The Brand Ch 04

"A memory is what is left when something happens, and does not completely unhappen."

-Edward DeBono

1

"Has anyone seen Vic?"

"Nope; not me Mom."

"Ne neither."

"No? Vanessa, Veronica; neither of you? How about you Vance? Didn't you guys walk home together?"

"No Mom. We stopped walking home together."

"What? When the Hell did that start?"

"Like a couple days ago. She said it was time for her to start walking home from school with friends of her own and not her older brother."

"Oh my God Vance, she's not old enough to walk home on her own! How did you think that was okay?"

"I don't know Mom! You know how Vic gets!"

"And who are these friends?"

"I don't know Ma!"

"It's after dark and she's not home Vance!! Veronica? Get your coat. Vanessa? Take the lasagna out of the oven in half an hour. Vance? Go to your room!"

"What!?! What did I do!?!"

Not a single one of us is created in a vacuum. Each of us depends on others to help build who we are; to paint in the foundations of our layers, so that we can see, from our foreground, across the panorama of our environs, between the subjects and props, into the background; diffuse with the light of reflection, until the penciled vanishing point of the original conception is obscured. Some of us get painted into a corner. Some of us paint ourselves into a corner, and still others of us have the forethought to block in an open window or a hatchway in advance.

Hidden among the rows of canvases leaning against the walls was a particular composition, the face of which is pressed against the face of another; complicit, their surfaces tacky to the touch. The canvas was not meant to be seen. Its back faces the tame and hungry green eyes, her artist calculating that she will take the hint and move on to something less; personal. The artist could have destroyed the piece, but then she'd have to do away with everything else she'd composed after the original conception, the original corner.

It was a picture of wanting to be liked. It was blocked in the vivid reds and pinks of wanting bigger and better things and bigger and brighter friends. There was a straight purple line of wanting to be taken seriously, and it blended into the better and brighter green of a pretty girl's eyes. Samantha's eyes they were; the kind that never leave you, no matter how far off to the left or right you walk away. She used to think that was such a pretty name: Samantha; the name of a woman who brought down kingdoms or tamed great beasts with the merest glance. .

They all met on the playground as school let in; Samantha with her not so pretty sidekicks Maddie and Shailo, and Vic with her three little friends who were too scared to tag along. Then they'd started chumming around after school; smoking cigarettes in the park, flying on the swings, baring each other to jump out at the apex of their arc. Vic had surprised them. She'd surprised herself, soaring a good twenty feet before landing on her back. It wasn't until she felt someone kicking her that Vic realized that she'd had the wind knocked out of her. It was Shailo, the uglier one of the ugly two, kicking her, laughing and saying: yeah, okay; you win.

Samantha was perfect; shimmering blonde flowing super model hair, emerald eyes and light creamy brown skin. Vic thought she knew she adored her. Looking back, they each looked like they'd figured out pretty quickly that she adored her.

It had been two or so months earlier when Vanessa and Veronica started to affect her differently when they were naked around her. It had made Vic mad at first, how easy it was for them to be naked like that, how her feelings changed about it. Then she caught Vance with his hand down his pants while he stared at one of Mom's women's magazines; the one advertising the bathing suits and the underwear. Vic found the magazine the next day, and scrutinized the model's bodies, their long hair, their eyes and their creamy strawberry ice cream lips.

She'd bought her new friends ice cream that afternoon because Samantha mentioned that she'd like to have some ice cream. Vic had some money then. She always seemed to have money and if it wasn't hers, it was Vance's; such a push over. The ice cream was good, and it was fun to watch Samantha eat it. From the corner of her eye, Vic relished the sight the of the slow, fluid, animal motion of Samantha's lips and tongue, and realized that it made her want to kiss them.

After a time, the foursome went to Shailo's house, where she pilfered a bottle of something. Then they went to Maddie's house, where she'd taken a bottle of something else. Limited to the eight block radius around Vic's home, the girls went back to the park and started drinking there. Bored and wishing to avoid prying eyes, Shailo dared Vic to risk to leave the neighborhood and head over to Shackleford Road. Secluded and over grown with brush and tall grass, Shackleford was a dead end of variously framed out houses, their construction stopped because the contractor had run out of money. The girls waded through the sea of tall grass until they found the house at the end that was the most finished and safest to hang out in.

