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She gives her friend a gift.


Victria's eyes narrowed.

"I still create."

"Mistress?" said Melody; following her domme's gaze, "What's-"

Victria, her face pale, her mouth slightly open, had caught sight of three crows, perched high on the limb of an elm. She'd watched them advance, flying from tree to tree from three different directions, though she'd not been able to pin their flight, their black wings beating, their beaks shut in silence. Not cawing to each other, in itself, was not unusual, nor was huddling together upon landing. But staring, staring without looking away, meeting her eyes with such patient menace; that seemed quite unnatural.

"Birds are amazing, aren't they?" said Melody; beginning to shiver, hugging herself in futile defense. "

"Really." Said Victria; not taking her eyes from the dark avians, "How so?"

"Because they can live out here, anywhere, and survive on whatever they find. That's a miracle; don't you think?"

"They're staring at me?

"What? No they're not."

Victria's eyes narrowed with suspicion as she turned to face her slave. Melody had begun jogging in place, her attention on the crows. Victria looked back up in their direction. The large black birds had drawn closer together, as if to warm each other as the cold wind ruffled their feathers. No, they were no longer staring at her, but they did look like they were conspiring, plotting, discussing tactic. Victria thought of that day with Simon, the woods, the heavy winds and the tiny dead bird at her feet and its shining, staring, dead black eye.

Then, she recalled the scene playing out on the Super Shopper TV: Commercial flight 210 down in China, the living dying, flesh burning, crested terns chewed in the maw of turbines, shattering cockpit window, over two hundred people dead, Rancourt, Duffy and Ricchio, innocent and helpless. Victria shuddered at her final horrifying thought; feeling the solid weight of her fear drop from the anxious pit of her gut into her bowels, causing her to dread the suddenly very real possibility that she could piss herself right then and there. I'm carrying a curse. As simply inconceivable and absurd as that sounds inside my very pragmatic mind, I am; cursed.

"Mistress," came the sweet, gentle grounding voice of reason, "I'm cold. May we go back in now?"

Melody quickly adapted to her new role as cute little puppy, and she felt that her domme was mightily pleased with her performances. Eventually, Melody had come to make a show of her scampering around the back yard, sniffing out good spots, circling, and then crouching down for a good long piss or shit. Victria, still preferring her yard clean, dutifully did her part as owner: bringing a plastic shopping bag or two up the rear, so that she could wrap up her pet's stool, and then tie them off for the trash.

A few such events had been filmed. Others followed. As for Victria's interest in bagging Melody's shit, she'd quickly lost it. As a result, and as it appeared on film, Melody went out on her own with a roll of toilet paper in one hand and plastic bags in the other, which she'd transfer to her mouth when having to manage wiping. Also recorded on video were Melody's antics with chew toys, tug ropes and squeaky balls. Every other night or so, the couple would get together after one of Melody's fine dinners, pour each other a few drinks, review the footage, and then laugh together as they shared in the work of editing the films and choosing appropriately humorous sound tracks for each.

It was a strange love Melody was in, she knew it.

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