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."