The Brand Ch. 08

"No, no, no Charpentier! Where the Hell is Yazmina's hair?"

"It sort of went; up in smoke. Right Yazmina?"

Furious, but controlled, Yazmina nodded.

"Mistress did not burn the scalp." She said; her voice wavering with emotion, "She just shaved the rest off during her after care. The hair will grow back a half inch each month. My other burns and cuts were treated with plenty of aloe-"

"Other burns and cuts!" blurted Geralynne.

Yazmina paused, looked away from her mistress, and then said:

"We indulged in fire play; Mistress."

"We; indulged?" Geralynne repeated.

"Slave?" said Victria; gesturing at Melody again with her chin, "Take this cart and go fetch our favorites at the deli counter, and see if you can find a nice Baggett."

"Yes Mistress." Melody answered, hopping to it.

Her head bowed, Yazmina went to Geralynne. They spoke in quick, hush tones, and then the domme's slave set off down the aisle. Geralynne spent a few seconds watching her leave before turning back around to gravely regard Victria as she slowly advanced.

"What do you know?" asked Victria.

"I know nothing." Geralynne hissed.

"Bull shit." Victria growled, "What crime did she commit?"

"Only the guilt that still lives in her heart."

"And that's not a private thing, to keep to herself, but something you wanted to torture out of her? Did she even give you consent?"

"Of course not! How could I have surprised her and struck fear if I got her consent?"

I'll strike you with fear; bitch. Incensed, Victria glanced down both ends of the aisle, seeing that a sudden flux of shoppers began to casually meander around them. She'd reached her right hand into the inside left pocket of her coat, where she had stowed the .380 the police had handed back to her that incomprehensible afternoon. He, the lead dectective that had shown up, was a kind faced older man, and she saw the bewildered conflict in his eyes; she could have shot him in the head, sure, but there was no way in Hell she could have got this big old branch to fall on this poor chump's head. He, the detective, Sergeant Mangiafico, had another look, a look that said he didn't trust this young lady for anything.

Really; you spent the morning shooting at a range with this guy? You work together, executives at the same marketing firm; right. And your gun was in his pocket because; you knew that he was going to blackmail you with the fact that you watch your lesbian lover back at home through your tablet while on the job. So, not having outed at work, you threatened him with your weapon out of desperation and fear for yourself and to protect your lover's honor, right, but he made you realized that you were trapped and that all you could do was let him; have his way with you. Okay; I got it. We're going to take your gun, for now. Why don't you give your information to the officer right here, and then you may leave the scene. Are you sure you're okay? Oh, and here; take my card. If you think of anything else you forgot to tell me, just call.

"I whipped your mare with fire." Victria whispered to Geralynne as shoppers filed past them, "I convinced her to tell me the truth, my way. I won't be seeing her anymore, by the way. As for my girl, and as for you trying to murder even just a little part of her, trying to cut that little piece of guilt out for yourself; that was never going to happen. Melody is too smart, and to mine, for that."

"Oh but your kind of murder," Geralynne intoned, "Is permissible because it's in pursuit of a higher purpose; right Victria?"

Victria realized that her hand was still on the loaded, chambered, weapon inside her coat, her thumb clicking the safety off and on, off and on. So, she thought, Mangiafico's been asking around. She leveled a gaze at Geralynne, her expression vacillating between contempt, confidence and suspicion.

"I've committed no crime; Geralynne." She said as she searched the doctor's eyes.

"Sure Victria." Geralynne snidely spoke, "You think you're so untouchable because you only hurt to a point. The fact is; you still play games. And, sooner or later, you're going to be playing games with the wrong people. Be careful with your love Victria. It blinds. You can't watch your own back when you can't protect yourself on all sides."

With that, Geralynne wheeled her cart around, and set off in pursuit of her slave. Victria remained where she was for a moment. A whirl of thoughts twisted inside her head. She scanned the rows of fruits and vegetables laid out around her, focusing on their bright colors and lustrous sheens. She thought of what she'd done to Yazmina. I'm not a bad domme. We agreed. So what if I exploited my control over her. A sudden spray went off across the aisle, a reviving rain of droplets keeping the greens green; like patients on intravenous feeding, romaine, broccoli, watercress, arugula, kale and broccoli raab, slaves on display and sold for ultimate consumption.

