On the floor, blindfolded, your hands and legs cuffed to the floor with crude metal shackles. Pain. And silence. It’s been a while since she took you here. Dragged you on a leash into this room made out of white, blood stained tiles. Oh, you remember those stains, she made damn sure of that, pressing your cheeks with her fingers, forcing your eyes wide open, holding your head. Painstakingly and aggressively showing you every single inch. Before shoving you down on the floor, kicking you, shackling you, kicking and beating you once more and … nothing? Nothing. No footsteps, no threats, no sounds. Not even the beautiful release from all that pain yet. So you start counting, something to do. One minute. Two minutes. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Still nothing. Nothing? Well, not entirely. There’s a scent, faint and shy. You can’t really make out what it is or what it’s meant to be. With everything that happened to you it just probably wasn’t strong enough. And what of it. Weird and unusual, sure. But too much thought. Anyway, footsteps. Coming closer. Whatever happens, you’ll know now. She takes your blindfold off, opens your shackles. Free? Seems so at least. You try to stretch arms and legs, it’s hard, impossible even. Probably just from all the stiffness. So instead you try focusing on her. She’s standing there looking straight down at you. Her eyes … threatening? This feels wrong. You try to move again, still nothing. Slowly, fear finds its way. You look at her, she smiles. “Well, toy, good news. I have decided to keep you for good, to make you mine. And I’ve decided to brand you, just like the ones before me gave you their own marks.” A branding, that explains her eyes at least. But it’s not unusual, as she said, your previous ones also liked to do this. Instinctively, you try to turn around, forgetting your situation. So you wait for a kick, something to turn your back up. Instead she goes … down? “Oh, you thought I’d do it back there, just where all the others did it? Oh no. I don’t just want to brand you. I want you to know you’re branded. I want you to see it when you get dressed. When you watch yourself in a mirror. Whenever you get dressed or just look down. I want you to always see it. And to always know where, to whom you belong.” She grabs your neck and presses her tool against your belly, starting. And as you try and scream, no voice leaving your body, you understand the scent. You knew that her first hand on your neck was just show. And you knew she definitely knew.