The Branding

Cocooned in the easy comfort of her obedience, she bathes herself. Her movements are slow and practiced, almost languid, never betraying the turmoil within her, almost overwhelming her. Her small hands tremble slightly, roaming over her full, soft body, giving her pleasure in the familiar routine of cleaning her skin for Him. The scented water steams up around her, but the aromatic vapors do little to soothe her anxiety Thoughts. She leans back in the large tub, letting the water close in over her, setting down, hot little waves lapping her chin, her deep hazel eyes mirroring her fevered imaginations. Close her eyes, she hears His voice echoing in her head.

“Tomorrow, pet, will be a special day.” She can still feel His hand struggling her, strong fingers caresing her soft blonde locks as she pursued with pleasure, His words Only barely registering as she delighted in His touch.

“Mmmmmm…why is that, Master?” Her eyes widened slightly as she felt His hand tighten in her hair, pulling her head up, her gaze meeting His, His eyes serious and dark, His voice soft, almost whispered.

“Tomorrow I shall bestow on you something very precise, very special.” Her eyes widened even more as He pulled her to her knees, His grip in her hair tight. “Tomorrow you shall wear My brand, little one,” He said, as His finger traced down her soft belly to her lightly furred nest, pressing gently into her thigh, directly below her velveteen slit, “here.”

She can remember, clearly, how that hot little ball of excitement and dread had formed instantly in her belly, her own excitement and fear making it burn hot and hungry, warming her sex, swelling its soft petals. Closing her eyes, almost completely submerged, she relives the emotions, the feelings; knowing that in a few short hours she will be marked, for eternity, as His. The water betrays her with its ripples as she quivers in the steaming tub. Almost without consciousness thought her fingers roam down her belly and graze across her clip, the tiny bud swollen and throbbing. Arching up in the water, she plumges her fingers into her tight cunt, her palm rubbing on her clip, climaxing with fierce power and speed. She utters a soft little sob of emotion as she struggles for control…and fails.

Panting, the climax waning, she rises from the tub. The water sluices off her successful body as she reaches for the plus towel, rubbing first her full mane of hair then her body, scrubbing vigorously, warming her chilled skin. Hanging the towel on the wooden bar, she pads from the bathroom and enters His chambers. Sitting on the small, padded bench, she looks over her vanity table. Adorned with only a mahogany hairbrush and a few precise perfumes (rarely used, as He prefers her own scent over the artistic scent of the perfume), she picks up the brush from the vanity’s surface; it’s back smooth and shiny from prolonged use on her disobedient bottom. She quivers gently as she holds it in her hand, memories flooding her of lessons and dark pleasures. Closing her eyes she pulls the bristles deeply and firmly through her hair, brushing the tresses to a deep, golden gloss.

She gazes at herself in the mirror, her hazel eyes looking over her soft curves of her face, the delicate arch of her eyesbrows. Her fingers raise and rest on the slope of her shoulder, the skin a soft porcelain white. The slender digits trail downward to her breasts, full and round, tipped with rosy areoles and capped with firm thick nipples, one little bud adorned with a tiny gold ring. Her breasts rise and fall democratically, her mind racing with thoughts of the day. Raising a small hand to her collar, she cares it absently, loving the feel of the supplier leather against her slender fingers.

Still naked, she rises from the vanity bench and moves gracefully to His chair, Noticing a note placed upon it, her name written in His strong hand.

“My slave,” her Master had written, “Upon readying yourself forMe you are to go down to the main room and wait for Me to arrive. You are to knee by the fireplace, speaking to no O/one. You are to meditate upon what is about to be done and what it means. You are to meditate upon your submission and commitment to me. When I arrive you will show your devotion to me, all in silence.” The note finished with “Your Master loves you, slave.”

She reads the letter over again, three then four times, her body quivering in anticipation and anxious excitement. She folds the paper carefully and rises, placing the letter on the table by His chair before walking to the door, slipping through the portal quietly, gracefully, to follow her Master’s commands.

She makes her way silently down the long, curved staircase, her expression attentive and anxious. Sitting alone in the large main room was a man she has never seen before. She offers him only a shy glance before easy gracefully to her knees on a cushion by the fireplace, her eyes lowering in supplycation. She remains in this position for a long while, her mind going over His words and the emotions evoked by them. She has no idea how long she has been kneeling in thought before she feels the stranger’s gaze upon her, studying her. She doesn’t turn; she doesn’t acknowledge him, but she does raise her eyes slightly and sees, glinting in the firelight, a number of silver rods laid side-by-side on the raised hearth of the fireplace. Her eyes widen slightly in acknowledgment and recognition, seeing the rods for what they are – forgotten branding irons, each one ending in a sleep, slim piece of metal custom made to create a brand – her Master’s brand – the brand of a slave. She rises up slightly on her knees, peering at the metal rods, her body quivering noticeably. Hearing a low, deep chuckle behind her, a hot rush of embarrassment courses through her, warming her cheeks to a soft pink and causing her to lower her eyes and body once more. She closes her eyes, concentrated on the wild quiver of her body and the whirl of emotions in her head, struggling to calm them before her Master should arrive. She whimpers softly, the sound a surprise to her as she utters it.

