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  • The Brand Ch. 13

The Brand Ch. 13

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Justice, Faith and Power

"The pride of a free woman is the pride of a woman who feels herself to be the equal of a man. The pride of the slave girl is the pride of the girl who knows that no other woman is the equal of herself."

- John Norman

"It is easier to live through someone else than to complete yourself. The freedom to lead and plan your own life is frightening if you have never faced it before. It is frightening when a woman finally realizes that there is no answer to the question 'who am I' except the voice inside herself."

- Betty Friedan

*****

1

Inside Melody's mind, she was beaten, battered, bruised and soar. She was bound, ankles and wrists. Around her head was tied a soft scarf, perhaps silk, but sheer. The scarf was cool on her skin, but did not obscure her sight, at least not as much as she would have liked. Yet so it was, captivated by her memory, concepts altered, perceptions reversed and intentions denied by her own malicious little gremlin thoughts. Melody's scarf blindfold, she'd imagined into place as much as the own worst enemy of herself altered its quality to sheerness, the vail gone, the threat of truth laid out before her inner view.

Melody was set with her back against a sun baked wall of grit battered brown brick. The sky stretched out above her, cloudless and shimmering blue. She knew the Rocky Mountain peaks were somewhere behind, the high Colorado plains, around her and the wide horizons of Kansas and Nebraska ahead ever eastward. Melody also knew that the highway, in all its beneficent lack of cruelty and judgement, ran behind the wall at her back and flowed eastward beyond the barriers of chain link fencing that penned in the square of playground before her.

She could see them, little children, dangling from the jungle gym, climbing and hanging. They slid down the slides, palms and the backs of their bare legs squeaking against the steel, their faces devoid of youthful exuberance and their eyes glazed over. They sat in the swings, lazily dragging their little feet or kicking themselves into a slow spin on the roundabout. They were all waiting, toe headed, buzz cut and pig tailed, staring down into the grass, across the yard or through the empty off kilter squares of the fence.

Melody too, was waiting. Or was it an extended postponement? No, it was an interruption, a suspension. Waiting for what, Melody? Waiting for what? What was the point of a blindfold if you could still see through it? The scarf fell away then, and with it, the children disappeared too. Then the light changed. The sky changed. The surface of an ocean crowded in like a big circus tent. Melody watched its rippling, churning current from her place against the brick wall.

Under the dim, bruise purple aquarium light inside her head, Melody felt the obdurate steel around her ankles and wrists. Those, she didn't imagine away, since, thanks to her mistress, feeling fettered had become a comfort. But where she was inside her head, was another matter. Another day was dawning, and then there would be another high noon. And this time, this time she would be gone too. He'd done it on purpose, left her behind, just to make it all that much harder on her.

The playground before her had become little more than a former junk yard turned vacant lot, as if a tornado had pulled up the jungle gym and the slide and all the rest, and cleaned it of its worst, leaving little islands of grass and weeds, chunks of metal pipes and cement strewn all about. Then Melody saw her little dog, Spanky, sniffing the ground, finding a stick to chew. Smiling, Melody watched his approach, and then his heeling against the wall by her feet. You are my little big dog, she mused, and yes you are. Huh baby? Yes you are.

Then she noticed how she was dressed, blue gingham, and, as her skirt fluttered in the wind, Melody saw that upon her feet were her ruby red slippers. Her smile faded then. Her tears began to fall anew, cleaning a clear path through the dust and dried blood on her cheeks and lips. Melody shut her eyes tight. Presently, she felt the gentle pressure of a warm wet washcloth upon her face. Someone cared. Of course someone cared, silly. Open your eyes. I'm afraid. What's there to be afraid of? You'll probably imagine Victria here along with you, dressed just like you or like... Oh, don't think that.

Melody saw the sudden gun flash, Victria's body naked in its light, the wicked witch's pointed black hat on her head, its wide black brim tilted forward. If I go back, she'll shoot me. No she won't! You're crazy! Of course I'm crazy. I don't want to leave here. He's going to come for me and finish me here, and that'll be that. It'll be better that way. Still, Melody wouldn't open her eyes. Still, the gentle hand wiped the blood and grime from her face. Maybe it's the old woman. I guess, maybe. Maybe it's the pretty tall one. She would certainly make the Good Witch's gown look much better. It could be I guess. Or, it could be him. Fine. Let's get this over with.

