Brandings
My captor had gone to the brazier and, with the leather glove, and another, too, with two hands, withdrawn the white-hot iron. I felt the heat of it, even feet away. "No!" I screamed. "No!" Two men, large men, strong, held my left thigh immobile. I looked into the eyes of my captor. "Please, no!" I wept. "Please, no!"
Then held down, helpless, held, I was branded a Gorean slave girl. The marking, I suppose, only took a few seconds. That is doubtless to me. Objectively I grant you the truth of that. Yet a girl who has been marked finds this truth difficult to accept psychologically. Perhaps I may be granted that those seconds, those few seconds, seemed very long seconds. For an hour it seemed I felt the iron. It touched me firmly, kissing me, then claiming me. I screamed, and screamed. I was alone with the pain, the agony, the degradation, the relentless, hissing object, so hurting me, the men. Mercifully they let me scream. It is common to let a girl scream, a Gorean kindness, while she is being marked with a white-hot iron. Afterwards, however, once the iron is pulled out of her body, and she is fully marked, Gorean males are less likely to accord her such consideration for her feelings. They are less likely, then, to be so indulgent with her. This makes sense. Afterwards, she is only a branded girl.
It begins swiftly, almost before you can feel it. I felt the iron touch me and almost instantaneously, crackling, flash through my outer skin and then, firmly, to my horror, enter and ledge itself fixedly in my thigh. It was literally in my body, inflexively, burning. The pain then began to register on my consciousness. I began screaming. I could not believe what was being done to me, or how much it hurt. Not only could I feel the iron, but I could hear it, hissing and searing in the precise, beautiful wound it was relentlessly burning in my thigh. There was an odor of burning flesh, mine.
