1
You are my trickster angel, my sheep in wolves' clothing, my dark temptress, with wicked, wicked hands and sweet, gentle mouth, you drive me to my uttermost distraction. There is the barrier, the angry open sea that keeps me from getting to shore. Then you, my rock; so slippery in the crashing waves. I grip your jagged slopes, and I slip, but you remain; solid, rough to my touch. Victria, I love you so much, my hero, my empress, my queen of the floating island of me. The open angry sea carried me to you. You are impervious to it, so I am now clung to your firmament. My sand washes around you, speckles your surface. How long I wonder, will we remain this way, together, against rip tides and surging storms.
Absently running her fingers along the edge of her collar, Melody read the love poem over again. Geralynne was finishing in the shower. The doctor wasn't all that bad. She was gentle and kind in the use of her body, and always very good about observing the no kissing rule. And of course, she was very smart, the conversation very stimulating. But, Melody had still, for the most part, been preoccupied with Victria, her true mistress.
"Slave?"
"Coming Mistress!"
Melody closed her diary, withdrew its key from her overnight bag and engaged its lock. Geralynne had commanded her to shower first. So she did; doing her hair afterward, applying appropriate hints of makeup, and then putting on the silk robe as instructed. Her forty-eight hours of service was nearly at its end, and Geralynne wanted to make the most of what time remained. Melody tucked the secured diary into her overnight, zipped it shut, and then went to answer her mistress's call.
"Yes Mistress?" said Melody; poking her head between the bathroom door and the jam.
It was a vast, southwest color themed, tiled room with a high skylight and a very tall, potted, rubber tree. There was no tub, but a single person shower, a kind of raised square dish in the floor, at the far corner of the room. There was no curtain sectioning it off; only the shade of the rubber tree's great drooping frons. Before the shower, to the right, sat the commode. By the far left corner, stood the vanity. Dripping, brushing lazy droplets of water from her breasts, Geralynne stood waiting in the shower.
"Come dry me." She said; her eyes beckoning.
Melody advanced into the room, and went immediately to the towel rack. She couldn't deny it. Geralynne was very attractive, very well put together for her age. Glancing at her light brown, fastidiously trimmed, rounded triangle of pubic hair, Melody recalled the first taste of the soft pink folds of flesh hidden within, its aroma, its bouquet; familiar certainly, but distinct, like faint lemon zest, the taste of a penny on your tongue and the lingering flavor of dry red wine in the back of your mouth. Then, somewhere in between, unifying the taste, was Geralynne's signature scent; pleasant, assuring, somehow, strangely, like the smell of fresh cut hay drying in a field.
"Rub harder." Geralynne directed, "It's not going to dry by you patting it."
Melody hummed her laughter, smiling as she scrubbed Geralynne's head with the towel.
"I don't want to hurt you." She admitted.
"You're not going to hurt me, silly." Geralynne answered, "Not unless I ask you too."
"Yes Mistress."
Melody would be surprised if she actually asked her to. She'd had the time to take out items for impact play, but she'd never had. Besides; that wasn't Geralynne. That, Melody could tell, as much as she had come to know other things about the good doctor over their nearly two days together. She still might ask for a spanking though. Melody wouldn't put that past Tucker, but the doctor would most likely have her stop before the imprints of her hands appeared on the sweet slopes of her ass cheeks. Of course, Victria would never ask for a spanking. But, she would happily give one and neither she nor Melody wouldn't be satisfied until she saw the vivid red finger and palm prints of a severe enough beating.
Distracted with persisting thoughts of Victria, Melody let her eyes dawdle down the length of Geralynne's beautiful naked body as she patted and stroked the moisture from it. The half of her mind that was with Geralynne knew her duty and was from where her staring and gentle caressing was compelled. It was no different than how the good doctor separated herself between the passionate creature coiling inside her skin and the respectable woman that demanded its disciplined silence whenever she was required to don the white lab coat of her professional vocation and status.
Melody had briefly entertained the notion of asking Geralynne as to how difficult she found it to contain her desire when examining her most attractive patients. But, she knew better. She'd recalled the doctor's very genuine ringing apology for having exploited the opportunity to get an advanced, intimate, look at the more private elements of Victria's merchandise. As a lesbian, Geralynne was in the same position as a male gynecologist, and therefore held to the same standards of conduct. And, after all, a nurse had joined them for the examination; the requirement of her presence likely so because of some male doctor's betrayal of a female patient's trust.
I am slave, she reminded herself. My body is play thing for the mistress. In Melody's mind, there hadn't been the need for Geralynne to apologize. Tucker was in a position of power. Her staff had her back. Victria would have her back, Melody assumed, and, ultimately, Geralynne was a mistress and Melody was nothing but a poor, lowly, slave girl. The apology was a simple kindness, a gift on Geralynne's part; not any old thing Melody could just reject or ignore, but a beneficent gift to accept with grace.
Still, in the space inside her compartmentalized mind, where she was keeping her thoughts about Geralynne, Melody continue to wander, to wonder. Presently, the tall woman stepped down from the shower's basin, and then spread her feet across the bath mat placed before it. From her knees, Melody looked up at Geralynne's flat tummy and conical breasts as she rubbed a towel down her long legs. Then, rising back to her feet, Melody looked into the woman's eyes as she carefully dried her pubis, perineum and buttocks. She imagined herself a nurse then, and Geralynne as her feigningly helpless patient.
Melody had entered Geralynne's home, believing that she would be asked questions she didn't wish to answer. But, during the intervals between gratifying each other sexually, she and Geralynne had discussed an eclectic range of matters including health, hospital administration, social policy, the city's BDSM community and her life with her slave; Yazmina. Melody listened and understood. This was life: the game they were all playing; Geralynne, Yazmina, Victria and all those that had attended the charity slave auction: the concentual, mutual, exchange of power, managed risk, pain derived pleasure and complete submission. It was now Melody's world too. There might have been an opportunity of escape, but she hadn't taken it. Now, with how she'd come to feel about Victria, there was no chance of escape.
Melody dutifully followed Geralynne back to the bedroom. There, she was instructed to wait at the foot of her bed while Geralynne stepped round to the night stand. From there she withdrew a few items and set them on the stand before ultimately crawling onto the bed. Propping her pillows, Geralynne studied Melody. Settled, she told Melody to drop her robe, but remain at the foot of the bed. For a long while, Geralynne continued to stare. Presently, Melody began to feel that it was some kind of tactic. Still waiting for further instructions, she found that she was covering her scar again.
"I want to start this time with a back massage." Geralynne said finally as she rolled over onto her belly, "Climb on, take some of the contents of the little blue bottle and work it into my back."
Melody gathered up the bottle, and climbed onto the bed. Still in her robe, she straddled Geralynne's thighs.
"Wait."
"Yes Mistress?
