The Brand
Author: melissa Fern
Filed in: submission, love, brandingI realize now that I have put off setting this down on paper for several reasons. First, the emotions are so deep, so raw—I just haven’t had the words. Those who know me will find that humorous, if not downright unbelievable, for I am seldom at a loss for words. But He will believe it. He knows how I can get when my feelings flow so strong I can hardly breathe. He knows it all. And even so, there is this story to tell. Oh I don’t know—maybe it will be pedestrian and Catholic to some. But my heart is still so full I need to stop a minute right now . . . I just looked at it in the mirror again. So beautiful. Bloody and weeping and red and swollen. And my face—I really am different. My face doesn’t even look the same. I will never be the same again. My face looks beautiful too. It’s in my eyes. God, maybe I really can’t do this! No, wait—He told me to. Okay then, that’s all there is to it. Don’t have to finish tonight. Just write a little more. Another reason I have avoided the writing of this story is a reason I have had before. The fear that I cannot do justice to what really happened with my simple words. And there is also the fear that He will not approve; that if I write it the way I felt it and the way it looked through my eyes, He will not like it. It will be wrong somehow. He will say no—How could you have been so deluded? It wasn’t like that at all.
* * *
I hurried home from work that night. I wanted to at least be squeaky clean. I felt I needed to be very clean to give myself to Him always, but especially this time. So I scrubbed and shaved and took everything off my body except a toe ring. Nothing to get in His way. Lisa, the woman doing the work, was here 20 minutes early. She didn’t want to do it in her shop because it was so difficult to get the smell of burning flesh out. He wasn’t here yet. I was anxious for Him to arrive. She came with her bag of tricks, so to speak: gloves, mask, cautery “iron.” I guess that’s what it’s called. I thought this day would never come. It had been months and months since I had first mentioned branding, and at that time He had been dismissive. Even recently He had called it, “definitive evidence of insanity.” I didn’t necessarily disagree with Him. I just wondered how it was relevant! Were we crazy? Of course! The both of us. Had been long before we knew of one another. And from my perspective, NOT doing the branding wouldn’t make either of us less so! When He asked me that November day—I was afraid to answer. Afraid to say the truth out loud. I don’t even remember how it came up, what we had been talking about. He said, “You have done things for me that you didn’t want to do, haven’t you?” “Yes,” I said, “but I don’t mind.” I meant that, too. “Well, what do you want? What do you want for you? What is your fantasy?” I knew the answer immediately. “What I want, You have already said no to.” I said. “Did I say no? Or did I say we’ll see or just not right now?”He had been adamant. It had been a definite no. “Naw—You said no.” “Well what is it,” He said, “Maybe we can at least talk about it.”I dared not hope He could change His mind. I had wanted it so badly, and been so disappointed when He said “No.” I thought it meant He didn’t want me that much. Didn’t care enough to want to mark me. If I told, and He said no again . . . “I want You to brand me with Your mark.” I blurted it out too fast to lose my nerve. Silence. Then, “I don’t like it. I just don’t approve. I don’t know if . . . I don’t ever want to smell burning flesh again in my life.” “I know,” I whispered, willing my tears to stay back. “I’ll tell you what. I will say that I will discuss it. You research. Find out all the pertinent information, and send me what you find. Then we will talk more. But you know I do not believe in damaging my property.” So I did. The more I learned, the more I wanted it. I read all about slaves who moaned and cried. Who had to be held down. I knew I could do it without all that. If He told me to. He said that IF—and it was a big IF—He allowed it, He would not do it Himself. I was to ask His friend in California (I’ll call Him Sir Anton), what He knew about it, whether He had any experience. Whether He would be willing to do it. Sir Anton tended to be slightly—okay a lot—more familiar with the provision of pain than Master was. In fact from past conversations, I understood that Sir Anton enjoyed giving pain a great deal. So I asked the California Dom what Master wanted to know. Sir Anton said He had no personal experience, but that He would do it if Master wanted Him to. He would mark Master’s slave (me) if Master desired it. I reported back. “Keep looking,” He said. I began to wonder from some of the things Master said whether He really understood why it was so important to me to be branded. I even feared He was getting angry about discussing the subject at all. He had said some cross words to me one day about it and I hated—HATED—the thought that I might have angered Him. So I told Him I was sorry and would never bring it up again. But He said it was okay—we could still talk about it! So I wrote a few sentences explaining myself. Here is the short paragraph I wrote to Him explaining why I wanted it so much: (Originally written Monday, December 11, 2006) “Because men brand what is worth something to them, what is of value. Men brand what they do not want to lose. A brand is the most permanent, irrevocable mark there is. We tag