The Brand Ch. 10

At 7:59, Victria was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. After a moment, she heard a rustle of cloth and looked up to see her date standing at the top. Melody had costumed herself in a revived folk inspired dress she'd found in the back of Victria's closet. Hued in a rich lust red, it was both modest and gently racy in its shin length ruffle skirt, short sleeves, slightly puffed shoulders and a scoop bodice, cut low enough that both the span of her shoulders and a tantalizing slice of cleavage caught the eye. . Her long neck, collarless, slender and exposed, her hair bound up high on her head in a nest of flowing golden brown ringlets and red ribbons. Victria stared into her shining green eyes, the emotion of her pain still creeping behind their depth, making her loving expression all the more beautiful.

Victria, feeling more feminine than usual, her hair, grown out, lay loose around her shoulders. As for her clothing for the evening, she'd chosen a tight fitting grey pencil skirt, ruffled white blouse, a silver broach secured at her collar, a short, steel grey matador jacket, sleek and slim. She was without shoes. As Melody descended the stairs, Victria saw that she'd put on that silly pair of novelty ruby slippers. Once they stood together at the bottom of the stairs, they realized that, for the first time in their experience of each other, Melody towered slightly over Victria.

Victria gave Melody her arm. She took it, and together they walked to the dining room. Once there in, the wide space decorous in mauve walls and huge Japanese fans and gleaming formal rose wood table and chairs, Melody stopped to admire the spread that Victria had laid out. On her finest China, the mistress of the house had placed repasts of chicken pot pie TV dinners, complete with sections of gravied mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Between the two settings was placed a large bowl of chopped romaine and tomatoes, an assortment of three bottled dressings and a plate of toasted white bread. There was no wine on the table; only a pitcher of ice water and lemon wedges.

Melody's fingers found the bare base of her neck as she smiled and advanced toward the side of Victria's seat. Victria was preparing to take her seat when she saw her date's approach. Melody stopped as she watched Victria suddenly loop around the table to the other side, where she pulled out the opposing chair. Melody glanced down at the space of floor beside Victria's chair and cleared her throat. Then, back stepping, she went to the seat that Victria had pulled out for her, politely nodded and then sat down.

As they began to eat, Victria became introspective once more. She reflected on key points of her conversation with Vance. She couldn't assume that Melody reflected on the incident in the same way as she had; nor would she ask. It wasn't important. It wouldn't change things if Melody didn't share her domme's perception that her cruelty, and the bite it had compelled her slave to take, had been a potentially good scene gone bad, its safe word gone unspoken; its treacherous climax ultimately expressed, instead, between Melody's teeth. As it was, the silence they shared was enough. No, it was more; a quiet symphony of elegant understatement, like the lingering drops at the end of a long, dwindling torrent.

A mistake had been made, an error in judgment had been put into action. But, even mistakes, sometimes, needed their own fitting after care. As such, Victria had effected a close orbit around Melody, cleaning, pampering and having made the effort of preparing a romantic dinner for two.

"This," said Melody; suddenly breaking the silence, "is all very nice. Thank you."

Victria looked up, took in Melody and saw that her bruise had lightened somewhat.

"Thanks Cowboy." She said, nodding.

The silence resumed, Melody looked back down at the contents of the sectioned plastic plate of her TV dinner. Cracking the crust of her pot pie, she forked her way through, stirring gravy, chunks of chicken and carrots, and short lengths of green beans.

"What do you like the most about us?" she asked abruptly, the question's echo resounding in Victria's mind, making her pause to take a drink.

Her pause lingered, stretched and resounded in the gentle clink of glass against glass and silverware against china. She had her answer. It was there, born, waiting, and cozy and protected in a swaddling of honesty and tucked tidy in a bassinette of gleaming stainless steel rods. But, did she have to say it? Did she really have to say it?

"Jeez Melody," sighed Victria, "Again?"

"Jeez What Victria?" Melody intoned; not having referred to her hostess by her birth name in over four months, "I've never asked you this before!"

"You're being mushy again. It bugs me when you're mushy."

"Okay, let's say there's no mush. What is it that makes you feel that we should continue having a working, practical, functional, unequally interdependent cohabitation?

