The Gift of His Brand (Journal)

When I arrived home last night the furniture was in disarray, and I could smell something burning. A wave of panic washed through me that something terrible had happened. The curtains were billowing into the main room like some phantom ghost floating through the air, and of course this meant that the doors to the balcony were open. When I went to close them I spied him, my Master, standing there gazing out over the vista of the city. From our balcony one can see the whole city, all its high bridges that are strewn with lights. It truly is a glorious sight to behold.

I asked him if something was wrong, and he turned, and took several steps, and snapped his hand out to grasp a fistful of my hair. He reminded me that I must kneel before I spoke to him. This is a lesson I learned long ago, but in my panic I was thinking only of him, and if he was alright. He forced me to my knees, and expressed that all was well. He released his hold on my hair, and again looked out over the balcony. From my knees I could see the same thing he spied through the thick columns.

After a moment I asked what I smelled that was burning, and he moved to the corner of the balcony, and drug a pot filled with incandescent coals across the tiles. The sound of the feet of that metal pot sounded much like someone scrapping their nails across a chalkboard, and it sent a shiver up my spine. My first thought is that he had branded my beautiful chain sister Iris! I asked hesitantly if he had done such, and he replied with a rhetorical question. "Would I brand your sister before I branded you?" Oh Kings how that question caused my stomach to flutter, and an overwhelming feeling of desire came over me.

How long have I begged for his brand? Many times over the turnings that he has owned me. He always told me that there was no need to brand me because he knew I was not going to run away. Of course he was right...I'd rather throw myself off of the cliffs than leave him. He is my world, and I love him so much that I do not think it is even possible to put into words, or express how much I do. He is like a drug to me, and I am a hopeless addict.

He lifted the branding iron from the pot, and let if drift down between my parted thighs so I could feel the heat emanating off of the white hot end against my inner thigh, and cleanly shaven mound. He was watching, observing my reaction, judging what that feeling did to me. My hands slipped down between my splayed thighs, and I covered my sex protectively. I believe he spied a spark of trepidation flash across my visage for he turned, and shoved the iron back into the hot coals. He said something to the effect of that he supposed that he was wrong about me, that I still held some hope of someday being a free woman again.

The pitch of my voice must have went up several octaves as I told him how wrong he was! I know my Master is never wrong, but on this point he was so terrible mistaken! I crawled to him, and begged piteously for his mark; his brand. He proceeded to test me, to see just how far I'd go...what I'd do to prove to him that there was truth behind my words. He degraded me as he has never done before, and I didn't flitch away. I accepted what he did to me; welcomed it...reveled in it. There have been times when he has made me orgasm so hard that I swear I felt as if I was going to pass out, and he did this to me once again. Each time I am left with a feeling of amazement that he can bring my mind, and body to such an explosive high.

When he was done testing me, he tangled his hand in the mess of my hair, and pulled me up to my bare feet. He pressed my body to a new ornament that was on the wall of the balcony; a Victorian cross. Deftly he strapped me down, my wrists, ankles, calves, knees, and my waist so that I could not move. I was still so intoxicated from how he had just made me feel that blinding ecstasy that I didn't even realize what was happening. He then turned, and as he walked to the iron pot, stripped his tunic off so I could gaze at the way each muscle rippled under that brown flesh. Kings if Goreans believed in mythology one could compare him to a Greek God, or at least that is what he is to me.

Returning to me with the brand in hand, he pressed his free hand against the plane of my feminine belly, and waved the white hot end of the branding iron before my face so that I could see the beautiful, and intricate little dina flower. He allowed the hot metal to again float down so that I could feel the heat against my inner thigh then without warming he pressed it into my supple flesh, high on my left thigh. The blood curdling scream that escaped me must have made anyone that could heard think that I was being killed, or perhaps they would recognize the sound of a girl being branded.

The pain shot through me like a electric fire, and he seemed to hold it there forever. In that very moment I knew I was a branded slave. I had been given his mark; branded by his hand. He finally pulled the iron away from my burning flesh, and tossed it to down, and it clattered across the tiles. The scent of my own burnt flesh wafted up to my nose, and I breathed it in as if it was the sweeties ambrosia I had ever smelled. I was now more his than I'd ever been, and I simply didn't want to come down from that euphoric plane of existances. Again he used my body, and told me that I was his forever now. Had he not known I always had been his? That I would be his until I passed to the city of dust?

He has told me that the brand was nothing special...that I wore the same brand that a thousand other girls wear, but he is wrong. Yes, it was a beautiful little dina, a brand seen on many slaves, but he had branded my body, and my soul with his own hand. It was incredibly special!

I can't stop glowing, and I have found myself many times looking at the brand in the mirror, admiring what I had dreamed of having since the day he placed his collar about the column of my throat. I am now the branded, and collared slut of Agrippa Pontus. No longer do I consider myself a slave scribe, but merely just a slave.