Melody's eyes snapped open, and there he was. But, he wasn't who she expected. Still, he, a very tall, lean, black man, dressed in a black tux and tails, a jeweled string tie around his neck and a stove pipe hat on his head, was no less startling. She knew he was of African descent, not because of his complexion, but because of the shape of his clean white toothy smile. Of course his face and hands were black, but rather they were the black of the night sky, of outer space, his eyes two distant twinkling stars. Melody looked down at his hands, the left holding the washcloth, soiled with her dirt and blood, the other holding a glass of what smelled like rum, hot rum, steeped in chili peppers. Melody stared at his hands and was sure that if he'd taken hold of her, she'd flow right into his fingers and disappear forever into oblivion. So are you my way out?

"You know, you really should go back now." He said, his voice smooth, somehow West Indian and coming from everywhere.

"Who, who are you? Melody asked.

The man, the figment, laughed, his bright smile broad and fathomless, as it shook the ground. Spanky started to bark. He got to his feet and tried to get his teeth on the hem of his pant leg, but the little dog couldn't find purchase because the man's body was apparently intangible to the dog's touch.

"I'm your principal." Answered the man, "Your suspension is over. It's time for you to come back to school."

Melody suddenly felt the steel shackles loosen, and then drop from her wrists and ankles. She looked into his bright star eyes.

"Somehow," she said, "I don't believe you."

The tall man laughed again, this time more heartily. The ground quaked, and Melody fell at his feet. Spanky was bounced about, his feet scrambling.

"Very well then," the man continued, "Then I am the great and powerful Oz!"

Melody got back to her feet and brushed herself off.

"No," she said, "You're not him either. Oz was dressed in green. Are you, are you God?"

That time, the man didn't laugh. Melody began to nervously twirl her hair around her left index finger and stare into his nebulous face.

"Maybe." He said, his little star eyes gleaming light years away.

They were both silent for a time. Spanky began to sniff around and through the man's feet. Melody continued to twirl her hair, something she hadn't done since she was a child, as she watched the tall man drink his peppered rum.

"Why are you denying yourself the freedom of the world?" he asked her finally, "Why are you hiding here so deeply inside yourself?"

Melody looked away.

"If you were God, you'd know why." She answered.

The man hummed a small laugh, and made the earth tremble slightly under Melody's feet. Spanky sprang into another fit of anxious barking.

"I am God enough to know," he said, "Silly girl, why and why not."

Melody turned to face him again.

"I am Samedi, both the eternal spirit of sensuality and the lord of death." He continued as the washcloth disappeared from his left hand, "Through the flesh and out of the flesh. My duty is to guard the entrance into the ever after. It is here that I dance, when the whim takes me, to bar one's passage or to let them through."

"So you've come for me."

"I've come to send you back, to keep you out."

"Why?"

"Because your place is in the sensual world."

"I am no longer sure whether I am more afraid to live than I am to die."

"I am to persuade you of the latter. Wanting to remain here, near the gate, is wasteful. It is folly. The one you seek is gone. He will not take you here. He is long gone. No, if you want to pass by me, you need to join the living again in order for your desire to come true, if it is so your desire, to relinquish your flesh. You see Melody, my whispering song bird, you need to return to the love you fear. You need to free yourself in the world, from the bonds of love, before you and I should cross paths again."

Samedi side stepped away from her. With his retreat, the ground became a gleaming dance floor, smooth as glass. The man, the god, the trickster angel, tossed his glass of rum into the air, and with a snap of his fingers, the glass and its tumbling contents disappeared. In that instant, Melody began to hear the strains of Louie Armstrong's Coal Cart Blues. Samedi began to dance. Melody couldn't keep her toes from tapping to the beat. Samedi beckoned her close. She advanced. Spanky was too perplexed to bother to sniff at the new scene. He simply sat on his haunches and watched his mistress as she danced. Together, she and Samedi spun their arms, turned their hips and jumped to the old song's melodious progression. A smile had returned to Melody's face as she shucked and jived in unison with the spirit's steps. Gradually, she had lost herself to the music, the body in her mind becoming one with it. On and on she danced, the music filling her heart. Now, she positively brimmed. If she was any happier, she would...

