The Brand Ch. 08

"Nope." She announced finally.

Then she waited in her darkness, braced for the potential slap, happy to be free of the gag, comforted by the thought that, one way or another, her time with Geralynne would soon be over.

"So that's how you're going to play it?" said Geralynne, "Fine. I'll just keep what I know to myself."

"And what could you possibly know beyond what my records tell you?" Melody asked.

"You'd be surprised." Sighed Geralynne.

"Would I?"

A silence settled then. Minutes passed, Geralynne remaining right where she was.

"I might have come across a clipping." Geralynne continued finally.

Melody's face paled, at least what was visible below the scarf. A clipping could be available. Now, in today's world, even old small town news never died. Melody couldn't help the tears then, the water still dripping from Geralynne's shower onto her head.

"Please don't upset my mistress." She keened, "I love her. Don't make her send me away. Please Geralynne; don't let her know. I want to tell her. I need to tell her. Please."

5

Irregardless of recessional threat, it is imperative that we pitch to our clients that they keep their marketing budgets as they are for the following reasons. To have the greatest advantage over our competitors, we should refocus sales efforts to convince most if not all of our clients to adopt the strategy that has clearly put Jet Burger in safe fiscal shape. I'll give you a recipe for success: That's it baby; a little this, a little that, bring it to a boil and let it simmer. Then, voila! Eat it Cheevers; choke on it you smarmy old bastard! Number one: If it becomes necessary to reduce the total advertising budget, the core products that contribute to revenue will still need aggressive advertisement.

"Mira."

"What?"

If it is deemed necessary to pull from the advertising budget, fringe, loss generating products can be discontinued.

"Damn girl, I mean Mistress," said Yazmina from the foot of Victria's chaise, "How can you concentrate on work while you have the sexiest Rican this side of San Juan taking care of your little dedos de las pies?"

Victria glanced up from her laptop screen, and took in Geralynne's fiery little Latina; naked, legs crossed, hands busy sanding and brushing her former mistress's toe nails.

"Why look through a magazine when you can get some shit done?" Victria answered, "Besides; how do you know I'm working?"

"Shit; it ain't gotta be a magazine." Said Yazmina, "You could be reading fucking Fyodor Dostoyevsky. And I know you're working because that's all you ever did when we were together."

Victria stopped typing before looking up again.

"Fyodor Dostoyevsky?" she said; suspicion in her tone.

"Yeah," Yazmina answered with an edge of sarcasm, "You know:Notes From Underground, Crime And Punishment, The Idiot, Demons, The House Of The Dead, A Gentle Creature-"

"Hold on a minute." Victria interrupted; raising a hand, "Did; did you read all those?"

"Hell yes Mistress! Geralynne made me read them all."

"And;" Victria said with a slight smile, "what did you think?"

Yazmina stopped mid stroke with her emery board, pouted, leveled her own suspicious gaze at her mistress and shrugged.

"They sucked." She said finally, and then returned to her work.

Victria lingered an assessing eye around Yazmina's face for a few seconds more before she too went back to work. She'd found it somewhat charming, that her former slave had become a reader of literature, even if it was only to please her new mistress. Moving on then, she thought; gazing into her laptop's screen: explore low-cost advertising models including social media and internet; allowing for the reduction or total elimination of paper and television media from the budget. Victria paused again, her fingers hovering gently over the keys. Eighteen grand, she mused; that's one Hell of a rental fee. It was all for charity baby! Sure, charity; eighteen thousand dollars for two nights with my little Spanish minx here. You got your money's worth. Did I? Well; if you hadn't gotten sick last night. Victria and Yazmina had drunk together. It was just another one of the activities that had bound them in the past, as much as it led to their ultimate undoing. The domme's retching of the night before was yet another reminder of how stupid she could be; as if she hadn't known already. But, there had been pressure: Simon's bull shit, his freak accident, dealing with the police, getting her gun back, installing the gun safe in the bedroom without Melody being the wiser, and then dealing with Cheevers and the board of directors. The dream, not entirely a surprise that it had come, was the reminder that there would always be someone, something, much greater than Victria that would always have her under its total, supreme, control. Sure, she'd survived that day, while Simon had been smited by the world. Sure, she still had Melody and she was still intelligent and shrewd enough to draft and sell her marketing function proposal to the board. So why not celebrate a little? Why not give up just a little control? Again, Victria stopped typing, and then glanced up at her slave. Eighteen grand, she mused again. Yazmina was contentedly buffing the last of her domme's toes. For that much money, I should get to keep her. I trained her. She's as good as mine. We could be a happy little family; me and my little flock. Then, checking the time in the laptop's system tray, she said:

"You're right."

