He Marked Me in Silver

[Ha****]

(a prayer in chains, a confession in heat)

He didn’t drag me to Hell.
I crawled.
Willing.
Wet.
Whispering please
before he ever touched me.

He watched.
Waited.
Smiled like a wolf
watching a lamb beg for slaughter.

But I wasn’t a lamb.
I was already cracked open—
and he knew exactly how to crawl inside.

I gave him the key to my ribs,
to the lock between my legs,
to the soft, ruined place
that still believed surrender could be sacred.

He never raised his voice.
Never needed to.
His silence was the blade.
His eyes, the noose.
His presence—
a velvet ***
wrapped around my throat.

And then he gave me the collar.

Not one for the neck—
no. That would’ve been mercy.
This was darker.
Quieter.
A hand bracelet in silver.
Light enough to be mistaken for jewelry.
Sharp enough to split me in half.

He told me to pick three.
Pretty little things I’d feel comfortable wearing.
And I did.
Naively.
As if any part of me still believed I had a choice.

He chose one.
Of course he did.
And he never told me why.

He only knelt before me,
clasped it to my wrist,
and said:
“This is my mark.”

It wrapped across my hand,
silver like moonlight on a blade,
etched with the weight of his lineage—
Viking *** and Devil fire.
A line from wrist to finger
like a chain forged in silence,
thin enough to miss,
heavy enough to haunt.

“This is when you’ll wear it,”
he said,
his voice low, wicked, final.
“When you want to feel me.
When you miss the leash.
When you ache to be filled by more
than fingers or cock—
when you want to be possessed.”

Not for work, he said.
Not if I felt unsafe.
But we both know safety left me
the day I said yes, Daddy
and meant it with my marrow.

I wore it out today.
No one noticed.
But my pulse did.

My cunt pulsed with every step.
Every reach of my hand was a scream.
My skin lit with heat,
my breath shallow with memory—
because that bracelet
isn’t an accessory.

It’s a fucking brand.

It says:
This one is ruined.
This one is taken.
This one gave her soul to the Devil
and thanked him
when he pinched my nipples.

It’s not jewelry.
It’s the chain that stays on
when the bruises fade.
The reminder that even in silence,
even in daylight,
even in public—
he owns me.

And I am never
not
wearing
him.

[Wi****]

Nice poem.
It tells not just the story of a slaves heart but a look into the mind of a Master. Similar to others of His kind but different in his own way.

Many play at being a Master or slave online, but they will never understand the difference in a Master and a Dom or a slave and a sub.

Maybe your words will help them understand the difference.