I have emerged from the cocoon to open my wings as the creation of my Master...An ethereal beauty with the soul, and a mind of a molten whore.

The Lily Dancer (Journal)

A few nights back, while at the Paga Den, the girl who I have come to call my lily came to my Master, and begged the lick of his whip. She said that her Master told her to do so, and to tell my Master that he may use her body anytime he wished.

Lily is the beautiful slave of the Slaver....Master Hagan. He scares me, and I don't think he much likes me, but I am enthralled with his slave. She is sensual, and for the love of the Kings she can dance better than any girl I've ever seen! I am somewhat jealous that I cannot move as she does, but I have been practicing.

Of course my Master punished her, but he added me into the mix. He bound us together with binding fiber. It was tied about her wrist behind her back, ran down between her thighs, then through mine, and back up to tie to my wrist behind my back. He made us ascend the steps to a dancing dias, and commanded that we dance. As we began to dance, or rather undulate our bodies together he moved to the wall, and took down a single tailed whip.

He struck lily with the whip over, and over, and over again until she had hot tears streaming down her soft cheeks. The tail of the whip caught the side of my breast on once. Yet, it was she that was being punished, not me. I feel great empathy for others, especially when I think a woman, slave or not, is being hurt. I must have been insane, but I looked to my Master with a flash of anger in my eyes as it to say she had, had enough.

When he was done he made us descend the dias, and then forced us into one of the alcoves. He stripped his tunic off, and sat in the chair in the room as if a Ubar sitting on a throne. I could sense that he felt a flash of pure power at having so much control over what he could do to us, or make us do to one another.

He didn't sit in that chair long as he arose, and made his way to us. Using first my mouth well for his pleasure, he then using lily's, and released his pent up seed into her mouth.

"Don't you dare swallow, slut!" he commanded. Then he told her to kiss me, which she did. In our sultry kiss there was an exchange of his fluid from mouth, to hot mouth. At the moment I didn't worry about lily, but rather partook of her sweet lips.

With a chuckle spilling from his lips he told us that we were to figure out how to get out of our bonds, and then he left. We spent the better part of an ahn immersed in the caress of the bindings between our thighs before we finally managed to free ourselves. By the time we had though, our bodies did not separate. We enjoyed each other, rolling in the furs, and kissing passionately, caressing softly. My Master knows I love the soft sensuality of women as much as I love the brash humiliation of men.

I find it odd that my to favorite sisters are named after blooms....lily, and iris. Everyone knows that I have a passionate love of flowers of any kind, and here I have two of the most beautiful of florets in the human form of soft feminine women. I feel as if the Kings have smiling upon me.

The Return of Iris (Journal)

I am thrilled that my chain sister has returned to us safely! From her account she had been stolen, and held captive in a cave high in cliff wall. The bastard had placed his personal brand on the back of her neck; a dragon. Poor iris had brought a knife to our Master, and wanted him to cut it off. Master refused, saying that it would only mar her, and leave an ugly scar.

I had been looking for iris everywhere. I spoke to a Master in the arena that noticed that I seemed to be looking for someone, or something. I told him that my chain sister was missing, and he said to begin my search with the Slavers...that, that was my best hope. He explained that if she had been stolen by someone for their personal use, and desires, that I would probably never see her again. His words nearly broke my heart.

It has not been since glory that I have had a chain sister that I adored. There was the free woman raona that he collared, but she and I never got along. I've never admitted it to my Master, but when he traded her for me when Master Cyrus captured me, and stole me away from the falls, I secretly prayed that she would not ever be returned. Master did fight Master Cyrus for her twice, and I was scared for his life, and angry at her because he was fighting for her return. We even ventured, by way of the old well, down to the underground tunnels that led to the old fortress in an attempted to find, and free raona. Yet, we never found her. Soon after Master Cyrus vanished from Port Cos, and he took her with him. Then I was guilt ridden for hands because I knew what a sinister man Master Cyrus was, and I felt somehow responsible for her fate. One: because I prayed that she never return, and two: because our Master had traded her for me.

I have digressed.

Iris explained that the Master became tired of her rejection of his advances, and he simply dumped her in the middle of a field with his collar about her throat. She made her way home, and since we were not there I was horrified to learn that she sawed that collar from about her neck. Her throat was marked with scrapes, and cuts! She was so frightened that our Master would be angry with her, and not once again place his collar about her throat.

As harsh of a Master as ours can be he drew her into his arms, and soothed her. He told her that everything would be okay, and that she was safe now. That is what I adore about our Master, he can at times be the most gentle, and loving Master...making one feel safe, and protected, and special.

At any rate my iris is home. She is safe, and I have been pleased to have the warmth of her body when we sleep together when our Master goes away on the weekends, or even sometimes for a full hand.