You're marked as a member of the Order of Royal Knights... and a

The head slaver—you have to assume based on how they interact with each other—approaches you and speaks, pointing at the nearby bench, then to the table. His explanation is completely lost on you, but the way he smirks at you leaves no doubt in your mind that he has something special in mind. You move towards the bench, but too slowly. A strong hand on the back of your neck guides you quickly onto the bench and then to lie down on your back along it. Your arms are folded beneath the bench and tied, and your legs are also bound to the legs of the thing, rendering you immobile.

You really wish they'd make up their minds to either truss you up like the other woman or just leave you untied. The going back and forth is just teasing you. Is there any way you can show them you're fully willing to submit and cooperate? You'll be a model **** for them. You can't just tell them, and they'd be fools to believe your word anyway. No, all you can really do is go along with them, submitting to whatever they want of you and willingly cooperating. Still, it's hard to prove you're trustworthy if they keep tying you up, not that you mind being tied up, you just wish it were a little more deliberate.

That's when you notice the older slaver approaching with your Knight's sword and several brightly colored vials. You freeze, unsure what they have planned. Instinctively, you pull against your ropes as the man sites beside you. He doesn't acknowledge you in any way. The two men discuss something quickly, pointing at your naked body. The leader traces a large circle on your right thigh with one finger, then touches your abdomen a little below your belly button. The older man nods and then removes a strange wood-and-glass wand from a leather pouch.

It looks harmless, with a smooth round bead of glass the size of a walnut, but when he presses it to your skin it burns like fire. You shriek, trying to pull away from him but he holds you still and continues. It's intense. Worse pain than you've ever felt. Why are they torturing you? It doesn't make any sense. The pain continues, a consistent blaze of heat wherever the wand touched flesh. You clench and bear it until you just can't anymore and you scream, kicking and struggling uselessly against your bonds. The man waits patiently for your thrashing to settle and then simply loops a new cord around your middle and another just above your knee, lashing you tightly to the bench so he can finish.

Your training helps you deal with pain, but this is stupid.

The man was working for a handful of minutes before you realized that you aren't actually suffering burns. He takes a small break to fiddle with his wand and the pain is immediately gone. Nothing. No lingering sensation of any kind. Whatever he's doing to you, it's not harming you, it just hurts like hell. You stretch your neck and crane to see over the mound of your own breast. It's impossible to get a good view, but you catch a glimpse of bright colors glittering on your skin.

You look around at the men. All of them have some sort of dark, vibrant tattoos. You've never really thought about how they actually create those. So they're just marking you? Why does it have to hurt so much? Your thoughts are interrupted as the man returns to his work. But now, knowing there's actually a point to it, you're able to focus and breath through the pain. It takes several more minutes, and he eventually moves to the area directly above your pussy to mark you again, but you've found your calm and endure it admirably.

Finally, when he's done, you're released and allowed to sit up. You're handed a small tin cup of water, which you gratefully drink. The men talk and laugh about something you don't understand and you look down at your body. Covering a large portion of your right thigh is a perfect depiction of the crest engraved on your sword. The unmistakable symbol of a holy knight. It's... beautiful. Expertly detailed, with colors that stand out but also somehow match your natural skin tone to complement your appearance wonderfully.

The other tattoo is a simple crude symbol you've seen plenty of times. A rough double crescent thing that is universally recognized as the mark of a ****.

You feel a delicious thrill of humiliation knowing that anyone and everyone who sees you now will know that you are—or at least were—a respected knight but are now simply a ****. The more eagerly and meekly you debase yourself, the more shame you will bring your entire Order, for the rest of your life. Fuck, why does that turn you on so much?

The men turn you around and push you onto your knees in front of the bench to receive another ****-mark between your shoulder blades. You don't resist. The burn of the magical device matches your shame and you love every moment of your branding. There's probably no way to remove this sort of mark. Even if you were rescued, or if you escaped for some reason, the whole world will only see you as a **** and treat you accordingly. It's what you are, after all. It feels really good to finally look like it.

Grateful, you lower yourself to your knees in front of the two men and hold your hands behind your back. Meek, humble. You wish you could communicate with them in words, but this will have to do.