She knelt in the center of the torchlit hall, wrists bound behind her back with rough hemp, the steel collar already locked around her slender throat. The auctioneer’s voice still rang in her ears. Sold. To the man who now stood before her, dark eyes burning like coals, his broad chest and arms covered in swirling black tattoos that seemed to drink the firelight.
He was tall, heavy with muscle, dark brown hair tied back from a hard face. The brands on his own skin marked him as a warrior of the high castes, a man who took what he wanted and never asked twice. He looked down at her as though she were already his property, and the knowledge of it sent a shiver through her pale body.
“Rise, kajira,” he commanded.
She stayed on her knees, red hair spilling like flame over her shoulders, blue eyes flashing defiance even as her heart hammered. “I am not yours,” she hissed, the words part of the game they had agreed upon long ago, the lie that made the truth burn hotter.
He laughed once, low and dangerous, then seized a fistful of that red mane and dragged her upright. She gasped at the sudden pain, slender limbs twisting, but he was far stronger. With one brutal motion he spun her, slammed her chest-first against the cold stone pillar, and pinned her there with his body. The heat of him pressed into her back, the hard ridge of his cock already straining against his leathers.
“You wear my collar,” he growled against her ear. “You will wear my brand before the night ends. And you will beg for both.”
She bucked, trying to twist free, pale skin flushing with effort. “No—”
He yanked her head back by the hair until her throat arched, exposing the pale column. His mouth came down hard, teeth scraping, tongue forcing its way past her lips. She bit him. He only growled deeper and bit her back until she whimpered.
With his free hand he tore the thin slave rag from her body. It ripped like paper. Naked now, slender and trembling, she felt the cool air kiss her skin and the heat of his gaze burn hotter. He kicked her legs apart, wedged a thick thigh between them, and ground against her until she could feel every inch of his arousal.
“Wet already,” he mocked, sliding two rough fingers between her folds. “Your body knows its master even if your mouth still lies.”
She tried to clench her thighs shut. He slapped her ass hard enough to leave a red handprint, then again, and again, until she cried out and opened for him. Those fingers drove inside her without mercy, curling, stroking, claiming. She moaned despite herself, hips jerking.
He pulled his fingers free, slick with her, and forced them into her mouth. “Taste how much you want this, red-haired slut.”
She sucked involuntarily, eyes watering. He laughed again and dragged her across the hall to the heavy wooden table. In one motion he bent her over it, face pressed to the scarred wood, ass high. The rope binding her wrists was looped over a hook above, stretching her arms tight so she could only squirm helplessly.
He stripped. She heard leather hit the floor, then felt the blunt, thick head of his cock nudge against her entrance. She tensed, breath coming in short, panicked gasps that were only half pretense.
“Please,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Not like this—”
He thrust into her in one savage stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She screamed, body arching, the sudden fullness tearing a raw sound from her throat. He did not wait. He fucked her hard, hips slamming against her ass, the table creaking beneath them. Each brutal thrust drove the air from her lungs. Her red hair stuck to her sweat-damp face; tears leaked from her blue eyes.
He reached beneath her, fingers finding her clit, rubbing mercilessly while he pounded into her. The pleasure and pain twisted together until she could no longer tell them apart. She came first, shamefully fast, walls clenching around him as she sobbed his name.
He did not stop.
He pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and hauled her legs over his shoulders. The new angle let him go deeper, battering her cervix with every thrust. She was limp now, trembling, but he kept going, growling low in his throat, tattoos gleaming with sweat.
When he finally came it was with a roar, flooding her, marking her from the inside. He stayed buried deep, pulsing, until every drop was spent.
Only then did he withdraw. She lay sprawled, legs splayed, his seed leaking from her swollen cunt, chest heaving.
He untied her wrists only to bind them again, this time in front, and dragged her to her knees once more.
“Open your mouth.”
She obeyed instantly this time, lips parting, tongue extended. He fed her his cock, still slick with their combined fluids, and she cleaned him with desperate, hungry licks. When he was satisfied he stepped back.
“Now,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction, “we brand you.”
Her eyes widened. The brazier in the corner glowed cherry-red. The iron waited, shaped with his personal sigil: a coiled larl with a collar.
She shook her head, but her cunt clenched at the thought.
He hauled her to her feet, bent her forward over the table again, and pressed his body against hers to hold her still. The heat of the iron approached. She felt it before it touched, the terrible promise.
“Beg,” he ordered.
She sobbed, voice small and broken. “Please… brand your kajira, Master. Make me yours forever.”
The iron kissed the soft skin just above her left hip. White-hot pain exploded. She screamed until her voice cracked, body jerking violently in his grip. The smell of burned flesh filled the air. He held the brand there long enough to sear deep, then pulled it away.
She collapsed, shaking, tears streaming, but her thighs were slick again.
He lifted her in his arms as though she weighed nothing and carried her to the great fur-covered bed. There he laid her down gently, for the first time, and traced the fresh brand with careful fingers.
“Mine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the tears on her cheek.
She looked up at him, blue eyes glassy, red hair a wild halo around her pale face. “Yours,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Always yours.”
He entered her again, this time slow and deep, letting her feel every inch while he held her wrists above her head. She wrapped her long legs around his waist and pulled him closer, no longer fighting, only surrendering.
They fucked until the torches burned low, until she came again and again, until her voice was gone and her body was marked inside and out.
When dawn crept through the high windows, she lay curled against his chest, branded hip throbbing, collar gleaming, red hair spread across his tattooed shoulder like spilled blood.
He stroked her back with one large hand and spoke the final words that sealed her fate.
“Sleep, my kajira. Tomorrow your training begins in earnest.”
And she, trembling with exhaustion and dark anticipation, whispered the only answer a slave may give.
“Yes, Master.”