He had stolen it.
The idea had slowly been forming for some time now. He had done extensive research into the process. He had come up with a design. He had begun to practice on raw chicken breasts.
He had thought of doing something with his initials, but that had seemed too obvious. The design was simple. It was based on the two oval links that held Alana’s wrist and ankle bracelets together. He had purchased eighteen-gauge galvanized sheet metal, which he had cut with tin snips. He had made several models, trying to get it just right. He practiced using a pair of large insulated pliers to hold the molded tin in the propane torch. It took a while to get the metal heated to just the right temperature.
The tin design had turned red-hot for a moment, then faded back to its original silver, keeping its shape beautifully. He had pressed the hot metal against the chicken flesh again and again, until he’d created a perfect brand.
At last he was ready to try it on the real thing.
~*~
That evening after dinner, Mark said, “Alana, what are you?”
Alana looked up. She had been staring into the fire, daydreaming at his feet. “Your slave, Sir,” she answered automatically.
“What are you willing to do for me?”
“Whatever you command of me, Sir.” Her stomach did a small loop-de-loop. Something was coming—probably not something good. She tried not to tense. Not to anticipate.
“If I wish to beat you,” he said calmly, “you would allow me to?”
“Of course, Sir.”
What did he mean, would she allow it? How could she stop it?
She glanced up at his face again. He was looking, not at her, but into the dancing, crackling flames before them. “And if I wished to cane you, would you allow it?”
“Yes, Sir.” She couldn’t control the slight tremor the mention of a caning caused her. Please, not the cane.
“And if I wished to pierce your flesh with my needle?”
“But you already—”
“Answer the question. I’m speaking hypothetically.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And if I choose to bind you in rope, fill you with dildos, lock you in your cage, deny you food or drink, would you allow this?”
“It’s your prerogative, Sir. I belong to you.”
“Yes. You do.” He paused. “I’ve been thinking, Alana. You exhibit all the signs of a submissive slave. But we both know you didn’t come here of your own volition. Nor do I choose to set you free. You belong to me. Your body belongs to me.”
She sensed he was about to get to his real purpose. She watched his face, anxious now, waiting.
He looked at last from the fire directly at her. “I have decided I want to mark you—permanently.”
A tattoo, she thought with some relief. That would be all right.
There was something fierce in his expression. Something determined. His eyes dropped, roaming her body. “Do you understand, slave?”
“I think so, Sir. Did you mean a tattoo?”
“No. I mean this.” He took the bag from the end table by the couch and carefully removed a piece of what looked like tin with a raised design stamped into it.
Alana stared at it, confused.
“This is a brand, Alana. I want to brand you. It would be a beautiful symbol of our perfect union.” His gaze was a flame running up and down her body. Heat flowed up to her cheeks. His words burned behind her eyes.
She opened her mouth to respond, but found she didn’t know what to say. Her first instinct was to shout, no! But something stayed her tongue. That word had almost dropped from her vocabulary, from her way of thinking. It wasn’t an option even to be considered. She stared, fascinated at the pretty design of the interlinked ovals.
Mark watched her, his eyes flickering over her face as if he were memorizing the lines. Then he pulled her up to him. Gently he pressed her over his knee. Was he going to spank her?
But no—he touched her ass with the metal piece he held in his hand. Alana stilled like a trapped animal. The tin was cold on her flesh, but her mind was on fire. A brand. He was going to burn that design into her flesh. Could she bear it? Would she resist him? But what good would it do? If he were determined, he would simply use force—pin her down, bind her into position and do as he wished.
Mark set the brand aside and gently stroked her ass. Speaking softly, he said, “I want your permission, slave girl. I want you to want this too. I don’t want to force it on you. I want you to offer it.”
He slipped his hand between her legs and began to rub her clit, swirling his finger in circles around it, then sliding the finger deep into the smooth, tight heat of her cunt.
“Offer it to me, slave. Offer me your flesh.” His voice was low, mesmerizing. Alana shifted and moaned, loving the feel of his fingers against her, in her.