The windows were broken, shattered with pelted rocks, of which there were a few scattered across the plywood floor. Maddie and Shailo made a game of throwing them back out the windows while Samantha and Vic took in the beer cans everywhere and the dirty mattress on the far side of the room. Later, as they ventured more deeply into the house, it was Maddie that had shuddered when she came upon the odd, macabre, fact of the dog crate, a steel cage, the skeleton of a dog inside, its bones collapsed, their color the pages of a very old book, it's smooth teeth a lighter yellow and catching the light of the waning afternoon sun.

Vic tried not to drink too much, but Samantha kept coaxing her in a quiet, gentle way. As the hour wore on, she began to feel it, felt a lot of it and what Vic drank went right to her head and wrapped itself around the crush she had on Samantha. Eventually, the first bottle was empty, and Vic realized that Maddie had started spinning it around on the floor. They started looking at each other then, brows jumping, smiles perking. Samantha was giggling too and Vic remembered her getting red. Vic just sat there, her arms wrapped around her knees, while she waited and watched Shailo make the bottle spin. Then it stopped; the neck pointed at Samantha. All of a sudden Shailo lunged at Samantha, grabbed her ears and gave her a big kiss on the mouth. Then they rolled all over the floor, and laughed as Shailo fended off Samantha's slaps.

Then it was Vic's turn to blush. She was angry. It didn't occur to her that Samantha would like girls who looked like Shailo or even like Maddie, who had nice hair at least. A minute later, they'd calmed down, and it was Samantha's turn to spin the bottle. It went for a while, round and round; until it finally stopped; it's neck pointing at her. Vic thought she'd be smiling inside, but she wasn't. She felt a little sick, especially when she saw the way Shailo and Maddie were looking at her. Samantha set the bottle aside, and then scooted closer to Vic. She couldn't move. She couldn't think as Samantha's pretty face loomed closer. Vic knew nothing in that moment but that face, her eyes and her soft strawberry ice cream lips.

The gag covering her mouth wasn't a surprise, not at first. It felt more like an interruption, as if Samantha's beautiful lips were curtained behind it, and would come out right the next second. But, they didn't come out right the next second. Vic was too stupid with alcohol and crush to know the difference between Samantha's lips and the dry, scratchy feeling against her mouth. Then, as Shailo was tying her wrists behind her, the others were arguing about whether or not to blind fold Vic too. Shailo wanted it while Samantha didn't.

Samantha won, and then it was Maddie that stripped Vic naked. She struggled, but got punched in the kidneys for it. Then the heat of the alcohol got to be too much, and Vic started to choke on her sick. But, Maddie untied her gag just in time, and Vic puked butter crunch and vodka, what seemed like gallons of it. When she was finished, someone wiped Vic's face off with her little shirt, and then they dragged her across the floor.

Next Vic knew was a new, rank, odor and the sound of rattling metal. The dog crate seemed larger from the outside, and Vic remembered barely fitting, especially because Shailo, Maddie and Samantha had left the bones in the cage. Vic remembered getting all scratched up as they shoved her in. She began to cry then as they slapped her little ass and told her to stay quiet or they wouldn't let her back out. So Vic controlled herself, took deep breaths and clenched her teeth as hard as she could. The others were quiet too as they stepped around the cage and shared the other bottle. In time, Vic felt the cage shake a bit, and she looked up to see Samantha standing over the cage, straddling it: half naked, a fresh downy coat of dark blonde hair over her vulva. Vic was mesmerized by her wicked smile, by the dainty way she was holding up the hem of her sweat shirt, by the sight of her exposed sex and the sudden rush of piss she was painting her with. After Samantha was finished, Vic watched her walk away, watched her wipe herself off with her little jeans and listened to her say: Let's see if you still have a taste for pussy after that, you little fucking dike.

Vic closed her eyes and began to cry once more before Maddie or Shailo, she didn't know who went next, took their turn to relieve themselves on her. Between the second and the third time, Vic had started vomiting again, dry heaving and choking from the smell of old dog bones and the slimy shit that was all over her body and face. She guessed she'd been vomiting for a while, because Samantha and her friends were gone when she'd opened her eyes again.

