Fun With A Cold Branding Iron
Branding fantasies are fun, I’ve thought so since the first one I encountered in literature (probably a Gor novel). Kaya and her master obviously think so too:
He’s been terrorizing me with this branding iron idea for years. He has one, a regular ol’ branding iron shaped like an S. It’s not large, but it’s thick. It’s not a wire coat hangar twisted into an S shape, it’s- I have no idea what it’s made out of. But it looks, from my perspective, as I’m imagining it searing it into my skin, THICK AS FUCK. (I think it was made for branding steaks or something. Man Grilling, where they even have to mark their food. lol.)
He talks about how he’s going to heat it until it glows red. And then he’ll look at me, assessing, looking me up and down. Talking- more to himself than to me- about where he might do it.
Inner thigh? Pubic mound? Breast? Ass cheek? Shoulder blade? Hip bone? He’ll lay it against my skin, as he names each option, pressing painfully hard, wondering aloud how hard or how long he should hold it there, letting it burn deep into the tissue.
Sometimes he’ll get it out of the drawer where he keeps it and lay it out where I can see it. Maybe today, he’ll say, just to watch me blanch, I’m sure.
You would think I’d be numb to it by now, the goading. After so many years, you’d think my anxiety level would stop spiking, that I could just roll my eyes and say, ‘Pfft. Whatever. You ain’t gonna.’
Except– He IS “gonna”. And I know he’s going to. And it might be on some random Tuesday afternoon with Dr. Phil in the background and me in the kitchen chopping carrots for dinner. Caught off guard, no setting the scene, no atmosphere, no headspace. It’ll just be, Come here. Sit (or stand or bend or spread) and him and that S and a blow torch.
Or it’ll be at an event. He’ll casually toss it in the play bag, talk about how he’s cleared it with the hosts, how there’s going to be an audience to witness, how I’ll ‘perform’ so much better in front of people, I won’t argue or balk or cry
(Liar. I’ll cry.)
and it’ll stink, he’ll go on. Your flesh, searing and burning and smoking, stinking the place up. Do you think you’ll scream, cunt? Embarrass yourself in front of a crowd? Let them know you aren’t the big bad masochist they think you are?
I’ve been so rattled over this that at times I’ve desperately just begged him to do it, get it over with, put an end to it, I can’t stand the fear! And then I backpedal as fast as I can when he shrugs, says ok and gets up to go get it.
I know he’s been enjoying this mind fuckery for the whole time that I’ve been hating it. Fucker.
When I was at my parent’s last month, I burned my arm on the edge of the door of the wood stove. Nothing serious, just a thin line maybe an inch long, not even as deeply as he’ll need to do this brand to make it scar.
And it hurt. SO BAD.
Soo fucking bad, y’all. On my ARM, which is far less sensitive than my pubic mound or my inner thigh or or or…
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the branding iron since.
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