Marked as Mine

His eyes fall upon the marks that adorn his body. 

The deep scratches which have drawn blood upon his shoulders and back.  The red marks which are gradually turning purple and black upon the cheeks of his ass, the shape of the handmade solid oak paddle clearly visible as an outline, the bruising colouring it in like a child would colour a picture. 

The welts form a neat pattern of criss-cross from the cane that had made contact with his skin only a moment before.  Nipples raised, red and sore.  The word "MINE" scratched into the skin across his chest. 

He looks as if he wants to say something, but cannot find the words to express what he is thinking or feeling at that moment.  I watch him, without word, drinking in his reaction, the way he looks.

I stand behind him as he continues to look at his reflection in the mirror and at the marks that make his body look so beautifully abused.  He slowly turns each way, trying to see the marks that are over his beautiful body.

And I drink in the way that he looks, the marks upon his body, the look upon his face, and as his eyes raise to meet my own, I can see and feel the depth of feeling from his eyes that need no words.

"I am marked" he whispers almost in surprise.

I simply look at him in the mirror and nod.

"I carry your mark." he smiles and his eyes light up as these words leave with such an enormity of feeling from his lips.  I look at him for what seems like an age, but is a few moments in reality. 

I smile.

My eyes not moving from his own.

"You are. Because you are mine!"