It seems as if hours have passed before she hears a series of footballs on the stairs. A wild quiver of joy and excitement courses through her as she hears her Master’s voice, official in tone as He addresses the room’s other occur, greeting Him in a warm, yet business-like, manner. Standing, she quickly moves to where He stands, kneeing before Him quietly, her eyes lowered and shy, her thighs parted widely, her hands claped tightly behind her back, her head held high and proud. Her sweet sex glistens slightly, her state of excitement betrayed. She shudders gently as He reaches down and cares her hair, curling His hand to a fist and pulling her close to His legs as He sits in a large leather chair. She swallows a soft gasp when He tugs her close; she nestles against His legs, purring softly withjoy. Reaching down, He attaches her lean to her collar, holding it easily in one hand as He absently cares her with the other.

Listening, she comes to understand that this other is the professional brand, hired by Master to forge the brand of His choice and to help Him to mark His slave properly. She listens as They converse about the procedure, the brand instructing her Master on the fine points of branding and After-branding care; how the strikes of the brand should be placed and for how long. She swallows thickly, wondering if They can hear the wild beating of her heart.

Finally, He addresses her. “All right, My little slave. It’s time. Stand, girl.”

Obediently, she raises, her legs trembling gently, her belly tight with anxiety excitement. Her Master stands before her, darkly resplendent in black leather, His boots shining and poisoned, His gloves tight on His large, beautiful hands; He towers over her, making her quiver even more by His very closeness, her heart pounding in her chest, her lips parted slightly. Lead to the St. Andrews cross, she walked slowly behind Him, obediently following.

“Stand against the cross, sasha.”

Again, she obeys; pressing her body to the smooth, cool wood with a gentle whimper, watching Him as He lowers to one knee to shade her right leg to the cross. His hand cares her inner thigh and warm, damp sex Leisurely as He rises, buckling her to the cross, her waist bound. The rest of her body He allows to remain unbound as He stands, gazing into her eyes. As He cares her cheek gently she can detect her own musky scent mingling with the heady scent of leather. Her gaze is locked with His as He speaks, His voice soft and gentle.

“What are you, sasha?”

Whispered, soft, “sasha is a slave, Master.”

“To Whom does this slave belong?”

“She belongs to You, Master.”

“Yes, slave. You belong to Me. In what way does this slave belong to Me?” Still, the tender cares coverher body…cheek, throat, breast, and belly.

Quivering, she answers, her voice wrong with emotion. “Master owns this slave’s mind, body, heart and soul. Master owns all of this slave.”

His smile washes over her in a gentle, warm wave. “Yes, slave. And, today, I want to place upon this slave’s body the ultimate mark of ownership. Does she understand this? And does she understand this? what it means?”

She utters a tiny whimper of joy. “Yes, Master, this slave understands. She understands that Master’s mark will be burnt onto her flesh. She understands that this will show to A/all that she is totally and completely His. She understands that she will forever belong to Him.”

His smile widens slightly, His eyes dark and shining. “Yes, slave. And how does this slave feel about this? Master gives her leave to speak freely.”

Tears fill her eyes, blinding her momentarily. She blinks quickly, a soft tear cursing down her cheek. “It is what she has dreamed of, Master. Shebegs Master to mark her…as His.” She gazes up into His eyes, her own glistening and soft, flooded with emotion.

He simply nods gently, bending to kiss her lips softly. He looks down, His eyes following His hand as it glides down her trembling body, stopping at her inner right thigh, where it lingers. Backing away from her, He looks again into her eyes before turning to the brander and nodding. The brand, silent and considerate of the ceremony before him, rises and walks to the fireplace, gripping and placing the first brand into the flames.

“The irons need to be hot, but not red hot,” the brand quietly instructs. “Hold the brand to the skin for a long moment, carefully placing it. There are seven irons in all. I’ll give them to you, as you need them.” He pauses for a moment. “Do you still wish to perform the branding yourself?”

Her Master simply nods, once. The brand pulls the iron from the fire, handing it to her Master carefully. Seeing her deep hazel eyes widen in fear He speaks softly to her. “Do I need to bind your hands, girl?”

She shakes her head quickly, slightly, reaching her arms up and out to grasp the hooks in the cross, her small fingers curling around them tightly, her breasts heaving deeply as she breathes, agitated. He smiles at her, whispering of His love for her, then lowers again to one knee, poising the brand close to her tender thigh, pressing it to her flesh. A flash of smoke and the acrid scent of burned flesh rise to her nostrils. She cries out, a soft plaintive sound. The pain, intense, dulls to a throb. He hands the branding iron to the brander, and take in hand the second in the series. Intent, careful, He presses the second iron to her flesh, holding it there gently as it burns the next mark into her tender flesh. She cries out again, this time with a bit more dismay, the cry ending in a soft sob. Her mind, racing and chaos, tries to reconcile the pain with the event. She finds herself dully surprised thatThere is no age as she had anticipated – just the exquisite stall of pain followed by the dull throb. She pants deeply, tears cursing down her cheeses as He applies brand after brand, carefully forming the initials she has borne on her collar for years, “MJ”. Her Master perseveres, not stopping until He has applied each gracefully formed iron to her delicate flesh, seemingly paying little heed to her cries and sobs.

Consulting quietly with the brander, the slave’s Master applies a soothing balm to the new brand, covering it with a gauze pad, His loving touch infinitely gentle. It is only then that He looses her bonds, kissing the flesh all around the mark as He unshackles her leg, nuzzling and kissing her belly as He unbuckles the leather belt binding her slender wait. He lifts her carefully with His strong arms, speaking softly to her of her bravery and of His pride and love, His words a litany of tenderness. He carries her up the stairs, her head resting against His broad shoulder, her body weak and limp against Him, her arms wrapped around Him as she cries softly, whispering of love required.