Victria set her laptop on the floor beside her. Yazmina peered up from between two draped wings of her shimmering red hair.

"I'm wasting quality time and money. Let's have some fun, shall we?"

"Yes Mami." Yazmina answered with a smile.

"Alright then. Fuck my big toe."

That was the thing about Yazmina. Even during her training, she never frowned or winced at a command. She'd even let herself get shat upon by her former domme. It wasn't something Victria often reflected on. Giving hot lunches was never among her preferred methods of degradation. But, they were drunk at the time, she'd already yellow showered Yazmina, and she had to go number two anyway, so it just sort of happened.

Yazmina went immediately to task. Setting her things aside, she slid off the end of the chaise, settled onto her knees, and then proceeded to lavish Victria's toes with her tongue. Presently, the domme could feel the slave moaning against the toes she'd sucked inside her mouth. Victria knew Yazmina wasn't really that excited about eating her feet. It was more a technique the slave employed to increase her mistress's pleasure. And that it did; the vibration adding nicely to the lulling massage of Yazmina's strong tongue. Victria had totally succumbed to her skill, but was alert as soon as she'd stopped. Eyes open again, she watched as her slave stood up, raised her left leg up onto the chaise, and then lowered her slick pink pussy down onto Victria's left big toe. Mesmerized, Victria watched as Yazmina massaged the rest of the foot with her right hand and manipulate her clitoris with her left index finger; rolling slow circles against its swollen red glory. She let the slave go for a time, just until her breathing began to quicken, and said:

"Stop. Very nice. Now suck it clean."

Yazmina did so, and then, pouting beautifully, the slave slowly crawled back up onto the chaise and said:

"Mami, Mistress; I beg you. Whip me; please?"

"Geralynne doesn't whip you enough?" asked Victria as a new heat began to seethe inside her sex.

Yazmina's long red hair obscured the sight of her kissing and nibbling her way up the other's knees and thighs. Still dressed, in skin hugging yellow orange bike shorts and black wool sweater, Victria looked on as the slave's mass of hair covered her lap. Then, reaching gentle fingers into Yazmina's hair, Victria heard and felt her slave's hot breath making her pussy all the warmer.

"No," said Yazmina; looking up suddenly as she pushed the hair from her face, "She just ties me up and leaves me in the dark for a while, hours, and sometimes whole nights."

"Have you asked her to whip you?"

"Once."

"And what happened?"

Yazmina sat up and shrugged.

"It was just a beating." She said; her sad eyes searching Victria's, "Nothing special; it just hurt, punishment with no substance."

"Substance." Repeated Victria as she brushed Yazmina's hair away from her face.

"Yes," Yazmina said; smiling warmly as she crept closer to Victria's face, "No substance, no feeling, no Surge of passion; nothing at all like you. Geralynne? She thinks she can bring the Raskolnikov out of me. She wants to see my mental anguish, my moral dilemma."

"And Geralynne's intention is to see that happen," said Victria as Yazmina began to trail her hair, nose and lips along her domme's jaw, "After you've been bound in the dark long enough?"

Yazmina paused. Nose to nose, breathing each other in, and their eyes glazed with arousal, a kiss was dangerously near inevitability.

"She thinks my good deeds," breathed Yazmina onto Victria's lips, "My confessions, my begging for mercy and my pleas for repentance, will counter balance my crimes."

"Your crimes? What crimes?"

Yazmina simply stared for a moment, and then wagged her head slightly before finally looking away. Victria eased her head back, signaling that Yazmina should keep her lips a respectable distance. She began to wonder then, as the slave lifted the sweater that was hiding her breasts, what recollections she had of that novel written by the famous Russian author. Gratification and punishment; contemptible motives and contemptible society; it was certainly the stuff of their lives, scening, humiliation, impact play, playing for keeps. Victria looked down then to watch Yazmina as she lovingly mouthed her soft white breasts and lapped at her morsel nipples, and waited for the woman's answer. But still, no answer came. Instead, Yazmina rose once more to approach Victria's lips and said:

"Whip me Mami; please? Do me right; I beg you."

