The Brand Ch. 09

"No Ma'am I'm sorry! I didn't mean-"

Melody stopped herself from saying anymore. Her eyes had widened, fearful, but resignation had taken over once again, and her eyes narrowed with pain as she looked away.

"Take off your robe; now."

Melody didn't comply. She only looked sadly down at her hands, still folded demurely upon her lap. Victria sped from the kitchen, and then ran up the stairs. Seconds later, she climbed back down again; finding Melody still on the floor by her chair. Kicking the dog bowl away, the infuriated mistress grabbed her slave by the arm, and raised her sharply to her feet. Tearing the sash, Victria stepped behind her slave and ripped the robe down from her body.

Naked, her skin warm and vital to the touch, Victria dragged her slave by the arm to the living room. Once there, she reached down inside the crate and pulled out the big plush pillow they'd slept on together over the night before. Next, Victria pressed Melody to the carpet. When she didn't budge, she took her by the hair. Then suddenly, with a silent ferocity she'd never expected from the woman, Melody grabbed hold of Victria's arm, lunged at her bicep and bit down hard. The domme howled in pain as she punched Melody solidly against her right cheek bone.

Melody dropped and began to crawl inside her cage, but her domme gave her ass a good push with the bottom of her bare foot for extra measure. The result was Melody's slamming her face and shoulder against the far wall of the cage, setting it to rattle and leaving her sobbing and whimpering in pain. Quickly, Victria followed her in, grabbed her wrists, secured one, fished the other cuff through an opening in the metal work, fished it back in, and then secured her slave's other wrist. Teeth clenched, breathing fast, the domme withdrew, slammed the door shut and locked it.

She stood there for a moment, staring into the cage, glancing down at her wound, too furious to speak, to think. Melody huddled into as tight a ball as she could, her knees to her chest, her head hidden beneath her manacled hands, a steady shrill keening issuing from her throat. Victria thought of her guns. The thought hadn't been raised to her working memory, not by any intention of hers. Instead, the image of them materialized, in their safe, bolted to the floor under her side of the bed, had come on its own or was ushered, delivered to her, by some nebulous black eyed, black winged, phantom.

Victria lifted her palm from the wound, and then pulled her sleeve up. Melody had bitten, broken her skin and chewed into the muscle. She'd made a lovely semicircle, its outline , like a precognitive child's drawing of someone's lips. This is very good, she thought. Definitely worth taking a picture of. I should make her drink some more; make her drink long and hard. No. No, even better; the next bite will be mine.