Alright then Ms. Charpentier." He said as he prepared to stand, "Thank you for your help. But, now that I have her name, I believe I will pick this up with Ms. May's parents."

"Wait!" Victria said excitedly, "What? No! You can't. They'll take her back."

Peebles paused.

"Ms. Charpentier," he said, "Melody is in a very severe depressed catatonic state. I'm not sure when she'll be able to make her own decisions. I'll need to track down the best advocates to manage-"

"I'm her advocate Doctor!" Victria shouted, "I can make decisions on her behalf!"

Peebles slowly sat back down.

"Ms. Charpentier; there is no legal ground for you to serve in such a capacity for her. And besides, you're obviously not in the best of health yourself at the moment."

"Okay, let me fucking tell you something mother fucker. Sorry. I'm trying to be nice, but now you're fucking with me!"

"Fucking with you?" the doctor repeated.

"Yes, God damn it! I am going to get in touch with P & A, and I will find an advocate that will represent the both of us! You had to do it Peebles! You had to fuck with Victria Charpentier! Melody loves me and I love Melody! She's not fucking going anywhere! Now get the fuck out of my room ass hole!"

Peebles slowly got back to his feet, his expression no less sincere and interested, but much more alarmed. He gave Victria one last look, taking in her agitation, her bright red face, the inconceivable pain in her eyes, and her clenched red fists. After quickly checking her chart, he left Victria's room. He stopped by the nurse's station and requested that Dr. Gupta be paged. Peebles was certain his patient, his other new patient, would be much better off with a higher dosage of pain medication. And getting a sedative in to her as soon as possible would certainly make it safer for anyone to approach the woman in the critical moments that would follow. Mamma Bear, thought Peebles, Is missing her baby; and if they don't send her back to sleep, she's liable to take a bite out of somebody.




The Brand Ch. 11



8

The detective found her way back up to the hospital's closed psych ward. She stopped at the nurse's station to let the secretary know that she was back, and then turned toward the ward's right wing. As she walked down the brightly lit corridor, Powers took in its pink brick walls, its heavy wood doors with their inlaid glass and the sixty yards of inhospitable brown carpet.

She had lingered, only for a moment, behind the partially opened door to Victria's room. Yes, she'd happened upon a case note put into the WPD system about Carpenter's and May's presence at the deli. Powers had yet to read through the news report about it from the paper's web archive. Homeless? Talk about; starting from scratch, thought the detective as she advanced down the corridor.

Melody's room, 11-05, was the last on the right. Powers knocked, and then entered. Neither Melody nor her roommate, a young girl, a little blonde haired twelve year old going on sixty-three, was present. The room's floor was covered in the same pasty chocolate brown, the pitted stone walls painted a pinkish beige and the two plastic coated twin mattresses were fitted with patterns of blue teddy bears, with matching blue blankets and two very flat pillows. Powers peeked just inside the open bathroom door and saw that it too was empty. 

Turning suddenly, Powers startled a woman that had been standing in the doorway. The head nurse, Diane, Powers recalled, had whitened instantly, and then reddened.

"I didn't mean to sneak up on you." Said the nurse; laughing nervously.

"You didn't." Powers replied, not looking at the woman; her attention drawn to the empty pad and pen on the ledge beyond Melody's roommate's bed.

"Your Jane Doe is in the solarium," the nurse intoned, "With the rest of the group."

Powers turned to face her again and watched as the woman folded her arms and took a few steps back into the corridor. Her gaze never wavered, though she was still embarrassed about having been startled by the tall female detective. She was of average height, five foot six, somewhere in her forties, subtle patches of light grey in her strawberry blonde hair, healthfully slim in her glowing white slacks and happy yellow turtle neck sweater.

"I have a name for her." Said the detective as she advanced toward the open door, "Melody May."

"Oh great." Said the nurse excitedly; taking pace beside Powers as they headed back toward the opposite end of the corridor, "I'll put it right into the system. Did you learn anything else?"

Powers shrugged. Perhaps I should keep my mouth shut; just mind my own business, the business of the case.

"The woman who came in with Ms. May is certainly quite attached to her," she said."

"How attached?" asked the nurse as they advanced toward the solarium? 

"She wants Ms. May to be brought up to her room."

"Hold on." Said the nurse, stopping short, "She was shot; right?"

Powers nodded, turning to face her.

"Yep." She answered, "She has enough rehab to get through, and enough of her own PTSD to manage herself through, let alone Ms. May. The buck shot caused a good amount of nerve damage to her legs, below the knees. She's a tough one though, demanding. When I left, she was telling Dr. Peebles about how she found Ms. Melody on the street."

So much for keeping your mouth shut Cassandra. Fuck it. We're all just trying to help this lost little lamb of a woman.

"The street?" repeated the nurse, "Homeless?"

"Sounds like. I guess Charpentier is a tier two executive in some marketing firm. I don't know. Maybe she took May in on a whim, sort of release some conservative pressure, and let her heart bleed a little."

The nurse leveled her gaze at Powers, seeming taken aback by her comment. The detective stared back, tilting her head slightly.

"Honestly Diane," Powers continued, "The woman has a very nasty streak; a total narcissist. I think maybe she can't keep any friends because she alienates them all away with her over inflated sense of self. Come on; what sort of person has to troll for a perspective partner among Hartford's homeless? I mean; in my line of work; that's where we find victims and the people who abuse or kill them for recreation."

The nurse seemed to vacillate between conceding and wanting to comment.

"No matter people's troubling circumstances," she said; gesturing her head toward the solarium, "They have parents and families and miss being home. The homeless have pasts too, and they're human beings, deserving of compassion."

"Oh I certainly don't disagree," Powers responded as they each resumed a slow pace toward the solarium door, "I'm just saying that, given convention, bars, social clubs or online dating sites, a rich and powerful woman has options, if she's motivated. Charpentier may or may not have been motivated by May's homelessness. But, the fact is that she was motivated by something, and what she got was a woman she barely knows, but depends on emotionally and who essentially owns nothing beyond her own body."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning; considering her current circumstances, Ms. May was certainly victimized by something in her past and Charpentier clearly prefers the company of such a person because she herself was victimized. At least; that's how I read it."

The nurse stopped again, and gave Powers a look of dour confidence. 

"Does Dr. Peebles have any idea about this?" she asked.

"Oh I think he's figuring it all out right now as we speak."

The nurse followed the detective into the solarium. They stood beside each other, just inside the door, and scanned the large room. The space was long, its south wall bordered by a row of seats before which were set a series of tables. Its north wall was comprised primarily of a bank of tall windows, which afforded patients and visitors a view of clear skies and snow covered roofs. The far west end of the room was furnished in counter top and cabinets, and the east side had more seating that flanked a ping pong table. 

The patients were lounging in pairs or other odd or even clusters here or there. Melody and her roommate Patrice were seated amid a small crowd of patients gathered before the solarium's single antique television. The television was bad enough with its wide glass screen and bulky rear housing. But, what made it worse was that they were all staring, dazedly fixed, at yet another airing of Forest Gump. Powers couldn't fathom how the film, good enough to sit through only once, had joined the ranks of TV Land America's Christmas holiday main stays. The actor was alright, what was his name? Powers thought of him as the older brother or uncle next door. Was it Dom Janks, Ron Stanks, Hank Thomas? Powers lazed through her thoughts as she watched Melody staring blankly toward a section of window above the solarium's ancient TV.

"And how is Ms. May?" Powers asked the nurse in a hushed voice, "Any sign of life beyond a steady heart beat and respiration?

"No. Nothing's changed." The nurse whispered back, "Although, I think that Dr. Peebles wants us to make sure Patrice doesn't ideate as Ms. May's exclusive care provider."

"Why?"

"Because that's why she's here. I mean, I can't say too much about it, but Patrice has been caring for a parent for such a long time that, well, her childhood never happened, I guess you could say. Right now, they're in the same room only because another bed isn't available and Patrice is the only patient we feel comfortable pairing her with."

Powers assessed the young girl, her worried face, her tired, nervous stare and the few crow's feet beside her pale blue eyes. It was then she saw all the grey running through her shoulder length blonde hair. Patrice put nervous fingers against her chin every time she spoke, as if to be ready to stop herself or pluck back some misspoken truth or offensive remark. And yes, she was speaking, to Melody: slack jawed, glazed eyed, sweet faced Melody. 

Suddenly, an intern, dressed in scrub pants and a white lab coat, came into the room and passed through the detective's line of sight. She watched him take a chair, set it to the left of the TV, and then sit himself upon it. What's this? Powers and the nurse glanced at each other. The nurse quickly wagged her head and glowered. It was enough.

"Is he a patient from the ward?" she whispered.

"No," said the nurse, "But I don't know who he is?"

The nurse began to step toward the man, but Powers put a hand on her arm. Together, they watched the man, young, cleanly bearded, pleasant faced, as he observed Melody. Presently, Patrice felt the man's look. Caught, he smiled warmly. Patrice smiled back shyly, regarded Melody, unfolded a handkerchief she had on her lap, and then proceeded to wipe Melody's drool with it. An instant later, the young man stood and brought his chair in closer, and positioned it so that he wouldn't disturb any of the other patients or visitors watching the television.

Powers and the nurse watched a conversation unfold between Patrice and the young man. She was clearly at ease and, based on both of their body language, it was obvious that Melody was their topic of discussion. Powers observed that Patrice was shrugging a good deal as well as shaking her head. A moment more, and with one last troubled gaze at Melody's lost green eyes, the young man shook Patrice's hand, and then got to his feet.

"Excuse me sir?"

Vance was just about to duck out of the room when he laid eyes on the pretty black haired woman leaning against the wall by the solarium's exit. In fact, he thought her very attractive, charmingly conventional. It surprised him, her glamorous plain Jane appeal; not a single piece of jewelry on her. Vance put on the smile, hoping that it would inspire one of her own, until he saw her raise her badge and ID into his field of view.

"I'm Detective Cassandra Powers." She said, "May I have a word with you?"

"Uh," said Vance; clearing his throat; his excitement suddenly turning cold, "I, I; sure."

"Out into the hall please."

Hang dog; Vance followed. The nurse eyed him suspiciously before moving off to talk to Patrice.

"Did you enter this hospital with the intention of impersonating a medical professional for a specific reason," she asked crossly, "Or just for the sheer Hell of it?"

"I didn't mean any harm." Stuttered Vance, "I just thought it was a good idea to-"

Vance stared; floundering, gesturing helplessly with a few small waves of his hands.

"Uh; yeah-"he muttered, petering out finally.

"Name sir." Said the cop as she withdrew a pen and note pad from the inside of her coat.

"Vance; Ma'am." He said, looking down.

"Vance Charpentier?" she asked. 

"Uh; yes." Said Vance; raising his head again, "How did you know?"

The detective put her pad and pen back into her coat, and then eyed Vance squarely. Again, he tried to work the magic of his smile, but it still had no effect. Vance settled his gaze on the detective's shoes.

"Because you look like your sister." The detective said flatly.

Vance quickly raised his gaze again. 

"Oh my God; how is she?" 

"Better. Did she send you to check on Melody?"

The nurse returned and took a position beside them; folding her arms beneath her breasts and eyeing Vance expectantly. . 

"No." answered Vance, "After I finally saw her text, it took me forever to get here. After she got out of the ER, they wouldn't let me anywhere near her. Through a bit of eaves dropping, I found out that Melody was up here. I felt helpless, so I thought the least I could do was to see how she was, which is probably what Vic would have wanted me to do. Can I see her?"

A bubble of silence filled their space as nurses and patients chattered around them. The detective's gaze never wavered as the nurse glanced at her, and then stepped back toward the station. Finally, deciding that Victria's features were even more appealing framed within a masculine countenance, Powers cleared her throat, and then said:

"Come with me sir."

The detective tilted her head toward the secure exit, and then gestured for him to walk ahead of her. Powers followed Vance through the door, and then to the elevators. It was a bank of four and someone among the small crowd already waiting had pressed the down button. When the first door opened, the small group entered. Powers indicated that they would take the next one. It arrived presently. The pair got in, and then Powers pressed the button that would take them to the seventh floor.

"I just can't believe it." said Vance as the elevator went into motion, "I thought my sister would have some kind of home surveillance set up."

"It's looking like Ms. May just let them right in." Powers intoned; turning her gaze from the numbers over the door, "As for an alarm, your sister doesn't have any commercial system installed. But, she certainly had a more personal means of home defense in place."

"Home defense?"

Powers paused.

"Your sister shot three men; dead."

"Holy shit! A gun; Vic has a gun?"

"Two guns."

"Wait, she's legal, right?"

Powers raised an eye brow.

"Yes, they're licensed to her. Does it strike you that she took the legal route in order to be in possession of fire arms?"

Vance paused, seeming to give the question some thought.

"Well; no, actually." He said; shaking his head, "Vic is very shrewd and not prone to miscalculation; generally speaking. She wouldn't think of doing anything to tear down what she's built for herself. Her job, for example; getting where she is in her firm was very important."

Vance paused, brow furrowing, sighed and punched his fists inside the pockets of his lab coat. Then he looked at the detective again. 

"Will, will she have to go to prison?" he asked, hushed and solemn.

Powers sighed.

"I think the facts of the case will lead the state's attorney to assess that your sister shouldn't be charged with anything. However, the families of the deceased may lodge a civil suit, so don't be surprised."

Powers paused; sighing heavily. Suddenly, she stepped to the control panel, pressed the elevator's stop button, and then turned to face Vance again.

"The way the scene looked," the detective continued, "May was downstairs. She opened the door while Charpentier was still in bed. The intruders subdued May. We believe your sister was ready for the one who was sent to check the second floor. She gets him at the top of the stairs. The second fired once from the bottom of the stairs. He gets a shot off, but she's still at the top landing, so gets him while he pumps another round. The last one probably gave her an ultimatum. She had to face him then, he likely having a gun to May's head. Somehow, your sister fakes him out with her second gun, he misfires towards her legs, she's seriously wounded at that point, but she makes damn sure he goes down too. We find her nearly an hour later, a trail of blood behind her, she having crawled to Ms. Melody, her arms wrapped around her ankles."

In the silent wake of her story, Vance stared, astounded, his mouth slightly open. Powers let her gaze linger on his face a few seconds longer, before she looked sadly away and reached again toward the elevator's controls.

"I've never seen anything like that." She admitted in a hushed voice; her eyes riveted to his.

Vance had already been charmed thoroughly enough. But her admission, its shaft of light in the gloom of her tough lady cop exterior, only served to drive him to want her more. He wondered then, as she looked away as the elevator's doors opened, if she'd surprised herself with her honesty.

"Can you tell me anything about Ms. May?" asked Powers as they stepped out onto the seventh floor.

Vance walked by her side, thinking there was really nothing he could say or at least admit knowing. What is it you really need to know, he thought, especially if Vic was in the right? Why should I tell you anything? It all sounds cut and dry to me. They glanced at each other, and he knew she saw his reservation. Powers shrugged then, and said:

"I'm just a; prying bleeding heart, I guess."

Vance smiled.

"I know nothing about her." Vance admitted, "I just know that Vic loves her. I've never known her to love anyone as much as she loves this Melody."

Powers looked away before Vance could see a sudden flush rise in her cheeks as unanticipated yet pleasant goose flesh rose along her neck and shoulders. I like his smile, Powers thought. I want this woman, thought Vance. Maybe I'll get a chance. Unhurriedly, they strode side by side through the corridor that led to the hospital's TTU, Transitional Trauma Unit. As they approached the nurse's station, staff seemed in a sort of agitated state; high pitched rapid fire call and response, hustling, flashes of scrubs and lab coats, a gaggle of staff crowding one particularly upset nurse. Both Vance and Powers noticed her cradling her right arm.

"Oh no." Vance said quietly.

"And if you ever come near me again, I will fucking rip some meat out the next time; you stupid fat ass bitch!

Powers herded Vance toward Victria's room.

"No, I will not fucking calm down!" she screamed.

Just as they prepared to enter the room, two large orderlies were exiting. Powers and Vance let them pass, and then went into the room. Peebles was leaning against the heating vents below the window, scratching the back of his neck and gazing at the drawings he'd gathered from the floor beside Victria's bed. Looking up, he noticed the detective, and then raised an eye brow upon seeing the young man she'd brought with her. Vance stared incredulously at his sister; her eyes two gleaming black jewels of hate, her face a molten eruption of fury, her slight body strapped securely to the bed. 

"Vance; Christ, where have you been?" she hissed.

"Well," he started slowly, "I had a lot of snow to shovel my car out of. And then-"

"Never mind! Vance, tell them I'm fucking nuts and I need to be wheeled up to the psych ward."

Peebles sighed heavily.

"We had to restrain her," he said; stepping closer to the foot of Victria's bed, "She chose to give the nurse that tried to sedate her a good chomp on her arm. Once we got her wrapped up, we were able to successfully inject her. However, it hasn't taken effect yet. She's fighting it; obviously."

"Have you seen Melody?" asked Victria, staring pleadingly into her brother's eyes.

Vance nodded.

"She's fine." He answered; turning away from her gaze, "I mean; she's safe where she is. Vic; she's totally non-responsive. She's going to need some serious treatment and counseling. And you; your legs: how bad is it?"

Victria quickly glanced at the detective, and then at Peebles.

"I'm fine." She said; looking back at her brother, "I'll be walking perfectly fine in two months; three months tops."

In the silence that followed, Victria watched her visitor's discomfort; their eyes flit or stare in any direction but hers, their positions shifting. Powers went to the chair, and then proceeded to pull it to Victria's left bedside. The detective then gestured to Vance. Taking the invitation, he crossed round the bed, and then took a seat by his sister. Victria looked down, suddenly shame faced as Powers and the psychologist stepped out of the room.

"Does Mom know?" she asked.

"I told her; yes." He answered, "But she's wicked snowed in at the house in upstate. I texted her again this morning; told her you're okay, but I'm not sure she got it. You know how Mom is with tech." 

Victria met her brother's gaze, and seemed to be looking at him as if he'd just suddenly appeared in the blue chair.

"Dude," she said; brow furrowed, head tilted, "What's the deal with the doctor get up?"

"Top secret ops." He said; smiling slightly.

"Huh?"

Vance was about to explain, but the room's phone rang. Quickly, he got to his feet and picked it up.




The Brand Ch. 12



9

Reluctant to come fully awake, Victria dawdled her way between her subconscious mind and the provocation of her senses. Warm, cozy, her heart beating a lazy rhythm and her lungs filling with the fragrant beckoning of fresh air, Victria luxuriated in her stupor. She felt in motion too; a sensation of torpid rocking, advancing ever forward and side to side. There was a sense, also, of someone close beside her. Victria smiled as she realized the warm breaths against her left cheek. Was it safe to come out? Was it okay to smile? Should she risk opening her eyes? Oh but it was so good there; cradled between the warm bosom of awareness and the lap of perfect oblivion.

Victria watched the slow parting of her eye lashes, like viewing the world from inside the mouths of two piranhas, their teeth modeled in murky shadow. Light came in, bayou blue syrup; bright and shimmering, as if looking into the surface of a pool. Then the blue turned to green, and there she was, her loyal slave: Melody; alert, focused, radiant like the sun. They were sitting together, knees touching. Victria realized that she had somehow dazed off in the middle of decorating Melody's golden brown hair; winding it inglorious loops around her crown and tucking it into brilliant leafy clusters of flowers. Her dutiful lover slave was the picture of utter perfection. Victria was instantly inspired; the feeling, the desire, to create, hot in her chest and along the line of her jaw. She needed a camera, paints and canvas, pastels, anything. Victria turned, and was suddenly struck dumb.

Crowded around her and Melody was a room full of people: patients, doctors, nurses and orderlies. They all waved. Timidly, she waved back; meeting the gaze of Dr. Peebles, the skinny blonde nurse with the big ass, Detective Powers and Dr. Gupta. She didn't know the others, but some of them certainly drew her attention: the small smiling man with the wiry tufts of hair behind his big ears and around the back of his otherwise bald head; the Buddha bellied old black woman with the white Barbi doll on her lap; and the young, long red haired, man with the scabs on his knuckles and elbows, picking at them in turn, one at a time. Victria looked quickly away.

"What do you say we get out of here Cowboy?" Victria said.

Melody nodded and smiled. Victria went to stand, but she was pulled right back down into her seat. Looking down at herself, Victria realized that both she and Melody were perfectly naked, and that they were linked by a gleaming silver chain, a length of three or so feet, which disappeared inside their chests. Victria watched her hand tentatively touch the spot between Melody's breasts where the chain entered. Then, slowly, she reached for her end, grabbed it, tugged, tugged harder, and then let go. Victria then turned quickly around again, to see if the crowd was still present. 

They were; and, upon their mutual transfixion, the crowd began to shout and hoot and applaud with delight. Next, they all began to undress, one and all; lab coats, scrubs, robes and pajamas flying. Victria stared in amused disbelief at Peebles chubby sausage of a penis, Powers' lovely breasts and slender hips, Gupta's small, square paunch and the skinny blonde nurse's disproportionately big white but. The Buddha black woman was still getting naked, requiring the assistance of the two big orderlies she'd recalled having restrained her the afternoon before. The scabby man stood by; pulling his scrotum up to cover his little dick while he sucked at a bleeding knuckle on his other hand. The smiling, loony eyed bald guy had no dick, at least not one that was visible because his belly came over it, like the character embossed on the Operation game board.

Victria looked on as they all danced and laughed. She then began to hear the pounding of tribal drums behind the naked undulating crowd of bodies. The great black woman remained seated, her belly jiggling, her breasts plunging then rising like bungee boobs, her head lolling at the top of her fat neck. The ceiling above peeled away to reveal bright blue sky. The bodies began to divide and pair up. Couples and trios pressed against each other, sweating with their effort, excreting the necessary slip for amorous friction. Then, as the crowd grew silent with their focused ecstasy, the drums grew louder. 

Victria crawled from her chair. Melody followed. They found an empty bed and hopped on. They too kissed for a time, a very long time; hands roving, mouths to breasts. Victria wanted badly to taste Melody's sex, but the silver chain seemed to have shortened. Still, there was the kissing, and Victria had longed for it, and therefore continued to indulge in each glorious new taste of Melody's luscious mouth. They glanced back at the moving, rocking mass of flesh around them. The bald man, eyes closed, chin up and drooling mouth agape, was doing Nurse Big Butt in her ass. Powers was getting eaten by Peebles and Gumpta was fucking the detective in her mouth. The scab man had found himself one of the big orderlies to suck his little pencil prick. The men moaned and grunted. The woman swooned, whimpered and howled. The calls of Exotic birds and the staccato chatter of little monkeys cut through the air. 

Victria looked again and saw a lush green forest growing out from the walls. Some of the coital couples turned to rough stone while great ropes of leafy vines wrapped themselves around the writhing bodies. Next, Victria watched the stretch of shining linoleum floor before them disintegrate into the smooth black glass of a jungle river while the bed beneath her and Melody shifted its shape, which caused a very unusual yet welcome feeling in her nethers, as it morphed into a great lily pad, its petals succulently soft, moist, firm and giving.

With excitement in their hearts and joyous smiles on their lips, Victria and Melody drove their arms into the black water, sending their great lily pad forward. The jungle spread out before them, tall and lush. The air was palpable with moisture and with the lovely calls of brightly plumed birds, long tailed monkeys and hidden myriad insects. Victria looked behind, and then ahead; nothing but jungle and river as far as she could see. So they traveled, meandered along and slowly wound their way up river.

It seemed to Victria that it was the peak of the day, the sun high in the sky, burning off the morning's moisture. It was then that she'd let their petaled vessel drift to a stretch of river bank; where she'd spotted a long, perhaps an inch and a half thick, length of fallen branch. Victria withdrew the pole from its place along the river bank, and then used it to push back off into the middle of the river. She and Melody laughed together like children as Victria tried to maintain some kind of footing on their floating flower. But, it was to no avail, and so Victria and Melody crawled around each other until the most optimal position for sitting comfortably and rowing was assumed. 

Victria sat crossed legged at the center rear of their lily pad while Melody lay beneath, her head cradled in the other's lap. As such, Victria rowed on, strong shoulders and arms pushing, raising the pole across the feathery bow of their vessel and then pushing their languid forward momentum from the other side. Meanwhile, Melody dozed, a content smile on her lips; opening her eyes with lazy intermittence to look up at her domme lover's breasts, the gleaming length of chain that dangled between them, the tall trees and the blue skies above them.

Victria saw no obstacles in the widening river before them. They glided freely along upon their green and pink petaled floating flower. Feeling a contentment, the likes of which she'd never known before, Victria leaned down to steal a kiss from her loyal love. Smiling, Melody raised her head and Victria pressed her lips against her slave's smooth forehead, to the bridge of her nose, to its tip and finally against her waiting lips. Victria's back arched, the pole held aloft in both fists, the position wasn't very comfortable at all. But, hungering, she let her mouth savor, remain there against Melody's; relishing their sweetness, their sensual truth.

Then came the sound, the barest, briefest, of ripples; just loud enough to pull Victria back to an alert state. She looked up and ahead to see that the river had swollen. Her breathing becoming rapid, the smell in the air had suddenly become rank and fêted. Melody noticed too and she sat up, horrified, to see that thousands of dead bodies were floating around them; river bloated skin peeled loose, jaundous white, their eyes cavernous black and their mouths filled with fat yellow tongues. 

Victria began to seethe with sheer rage and contempt. Rising to her knees, she gripped her pole firmly. The sky above was still a bright cloudless blue and the great birds continued to sing while the river swelled to near the tops of the tallest trees and the river below boiled with the ecstatic frenzy of thousands of hungry fish. Victria watched as one body, a woman, to starboard, sank slowly beneath the water, only to rise again, turning, her spine and pelvis exposed, eaten clean of flesh, while an frothing explosion of tiny fish ravaged what remained of her.

Then Victria saw them; Rancourt's charred body, then Duffy's and Ricchio's; surrounding their lily pad and trying to force it under. Effortlessly, Victria rammed the end of her pole into their charred faces, knocking them back into the churning water. Eventually, a silence settled over the river; broken only by the occasional gentle slap of their vessel against the current, the choked screams of drowning animals off in the distance or the easy rattle of the silver chain between hers and Melody's hearts. The river had ultimately become an open, calm, bright green sea. Melody had wrapped her arms securely around her domme's waist. Squinting, Victria scanned the water's surface around them. Nothing; nothing but bright blue skies and calm, gleaming, Jade Ocean. Victria watched, gazed, deliberated and ultimately dropped the frayed ends of her thought.