our property so no one else will take it away. Maybe even so no one else will want it. Because if You mark me so, it will be there tomorrow, next month, next year. No matter how many times I go to the dermatologist, or for laser treatments, Your mark will be there. If I have major surgery to have it removed, the design will change, but the traces of Your mark on my body will be there still. When I am 80, and I get out of the bathtub and look in the mirror, Your mark, the evidence that You once claimed my body as Your own, will be there. I will never again, no matter how deeply I fall into despair, no matter how intensely I may come to hate myself, I will never again be completely convinced in my heart that no one ever really wanted me. Because all I will have to do is look in the mirror. All I will have to do is put my hand down to cover the scar and I will remember. I will remember the day that even against Your better judgment You allowed me to give myself to You in a way that no one, no woman ever had before. The day that You gave me the opportunity to truly “Walk Through Fire” for You. I would never have brought it up again if You hadn’t asked about my fantasy. And I have never stopped wanting it, though I thought I knew it would never happen. And maybe it still won’t, I don’t know. But I just wanted You to know that if we did it, no matter what happened between us after that, I would never, ever be sorry. I would never be ashamed. I would always be proud to bear Your mark. “ The next day Master said, “I understand about the brand. I always have.” Following is part of a note I sent to Sir Anton near the end of my reaserch: Dear Sir: Master has said I may write and tell You news of the branding. What I have learned is that branding seems to have gone quite a ways underground. It is not illegal per se, but most legitimate tattoo and piercing professionals (who are the ones traditionally associated with branding) are now unwilling to be known as folks who do--or even know about--brands. I thought this pretty curious. In my research, I realized I was going to have to present myself to people in person before I was going to get any useful information, as they were unwilling to even discuss what they did or did not know on the telephone. I was not put off, as you might imagine, and I located a body modification artist (as they are euphemistically called these days) named Lisa Blue at a studio in Beaverton. She agreed to see Master and myself for a consultation about the brand during which we would discuss design and location and make an appointment for her to do the work.
* * *
Lisa Blue had brilliant, royal blue colored hair, tattoos on her arms, ear stretchers the size of fat half dollars, and more than a few highly visible piercings. She was young, but not too young. She was a big woman. She had a good, firm handshake and was not afraid to look me right in the eye as she did it. Master would NOT like the way she looked. I liked her energy. Besides, even before I met her I had been pretty sure that a woman who did branding was not gonna look like a Sunday school teacher. So she was early that night. She had wanted to come later and I had to tell her that we could not change plans at the last minute and Master could not get away later at night than that. So she said okay—six o’clock it is, then. I was so worried that something would happen and it would not come together. But she was here. She got out all her supplies and asked if we could place the stencil before He arrived. I said yes, as I knew how it was to be. I slipped off the leopard silk robe and stood naked in front of her. She applied the stencil to my pubic mound but didn’t seem to like the placement. She washed it off and tried again. It was a fist-sized drawing of an anchor. The old fashioned kind like you see in some tattoos. It was exactly what Master wanted, I knew. I loved the way it looked there. Master arrived and sat in the living room while she finished with the pattern. Then she said something about us having our moment. I was incredibly nervous. This was what I had dreamed of. He was here, and it was going to happen. And though I had no idea what it would feel like, I had sworn to be still, and silent. I had been clutching the black leather collar in my hand since before Lisa arrived. I took it to Him, dropping to my knees with my back to Him. He buckled my collar and I kept my eyes cast down, my back up against His thighs. I just wanted to be touching Him. “May I ask a question?” I felt timid with Him now. It was funny that after everything I had been through with Him, He could still make me feel like that. “I’m not gonna talk to the back of Your head.” I turned on my knees and looked up into His eyes. “Will You help me?” I asked. “Will You tell me to be still and quiet so it will be easier?” “Look at me,” He ordered. This is one of the parts I don’t remember too exactly. I looked into His eyes—He just looked into me. He told me I was to be very, very still. And quiet. And something about a reward if I was a very good girl. I’m not really sure. But I was connected to Him. I understood. I had no doubt whether I could do as He told me to do. I would be His good girl if it killed me. But it wouldn’t. We walked into the bedroom where Lisa waited for us. I lay down in the center of the queen-sized bed. Lisa sat next to me and put on a surgical mask and gloves. Master stood at the foot of the bed. