There was a jauntiness in Melody's step as she walked proudly naked from the house. Her brazen exposure to the early morning sun was a baptism, her easy breathing a soft heralding to the world that she was on her way to becoming a very proper slave. Her Mistress stood in the doorway, commemorating the event, proud of her girl's first steps; snapping shots of Melody as she bent over to gather up the Saturday morning paper. Rising back to her full height, her brown hair spun with strands of golden sun, Melody paused to admire the scenery around her.
Still wincing from the lingering pain across her buttocks, she tried to massage more of the tenderness out as she regarded the sprawling fauna around Victria's farm house. The property was hidden from the road, the view blocked with thick flowering patches of sun soaked brush, dense clusters of embraced red maples and the tall army of oaks and firs who's shade had their growth under their control.
Having spent the last two years living on the capitol city's streets, Melody saw only concrete and asphalt roll away from her feet. Now, as a gentle breeze touched her bare skin and sent the stray hairs at the edges of her bound hair a frollick, she stared down at the lush carpet of bright green grass, each and every blade crowned with its very own glistening jewel of dew. What is freedom; really? Melody pondered the question as she regarded Victria; still snapping away with her camera. I suppose it's flattering to some degree, though Melody as she padded back to the house, but what does she intend to do with all those pictures. And anyway; when will it be my turn to take in your naked body long enough to take pictures of it, Ms. Charpentier?
"Might I inquire Mistress," asked Melody as she followed Victria back into the house, "What do you intend to do with all of those nude photos of me?"
"Oh splatter them all over the Web, of course." Said Victria; as she strode toward the kitchen; dressed in white crew socks, a pair of red bicycle shorts and a loose black T-shirt, "That is what you're thinking, right?"
"Seriously Ma'am?" Melody shouted as she closed the door behind her.
Melody stopped by the stair landing and held the paper over her breasts as she shot her employer a look of surprised indignance.
Victria turned suddenly to face her girl. Oh crap, thought Melody, as she lowered the paper to obscure her sex, don't tell me I just earned myself another flogging. Then, eyes leveled, Victria stepped back toward her slave. As she nervously tapped the ends of the folded news paper, Melody's eyes darted in every direction but her domme's face. In the next instant, Victria snatched the paper away, leaving her slave to nervously twiddle her thumbs before her bared sex.
"Chillax Cowboy." Laughed Victria as she carried the paper back toward the kitchen, "That would be so incredibly unprofessional of me."
"Unprofessional?" Melody repeated as she marched after her, "As if your brand of behavioral habituation is anything but? If my world hadn't fallen apart, I wouldn't be here, letting you-"
Melody cut herself off and looked away. Victria studied her during the resulting silence; a mystery of guarded emotion passing unseen by the lost naked woman before her.
"And where would you be Ms. Melody May?" asked Victria in a measured, patient tone, "Did I have a plan for you? Yes. Can I help that we were caught up in a robbery; the experience of which has apparently affected you profoundly? No."
Melody had suddenly begun to sniffle as she began to gesture, as if to prepare to speak, but still not looking directly at Victria nor taking the opportunity to speak.
"Have I exploited your fear? No; I have not. Am I guilty of exploiting you? Yes. Am I enjoying exploiting you? Yes; very much."
"If I walk out of here," Melody whimpered; arms folded across her breasts, "I will lose everything."
"Yes." Victria affirmed, "And by sticking it out with me, through what I'm certain you believe is my sick little game, you will stand to gain everything, and you will have a brand spanking new life you can be proud of, and you can go back home to tell everyone about it or you can share your success with only those you care to. Hell, Cowboy; you will become the queen of your own world and I will have the satisfaction of enjoying you, as I choose, while I help you create that world. Face it gorgeous; it's a win win."
Melody stepped to the kitchen table to withdraw a napkin. Quickly, she wiped her tears and blew her nose as she pondered the logical insanity of it, the truth of her circumstances and the word Victria used: gorgeous. She then went to the sink, tucked the soiled napkin into the trash and washed her face before stepping back toward her benefactor.
Seriously Mistress! What's so worth preserving for posterity about; me?" asked Melody as she rubbed the raised skin of her scar.
Victria took in the sight; her expression the picture of impassivity until what seemed to Melody like playfulness came into her eyes. Sstepping backward to the edge of the kitchen counter, she slid her seat upon it, and then scooted back.
"Well gee slave," she said, "If it's that important to you that you receive a compliment-"
"It is not important that I receive a compliment," Melody interrupted; arms folded across her chest again, "And; you are not just taking pictures of my eyes.
Fine." Said Victria, "If you must know, after I've fondly gaze upon them, I save those that best exemplify your beauty. Then, I will venture to reproduce them in another medium."
"Another medium?" asked Melody; genuinely surprised, "You're an artist too?"
"No." said Victria as she pulled the paper out of its blue plastic bag and shook out the front page, "I like to pretend I'm an artist. I admire the process of celebrating beautiful things and crafting beauty through photographed, pencil rendered or painted depiction. It's the only true way to extend the beauty of things, of us; taking materials at our disposal that last longer than the elasticity of our skin, the supple sculpture of the flesh on our bones and the brief span of our lives, and turning them into enduring monuments and artifacts."
A brightness came into Melody's eyes as a tingling warmth trailed down her spine and triggered the not altogether unpleasant sensation of pins and needles across her buttocks. Victria turned her attention to the paper. Melody realized a phantom of a memory streaking across the back of her mind, as she, in spite of the strange turmoil in her heart, looked favorably upon her young, beneficent dome. Seeing that she was thoroughly engaged in the morning news, Melody finally stepped back to the stove.
Her gaze went to the pancake batter she'd prepared just before having been instructed to fetch her mistress's paper. Distractedly reaching for the ladle in the mixture, she began to ponder over how her dome might allow her to please her later that evening. Melody couldn't deny it. The nature and dynamic of the relationship had become very unnegotiably complicated and very confrontationally stimulating, all very much accelerated by the robbery's trauma, as if the very world itself had manipulated Melody into circumstances she was not meant to escape.
So why not make the most of it then? Why not exploit Victria for herself. There was the warmth and safety of her home. There was the bounty of her food. Her power made her very alluring as did her sharp beauty; narrow hipped and fine lined with small, perky breasts. Melody had begun to hunger for a taste of her devil's details, her mistress's secret textures and flavors. I suppose I will bide my time, like a good slave, earn my chance.