Suddenly, there came a great splash. Victria felt her pole being seized. Turning quickly, she looked down into the water and saw Simon staring back at her, the end of the pole held tightly within his grasp. She stared in horror. He was laughing, speaking; his words slurred with his shortened tongue, though his message came through loud and clear:

"You dumb little bitch." He chuckled; spewing, spitting his words like some cartoon voice over version of himself, "You just don't fucking get it; do you? Well then let me put it to you this way. Even the most ardent feminists have only the mercy of men to thank for the freedom to believe in their own bull shit! If it wasn't for men's morality, we'd be beating every single one of you into submission whenever we felt like it; bitch! Do you get it now big girl? Huh, do you get it now?"

Victria screamed with rage, her teeth clenched tight as she tried to work the pole from Simon's grip. But, there was no give at all. She heard Melody begin to sob, felt her grip her waist more firmly. Simon howled with laughter as he pulled Victria's pole deeper into the water. In the next instant, she was under. She tumbled, spun around her end of the length of weathered branch, not letting go, feeling Melody, and not feeling Melody. Where was Melody? Victria opened her eyes. Furiously, she stared into Simon's sneering face. They struggled for a time, her dominant hand still gripping the pole while she tried to force him away with the other. Then with a fluid curl of her body, she brought her legs up to kick him in his chest. With that, Simon let go of the pole. Recovering, he swam back toward Victria, but only just in time for her to ram the end of the pole into his open mouth.

Victria took a second to look up toward the surface. Corpses were still floating by. Parting, they revealed a glimpse of Melody, leaning out over the side of the lily pad, eyes wide, fretting, fingers to her mouth, flower petals from her bound hair falling upon the surface, starting to obscure the view of her face. An instant later, Victria had only the silver chain, their tether, to look upon. 

She knew it. Simon had her by her right leg. Something, someone, had her by the other. Victria kicked and paddled her hands; and sunk deeper and deeper still. She felt a new tightness in her chest. No; please. Her eyes went wide. She saw Melody once more. No; please. I'll be a good girl. I won't fight anymore. Please. But, it was too late. She heard the snap and crack of her sternum, felt the rapturous rupture in her core, and then watched as her heart burst from her chest; swaddled in sinew, broken veins and arteries, a smoldering cloud of reddening blue blood surrounding it as it hung from its silver chain. As her brain registered her final moment, Victria drifted down into the depths, gazing at Melody's hands reaching into the water and frantically pulling her lover's heart to the surface.

Victria burst into waking. It was twilight; the room model in dark shadow. The TTU was silent but for the occasional beep of monitoring equipment. She felt an unfamiliar warmth at the corners of her mouth and across her chin. Oh my God, I never drool. She brought the collar of her Johnny coat up to her mouth and wiped. Then there was the pain, what had likely woken her up, in her legs. Pain was a good sign, Gupta had told her. Pain was a sign of recovery. She reached forward and stroked down from her thighs. A sign of recovery, sure, but the pain felt different, its locus wider, the patches of numbness higher, above the knees. Shit! Fuck! Damn it! Is it time for another pill? 

Victria began to pat the mattress beyond her left leg. Thinking more, recalling, she looked to her immediate left. There had been the blue chair and Vance had been in it. Now no blue chair; no Vance. Where's Vance? Victria glanced toward the window, looked away, and then looked back again. It was dark. The chair had been moved back into the corner of the room by the window. Victria squinted. Vance? Someone was there, dressed as Vance had been dressed, sitting crossed legged, looking toward the window, head turning, wet eyes flashing.

"Geralynne?" whispered Victria.

"Hmm." Said the other, "It's me."

Victria closed her eyes again for a few seconds and sighed. Opening her eyes, clear and alert, the dawn suddenly brightened; putting Geralynne into clearer view. Her hair was longer than how she'd seen it last. Her face was gaunter then Victria had remembered, and there was a gleaming steel in her eyes. Victria wished Vance hadn't disappeared, though she was sure Geralynne had settled him, convinced him into going home. Yet, her situation, Geralynne's presence, for however long it would last, was inevitable, unavoidable. 

Victria was unprepared. She had had no time to think, to devote even the briefest deliberation over the prospect of her former friend's presence, to convey, to offer; to offer what? She was bankrupt of feeling for anyone more than who she'd been devoted to. She stared at Geralynne and thought about Yazmina at the Christmas party. Where had Christmas gone anyway? She thought back further, closer, nearing the lurid light of muzzle fire, masked faces, spraying blood, the gleam of gun metal, blood and her own naked skin. Jesus wept, that had been the night before Christmas. Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even one shot gun toting mother fucker.

"I always knew she was never mine." Said Geralynne, her voice possessing a soft quality Victria couldn't recall ever hearing before.

Victria closed her eyes again. It was true. Geralynne was smart enough to know better, but fell for the young Latina's lies anyway. But, maybe, she hadn't believed the lies. Maybe Geralynne had resigned herself to use Yazmina while being used for her opulence, sheltering the betraying young woman under the feathery shadow of her success, wealth and prestige.

"But," continued Geralynne, "I thought I could help her become a better person. That's what humanitarians are supposed to do; try to help others be more; human, have self-respect, respect for others, give up their sinful ways for righteousness."

Geralynne paused again. Oh please, you pompous, menopausal, hypocrite. Victria stared at her, her white lab coat whitening with the advance of dawn, the metal of her stethoscope gleaming dully before her chest, her grey face paling as with sickness. Sins, thought Victria. I'll just shut up for this one. What can I say? There's nothing I can say. This is for Geralynne; seeking some kind of comfort, seeking some kind of consolation, to maybe have a little funeral for two because her relationship, her domination of and scening with Yazmina will remain secret while Yazmina's mother, sisters and her extended network of cousins and neighbors cry and wail by her casket; some asking: Is that a wig? Why is she wearing a wig?

"I failed. Simply put; I failed. I was wrong. I was foolish and I will never endeavor to play such games again. And you?"

Geralynne slowly turned to face Victria. She seemed small to the hospital administrator; her body dwarfed, swaddled in the bed, her legs wrapped, straight and motionless. And me, Victria thought. Me what? Sure, I failed too. I was meant to. But it wasn't my fault that your control wasn't compelling enough to keep Yazz in line. My mistake was that I didn't anticipate that you'd head game my lover the way you did. So I got you back through Yazmina and between her part in the deception, her jealousy and my pushing her over the brink, created in her the hate I had coming to me. Submit to you? She didn't even love you enough to make it worth hating you.

"Well," Geralynne continued, "You'll get yours. Though, I suppose, you already have it. Don't you Victria? There you are, finally at the most comfortable point in your life, with power enough to shatter that glass ceiling, and then there's your love, just there for the taking, lost, helpless and impressionable, just waiting for you to grab her up and take home, your little stray kitten. And what is she now? And what are you now? Road kill, just like my sweet little pet Yazmina; damaged and destroyed. How truly fragile we are Victria, aren't we? Hmm? Yes, you've got your collared girl. I stopped to see her you know. It doesn't look good. She's damaged for life, I have to say. Such a pity. Such a lovely creature."

Geralynne smiled. Victria never took her eyes from her. 

"And you: crippled for life, maybe an amputee, your little reign over, your ticket to ride made forfeit. I hear those homeless people eat well at those soup kitchens. I can see it now: you and Melody, seated in a quiet, candle lit, table at the far end of the shelter, you feeding her; homeless soup, wiping her drool away, then wheeling her back out onto the streets, you collecting redeemable trash, filling a bag you've fastened to the back of her chair, killing time before they let you go back into the shelter for lights out."

Geralynne sighed, and then slowly rose to her feet.

"But, that's life Victria, right?" she said as she walked to the foot of the bed, "Easy come; easy go."

Geralynne paused, leveled a bemused yet disdainful gaze at Victria and clasped her hands at her waist. Victria stared back, a steady fire smoldering in her eyes.

"How about this?" continued Geralynne as she made her way closer to the closed door, "Once you get settled into your new; life, and you'd like to wash the street off yourself, just give me a ring. That way, you come over, wash up, you pay with well, you can put on a show for me; let me watch Melody fuck your stumps, maybe you can watch me fuck your little puppet in her ass with whatever I find around the apartment. Then I'll give you a couple bucks and you can go back on your merry way."




The Brand Ch. 12



Again, Geralynne paused, the playfulness gone in her eyes, no longer smiling as her hand reached the knob.

"Think about it cunt." She said, "I dare you."

With that, Geralynne slipped out the door, and then gently closed it behind her. Victria looked away, closed her eyes, shook her head and sighed. It's the eve of a fucking new year, she thought. I'm in the hospital and my lover is trapped inside herself alone in a psych ward, and I no longer have my job. This is some rock bottom shit. There you have it God; touché', fucking touché'. I haven't been this far down since; since I was fucking eight. So it's tread water; or drown; right? Fine God. Fucking a man; fucking A. 

10

Dean was taught how to use a computer at work, so when he'd finally bought his own, it didn't take much for him to start finding some decent porn. Martha got herself her own little laptop, with the money she'd earned at the waitressing job she'd been working at for the last two years. Life's monotony had acquired a razor's edge since Melody left. It sharpened the distance between her and Dean; their lives together now cut cleanly with silence, brushing past each other through hallways, in the kitchen, mute breakfasts and dinners, his taking over their bedroom and she moving into Melody's old room. Melody's old room: the room she'd vacated, having evacuated the house those few years ago; leaving it for Martha to keep praying that her daughter had found herself a peaceful, serene, place of her very own.

Dean had fished his dick out. He'd found some third wave feminist friendly lesbian porn. God, he loved lesbian porn. Initially, the notion of it, knowing his daughter herself had in inclination toward; you know, had guided him toward what he considered more appropriate images and films. So he'd started his new pastime by viewing a good deal of straight sex scenes; nightly strings of banging, oral and ass fucking. Dean became particularly fond of the ass fucking, the fine young girls taking it into their creamy white rumps, their hair and makeup all done nice, their eyes half closed as the man pulls his cock out, and then squirts his load all over her sweet little ass. 

Dean had gotten some quick hard owns then boy, and he'd taught himself how to edge too, pace himself, hold it off until his big Texas belt buckle rattled with his ejaculation. But, those scenes had started to get a little boring, and then there just got to be too many big cocks in the way of his looking at the pretty meat. He'd come across video one evening of a pretty, decently sized breasted young blonde thing on her knees, kneeling in the middle of four naked men. Dean watched her take each of them in, and then stared, fondling his cock, as she, as each of the men finally jerked themselves to squirting all over her face, against her breasts and into her nice blonde hair. 

He'd found himself thinking about that one at work, so he'd watched it again the next night. Then, the night after that, he happened to find a video of a man, a fairly lean and handsome young man, sucking off another. The sucking man didn't seem very pleased to be in the position to do the sucking and neither man had very much to say, especially the one doing the sucking, the same man who ended up, inevitably it seemed, having to turn around and, well, give himself; end up. 

Dean found himself staring at the other man's ramming his cock into the first man's ass, feeling his own hard cock in his hand, the door locked behind him, Martha off at work, his eyes scrutinizing that taboo intersect of man ass and man cock, his cock, he wished he could rewind to see the sucking again, his cock coming, spilling as the man in the video pulled his own cock out and sprayed the first man as far up as the back of his neck. The second man had finally spoke something, nothing Dean could hear as his own come seeped down his shaft, but he'd heard the man laugh. Dean had not edged for that one. 

The video ended. He regarded his spent, shrinking dick and sighed heavily. After that, he didn't want to see anymore cocks thrusting or balls bouncing. He just wanted girls, all kinds of girls. And those scenes had done him good in the beginning, but then he started to wonder whether his daughter's disappearance meant that she'd been succumbed into the porn industry. After all, a weak minded girl like her, she was a sucker for a promise. She'd left with nothing, maybe a little, but not enough to last beyond desperation. It wasn't that he wanted to see her there. Either totally desperate or working in porn. That would be damned sick, and Dean wasn't sick, as far as Dean knew. So he started to make sure, before he wiped his dick out, that none of the girls in the pictures or in the movies were his daughter. He wasn't a sick man. He knew where to draw the line.

Now, with cock in hand, he was taking in some responsible porn: produced and directed by ethically guided feminists and starring gender equal or trans gender, fair wage receiving, feminists, feminists with a penchant for vigorous pussy eating, pretty toe devouring, chick tranny dick sucking and ass munching: Dean's latest favorite spectacle. 

Dean stared intently as Sissy Blue slowly worked her fingers along the inside of the waist band of Lucy Juice's pink panties; when the phone suddenly rang. He didn't drop his cock so much as left it there, standing at attention, a blue cast from the PC screen making his polished smooth head gleam. Squinting at the name on the display, Dean turned down the computer's speakers, and then answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Good evening." Spoke the unfamiliar voice, "May I speak to Mr. or Mrs. May please. I apologize for calling so late-"

"This is Mr. May. Who is this?"

"Oh great. I'm Dr. Jeremy Peebles. I'm a psychologist here at Greater Hartford General, in Connecticut, and; your daughter Melody is currently under my care."

There occurred a pause. Over the silence, Dean reached for the button that shut down the screen and pressed it.

"Were you aware that your daughter has been living in Connecticut?"

"What's wrong with her?"

"Well, she's in a catatonic depression. It seems she's been caught up in a few situations: a robbery and a home invasion. She's not hurt. I mean, not in any physical way. It's just that; she's become very severely withdrawn and I really need to get some information and consent in order so that I can start an appropriate method of treatment."

"Treatment?"

Dean tucked his suddenly flaccid penis into his pants and zipped up.

"Yes; treatment: drug therapy or perhaps shock treatment. Melody is just about shut down: no movement, no speech, and no appetite. I'd like to help her sir, but I need your support. Can you fly here to Connecticut?"

"No."

The word and the silence that followed was like a small detonation and explosion for Peebles; certainly knowing such a response was possible, but so blinded by the light of the care he gave to caring, loving families that a twinge of pain still squeezed his objective heart.

"Okay? How about your wife? Will she be able-"

"Doctor, we ain't got no money for no damn flight to no damn Connecticut. Look; I'm sorry. You're telling' me she's alive and well?"

"Alive; yes. Well; she can survive this, with support. Mr. May-"

"Well Hell Doc; support her! I mean, you folks go to school and learn your shit. We're all in text books, ain't we? So take care of it Doc."

"Mr. May, I'm giving you the opportunity to help your child out of a very difficult situation."

"Doctor; Melody is no longer a child. She left here, her own young woman, over eighteen. Do what you need to do. Shit, go ahead: electro shock therapy her as! Maybe that'll get the gay out of her! She's a big girl Doc! She can man up. Wait. You telling' me she ain't got no support way out there north east?"

"Well; she was homeless, but, she has a friend."

"Oh well now she's got a friend. Well shit; there you go! How about that? We figured out how to help her, just you and me, right here over the phone. Sounds like she's got everything she needs right where she is."

Another pause. Dean's eyes darted around the room, narrow with fury as he turned the computer's screen back on, and then initiated shut down. God damn bleeding heart doctor, thought Dean, interrupt my good time. Fuck this. I'm goin' to get drunk. Stupid walkin', talkin' pussies; think they can do whatever the Hell they like. I swear to God: if my own mother wasn't one her own dang self, I'd-

"I see." He heard the doctor say over the line, "If I could perhaps call back another time and speak with Mrs. May?"

"Oh you don't need to trouble yourself with that sir. I'll take care of informing her of Melody's; condition."

Another silence ensued. Peebles closed his eyes as he listened to Mr. May's impatient breathing.

"Are we good Doc?"

Again, Peebles paused. He would fight another way. He would care for his patient.

"Yes Mr. May." He said, in his objective voice.

"Very well then. Good evening to you sir."

Peebles listened to Mr. May's setting his phone back into its cradle, and then set his own office phone down. He stared at his computer screen and the sparse data the hospital had on the young woman in his care. Her last visit to the hospital was facilitated by Ms. Charpentier; a series of tests, the customaries, all negative, and Melody's health recorded as optimal. All billing went to Charpentier's insurance. May was not a dependent, but an employee. So it was a working relationship, Peebles mused, a working relationship with; fringe benefits? 

The psychologist then scanned back up to the top of Melody's history, to the case note written by a Dr. Rosalyn Grant, in April of 2009, at Greely Regional Medical: White Female; 22: GSW, superficial, on the right outer thigh. Peebles closed his eyes while he rubbed his forehead. Three thousand miles is a long way to run from surviving. How curious the conversation was with Mr. Dean May of Bear Lake Colorado. Peebles suddenly took a deep breath, minimized the hospital's records portal, and then clicked his case management software open. 

From there, he opened his file on Melody, scrolled to the end of his case notes and proceeded to type an update. 12/27/14: Subject's male parent contacted, but refused to discuss his child's case or otherwise aid in her rehabilitation. He stated that this care provider was free to make treatment decisions on her behalf. This care provider will attempt to contact the subject's mother on a future occasion. Meanwhile, a low dosage of SSR will be prescribed. As for constructing a treatment plan, Benzodiazepines and ECT therapy will be considered as this provider collects more data on the subject. Methyl-D-aspartic acid antagonists may also enter as considerations. This care provider will consult with the group as to the viability of a treatment plan that involves repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation per the catatonia.

This provider will also further evaluate the suitability of the subject's partner as a level of support. The jewelry around the subject's neck remains a concern; its simultaneous extravagance and potential symbol as an implement of masochistic control. It seems the subject has limited options, the numerous barriers to her cure having been constructed externally, over the long term, as well as self-imposed, and perhaps exploited by the partner. .

Peebles read over the case note, saved it, and then closed the program. Locking the computer, the doctor wearily rose from his rolling office chair, took his coat from along its back, and then flung it over his shoulders. He gave the top of his desk one last look. His keys were still where he'd left them, just beyond his mouse pad. Peebles grabbed them, and then stuffed them into his pocket. He lingered for a moment, between his desk and his chair. He reached for the desk's middle drawer and pulled it open. 

Shining back up at him was the soft glow of Melody's platinum collar, the glimmer of its seven diamonds and the fact of his having borrowed one of the Surgical Unit's bone shears and having cut her free of the obviously expensive jewelry. Peebles had a good reason to remove it, a very good reason. He didn't know whether his patient would choke herself with it or if one of his other patients, God forbid, would try to take it from her, and perhaps kill her in the process. 

He thought Charpentier would understand. Wouldn't she? Surely, she would be reasonable when it came to the sanctity of her lover's body and the recovery of her mind. Could she argue with that? She might, Peebles thought. He would be ready. She would likely complain, once she was aware, of the choker's disappearance. It is expensive, after all. But, Peebles was curious to know, exactly how vehement Charpentier's protests would be. Slowly, the psychologist pushed the drawer back closed again. Withdrawing the keys from his pocket, he locked the drawer, sighed deeply, tucked the keys back into his pocket, and then left his office for the night.

11

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Here we go then."

Vance easily lifted his sister into the wheel chair he'd parked by the bed. Three weeks had rolled slowly by; three weeks of Victria managing her pain, drowsing and rousing in and out of sleep, working with physical therapy, the New Year rung in with patronizing praise, her wounds healing, working things through, talking matters out with Vance, connective tissue connecting but the lack of feeling in her lower legs still present. It was after those three weeks that Dr. Gupta cleared her to temporarily leave the TTU and Dr. Peebles to allow her to visit Melody in the hospital's closed Psych unit. 

Once seated, Victria quickly disengaged the break, and then briskly rolled herself out of the room, leaving Vance to run after her. He followed her down the corridor, passing the nurse's station, he shrugging at the befuddled staff behind the counter, and then barely catching the same elevator to the 11th floor. He'd gripped the handles of the chair and pleaded with her to let him wheel her into the solarium. Victria conceded. Once they were cleared to enter the unit, he rolled his sister to the spot where Patrice usually sat with Melody during meal time. Victria watched as the young grey haired, haggard looking girl tried to get Melody to eat some food. After a moment, Vance stepped back while his sister wheeled her chair over to join them. Patrice looked up and paused; a spoonful of soup held firmly in her grip.

"You must be; her friend." Said the weary eyed little old lady of a child, "Victria; right?"

"Right." She answered, gazing into Melody's blank eyes.

"I'm Patrice."

Victria glanced at her briefly. 

"Hi Patrice."

"Hi."

Patrice took a few mouthfuls of her own chicken soup, and then resumed trying to get Melody to take a spoonful. Melody was seated on a blue plastic chair, the contents of her food tray growing cold on the table by her side, her hands limp and open in her lap as she stared blankly into Victria's face.

"Can I, can I try?" asked Victria.

"Oh; sure honey!" said Patrice like some matronly little Jewish grandma happy to have some company, "Go ahead. She, she might take some from you."

Victria took the spoon. Patrice looked on curiously as she began to brush the palm of one hand nervously against the back of the other.

"Those, those was some really nice flowers you got for her." Said Patrice; smiling timidly, "You had, Miss Cassie bring 'em up for ya'; huh?"

Victria didn't answer immediately. She was focused, using one hand to help Melody keep her mouth open while letting a little broth trickle in.

"I did." She answered finally.

"Well hey, would you look at that!" said Patrice in an excited whisper, "Her throat is doing that up and down thing it does when you swallow. Say, that's great Miss Victria!"

"Yeah," answered Victria, "I guess it is."

She didn't smile as she savored the small victory nor had she smiled as she watched for herself as the muscles in Melody's throat rose and fell with the effort of swallowing her next mouthful, and then the one after that. Then she saw it or didn't see it; Melody's pretty pale neck, naked, bereft, orphaned and deprived, to the jugular notch. Victria flushed slightly, though her expression hadn't changed. 

"Patrice?" she said, "Would you mind doing me a favor?"

"Well; sure, I guess." The young girl answered; reservation in her voice, "Wutcha need?"

Victria met Patrice's worried gaze.

"Can you bring Melody's flowers to me?"

Patrice looked away, bringing the tips of the fingers of her right hand to the tiny shadow beneath her bottom lip.

"Well," she said, "I don't know if they'll let me, but I'll try."

The young girl rose slowly from her seat, glanced once more at Victria, and then set off on her mission. Standing by the solarium's exit, smiling at Patrice as she passed, stood Dr. Peebles, detective Powers and Vance. They looked on, spectators to Victria's and Melody's folly: in pain, in love; their lives deferred. 

Between Vance and Peebles, once Victria had been talked into remaining calm and open to his perspective, they'd explained together how deeply Melody had fallen into depression. Peebles had suggested that Melody may have been manic all along. He described her catatonia as symptomatic of something else; likely either some post-traumatic stress, bipolar disorder or manic depression. Whatever it was in her past that served as the initial trigger, and then had been re-triggered during the robbery and then during the home invasion, had now bound and gagged Melody's mind with the silken cocoon of her fear and was sucking the very life out of her like parasitic insect.

Melody, for most of the last three weeks, had been in a perpetual state of stupor, her gaze fixed, her face frozen in astonished mute indifference. For those three weeks, she had not moved of her own accord. Her anxiety became so extreme, she had lost the will to speak. But then, gradually, Melody had manifested other brief flashes of symptom that Dr. Peebles tried to feel encouraged by because he considered them as more extroversive: communicative. There were unusual movements of her arms and legs, her imitating another's words, her visible agitation and the expression of emotional pain from normal physical movement.

Alone with Melody, Victria began to reflect on those conversations with her brother and the hospital's psychologist as she stared deeply into her lover's limpid green, yet unsettlingly vacant, eyes. She sat there for a moment, searching, studying, and her eyes darting away and back again. Presently, she began to paw gently at the lifeless hands on Melody's lap. Then, her own hands shaking, Victria took one, held it tight for a time before finally bringing it to her face. She closed her eyes, cupped Melody's palm against her cheek, pressed her nose against the heel of her lover's hand, and then drew in a few slow, deep breaths. A moment more, a slight shake of her head, her lips parting to speak, her eyes fluttering open, Victria began to softly weep.

"Oh Mel, "she cried, "I'm so, so, sorry. I didn't mean for any of this. I, I was just playing around, like a stupid little kid, you know, like taking the chance, out of sheer foolishness, swallowing pennies just because the first one just went right down."

Victria paused to wipe the cry snot from her nose.

"So now God, the universe, and the alien race that planted us here, I don't know, whatever it is, it's fucking with me. It, it wants me to break, to stop my wicked, witchy ways, to let go, but I can't, I won't. It still hurts so badly. So it's done it. It's got you. I mean, it's like the amazing person that you are has been crumpled up into a little ball and tucked into some little crawl space inside the back of your brain somewhere. What the fuck is this, Mel? What the fuck!"




The Brand Ch. 12



Again Victria paused, wiped her face with her shirt, and then kissed Melody's palm.

"Well," she resumed, "I'm going to get you out. I swear; I'm going to take you back. You're mine Melody. I love you; here in the world, I love you, and I'm going to take you back, even if it kills me."

Vance, Powers and Dr. Peebles looked on as Victria began to sob. It was the detective that spotted Patrice re-entering the solarium, toting a basket of flowers. Powers tapped her shoulder. The young girl turned to see the woman beckon her closer. She mouthed the word "wait. Patrice turned to look toward Victria and Melody and stared for a moment. The girl turned then, understanding in her eyes, and then set the basket of flowers down by her side. The doctor's cell phone buzzed. He read the text, and then excused himself from the room. Vance moved closer to Powers, filling the space the doctor had left. Sadly, he regarded her. Looking back, her own expression tempered with concern, Cassie said: 

"Am I to assume that the good doctor Peebles deems it okay to let your sister just cry like that?"

Vance studied the handsome woman's eyes, sighed and then looked back toward his tortured sister.

"Well technically; she's not his patient." He said; folding his arms across his chest, "She's okay. Let her be. Believe me; she's fine. She needs it."

Again, Vance met the detective's gaze; her continued presence essentially against protocol, but quite welcome by both himself as well as Victria. 

"Trust me." He continued, "She needs it."

So Victria continued to weep as she held Melody's hand, fighting the drowsing effects of her pain meds, watching mind field explosions of image behind her closed eyes, kissing her lover's warm limp hand and breathing in the faint scent of lily nectar nestled in her palm. That had been more than an hour ago; before she finally dried her eyes, turned to see Patrice with the flowers, and then beckoned her to bring them over. The young girl had done so, and then dutifully removed the food trays, fetched the necessary combs, a brush, scissors and a hand mirror, and then assisted Victria in choosing the most perfect flowers. 

Patrice had helped turn Melody around, and then sat silently beside them and patiently observed as Victria went about decorating the other's hair. She combed her tresses out, cut each flower's stem to the desired length, bound Melody's golden brown locks back up again and anchored their coils with the choicest, most fragrant, blossoms. Patrice, smiling, had given Victria excited, brief, applause. Then, after she'd rearranged the contents of the basket, removed it and the tools, and, after she'd cleaned off any stray petal that remained on the table, Patrice returned to find that Victria had fallen fast asleep. 

She woke again, a matter of moments later, to see that she was still sitting knee to knee with Melody. A gentle hand touched her shoulder. Victria turned to see her brother's kind face.

"You okay Vic?" asked Vance; stepping around her left and then kneeling to face her, "Looks like you drifted off there for a bit."

