Brand Her

Circe walked away from Lois, out of the pavilion. The reporter still could hardly believe how real it seemed...as though they really were on some Mediterranean beach, far away from Metropolis. She considered, briefly, running back for the door...back to where the world made sense...

Come, the sorceress said.

Lois Lane's feet led her along the lavender-haired woman's path. Out onto the hot sand, where the naked immortal knelt before a burning brazier. A long handle of dark metal emerged from the heart of the blaze. Circe grabbed the end of the stick, stirring the coals gently.

"You aren't normally a whore," Circe said as the reporter stood there, a gut full of piss, staring uneasily at the fire.

"No," Lois admitted, softly.

"No tattoos on you," the sorceress said. "No piercings beside your ears. You live a life among the normal people, dressed in sheep's clothing. This is your dirty little secret. Kneel."

The reporter's knees hit the sand with a gritty splash. She was trying not to show her fear, but she didn't trust this woman, didn't know what she had planned...

A pale hand gripped the rod and removed it from the fire. The rod flared out at the end, some flat piece of iron, carved in a shape Lois couldn't quite make out, glowing orange-bright.

Stay.

The reporter's muscles locked up, body tensing. She couldn't even close her eyes as Circe took the metal brand and brought it down, just above the line of her pubic hair. Lois shook, feeling the almost painful heat as it hovered into position, Circe using her other hand to steady her arm. Unable to scream or beg her not to do it.

Once, when she was about twelve, Lois had inadvertently brushed her arm against a hot stove. Lois could still remember the smell of burnt hair, the intense pain that seemed to radiate out from the point of contact, the way it lingered, even after the medic had treated and bandaged the burn.

She had heard of some college fraternities that had gotten into branding as a form of body modification—but for Lois Lane, it had always been a cruel practice used to mark one's property. Cattle. Slaves.

Sweat beaded the reporter's forehead, upper-lips. Dripped down her ribs and arms. Muscles began to ache from holding still. Yet her nipples were hard, pussy wet. She recognized that sense of excitement, the oh-so-familiar tang of terror that seemed to sharpen her senses whenever danger was near.

The brand grew still. In this heat, the iron could only cool slowly. It was still glowing orange as it descended and pressed firmly into the reporter's soft, unblemished skin, just above the line of her pubic hair.

Pain hit Lois, right where the brand applied. Heat spreading outwards from the point of contact, almost cooking her insides. She sucked in air, pussy trembling. Told herself it was just the body releasing endorphins, as Circe withdrew the brand. Lois **** her head down, suddenly able to move...

Raw red flesh showed where the letters had been burnt in, small and fine, the edges a little brown.

Ιδιοκτησία της Κίρκης

"Property of Circe," the sorceress said, dropping the iron rod back in the flame.

She smiled and squatted down on the sand, pressing her lips to the reporter's forehead.

"Now you are mine."