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.