In her mind’s eye she saw the pretty image of the looped rings and suddenly realized what they were—the clasps to her ankle and wrists bracelets—bracelets that had never been removed since he had placed them there that first day.
The image blurred as his fingers danced upon her, suffusing her body and mind with intense pleasure. Just as she arched up to meet those fingers, to ask for release, he said again, “Offer it to me, Alana. Give me what is mine.”
His words distracted her from the oncoming orgasm. Why was he asking her? Why was he forcing her to make this decision? It would be better just to do it! How cruel to force her involvement on this level—to make her commit herself to this disfigurement.
She moaned as he stroked her cunt. She needed to come. He would take what he wanted, no matter what she said. Better to say yes, to give him what was already his.
“Yes,” she whispered, “Take it. Take what is yours, Sir.”
~*~
It was dark out. Somehow nighttime seemed the most appropriate time for this symbolic, almost sacred act. Alana lay face down on a quilt on the kitchen table. To help her keep still, he had tied her wrists and ankles to the legs of the table with long red silk sashes.
He loved the contrast of the crimson against her pale skin. Her back, ass and thighs were crosshatched with fading lash marks and welts, overlain with newer ones. The marks were a lovely tribute—concrete evidence of her willingness to suffer for him.
And now he would give her the ultimate mark. A brand. A burning into her flesh of the symbol he had chosen for her.
If only he could brand love into her heart.
He shoved that stupid thought away. He had everything he could expect, and it was enough. It had to be.
He went through the steps again in his head. The key was to make sure the brand was hot enough. You had to press down firmly, but not too hard. He wanted the scarring deep, but not so deep that the design would be obscured. It had to be perfect. Alana deserved perfection.
She lay quietly, her cheek resting against the soft quilt. He could sense her fear, but also her control. As when he’d pierced her, he had given her a large glass of brandy, which had helped to relax her.
Mark set the propane torch into the stand he had devised, angling it until he was satisfied. Taking the small sack that held the brand design, he opened it and carefully removed the tin design.
Bending over her, Mark kissed Alana’s head. “Are you ready, slave girl?”
She swallowed visibly, but then nodded. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered.
Taking the large pair of disinfected, insulated pliers, he placed the design into it, closing it so that the grips held it firmly in place. He flicked the propane torch, causing it to burst into a long, hot blue flame.
Alana gasped and stared into the flame. She had an expression not unlike an animal trapped in the headlights. But that animal could run. Alana wasn’t going anywhere.
Mark was intent on his task, barely focused on the terror in his slave’s eyes. Not that that would have stopped him. He was fully concentrated on what he was doing as he held the metal design in the flame, watching it heat to just the proper point for the strike.
Quickly, before it cooled, he brought the metal to her soft flesh. He held it there for several seconds. The sharp smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Alana screamed.
He lifted the brand.
The deed was done.
Chapter 10
Mark was careful with his slave girl after her branding. The strike had been perfect, and though scabs would form over the wound, when they fell off, he was sure the brand would be true to its design. After a few days, he would remove the sterile dressing so the wound could breathe as it finished healing.
Because he didn’t want to risk disturbing the healing process, he restrained himself from their daily whipping and fucking, though that didn’t stop him from using her lovely mouth.
He had noticed that she grimaced sometimes when he ejaculated on her tongue, as if she didn’t like his taste. He decided to call her on it. “You don’t seem to really enjoy swallowing my jism. What’s that about? You should love it, because it belongs to your Master.”
“Oh, no, Sir,” Alana began, though her eyes darted away from him as they did when she was lying.
He cut her off. “Don’t deny it. You take it, sure. You have to. But you don’t seem to love it, to crave it, the way a real slut should. Am I right about that? And think before you answer, because if you hold back any bit of the truth, I’ll just beat it out of you eventually. You know I demand complete honesty from my slave.”