"Oh I drifted off alright." She answered, her face flushed, still wiping the drool from her chin, "I can't stand these drugs. They knock me right out."

"Just let them take you."

"Later; I'll let them take me later. I want to just stay with her a little longer; kay?"

Vance paused, searched his sister's eyes, gave her a slight nod, rose to his feet, and then stepped away. Victria turned back to face Melody. She peered upward, admiring the halo she'd constructed for her lovely slave. A glimmer suddenly caught her eye, a subtle movement, a flash of green life. Victria met Melody's blank stare. She gazed, unblinking, waiting, hoping. No, she thought. It might have been there, but it's gone now. She let the gaze fall to Melody's naked throat. Closing her eyes, Victria drew a deep breath, imagined Peebles in doll form, coming together, her hands folding patches of dark cloth, sewing stitches, gluing; and then quickly opened her eyes again and released her breath.

"I stopped by your house this morning

." said Vance as he wheeled his sister toward the 11th floor elevators.

Victria had remained with Melody until Psych visiting hours were over. Vance had let her doze in and out as she held Melody's warm, lifeless, hands. Finally, when the announcement was made, she hadn't resisted nor had she the strength to do anything but let him guide the chair.

"Did you get my phone and the charger?" she asked, "And my tablet?"

"Yes Vic. I brought them up to your room while you were visiting."

"How about the clean up?"

They entered the elevator Vance had summoned.

"They did a great job, actually. I mean, you wouldn't know anything happened; I mean, other than the pellet pits in the floors and the bullet holes in the walls. I still don't believe it Vic: hand guns, really?"

"And if I hadn't had them, where the fuck would Melody and I be now? Don't give me shit Vance."

Vance looked away from his sister's scornful stare.

"Kay," he said, "Fine."

The elevator door opened. Vance wheeled Victria out, and then down the hall toward her room.

"Get a contractor in there to patch the walls and replace the flooring. I don't plan on us staying there long after we get out of here."

"Yes Vic."

"What's Mom's current status?"

"Still snowed in, but the phone works. You should give her a call."

"She's the one who should give me a call."

"Right Vic. She should give you a call."

"Stop patronizing me Vance."

"Sorry."

It was then their attention was drawn by the sounds of casual revelry; the staff gathered around the nurse's station, around the nurse that Victria had bitten. She was seated before a very delicious looking birthday cake while they quietly sang and waited for her to blow out its candles. Smiling, Vance stopped and joined in their song. Then, the blonde nurse blew out her twenty-six candles and the crowd applauded. Raising her smiling, flushed, face, the nurse caught sight of Victria, and then excused herself from the group.

"Hey Ms. Charpentier!" she said as she jogged from around the counter and then hunkered down by Victria's feet.

"Hey Tammy."

"Thank you oh so much for doing this for me!" said Tammy, brushing her thin hair back from her eyes, "You really didn't have to go through the trouble."

"Yes I did." Answered Victria, looking at the nurse squarely, "You've been totally great and I've been a complete shit. It was the least I could do."

"Well it was really very nice of you. The food was awesome. So; how was your visit with your friend?"

"It was fine." Said Victria; looking away, "I mean; it was okay."

Carefully, Nurse Tammy reached for Victria's hand, and then gave it a gentle squeeze.

"It'll be okay," said the nurse, "Really; it'll all be okay. You're recovering nicely. Pretty soon, you'll be able to focus all your attention on her, and then she'll be okay too."

Victria nodded, and then stared down at her lap.

"You guys want some cake?"

Victria shook her head.

"I'm fine." She said, "No thanks. Vance? Have some cake."

"Okay," he said, "I'll have some cake."

Victria wheeled herself into her room then, while her brother partook of a slice. Searching the drawers by her bed, she found her phone and immediately plugged it in. Next, Victria withdrew her tablet, but then thought better of it, and so stuffed it back into the bag. In doing so, she watched as a sealed envelope fell to the floor. Was it a copy of the police report, a bill from the bio-cleaners? Puzzled, she stared for a moment, until Vance's feet came into view just beyond the letter. She looked up to see that he was holding a particularly large slice of cake aloft. His expression warm yet pensive, he reached down, retrieved the envelope, and then handed it to his sister.

"What's this?" asked Victria, turning the letter over inhere hands.

"I found it under your Christmas tree." Vance answered between swallows of cake, "Dude, this is awesome cake. Sure you don't want some?"

"No." she said while reading the words "To Victria," written in a neat, feminine script on the address side of the envelope.

She peered up at Vance. Still enjoying his cake, Vance shrugged, and then turned to set his evening snack by the window. Returning to Victria, he put the brake on her chair, gently lifted her from it, and then placed her on the bed. Then, once he'd covered his sister up, Vance took his seat in the blue chair by the window. 

Victria tore the envelope open, unfolded the letter inside, and then proceeded to read it. Vance watched. At first, his sister's face was smooth stone. Then, half a moment more, tears began to race down her cheeks as she pursed her trembling lips. It couldn't be from anyone else but Melody. Cassie had pointed out the day she'd brought him to see the inside of the house; the condition, the damage, the blood, seeming gallons of it. Vance went to pick it up, saw the script, and understood instantly that it could only be a message of hope, from a woman who had nothing to give but the truth in her heart.

Still weeping, though her eyes alert, as if the emotion that fueled her tears was far too great to get her head around, Victria gently set the letter down upon her lap. She didn't look at her brother. Rather, Victria stared unblinkingly at the wall across from her.

"Thank you Vance." She whispered, "For everything."

Suddenly feeling quite full, he set his remaining cake on the ledge beside him. Solemnly, he regarded his sister as he wiped a napkin along his mouth. Why life must break people so, he asked himself. Why must life create broken children that have the hardest time keeping from growing up into broken people? Is it the same reason why stars are born only out of cosmic chaos?

"You're welcome Vic." He said while getting to his feet.

Victria settled her back against her pillows, and then closed her eyes, the letter still on her lap. Vance carried his trash to the pail set under the counter that flanked Victria's bed on its right. After that was the bathroom, which he used before heading back to his chair. Passing by his sister again, Vance saw that she had fallen asleep. He wanted to wipe her tears, but he decided against it. He too had grown quite tired, so he went to his blue chair and converted it to a blue chair bed. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangement, but it would do. That night was a night to stay nearby. Vance slipped off his shoes, took something to read from his small overnight bag, and then settled in. It wasn't long at all before the words on the page blurred into trails of fuzzy little black caterpillars. Seconds more and he'd laid the open book onto himself. Victria glanced over once, to see its gentle rise and fall on her brother's chest. Sighing, she wiped her tears away, and then read the letter again and again and again, until she too succumbed to sleep.

12

"Alright, alright; I'm coming, I'm coming!"

The man's voice echoed from behind the steel door, though it was still somewhat muted by the whine of fans around him. They listened to the jangle of keys as they waited outside, in a dank, low ceilinged, stretch of basement corridor; the smell of bleach, formalin and the vague hint of raw pork in the air. Suddenly, the door swung open. They moved back. The man, short, stocky and double chinned, was alert but red eyed, and seemed to expect them at first, but his look quickly transformed into something more like puzzlement and amused shock.

"You don't look like; funeral home guys." Said the man, somewhat pleasantly dismayed.

Standing before the morgue assistant, at either end of a gurney, topped with a large lustrous white plastic cover, stood two extremely tall, handsome women, dressed in formal black dress suits. The one at the tail end of the gurney was dark haired, and seemed to the assistant primarily of Irish descent. The other, the brunette, the one that had the paper work, was much prettier, though he knew she could likely kick his ass. Still, he thought, I'd take what I could get from that one. 

"Good morning." Said the brunette, "We represent Douglas's; the funeral home contracted to take the city's unclaimed deceased. We got the call to come pick up the latest, a John Doe."

"The big guy?"

"We weren't informed as to how big he was sir. We were told to come pick him up. Here's a copy of the requisition."

The brunette handed it to the morgue attendant. He took the neatly folded sheet, his gaze still searching the two very tall women's faces as he opened the document. He took the time to read it, shrugged, and then handed it back to the brunette, making sure to brush his fingers along the back of her hand. The brunette winced slightly as he beckoned them to follow him in.

"Yeah, so they rolled this one in at around three this morning." Said the assistant; walking backwards, switching his gaze from one to the other, "I couldn't fit him into one of the wall drawers, so I put him in our walk-in. Thank God the pathologist didn't need to have him cracked open. I'd a needed a wheel barrow to hold his guts while he did the exam."

The ladies followed the morgue attendant across the forty-five by forty-five foot space, cadaver drawers set in two rows along the east and west walls, guiding their gurney between two empty autopsy tables, a desk and a row of file cabinets. At the far wall were two more doors: the leftmost was open and well lit and full with shelves of medical equipment; the other, obviously the door to a walk-in refrigerator, was padlocked. He turned around to shrug at them again and smile, as if to acknowledge the ridiculousness of keeping a walk-in refrigerator full of the dead under lock and key. 

Once inside, they saw the bodies lined up against the walls, two deep. The chill immediately cooled their cheeks and the tips of their noses a rosy shade of pink. The funeral attendants saw their John Doe, a mountain of flesh parked against the back wall; naked, inert, large, pallid, bearded, mossy chest hair, death bloated face, penis and testicles, surrounded by other naked dead; men, women, gossamer white, yellow or flaky grey brown skinned. The two women advanced. The assistant stepped aside, not interested in helping or doing anything beyond what he was required to do for his four hundred and fifty-eight dollars a week.

The black haired attendant removed the gurney's cake cover lid, and then leaned it against the side of one of the other tables. The brunette sidled along Doe's table, toward his great head, as she worked on a pair of rubber gloves. The other put on her own pair of gloves and stepped to the body's great feet. On three, they heaved the body to their gurney. The morgue attendant looked on, leaning against the open door, his arms folded.

"Wait a minute." He yawned as he began to shuffle toward them, "May I see the requisition again?"

The brunette stepped around the table, fished through the inside of her coat, and then handed him the document. Again, he unfolded the paper and read as he positioned himself by the dead man's feet. There, he flipped the toe tag over, compared something in the document to what was written on the tag, and then left the room with the requisition. The two funeral attendants regarded each other before following the morgue assistant back out of the walk-in, their John Doe between them. Once out of the refrigerator, the two saw that the morgue attendant had taken a seat behind the desk and was typing at his computer terminal. Seconds later, he rose from his chair and began to whistle as he made his way to the brunette.

"You're good to go." Said the little man as he handed the document back to the tall woman, "So maybe I'll see you guys again sometime."

"Maybe." The brunette answered coolly as she tucked the requisition back into her coat.

13

"Vance!?! Wake up!"

"Huh? What?"

"Where's Victria?"

"She should be-"

Vance rubbed his eyes, and then looked a second time at the empty bed. Dr. Gupta was on the far side. Peebles was just coming out from the bathroom.

"Empty." He said, "No sign."

It was Cassie beside him as he rose from the chair bed.

"Did you check if Melody is still on the ward? Said Vance.

The detective regarded him, scowled, and then immediately left the room. Gupta followed her, wagging his head. Peebles turned to look at the empty bed. He and Vance saw it at the same time: a note, written in pencil on a sheet of printer paper. Peebles snatched it up, and began to read.

Hi Jeremy, 

Like I said: Freedom is a subtle kind of oppression. So what oppresses you? Hmm? You know what? Who cares? Your life is as fatal as anyone else's, and if you want to subvert people into believing that they're not okay until you retire and die, you go right on ahead. Me? I'll be my own book to judge. Taking my cover, pun intended, Melody's collar, was quite unethical of you and professionally irresponsible. Just because your "book" indicates to you that there is no healthful substance to our life style, doesn't give you the right to not consult me first before you destroyed my symbol of commitment to Melody. But, you just couldn't stop yourself, could you? You saw that little lock and it made you angry. Oh high and mighty self-righteous Jeremy is going to make everything better for Melody. You know nothing about us Jeremy, nothing.

Still, you're going to read this letter from a professional stand point, so anything I say will be construed or interpreted as a human being's cry for help. So, if I say this is not a suicide note, you won't believe me. Fuck you then; don't believe me. I have plenty to live for. I have Melody. I'm in love with a wonderful human being who is in love with me, and, in spite of the few mistakes I've made, and in spite of shitty people having done shitty things to us, we were in the middle of fortifying the greatest love I've ever felt. 

Because that's what people are free to do, right Jeremy: tear good hearts asunder just for the sake of watching them suffer. That's not me, no matter what you might read in your fucking text books. And, Melody will come out of her withdrawal from the world. She's strong. That's why the universe gave her to me. She's my reciprocal counter-part, my complimentary color, mine, Peebles; star crossed, predestined, fatefully, for better or for worse, in sick and in health, mine all mine and I hers 

So that's it. Extend my thanks to Dr. Gupta and his surgical team. For the record: Vance had nothing to do with our escape. Nor did Cassie; believe it or not. Yes, I could have just hired a good lawyer to release us from your clutches, and I could have sued your ass. But, considering my budget, I thought I'd take a little less conventional approach. As for Melody's rights, and my rights as her health proxy, you'll find a notarized documentation of her consent waiting for you on your desk. She's not the kind of person who'll do well with electro-shock therapy; because I fucking said so. We're not into that.

Later Dick,

V

Peebles quickly folded up the letter and tucked it into his front pocket. Vance had read enough for himself from his place behind the doctor's shoulder. Nurse Tammy came in, yawning, reporting her and the rest of staff's confusion as to how they could have fallen asleep so deeply. The same report came from the 11th floor. Cassie had determined that a meal had also been brought up the the psych ward. The occasion was Patrice's Name Day, a French, Roman Catholic tradition, in which one is celebrated because their name is that of the saint that happened to have been martyred on that day. Given Patrice's report, that two young women orderlies, had come into the room in the middle of the night, wrapped Melody up in her blankets before gently pickingher up and placing her into a big laundry cart, the detective did a google search and determined that Saint Patrice's Name Day was not January 15th, but March 17th.




The Brand Ch. 13



Justice, Faith and Power

"The pride of a free woman is the pride of a woman who feels herself to be the equal of a man. The pride of the slave girl is the pride of the girl who knows that no other woman is the equal of herself."

- John Norman

"It is easier to live through someone else than to complete yourself. The freedom to lead and plan your own life is frightening if you have never faced it before. It is frightening when a woman finally realizes that there is no answer to the question 'who am I' except the voice inside herself."

- Betty Friedan

*****

1

Inside Melody's mind, she was beaten, battered, bruised and soar. She was bound, ankles and wrists. Around her head was tied a soft scarf, perhaps silk, but sheer. The scarf was cool on her skin, but did not obscure her sight, at least not as much as she would have liked. Yet so it was, captivated by her memory, concepts altered, perceptions reversed and intentions denied by her own malicious little gremlin thoughts. Melody's scarf blindfold, she'd imagined into place as much as the own worst enemy of herself altered its quality to sheerness, the vail gone, the threat of truth laid out before her inner view.

Melody was set with her back against a sun baked wall of grit battered brown brick. The sky stretched out above her, cloudless and shimmering blue. She knew the Rocky Mountain peaks were somewhere behind, the high Colorado plains, around her and the wide horizons of Kansas and Nebraska ahead ever eastward. Melody also knew that the highway, in all its beneficent lack of cruelty and judgement, ran behind the wall at her back and flowed eastward beyond the barriers of chain link fencing that penned in the square of playground before her.

She could see them, little children, dangling from the jungle gym, climbing and hanging. They slid down the slides, palms and the backs of their bare legs squeaking against the steel, their faces devoid of youthful exuberance and their eyes glazed over. They sat in the swings, lazily dragging their little feet or kicking themselves into a slow spin on the roundabout. They were all waiting, toe headed, buzz cut and pig tailed, staring down into the grass, across the yard or through the empty off kilter squares of the fence. 

Melody too, was waiting. Or was it an extended postponement? No, it was an interruption, a suspension. Waiting for what, Melody? Waiting for what? What was the point of a blindfold if you could still see through it? The scarf fell away then, and with it, the children disappeared too. Then the light changed. The sky changed. The surface of an ocean crowded in like a big circus tent. Melody watched its rippling, churning current from her place against the brick wall. 

Under the dim, bruise purple aquarium light inside her head, Melody felt the obdurate steel around her ankles and wrists. Those, she didn't imagine away, since, thanks to her mistress, feeling fettered had become a comfort. But where she was inside her head, was another matter. Another day was dawning, and then there would be another high noon. And this time, this time she would be gone too. He'd done it on purpose, left her behind, just to make it all that much harder on her.

The playground before her had become little more than a former junk yard turned vacant lot, as if a tornado had pulled up the jungle gym and the slide and all the rest, and cleaned it of its worst, leaving little islands of grass and weeds, chunks of metal pipes and cement strewn all about. Then Melody saw her little dog, Spanky, sniffing the ground, finding a stick to chew. Smiling, Melody watched his approach, and then his heeling against the wall by her feet. You are my little big dog, she mused, and yes you are. Huh baby? Yes you are.

Then she noticed how she was dressed, blue gingham, and, as her skirt fluttered in the wind, Melody saw that upon her feet were her ruby red slippers. Her smile faded then. Her tears began to fall anew, cleaning a clear path through the dust and dried blood on her cheeks and lips. Melody shut her eyes tight. Presently, she felt the gentle pressure of a warm wet washcloth upon her face. Someone cared. Of course someone cared, silly. Open your eyes. I'm afraid. What's there to be afraid of? You'll probably imagine Victria here along with you, dressed just like you or like... Oh, don't think that. 

Melody saw the sudden gun flash, Victria's body naked in its light, the wicked witch's pointed black hat on her head, its wide black brim tilted forward. If I go back, she'll shoot me. No she won't! You're crazy! Of course I'm crazy. I don't want to leave here. He's going to come for me and finish me here, and that'll be that. It'll be better that way. Still, Melody wouldn't open her eyes. Still, the gentle hand wiped the blood and grime from her face. Maybe it's the old woman. I guess, maybe. Maybe it's the pretty tall one. She would certainly make the Good Witch's gown look much better. It could be I guess. Or, it could be him. Fine. Let's get this over with.

Melody's eyes snapped open, and there he was. But, he wasn't who she expected. Still, he, a very tall, lean, black man, dressed in a black tux and tails, a jeweled string tie around his neck and a stove pipe hat on his head, was no less startling. She knew he was of African descent, not because of his complexion, but because of the shape of his clean white toothy smile. Of course his face and hands were black, but rather they were the black of the night sky, of outer space, his eyes two distant twinkling stars. Melody looked down at his hands, the left holding the washcloth, soiled with her dirt and blood, the other holding a glass of what smelled like rum, hot rum, steeped in chili peppers. Melody stared at his hands and was sure that if he'd taken hold of her, she'd flow right into his fingers and disappear forever into oblivion. So are you my way out?

"You know, you really should go back now." He said, his voice smooth, somehow West Indian and coming from everywhere.

"Who, who are you? Melody asked.

The man, the figment, laughed, his bright smile broad and fathomless, as it shook the ground. Spanky started to bark. He got to his feet and tried to get his teeth on the hem of his pant leg, but the little dog couldn't find purchase because the man's body was apparently intangible to the dog's touch. 

"I'm your principal." Answered the man, "Your suspension is over. It's time for you to come back to school."

Melody suddenly felt the steel shackles loosen, and then drop from her wrists and ankles. She looked into his bright star eyes.

"Somehow," she said, "I don't believe you."

The tall man laughed again, this time more heartily. The ground quaked, and Melody fell at his feet. Spanky was bounced about, his feet scrambling.

"Very well then," the man continued, "Then I am the great and powerful Oz!"

Melody got back to her feet and brushed herself off.

"No," she said, "You're not him either. Oz was dressed in green. Are you, are you God?"

That time, the man didn't laugh. Melody began to nervously twirl her hair around her left index finger and stare into his nebulous face.

"Maybe." He said, his little star eyes gleaming light years away.

They were both silent for a time. Spanky began to sniff around and through the man's feet. Melody continued to twirl her hair, something she hadn't done since she was a child, as she watched the tall man drink his peppered rum.

"Why are you denying yourself the freedom of the world?" he asked her finally, "Why are you hiding here so deeply inside yourself?"

Melody looked away.

"If you were God, you'd know why." She answered.

The man hummed a small laugh, and made the earth tremble slightly under Melody's feet. Spanky sprang into another fit of anxious barking.

"I am God enough to know," he said, "Silly girl, why and why not."

Melody turned to face him again.

"I am Samedi, both the eternal spirit of sensuality and the lord of death." He continued as the washcloth disappeared from his left hand, "Through the flesh and out of the flesh. My duty is to guard the entrance into the ever after. It is here that I dance, when the whim takes me, to bar one's passage or to let them through."

"So you've come for me."

"I've come to send you back, to keep you out."

"Why?"

"Because your place is in the sensual world."

"I am no longer sure whether I am more afraid to live than I am to die."

"I am to persuade you of the latter. Wanting to remain here, near the gate, is wasteful. It is folly. The one you seek is gone. He will not take you here. He is long gone. No, if you want to pass by me, you need to join the living again in order for your desire to come true, if it is so your desire, to relinquish your flesh. You see Melody, my whispering song bird, you need to return to the love you fear. You need to free yourself in the world, from the bonds of love, before you and I should cross paths again."

Samedi side stepped away from her. With his retreat, the ground became a gleaming dance floor, smooth as glass. The man, the god, the trickster angel, tossed his glass of rum into the air, and with a snap of his fingers, the glass and its tumbling contents disappeared. In that instant, Melody began to hear the strains of Louie Armstrong's Coal Cart Blues. Samedi began to dance. Melody couldn't keep her toes from tapping to the beat. Samedi beckoned her close. She advanced. Spanky was too perplexed to bother to sniff at the new scene. He simply sat on his haunches and watched his mistress as she danced. Together, she and Samedi spun their arms, turned their hips and jumped to the old song's melodious progression. A smile had returned to Melody's face as she shucked and jived in unison with the spirit's steps. Gradually, she had lost herself to the music, the body in her mind becoming one with it. On and on she danced, the music filling her heart. Now, she positively brimmed. If she was any happier, she would... 

Melody stopped suddenly, and when she stopped, the music stopped. She looked for Samedi, but he was nowhere to be seen. Melody looked around. The gleaming wood floor was gone. The rugged earth had returned and she was once again surrounded by the fencing and the brick wall. She realized that Spanky was barking as he scurried around her ruby slippered feet. As she lowered herself to pet the dog, her eyes fell on the spot against the wall where she'd been standing, where her shackles had fallen and had been replaced by a large black rooster. His wattles, earlobes and comb were a bright blood red, and his hackle, tail and saddle feathers were sharp looking and shown like black chrome. His eyes, which stared at her unblinkingly, shown too, with the obdurate ebony of twin stones of polished onyx. In the wall behind him was a large hole and beyond the hole, Melody knew, was the world.

"I failed to mention," said Samedi from everywhere and nowhere, "I also protect the children and the very sick. I am their last best chance. I am your last best chance. Help me help you, child."

Melody looked away and pulled Spanky close.

"Very well then silly child." Said Samedi, "Be stubborn."

From the corner of her eye, Melody watched the big black rooster climb through the hole, and then watched the hole rebuild itself back to brick. With that, she restored her playground, the grass, the swings, the slide, the roundabout and the children. Spanky stared about himself and whimpered. Melody too surveyed her mental construct, her captivity, and then slowly rose to her feet. Her face was as glum and her eyes were as glazed as those of the children of her machination. Presently, she found herself an empty swing, sat down, and then slowly kicked herself into an easy tempo of aimless to and fro.

2

"What if I fail?"

"You won't fail."

"But what if I do Mistress?"

"Then your punishment will be the most heinously debauched experience you could possibly imagine."

Melody purred with laughter as she set her elbows on the edge of the table, and then perched her chin on the backs of her interlaced fingers. The act had sent the chain of her handcuffs to jangle. The sound, the sight of them, pleased her dome, though the pleasure was not visible in her face. Still, Melody knew it pleased her. 

"Oh dear Mistress," she said, the smile still dancing around her lips, "Do you mean to imply that this very evening's activities, as depraved as they are, will pale in the light of what future degradation you intend to subject me to?

Subject you to?" Victria intoned, looking up from her menu, flashing her slave a cool glance.

Melody's smile quickly faded. A flush rose in her cheeks. Was it fear? Was it shame? Then, in their relations, Victria knew it was the latter. 

"I beg your pardon, my empress." Continued Melody, regarding her domme with warmth and self-possession, "I meant to say that I will relish each and every new lovely indignity you so graciously command me to experience for the sake of our mutual pleasure." 

"That's better."

"May I look at the menu?"

"I will be ordering your food."

"I understand Mistress, and thank you. But may I look at the menu?"

"You may."

Victria handed it over, and then took a sip of her cocktail. She studied the subtle glimmer of her slave's handcuffs. The manacles and each link that connected them were a splendid sight to behold, not only in that their steel confined her precious slave's wrists, but because of the illumination of their table's low hung lighting fixture, reflected in each link of chain like bright flowers, glimmering buds surrounded by glowing purple, green and gold petals. She made a mental note to try to recreate the same effect in the studio back home. There was something so incredibly beautiful about Melody's golden skin and the gleam of polished steel, like her flesh and submission was a celebration, a gift she could give herself and indulge in the joy of unwrapping time and time again. 

Your father used to tell you that you wouldn't amount to anything." 

Melody looked up. Victria was staring, nothing in her eyes but anticipation, waiting in that cool, incendiary way of hers. She knew Melody would think the question had come out of the blue. That was fine. That was how it was supposed to seem. Victria still wanted to foster ever higher levels of psychological intimacy with Melody as much as the domme desired to maintain control over her slave. After all, dommes were human too. 

"You say it like you know for sure."

"No. I don't know. I only say it because culture and tradition are, well, like those manacles I put around your wrists. Only, those I can take off. Gender inequality, the mass subjugation of women, I'm sorry to say, may very well be a symptom of evolution, if you take stock in evolution I mean. Give an animal a big brain and it'll only use it to dominate, enslave or kill more efficiently."

Melody stared fixedly at her domme for a moment, and then looked down at her handcuffs. She laughed ironically, more like a sigh, and then began to stroke a thumb along the manacle around her left wrist.

"Did your mom think the same way," Victria continued, "before she'd even got together with him or had she allowed him to change her perspective?"

"Her perspective? Melody repeated, meeting Victria's gaze again.

"Perspective, philosophy, you know: feminism, in its third wave now?"

Melody laughed dryly. Then there was silence, and then more silence, the restaurant buzzing serenely around them. Victria had all night, all weekend, weeks, months, maybe years. Really? Years? Could I handle that, she thought to herself as their waiter approached their table. 

"Before I forget- Waiter. Be sure to bring the slut another glass of white wine please?"

The young man laughed nervously.

"Uh...sure? May I tell you about this evening's specials? We have-"

"Stop. No specials."

Victria turned the menu back around.

