The Symbol (1)



For months and months she had pestered. Well, not pestered. He hated pestering.


Yes, that was better. Reminded Him that her birthday was coming, soon. Five months is soon when you have to remind someone all the fucking time, right?


So, she’d reminded him. Left pictures of it around his desk. Sent him the link to check it out for himself.

Okay, she was pestering…or so HE’d said when he took her over his knee in exasperation.


The day was here, the first day of her third decade. She’d gotten her birthday spankings when she awoke,  and he’d put a rosebud in a little vase next to her bowl of cereal at the kitchen table. Awww.

Then he fucked with her head a bit and put the bowl on the floor between his feet and wouldn’t let her use her spoon.

Sometimes she resented that it made her wet when he did that. She should be able to eat breakfast beside him on her birthday, right?Yet she knew that protesting would do no good. He’d say she was still at the table with him, was even closer to him now. He’d say, shut the fuck up slut, or you can skip breakfast. He’d point out that complainers earned punishment.

So, rather than complain, she’d crawled under the table, and slurped down her soggy cornflakes. She’d even remaining silent when he put his right foot in the middle of her back like she was a fucking footrest.

Okay, so she had sputtered a bit when his left foot pushed her face into her bowl.  He’d laughed to see the soggy concoction dripping from her chin and nose.  She’d glared up at him as he bent down to peer under the table see his handwork. He brushed aside her glare as if it were a gnat, reminding her to hurry the fuck up if she wanted her present.

The way he treated her sometimes.

Gawd it so fucking turned her on.

His kinks dovetailed with hers. What they had together worked for them. He wasn’t an insanely cruel Master, unless you counted the blowjob she’d been forced to perform when she had that cold last month. Hell, if he didn’t mind snot on his cock, who was she to complain?

Still, they’d made it work, the subbie slave and her Master. This 24/7 shit wasn’t for weenies, that was for fucking sure, she mused. Always on call, always fucking there when he needed to fuck (not that she minded that at all, horny bitch that she was), or spank. Not that she minded that either.

She smiled as he buckled her into the car. She loved being his. However he chose to use her.

She didn’t even mind the occasional loan of her mouth to one of his friends. His kink, her kink…they blended. She got off on it, he got off on it, it worked.

But she wanted to be fully, totally his.

He said the marriage certificate in the safe deposit box pretty much took care of that. The pretty collar she wore pretty much took care of that.

“There could be a tornado that would rip the bank apart and destroy the certificate,” she countered.

“i could get into a terrible accident and they could need to cut off the collar with  the Jaws of Life fer crissakes” she muttered.

He just looked at her, sighing.

“You’re a whack job, you know that? How often is there a tornado here? How often do you drive?”

She pouted. She wanted a tattoo. The sting of needles piercing her flesh, marking her unequivocally as His.  Finding the website with the “BDSM Symbol” was like finding the keys to the Hostess Bakery! She devoured the information about the symbolism of the design as if it were a twinkie. She loved the yin-yang balance of the piece. That the raised rim and arms were metallic-hued to symbolize the chains of servitude made her sigh in happiness.  She oohed about the inner blackness symbolic of the “dark side” of BDSM sexuality. She aaahhed about the three holes  that symbolized the incompleteness of this lifestyle, the life of a slaveless Master, or a Masterless sub. Or the lonely switch with no prospects at either side of the controls.  The symbol fulfilled every fantasy of being marked by Him.

He’d agreed to have her marked for her birthday, and now here they were, pulling up to his friend Malique’s house. The studio was in the back, she knew. Like she also knew Mal’s services were in high demand. Like she also knew that Master had gotten a special appointment on Mal’s day off. She did a little groove wiggle in her seat, but managed to hold back the ‘WOOT’ of joy as He came around the car and released her.

He pulled her out of the car, leading her around the back walkway towards the studio.

“You be a good girl and do exactly what Mal tells you, understand?” She nodded, almost dancing her way up the walkway. His hand gripped her upper arm tightly.

“Will you calm the fuck down? geeze…what are you? 12?” He shook his head ruefully.

He opened the door of the shop, and there was Mal, all six feet nine inches of him. She looked up and up and up, offering a huge smile.

“Hi slut,” he beamed, gap-toothed down at her.  His ebony-hued, bald head shone under the light. “You’re getting the full-back dragon today, right?”

“nonononono…Mal…!” she giggled up at him, realizing he was teasing her shamelessly.

“I’ll leave her in your capable hands, Mal,” said Master, pressing her head to his chest, and warning her quietly, to represent him appropriately to his friend, and to follow her directions.

“Right-on, man,” drawled Mal, taking her arm and pulling her through the curtains. She didn’t see the silent signal, the head nod between the two men.


She’d been to a tat parlor before, but this one was pristine. Small, intimate, really. She fell silent after her Master left, suddenly a bit nervous. It was her first tattoo, despite watching Master, and when she was younger, her sister, getting tat’s.

“This is gonna take a while.” He pointed her to the changing room. “Take off your drawers and leave ’em in there.”

She wondered, as she slid out of her jeans and panties, if getting a tat on the very top her ass had been a wise location.

“So, gonna get this where the good Lord split ya, eh?” She blushed a bit as he watched her walk, naked from the waist down, from the little closet. Silly. She was a slut, after all.

She added a little wiggle to her walk, just to boost her confidence a bit. Malique’s eyes gleamed as he watched the sassy bitch. He wondered if Sam had told her the full extent of his gift to her on her birthday.


The BDSM Emblem is copyright 1995 by
who maintains the copyright in order to protect the symbol. It is
freely available for all educational and non-commercial use
within the BDSM community without charge.

10 thoughts on “The Symbol (1)

  1. And once again, you skillfully build the excitement – and slip away. Damn, ‘Nilla. You gonna finish this for our Christmas present tomorrow? {Smiles}

    What a lovely beginning – can’t wait to see what happens.


    1. i’m glad you liked it. i saw the symbol much as our heroine did, and wanted to write something around it. i tried so hard to write a christmas story but my muse has been sluggish lately…but i’ll have something good for NEXT year!


  2. aisha, nilla can’t possibly finish this story that quickly, this has to go on for a week, it has started that well, very very good start. At some time I’m going to have Mrs. Tip get one, or at least that is my plan.

      1. Merry Christmas Nilla, your writing has really given me something to look forward to each day since I found your blog. I wish you the very best always. You really are a great talent, and your mind does work in constant overdrive, I’m sure of that fact if nothing else.

      2. Thank you so much Sir Tip. i’ve enjoyed your comments from day 1. Thanks for sticking around, and enjoying what i do, and taking the time to tell me so. it feeds me.


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