Branding sadomasochism

The wooden shack looms, its rough planks weathered and stained. A naked woman hangs from chains, breasts heaving, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her body is a canvas, already marked with welts and bruises, the remnants of earlier punishments. A man stands before her, holding a branding iron, its tip glowing like a demon’s eye in the dim light. He circles her, the iron’s heat a sickly orange in the gloom, his breath ragged with anticipation. She whimpers, her body trembling as he presses the iron against her flesh, the sizzle of burning skin filling the air. She screams, a raw, primal sound, as the brand sears into her, a permanent mark of her submission. The man grunts, satisfied, his cock hard in his pants, ready to claim her again, to use her body for his pleasure, to push her limits, to break her and remake her in his image.

He drops the branding iron, the clatter echoing in the small space. He unzips his pants, his cock springing free, thick and veined, a monstrous thing that pulsates with power. He grabs her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and thrusts into her, his cock sliding into her wet, willing cunt. She moans, a sound of pain and pleasure mixed together, her body arching against his. He fucks her hard, his hips slamming against hers, his cock pounding into her, claiming her, owning her. He reaches around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it roughly, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her body. She screams again, a sound of pure ecstasy, her body convulsing as she comes, her cunt clamping down on his cock. He grunts, his body tensing, and he comes, his hot cum filling her, marking her from the inside out. He pulls out, his cock glistening with her juices, and he smiles, a cruel, satisfied smile, as he looks at his handiwork, his brand on her skin, his cum dripping from her cunt.