Victria rolled her eyes slightly and smirked. Then, training a scrutinous eye on her slave, she said:

"When you pose. When you inspire me. No one's; inspired me like you; when you encapsulate the entire universe for me."

Melody smiled, her eyes bright as she leaned forward, chin resting on the back of her hand.

"You can't do that for yourself," she said, "Encapsulate the universe?"

"Absolutely not. I mean, well, maybe I can. But, it's different now, with you."

"Different, with me? How? Why?"

Victria set her fork down and leaned back in her chair.

"Because," she answered, "Because you're my lens, my kaleidoscope, my; corner."

"Corner? What does that mean?"

"I have no idea. Hey this is actually pretty decent pot pie. Where'd we buy it anyway?"

Victria could only look away from Melody's stare, the soft realization in her eyes, the conviction, the openness, the authenticity; the love. It hurt then, the pain twinging much more acutely than before as she glanced up and saw how she'd marred her lover's face. Finally, Melody looked away. She played with her food for a time and glanced at Victria between small bites. Thoughts weaved and darted behind her limpid green eyes. She'll never give me permission, she thought. Maybe I don't need it. Maybe I should just say what I want. Maybe love, Mel, is better left unspoken. Let it be Mel. Let it be the beautiful nothingness between the artist's hands, her medium and her blank canvas.

"I want to dance with you. Melody announced.

"Right now?" asked Victria.

"No. After dinner."

"Fine; after dinner."

Fulfilling Melody's expressed desire, Victria led her to the living room after a dessert of chocolate ice cream and crumbled Oreos. They were dancing to a song from 1950, "A Kiss to Build a Dream On, Satchmo singing in his glorious gravel, sweet, deep and smiling. Give me a kiss to build a dream on, and my imagination will thrive upon that kiss. Slowly, in time with the music, Victria and Melody revolved around one another; cheek to cheek, one breathing in of the other, eyes closed, spellbound in their lazy rhythm.

They were perfectly serene together. One could have confessed, sworn her love to the other. The moments were open, lingering in their mutual tranquility, allowing for the whispering of those special, perilous words. But still, neither spoke. They only engaged in their peaceful, redemptive, silence as they held each other close.

Sweetheart, Armstrong sang on, I ask no more than this, a kiss to build a dream on. Cheek sliding against cheek, chins brushing, lips grazing; threatening to kiss. Give me a kiss before you leave me, and my imagination will feed my hungry heart. Theirs was elusive, caught somewhere between Victria's intention and Melody's willingness; their lips as close as not looking back.

Slowly, they spun around the room, embraced like binary stars. "And when I'm alone with my fancies, I'll be with you, weaving romances, making believe they're true." Imperceptible but for the closeness of their breaths, yet momentous, the kiss threatened and gave rise to goose flesh crossing their backs. Like dreaming awake, alert and aroused; resuscitating, mouth to mouth, they gave each other life giving breath; passing it like the softest, gentle breeze of a budding spring.

It was Melody that had stepped back first and proceeded to make her way upstairs. "Oh, give me your lips for just a moment, and my imagination will make that moment live." Victria slowly followed, lagging long enough for Melody to stop half way up the stairs to regard her. The look was weighty, severe with naked longing. The music drifted up the stairs behind them. "Give me what you alone can give, a kiss to build a dream on."

They met in the master bedroom, between Victria's unmade bed and the walk-in closet. The closet was opened, and Victria stood behind Melody before one of the full length mirrors affixed to the back of each door. They peered into each other's reflected countenance for a time, until Victria's nose was pressed against Melody's smooth bare shoulders and the side of her long, fragrant neck. Melody watched as Victria closed her eyes and continued to breathe her in, and leave gentle kiss after gentle kiss up and down her spine.

Presently, she began to feel Victria's fingers tugging at the zipper at the back of her dress. Then, as her garment felt loose in the back, her mistress took in the sight of her own hands slowly brushing down Melody's sleeves. Together, they watched the material fall away from her lovely pale gold breasts. Victria gently cupped one, and then the other, her thumbs and fore fingers rousing her nipples to attention. Melody then watched her own fingers trailing up the back of her lover's hands, cross her breasts and then reach up to pull Victria's head closer over her shoulder.