"I will start with the Antipasti Assortitti and she will have the Pane Cotto."

Victria paused. Still looking at the menu, she draped an arm along the back of her chair. The waiter finished writing, regarded Melody's smiling face and bound wrists. Then he cleared his throat and said:

"Yes, and for your entrees?"

"I will have the Costata Di Mailed E Salsiccia Con Figa and my dirty little whore will have the Capellini Della Massala."

Melody watched the young man wince slightly as he wrote the order. Oh come on, she thought. Lighten up big boy.

"Very good Ma'am."

The waiter tucked his pad away, took the menu from the table, regarded Melody and said:

"So I'll put this in and I'll bring you your wine, Ma'am. Anything else?"

"Slut? Is there something you want to confess to our server?"

The young man seemed suspended, still, robotic. Melody switched her gaze to Victria.

"Huh?" she said, "Oh yeah."

She reached inside the low scoop of her Brocade top and withdrew a folded up slip of paper. Melody opened it, read and then cleared her throat. Turning to the waiter, she said:

"This morning, I microwaved this nice green summer squash for about a minute, but I had to wash it really well first because it came all the way from like Chili, so I could masturbate with it. After I got off, and got it all good and juicy, I fried it up in an omelet. It was really good."

Melody beamed at the waiter. The waiter smiled back, his cheeks a vivid red as he backed away from their table. Victria watched him, her gaze still alert, still solemn.

"I'll have your appetizers out very soon." He said, and then he was gone.

There was silence for a moment. Melody crossed, uncrossed and crossed her legs again. She met Victria's eyes. They'd changed. Their look had softened. There was a faint smile. She was trying to hide it. Oh what secret joy is under that rough exterior? Suddenly, Melody let a snortful of laughter bubble free. It had spilled over. Melody covered her mouth, trying to calm herself back down. Victria was still trying to mute her smile. Melody laughed some more. Their waiter returned with her wine. Melody uncovered her mouth and beamed at the young man. The waiter sped away. Victria watched her slave take a sip of wine, and then gulp down another. A new fit of laughter came over Melody, but quickly trickled to nothing, until a new, comfortable silence settled between them.

"My mom," said Melody, looking off to her right, turning the stem of her glass, "My mom tried. She tried to try, to encourage me. We did the Girl Scout thing. She fed my reading, always helped me with my homework. But-:

Melody turned to face Victria. She could only imagine what stories her slave could tell. Would she tell? Would they be pathetic, horrific, profane? Victria found herself thinking of cages, scars, invisible hands pulling strings, God the man, Goddess the woman, Father Time and Mother Nature locked in coital embrace. Who got to be on top? She supposed it didn't matter, out there in the cosmos, where top and bottom had no meaning.

"Her failure was already there, "Melody continued, "I used to think it was me, her failure, but I stopped thinking that way because for her, then..."

Melody looked away.

He just squashed her. I was all she had to invest in, to enjoy."

Silence again. Melody saw a young woman come into view, holding two plates. Their waiter had replaced himself with a waitress. She was pretty, though with a forced smile. What? Service without a genuine smile! Melody let her have it, telling the waitress: 

"I like to spread apple butter on my tits and then lick them up clean. Yum yum."

"Enjoy." Said the waitress, trying not to laugh as she made her own retreat.

"My father," continued Melody, "Dean, the man who fertilized the propagation of me, just exploited whatever failure there was between him and Mom. And not because he knew it was there to exploit. He just hammered her like- It's like you said: A bad idea gone worse because it had support, bad family culture, generation after generation, I guess."




The Brand Ch. 13



They then ate in silence for a time, each admiring the pleasure in the other's face. They shared their meals. The flavors were glorious, their palettes caressed with vigorous and savory subtleties. The wine encouraged their tongues to taste truth as they spoke truth.

"Have you noticed that I don't attack your intelligence during our play?"

Melody swallowed a mouthful of food and nodded.

"I did, Mistress." She answered, "And you won't, ever."

Once again, they locked gazes. Victria suddenly realized the feeling of Melody's bare toes creeping under her left pant leg and caressing their way upward. Oh, she thought, so you claim to know me too. How much, how many words do two people, two lusting, intelligent, animals, really need to say when the truth shines every time they look into each other's eyes? Words, what were they really? Play things, means to an end. Truth, what was that really? Truth was final, factual, outcome. 

Words were the tools in the politics of relation. In humiliation, they could break down the lowliest slave, build her up from inside the great hole that had been dug for her or the hole she'd dug for herself, and then raise her to a queen. There should be another word for queen, Victria thought, because queen meant that there was a king walking ahead of her. Words, so what? Then I will be her king, sovereign of her heart. Oh listen to yourself, you fool. This is dangerous. Truth. Truth needed no words. Truth was the order born of chaos, the Goddess coupling, Mother Nature to Mother Nature, the equitable reciprocation of domination and submission, one complimenting the other for pleasure's sake, for love. 

Love, another word, a knife cutting to the chase, a bomb to diffuse or a snake hidden in an apple tree. Where else would a matching pair cultivate, foster, construct or forge love if not between the desire to humiliate and the other's taking the psychological hit, in the pause between the whip or the flat of one's hand and clean white skin, in the restless space between their swollen sexes or within the torturous distance between each hot, momentous, animal kiss?

Victria set her fork down, leaned in closer to her lover slave and said:

"My humiliation is an undertaking of nurturing, in my world, in the world I've constructed. You have fears I refuse to exploit, issues of self-esteem you came to me with, and other experiences you may never relate to me. I can address those fears with you upon your desire. I know you're very intelligent. But, you don't exactly agree with that. I understand. So then my desire is to break you down through the truth of your diligence, beauty and your loyalty, so that we can build you up into the greatest Melody anyone has ever known. Through your trust and consent, you will survive my admiration for you, find your freedom in it and be empowered."

Melody held her fork midair. It was loosely balanced, just short of dropping to the table as she stared, transfixed by her domme.

"If I don't fail." She said quietly, "I think I want to be a teacher."

Victria reached a hand across the table and took Melody's. Then, after a pause, she said:

"I said, you will not fail." 

By the time dinner had ended, Victria had commanded Melody to masturbate at the table. That, she did. Then she instructed her to go to the ladies room, where she was forbidden to urinate, remove the panties Victria had pissed in earlier that day and bring them back to the table. Melody did as she was told. Then she was told to use her underwear like a napkin, this she did, to the waiter's horror. Of course he came back. He wanted his tip. However, all he got was Melody's musked panties swirled on her emptied dessert dish like a crushed tartufo with the ice cream missing.

In the parking lot, as a reserved sextet of middle aged hetero couples passed, Victria pushed Melody, in full view, against the dumpster, pulled down the back of her loose pants, and then drove a probing finger into her ass. She had her edge on, and Melody was being a sporting little tramp. Pushing the envelope, Victria gave Melody more instructions. Hand in hand, they left the restaurant's lot and walked to a busy corner. There, just as a flock of teenagers and assorted other persons prepared to cross, Melody shook her partially exposed ass to the street and proceeded to pole dance around the traffic light control box.

"I am a dirty little fucking whore!" she screamed.

There were hoots and hollers, jeers and applause. Victria was impressed, very impressed. She hadn't even told her to add a spoken piece to her display. Melody, her skin flushed with abandon, her hoochie just out of plain sight, ran to her domme.

"Mistress!" she whimpered and laughed, "I really have to pee!"

Victria frowned, looked up the street, and then down. Again, she took Melody by the hand. Briskly, they made their way through the crowded street until they arrived before a movie theatre. The line was out the door. They got in it. It wasn't moving. More couples got in line behind them. Victria got into a discussion with another couple about how Angelina and Brad were two very forward thinking parents. The couple disagreed, so vehemently that the male counterpart, a short thin man with an 80's hair style, had no awareness that Melody had piddled onto the toes of his shoes.

"Mistress?: panted Melody after they'd scrammed from the line and were just a dozen or so yards from where they'd parked, "I'm exhausted. I don't think I can go dancing."

"Really? Then get on your knees and lick my boots."

"Yes Mistress."

So Melody did, dropping quickly to the dirty pavement, scattering kisses all over the fine leather of her domme's boots. Once she rose again, Victria spanked her a good swat. Melody cried playfully. Again and again Victria spanked her slave as people passed and Melody giggled with joyous pain, and cried and looked into the eyes of every stranger that dared to look back. 

Once inside the great pink Lexus, Victria threw a rubber mat onto the passenger seat. Melody scooted in and got as close to her domme as she could. Victria then took out two bottles of water and handed one to her slave. Together they drank as the car warmed up. Melody cuddled closer to her lover, risking rebuke. But, no demand for space was made. Melody sighed. Between sips, her domme kissed her gently on the forehead. They remained that way the entire ride home, slave nestled in her domme's bosom, wine addled, contented and thoroughly aroused by the foreplay that had been their evening's truth and dare.

Arriving home, Melody begged immediately for her domme's touch. But, with a shake of her head and a gesture of her hand, Victria indicated that she should wait by the door, on her knees. Dutifully, Melody lowered herself to the position. Patiently, she watched as her domme took the long way into the kitchen, stopping in the living room to turn on Melody's slow swing play list. 

She returned a few moments later with two flutes of wine. Handing her one, Victria gestured that Melody take a sip. She took two. Taking back her glass, Victria walked to the foot of the ascending stairs, and then set Melody's glass down. After taking another good draft herself, Victria set her own glass down, and then walked back to her slave. Melody watched as her domme withdrew her ring of keys from a pocket. Once gestured to do so, the slave raised her manacled wrists. 

Victria unlocked the cuffs and brought them back with her to the steps. From her seat, she studied her slave, kneeling, handsome in her soiled clothes, flushed cheeks, fiery green eyes and lovely, long golden brown hair.

"You may undress."

Melody removed her garments with the grace and decorum of a practice slave, one who knew her mistress well. She did not remove her clothing as if it was stained and soiled, but as if decorated and lavishly painted. She slowly slipped her slender feet from her shoes, smoothed the Brocade top from her torso and arms and the urine saturated slacks from her legs, playfully swaying to the music and never once taking her gaze from her domme. When the spectacle was over, Melody returned to her knees, put her palms on her thighs, and then waited for her next command.

Victria had looked away, only long enough to take another draft of her wine. Then, she resumed inspecting her slave, now naked, her slender neck, the white gold slope of her shoulders, the gentle swell of her breasts, her gold cast pink nipples and the golden brown shadow nestled inside her thighs. I will find her a nice collar, she thought. Victria closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, as if her nose and mouth were already where she intended them to be. Then, opening them again, she said:

"Come and remove my boots Girl."

The slave rose. Understanding, she kneeled again, this time at her domme's feet, and then removed her boots. Noticing the scuff of her lips upon them, Melody smiled. Victria gave Melody back her wine. They drank together. They watched each other until Victria finally rose and Melody followed. Bottom followed top up the stairs, across the hall, into the master bedroom, and then into its bath. Melody was directed to kneel in the tub. She did. There, she waited and she watched. 

She studied her domme remove her own clothes, standing like a man, her gestures and manipulation, straight and stiff like a man, though she was otherwise no less visibly feminine, a rousingly feminine, than Melody. Three nights earlier, they'd negotiated the program of activities for that evening. Melody suggested that Victria purchase a strap- on for the occasion. Victria scoffed.

"Why?" she asked with her usual gravity. 

"Because it suits you." Explained Melody between kisses.

"It suits me?" Victria repeated, "It is profane, anything that is even remotely constructed to look like a penis is a vulgarity, an abomination."

Melody smiled playfully.

"Oh my Mistress, what religiously militant fervor, what zealous feminist orthodoxy!"

"No, Seriously. It goes against nature herself. There is no fluidity to the thing, until something comes out, and even then, it spills out, spatters, splatters. No, it is a bastardized, deformed answer to the clitoris. Men: they should be harnessed like so many cattle, to those utter sucking machines, so that the stuff can get pasteurized and homogenized, so that women can choose from a variety of grade of baby sprouting stimulant from a grocery shelf, like whole milk, one percent or skim."

"Oh Victria." Said Melody, laughing, "But there is a man in you, a potential masculine counter identity in all of us, the tiny hormonal tickle of testosterone we women share. But you, your man is much bigger than mine, and, because it's you who'd be wearing it, yes I consent to your giving it to me. Hell, I might even suck it."

Victria drew back.

"That will absolutely not be happening. "She insisted, "I mean it." I will not pay good money for, and then affix to my body, a facsimile of the genetic mutation of singular feminine perfection."

"But without them and their spooge, there would be no babies."

"Sure, that's how things are done now, but that's changing as we speak. Hello: frozen eggs; add water, makes its own baby? Anyway, for all you know: long before recorded time, women were likely begetting women or hermaphridizing or something like that. In fact, I think there's a scientific term for it because it still occurs in nature."

"Oh now that's just plain crazy."

Crazy nothing. Melody, why do human males have nipples? They have them because they are vestigial, remnants, symbols of their misfortune for having genetically devolved from their initial, prototypical feminine construct, deformed, doomed to masculinization by way of mutation. They possess no aesthetic, no elegance. The vulva is symmetrical. Breasts gently sway and bounce. The Penis dangles and jumps like some rubbery fishing lure out of water. How does it not look like an afterthought, a punch line just asking for a joke?"

Melody sat up and perched on her domme's lap. Brow furrowed and frowning slightly, she scanned the stretch of bare wall above the headboard. Seconds later, she looked back down at Victria, shrugged and said

"Right. Well. It all makes perfect sense to me now, I think. Okay then. So it'll be your fingers and a fresh summer squash. Oh! And that glass thing you took out of the kitchen drawer that time. Where is that anyway?"

"You washed it after I pulled it out of your ass, and then put it back in the kitchen drawer."

"Oh! Yeah, right."

Their wine glasses empty, Victria set them along the back of the bathroom's sink. She too then freed from her clothes, stepped into the tub. The night's program was in full swing. Victria positioned herself before her adoring slave, legs spread and knees bent. Melody's knees were between her domme's feet, her face oriented nose to sex. She reached gentle fingers to part the curtains of her domme's vulva. 

Inwardly, Melody smiled. She was imagining that Victria's lovely sex was a little stage, her own fingers the golden ropes that held the sacred red drapery open for the one woman show to start. There she was, the queen of the stage, her smooth red round face, her gleaming crown and her flowing pink robes. Then, after planting a soft kiss against her domme's shining red bud of electric potential, Melody saw the masks of comedy and tragedy inside her head as she opened her mouth and brought it in close. 

Out came the rush of Victria's sterile stream, drenching her slave's lovely golden brown hair, spraying across her sweet face and pouring into her hungry mouth. Victria rained on her like a monsoon, hot and hard, washing. Melody drank, savored her salt. No harm, just sex, just sex, wickedly dirty, clean, consensual degradation. As such, Victria reigned over her slave, a torrent, to cascade, to gentle stream. Melody ran her fingers through her wet hair, along her wet face and against her dripping breasts. She smiled, eyes closed. Then she opened them, the shower over, her domme's clitoris risen to attention. Melody devoured her deeply, open mouth to swollen nether lips and crowning pink flesh. 

Slowly, she moved her hands away, brought them to Victria's hips and held them tight. So she dined, her second dessert of the evening. Melody recalled having left her panties on her plate for the waiter to take away. Where were they now? In the trash? In his pocket? Had the other, the waitress, taken them from him, from the trash? Had she sniffed them? Would she drink from them, lick them, rush home after work and masturbate with them? How dare you taste my mistress's succulence? How dare you. She is mine, mine, all mine.

"Mistress? Me now? You said. You promised. Yes?"

Victria nodded. Melody got to her feet. It had not been easy for the domme to give consent during their negotiations. The discussion had conjured reflections of that day long ago, sly green eyes staring down at her through the spaces of the steel cage's roof, and then the ultimate humiliation. How Victria had nurtured her contempt after that, letting the fire of it grow in her heart until the inferno worked inside her, feeling a just out of sync sort of Siamese consciousness that ignited her sexuality, her identity and forged the steel of her ambition.

There, as she knelt at her slave's feet, bottoming for the first time ever, Victria watched Simon die: skull crushed, brain smashed, his body lurching, legs kicking with pants around his ankles, erection spewing. He was gone. She opened her eyes. She felt Melody's finger tips against her chin, smelled the lovely musk of her sex before her. The domme stared into her slave's eyes. Those eyes spoke, revealed more truth and beauty than she would ever could have imagined. She's softened me, Victria thought. Love has softened me. This is it. Love makes you a child. Of course I would give myself like this for you. I would give anything. 

"Mistress? If you really don't want me to-"

"No." said Victria, shaking her head, "I gave my consent."

Then she brought her forehead to her slave's sex and remained there for a moment, as if she'd just completed a pilgrimage, miles and miles behind her, Melody's sex a martyr's blood relic, her body the great stone at Mecca or the Wailing Wall of old Jerusalem. Easing back again, Victria opened her eyes to see and her mouth to drink. Suddenly it came, a flood of anointing, a hot blessing upon her face as she gulped mouthfuls of sustaining disgrace, the salt taste of redemption on the roof of her mouth and the slake of absolution going down her throat. It was a start. It would never ever be truly extinguished, Victria thought, but it was a start.

Shortly after, they washed each other with gentle thoroughness. They ordained each other with kisses. They were inseparable. It had been how they'd dried themselves after stepping out of the shower: they had simply dripped dried, kiss after kiss after kiss, running their fingers through one another's hair. Still embraced, they wandered to their bed. There, slave returned as bottom and domme was restored as top. 

Victria threw Melody onto the bed. Melody turned onto her belly, raised her ass and spread her legs. The domme took her cat from the night stand. Her strokes were gentle at first as she beat a slow slap rhythm against her slave's ass cheeks, left, then right, left, then right. Gradually, the domme increased her force and finessed her wrist. Presently, her slave began to whine with pleasure. Victria watched the quaking of her slave's buttocks and the broadening puddle beneath her sex. Abruptly, the domme flung the cat away, flipped her slave over, and then climbed upon her.

"I want to be your collared girl Mistress." Melody confessed, crying her words into Victria's mouth, "I want to fetch your Sunday paper with my teeth, crawl up on the bed with you and munch your ass while you read. Oh my empress, my hard, sweet, queen."

The collar, the collaring, yes, they'd discussed it. It had come up once or twice, always after Melody had finished one or another of the selections she'd taken from the living room book shelves. Such a good student, Victria thought. And how silly. How sweet. The domme smiled a small smile of satisfaction. How so divine you are in your obedience. In tune, they merged into each other, sliding each other's sex until they were kissing clitoris to clitoris. Again, kiss after kiss, breathing hot breath into each other's mouths, Victria ground herself into Melody. Hotter and hotter they burned together, the soft sand paper sound of their fractious pubises' gone unheard, their minds full of each other, their speeding breaths deafening in their ears.

3

Spring had come to the valley, brightening their little corner of Grandmother's woods. Victria's eyes fluttered open, reflection having disrupted the inner silence necessary for meditation. Was it so bad, she thought, to remember the good? She looked upon the trail, the trees and shrubbery that flanked it and the sky that shown a cloudless blue above it all. Might as well get on with my exercise. It's not like there's anything else to fucking do around here anyway. 

Gingerly, Victria encouraged her crossed legs apart. She was still tingling from the knees down, and most days, she could swear she was feeling alternating layers of numbness and feeling, which she would only accept as a good sign. Victria looked up. There was a sudden sound, a bounding through the underbrush. Melody's little companion, the black and leopard patterned puppy, his legs a little longer, his back and head now much broader, came tumbling onto the trail, the end of a six foot length of broken tree branch in his teeth. 

Dumb ass, thought Victria as she shook her head. She watched the little dog carry the long limb with ease toward Melody, whom she'd parked along the right side of their stretch of trail. Summarily, the stout little dog plopped down at the foot of Melody's motorized chair, and then commence to chewing bits of wood from his prize. Victria had dubbed him Spanky, even though she was far more partial to Dumb Ass. She believed the designation was endearing enough. But, Victria knew Melody would like Spanky instead, so that's what she'd trained him to respond to. The other dogs would usually join them for the hike up the trail, but always turned back or bounded into the woods while Spanky stayed close to Melody. 




The Brand Ch. 13



His love or loyalty, whatever it was, was odd certainly, considering that Melody was unable to respond with any play, petting or even the simplest smile. The little dog's behavior did inspire a small twinge of jealousy in Victria, but the consolation was that Spanky, though he didn't appear to like her, responded immediately to her commands, at least most of the time anyway. . 

Victria reached for her crutches, set one by her side, and then carefully manipulated the other in order to best support her way back to standing. When she'd left the hospital with Melody, that early morning of January 15th, she'd believed that she was on her way to recovery. She had advanced with her PT's help, all be it in small increments. If Victria had remained at the hospital, the sound wave and laser therapies that would have been provided there would have brought substantial heat into her connective tissue. Which, would have likely put her further along her rehabilitation than she currently was. But, Victria had made a choice. She'd chosen freedom over specialized care, had chosen risk and potential harm over passivity. But, that was just how she rolled. And now Melody, stunned senseless, lost inside herself, was her silent captive audience of one.

Yet, on that pleasant day in mid-April, the world around her budding anew, though she felt she had made significant progress, Victria still depended on the support of her crutches to get around. She hauled herself to the other side of the trail. A month earlier, Victria had discovered a particularly low branched tree, with a particularly horizontal branch that was just right for doing chin-ups, and had been working out with it ever since. Once directly beneath the branch, she dropped one crutch, grabbed hold of the branch, and then dropped the other. If working out my lower body was going to be slow going, she thought, then I'll jack up the rest of me. Healing wouldn't happen if blood wasn't flowing, feeding my extremities. 

Unlike muscle, skin and bone, connective tissue, tendons and ligaments, took the longest to heal because they got the least blood flow due to their structure and location. She wasn't a fool, not totally. She knew exactly what her physical therapist's plan was, and she'd kept it up once she'd settled into Grandmother's. The only way to encourage blood flow, other than Glory's herbal medications and Grandmother's strictly vegetarian meals, had been to do specific exercises that would target the connective tissue that had been shredded by the big Arian's buck shot and then sown back together by Dr. Gupta. The exercises the hospital's PT had shown Victria were her best chance at regaining movement by strengthening targeted muscles and addressing any muscular imbalances that resulted from the damage and its ultimate repair. 

First, she needed weeks of rest. So that's what she did, as incredibly annoying as it was to just lay there, day in and day out for nearly two months, doing her ankle rotations, buttock and thigh contractions and leg lifts while she read whatever Glory brought her. Then, as the days warmed and the snow melted, Victria was still unable to bring her knees to her chest. The pain had lessened substantially and most of her feeling had returned. But, her lower legs seemed to have an extremely slow witted mind of their own. 

The last thing Victria wanted to feel as she slowly made her way back to full sensation in her legs was frustration. So to combat that feeling, she needed to feel some success. Which, was why she'd exploited the particular tree and its low horizontal branch. She'd done five repetitions the first time. That had been four weeks ago. Now she was doing ten sets of twenty and could lift her own body weight up and over her branch like a gymnast. The only hard part was making sure she didn't ram her heels into the ground when she came back down again. 

She watched her fingers grip the branch tight, palms facing her torso, lower back curved, chest out: blood to the latissimus dorsa, the biceps, the fore arms and to the middle back. No pain, no gain. No blood, no healing: ten down, twenty down, thirty down, then once around the branch, spinning, focused, watchful, the world upside down, legs swinging, and then right again. Victria felt the burn, the exertion, and heard the blood pulse inside her neck, her heart beating in her chest, it was life, living, thriving, alive. Next time, she thought, I'll try the chin-ups out with a back pack half full with some of Glory's books.

She'd then done three more repetitions of ten and another spin, then another and another, her feet getting dangerously close to the crags and ruts in the ground below. Let's not push our luck Sunshine. Victria committed to another three sets of ten, then another three, avoiding doing anymore rolls for that session. Carefully, she lowered herself back to her feet and hung there, taking in the bright sky, the greening brush, the bright reds and purples of wild flowers, little Dumb Ass gnawing on the end of his huge branch and at Melody: mute, staring, inert.

Victria gazed at her love for a time, trying to will Melody to turn her head and look her way. She'd reacted to things, hands touching, and whispers in her ear, fits and starts of random motion, life shining dully from her eyes, but still always staring straight ahead. How can she do that, Victria asked herself. She doesn't even blink, for Christ's sake. Victria turned away finally, casting her sight to the closest of her crutches. Inside her head, she counted, one, two, and three. Loosely, she dropped, making sure to roll into a sort of push up position in order to minimize the impact on her lower legs. That done, Victria dragged the closest crutch to her, and then pulled the next one nearer. Setting the foot of the first firmly into the ground and then bracing herself, Victria carefully got back up to her feet.

Fitting the other crutch into her armpit, Victria briskly crossed the trail. She arrived at Melody's side and proceeded to gently run her fingers through her lover's long unwashed hair. She peered down at the dog, Melody's little Spanky, still chewing away, encouraging the growth of his teeth or easing it, for all she knew. A sudden breeze passed through the valley, sending the new brush to rustle and still waking tree limbs to sway and creak. Victria turned back to look at Melody, at her own hand gently forcing her face to gaze upward. They stared for a time: Victria's eyes studying, penetrating; Melody's vacant, gleaming green yet dull, utterly detached, and unmoored from the inside. Where the hell are you Mel, Victria asked herself. For a moment longer, she stared. Then, seeming out of nowhere, with a rush of wild fury, spit flying from her lips, Victria screamed into Melody's dim, placid face:

"What the fuck Melody! Would you fucking snap out of it already? What the fuck! What the fuck! What the fuck!"

Her echo was drowned out by Spanky's own sudden uproar, his hackles up, a fitful maddened barking and prancing around Victria's feet. Melody stared, motionless, an angry fist still clutching her hair, unfazed but for a single small tear welling in her left eye. Victria gently released her grip, shut her eyes tight and grit her teeth. Spanky, her little Dumb Ass, was still barking at her, yipping, growling and uttering short high pitched little howls of concern. 

Why did this all happen? Because you're a stupid fucking bitch, Victria told herself, because you're a stupid, selfish, fucking bitch, that's why, Asshole. Opening her eyes again, she stared down at the dog. Early in their acquaintanceship, she'd looked his breed up on her tablet. Victria had assumed he was likely half Rotty, considering his thick thoracic musculature and broad head. But, it was the rest of Spanky, his small stature and his leopard spotted back, that identified him as a Louisiana Catahoula Leopard: intelligent, agile, energetic, assertive yet obedient and very good with children. 

Menacingly she stared in his face. The dog looked away, but continued barking. Victria dropped one of her crutches, and then carefully leaned down to pick up the dog's big chew toy. Then, with all the upper body strength she'd worked for, and with the anger, self-loathing and resentment that had infused with the blood that pumped through her veins, Victria threw the branch with all her might and said:

"Go fuck yourself dog!"

