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.