End: A Brand Above Her Cunt...For Starters

A whiff of ozone brought Lois back. She sniffed, tasted blood. Her nostrils were caked with it, the dry flaky remains of the bleed. With an effort, Lois Lane sat up...or tried to.

The ropes fashioned around her wrist were Japanese silk, braided and dyed deep red. The knots tied in them were professional: not so tight as to restrict circulation, just enough to hold her firmly in place. Wrist and ankle were tied to the iron posts of a bed that had been made in another century, and Lois looked around at what had to be her mistress's bedroom...or maybe her workroom would be more appropriate.

The sheets on the bed were plastic, the floor was solid tile with drains set in them. Against one wall was a large worktable where Lois picked out soldering iron, tattoo gun, a small rack of bottled inks, boxes of latex gloves and hand sanitizer. The other three walls were covered with particle board perforated with small holes, like a workshop, small metal hooks and racks set up to hold the tools of her mistress's trade...rope, masks, hoods, dildos, strap-ons, electric drills, and some other things Lois didn't have names for.

The old Black woman was busy between her legs...Lois noticed that her crotch was covered with white soap, saw the glint of the straight razor...and then the cool kiss as it scraped her pussy clean.

"Ya are mine now," the nameless woman said, the razor slowly, evenly pressing on the skin, catching every stray hair.

"Yes, mistress," Lois said automatically.

"Ya think ya know. But you will," the grey dreadlocks were tied back now with a black ribbon. Naked, breasts and belly sagging, cellulite on those thick thighs, Lois Lane wondered at her mistress. She looked like the aftermath of a fertility idol—someone who had borne all the children they were going to have, and now her once-thin waist had thickened, her ass had spread, tits with their dark, thick nipples drooped—and there was a kind of beauty to that, like a broken idol. Something that was once great, but now was somehow more gorgeous because of the wrinkles, the scars, the strangeness of proportion...

The branding iron on the workbench glowed red-hot. Lois heard it sizzle as her mistress wiped the reporter's crotch down with a sanitizing wipe.

A terrible thrill went through Lois, a rising tide of apprehension. She pulled against the ropes a little. Not that she wanted to run, quite the opposite. The ropes weren't necessary, she...

"Can't have ya flinch now," her mistress said as she picked up the iron. "Could hurt yaself. Be a good girl. Lie still fo' me."

Lois felt her body locked in place. Her eyes were fixed on the glowing brand. Two hearts intertwined.

"Ma grandpappy was a cowboy, down in Texas," she said. "Freed after the war. This was his brand. Wonder what he'd think of me puttin' it on a white woman?"

A throaty chuckle rasped in the black woman's throat as she leaned over the bed.

The naked, bound reporter went absolutely rigid, eyes locked on the glowing brand as it descended.

"Please," Lois whispered, voice plaintive, begging, Blaze's command still echoing throughout her head, bound into her soul. "Do it!"

There was a sizzle as metal met flesh. The pork-fat smell of burning human skin. White pain lanced a design in Lois, and the terrible heat felt like it went straight through her. The reporter's pussy spasmed and her bladder felt like it burst, a wet cascade pouring out of her onto the plastic sheets.

Her mistress took the brand away, the design seared into the reporter's flesh. The pain exquisite.

"Der's some udder things ya gonna do fer me," her mistress said as she put the brand back to cool. "Piercings. Tattoos. Maybe git a little work done. After all, ya'll mine to play wid now, ain't dat right?"

Through the haze of pain and pleasure, Lois found the words. They came thickly from her throat.

"Yes, mistress...whatever you say...I'm yours..."

A single night can change the entire trajectory of a life. In the space of an evening, Lois Lane had gone from being the Daily Planet's greatest reporter to the devoted **** of a Black woman whose name she didn't even know. Somewhere, the demon Blaze chuckled. In time, perhaps, someone might come to find Lois Lane...but by the time her mistress got done with her, there might not be much of Lois left that anyone recognized.