A slave to his own desires, Spanky chased after it, dragged the great branch back, plopped back down by Melody's chair, gripped the branch between his front paws and finally uttered the throaty huff of an exasperated little old man. Victria uttered her own irritated sigh as she picked her crutch back up and turned away from both Melody and her dog.

She scanned the meadow before her, not exactly seeing any of it. Why I can't be someone else without being me, she thought. Just stop being stupid and you'll be fine. Fuck you. I think I'm stuck on stupid now. Then silence came, but for the fading pulse of heart beat inside her head. Suddenly, Victria found herself reiterating in her mind a passage she'd recalled from one of Glory's books. Statistically speaking, female serial killers are better at it than their male counterparts. The histories and novels Glory had brought her were primarily feminist in content, with the occasional volume of eastern philosophy or trashy treasure lesbian romance, but it was the history of female serial killers that struck Victria both as odd in its having been available and odd that she was so interested in it. 

As the typical male serial killer, Victria mused, kills for a period of four years or so before being apprehended, the female recreational homicides kills twice as long before she is finally caught. Some female serial killers have murdered victim after victim for over thirty years.

That's right baby: girl power. Victria's mind seemed to settle with her latest pattern of thought. Of course we can get away with murder. Society does not see us as murderers. Or else why prefer us to men when hiring for positions involving little children, the sick and the infirmed? Mothers, nurses and girls next door killed quietly and they didn't leave their victims by the side of the road or in a dumpster for all to see. How foolish men were, how so like pissing on territory. And to what end? To get caught. 

No one imagines us, we women, murdering in our homes, in our day cares or in our hospitals, but that's where you'll find us, scheming, plotting. Us, Victria thought. Is that me too? Should that be my new life, walking away from Melody, leaving her to be cared for by selfless people like Glory or Pam, so I can live a life I'm maybe destined to live, to prey on unsuspecting victims, conjuring spells that killed men and drove perfectly good women mad? It was then that it suddenly struck Victria. A new thought, though a logical sequence in the chain she'd been pondering. How bright was the color of magic, how nebulous was its depth? 

The wilderness of the valley came suddenly into clear focus. Victria's eyes darted like eager children to the carpets of the yellow drooping flowers of the trout lily beyond the trail, to the dappled white and yellow flowers of the blood root, to patches of pink lady slippers, the deep burgundy petals of the red trillium and to the spiraling grandeur of maiden hair ferns. In the silent wood, Victria then found herself peering upward, into the trees, scanning the heights of hemlock, paper birch and numerous sugar maples. It was then she'd spotted him.

A bird, an oriole, a male, flame yellow and black plumed, was building a nest from a low limb of one of the sugar maples. His female was nearby, lighter yellow, grey headed, with two white strips other wings, foraging for insects among a cluster of pitcher plants. The female was not aware of the male's progress, but Victria was. The oriole had created a frame for the nest's pouch, strands of straw holding it firmly together. 

The oriole's latest addition involved a natural seeming string of matter. As she stared more intently, Victria realized the bird was using a length of fishing line for his next rotation around the developing nest. In silence, hearing nothing but her own breathing, Victria watched as the oriole clung, fluttered, spun swooped and fluttered again. 

What happened next was like a flash of golden licking flame. His wings beat wildly. His body twisted and turned. The nest swung with his mad beating frenzied, yet ultimately futile, escape, and continued to swing long after the oriole's body finally settled into stillness, the stretch of fishing line he'd secured to the nest then also secured around his neck, cutting into his throat, feathers askew, curled beak open, his black eyes wide with surprise and death. 

Then, in the time that Victria had turned away to see if the female oriole had noticed, she had flown away. In the instant Victria looked back, there, perched just a foot or so from the dangling nest of the dangling oriole, was a great big crow. The limb bounced and drooped from his weight. His black eyes, first his left, then turning to stare with his right, met Victria's defiant gaze. The two creatures watched each other for a time, the one no less impudent than the other. What was the opposite of déjà vu again? Jamais vu, Victria reminded herself, when you know you've been here before, but it feels like the first time anyway. Nice one God, really fucking funny. Or, she mused, are you someone, something else?

It was only when the crow made the decision to move on, creep closer to his prize and remove it for his taking that he looked away. Victria continued to stare as the crow evaluated the problem of how to extract the oriole. Ultimately, it scratched and chewed at the nest's anchorages until it, and the oriole's corpse, fell to the ground below. The great crow, its wing span easily over three feet, swooped down and began to rend the oriole apart. Before finally looking away, Victria spoke, breathing her words into a sudden gust of cool wind:

"All education is subversion, all of it."

It was then that Spanky got to his feet, sniffed the air, and then began to bark. He was not after the crow. This, the great black bird seemed to know because it had not moved from its meal. Instead, the dog was interested in someone or something coming from the other direction. He bounded that way, panting excitedly. Victria smelled something on the wind then as she looked toward Spanky's path, something fragrant, yet completely opposite from the scent of all the new flowers around her. Her stomach expressed its desire, bubbling in her gut, in spite of the sight she'd beheld of the butchery spread before the crow's feet.

Presently, Victria watched Glory round the corner. Spanky was at her side, but sprinted forward, to get back to his branch. Victria watched him pick it up and start to drag it back to the advancing woman. Glancing toward the crow, Victria saw that it, and its dead prize, was gone, though the ground there was still covered by the ruined nest, the ground beneath it stained with the oriole's blood, his head left behind, and a quarter inch of spine extruding from beneath his noose. She was possessed briefly with a sudden paralysis of goose flesh, creeping down her spine, and then down into her bowels, inspiring the deepest kind of fear she'd ever known, the pulsation making her feel that she could just shit herself right then and there. Victria stared at the oriole's dead black eyes for a time and thought again: the color and depth of magic, white and black and all the world's shades of grey. 

"Hey you." Glory called.

Victria turned to look at her again. The stunning, magnificent woman was smiling at Spanky and his effort to get her to try to get her to play a tug of war with him. But Glory's hands were not free. They were holding a white paper bag, the contents of which Victria realized was the source of the fragrance that had come before. The sight of Glory suddenly seemed to send Victria's fear away, back into the mysterious void of mind from which it had come. 

There was no way anyone, Victria was certain, could keep from admiring the woman. Stunning and magnificent just about sized her up. She was as beautiful as she was imposing in her six foot three frame, her legs slender, her hips beguilingly feminine, her hair a lovely wild curly mass, her face handsome and strong, her pretty feline eyes always searching, guarding for the other's next move. 

Her visits to Grandmother's were few, but there had been time enough for them to warm to each other. Yet, a distance remained, imposed as much as bridged by Melody and her needs. Getting along was still hard enough. Of course, Victria had thought about it: even if circumstances were different, she felt that the positive and the positive she and Glory were would invariably always find its way to negative. Still, free inside her head, for the most part, she thought about the glory of Glory. 

"Oh my God, did you really bring me some Jet Burger? Hissed Victria, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Glory shrugged, withdrew a French fry from the white paper bag, with the cartoon image of a bright yellow and blue clad roller skater embossed upon it, and poked it into her mouth. Victria tucked the image of the strangling bird away and sent her emotional turmoil along with it. There would be plenty of time for brooding and deliberation. The meals that Grandmother had fed her over the past four month's had been nourishing certainly, but their flavor did not satisfy the longing, from one meal to the next, to have some meat or something that dazzled the palette and tongue. So Victria, during Glory's last visit, had made her promise to bring back her favorite comfort food. It had been a while since she'd joined them last and Victria didn't think the woman would keep her word, since she herself was much disciplined in her philosophy of food and health. But, there she was, handing the bag over to Victria as she took out a cup of soda and a straw, and then proceeded to unwrap it while Victria withdrew a burger. Deftly, single handedly, she unwrapped the sandwich, and then took a slow savoring bite. Then, positively swooning, Victria said:

"Oh my God, this is so good. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." Said Glory, still smiling as she poked the straw into the top of the soda, Hopefully, Grandmother didn't smell it when I pulled in. With any luck, your current diet will let this junk pass through you without much ill effect. Let's hope it doesn't set you too far back."

"Come on," Victria mumbled with food in her mouth, "It's only a burger and some fries."

She watched Glory's smile suddenly disappear.

"It's never just only." She said, "You've got years of damage from that junk in you and we've only barely begun reversing its effects."

Victria vigorously nodded and bobbed her head in agreement as she gobbled down another bite. She couldn't deny it. It was totally true. Her insides never felt so good, and there was a clearer whiteness in her eyes, a greater sheen in her hair and a noticeable color and tightness to her skin.

"I'm sorry." She said, "Grandmother's food and your medicine's have been great. I can't tell you how great I've felt over these months. But, I just wanted-"

"Yeah, I know. And I just wanted you to stop wanting. Desire leads only to pain and death."

Jesus Christ, thought Victria, here she goes again: oh I'm so smart because I learned everything I know from my holy granny. Now I've grown up into a big granny too and everyone should bow to my wisdom and greatness, la-de-fucking-da. It's amazing how you can be so hot and incredibly annoying at the same time. 

"Life only leads to pain and death." Victria answered.

Suddenly, Glory snatched the bag from Victria.




The Brand Ch. 14



 I've been starting my stories with the ambition to titillate. In this story, I've learned how I can get lost until I find my way by creating increasingly difficult problems for myself to solve. Gradually, as my characters revealed themselves, their sex and sexuality having become less and less significant to me as the story goes on, I started to want to write something I'd like to read. 

You may not agree with the direction I've taken, but this chapter is where I always had the mind to go. I find it irksome that there is nothing new under the sun. If it wasn't for perfectly ridiculous masterpieces like "This Book Is Full Of Spiders: Dude, Seriously, Don't Touch It," I wouldn't believe it was okay for me to try to take a crack at creating my own bit of nonsense. None of us should be afraid to risk failure or ridicule, no one.

As for Victria and Melody, I'm almost done.

Thanks So Much,

Abraxis

*****

It's A Dog Gone Shame

"I am not an angel," I answered; "and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself."

-Charlotte Bronte, from Jane Eyre

1

Dear God or Goddess or whatever,

Just in case you don't exactly happened to be tuned in to me right this very moment, I am writing this little prayer to you, in red crayon on the back of a paper place mat in a Fuddruckers, yes we stopped here because the name of the place is Fuddruckers, so that I might draw your attention for a minute. I'm not sure if it was your idea to make me such an asshole or if I became one all by myself, but here I am and here it goes. 

As totally astounded and grateful I am that some miraculous healing has occurred in my legs, I was wondering if you could, like, reverse it and heal Melody instead. I mean I get that you work in mysterious ways and all, but if you could just give me back the Melody I fell in love with, I'd totally be okay with a really shitty pair of legs. I'd even ask you to take my life in exchange for bringing her out of whatever psychological whole she's fallen into, if that's what it'll take. But, I was really hoping I could be around for a while longer so that I could, you know, enjoy her presence and get back in sync with the beautiful love we'd started.

Just give me a sign, if that's your will, I mean. Oh, and if this message, this prayer or whatever, gets intercepted by whatever it is that functions as the universe's antithesis of all that is good and right -you know, whatever sent that dead little baby bird in the forest that time with Simon, all those freaky crows, that suicidal oriole and that big black rooster- well...never mind, because that would be your will too, I guess. Right? It's you that is the coin, its two sides and its you that is the flip. Death is still your creation. You didn't give death to someone else to run. I mean, you're the world's top CEO. If you don't give the go ahead, it don't happen. Right? 

Whatever. Anyway, thanks for everything, all the good times I mean. Thanks for letting me have Melody to love, even for just a little while. Amen. 

Kindest Regards, 

Victria Charpentier

P.s. Sorry about Simon, by the way, even if he was in the middle of ass raping me. And I'm sorry too about Rancourt, Duffy and Ricchio. As for Yazmina, I really can't see how that's on me, but I'm sorry anyway.

Victria tucked the red crayon back into the box, set it aside and then neatly folded her inscribed prayer into a thick two by two inch square. In their booth, she had positioned Melody across from her in just such a way that it gave the appearance that she was staring directly into her domme's eyes. That was exactly how it seemed, at least for the first ten minutes in their time in the Savannah Georgia Fuddruckers's. But then Victria had finished her written petition to the great CEO in the sky, tucked it away into her shirt pocket, and then saw that Melody's head had tilted back just slightly enough to turn her look sidelong. 

Victria sighed, turned to see who or what was in her lover's field of view and saw a table of four older women spiritedly engaged in a conversation revolving around some rumor or reminiscence, perfectly oblivious to Melody's oblivion. Well that's good, she thought. At least they're not staring, like those idiots had done in Harrisburg, Baltimore or Knoxville. 

It had been miles back when all Victria had wanted to do was buy a few clothes, adult diapers, books, snacks and some vanilla and milk chocolate Ensure Actives for Melody. But, there were a dozen or so people that just couldn't take their eyes off of them, especially Melody. At one point it had gotten so bad that Victria began to ruminate over her distinct impression that they were either deliberating over some conviction they had that it was her fault that Melody was in such a condition or how she dared to think she could parade such a creature in public. Finally, affronted to such a degree that she felt only contempt, Victria let the last party of guilty spectators take in the sight of her giving Melody a particularly sloppy French kiss, which soured their faces even more before they finally meandered away in shamed disgust.

Savannah was a respite from such nonsense, a diversion, a few days rest in a place Victria had always wanted to visit just because she liked the name, like she liked the name Fuddruckers's. So, on through Knoxville, Tuscaloosa and Montgomery, she'd driven Melody and Spanky ever southward, fourteen hundred miles from where they'd started in Bellow's fall, Vermont. Spanky had his big bag of kibble, his chew toys and his blanket. Melody had her protein drinks, her supply of Depends and her catatonic distance. Victria had her Melody, her guns, her phone, tablet and her freedom, at least as much freedom as Melody's distance would allow.

The break was certainly warranted, she the only driver, the fully functioning brains behind the operation with the emotional wherewithal to fend off the scrutiny of accusing eyes and the mental land mines of post trauma. I'm the one, thought Victria, that has to look those sheep in their beady little eyes. I'm the one that didn't have to stop back at the house, but I did. Hell, I could have driven clear around Connecticut. But, I hadn't. She couldn't. Victria certainly had plenty of miles to convince herself that it was a bad idea, but all deliberation led right back to her home in Westport, though it had been tainted with the spilling of her own blood and the blood of the intruders she'd killed, the men that would have done no bit of good if she hadn't neutralized their threat. 

Her home, a restored six thousand square foot farm house, complete with a barn she used as a studio, Victria had paid five hundred thousand dollars for in cash, at the time, because she could. It was a personal symbol of her professional success, one of the rewards she'd allowed herself as she worked the slivers and shards out of the heels of the hands she'd used to crack the surface of the glass ceiling set above her. It also happened to be the place where Melody had given of herself, relinquished her body, heart and spirit to her beneficent domme. It was the most beautiful thing Victria, cut throat businesswoman, insightful artist and depraved sadist, had ever known. But, it had also become the detonation point at which the Melody she'd come to love had been rendered psychologically mute and disengaged from the world.

Then Cheevers, the head of the marketing firm where she'd risen through the ranks to junior executive, let her go for the stated reason that she needed to concentrate all of her efforts to getting perfectly well again. That, had been total bull shit. He could have kept her on. He was on the verge, prompted by certainly her reputation, but primarily out of his own fear and his perception of a series of unfortunate losses to the company, of making her senior and grooming her to be his right hand. But, the world, God, giveth and taketh away. Victria hit her rock bottom. She had a good deal of fiscal back up in her bank account, but the invasion had essentially dissolved her world, ruined the sanctity of her home, marred her body, ended her work life as she knew it and, as far as she could tell, destroyed the mind of the most wonderful, precious, human being she'd ever known.

The house, filled with its furniture, its ornamentation, her collected multiplicities, the mountainous piles and stacks of her art work, was now empty of all meaning. There were a few things Victria desired or felt obligated to take from the place. She decided that she wanted her camera, her gun safe and that she needed to get Melody's diary. She knew where it was, its little padlock locked, the journal and its key tucked safely in her duffle and set in the back corner of the closet in her slave lover's study. As much as Victria exerted her domme's rights and desires, all within the scope of the contract Melody had signed all those months ago, she had never wished to have access to her slave's diary. Though, she could have. Melody had evolved into a magnificent slave: loyal, dedicated, dutiful and obedient. It would have been a much sweeter triumph if Melody had divulged her most secret thoughts of her own free will. But, Victria was never able to hear Melody read a few passages aloud nor had she ever been granted the permission to look through it herself.

It wasn't until their time at Grandmother's, when Victria had re-read the love poem that Melody had written and Vance had found for her under the Christmas tree, that she thought that perhaps reading from its pages would bring her love out of her psychological confinement. What if it did bring her out, Victria had asked herself. It would certainly be miraculous, now five months into her catatonia. 

What if Melody returned to the world with a blank mind, a victim of amnesia? A grim figment in the back of Victria's mind told her that wouldn't be so bad, start her slave from scratch, create in her the safe, clean slate, mentally unscarred identity she needed. Would she be like the house: a place you can never go back to? What if she came out of it a total child or just remained as she was, in her vegetative state? Oh no. Please, no. The line of thought served only to disturb Victria, so she did her best not to entertain it. . 

Still, what if Melody coming back with no memory required Victria herself to be a totally different person than who she was? I can't do that, Victria thought. Fucking Lifetime channel movie of the week, My Fair Slave, a power hungry sadist sacrifices the person she is to free her slave and create an endless love from nothing, I don't think so. That would be just a bit too Pavlovian for me. It would be like, Bride of Frankenstein or something. Yet truth was stranger than fiction. The truth, what Victria feared the most was the possibility that Melody would forget the love they'd forged, the domination she'd exacted, the obedient deference she'd earned, sweetly painfully intimate, shed psychological skin, never to be remembered again by the slave she'd fallen so deeply for.

It had been a dark, moonless, lonely morning, a quarter to three, when Victria pulled onto her drive, drove around the back of her farm house, and then parked by the patio doors. She let Spanky out for a little run and to relieve himself. Then she'd called him back to the Explorer and locked him inside with Melody. At the back entrance into her garage, Victria used the pen light on her key chain to find the right key. She looked once over her shoulder before finally opening the door and slipping inside.

Her big Lexus was there, she having instructed Vance to park it inside the garage once the driveway was cleared of snow. Quickly, restricting herself to the small flashlight of her key ring, Victria made her way around the vehicle, and then into the house proper. She advanced up the stairs, studying the shadows, listening hard to the silence, feeling the fast thub thump of her heart and controlling her breaths. 

At the landing in the foyer, Victria thought she saw a wide splash of blood stain on the front door. But, it was only a trick of her mind, a superimposed shadow of a stranger's death. She'd had Vance hire a specialized crew to do the necessary cleaning. Victria shined her light along all the surfaces she distinctly recalled had been awash with carnage. Where there had been blood and brain matter, lots of it, there was none. Crossing into the hallway to the kitchen, she saw the bullet holes in the walls and the pellet divots in her wood flooring. 

Victria stood in the kitchen for a moment and looked around, following the eye of her pen light. There wasn't anything in the room she wanted to take. It was only that she wanted to feel being there, to safely reflect, like a holocaust survivor touring a leveled death camp or a burn victim looking over the charred remains of the place she'd once called home. Then she saw it, the crow mask, its hooked black beak pointed in her direction, the twin shine of her little light reflected in its knowing, ominous smooth latex eyes. It had sent a brief tingle down her spine. Expecting it as much, instantly aware of the thing's harmlessness, her fear faded in seconds. Victria took a deep breath, tightened her jaw and defiantly stared into the mask's eyes. She flexed the muscles beneath the scarred skin of her legs and relaxed them again. We won't be back, she thought. When I'm ready, I'll sell the place. But that was way too much to think about, too far ahead to ponder.

"Fuck you." She whispered to the mask, to its ghosts, "You walked into it and that's what you got. Think of it as my saving your mothers from any further disappointment." 

Victria turned on her heels. From the kitchen she retraced her steps back to the foyer, and then hiked up the stairs to the second floor. There, she turned into Melody's room, grabbed the duffle, and then headed into the master bedroom. After grabbing the gun safe from beneath the bed and gathering up a few items, she made her way back down the stairs. Back on the first floor, Victria felt drawn, pulled in two directions: down the last flight of stairs and back out the garage or back toward the kitchen and around to the hall that led back to the living room. Spaced, trying to understand her confusion, Victria headed back toward the kitchen. Still using the pen light for the meager beacon it was, she entered the living room and looked toward the Christmas tree that stood there just beyond the end of the sofa. 

Victria scanned and scrutinized. Red and gold balls and strands of tinsel passed in and out of her light. She cast the light slowly downward until it shined upon the tree's skirt. There, laid upon it, was Melody's broken collar. She could only guess that Vance or the detective, Cassy or Kathy maybe, she couldn't remember which, had it returned to them by Peebles: the psychologist in the hospital who most certainly had Victria pegged. Only people I love should have me so pegged, you pompous shit. But, why there though, she wondered, under the tree. Why not? She was suddenly sure then. Vance had put it there because it was there that Vance had found Melody's sealed poem, her lovely, lovely poem, which he'd brought into the hospital for her to read and keep and read again and again and cherish. 

Victria took a step forward, intending to retrieve the diamond studded ring of platinum. It was then that a sudden cold began to creep along the naked skin of her arms, neck and face, as if an icy fog had just been blown into the room. She stopped, turned her small light from the collar, and then slowly raised it chest high. Victria scanned her way ever leftward, casting brief illumination upon the dusty items on her entertainment center, Vance's gifted snow globe, scattered cd cases, edges of stained and polyurethane oak, the plasma's screen, the curtain that flanked the right end of the living room's bay window and the person standing there.

The cold and the weight of her fear held her utterly motionless. She might have recalled the feeling up in the woods in Vermont, outside the cabin on that moon bright night, the absolutely ascetic shiver in her sex, the feeling that her bowels were ready to release out of pure terror. In that moment, her eyes fixed, the point of her little light shaking across the dark luxurious skin of Yazmina, Victria felt a rush of urine escape, drench her jeans and drip onto the rug between her feet. She wanted to fall to her knees. She wanted to stand. Victria stared, helpless, shaking. 

It was Yazmina as much as it was clearly not Yazmina, like a cardboard cut-out, but not; like a wax museum sculpture, but not. Her head was covered in dark red bristles. She was staring out the great window, searching, waiting. Then Yazmina turned to face her. Victria gaped as she watched long lines of scars and open strips of wounds materializing out of her naked skin. The room grew colder, a whole new skin of crawling goose flesh seemed to envelop Victria and then a slimy shit suddenly slipped from her ass. Yazmina smiled, her eyes unreal and smoldering, glowing black like the eyes of the zombie mask of the intruder, the man, she'd killed first on that incomprehensible night.

Victria let the duffle bag fall from her hand. Her keys and the little flashlight were still tightly clutched in her right fist. I will not kneel, she thought. Victria shook as she took her first step closer to Yazmina. She's been waiting for me. She wants a kiss good-bye. Those aren't my wounds. Someone, something, else is whipping her now. I will touch death and I will still not kneel. I do this and she will be gone, she will be free.

A sudden slave to her certainty that she needed to make contact with the ethereal figure before her, Victria's body shook as she stumbled forward. She was fighting her own good sense, the sense that was always omitted from the scripts of all those horror films where the young women just hung around, being stupid and half naked, so that they could die by the hands of one male menace or another. This isn't real. Bull shit. Of course it is. Run, you idiot. No. I have to touch her, to touch what's still caught here in the world, by her love, by her hate. How do I know this? Oh my God, how do I know this? Victria reached, her hand looming near Yazmina's terrible stare, and watched tiny gleaming flecks of ice crystals begin to cover the back of her hand. Jesus, she thought. Melody, I love you so much, she thought. And Yazmina was gone.

The roomed warmed again, though a chill lingered in her thighs and down her legs and in the sound of Spanky's sudden, frenzied barks. Victria shined her light on the floor, grabbed up the duffle bag, and then scrambled through the living room, into the foyer and back down the stairs. Back outside, she locked the door behind her as she looked toward the Explorer. She could make out Spanky sitting in the driver's seat and Melody, slump forward on the other side. Victria bolted to her side, unlocked the door, pushed the dog off the seat, and then hopped in. 

As she put the key into the ignition and turned the vehicle back to life, Spanky resumed his uproar, his paws on the dash, his snarling face close to the wind shield, his eyes staring widely at the three figures standing a few yards from the front of the car. It was the Arian, his narrowed eyes set wide apart, fixing his gaze upon her, his two masked henchmen flanking him on either side. Victria felt the tepid squish of shit in her crotch, clenched her teeth, gave the Arian the finger, put the car into drive, and then put the pedal to the floor.

It was miles later, in some gas station restroom beyond the Del Water Gap that she stopped to rid herself of her stink and shit slimy clothes. She had sat in the car for a time, just staring at the gas station's rear wall, wondering if tempting ghosts or running them over with your car was a sure fire way to continue their following you. Deciding that either way, there was nothing she could do about it, Victria finally stepped out of the Explorer and locked the door behind her. After washing herself as best she could, got dressed in fresh clothes, bought herself a coffee and three cheese Danishes, she returned to the car to freshen Melody up. An hour more and they were back on the road, a new day just dawning, Melody strapped in at her side and Spanky sleeping on his blanket behind his mistress's seat.




The Brand Ch. 14



The experience was yet to become a distant memory. Victria felt safe enough in Savannah, her guns by her side, though one could not shoot ghosts dead. None of those ghosts had followed, none but the one that still possessed Melody as she sat across from her, staring blankly while Victria tried to enjoy a meal that hadn't been blandly healthful or contrarily processed into a bag. The waitress had brought her one of Fuddruckers's signature burgers, sweet potato fries and coleslaw. 

Victria had fed Melody back in the Explorer, holding the Ensure shake and the straw until she drank it nearly to the bottom of the can. She thought it odd, ironic, though it was certainly welcome, that Melody, as catatonia addled as she was, would still willfully take in liquid food. It was the first fact Victria hinged her hope on. Eating, the desire to sustain one's self with anything, was the surest sign that one desired to live. And if Melody desired to live, Victria believed she also desired, somewhere deep inside her insurmountably anxious mind, to eventually, someday, get better and return herself to Victria.

Otherwise, as it stood, Melody was not unlike a puppet of living flesh. Her motor functioning had slowed down to a bare minimum. She would set herself in her own strange positions until Victria moved her into something more socially suitable, but only for Melody to slowly twist herself back out of conventional true. You know she needs to be looked at by someone, thought Victria as she wolfed her burger, maybe I can get her into a clinic or something, maybe get her a prescription for some lorazepam.