Melody was still in line at the deli counter. She was number sixty-seven and there were three people ahead of her. As she waited, looking around, she saw Yazmina in the distance. She was watching her from the fish department, cradling a few groceries in her arms. Their eyes locked, Melody wondered if the woman's participation in Victria's fire play had been planned, so that she herself didn't have to face her own domme's blazing wrath. As glad as she was that she was going back home to her own mistress, Melody knew a punishment, for her having said too much about Victria's private pastime, was on its way. Sure, facing flames might still be in her future. But, somehow Melody didn't think they would be all that dangerous. Presently, Yazmina turned her attention to the fish case. Suddenly aware of a gentle touch on the back of her right hand, Melody turned to see Victria's handsome, placid face.

"You okay? She asked, standing close.

"Considering? Yes;" answered Melody; smiling, "I'm fine. I'm better; now."

Melody scanned the faces of the others standing in the deli line, and then looked down at Victria's fingers as she slid them inside her hand. Then, looking back into her domme's face, Melody smiled warmly as the two women squeezed their interlocked fingers more tightly.

"I think we should get some flowers." Suggested Victria, smiling slightly.

"Sure," Melody said; straight faced, "But they don't give those out here at the deli."

Victria rolled her eyes as Melody murmured laughter. They stared at each other in silence, Victria's gaze wavering only once, to take in her slave's gleaming platinum collar. A few seconds more and the surprise came as number sixty-five was called. Melody realized Victria move in close to the side of her face and felt her nose linger by her temple, felt her breathing her in, felt a million sparkling diamonds of love kindled desire warm her skin. Melody closed her eyes and drew in a great breath of relief.

"After eating leftovers for the last two days," said Victria as she stepped back, "I think I'd like some salad and fresh fruit too. I'll be back at the produce."

Melody nodded, smiling sweetly, and then watched her Mistress Head in that direction. Victria didn't appear to be in any hurry as she meandered from the baked goods department, to shelves and to tables and cases. Still, Melody watched. She too was in no great rush: number sixty-five seemed to mean business with her order and her time with Geralynne was thankfully over.

Her overnight bag, with the diary inside, Melody had dropped into Victria's cart before she'd left for the deli. Watching her domme wander toward the pre-prepared food section, Melody wondered if she should leave her love poem somewhere in the house for Victria to find. Then the thought occurred to her: Will I need permission to say I love you?

In that instant, Victria was debating getting some California rolls when she happened to notice the television, mounted high on the wall at the back of the area in the store where customers could take their orders and eat them. Struck suddenly by what news footage was playing out on the screen, Victria made her way through a row of tables. She couldn't hear what the reporter was saying above the sounds of the store's fans and refrigerators, but she could see the teletype along the bottom of the screen: Downed National Air flight 210.

"As you can tell by the wreckage," said the man reporting from just outside China's Fuji province; his voice loud and clear once Victria came close enough, "The likelihood of there being any survivors is remote. Again, officials here are confirming that this was not the fault of terrorists, but an unfortunate result of nature. Flight 210 was making its approach to land when a flock of great crested terns, flying in the air liner's direction, had found themselves getting sucked into the plane's engines. Carl; turn the camera to the nose. Now; as you can see, apparently one or more of the birds had also crashed through the glass of the cock pit window. It's truly a sad night here in Fuji. In addition to the nearly two hundred dead, these birds-"

Victria informed herself, as she maintained her white knuckle grip on the shopping cart's bar, that she was not to collapse, she was not to pass out. Do or die, she thought. Hell to pay; how much; what will it cost? Flight 210 to Fuji. Had she known? Yes; she had. She'd been told. It was discussed among, within, under, so many other things, issues, now that Simon's no longer with us, and you'll have to take more on, beyond the drafting of your proposal. I understand Mr. Cheevers. Good. I'm glad Victria. Now, since the better part of the board, Ricchio, Rancourt and Duffy will be heading out to our Chinese clients in Fuji, you'll have to gather performance data from their divisions while they're away.

Away, a whole twenty-four hours away; Hell to pay, do or die. Victria could not stop the images whirling and twisting in her mind's eye; Duffy, Rancourt and Ricchio, screaming and writhing in agony, tearing at their seatbelts, burning, falling, hair gone, clothes turning into suits of flames, skin melting, muscles roasting, clutching their throats with bone claw fingers, black, heart stopping, dead.

She turned quickly around to look upon Melody. But, Melody was not looking back. She was busily chatting with number sixty-six. Yes, maybe that was better, not to be seen by her right now. Maybe it was better to get myself composed, controlled, together so that I don't appear; apart. Victria looked nervously around, guilty, culprit and yet; innocent? With the speed of urgency, she drove her carriage to the produce department. I've done nothing. I've done nothing wrong. Pay up your debt Victria. The piper is calling you to join him Victria. There's Hell to pay Victria. Can you afford it? Shut the fuck up, she scolded herself. Just calm down. Just, please; calm down.