Victria gazed expressionlessly at her slave for a few seconds before looking down to check the time read out of her laptop. Then, a slight smirk dancing at the sides of her mouth, she looked back at Yazmina and answered:

"I have a better idea."

Victria was quite proud of herself. She made great slaves in deed. That's why Yazmina attended to every last thing she was told without even a second's fuss, and that's why she hadn't even blinked at the notion of the proposed scene. Perhaps she would take her back. After all, Geralynne should be training her own slave from scratch. A woman of her means and talents, she'd do well enough.

Yazmina had showered, left her hair wet, as instructed, and bound it in an equally drenched towel. Meanwhile, Victria was attending to other tasks; preparing the barn. Yazmina was flattered to be immortalized through the artistic lens of her domme's mind and hand, though she was less than pleased to have to run across the back yard, naked in the snow, her hair wet and bound in a towel, in order to make it happen.

Once inside, she saw that all the work along the walls was covered by yards and yards of drop cloth. In the center of the lighted, and thankfully heated room, was a Saint Andrew's, or X framed, cross. Set on each side of the frame's base, were two five gallon pails of water. The cross, manacles and all, had obviously been dowsed. Victria stood to the right of the cross, beside a high legged table, with wheels at its feet. Then, further to the right, against the wall, stood a fire extinguisher and a cardboard box full of dry towels.

Yazmina approached, still shivering from the brisk walk to the barn, her arms wrapped about herself. Victria, her own hair soaked and bound back in a severe bun, was dressed in high leather boots, skimpy Kevlar panties and a black Kevlar boostiea. Atop the table beside her were placed a variety of items: bottles, jars, sticks, whips and books of matches.

Yazmina regarded her domme. Victria beckoned her closer. The slave went immediately to the cross, turned, and then stood against it. Victria went about securing her slave's wrists, and then her ankles. That completed, the domme took her slave's towel from her head, and then draped it over her own shoulders. Next, Victria took a can of hair mouse, shook it, and then carefully sprayed enough to cover Yazmina's very erect nipples. Satisfied, she stepped back to the table, set the mouse down, and then picked up a roll of black duct tape and her camera. Victria's eyes never left Yazmina as she wandered back and forth before her and finally settled on a spot. Then the demonstrative artist stepped forward, looked into her camera and framed the shot. Again satisfied, Victria marked the spot with the tape, returned the tape to the table, and then took up one of the matches. Yazmina then watched her domme slink to the light switch and flick it off. Swallowed in darkness, the slave listened for Victria's approach. But, there was only silence. Then, more silence still. Yazmina, blind, turned her head left, then right, and then closed her eyes and relaxed. She'd played this game before with Geralynne, at least the wait in the dark game. Then she shuddered in surprise as she felt a moist slithering between her vulva's lips. Following close behind was Victria's murmured laughter. Again, Yazmina relaxed under the luxurious weight of Victria's tongue, under her slick fingers, and then the lovely little vibe that Geralynne had gotten her, the expensive Vulvanator. In the next instant, there was a sudden flash of light as Victria sparked the match to life against her teeth. Quickly, she set Yazmina's nipples aflame, and then hurried back to her marked spot.

"Don't smile." Said Victria just before she snapped the shot.

The session continued for an hour or so more, though there would be only one photograph. Yazmina had been disappointed. But, she'd get over it. That's what good subs did. They got over their disappointment. They got over their pain. Yazmina's pain, at first, was delicate; small sparkles of dazzling inside her eyes, inside her dripping sex. Victria had sprayed and ignited shape after shape upon the slave's breasts, belly and thighs. Yazmina certainly wasn't cold anymore. The warmth, the heat, came in waves and splashes, like a playful bath. Then, Victria had begun to drum fiery tipped mallets against her captive, willing, body. Yazmina watched the flames in fearful awe as her sex kindled and sparked, its joy fanned hotter and hotter. Then there came the whips. Victria approached her with a Kevlar flog in each hand; their tips blazing with blue fire.

"Geralynne knows that we've gotten together outside of scening at the club, doesn't she?"

"Huh? What? No!"

Her look said it all. Yazmina was caught off guard, lulled by the pleasure that Victria had induced. Then it came, the first wicked lash; across her thighs, her body jolting like a victim of cardiac arrest, forcing a sudden scream of pain.