While at Grandmother's and on various occasions along the road, Victria had read up and came to understand that Melody could have fallen into a kind of schizophrenia, which would bode much less favorably than a simple depression. Then again, if what she was really experiencing was a trauma induced depression, there was nothing simple about it. She briefly scanned the Fuddruckers's dining room, and then lifted the shade to the window beside their table. I wonder, Victria thought, if they sell any Benzodiazepine on the street. Probably not. She glanced back across the room and found herself reflecting again on the sheer insanity of the other mode of treatment for Catatonia, Electroconvulsive therapy. 

Put plainly, it was Shock therapy, primitive, risky, inhumane. It was one thing to see it used among her play party peers, individuals who were alert, aware and getting safely off on a few good squeezes of sparkling tingle juice shot into their genitals. But the notion of passing some degree of electricity across Melody's brain in order to induce a seizure, and while she's under anesthesia, and having such a procedure administered to her twice a week for four weeks, would top all the other bad decisions that preceded it.

Victria also reflected on how she'd seen to getting Melody medically tested for every good reason she could come up with, and how neither wanted any psychological assessment beyond Geralynne's staff's list of questions. That was stupid, Victria reflected, the taste of her burger suddenly losing its flavor. I should have gotten someone to say at least that she wasn't bipolar or anything like that. Victria set the burger back down on her plate, and then wiped her hands on a napkin. She turned her gaze to Melody's blank stare. 

"Mel honey," she said, "I need you back. That night we first started to get to know each other in the market and then the two masked hoods showing up, that bloody night in the house. Maybe, if I'd known there was an underlying factor, I could have read the warning: you dropping to the floor, trying to borough a hole into yourself. But I couldn't. I was seeing something else. Masked men, guns in hand, shots fired, triggers squeezed, and then you were gone. It's all my fault and yet- I was selfish. I was afraid. I didn't want my success with you threatened."

Victria looked away. She still didn't want it threatened. But, she was coming to realize that maybe it should be. Slowly, Victria lowered her head and propped its weight against the upturned palm of her left hand while she began to wipe the condensation from the side of her glass of raspberry ice tea with her other hand. I can't play my games anymore. I need to stop. Weary from the road, from thought, from contemplation of the ghosts behind her and of the unknown ahead of her, Victria lost herself in the purple amber depth inside her glass.

"You look tired." Came a voice.

Victria snapped back to attention. Seated beside Melody was an older woman, dressed in a blue blouse, matching blazer, a chain of rosary beads hanging from her neck, her handsome features gently aged, her silver hair shoulder length and curled inward at the ends to frame her face, grey eyes assessing, mouth slightly open in a cautious smile. Victria glanced at Melody before settling her stare on the woman. As she worked through her decision as to how she'd take the stranger, Victria turned to look behind her to see that one of the seats at the table of older women was vacant.

"Yes," the woman continued, her southern accent moderated with a cloying lilt, "I was seated with those lovely ladies over there. We were on a tour through Saint John's Cathedral and I remember seeing you girls in the front pew. It's a lovely place, isn't it?"

Victria cleared her throat and reached for her ice tea.

"Yes." She said before taking a sip.

"Where ya'll from honey?"

Victria set her drink back down and cleared her throat for a second time.

"Annapolis, Maryland." She answered.

The lady let her stare linger, her expression that of one expecting the truth but not getting it. Victria stared back with her customarily naked boldness. It was true. She had taken Melody into the great Cathedral, but had no memory of the woman and her friends. It had been earlier that day, under a cloudless blue sky and in the face of mostly smiling strangers. 

Victria had found an establishment at which she could kennel Spanky for a while and guide Melody on her wheel chair through historic Savannah. Her stroll ultimately led them to the tall brick faced church on Harris and Lincoln Streets. If it hadn't been a Cathedral dedicated to the Baptist, Victria would have likely passed it by. Instead, she remote controlled Melody's chair up the accessible ramp and guided her through the entrance's wide plaza. Victria had paused, just beyond the vestibule, to marvel at the French Gothic styled church's stately nave and its transepts. 

Bronze colored iron columns supported its triple rows of groined arches. The main altar and four side altars, she'd read later from a guide book she'd left Melody for a moment to purchase, were designed by Baldwin & Price of Baltimore and constructed of white Italian marble. Victria had brought Melody down the aisle, parked just behind the first row of pews, lifted her from the motorized chair, and then set her down to stare at the high alter.

Victria sat close beside Melody and whispered passages from the guide book into her lover's ear. She paused occasionally to whirl her head around in childlike wonder to take in the brilliance and majesty of the stained glass windows, executed by the Innsbruck Glassmakers in the Austrian Tyrol, and a series of murals depicting the Passion. After she'd taken it all in, admiring the beauty and craftsmanship, the public legacy of who knew how many nameless artists, Victria settled into a reverent silence as she watched sun golden moats of dust gliding through the broad shafts of sunlight that shown upon the high alter.

"Your friend is catatonic." The woman stated.

Victria slowly nodded, her eyes not leaving the woman.

"How long now?"

"Three days."

Again, the woman gazed at her with casual disbelief. Victria began to hope that the visit would end very soon. Presently, the woman took Melody's left hand, and held it for a time as she stared into her green eyes.

"I'd ask you her name," the woman continued, still looking into Melody's eyes, "but you'd just lie to me again."

Whatever lady, thought Victria. What's your game?

"It's just that I noticed you two there in the church," said the woman, "and you reminded me of a story. And now that I've come upon you for a second time today, I feel that I should tell it to you."

"Hmm," said Victria, "Her name is Melody, really."

"Melody." The woman repeated, turning to briefly face Victria, "Well Melody: I once had a sister. Her name was Eveline and she was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease back when she was oh fifty-four. That's the disease, you know, when your brain and spinal cord just stop talking to your muscles and the person just sets there, watching, waiting."

The woman paused, closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

"Anyway, I remember how my mother used to join me at my home, because I had taken Eveline in, after her total shit of a husband just up and left. Anyway, our mother, God rest her soul too, used to bring her holy water. And she would take her holy water, take a little bit of it into a little bowl and add some olive oil to it. Then she'd bring it into Eveline's bedroom, set herself down by her side, dab a little cross on her forehead, and then recite the Lord's prayer several times. And I would watch our mother do this twice a week, usually Wednesdays and Sunday afternoons, and every time, when she'd finished praying for the miracle I always knew she was praying for, that woman would sit back and say: Well don't you see now Eva that the problem is you. You ain't got no faith honey."

Victria stared at the woman, her gaze softening slightly. She thought about her time with Melody in the great cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. Then she slowly brought her right hand up to feel the written prayer behind the smooth material of her breast pocket, paused and said:

"I don't know exactly what kind of faith Melody has."

The woman turned to look at her.

"That's not my point dear." She said, leaning closer and measuring her words, "That's not something that's meant for you to know. My point is that you are a wonderful friend and that is the miracle. It's not easy to watch the ones you love slowly die on you. I will pray for this young woman, certainly. But, I will also pray that she continues to have you and that you continue to have the patience and strength to be her miracle."

Victria looked away then as her face grew hot and tears began to well in the corners of her eyes.

"Tell me your name honey," the woman asked, her voice hushed, "so that I can pray for you too. I can't rightly ask God to look after that pretty young girl with the hard eyes that likes to lie to kind old ladies."

Victria leveled her gaze at the woman, the gleam in her eyes both savage and subdued, her cheeks red, twin tear drops trailing a slow course to the sides of her chin.

"My name is Victria." She whispered, and then looked away again.

Back in their hotel room, her mind tuned to the silence of the world, Victria went to work. She'd taken advantage of the kennel, deciding to leave Spanky there overnight. He was fine, the proprietor had said over the phone. He's found himself a little girl retriever and they're playing like a pair born out of the same litter. After the Fuddruckers's, after their visit with the old woman in the blue outfit and the rosary around her neck, Victria drove Melody to a craft store she'd spotted earlier and took her shopping for supplies.

The bag of Victria's purchases waited on her side of the bed as she undressed Melody, changed her diaper, and then undressed herself. The door locked and the shades pulled down, Victria crossed the room to her side of the queen bed and turned the clock's radio to WGPB. It was the ragtime hour, which would be followed by the big band show, and then all night blue grass. Upon the bed, beside Melody's half naked prop up body, were an array of items. 

As Victria studied the tools and materials she'd bought at the craft store, she remembered how she hadn't also purchased a few packs of cigarettes or hadn't ducked in to any one of the hundred liquor stores in town. Then the fact of her guns imposed itself into her working memory, and informed her that there was nothing smoking tobacco would calm or anything that could or should be blacked out through the excessive drinking of alcohol.

Presently, she took a pair of shears and stepped around the bed. Carefully, she trimmed off a few inches of Melody's hair, collecting it in one of the hotel's complimentary plastic wrapped plastic cups. Then, having everything she needed in order to create what she had in her mind's aesthetic eye, she went about fabricating the concept into reality. She'd bought a plastic doll, a dollar store Barbie knock-off and was using it as a manikin template so that she could cut out a body pattern from the satiny flesh toned microfiber she'd found among the fabrics. 

Then, taking variously geometric pieces of sponge, Victria cut arms, neck, head, torso and legs into shape. Next, with needle and thread, she proceeded to sew the front to the back pattern, starting with the legs. With practiced hands, Victria measured, gauged, clipped, nipped, tucked, stuck and stitched her latest doll into existence. Her mind was vacant of extraneous thought. She'd lost all sense of time. She had facilitated an active means of prayer and had become a fleshly conduit, enacting with her hands the will of some anonymous goddess. 

Victria's execution was flawless, creating detail after detail. She had formed, gathered, spread and stitched the lovely curves, lines and nooks and crannies of Melody's breasts, buttocks and bare vulva. She had securely stitched into the doll's scalp each and every one of the hairs she'd cut from Melody's head. She had hot glued emerald and pink sequins to represent her eyes and her nipples. She had fashioned a little slave collar of foil and she'd painted the glaring red scar along her right outer thigh. 

Setting the doll aside, Victria gathered up the materials she'd chosen to create its dress. It was in the style of the gown Melody had worn the night of the invasion, shoulders bared, bodice narrowed to the waist, the skirt long and flowing. Victria sewed strips of yellow and white for the bodice: the colors of success, understanding, magnetism, confidence, peace, security, cleanliness, health, honesty and sincerity. The long skirt consisted of rippling bands of red: power, energy and love; purple: physical and spiritual healing, strength, wisdom, the ability to contact good spirits and to resist black magic; green: fertility and rebirth; and finally blue and pink: love, morality, friendship, honor, affection and dedication. 

Lastly, Victria created a sash of glittered Indigo, the most sacred of the colors, possessed of the property to remove evil. After dressing her doll and fitting the magical sash over its shoulder, she admired her work and blessed its face with a kiss. As she began to remove her scraps and tools, she saw that day was dawning. Returning to the bed, she carefully maneuvered a sleeping Melody to a supine position and pulled back the covers. Then she brought the doll into bed with her beside Melody. Settled in beneath the sheets, Victria turned Melody's body so that she lay on her side, so that she could keep the doll between them and so that she could fall asleep with Melody's lips against her own.

Around noon of the next day, Victria packed up all of their gear, showered and dressed, and then cleaned and fed Melody. After a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage, bacon and grits, Victria loaded Melody into the packed Explorer, and then drove toward the establishment where she had kenneled Spanky. She drove the two miles to the place and into the parking lot. 

From there, Victria could see the dog happily playing with the young golden, a female that the kennel's proprietor had told her about. She watched him pause in his play to sniff at the air above his head. A few seconds more, Spanky was turning his head about, scanning around him and barking. A moment after that, he'd spied the Explorer and ran toward the fence. It was that very moment that Victria shifted the vehicle back into drive, turned back out of the kennel's lot, and then made her way out of Savannah. Her face dry of tears, she did not stop again until forty miles later.

At first, she couldn't comprehend the sight outside Melody's window. Yet, she could not deny it was there: a long strip of grass, beyond which stood a long strip of barbed wire reinforced wood fence, beyond which grazed and brayed a veritable sea of sheep. Presently, she grabbed her phone and slipped out of the Explorer. She strolled for a time, not getting too far from Melody, back up north and then south again and gazed in her bold and blameless way. Presently, she leaned over the fence, withdrew her cell and made a call. The party answered on the second ring.

"Victria!"

"Hey Vance." 

"What the fucking fuck Vic! Where the Hell are you?"

"Don't worry about it Vance."

"Are you okay? How's Melody? Where's Melody?"

"We're fine big brother. I just wanted to finally take the time to call you and tell you that we are as fine as we can possibly be, given our new circumstances."

"Vic. Listen to me, please-"

"No Vance." She interrupted, "You listen to me. I have something profound to tell you."

There was silence on the line. Victria paused as her eyes bounced from one sheep to another.

"We spin around and around this insignificant little ball of space debris," she continued, "and we intellectualize about each and every one of our emotional turmoil's, trials, narcissistic reflections, debts, imbalances and indemnities, all doomed to each and every one of our own personal oblivions and we have made each other think that way until each and every one of our bitter ends. Because, you know, you must be certain, that each and every one of our bitter ends are indeed bitter, painful to the tongue, to the heart and to the soul, the break, the disconnect, the fuse blown, the plug pulled until each and every one of our life's lights are out and no one is no longer home."

Again, Victria paused. Glancing behind her, she saw that Melody was right where she was supposed to be. Meanwhile, Vance breathed deeply, helplessly, into his phone.

Is it a shame...or is it just business as usual?" she went on, "I have a better idea than I did before, but I still can't ever be sure of anything anymore. We can't be sure, none of us. So love who loves you. Belly up to the bar with a friend or a stranger on either side or drink in your life until that inevitable bitter taste. God loves you enough to give you the chance at life, to live it, to get attached to it so securely that you can only believe to miss it when it's gone."

"Tell me you don't have any guns Victria." Said Vance, speaking quickly, "Tell me-"

"Yes, it is sad." Continued Victria, raising her voice, feeling it begin to shake in her throat, "It's as sad as it is true. But, that's the price we pay to be able to enjoy the abstraction of love, to reflect, to be sensate, touch, smell and taste the lover just within the reach of your lips, your sensitive lips, the lips that longed for your mother's milk, our mother's breast, to drink, to get our fill until the umbilical, the tether, the distance, the spacewalk that ends in our finally having to let go, let's us go so that God can ultimately take us into His or Her ultimate and final...own."

""Victria, please." Whispered Vance as he listened to his sister weep.

"I'm going to fix it Vance." Said Victria as she stared at the miles and miles of sheep and wiped the tears and the snot from her face, "I'm going to fix Mel. I can do it. I know it, I think. And then everything will be cool again. I love you Vance. I'll talk to you soon."




The Brand Ch. 14



"Vic!"

"I promise." 

With that, Victria ended the call and pocketed her phone. Turning on her heel, she walked back to the Ford, to Melody's side. She opened the door and took her lover in for a moment. Melody was radiant: her hair bound up in a towering, coiled, abundance, festooned with silk flowers; and in her dress, a used prom gown Victria had purchased in a Harrisburg consignment shop. The gown was a regal affair, with a plunging scoop bodice, strips of gold sequins along its length and down the arms, its two net under skirts delimited by a flowing over skirt of gold silk organza. 

Carefully, Victria lifted her out of the Explorer, and then kicked its door closed. As she carried her anxiety stunned lover toward the barbed wire and wood fence, she felt her phone vibrating over and over again. Setting Melody down behind the fence, facing her forward and after carefully leaning her against the barbed wood, Victria finally withdrew her phone again and shut it down.

Making sure that Melody wouldn't topple into the crowd of dirty grey sheep milling around her legs for what she hoped wouldn't be for at least eight or so minutes, Victria sprinted back to the Explorer. Once inside, she turned the ignition, and then maneuvered the vehicle into a position that worked for her. Then, grabbing her camera from the duffle, Victria sped out of the Explorer, and then climbed onto its roof. From there, she focused her camera on the vast, milling, sheep, keeping Melody, with her hands placed gently on the rail, in the bottom center of the frame. 

Victria snapped as many shots as she could before her model succumbed to her own catatonic inertia. What she recorded was a sequence of postures, expressions: penetrating straight on, distant, sad, melancholy, self-actualized, pensive, day dreamy and casually omnipotent until her detached goddess started to appear as if she was verging on falling backward into the sheep grazing behind her. Victria scrambled from the Explorer's roof, catapulted herself from its hood, and then sprinted to Melody. Catching her in time, frightening perhaps thirty or more sheep into a short-lived stampede, Victria gathered up her love once more and lifted her back over the fence. As she held Melody close, Victria breathed in deeply of her temple, and then graced a line of soft kisses across her forehead. Presently, Victria turned around to give the sprawling multitude of sheep one last doleful look before returning Melody to her seat, strapping her in, and then driving the rest of the way along I59 south, toward Birmingham.

2

Victria had driven into central time. The dawn of the following day would not fill the sky with its purple grey for another five or so hours. Miles before, She'd set her wrist watch back an hour, but she hadn't felt out of sync, not until she'd found herself in Louisiana, parked before a place she hadn't thought about for a very long time. Victria rolled down their windows an inch or two, allowing the moist air coming off the river, and its fêted smell, to touch her skin and beckon her closer. It was the old grey house, its black gaping hole above the second story and the words written below it, faded phantoms of themselves though still looming hauntingly in their sun and rain beaten yellow: 1 dead in attic. 

Karma." Whispered Victria in the darkness, "We cast spells as living, thinking, things, and then the world sends its message back through the actions of others."

She reached for Melody's hand and held it tight for a moment.

"Mel honey?" she said, "There's something I need to find out. I'll be right back."

Victria released Melody's hand and set it back on her lap. Then, withdrawing her key from the ignition, she removed the pen light from the ring, and then stepped out of the Explorer. 

Once outside, she locked down the vehicle and pocketed her keys. Slowly, she walked through the overgrown grass of the house's door yard. Pausing, Victria assessed the place's front door. There was none, at least none she could tell might be behind the planks of wood that had been nailed in upon the front entrance. 

So there it was: fight or flight, advance another way or retreat? Follow through with another stupid idea, she thought, shining her light across the lower face of the structure, or move on? Let's see. If I climb up the porch's roof, I'd be almost halfway there. Then, if those shingles hold, I can get to that second floor window. After that, it looks a little tricky, but the hole is just right there. You know what? I can do this.

Once Victria reached the lattus work on the right side of the porch, she tucked the light pen into her mouth, gripped it with her teeth, and then began her ascent. It was, as she thought, easy at first. The arms and upper body she'd worked on through her time at Grandmother's made the climb effortless, the lifting of her own body weight no challenge at all. 

The stretch between the top of the porch's roof and the targeted second floor window was another matter. Shingles flipped out of her hands or cracked apart under her feet. At some points, all there was to exploit were the nail heads that protruded from the tattered tar paper beneath the old, weathered, shingles. Still, though surprisingly enough, Victria's legs were apparently so strong and the toes of her feet so sensitive that she was able to use them to support her way up the sheer face of the house. 

At the window, she shined her light in, but it was far too fogged with dust and muck she couldn't make out a thing. With great care, Victria continued, her grip more tenuous the higher she went. As she crossed over the word "dead" of the message, she could here buoyant jazz echoing to her from the bar district of the French Quarter. Two more shingles flew from her hands. With soar fingers, she held on, rose higher and reached further. Then finally, her left hand reached into the burst hole in the attic and gripped the rough, dry surface of a two by four. 

Heaving herself up, Victria reached her other hand over and hung there, her legs loose, her feet dangling. Her jaw, its ache from holding the pen light in her teeth, hurt more than anything else. She withdrew the light from her mouth, and then slowly scanned it across the dark space until she came upon, nothing. She hadn't wished that the ghosts she'd created in her home wouldn't follow there to New Orleans because she wanted to find familiar ghosts, good magic ghosts. Still, Victria crossed the darkness with her light. She'd come so far. There were moldering boxes, dust caked bags of clothes, a tall, free standing, wood framed mirror, and so filthy her light could barely be reflected in it. There was a door, opened part way. 

Then there was a corner, and in that corner was a body. Victria shuddered. She trained her light on a pile of forgotten bones, bagged in a faded blue gingham dress, an old woman's skull tilted upon its collar, leather skinned and wisps of white hair clinging to the sharply rounded bones of her cheeks. Astonished and incredulous, but as certain as certain could be, Victria smiled once she'd realized that the corpse's skeletal arm was raised and held up a hand, for perhaps as long as she sat there, but who knew for sure, with her middle finger pointed up in a curse of intrepid defiance. Victria hummed soft laughter and wagged her head before finally working her way back to the ground.

She'd gotten back down safely enough, though she'd jumped the worst of it between the second floor window and the porch roof, which cracked and shuddered under her weight. With one last look of glee, Victria brushed herself off and got back into the Explorer. A short distance more and she came upon the home of Francisca, the self-described Voodoo priestess that had baptized her those nine years ago.

Under the comfortably palpable weight of the night sky, Victria stepped around to Melody's side of the vehicle, and then looked down at the single, remaining, stone lion at the head of Francisca's walkway. She remembered Botchwey's story that the other stone lion, perhaps two hundred pounds or more, had been carried off by Catrina. Victria opened the passenger door, cradled Melody in her arms and closed the door behind her. Slowly, like a groom, she carried her golden bride along the walkway to the permanent temporary shelter. Victria saw that there were no longer any chickens nor were there any of their nests along either side of the porch.

Arriving at the door, Victria dropped Melody's lower half, and then proceeded to knock. Presently, her knocking turned into banging. Victria called Botchwey's name before finally pulling open the screen door, and then finding the next door unlocked. Once she'd carried Melody in, Victria shined her small light around the space. 

It had not changed. There was the kitchen card table and the shallow bowl of water in which sat three candles. Along the far wall beyond the table sat the cooler and the four three gallon jugs of water. However, the room was festooned with cob webs. The water in the bowl on the table had evaporated or had been emptied years ago. The cooler and jugs of water were caked with dust. Victria pulled a chair out, checked its sturdiness and dusted it off a bit before finally seating Melody.

Before heading back to the car to get their things, Victria investigated the rest of the cabin's interior. The mattress and bed roll was still laid out on the living room floor. The armoire still stood on the far wall and most of its objects of worship were still laid out upon it. Trailing her light across its surface, Victria saw that the picture frames were empty and the dolls Francisca had made were gone, though one doll remained. 

Victria was motionless as she considered the figure. Presently, she reached and took the doll and held it gently in her hand. Shining her light to it, Victria saw that it was she, her brown hair, her hard eyes, her outfit a formal black dress suit, its skirt stopping at her knees. In her right hand, the doll clutched a tiny paint brush. In the left, she was clutching what seemed very much like a cat of nine. Across her chest was a sash of braided ribbons of red, yellow, white and blue. Below the knees were painted scars and punctured pins that gleamed in the light. 

Victria glanced at Melody. Her posture was that of a rag doll, legs splayed beneath her skirt, hands palm up upon her lap, her head tilted severely to the right. Victria wanted to speak to her, to tell her, to say, to describe her confusion, that the ribbons were good charms, the red, the white, the yellow and the blue. But the bad colors, though unique to her, the brown of her hair and her eyes, the black of her suit, the representation of what she'd worked so hard to become, they were not holy colors. So then, had Francisca cursed her or blessed her? Victria closed her eyes, pressed the doll against her bosom, and thought for a moment. 

Presently, in the silence of her contemplation, a single question came to her. Whether it was spoken by her own mental voice or uttered by another, Victria wasn't sure, but she was sure of what it asked. What has your anger done for you all these years? There came a sudden rustling in the room. Victria opened her eyes and looked into the darkness. Her eyes fell on Melody, and she realized that it was the sound of her skirt shifting. The sound stopped and there was stillness again.

Victria turned toward where she knew the makeshift bathroom would be. Warily, she advanced until her meager light shown along the side of the claw footed, white enameled, cast iron tub. Drawing close, she assessed its state. I'll have to clean it, she thought. But, one thing at a time.

An hour or more later, after Victria had brought their things into the cabin, bathed the kitchen and living room in the light of thirty candles and swept all the dust and collective cob webs into a pile in the far kitchen corner, she began work on cleaning the tub. Once it was to her satisfaction, she plugged its drain, and then went about undressing Melody. Eventually, Victria carried her lover's limp body to the tub and gently set her inside, letting the back of her neck settle against the rim and then draping her arms along its sides. A quarter hour more and she'd filled the tub with most of the water from the supply in the kitchen.

Victria kneeled then, beside the tub, to soak and shampoo Melody's hair. Set down on the floor boards beside her was the doll she had constructed the night before, her own discovered effigy, Melody's diary, its key and the revolver she'd bought in the Vermont gun shop. Occasionally, she glanced toward the brightly lit living room, hoping, wishing, fearing, and waiting.

"You know Cowboy," said Victria as she lathered Melody's long golden brown hair, "I've been wondering. What if I'm one of those people, those psychos that commit the most horrendous crimes and get away with it, like The Ripper or the Zodiac? I mean, there are probably plenty of people who evaded justice and lived on to a ripe old age."?"

Victria paused to rinse Melody's hair. She lifted her arms and then her head into the water, cradling her neck so that she could effectively wash out all of the shampoo. Once finished, Victria carefully lifted Melody's upper body back out of the water, and then arranged her arms and head back where she'd originally placed them. Then, taking her Melody doll, she crawled to the side of the tub, sat herself crossed legged and reached for the rest of the items she'd brought into the room to put them within reach. That done, Victria looked at Melody in the face and said: 

"What if even the most heinous and terrible criminals were categorized in a kind of tiered class status in the all-knowing mind and heart of God. Maybe God needs to keep certain people around you know, keep them free to do their thing because it can't thin the human herd without certain humans to do the weeding out of certain other humans. Is that sick?"

Victria, with her back to the open doorway to the living room, stared wistfully into Melody's blankly gazing eyes. She had no answer to give her domme. After a time, Victria looked away and held her doll out to the side so that she could regard it in the light coming in from the other room.

"Me?" Victria softly intoned as she stared into the doll's green sequin eyes, "I don't think so. I think that's just nature. I know that doesn't justify the rape and murder of women and children for the sake of one's pleasure though. That's sick, deranged."

Victria saw Samantha in her mind's eye then, standing half naked over the cage she'd imprisoned her in, and remembered the look of smug triumph in her face as she let her bladder go over the cage. She watched then as her two friends, their names now forgotten, taking their turns, all of them smiling and laughing, as they squatted over the cage, blessing little Victria with their piss and their shit.

"But that's not me. Right Mel?" she continued, her voice a remnant of itself, her gaze still fixed on the doll's eyes, "God hadn't invented free will and just left us to our own vice devices unless it knew that we'd create ourselves, work ourselves out, orient ourselves toward the direction that was preordained, right? Or, has something else taken over? Is something else at work here?"

Victria closed her eyes once more and listened to the silence. She thought she heard muted strains of street creole jazz playing off in the distance. Gradually, her gaze drifted to the other items on the floor beside her, she set Melody's doll down and took up her own crafted likeness and began to study it in the light coming in from behind her. I'm none of those, she thought. I am a brand of total fuck up all my own. According to this fucking doll right here, I'm a black witch. I have no business trying white magic. Be damned, I have no business trying any magic at all. 

