I’ve been contemplating the marking of flesh. Among My treasured posessions, the greatest of which is My servant, exists a gorgeous hand-wrought brand with My single, unadorned initial. The finish is rough, the handle decoratively twisted. The brand, it was a gift from My servant. Its impressive heft and substance, its potential, send shivers down My spine each time I hold it. And I do so, often. When I run My index finger across the rough-hewn initial, press it to My thigh, leave a faint indentation, I can almost hear the sizzle, see the smoke, smell the sear as My eyes lock with My servant’s. In his eyes I find all that he is and craves to be. And in Mine he finds My love, My possession, My resolve. Those eyes, O/ours, hold all that W/we need to do this, to share this agony and fulfillment. In the heat that passes from My hand, My brand, to his flesh, in the excruciating gasp of completion, the outcry of ecstacy, the inevitable flow of O/our tears, W/we will seal a bond that is visceral, eternal. I know He wants this more than anything. And so do I. 5 years ago
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