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling for the connections among the three of us. They were strong. She was there with us. And I was ready. More than ready. I opened my eyes and Lisa said, ”Okay?” I nodded. I looked at Him and again I nodded. I heard the skin of my pubic mound sizzle as she brought the instrument down and across the tender area. I smelled the odor of myself burning. Surprisingly, I felt very little pain. Oh sure, it hurt some. But not nearly as much as it should have, in my estimation. I held stock-still. I looked up at Master and He seemed—worried? I smiled at Him. It took Lisa about a half an hour, maybe a little more, to burn His mark into my flesh. It was wonderful. The time flew by. When it started to really hurt I would look at Him and be calmed. Anchored, if you will forgive me. Then before I knew it, it was done. Almost, that is. At the end Lisa paused, and said, “This is my signature.” She jammed the cautery tool into my skin and held it there vertically until it went down a good 3/16 of an inch. A small flame came from the hole in my skin. It was the hole for the rope at the top of the anchor. That part hurt considerably more. But, of course, I did not move. She then quickly picked up her things. I thanked her, and He let her out. He came back into the bedroom and just looked at me, still lying there on the bed. He shook His head. “May I move?” I asked, unable to keep the smile from my lips. “You can move. Get over here.” As I slid off the bed He grabbed me by the collar with one hand and pulled me close to Him. My face was inches from His. I couldn’t keep myself from looking again into those deep, sparkling eyes. His face was set sternly, but His eyes—His eyes said something else. He let me look for long seconds and then spoke one word. “Cum.” It took only a moment for my brain to register His command. The heat built fast between my legs and soon I felt the wet coming down. God—to cum like that—standing there, the length of me pressed up next to Him, staring into His eyes. It began to subside and He tightened His grip on the collar and breathed, “Cum, bitch.” And of course, I did. Of course I did. He stepped away a few feet. “It makes my cock hard to see you cum like that. You wanna taste my cock?” It wasn’t really a question. I hit my knees in front of Him gratefully, greedily, and took Him into my mouth. I was almost afraid this was all a dream and I would awaken soon, alone and unmarked. After a time He moved over and lay down on the bed where I had been a little while before. I crawled up between His legs—probably one of my top five favorite places to be in the whole world. And I know what I did but here, again, I don’t exactly remember. “Ahh—that feels good—use your hand too—oh yeah. That’s your job, isn’t it. To make my cock feel good.” “I love my job,” I whispered, lost in it all. “What?” He said. “I love my job,” I said again, louder. “I love my job.” I meant it. He was so hard—I wanted . . . “Get up. Get me ready and bend over.” I shook so hard I was afraid I would drop the condom. How long—How long had it been? I got the condom on, and rubbed the lube up and down his cock, squeezing Him in my hand as hard as I dared. He grew harder yet and I felt my pussy lips slide back and forth together, every bit as slippery as His cock in my hand. I spread my legs wide and bent over the end of the bed, waiting without patience, ready again. He plunged into my ass hard and fast and with that very first thrust I felt my backbone start to melt and I knew I was gonna cum again just that quick. I reached back with both arms and tried to hold on to Him. I couldn’t stand the thought of Him pulling back even just to push in again. I backed into Him hard and ground my ass into His hips and He ground back into me—half choking me with His . . . shit, I don’t know if He had me by the collar again or if He had His hands around my neck but I came hard. My ass and my pussy spasmed and I felt Him there inside me like that and . . . Oh god . . . He pulled out when I was finished, and once more I dropped to my knees, this time taking off the condom. He lay back down on the bed and I took Him into me again. I felt Him there at the back of my throat and went on with my lovely job . . . He stood later and put on His pants, and I slid down to the floor. I was completely sated, but feverish with joy, humble, thankful. He sat down in the chair by the computer and I reveled in it all. I cried—I had to. I hadn’t ever been so full of elation and so many other feelings I couldn’t even identify. And that’s when He spoke to me again. (Oh I can’t possibly put all of this down for someone else to see—It belongs to Him and to me and no one else. No one else could ever understand.) No—perhaps He will not disapprove of my account. After all, it is the truth. It happened. I saw it with my eyes and I felt it, knew it in my heart. He will allow me my words. He has allowed me my joy, even knowing how I adore Him. He has never lied. Not about that, anyway. I will not lie either. [I keep having to stand up and walk away from writing this for a few minutes. It is ironic. I remember it was like this when I wrote about Him and me and Tia—she was the first girl I brought Him. How painful it was to write about that! How sick I felt. How small. I had to do it in shifts.] Well I do not feel small now. My heart feels huge. I feel proud. And if I could manage it I would bring Him a different “Tia” every week. I would do anything to see Him happy. I am at His service, always. Anything.