Suddenly, Victria became aware of a drop in temperature and a stirring beside her. She swung her head toward the tub to see that Melody's arms had slipped into the water. Victria reached, paused, and then set her hand back down. What if I'm supposed to let her go? What if she's made her own decision, sick of where she is, and sick of what's happened to her? Tears rushed to Victria's eyes. She set the doll down, and covered her mouth to quiet her crying. The room grew colder and colder. Melody's head sank slowly deeper, her chin below the water's surface, her lips, the tip of her nose. Victria stared wide eyed. 

"I have absolutely no control over anything or anyone." She cried, "I am not the extension of the divine or the profane. I'm just a fractured spirit, a broken mind, meant to suffer until, until...I lose everything. I promise you. If she goes, I go."

Instinctively, she reached. Sobbing, frigid, she gripped the side of the tub. Its rim burned coldly under her hand. She was trapped, the feeling of wet skin to frosty ice, burning, painful burning. She watched the bridge of Melody's nose go under, watched her staring blank eyes, she too now weeping, descending below the water.

"No, no, no, no!" Victria sobbed, "Please stop! I free her! I free her! Leave her, I beg you!"

Victria watched Melody's final slip below the surface, watched her hair spread and float before her glazed eyes, until fully obscuring them from view. Her face streamed with tears as she groped for her revolver. Resigned, devastated, she turned away and stared with futile, pathetic, defiance at the gun just beyond her fingers. There came a comfort in the cold then. It came as a shadow, a silhouette poised before her, just beyond the open doorway, a black figure, a man, naked, indistinct, chains dangling from his wrists, broad shoulders and narrow hips. Spellbound, heartbroken, offering herself to her madness, Victria said:

"Daddy?"

"Why didn't we die?"

The words, their sound, the voice that uttered them, startled Victria. She whirled her head around. Melody, gleaming wet, her eyes alive and fixed on hers, looked sadly back at her. Victria quickly brought the hem of her shirt up to her face and wiped it clean. She looked again and Melody was still there, a fully living, sweet speaking, divinely beautiful Melody, her arms folded along the rim of the tub, her head rested on her left forearm.

"No one carried me out." Melody continued.

No one carried her out? Is it really her? What is she talking about?

"Melody," whimpered Victria, "I carried you out, remember? You mean that time at the market, right? And then-"

"They made me walk out." Melody interrupted, "Someone lifted me up, and they said: just walk right out of here."

Victria, stunned speechless, set the gun down, and then took up Melody's doll once more. Gently, she stroked its hair, studied Melody's lost but vibrant face and listened.

"Who was that anyway?" said Melody, looking up over Victria's head, "They had no idea, whoever they were. Someone should have had an idea. Someone should have seen it coming. Isn't that what they all say, mighty Victria, my dark empress?"

Melody lowered her eyes again and fixed her gaze on Victria, still seated on the bathroom floor, motionless, her features hidden in the blackness of her silhouette. Victria stared back, taking in Melody's slowly streaming, tragic, helpless tears.

"But yes," Melody went on, "Someone did see it coming. Only, there hadn't been the will to turn back. I, can't give it back. As much as I want to, I can't give it back."

"Melody." Whispered Victria.

"If only you'd been there, you would have wrapped me up in your strong, gentle arms, and I think, I think-"

"My sweet baby," said Victria, sniveling as she inched closer and stopped, feeling a sudden new barrier of cold before her.

""It was our second visit to Mrs. Peterson's first grade class." Melody continued, her eyes fixed on some distant past, "It was time. Leanne was ready to take on the socialization, no more tiny fits of rage, no more biting."




The Brand Ch. 15



Calculated Brutality

3

Melody, mired in darkness, saw the light at the end of the tunnel. She reached, fingers probing, her eyes squinting from the brilliance, and found the jagged stone edges of the opening. A few more steps and the brick and mortar wall was behind her. The brilliance was the sun, ever fixed in its imperial, supreme, neutrality. From the sun came the wind, patting her face with welcome kisses. The sun, the wind, together they gave of the grass beneath her feet. Melody peered down at her ten bare toes, and watched them squeeze the grass.

Relieved, she listened to the call of the breeze and the squeak of the grass blades resisting the clutching pull of her toes. Presently, faintly at first, came another sound. Melody looked up. She saw the playground, its amusements gone, its children gone, its barricade of chain link fencing flattened to the ground, as if each length had been disconnected from the next and knocked down from the inside. The new sound was the unfurling of a blanket. She turned and saw a red and white checkered picnic blanket rippling and settling before her.

Slowly, she walked toward Samedi, the great baron in his formal black suit and his tall stove pipe hat. Melody watched as the black man with the night face spread the blanket flat. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he conjured a picnic basket and set it on the far corner of the blanket. With another snap of his fingers, he conjured a lawn chair, positioned it so that it held down the opposite corner of the blanket, and then sat himself upon it. With a third snap, Samedi conjured his glass of rum steeped in chili peppers and gave Melody his beaming bright white toothed smile.

"Welcome back my dear." He laughed, shaking the ground beneath Melody's feet.

"Where, where did I go?" she asked, meeting his unfathomably twinkling star eyes.

"Don't you remember?"

Melody quickly wagged her head. Samedi shrugged, gestured a few circles with his snapping fingers, and then pointed behind her. Melody turned to face the direction from which she'd come, and then uttered a small gasp of surprise. The hole from which she'd emerged took up the center of a great square pedestal. Upon the pedestal stood a twenty-five or so foot tall statue of polished grey marble. It was Victria, smooth skin shining, her body symmetrical, like a cross, her arms extended, and her face staring boldly up at the sky. In her left hand, a pyre of flame rose from her open palm. In her right hand, she held a vessel that overflowed with water. Over her left breast was a black hole in which was nestled a solitary, sleeping, white turtle dove. 

For a fourth time, Melody heard Samedi snap his fingers. She turned, and there stood little Leanne, beside the picnic basket. Melody's eyes went wide and she covered her mouth. Cautiously, she stepped forward. Leanne did not smile exactly. She never had really smiled for anyone, Luella, her special education teacher, Melody or even her parents. But, her day to day expression during the time that Melody had known her was that of one that appeared as if a smile was to be the very next thing to happen in one's face, as if conveying a perpetual threat of a smile. 

"Leanne?" she whispered, glancing at Samedi.

Leanne waved, and then sat down on the blanket. Opening the picnic basket, she withdrew its contents and arranged them before her. Melody slowly stepped around to the other side of the blanket and sat herself down, demurely brushing her skirt over her knees. Fascinated, Melody's gaze jumped and flitted over the entire scene, Samedi, Leanne, the items of food she was laying out, the grass, the fallen fences, the vast brick wall and the monument to Victria that stood before it. Finally, Melody settled her gaze on the implausible patch of universe wrapped up in a slick black suit and, as she gestured her head in the direction of Victria's statue, asked:

"Can you bring her here too?"

Again the ground began to rumble and quake. Baron Samedi laughed deep in his throat. After a time, his laughter bubbled up to his lips and out it came, sending the lengths of fence into clanging, rattling fits, setting the picnic basket and its contents to bounce and fly about and Melody into a fitful jarring jounce upon the blanket. Leanne, just as Samedi himself, sat undisturbed. 

Presently, the spirit's laughter diminished, Melody's body became still, her legs akimbo. Leanne went about gathering and rearranging packages of sandwiches and bags of chips. Melody assessed their surroundings. The ground was literally rippled, split in some places, the fencing was scattered or oddly stacked and the great brick wall behind her had become a mountain of rubble, clouds, the color of oxidized blood, rising from its heaps. Victria's statue remained intact, the dove, nuzzled in its stone nest, was still asleep. Or, was it dead, Melody wondered. She turned to gaze back at Samedi. After taking a deep draft of his pepper spiced rum, he said with sardonic emphasis:

"Yes, because all you could possibly hold dear to your heart should live with you here, forever, in this place. No child, I cannot bring her here."

"Why not?" Melody asked.

Samedi paused, took another drink of his rum and answered:

"Because she is vastly different than you."

"Yes, but-"

Melody stopped to rethink her words. Samedi sighed.

"She doesn't feel sorry for herself." He answered, his demeanor as one put off, waving his free hand as if to dismiss Melody for asking such a question, "She is not blind to her own sickness. She has the sense to seek healing."

Melody glowered.

"He's right you know Ms. M. You're being a big stupid head."

Melody looked down at Leanne. Leanne looked back, her hand rummaging through a bag of chips, her big brown eyes daring Melody to disagree. She watched as the young girl reached for a sandwich wrapped in plastic and tossed it onto Melody's lap. Suddenly, she became aware of flies buzzing. Flies would ruin the picnic, wouldn't they? They always did. Melody followed their flight. There was a mass of them swarming behind Leanne's back, though the little girl didn't seem to notice. Then there came another rumble of laughter and there, from the corner of her eye, Melody saw him.

"Dude, this tuna salad is bangin'! What's in it?" the young man said between bites.

Melody unwrapped her sandwich in spite of herself as she stared in renewed, yet muted, astonishment. The flies had multiplied, becoming so numerous that they began to look like smoke, drifting from Leanne's back to the gaping wound in the left side of Randy's head.

"Relish, the sweet kind." Answered Leanne.

"No shit!" sang Randy.

Transfixed, Melody continued to take him in, the deep cuts of starvation in his cheeks, his lost child's eyes, the round black mole on his cheek and the vacuous crater in the side of his head: jaggedly round and festooned with remnant clumps of brain, shattered bits of skull and flapping skin. She saw too that he was chained, about his neck. Melody followed the chain into the distance. Its opposite end was held by a figure that stood some sixty or so yards away, in the birth of one of the cracks made in the ground by Samedi's laughter. The figure regarded her from beneath the darkness inside its black hood. She thought it best to look away. Her eyes met Randy's. Suddenly, there was a warmth in his gaze.

"So like," Melody ventured, gestureing her sandwich over his shoulder, "Who's that Randy?"

Randy turned his head, allowing Melody a look at his entry wound, a smaller hold by far, but it seemed to stare back at her, seeing through her, as if it was the eye of the cloaked figure that held Randy's chain.

"Oh that's just what the other voice inside my head looks like." He answered, turning back to face her, "Only, he doesn't tell me things anymore."

"Why not?" Melody asked, talking to him in the voice she'd used that time in the library in Bear Lake high, what she realized was her adult support want to be a teacher's voice.

"Because I gave him what he wanted and now he has nothing to say."

"What did he used to say?"

"He used to say that everyone was shit, that I was shit, but at least I had the power to harvest some souls for him."

"You can stop using that swear word stupid head." Said Leanne.

"No prob." Randy replied, "Can I have another sandwich please?

"Yes you may. Here."

Melody watched his boyish face, his bouncing shoulders as he excitedly unwrapped his second sandwich.

"Primitive psychotic defense mechanisms," announced Randy after swallowing his first bite of his second sandwich.

"Excuse me?" said Melody after taking another bite of her own turkey and cheese.

"Primitive psychotic defense mechanisms," Randy repeated, Splitting dude, you know, when your ego detaches from reality."

"No." Melody replied, "I'm sure I don't know."

"Aw come on," Randy continued, "Sure you do Leanne's para. You forget certain things, like when I killed Mrs. Peterson, that little guy in the closet and Leanne right here. Believe me, if I was still alive, I'd forget that too."

"But I didn't forget it Randy." Said Melody, "Thanks to you, I can't forget it, ever."

"Oh right, right, right, right." Answered Randy, shaking his damaged head, "That's why then you spent the last year of your reality working your way back here. So here you are, alive among the dead."

Melody looked away.

"So you used her." Randy said.

"What?" Melody turned back to face him.

"I said you used her. You let her project her pain on you. You took her shit, sorry Leanne, and you kept taking it until the giving of you hit the unforgiving of her."

Confused, Melody glanced quickly back at Victria's monument, and then stared at Randy. She watched him take another mouthful of sandwich and ponder her eyes. Seconds later, his thoughts collected, Randy raised a finger and shook his head.

"The water of you is rising," he said, pointing his finger at her, "Is rising ever higher, so high that Victria, her power, her strength, her heat won't be hot enough to keep you from snuffing her out."

Smiling suddenly, Randy looked toward Samedi. Melody followed his gaze. The Baron slowly nodded and took another draft of his rum.

"Huh, huh, huh!" shouted Randy, "That's it, right, huh, right?"

Melody regarded the tall, broken, lost, hated boy, and then set her sandwich down on her lap. She gazed for a time at the half eaten thing. Eventually, she watched flies begin to congregate on the discarded sandwich. A moment more and Melody realized that something had changed. Her dress had changed or at least she'd become aware of being dressed. Then, looking at her feet, Melody thought back on having emerged from the hole in the now ruined wall. Her feet had been bare. She was sure of it. But now she saw that they were covered in her ruby slippers. 

There was a sudden flash of a shadow to her right. Melody looked. It was Leanne, getting to her feet, and then brushing dry bits of grass and crumbs from her pants. Finished, she met Melody's eyes and stepped forward. She threw her arms around Melody's neck, gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, and then sped away. Melody watched the little girl, the wide wound in her back diminishing with the distance. She then realized that the landscape had changed. The fencing was gone. The grass remained, but she, upon the picnic blanket, sat upon the summit of a hill. Melody studied the changing scene, the long rolling meadow, the bright blue sky and the inconceivable multitude of children to whom Leanne was running.

"Are you going to eat that?"

She turned to regard Randy. He was staring at her, waiting. But, there was another difference, a new shadow. He didn't seem as hungry. In fact, it seemed as if he wanted her to finish the fly ridden sandwich. Melody glanced at the shadow, and then followed up to its source. It was the cloaked figure, his pallid, pustule, fingers clutching Randy's chain tightly in his fists. Still, she could not see his, its, face nor would she venture. Melody swung her head to see if Samedi was still there. He was, but his drink was empty.

"Go ahead Leanne's para," Randy urged, "Eat."

Melody looked down at the massing flies and the patches of still visible bread. But, they weren't flies and it wasn't bread. It was a gun.

4

"You won Mel." Came a voice from behind her, "You've beat me with passive resistance."

Melody stared at the gun for a very long time. She squinted. The sun, it was real, glinting on the thing's trigger and along its barrel. The wind, it too was real, frisking her loose hair askew. She pulled her gaze away to look at her sequin twinkling arms. She touched the long skirt of her dress and rubbed its gold organza between her fingers. Again, she regarded the gun. It wasn't a big gun, not like the one Randy had used. It was a small thing, yet no less a means to an end. Melody raised her gaze to scan her new horizon. She was still seated on the summit of a hill, only the hill was covered with rows and rows of head stones. She looked to her left, suspecting that she wouldn't see Samedi. She didn't. Instead, she was staring at a small headstone, made more diminutive by the dozens of flowers that flanked it on either side. Carved into the stone was the inscription: Leanne Roslyn Childress, August 19, 2006 to April 16, 2012, blessed is she whose name is on the wind.

"Why didn't we die?"

Melody turned her head slowly around to see Victria, the living Victria, standing in the very spot where her monument had been.

"Because we weren't supposed to." She said, leaning against the side of a vehicle Melody didn't recognize, her arms folded, her hair much, much longer than she'd remembered.

No, thought Melody, they killed you. I was sure of it. That didn't hap- It was you. You, killed them? She stared at Victria, her long hair, her bright face, her hard grey eyes, her lean, black clad body, tight black jeans, tall black boots and leather jacket. Victria studied Melody's awakening, her eyes fixed on her, alert, tired, sad, sadder, mournful and confused. Where are you Mel, she wondered. Are you here yet? 

None of what Melody sensed was as real as she thought it should be. There was the firmness of the ground beneath her, the dry smell on the wind, the high breadth of the sky and the lovely rage in that black clad creature's eyes that made the world seem just as ethereal as the place she'd been for the last- How long had it been? Melody tried to stand. She wanted to get away from the gun, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. She swung her gaze to look upon the grave stone before her. Leanne? There, laying still, gone, the smell of dry grass and mountain air filling her lungs. I'm here. I'm back. 

"This is what it is Cowboy," Victria proclaimed, "fucking aversion therapy, just the kind of showdown the abyss wants to see. Guns, shooting, wounds, death, all up in your face! So, what are you gonna do about it Slave?" Hmm?"

Slave, Melody thought. She turned away. She looked from one grave to the next, across acres and acres.

"Come on Mel!" Victria prodded, "What are you gonna do? Just sit there and keep moping about how you survived and the abyss, the blackness of that all seeing eye, took that little girl? It never should have happened, true enough, never. However, Melody Eunice May, it did. It did and you can't change a thing, not one single fucking thing, except your life. You wanted a new life. Anyone with any sense at all would have wanted a new life after being put through that. So you got lost. I found you and I gave you a life, and what did you do?"

Melody turned and watched Victria's feet take a few steps away from the SUV. She couldn't look her in the face. She ruminated over the word "slave" and became very conscious of the fact that she wasn't kneeling. Slowly, Melody moved her legs, watching her ruby slippers and the gun nestled in the ripples and folds of gold organza.

"You gave it up Melody!" Victria shouted, "So I busted my ass and I said fine, I brought you back here. Why? Because you never fucking left. You never left Melody! You've been here all along, right by Leanne's grave! Should it have been you? Should it have been you that died that day? No, it shouldn't have been! Why? Because you were meant to find me. But you know what Cowboy. Today's your lucky day. I'm giving you the opportunity to die today. See? I'm generous! I can be a giving person. So, go ahead. Take all that useless guilt and put it to good use. Take that gun. Pull that trigger and see if you can find Leanne when you get to the other side!"

It was then that Melody, wide eyed and insolent, met Victria's hard narrow stare.

"Either forgive yourself Melody, for surviving, say good bye to the Leanne you loved or join her forever. You choose."

Victria took another step forward. From her position, four or so yards from Melody, she watched her, whatever she was, slave or victim, still caught between total awareness and dream. Presently, she saw her body shiver slightly. Then Melody whirled her head to look again at Leanne's grave, at the revolver within her reach, and then back at Victria. The domme looked on as her slave, her lover or the tragic soul lost between, as her expression transformed her into someone ugly, someone she no longer recognized. 

Melody's face contorted with loathing and disgust, and looked upon Victria as if she was perfectly insane. Abruptly, Melody picked up the gun and flung it at Victria. Victria shifted her body slightly, her eyes following the gun's spinning path of flight, reached her right hand up and quickly caught the .357, the grip fitting perfectly into her palm. Seething, furious, Victria's knuckles turned white around the grip. Then, wide eyed with fury, she threw it back at Melody's feet. Screaming, Melody crawled back, struggling, squirming, her legs caught up in the skirt.

"Take it." Victria hissed.

"No!" Melody screamed.

Victria stepped to the revolver and picked it up. Melody franticly struggled, kicking in her voluminous skirts, rolling down the hill and scuttling between gravestones. Victria advanced, her face without expression, the revolver gripped tightly in her right hand. Melody continued to increase her distance, crawling backward, keeping her eyes on her pursuer and pulling her skirting up and away from her feet. She watched Victria quickly zigzag between headstones. Presently, Melody felt that she'd freed her legs entirely. Turning, she sprang ahead, but only to stop in her tracks.

It was a larger stone that blocked her way, polished, gleaming, black marble, a cross chiseled into its face, above an inscription that read: Randolph Sebastian Allwine, December 4, 2001 to April 16, 2012. There were no flowers and there was a considerable distance of empty lawn on either side of the stone. Melody suspected the area would remain that way, until the cemetery became so crowded that good families would no longer have the option to avoid burying their loved ones near such a grave. Who he was really, she asked herself. Who cared for him? How long ago had they given up? Melody looked away, and then swung her body around.

"You found him, I see." Said Victria, jutting her chin at Randy's stone and flipping the revolver around her trigger finger.

"That's your boy, your shooter, the pussy that just couldn't keep his anger and frustration for himself, he had to bring other people with him. How about him? Is he your master? Huh Melody? Who's brand do you wear Melody; Leanne's or his? Either way, you're stuck here. Your past is this cemetery. End that day now, with this gun."

In the moment of silence, Victria extended the revolver to Melody in her open palm.

"Or come and be mine."

Victria stepped closer. Melody's gaze flit back and forth between Victria's eyes and the gun in her open hand. Victria watched her redden, watched her chest begin to quickly rise and fall, and then she watched her slap the revolver out of her hand. Melody rushed forward, her left arm in a wide arc until the flat of her hand collided into Victria's mouth. Melody stood back and watched the blood start its way down Victria's split lower lip. Neither woman moved. Again, Melody slapped her. Victria's head went back. Melody saw the red imprint of her hand on the other's cheek.




The Brand Ch. 15



"Then forgive him," said Victria as she wiped the blood from her lip, "for what he did to all of you that day."

Screaming, Melody fell upon Victria, knocking her down and pummeling her, punching, scratching, pounding, frenzied and enraged. Victria took the blows until Melody began to tire. At that point, she tumbled and struggled with her until she got the advantage, and then sat on Melody's chest.

"You dumb bitch," Victria growled into Melody's face, "You are wearing someone else's brand. You have enslaved yourself to him, to her, to a tragedy! You've wasted my time, my investment, my love!"

Melody struggled to free herself. Victria kept her down, clutching her wrists tight. Beyond their labored breathing, past the silence around them, there was a distant cawing of a murder of crows.

"It's like you belong to someone else." Victria said despairingly, "It breaks my heart more than you know."

Incensed, horrified, Melody glared at Victria.

"It breaks your heart, "Melody snarled, meaning her words to bite "because it has tainted me for you, you controlling, narcissistic, putrid, fucking, cunt! Now let me go, because there is no one, no one, here to love anymore!"

Melody's eyes remained fixed on Victria's. Still, the crows cawed and, suddenly, it seemed to Melody that the earth was shaking beneath her. Victria raised her head slightly.

"Fuck you then, liar." Hissed Victria as she climbed off of Melody, and then got to her feet, "You deluded yourself and you lied to me. Stupid bitch; fuck you then."

As Melody grabbed up her skirt, she kept her eyes on Victria. She was searching the grass for her gun, and found it eventually, its barrel pointing out from beneath a low laying shrub. As Victria stuffed it into her pocket, she looked up to find that Melody had disappeared. Scanning the grounds, Victria saw that she was sprinting back up the hill, her skirt gathered up above her knees. 

5

Martha May was in her kitchen, preparing a nice lunch for herself. She decided that the anxiety pills were working well, very well in fact. So well that food had started to taste good again. She'd even dared to hum a little tune to herself. She'd used to hum when she was a younger woman, when she enjoyed doing things, preparing things, like lunch for herself, for her and-

Martha instantly switched thoughts, like confidently moving through highway traffic, at least with the help of the lopa-something-or-other she had in her system, the new regular part of her daily in-take. At least the garden's in. Why those string beans are just thriving. Did I feed the chickens this morning? Yes, yes I did. Did I wash that man's clothes? Did that too. That man was Dean, and Dean had been designated as "That Man" since the day he moved all of her things into their daughter's old room.

The waitressing job was working out nicely. Heck, everything was fine. Everything was just fine. What more could she want? She was healthy. Her heart was working fine. Her mammograms continued to show that she was good to go. The hot flashes weren't, well, so hot, but the lopa-some-such settled those hormones some. Dean was out of her hair, for the most part. His money was still good to have coming in. And Melody- Well, she was probably fine. Dr. Patty said that Melody went off to work things out for herself. So many people, because of that terrible, terrible boy, just walked away from their lives, from their minds. It was heart breaking, just so damned heart breaking. They said even some of the police, EMTs and firemen got themselves the PTSD from that day. Dear God, those children. Dear God. Sure, Melody's fine. She's probably working in a school somewhere. Well, maybe not. A hospital? No. I know. I bet she cleans. That's fine. That's safe. That's, rewarding.

Martha heard the sudden swing and clack of the front screen door opening and then closing again. Oh Hell, she thought, did he get caught slacking again. Settle down Martha. You're fine. Everything's just fine. Whatever he did or whatever he does, we'll just talk about it with Dr. Patty, won't we? Martha heard the clop of shoes coming down the hall, and then felt the fact that Dean had joined her in the room. She turned, a big plate of pork chops, potatoes and peas held in her hands until it, and all its contents, dropped to the floor at her feet.

There was a young woman, standing on the other side of the kitchen table, dressed in an attractive, lavish, yellow and gold evening gown, though it was stained awful with grass and dirt and Lord knew what. Who wears yellow and gold in the evening? It's not evening Martha. It's a might after noon, and that's your daughter standing there.

"Melody?"

"Hello, Mom," Melody answered, absently wringing her hands, not looking directly at her mother, pacing in short steps to the left and right.

Martha was motionless. Her heart raced, but she suspected the lopa-dopa-whatever would slow it down. The thing was, it wasn't slowing down, but it didn't hurt in her chest either. It felt, good. Melody finally pulled a chair out, the chair she'd sat in since she was a little girl, pushed her big old skirt under the table and sat upon the chair. Martha smiled.

"Uh honey." Said Martha, suddenly weeping, but weeping with a joy she hadn't felt in a very, very long time, "you know that dress is ruined, don't ya'? I won't be able to clean it like it deserves."

Melody had been staring at her hands on the table. Slowly, she turned her gaze up to study her mother's face. Watching the woman's tears, the hard age around her eyes and the lovely smile on her lips, Melody began to cry too.

5

Thirty miles back toward the east and more than an hour later, Victria registered in a hotel in Greely. It was a sprawling college town, its campus grounds traversed primarily of middle class white kids, a major slaughter house just another two miles east, all of it surrounded by retail, fast food and low laying tenements full of primarily Mexican folks. The air, even two miles away from the slaughter house, was rank and fêted with the stink of shit and death. It was a perfect place for Victria to stay the night and get drunk.

There was no one to stop her now, no fucking Melody or her damn dog either. They would be there anyway, all night with her, popping up in her working memory, that was for sure, and they would be there for a long while after that. But, for that evening, Victria would drown them with whatever it took. She would start slow, with beer, nice cold beer. She would take out the sketch pads, the pencils and the pens she'd bought back in Savannah and she'd draw. Then she'd start drinking shots of cognac between sips of beer. What would she draw? Victria had no clue. 

At a nearby Hannaford's, she bought a carton of cigarettes, two bags of comfort chips and two candy bars, if in the event the appetite took her. Then she'd found a package store, bought herself a twelve pack and a half pint of Remmi Martin. She wanted the Remmi to get cold and the beer to stay cold, so Victria bought a Styrofoam cooler too. Back in the room, she stowed her purchases, grabbed the ice bucket, and then headed for the hotel's ice machine.