Victria remembered laying there for a long time, her eyes stinging, glimpsing through her filthy hair every so often to see the day gradually turning to night. She remembered falling asleep, and then being wakened by the cold and by the sounds of animals. Then, when the big raccoon had found her, it's nose close and sniffing wildly, Victria let it have it. She screamed and screamed and kicked and kicked at her cage until the animal sped from the place. Still, she cried into the night, her feet in pain, her mind bent, her heart broken into so many tiny pieces, there were sure to be fragments she'd never recover.

Then day rose again, and Victria was still there, the shit and piss dried on her skin, making the feeling of tiny bugs crawling. And she thought: how am I supposed to live after this? How am I supposed to go to school with those girls? I need to start liking boys. I need to start right away. That way, I won't have to tell mom how sorry I am for wanting a girlfriend. I'll get a boyfriend, and he'll do everything I say and no one, no one, will ever do anything like this to me again.

They finally found her that afternoon. At school that morning, Vanessa, an eighth grader at the time, was approached by Sally Anne Mazer, one of Victria's 4th grade classmates, and was told that she saw her smoking in the park after school with three older girls. They'd sent a woman cop in first. She could hear that Victria was breathing and said: oh my God and then said her name. She pulled Victria out, checked her pulse, and then yelled for Mrs. Charpentier to come in. Then the woman cop yelled to have one of the other officers call an ambulance.

Victria supposed that she could have grown up to be more severely sociopathic than she actually had. She could have been among the ranks of the few women she saw on late night true crime shows; the vagabond hitch hiker murderess that made her male victims horny, promised them a good time, and then stabbed them to death. But, Victria knew there was no good money in murder, none that she could earn anyway. Sure, she could have talked her pain out with one shrink or another, but she didn't. She wouldn't. Instead, she cultivated a private, healthy, interest in all things kink, and learned to separate the girls from the women.

It was Samantha and her crew that had to leave for another school, so Victria got to stay behind and stitch her heart back up the best she could while deflecting the stories, the rumors, the truth. Eventually though, Victria followed. She'd started fighting a lot with boys and girls too. She was eventually prescribed with anti-anxiety drugs. Then she started pretending to take them, and eventually found her way into educational facilities where she could get specialized treatment, and restraint and seclusion whenever necessary. Still, somehow, Victria found her way to the business savvy, creative, relentless, fearless, power hungry, though still quite narcissistic diva she'd become.

The way Victria saw it; she had Samantha to thank for it all. Her experience, the corner she was painted into, could have been worse; a mauling by some wild animal, a more lingering sort of PTSD or actual death. Years later, after Victria had earned her MBA, she'd searched the Net for Samantha. She discovered that she'd become a pediatric nurse, of all things. And she was married too. Her husband, Bruce, was a civil engineer and they had two lovely children; little Cheyenne and Conner. Victria still wondered though: Does Samantha ever give Bruce a good yellow shower and think fondly on the little girl she locked in a cage and left to rot in a bed of old dog bones?

2

Victria unlocked her front door and stepped inside. After her dinner with Pam and Geralynne, she realized she wanted nothing more than to come back to her clean and fragrant home, and to the pretty thing she hired to make it that way. Before Victria had left, she'd handed Melody the pay she'd owed her so far. Without so much as a smile or a frown, she took it and dropped it into the night stand drawer in the guest bedroom, the room where her clothes were kept for if and when Victria allowed her to put them on.

She listened to the quiet of the house beyond the brief echo of her heels on the kitchen's wood floor. Victria dropped her keys on the table, and looked around at the spic and span sparkle. Checking the fridge and the trash, she saw that Melody had made herself a dinner of left overs, rather than having bought any take-out. It was her money to save, after all. Being homeless for as long as she had, Victria suspected that Melody would prefer to save what she got as soon as she got it. Next time, Victria thought, I'll leave her extra.

As she mounted the steps to the second floor, Victria could hear the quiet strains of big band coming from the master bedroom. Crossing the threshold, she scanned the room, trained her eyes on the little stereo CD player on her desk, and then let her gaze fall on the young woman in her bed. Melody had the covers up to her chest, her head propped up on two pillows as she read book two of the Gor series.

"Back so soon Mistress?" she said, without taking her eyes off the page.

