Content warning: Explicit sexual content, marking/branding kink (consensual)
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My body still ached from the night before, but it was the sweet kind of ache—like I'd been ruined in the most beautiful way.
Damien had left early again, but this time… he left a note.
> "Wear the red. Kneel in the dungeon by nine. No excuses."
—D
The red?
I opened the closet in my assigned room and saw it—hanging there like a warning.
A red satin corset, boned tightly, with black garters and matching lace panties. No bra. No shoes. No jewelry.
Just the color of sin wrapped around my skin.
By the time the clock struck nine, I was on my knees in the center of the dungeon, wrists tied behind my back with black leather cuffs. My breath was shaky, my thighs already sticky.
The door creaked open.
He entered in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, dark slacks. No tie. No smile. Just hunger in his silver eyes.
"You disobeyed me once," he said calmly, walking in slow circles around me. "You took your punishment. And yet..."
He stopped behind me.
"You're still testing me."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he grabbed my chin roughly, forcing me to look up at him.
"You think I don't see it?" he hissed. "That fire in you? That fight? You want to submit, but you want to challenge me while doing it."
I bit my lip.
"Good," he growled. "I don't want a puppet. I want a pet. Trained. Owned. Marked."
My heart stopped.
"Marked?" I asked softly.
He walked over to a velvet-covered table and pulled back the cloth.
A branding iron.
I froze.
My breath caught in my throat. My chest rose and fell rapidly. Fear? Yes. But also… arousal.
"Relax," he said. "I don't scar what I value. But I will own you."
He lifted a vial of ink. Black, thick, permanent.
"This is my crest. My symbol. You'll wear it above your inner thigh. Just under the line of your panties. So only you—and I—will know it's there."
He walked toward me.
"If I ink you, you're mine. You don't leave. You don't run. You don't belong to the world anymore. You belong to me."
I met his eyes. Swallowed. "Yes, Master."
He smiled then. A rare, dark smile. Pleased.
---
I was on my back, legs spread, wrists tied to the corners of the padded bench. He shaved the skin gently, cleaned it, and pressed a cold stencil into place.
The mark: a snake curling around a rose. Beautiful. Deadly.
The needle buzzed to life.
I gasped as the first sting touched my skin.
"Breathe through it," he whispered, one hand steadying my thigh. "Let the pain feed you."
I did. I moaned. I whimpered. The burn of the tattoo mixed with the wetness between my legs until I couldn't tell pain from pleasure anymore.
When it was done, he admired it. "Perfect."
Then he bent down. Kissed the fresh mark.
"Now you'll never forget who you belong to."
He untied me, then lifted me into his arms and carried me to the velvet-lined chaise in the corner.
But instead of fucking me…
He laid me across his lap.
Spanked me.
One, two, three—hard slaps that made me cry out and arch into his hand.
"Why?" I whimpered.
"Because claiming you wasn't enough," he whispered against my ear. "I want you to feel it. Every. Time. You sit."
Then he slid his fingers inside me—rough, deep, perfect.
I came screaming.
Not from pain.
Not from pleasure.
But from knowing…
I was his.
Completely.