Back in her room, Victria went about filling the Styrofoam chest with ice, but it wasn't enough. Stupid, she thought. I should have bought ice at the fucking Hannaford's. She looked around the room. Didn't I have a bag, a big, sturdy bag? Victria suddenly found herself listening intently, triggered by the silence. There was something different. Victria narrowed her eyes and slowly reached for the revolver that was still in the inside pocket of her leather jacket. Her eyes shifted toward the slightly parted bathroom door. She withdrew the gun, fit both hands around its grip and pointed its barrel toward the ceiling. You can't shoot ghosts Victria. Nope. But, since this isn't the most pleasant of places and since I've already been victimized, I just want to be ready. Victria advanced toward the bathroom door. On three, she decided she would kick it open. In the raging quiet of her mind, she counted: one, two, and three. On three, a heavy foot connected with the right side of her head. Victria flew back, never letting the gun leave her hand. Eyes shut tight in pain, in defiance, she spun off the bed and tried to steady her footing. She backed up, staggering, until she felt wall behind her. Time was passing quickly. She wanted to shoot, but she wanted to open her eyes to see her target. She wanted the ringing in her right ear to stop. 

"Put it down."

"Who, the fuck, are you?"

"Put your fucking gun down."

Victria shook her head and opened her eyes. Black spots and bright swirls of light danced across her vision. Somewhere beyond the blackness and the brilliance, there stood a person, someone who had his own gun because she heard him flip off his safety, at least that's what she thought she heard. He has a gun. That's an excuse to shoot.

"I said put it down."

Buy your own time. At least he is anyway. I need to see him.

"Stop being a stubborn fucking bitch and just drop the gun Victria."

Then the voice was clear, and with it came the face to match it.

"Seriously hippy?" Victria said, "Now you want to' be a big packing momma?"

"Oh I've been playing with fire long before I met you bitch." Answered Glory, "Drop the gun now."

"No. You'll have to shoot me first."

Glory remained solid in her stance, pointing a full size 1911 at Victria's head. What could she say: put down the gun again? What could she do? She had a heart. Victria knew it. She would shoot alright, but not until she took a bullet first.

"I lost Melody. I don't need to do shit for anybody."

"Put the gun down Victria. You don't want to die today."

"Maybe I do."

"I'm telling you that you don't."

The next few seconds passed in a flash. Victria turned her gun on herself. Glory leaned right, angled her body and fired, sending Victria's revolver flying out of her hand. With animal rage, Victria lunged forward and slammed her head into Glory's stomach. They wrestled each other along the floor, kicking and punching. Glory wouldn't give up her gun, not until she'd neutralized it. As pummeling blows slammed into her jaw, Glory ejected the gun's magazine and racked the gun's slide, jettisoning the live bullet from its chamber. Throwing each piece across the room in opposite directions, Glory blocked Victria's fist, twisted her wrist, causing her to scream in pain. There was a sudden, insistent, knocking at the door, though Victria, somewhat deafened by the gun blast, felt it far more than she'd heard it. 

"I'm a bounty hunter!" Glory shouted at the door, "Back the fuck off!"

Glory spun Victria onto her belly and smashed her face into the hard floor. Victria heard the knocking persist and the staccato click of hand cuffs. Then she felt Glory take her wrists and shackle them behind her back. By then, the knocking on the door had become steady pounding.

"Come on." Said Glory as her breathing settled, "Let's take this party somewhere else."

6 

"My face fucking hurts."

"Yeah? It's killing me too. You look terrible. Did Melody do that?"

"Yes."

"Good for her."

Victria slowly turned to face Glory and regarded her crossly. The woman raised an eye brow and immediately winced from the pain the slight movement triggered in the cut she'd received in her right cheek bone from Victria's fist. At peace, but only because Glory had kept Victria in shackles, they were seated together at a small round table in an adequate room in a hotel located a few towns south east of Greely and its stale, fêted air. Despite Victria's protestations, the manager at the Greely hotel bought Glory's story, that she was a bounty hunter and Victria was her query: the embezzling ex-wife, ex-business partner of a Florida restauranteur.

Victria did what she was allowed to in order to make the best of her captivity, which was to take deep gulps of beer through the straw her kidnapper had put in the bottle for her. She drank deeply, aching to feel its temporary oblivion. She squirmed slightly in the steel cuffs around her wrists and the new set around her ankles. The reason Glory gave for keeping Victria confined was that she'd become a threat to herself, which increased the risk that she would be a threat to her captor. Beyond that, it still wasn't clear as to why the tall, attractive woman made the effort of following Victria and Melody more than halfway across the country.

"So where did you pick up our trail? Victria asked.

Glory shrugged.

"Savannah." She answered.

"Really? How'd you manage that?"

"I took it upon myself to install a GPS tracker app on your tablet and checked your progress on tailme.com."

"What? When? How?"

"I watched you type your log in and installed it, but only after I made it so that I could do it remotely with the secure remote support software I downloaded first."

Victria stared in astonishment.

"You just slept a lot at Grandmother's and you left your tablet on a lot and, well, I didn't trust you."

Victria looked away.

"And, since you were in Georgia a while, I had enough time to zero in and follow you out of town that last morning you were there."

Feeling violated as she processed the unsettling revelation, Victria drew another deep drink of beer.

"What was the deal at the sheep farm?" Glory asked.

"Oh, just a moment of inspiration. And, may I ask, why did you make the effort to pick up our trail?"

"I wanted to make sure Melody was okay. You left Grandmother's somehow, suddenly, obviously at one hundred percent. But, Melody was still in her stupor." 

"And you believed I was really going to kill her."

Glory reached into the Styrofoam cooler by her side, pulled out a bottle, and then cracked it open. Shrugging again, she said:

"Love and rage, wrath and mercy. I had my suspicion. What was all that shit about in New Orleans?"

"What shit?"

"You climbing into a building that should have been demolished, looking for something and then climbing back down."

"I was looking for an old friend."

Glory suspiciously eyed Victria, and then asked:

"What about that little cabin you stayed the night in?"

"Well you know how Grandmother got in the middle of all that crazy shit that went down at her place, you know with the coyotes and the full moon and the miraculous healing of my legs."

Glory took a drink of her beer, and then set the bottle on the table.

"I seem to recall certain facts of the reported event's aftermath:" she answered, "most of Grandmother's dogs, dead; wild coyotes, dead; you, naked, gathering eggs."

"Yeah. Right. Well I tried to make a miracle of my own."

"Hmm. And?"

Victria studied the woman's face for a moment, the curly mane of brown hair that framed it, its beautiful features and symmetry and the damage she'd done to her cheeks, chin and lips. 

"And, it backfired." She said.

Glory had never been bad to look at, even then with her face bruised and her lips swollen. But meeting her gaze hurt because all Victria saw in it was Melody. When she closed her eyes she saw Melody. Now Melody was gone, and maybe that was good. Or maybe it wasn't. Victria, unable to avoid the reflection, tried to recount the facts for Glory, the reality and the magic, and it only made it harder for her to get her head around her certainty that she had indeed been used by Melody, either consciously or subconsciously. Exactly where inside her mind had Melody gone, Victria pondered. Had she been reliving the trauma of that awful morning in her head, over and over and over again, and for three whole months? What kind of Melody, she wondered, would come out of such a place? Had all that happened been what she needed to survive that brutal memory?

"Let me get this straight." Said Glory, breaking the silence that hung there after Victria had recounted the events of the last three days, "So you put Melody in the magic bathtub, after you found the doll some Voodoo priestess made of you, but the priestess wasn't anywhere to be found."

"Right. Excepted I wouldn't say the tub was magic. It was more, enchanted, like a spell was cast on it."

"Okay. So then it got really cold, and you turned and saw the ghost of your dead father. How did he die again?"

"Oh some interactive art installation where people could do whatever they wanted to him, and some guy off the street just took it too far."

"Right. And Melody came out of her trance, maybe with the help of your dad's ghost or having been possessed by the priestess you called?"

"Francisca."

"Yes, Francisca, who you believe made you a black witch by giving you a bath in that same, enchanted, old fashioned bathtub."

"Right."

"But the enchanted bathtub didn't work on Melody because, why?"

"Well, it did work, to a degree. It's just that the spell needed a boost."

"A boost."

"Yes Glory, a boost. I had to bring her back to the cemetery where Leanne and Randy and all the other people he killed are buried."

"Well why not back to the actual scene of the crime, the school?"

"Because when I drove her by it, I saw they'd demolished it. So the cemetery was the next best thing."

"Sure. That makes sense. And then?"

"And that's when she snapped out of it, when she saw my gun."

Victria finished her beer. Glory pulled another from the ice, opened it, switched Victria's straw into the new bottle, and set it before her. 

"But it all backfired." She said as she put Victria's empty bottle back in the cooler.

"I guess. answered Victria, looking away, "I'm sure. She's gone."

"Yes, but she's free. She's aware, mentally stable, relatively speaking, I'd guess, and free."

Victria drank down a third of her second beer and said: 

"I guess."

As a new silence filled the space between them, they drank in turn. Eventually, Glory prepared to clean her fire arm. Laying out a fresh white cotton T-shirt, she placed her weapon and her cleaning tools upon it. She also took out Victria's .357 and assessed its damage. Her .45 round had snapped the barrel clean off and its cylinder had snapped across the middle. It could have been worse, she thought, thankful that the concussion wound on the side of Victria's face was limited to some bruising and a few small fragments of steel.

"So you are, really, a bounty hunter," Victria asked as she watched Glory dismantle her gun in a matter of two seconds, "and you run Pam's restaurant for extra cash, or something?"

Discerningly aloof, Glory considered her captive for a moment, and answered:

"Something like that."

Brow furrowed, Victria studied her mysterious captor as she degreased, wiped and freshly oiled the parts of her .45.

"Tell me something." Glory asked after a time, "Were you really going to shoot yourself?"

Victria glanced at her and answered:

"Yes. No. I don't know. I guess I was hoping you would actually shoot me."

"Really?"

"No. No. I know you wouldn't have done it."

"How'd you know?"

Victria met her gaze, smiled and winced.

"Because you're a fucking pussy." She answered.

Glory gave her the finger as she took another sip of her beer.

"Dude, what if I have to piss?" asked Victria.

"Then you'll piss right there." Glory answered.

"And what if I have to shit?"

"Then you'll shit right there."

"Glory, come on. You know the scene. I can't switch like that. It'll kill me."

"No it won't. You'll be fine."

"Why are you scening me woman? I haven't consented to this."

"I told you. You are a threat to yourself and that makes you a threat to me. So, you will be bound until I know you can keep yourself safe." 

"Can I have a cigarette at least?"

"Nope. But you can have as much beer as you want and I can feed you."

"Yeah, but I have to piss and shit myself."

"Right."

"What the fuck Glory, that's not fair."




The Brand Ch. 15



"Yes it is. I know you want help."

"Shut up. No I don't."

"Yes you do. And I tried to help you through the spiritual path."

"Oh Christ, please."

"But, since that didn't work-"

"I wouldn't say it didn't work."

"Since that didn't work, I've decided to take a different tact."

"And stalking me was part of this, tact."

"Yep. And getting you to submit to me, to break you down, that will turn you into the human being you ought to be. You will be humbled. I will teach you to be a good slave."

Victria's eyes went wide.

"Glory, you are doing this against my will."

"Am I? Think about how you feel tomorrow morning, then bring that up again. Are you ready for another beer?"

Victria sighed, then winced because the air she breathed in made the wound in her lower lip sting.

"Yes please." She answered.

As the night wore on, Victria guzzled eight beers and two shots, and urinated four times in her jeans, before deciding she wanted to sober up with some food. Too drunk and tried to resist or fight about it, Victria accepted chip after chip from Glory's gentle fingers. The candy bars, Victria's captor had cut, with her pocket knife, into chunks, taking half the morsels for herself. Eventually, Glory moved her by the bed, so that Victria could suffer through a Full House marathon while Glory secured all the weapons and ammunition and got dressed into her sleeping clothes.

"Look She-Hulk," Victria said groggily in the brutal blue light of the room's TV, "I have to shit. Do you seriously want me to do it right here?"

Glory paused in the midst of turning down the bed. Victria observed the tall woman thinking it over.

"I mean really sister," she continued, "It'll be like we never left Greely.

"Hmm," said Glory, "Greely was pretty awful. You're right. Just let me get a collar and a longer chain."

"Collar?"

It was mortifying enough, to have to shit in front of Glory, to have her see the scars, fissures and ugly patches of red of her lower legs. Though, being drunk and dejected certainly made such feelings somewhat less impacting. But to be collared, to have an inch wide, quarter inch thick, ring of steel around her neck, and having had it fit on her by another domme, made it all the worse. It was the principle of it, the symbolic obdurateness of her enslavement that agonized Victria far more than being seen conducting herself with private matters. Where did this amazon bitch come from, she wondered. It was the strangest feeling she'd ever known. But, the role was reversed. All of it was strange. All of it was bad. Consent to this bull shit, she thought. Of course I won't consent to this. When morning comes, we will part company and that's all there will be to it. 

Still held at the end of Glory's chain, Victria was forced to shower herself off, and then instructed to dress for bed. She did. Glory then brought her back to the bathroom so that she could pee one last time that night, and then brush her teeth. Victria did as she was bid. The collar, however, was not removed from Victria's neck. And, as if that wasn't enough, Glory hand cuffed both of her wrists to one of her own. Bound, they got into bed. With her free hand, Glory turned out the light. They were back to back, Victria's wrists linked to Glory's right arm, a short length of chain draped between them. Glory tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. Victria had not moved. Then, an hour or so later, Victria whispered: 

"What did you do with my dolls?" 

"I locked them away in your gun safe." Glory whispered back, "The pins that were in your legs, I threw into the trash."

Again, silence reigned between them. Outside, traffic sped and slowed, lives were lived lustfully or lingered on, day to day to day. Somewhere in the world, a child was turning eight or an eighty year old woman was dreaming of her children, the pain of her oncoming death made mute with morphine. Glory had begun to drift. But, there was a new sound, a soft keening, so like a child and so close. Glory turned herself around. A moment more and she heard Victria's sniffling. Glory reached around and touched Victria's hot, wet face. She whiled away the next moment, wiping the tears from her captive's eyes. 

Sobbing, Victria turned to huddle against Glory's chest. There, she drove her face deep and screamed her pain and wept her tears. Over and over Victria screamed, screamed for Melody. But, Melody she couldn't have. Love, for the moment, she wouldn't have. Glory embraced her despairing captive, held her close and gently stroked her hair. Victria's sobbing wore on, broken up only by intermittent mutterings, growls, mumblings and helpless screams until she, finally, was spent. In the darkness, the two women remained chained to each other. Presently, the whole world was silent and, breaking it, but only with the barest, sweetest of whispers, Glory said:

"Anything we do is to distract us from loss, from death, anything and everything."

7

Melody, against her mother's behest, took a walk into town and sat at a bus stop across the street from where Bear Lake Elementary once stood. The structure, built in 2005, had been leveled to the ground. What remained was nine thousand square feet of budding lawn.

She'd stepped out of the house after three days of hiding in her room, the room she shared with her mother. They'd spoken frankly to each other, shared, confessed and cried. Dean had walked in that first early evening of Melody's return, stunned speechless. He'd come upon the two, still seated together in the kitchen, speaking in hushed voices, the broken plate, chops, peas and potatoes still all over the floor. The three then regarded one another, the weight of the silence getting heavier by the second, until Dean lifted his daughter's chin and asked:

"How you in that head a yours Mel?"

Meeting his eyes, she answered:

"I'm here, Daddy, I'm here."

With that, Dean let his daughter's chin go. Then, both she and Martha studied the man as he went to the corner where his wife kept the broom and proceeded to sweep up the scattered mess on the floor. Martha started to protest, started to get on her feet, but Melody put a hand on her mother's arm, glanced at her father, and then told her mother to sit back down.

As slow traffic passed in and out across her field of vision, Melody watched as her memory put Bear Lake Elementary back together. Somehow, however it happened, where ever she'd been, Melody was now able to piece memory together without getting stuck on seeing Leanne running to her, Leanne running and grabbing hold of her leg, running down the hall and Leanne falling down, staring at her, never to run or play or anything ever again. 

She remembered that it was Dean that had told her to just get up and walk out of there. It was Martha that had met her outside, crying, taking a cold wet wash cloth and wiping someone else's blood from her face. She remembered that an EMT had run up to her, sliced her jeans, just above where she was bleeding, looked at the wound, taped gauze to it, and then ran back into the school. Dean and Martha still took her to the hospital. She remembered being on a table, not hearing anything, staring at people in scrubs around her, coming in and going out of the room. 

Someone dressed well, like a lawyer, came into the room and tried to talk to her, but she couldn't hear him. Melody just wanted it quiet for a while, quiet outside of her head at least, so that maybe screams and the crying and the gun going off over and over would quiet down too. Still, days later, she still wanted it quiet, but it wouldn't come. 

At the end of those three days, school staff and parents got together to talk to the psychologist from the district and the Methodist minister from the church on Dalton and 1st Street. It was there, in the church's community hall, that Melody took the first steps away from the useless talk of small people about the big, beneficent, far away God and all of his big preordained plans for us all and how things would hurt less and less if we talked it out and if we believed. So she walked back home, packed some of the few things she did believe in, threw it all on her back, rode her bike to the bank, took out all of her money, left her bike behind the bank and walked away from Bear Lake.

"You know there's gotta be at least twenty houses in this town with little kids bedrooms, untouched, while their families just get along the best they can."

Melody turned to see a lanky, dark haired woman her own age, standing just beyond the far end of the bus stop bench. She was a familiar stranger, dressed in a neat blouse, pressed slacks and a dark rimmed pair of glasses obscuring her face. As she stared, Melody had a memory she hadn't recalled in nearly three years. She was walking past The Second Cup on her way out of town. She saw Dory seeing her through the shop's window. But Melody hadn't seen Dory pause that day, start crying and then run to the Second Cup's door. Melody had heard it's bell jangle, but didn't turn around. She'd known Dory was behind her, standing outside the shop, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do while someone that had loved her briefly was hurting so bad that she just started walking away from all she'd known.

"Welcome home." Said Dory, "Is it good to be back?"

Melody shifted her gaze and let it fall to the passing traffic.

"Or are you waiting on a bus to get right back out of here?"

"Fuck the bus." Answered Melody, "I'd likely just start walking away all over again."

"Oh would you now?"

"Hell no. How are you?"

Dory sat down at the opposite end of the bench and settled her gaze on the flat expanse across the street.

"I'm alright. I'm still at the Second Cup, only now I manage people slinging coffee. I quit weed, fixed my car, bought a nicer car, met a nice Mexican girl out Loveland way and I got this apartment up on Red Stream."

Melody smiled slightly, felt it fade, and then fixed her own gaze across the street.

"I can't imagine how any of those families can still be here." Continued Dory, "The rest just up and left. I would have done the same, if it were my kids I lost anyway."

Cars. Passed. Pedestrians strolled. Birds sang and flit from branch to branch.

"So where'd you end up running away to?" asked Dory.

Melody turned to face her, let her gaze linger for a few seconds, and then looked back across the street. Then, laughing ironically, she answered:

"It wouldn't be fair to you, to even start. I wouldn't know where to start. I, I-"

Melody swung her hand before her, gesturing to have an explanation just drop right into her hand. She paused, settling her hands back onto her lap and said:

"I hid. I interrupted my life to, to live for someone else, and now-"

Again, she paused. Dory waited, watching the side of Melody's face until the pause had lasted so long that she looked to her left, up the west bound side of Main Street. .

"Now, I'm free." Melody finally said, "I'm free. And I'm, trapped here, being free."

Dory regarded her, took off her glasses, and then tucked them into her shirt pocket.

"You're not trapped." She said, "You just don't know what to do with being free."

Melody studied Dory's face for a moment, and then turned once more to face the school that was no longer there. Presently, a jogger, a man in his late thirties Melody thought she recognized, was running along the sidewalk that ran across the front of the place where Bear Lake Elementary once stood.

Now you see there," said Dory as they watched the man increase his speed, "That's Ron Jacobs, little Danny's dad. He and his wife Irene, they're two of those people that never left town and keep their boy's room exactly the way it was before he died."

"He was a first grader." Melody said distantly.

"Yeah, that's right. Anyway, his room, it must be like a shrine. I mean, why else do it. I don't know. I can't know and frankly, I never want to know. Now that guy, he runs each and every day. I guess he and Irene started this foundation to promote stricter adherence to Child Find, I don't know, some way to find bad kids before they get worse. So they get people all over to donate and run in these marathons. Sometimes, I see him through the coffee shop's window and he's crying when he runs by."

Melody watched him pass in front of the empty grounds across the way, and then watched him disappear into the distance.

"But that's the thing." Dory continued, "It doesn't matter how far you run or where you run to or whether you stay right by your ground zero. He, his wife, everyone that was there-"

Dory paused, became teary eyed and turned to meet Melody's gaze.

"You," She said, "will always be haunted. So what do you do? You keep the ghosts. You do what you're supposed to do, what you want to do in the world, and you, keep the ghosts."

Melody considered Dory for a time, turned to look back across the street and considered the future memorial park or new school, and then got to her feet. Dory rose too. The women embraced, exchanged polite wishes and intentions to visit more in the future, and then parted company.

Melody made her way back home, stopping at the Pigly to buy some sweet, terribly unhealthy confection. Having noticed in the mirror in her old room, and as her mother had pointed out, she'd become thin as a rail. An appetite, she decided, was in order. An appetite was good. Absently, she walked the half mile along the cracked sidewalk of Juniper Road. She delighted in the sweet flavor and soft textures of her snack as she admired the tall Ponderosa and Lodge pole pines, the Balsam Poplars and Peach leaf Willows that stood guard along the street. 

How had I lost so much weight, she wondered. What in the world had she done to me? What was the last thing I remember? Melody cringed. Her stomach soured as she remembered the men with their masked faces and their big guns bursting through the front door, the door she'd opened for them. Victria, she must have punished me for that. Melody wanted to remember, wanted to understand, to be sure of one thing or another concerning where she'd been between the end of December and those three days ago, three and a half months later, in the cemetery on Gamble Oak Hill. I was bound to her, she thought. She was my, my queen. I loved her. She told me to leave the world. 

A heat suddenly came into Melody's eyes. She shook her head and neatly folded the packaging around her remaining cupcake. She willed herself away from any further thought for the moment, admiring the trees, listening to the breeze playing with the leaves overhead, the birds singing and she glanced in the windows of the houses along the street, wondering which ones held shrines to lost children.

And then she was there. It had never been an incongruous home. It looked like all the others, painted wood siding, two stories, screens in the windows, a wide front door, with columns on either side holding up a small peaked roof. But, now, the Allwine house was boarded up, its door, its windows, even those of the second floor. Someone had gone to the trouble. 

Melody had clipped the article and pasted it into her diary, how they found Randy's first victims: his father, Randolph Senior, dead, face down at the dining room table, a nine millimeter hollow point slug fired into the back of his head; Virginia Allwine, found on the short set of stairs that led out to the garage, shopping bags and their spilled contents cluttered around her body, a total of six shots fired from the same gun. Randy had fired the first from behind, hit her on the side of the neck. Maybe he was shaking. It was his mother after all. Then she likely turned to face him. Later, a psychologist would write of their fights, Virginia's denial, Randy's refusal to take his Prozac and Virginia's entreaties: "Just kill me then Randy, just kill me then."

They, maybe kids in their twenties, drunk, faking up a witch hunt, had set the place inside on fire. Or, maybe it were the heads of the families of the children Randy killed, maybe some of the teachers that survived, that lived in town, that burned the guts of the house, after the police took the bodies, took all the knives, ninja stars, ammunition and guns Randolph Senior his son begged for. Sure Randy. Just be a good boy for me and Mom, okay? Yes Dad, I promise. I promise.

"Mom?" called Melody, having dried her eyes just before she walked into the house.

She found them in the kitchen, sharing that day's paper, talking, close, their intimacy strange to her, unfamiliar yet provoking a feeling that wasn't all together unpleasant. 

"Hi baby." Smiled Martha, "How did it go?"

"It, was okay." Melody said, "What do they plan on building where the school was?"

"A library, I think." Dean uttered softly, his elbows on the table, his eyes cast down at the local news page.

"A man stopped by for you." Indicated Martha.

""A man." Said Melody, confused, "What man?"

"Well, I don't know." Said Martha, glancing away, "But he seemed kind enough, said he had a delivery for you."

"Did he leave it?"

"No. He said he'd be back with it."

It was then that the knock came on the old dry wood of the screen door. Melody stood still. Martha got up, meaning to answer it. Melody followed. Together, they went to the door. Melody found herself looking at a man she didn't know.

"Ms. Melody May?" he asked with a smile as he looked at her through the screen.

Melody paused, considering the man's soft southern drawl.

"Yes," she answered.

Then she heard a dog yipping and barking excitedly from inside a car that was parked on the street.

"I've got your dog in the car." Said the man as he walked a few steps backward before turning around.

"Dog? I don't have, a dog." Said Melody as she stepped onto the front porch.

The man went to the rear passenger door, opened it and out sprinted a little black tornado with leopard spots on his back. His mouth in a wide smile, he cried with longing as he jumped against Melody's knees, taking her off guard and knocking her to the porch floor.

"Mel honey," laughed Martha, "how can that not be your dog?"

Melody, perplexed, laughed delightedly as the dog licked her face and nuzzled his nose under her chin, filling his nose with her scent. Finally, he calmed down and settled on her lap. Melody studied him, bemused, concerned, and positively certain she had never before known such a dog.

"Sir," she said, "I don't know this dog."

"But the lady that left him at my kennel back in Georgia said he was your dog." 

"I," Melody stuttered, "What's, what's his name?"

"Spanky, Ma'am." The man answered, "And the lady, her name was, uh, Victoria, something." 

"Victria." Melody corrected, "Victria."

8

Another hard winter had rolled around for the North Country. In fact, it was a hard winter for all of the country, and if two or more feet of snow hadn't fallen, then it was record inches of rain that had overwhelmed folks, rushing floods, drowning houses and cars, mud sliding, burying the living alive. The land, a handsome hundred acre lot, was Victria's. Like her first home, she'd paid up outright, in cash. The owner had each bill checked for counterfeits. You never knew people, especially these artsy whack jobs. Sixty thousand in cash, really? The land was pristine, a small valley nestled in the foothills of the Green Mountains, a bend of river elbowing into its North West corner.

Victria had built a cabin on the property, learning how to execute such an undertaking with Glory as her guide. The beautiful giant of a woman, had become many things for Victria, her teacher, spiritual advisor, gun range partner, her protector and friend. Their love had become that of two sisters, open, vital and dependable. Victria could do nothing but admire the woman's persistent devotion and focused attention. Together, over the summer months, they labored effortlessly, usually in contented silence. After Victria had a contractor pour its foundation, dig out the septic leech fields, drop the tank and install the ground water pump, the two women framed the cabin out, framed out its four rooms and erected its walls.