Again, their lips met, softly swollen, excited, and hungry for more. Suddenly, in a single fluid motion, Melody turned to face Victria, her warm naked breasts pressed against her hostess's blouse and jacket. Slithering fingers reached between the jacket and the silk blouse and pushed it off her shoulders. Distant strains of lusty clarinets and felicitous trumpets could still be heard by the two women as Melody's lips and fingers probed and unfastened.

Victria's blouse was tossed aside and her bra removed. She dropped to her knees then and went about pulling the dress free from Melody's waist. Within seconds, it lay there, gathered between them as Victria cupped the lobes of Melody's buttocks and drew in great breaths of the warm musk that enticed her from inside her lover's pink satin panties. As she indulged in her Melody musk high, Victria felt a hand on her shoulder as her lover slowly raised one leg and then the other from the pile of discarded clothing around her feet.

Then, the garment kicked away, Melody beckoned her mistress to rise. She did, and noticed in that moment that Melody had begun to weep. Victria followed her lover's line of sight and saw that she had fixed a sorrowful stare on her bandage. The mistress shook her head, and then quickly took Melody's gently between her hands. Softly she whispered urgings for her to free her mind of what she'd done, of what Victria had done, and made long effort to kiss her pain, her darkness, away.

Still half clothed, Victria drew Melody toward the bed. They sat together for a time, Melody still softly weeping and Victria consoling her with kiss after kiss; her lips wet with her lover's hot tears, spreading them over the swollen half of her face. Still, they fell, resistant to Victria's power. Briefly, she paused, just long enough to remove her skirt. Then, climbing back upon the bed, Victria embraced Melody close and resumed her kissing as she pulled her down to lay beside her. What have I done, she thought. I'm afraid I can't fix this. I'm afraid-

"Does it ache," Victria abruptly whispered against her lover's lips, "Does it really hurt you inside; not to say it?"

"Yes," Melody answered; sobbing her admission, "Oh Victria, yes."

"Then say it." Said Victria as she took hold of Melody's chin and stared into her eyes, "Go on. Tell me."

"I love you!" Melody cried, "I love you. I love you."

Victria patted and stroked her now seemingly inconsolable lover's face, bidding her to hush with the tenderness between her lips, her own face becoming wet too with Melody's tears. The mistress rolled back to pull tissues from the box on her night stand, and then wiped her lover's face with them. Tossing them to the floor, she hoped that inviting Melody to profess her love would help to shut off the water works rather than induce a new crying fit. Thankfully, it had done the former. Melody had calmed, her face the picture of relief, awe and hope, her finger tips tracing the smooth terrain of Victria's face. They resumed a tranquil reciprocity of physical expression; fingers interlacing, letting go; lips caressing, painting patterns of impassioned provocation.

Victria proceeded to cover other favored parts of Melody's body with kisses, from her neck, to her breasts, and then to her flat belly. As she slowly descended from mouthful to mouthful, Melody continued to whisper her praise; I love you my mistress, I love you, oh how I love you. Then, after removing Melody's panties with a leisurely stroll of her fingers, Victria graced her stronger digits with the love that dripped from Melody's sex. Parting her lover's golden pink folds with slick fingers, and then with her tongue. Victria gradually varied her intensity; flicking the flourishing muscle like a fleshly rapier with alternating undulations against her savory bud, painting it with the delicate suppleness of the tip of a sable brush, surprising her with every wicked stroke.

Melody's first orgasm came easy, her come slowly overflowing like dribble over the edge of a full glass. It was then she slithered round, tore off Victria's black panties, and then dragged her hips to her hungry mouth. On their sides, their circle complete, they drank of each other, for each other, their vital cores gradually shivering as one, the words from Melody's lips muted by Victria's own dripping sex, yet they still crossed the space inside the containment of their bodies and reaching Victria's ears: I love you. I love you so.

Then, dissatisfied though in the midst of her second orgasm, Melody quickly crawled back to bring her glistening face to Victria's, to flow upon her, to bring their sexes together and utter her demand against her mistress's own wet face!

"Now you," Melody demanded, "My queen, my divine empress; you. Tell me!"

"You dare to corner me?" Victria whispered as she stared into Melody's eyes, her breaths coming fast.

"I do." Whispered Melody, "I dare. Say it. Know your place; and say it."