Melody stopped suddenly, and when she stopped, the music stopped. She looked for Samedi, but he was nowhere to be seen. Melody looked around. The gleaming wood floor was gone. The rugged earth had returned and she was once again surrounded by the fencing and the brick wall. She realized that Spanky was barking as he scurried around her ruby slippered feet. As she lowered herself to pet the dog, her eyes fell on the spot against the wall where she'd been standing, where her shackles had fallen and had been replaced by a large black rooster. His wattles, earlobes and comb were a bright blood red, and his hackle, tail and saddle feathers were sharp looking and shown like black chrome. His eyes, which stared at her unblinkingly, shown too, with the obdurate ebony of twin stones of polished onyx. In the wall behind him was a large hole and beyond the hole, Melody knew, was the world.

"I failed to mention," said Samedi from everywhere and nowhere, "I also protect the children and the very sick. I am their last best chance. I am your last best chance. Help me help you, child."

Melody looked away and pulled Spanky close.

"Very well then silly child." Said Samedi, "Be stubborn."

From the corner of her eye, Melody watched the big black rooster climb through the hole, and then watched the hole rebuild itself back to brick. With that, she restored her playground, the grass, the swings, the slide, the roundabout and the children. Spanky stared about himself and whimpered. Melody too surveyed her mental construct, her captivity, and then slowly rose to her feet. Her face was as glum and her eyes were as glazed as those of the children of her machination. Presently, she found herself an empty swing, sat down, and then slowly kicked herself into an easy tempo of aimless to and fro.

2

"What if I fail?"

"You won't fail."

"But what if I do Mistress?"

"Then your punishment will be the most heinously debauched experience you could possibly imagine."

Melody purred with laughter as she set her elbows on the edge of the table, and then perched her chin on the backs of her interlaced fingers. The act had sent the chain of her handcuffs to jangle. The sound, the sight of them, pleased her dome, though the pleasure was not visible in her face. Still, Melody knew it pleased her.

"Oh dear Mistress," she said, the smile still dancing around her lips, "Do you mean to imply that this very evening's activities, as depraved as they are, will pale in the light of what future degradation you intend to subject me to?

Subject you to?" Victria intoned, looking up from her menu, flashing her slave a cool glance.

Melody's smile quickly faded. A flush rose in her cheeks. Was it fear? Was it shame? Then, in their relations, Victria knew it was the latter.

"I beg your pardon, my empress." Continued Melody, regarding her domme with warmth and self-possession, "I meant to say that I will relish each and every new lovely indignity you so graciously command me to experience for the sake of our mutual pleasure."

"That's better."

"May I look at the menu?"

"I will be ordering your food."

"I understand Mistress, and thank you. But may I look at the menu?"

"You may."

Victria handed it over, and then took a sip of her cocktail. She studied the subtle glimmer of her slave's handcuffs. The manacles and each link that connected them were a splendid sight to behold, not only in that their steel confined her precious slave's wrists, but because of the illumination of their table's low hung lighting fixture, reflected in each link of chain like bright flowers, glimmering buds surrounded by glowing purple, green and gold petals. She made a mental note to try to recreate the same effect in the studio back home. There was something so incredibly beautiful about Melody's golden skin and the gleam of polished steel, like her flesh and submission was a celebration, a gift she could give herself and indulge in the joy of unwrapping time and time again.

Your father used to tell you that you wouldn't amount to anything."

Melody looked up. Victria was staring, nothing in her eyes but anticipation, waiting in that cool, incendiary way of hers. She knew Melody would think the question had come out of the blue. That was fine. That was how it was supposed to seem. Victria still wanted to foster ever higher levels of psychological intimacy with Melody as much as the domme desired to maintain control over her slave. After all, dommes were human too.

"You say it like you know for sure."

"No. I don't know. I only say it because culture and tradition are, well, like those manacles I put around your wrists. Only, those I can take off. Gender inequality, the mass subjugation of women, I'm sorry to say, may very well be a symptom of evolution, if you take stock in evolution I mean. Give an animal a big brain and it'll only use it to dominate, enslave or kill more efficiently."

Melody stared fixedly at her domme for a moment, and then looked down at her handcuffs. She laughed ironically, more like a sigh, and then began to stroke a thumb along the manacle around her left wrist.

