Writing on the...

I'm kneeling on the bed; he sits behind me.

I can't move.  I'm bound in my kneeling position, both my ropes and by his word to stay still.  I can't see; the heavy, smothering impromptu hood covers not only my eyes but the upper part of my head.  It blocks my hearing as well; the room's quiet, so I can't hear anything.  The only senses left to me are scent; the ink from the marker pen, the clean cotton of the pillowcase and the sheet that overwraps it - taste and touch.  Taste; his come in my mouth.  Touch; the ropes that bind me, the sheets on the bed beneath me, my hot breath trapped in the hood by the pillowcase over my head and the sheet wrapped over that.  And my own arousal; I can feel my own wetness, the come he's left in me.  He's already used me tonight; this is just the final act.

But most of all, I feel the cool air on my naked back and the even cooler sensation of the marker pen moving on my skin.  It hurts; earlier in the night, it amused him to flog me until my back was raw, until I was sobbing and begging for him to stop.  Now, the skin is still hot and tight, and the feather touch of the marker moving over my back makes me whimper.

I have no idea what he's writing, but he started at the top of my back, and he's halfway down now, words covering my skin in permanent ink.  Whatever he's writing, I know two things; first, it will take days or more to wear away, and it won't wash off.  Second, it'll be either obscene or related to my slavery to him.

That's because he knows me.  He knows what this sort of thing does to me.  He knows how it'll affect me to have to choose my clothing carefully to cover up the writing; he knows how it'll affect me to have words identifying me as a slut, a whore, a slave on my back as I go about my day-to-day life in the ordinary world, so that someone might just see, so that I might possibly be discovered.

And just the writing itself; you don't write on people, you write on property.  The mere act of carrying writing on my skin like this is arousing, and I'm going to be wearing it for a while.

And perhaps conditioning, too.  He only does this during or after a hard session, when I'm aroused and he's given me pain.  The scent of the marker pen seems to be becoming inextricably entwined in my mind with arousal and pain.  It's reaching the point where the scent of one at work makes me wet.  I tell him that, and he laughs at me.

The marker pen tickles on; I stay still, shivering as he writes on and on, the words marching over my skin.  If I shiver too much, he swats me and I settle again.

When he's done - and it seems to take an hour - he unwinds the sheet from around my head and lifts off the pillowcase.  I crane my neck to see my back in the mirror.  The words are in black, and stand out against my skin.  The same ones, repeated over and over again, in black, bold letters an inch high: slut fucktoy slave whore cunt cocksucker toy slut fucktoy slave whore cunt cocksucker toy, from the top of my back to just above my buttocks.  I shudder in pleasure at reading the words.

He sits behind me, leans forward; I feel his breath on my neck and tilt my head, exposing my throat.  He nips, then bites, sucking the skin between his teeth repeatedly; it's going to leave one very obvious bruised bitemark.  Everyone's going to know what it is.

"My slut, my slave, my fucktoy," he breathes, and bites again, harder, until I whimper, dissolving into the pain and the words and the writing on my back...