* * *
“You wanted some big flowery words,” He begun. And I knew then He was going to try to give me what I wanted, even if it hurt Him. I couldn’t stand that. “Oh no!” I pleaded with Him from my knees at His feet, crying, shaking my head, all ready to say, “Please—You don’t have to—it’s already so much—don’t . . . “ And He said, “Well you are going to get some small flowery words.” I was afraid I couldn’t stand one more tiny bit of happiness because if it came to me I would literally explode. I was afraid that I just could not hold any more. I was so much happier already that I could ever have imagined being in my whole twisted, weird, very occasionally brilliant and far more often dreary little life. Before Him, that is. I cannot even remember clearly all that He said. I remember looking in the big mirror at myself there, on my knees, and thinking I looked good that way, naked and ecstatic as I waited for Him to speak. “As a sub, you will never be replaced.” Or maybe it was “You will not be replaced,” but the look on His face when He said those words made me literally sob with joy. He said something more about there being words He really believed in that He tried to live by. I think that was what He said, but that other people or most others simply could not. “But you can.” Facta non verba. Latin. Deeds, not words. I found out it was the motto of the US Navy Destroyer Squadron 22. I wonder if He knew that. Doesn’t matter. I knew the first time He said that phrase to me that He was a man who would accept no excuses. That appealed to me. And now He was saying that I was that way too? I could only think how I had not expected all of this. His “small” words were great with meaning. He said something about that I had given Him a gift—maybe a big gift or some qualifier. My heart swelled incredibly and tears of pure elation rolled down my face as I looked up at Him. It was more how He looked than even what He said. There was something so—I don’t even know what to call it and it doesn’t matter in the slightest. Maybe I don’t know what to call it because, like a lot that has gone on between us, it couldn’t be rationally explained. I want to say it was love, but that isn’t it. He had said He would never, and then He said He could never. And it just didn’t matter because of the way that I worshipped Him. Just that He knew—that was more than I could hope for. And now when I looked in His eyes I could tell that was what He was trying to say. That He did know—He understood deep inside of Him, maybe even for the first time, what I had given Him. My body, yes, but that wasn’t the most special of what I gave by far. I also gave Him unquestioning allegiance. I would get His back if I had to suffer incredibly, if I had to live in torture, if I had to die a slow horrible death. I would get His back without thinking about it at all. And even that wasn’t everything. Love? Sure, okay. Whatever that means. I had gone to bed at night loving Him, awakened in the morning loving Him for long enough to know that I never knew the meaning of the word before. And He knew that. But there was more. Again words fail me. My . . . soul? Shit, we were both aware that we didn’t know what that meant. What, then? The light behind my eyes. Even that, I offered to Him. And expecting nothing in return, but nearly dying from the longing for Him to just take it. It. My spirit? My life force? What? Yes. The light behind my eyes. That is what I gave to Him. And that night as I looked up into His beautiful eyes, and heard the words He spoke to me, I knew that He understood, and He had accepted my gift to Him. I cannot—I cannot put words to the way that felt—feels. Love? Pale. Love is pale in comparison. That is all I can say.
* * *
After He left that night I glanced once more at myself in the mirror and laughed out loud. He had put my collar on upside down.
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