Seconds passed. Victria's eyes remained fixed on Melody's. Neither spoke. Melody began to brush the hair from Victria's face. The gesture had made the view clearer of the single tear that welled in her mistress's eye.

"I love you Melody," Victria whispered; her own fingers trailing the side of her lover's face, "I do. I love you."

5

A blizzard had begun to rage outside. No one, in their right mind, should have been out. But, people were people and if people wanted to do something that other people thought was stupid, the stupid people did it anyway. Although, some stupid people thought they were smart. They would call out for a pizza delivery, because they were lazy and hungry of course, but so that some other innocent, victim of his or own circumstances, could be stupid enough to risk his or her life driving around, delivering pizza, in such awful, awful weather. The pizza delivery truck moved along the road not only as if driven by someone who didn't know where they were going, but by someone who didn't know how to drive in the New England snow.

After Victria had fallen asleep in her arms, Melody couldn't fall asleep with her. She was happy, alert. Her face was sticky, she wanted a long drink of ice water as much as she needed to pee and; she had an idea. She would throw something on, take care of all that business, and then take the poem she'd written for Victria (the one she'd written at scary Geralynne's), fold it neatly into an envelope and then set it under the Christmas tree. Sure, she could have bought something for her mistress with the money she'd been paid. But, she hadn't been able to get anywhere, at least not anywhere where she could have gotten Victria something special. But, the poem was special. It was very special, and now; it was okay to share with her love.

So Melody carefully left the bed, certain that she wasn't waking her mistress and slipped into a night shirt Victria had tossed on the floor. Absolutely incorrigible, thought Melody, reminding herself that it didn't take long for that woman to make a mess. Quietly, in her bare feet, she padded down the stairs. She stopped first in the bathroom before heading into the kitchen to fetch herself a drink of water. That done, she went back upstairs to the guest bedroom and withdrew her diary from the bedside table. Unlocking it, Melody carefully ripped out her poem, set it on the bed, looked down the hall, and then locked her diary shut. Still as silent as could be, she stole back into the master bedroom to get an envelope from her mistress's desk, and then made her way back downstairs.

Christmas was only a week away. Something needed to be under the tree. Melody knelt there, sadden by the sight of the barren tree skirt, hopeful that her gift of the poem would soften some of the stone she knew remained in Victria's heart. It wasn't that Melody believed she needed presents. She knew she finally had all she could ever want. No, a mass of presents under a Christmas tree meant, as much as there were those who longed to receive, there would be those that longed, hungered to give, and both kinds of heart softened with the warm, festive air of giving.

. But that was it, wasn't it? Victria could be generous; to a degree. She had been generous with her gift of the collar, but that very collar symbolized the truth that she was a taker, the selfish one, by nature. And, conversely, by Melody's nature as a sub, she would give selflessly, again and again. As if their relationship was ever the first of its kind.

Melody set her poem down under the tree, weary of her introspection. She knew she ought not think too much more about the troubled past that lent to the creation of the brand, Victria Charpentier. The important thing was that she knew Victria better now, had been given clarity as to how she'd come to be who she is and, for all her faults, Melody adored her. After all, she too had her own faults, her scars, still undefined; and she'd found love again in spite of that secret pain.

Then, just as Melody stared long enough at the stark white of the envelope to see that she ought to write "To Victria" on it, she heard the doorbell ring behind her. She rose quickly and peered out the living room window. When had they called for all this snow? Who could be out in this? Melody moved to the peep hole in the door. Peering out, Melody saw a person, bundled up, maybe a woman, the face obscured by a scarf, with a pizza box in his or her hands. There's a blizzard going on. Oh my gosh, thought Melody, she has the wrong address. God, who would order pizza with this kind of weather going on. Melody unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then, in the flash of the woman's eyes, she saw something unmistakable.

6

Victria turned in her sleep. Then, feeling suddenly very awake, she opened one eye. She could hear men, rough voiced, deep voiced. Where's Melody? What? Who? Fuck! How many? Her heart began to pound in her chest. The silence screamed in her ears, a shrill keening cry of static. No information; no time, run- She slid across the bed, and then to the floor. She reached for the gun safe under the bed, typed her code, shoved her fingers over the open door and snatched her .45.