roll me over, rough and unceremonious, and brand that part of me with a stinging slap

Step 4 : The Branding - Concluded

His hand lingers on my throat for a moment longer, a final, silent assertion of the absolute power he holds over my life. Then, with a chilling slowness, he withdraws his touch. The cool air on my skin where his hand was feels like a fresh violation. I take a shuddering, **** breath, a breath he allowed me, a gift from my captor. The branding of my throat is complete. But he’s not done. Not even close.

Before I can even process the brief reprieve, his hands are on me again, but not where I expect. One hand grabs my hip, fingers digging into the bone with bruising ****. The other clamps down on my shoulder. There is no warning, no preamble.

"Time for a new perspective," he grunts.

With a single, rough, unceremonious motion, he shoves. I'm helpless, bound and blind. My body is a dead weight he can manipulate at will. I'm flipped from my back onto my stomach, my face mashed into the lumpy, stale-smelling mattress. The burlap of the blindfold digs into the bridge of my nose. The air is immediately thick with the scent of dust and something vaguely metallic. The cheap fabric of my top twists around my torso, and my cheek scrapes against the rough sheet.

The position is instantly, profoundly more degrading. Spread-eagled on my back, I was exposed. But on my stomach, with my ass now the highest point of my body, I'm not just exposed. I'm presented. An offering. An object laid out for inspection. My heart hammers against the thin mattress, the sound loud in my ears. I can hear him moving on the bed behind me, the springs groaning under his weight. He’s positioning himself, looming over me like a vulture.

“There we go,” he says, his voice a low, predatory purr right next to my ear. “This is the proper way to present my property. Offered up and ready for use. You should have been born this way.”

I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold, as if that could somehow hide me. I can feel the heat of his body, the oppressive weight of his presence behind me. I know what he claimed next in his verbal inventory. I know what’s coming.

The air stills. And then I hear the sharp, distinct sound of leather sliding against leather. My blood runs cold. A belt? Oh god, he's going to hit me with a belt—

SMACK.

The sound is like a gunshot in the silent room. The impact is a flat, stinging explosion of pure, unadulterated pain across the left cheek of my ass. It’s not a probing touch, not a squeeze. It’s a strike. A punishment. A brand made of **** and sound. A scream is torn from my lungs, half-swallowed by the mattress. My entire body convulses, a useless, pathetic buck against the ropes. The pain is sharp, electric, a thousand needles of fire dancing across my skin.

“That’s just to get your attention,” he growls, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “I didn’t hit you that hard. Not even close. But now you’re listening, aren’t you?”

I can only whimper in response, my face buried in the sheets, the tears starting anew. The sting is already beginning to morph into a deep, throbbing heat.

“Good. I want your full attention for this part,” he says. “We’re going to do our little lesson again. You know the drill by now. So let’s start simple. Whose ass did I just hit?”

My mind is a maelstrom of pain and humiliation. To be struck like an animal, and now to be catechized about it… it’s too much. I remain silent, choked by sobs.

“Are you deaf?” he barks. His hand lands on the small of my back, not striking, but pressing down, pinning me more firmly to the bed. “I asked you a question, you worthless cunt. Answer it.”

“Mine,” I whisper into the mattress, the word barely a puff of air. It’s a stupid, reflexive lie, the last gasp of a dying defiance.

“Is that so?” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “You still think you have any claim here? I guess the first lesson wasn’t clear enough.”

SMACK!

The second slap is on the other cheek. It’s harder. So much harder. The sound is louder, flatter, wetter. The pain is a white-hot nova that eclipses the first. I shriek, a raw, piercing sound of agony, my hips trying to jerk away from the source of the torment, a motion the ropes instantly and cruelly deny. The pain is blinding. It’s all there is. A universe of fire contained in my own flesh.

“LET’S TRY THIS AGAIN!” he roars over my ragged, pain-filled sobs. “WHOSE FUCKING ASS IS THIS?”

“YOURS!” I scream, the word ripping from my raw throat without a shred of hesitation. “IT’S YOURS! YOURS!”

“Whose?” he demands, his hand still pressing on my back. “Say the full line. You know what I want to hear.”

The burning in my cheeks is unbearable, a constant, pulsing agony. I can already feel the welts rising. “It’s your property!” I sob. “That ass is your property!”

“No, no, no,” he chides, and I flinch, bracing for another blow that doesn't come. “Not ‘that ass.’ It’s yours. I want you to acknowledge it came from you, and you are giving it to me. Say ‘My ass is the property of my owner.’”

The words are so degrading, so utterly soul-crushing. To be **** to name it, to claim it and surrender it in the same breath while the pain of his brand is still screaming through my nerves…

“Please…” I beg.

“Say it,” he orders, his voice flat and non-negotiable. “Or I will cover every inch of it in bruises until you can’t even think straight. It’s your choice.”

There is ****. There was never a choice.

“My ass…” I begin, my voice a wrecked, trembling thing. “...is the property… of my owner.”

“See? You can follow instructions when properly motivated,” he says. I hear him shift, and then feel his rough hands on me again, not striking, but gripping. Each hand takes a cheek, his fingers digging into the tender, stinging flesh, spreading me open for him. I cry out at the fresh wave of pain as his fingers press into the newly-formed bruises. “Now, what is my property for?” he asks, his voice low and guttural. “It’s not for you to sit on. It’s not for you to wear jeans over. It has a new purpose. Two of them, in fact. The first, you’ve just experienced. It’s for my handprints. It’s a canvas for my anger. Don’t you agree?”

He gives me a little squeeze, sending lightning bolts of pain through me. “Yes!” I gasp. “Yes, it’s for your handprints!”

“Good. The second purpose…” he says, and I feel the thumb of his right hand trace a line down, down, right to the cleft, pressing intimately against me. My whole body goes rigid. “Is that it’s just another hole for my cock. It’s a place for me to fuck you when your cunt is too worn out from being used. It’s my personal sewer. You understand?”

The sheer, brutal filth of his words is a fresh violation. I can’t speak. I just shudder in his grip.

“I need to hear you say it,” he whispers, his thumb pressing harder. “I need you to confirm you understand your new purpose. Tell me what my property is for. Tell me what I’m going to do to your ass.”

Tears stream down my face, soaking the cheap pillow. This is the bottom. This is the absolute degradation of my soul.

“It’s… it’s a hole for your cock,” I stammer, the words feeling like poison on my tongue. “You’re… you’re going to fuck my ass with it.”

“And you’re going to fucking beg for it,” he finishes, his voice a triumphant growl. He gives me one last, hard squeeze, forcing a final cry of pain from my lips before releasing me. The throbbing ache in my ass is a living thing, a constant, burning reminder of the lesson he has just beaten into me. He has branded me. I am his, from front to back, from soul to skin.