"Did your mom think the same way," Victria continued, "before she'd even got together with him or had she allowed him to change her perspective?"

"Her perspective? Melody repeated, meeting Victria's gaze again.

"Perspective, philosophy, you know: feminism, in its third wave now?"

Melody laughed dryly. Then there was silence, and then more silence, the restaurant buzzing serenely around them. Victria had all night, all weekend, weeks, months, maybe years. Really? Years? Could I handle that, she thought to herself as their waiter approached their table.

"Before I forget- Waiter. Be sure to bring the slut another glass of white wine please?"

The young man laughed nervously.

"Uh...sure? May I tell you about this evening's specials? We have-"

"Stop. No specials."

Victria turned the menu back around.

"I will start with the Antipasti Assortitti and she will have the Pane Cotto."

Victria paused. Still looking at the menu, she draped an arm along the back of her chair. The waiter finished writing, regarded Melody's smiling face and bound wrists. Then he cleared his throat and said:

"Yes, and for your entrees?"

"I will have the Costata Di Mailed E Salsiccia Con Figa and my dirty little whore will have the Capellini Della Massala."

Melody watched the young man wince slightly as he wrote the order. Oh come on, she thought. Lighten up big boy.

"Very good Ma'am."

The waiter tucked his pad away, took the menu from the table, regarded Melody and said:

"So I'll put this in and I'll bring you your wine, Ma'am. Anything else?"

"Slut? Is there something you want to confess to our server?"

The young man seemed suspended, still, robotic. Melody switched her gaze to Victria.

"Huh?" she said, "Oh yeah."

She reached inside the low scoop of her Brocade top and withdrew a folded up slip of paper. Melody opened it, read and then cleared her throat. Turning to the waiter, she said:

"This morning, I microwaved this nice green summer squash for about a minute, but I had to wash it really well first because it came all the way from like Chili, so I could masturbate with it. After I got off, and got it all good and juicy, I fried it up in an omelet. It was really good."

Melody beamed at the waiter. The waiter smiled back, his cheeks a vivid red as he backed away from their table. Victria watched him, her gaze still alert, still solemn.

"I'll have your appetizers out very soon." He said, and then he was gone.

There was silence for a moment. Melody crossed, uncrossed and crossed her legs again. She met Victria's eyes. They'd changed. Their look had softened. There was a faint smile. She was trying to hide it. Oh what secret joy is under that rough exterior? Suddenly, Melody let a snortful of laughter bubble free. It had spilled over. Melody covered her mouth, trying to calm herself back down. Victria was still trying to mute her smile. Melody laughed some more. Their waiter returned with her wine. Melody uncovered her mouth and beamed at the young man. The waiter sped away. Victria watched her slave take a sip of wine, and then gulp down another. A new fit of laughter came over Melody, but quickly trickled to nothing, until a new, comfortable silence settled between them.

"My mom," said Melody, looking off to her right, turning the stem of her glass, "My mom tried. She tried to try, to encourage me. We did the Girl Scout thing. She fed my reading, always helped me with my homework. But-:

Melody turned to face Victria. She could only imagine what stories her slave could tell. Would she tell? Would they be pathetic, horrific, profane? Victria found herself thinking of cages, scars, invisible hands pulling strings, God the man, Goddess the woman, Father Time and Mother Nature locked in coital embrace. Who got to be on top? She supposed it didn't matter, out there in the cosmos, where top and bottom had no meaning.

"Her failure was already there, "Melody continued, "I used to think it was me, her failure, but I stopped thinking that way because for her, then..."

Melody looked away.

He just squashed her. I was all she had to invest in, to enjoy."

Silence again. Melody saw a young woman come into view, holding two plates. Their waiter had replaced himself with a waitress. She was pretty, though with a forced smile. What? Service without a genuine smile! Melody let her have it, telling the waitress:

"I like to spread apple butter on my tits and then lick them up clean. Yum yum."

"Enjoy." Said the waitress, trying not to laugh as she made her own retreat.

"My father," continued Melody, "Dean, the man who fertilized the propagation of me, just exploited whatever failure there was between him and Mom. And not because he knew it was there to exploit. He just hammered her like- It's like you said: A bad idea gone worse because it had support, bad family culture, generation after generation, I guess."

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