…my throat. Make his hand close around it, not me, but holding me, forcing me to accept that my very breath is his to control.

Step 3 : The Branding - Continued

One of his hands remains on my chest, a dead weight, a brand of flesh and heat that pins me to the mattress. The other hand, the one that inflicted so much pain, begins to move. I flinch, my entire body tensing for a new ****. It slides from my breast, over my collarbone, and the brief, fleeting moment of relief is instantly annihilated by a new, more profound terror.

His hand lands on my throat.

It’s not a violent grab. There’s no sudden impact. It’s a slow, deliberate placement, a cage of thick, calloused fingers wrapping around the column of my neck. His thumb settles into the hollow at the base of my throat, pressing directly over my pulse point, and I can feel my own frantic heartbeat thudding against his skin. His fingers curl around the other side, a perfect, inescapable circle. He’s not squeezing. He’s not **** me. He’s just… holding me. And it’s a thousand times more terrifying than the pain.

This is the seat of my voice. The vessel of my breath. And he is holding it in his palm.

“This,” he says, his voice a low, reverent rumble that vibrates through his hand and into my very bones. “This is the most important part. More important than the tits, more important than the cunt. This is the engine. The part that makes all the noises. The part that keeps the whole machine running.”

My breath catches, a hitched, shallow thing. Swallowing feels like a monumental effort, the muscles in my throat working against the unyielding pressure of his grip.

“You have a very famous voice,” he continues, his thumb stroking my pulse, a sickeningly intimate gesture. “Made you millions. People hear it and they know it’s you. Soft. A little bit breathy. Sells movie tickets, sells perfume. It’s a tool. A very valuable one.” He pauses. “And now it’s my tool. I own it. Just like I own everything else.”

I shake my head, a tiny, spastic motion. A tear escapes my blindfold and traces a cold path down my cheek, catching on the edge of his hand.

“Oh, yes,” he insists. “You think your screams belong to you? You think your breath is your own? You are so fucking wrong.” He applies the slightest increase in pressure. It’s barely perceptible, but my airway tightens just enough that my next breath is a little thinner, a little more work. Panic flares, hot and immediate.

“See?” he whispers. “With just a little squeeze… I control the air you breathe. With a little more… I control the sounds you make. And with just a bit more than that… I turn the machine off for good.”

He lets the statement hang in the air, a stark and brutal truth. He has my life in his hand. Right now. The finality of it crashes down on me, a wave of cold dread that extinguishes the last embers of fight in my soul.

“We’re going to do our little catechism again,” he says, his tone shifting back to that of a patient, cruel teacher. “You did so well the first time. Let’s see if you can learn this lesson just as quickly. Repeat after me: ‘My throat belongs to my owner.’”

My lips tremble. I can’t speak. The words are lodged somewhere behind the wall of his fingers.

“I’m waiting,” he says, and the pressure increases again, just a fraction. My breath whistles in my throat. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“My… throat…” I rasp, the words strained and weak. “...belongs… to my owner.” My own voice is a foreign sound, distorted by his grip.

“Pathetic,” he spits, though he doesn’t increase the pressure. “But it’s a start. Now, let’s be more specific. The throat is just the container. I want the contents. Say, ‘My voice is the property of my owner.’”

I’m crying in earnest now, silent, heaving sobs that shake my whole body. “Please… don’t…”

“Say. It,” he commands, each word a stone.

“My voice…” I **** out. “...is the property… of my owner.”

“Good,” he grunts. “And what is a voice for, little bitch? It’s for making sounds. But you will only make the sounds I approve of. Repeat after me: ‘I will only speak when my owner allows it.’”

“I will only speak… when my owner allows it.”

“‘I will only cry when my owner finds it amusing.’”

“I will only… cry… when my owner finds it amusing.” The humiliation is a physical sickness, churning in my stomach.

“‘I will only scream when my owner is fucking me.’”

The crudeness of the line, the sheer vulgarity, makes me hesitate. His fingers tighten instantly, a sharp, punitive reminder. I gasp for air.

“I… I will only scream… when my owner is fucking me,” I **** the words out, my voice cracking with shame.

He hums, a low sound of satisfaction. “Excellent. You’re such a fast learner. Now for the most important lesson. The air itself. The very thing that keeps you alive. It’s a privilege I grant you. Not a right. You will acknowledge that for me now. Say, ‘I only breathe with my owner’s permission.’”

This is a new level of surrender. To admit that my very life is a gift from him…

My silence stretches on for a second too long. The pressure increases decisively. Not enough to fully **** me, but enough to make me panic. I can’t draw a full breath. My lungs burn. Black spots dance behind my blindfold. I struggle, a primal, animalistic terror taking over.

“Permission…” he whispers into my ear, his voice a sibilant hiss. “Ask for it.”

“Please… let me… breathe…” I claw the words out of my constricted throat.

“Ask properly,” he demands.

“Owner… please… I need… your permission to breathe…”

He holds the pressure for a heartbeat longer, forcing me to live in that terrifying space between breaths. Then, he relaxes his grip, just enough. Air, sweet and glorious, rushes into my starved lungs. I take it in with a ragged, **** gasp, coughing and sputtering. His hand never leaves my throat. It remains there, a collar of flesh and bone.

“Now,” he says, once my frantic breathing has calmed slightly. “Let’s try that line again. And this time, put some fucking gratitude in your voice. ‘I only breathe with my owner’s permission.’”

With the memory of suffocation still burning in my lungs, the words come easily. They are the absolute truth of my new world. “I only breathe with my owner’s permission,” I say, my voice trembling but clear.

“Better,” he says, and his thumb begins to stroke my pulse again. “Now you understand. Every beat of this little pulse is a gift from me. I can feel it right here. Thump, thump, thump. So fragile. I could stop it with my thumb. Just a little pressure. It would be so easy.”

My heart hammers against his touch, as if trying to beat its way out of my body.

“I want you to feel it too,” he commands. “I want you to understand the power I have over you. I want you to say it. Say, ‘My life is in my owner’s hand.’”

This is the end. The final, absolute surrender. There is nothing left of me after this.

“My life…” I whisper, the words barely audible. “...is in my owner’s hand.”

“Scream it,” he orders, his voice suddenly hard as steel. “I want you to scream it so you never, ever forget it. SCREAM IT!”

And I do. I suck in a breath that he allows me to take and scream the words until my throat is raw, a hysterical, broken shriek of pure submission. “MY LIFE IS IN MY OWNER’S HAND!”

The echo of my scream fades, leaving only the sound of my ragged panting. His hand remains on my throat, a permanent symbol of his reign. He has branded my body, and now he has branded my very existence. I am his. Utterly. Completely.