"Just say it." Demanded Victria; poised to whip again, "She knows."

"Wait! Mistress; please!"

The barn's interior was still in darkness. Yazmina's breathing had suddenly sped considerably, her eyes wide, her mouth cringing. Again, came the flaming whip. Under other circumstances, Yazmina would have taken it loose, grateful for its impact. But, now, she made her body go rigid and screamed in fear, and in pain as the blazing knife of fire cut down across her belly.

"Yes!" she bellowed, sobbing, "Yes, yes, yes! Now please stop Mistress, please!"

Victria paced the floor, her pale skin tinged blue inside the fire light, her two gleaming aluminum handled whips raised up at her sides. Yazmina watched her, feared the bewitched goddess of her, and dared not to look away from her furious face. Anger wasn't normally worn well among women. Victria though; Victria made rage look exquisite.

"So then," she said, "What were Geralynne's intentions for my slave during our little swap?"

Yazmina closed her eyes briefly, and then wagged her head spasmodically, realizing with the motion that her hair had become very, very, dry.

"I can't tell-"

Not telling, it seemed, wasn't acceptable. Again, Yazmina screamed and writhed in pain, the constriction on her wrists and ankles not comparing at all to the cuts that opened along her upper arms. Then there came the smell of burning hair. She screamed, shook violently, wept and begged for mercy. And Victria, ultimately, had been merciful. She'd smothered the fire. Then she asked the question again, thinking that she would finally get her answer. After all, like most women, Yazmina wanted to keep her long, luxurious hair.

6

The agreement was that the transfer, at the end of their slave exchange, would occur in a public place. Victria left it up to Geralynne. She chose a Super Shopper; competitive pricing, local produce, a large health food section, a wide selection of pre-prepared meals and the best in-house bakery. Geralynne was thinking practically, having chosen her preferred supermarket and a store location that was equidistant from her penthouse address in the city and Victria's affluent neighborhood. Additionally, the activity of shopping itself not only satisfied the need to get her week's groceries, but also served as a means for she and Yazmina to have a sort of after-after care, to debrief and spend some quality, public, time together.

Melody was absently sifting through a bin of string beans; their fresh fuzz long gone, her expression distant and hopeful. Geralynne was standing beside her shopping cart, her thumbs busily writing a text on her iPhone. Neither woman had noticed Victria's and Yazmina's approach. Anticipating her mistress's arrival, Melody happened to look up to see them first. She gasped loudly, dropped the string beans she was holding, and then covered her mouth in horror. Geralynne immediately looked up, her jaw slack, her eyes staring widely as she suddenly lost her grip on her phone and let it fall to the floor. Victria, her face the usual picture of unreadable imperturbability, was slowly pushing her carriage with her forearms against the handle. Yazmina was walking behind her and to the right; dressed in the same green pumps and forest green dress she'd worn to the charity Christmas auction, the overhead lighting illuminating the top of her bald head.

"Oh my God, what the fuck did you do?" hissed Geralynne as she quickly dropped to retrieve her phone.

"What?" said Victria as she looked over some broccoli, "The bald thing? Well; I can assure you that she consented to it by her own free will."

Yazmina looked away, clenched her fists, and then muttered something in Spanish. Melody was still by the bin of string beans, wide eyed, a hint of a smile playing behind her hands. Victria glanced at her, then did her own double take; suddenly aware that there appeared to be an ugly red rash from Melody's forehead and to the tip of her nose.

"And what the Hell is that?" asked Victria; gesturing toward Melody with her chin.

"I just blind folded her." Answered Geralynne as she shrugged and pocketed her phone, "You know I'm into sensory deprivation. I just had no idea she'd have an allergic reaction to the poly cotton blend I did it with."

"Really."

"Sure. I mean she could have told me at any time that the scarf was itchy."

"Sure, if I didn't have a ball gag in my mouth the whole time." Said Melody, her back facing Geralynne.

The doctor's eyes darted in her direction, to Yazmina and her shining hairless head, and then to Victria. Victria leveled her gaze and took in the succession of emotions and calculations in Geralynne's eyes, rapid and mechanical like the accelerated film of maggots devouring the corpse of a mouse.

"Right; the ball gag." Geralynne said.

"Jesus Christ Tucker."