"I'm back on time." Victria answered; crossing the floor to the bathroom.

"How was your date?"

"It wasn't a date." Victria said from the bathroom, "It was a dinner engagement with friends."

Victria returned to the bedroom proper and began to undress. Glancing at Melody, she removed each article, jacket, blouse and slacks, and returned them to their hangers. Taking notice, Melody said:

"Keep that up and you won't need me anymore."

Victria gave her girl a small smile before picking up her flats and disappearing into the shoe closet. Seconds later, she stepped out and paused, waiting for Melody to regard her again. Presently, she did and Melody gave a playful sour look as she gazed at her mistress; dressed in white lace panty and bra, the sparkling ruby slippers on her feet.

"I think I want these back." Said Victria.

Melody raised an eye brow as a smile played around her lips.

"That's fine." She said, "I'll just buy a pair of my own someday."

Her expression Sober yet warm, Victria stepped back into the bathroom and began to brush her hair. Through the vanity's mirror, she watched herself and, over her shoulder, saw Melody watching her.

"I wonder Mistress;" she said, "Do you date?"

"I used to. Then I realized that I had more luck finding better fish in the sea with seductions disguised as business proposals."

"Oh my God, so this has worked before for you?"

"Kind of."

Victria set the brush back down and exited the bath. Arriving back at the bed, she kicked the ruby slippers from her feet, and then sat along the edge. Anticipating Melody's next question, she began to study her face.

"What went wrong?"

"Let's just say I caught her stealing."

"Oh."

Their gazes lingered for a time. Melody marked her page, and then set the book aside. Victria reflected on her day, their time together that morning in her studio, the fireworks she'd put in her slave's ass, her dinner conversation with Pam and Geralynne, the artist's intentions and the secrets chained from painting to painting. Victria, not unlike most, supposed that some things just shouldn't happen to little girls. Still others might perceive her, armed with the conviction that being victimized to such a degree is still no excuse for not becoming a decent human being. The thing was; Victria felt quite like a decent human being, and was armed with her own conviction that anyone who believed the contrary should go fuck themselves.

"I'm starting to think that I'm not making a very good domme." She announced.

"You're not; Mistress." Answered Melody; venturing to laugh, "But, you are exactly what I deserve."

"And how have you come to believe that, Slave?" asked Victria; her brow gently furrowed.

"Because I haven't suffered nearly enough for my crime."

"What crime Girl? Surviving?"

Melody said nothing. She looked away instead; glancing at her closed book.

"We were all meant to survive that night." Victria continued.

No longer interested in the conversation, Melody took the book, and resumed her reading. Victria felt as if she was being dismissed. A warmth rose in her cheeks. Then she looked sidelong at Melody and thought better to soften her approach.

"How's your ass?" she asked.

"My ass is fine; Mistress." Melody answered; her nose in her book, "Why? Have you found some left over Fourth of July sparklers?"

Victria looked away. She saw her slave in her mind's eye, on all fours, the American flag painted on her ass, numerous bright streaks of sparkler shooting over her blessed bottom. Damn, she mused, that would have been so much better. Suddenly then, Victria leaned across the bed and took the book from Melody's hands.

"Push those covers back," she demanded, "And turn your body wench. I will see for myself, since it belongs to me."

Melody remained still as Victria returned the mark to its page, and then tossed the book to the floor. Haughtily aloof, Victria returned to the foot of the bed and sat back down. Seconds later, Melody drew back the comforter to reveal her naked body. Then, as she was about to turn, Victria reached a hand and held her girl's ankle fast. Melody looked on as her mistress led her keen gaze to meander along her slim lines and subtle curves. She was thoroughly flushed by the time Victria let her go and gestured for her to carry on. Melody rotated her body and settled back into a comfortable position.

Seconds later, she began to feel her right foot being massaged. With strong fingers, Victria worked circular patterns into the hard flesh of Melody's sole. Five minutes later, after giving her right heel some gentle pressure, Victria moved on to Melody's left foot. Six minutes after that, Melody seemed to have fallen asleep. Victria crawled upon the bed then, and poised her mouth over her girl's ankles. Gently, she kissed them, and then worked her way up to Melody's calves, which she massaged, kissed and dragged her teeth over again and again.