"What fantasies did we have that we thought would never come to fruition?" When the question was asked a week or two ago at the "Ask a Domme" event I had an answer. I saw his flesh then, how I imagine it. Light and smooth, the smell of soap and his cologne. I see him on display, naked, save his collar. Elevated on a pedestal for my own convenience. The room we're in is bare, dark walls and hardwood floors making each sound we make echo, every word spoken announced. I sit in my chair and command him into a beauty stance. I examine him as I sit in my seat, my eyes graze over every inch of him. I drink his stark whiteness, drink the muscles of his legs and arms, his belly, the bones of his neck, drink the curves of his face, his blue eyes. I make mental notes, marking my territory as my eyes prod. When I rise and start toward him, the sound of my heels hitting the warm wood makes him shiver. I smile, enjoying this little admission of fear. He doesn't move when I stand in front of him, only his lowered eyes give way to his growing fright. They dart around, trying to find something to focus on without much luck. I begin to circle him slowly, running the tips of my nails across his skin with one hand while I pull out the cold piece of steel with the other. I take the blunt side and press it deep into each spot I've marked, while I ask the questions that confirm my possession.
What are you? Your pet Miss.
Why? Because there is nothing else Miss.
Where do you belong? At your feet Miss.
When are you mine? Always Miss.
Who do you belong to? You Miss.
For how long? Forever Miss.
I turn the steel around so the blade is at his flesh and begin to carve. The metals medical sharpness prevents any dramatic pain, but his intake of breath and the tensing of his skin tells me it does hurt. Seven letters, seven tiny pieces of art marked in his skin. He whimpers through gritted teeth as I continue, as I brand my possession. The blood trickling from his parted dermis doesn't make me relent, the tears running down his sweet cheeks don't make me stop, the cries from deep within his throat do not make me sway. His stance, his will to remain while nothing holds him to the pedestal but his love and devotion pushes me forward. When I'm done, I step back and admire this living boy. The perfection I've created.
Thank you Mistress, he breathes.
My name covers his body, and when he heals, when I've nursed him to health and my name appears as little scars all over him, the truth we both know will be apparent. He's bound to me, he's mine. But my mind is drawn back as the other Ladies share their secrets and I remain quiet, too new to reveal this untold desire, this need of mine.
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