Look into the camera, and state plainly that you wish to be marked. That you wish to be owned by us. That you surrender to us the control over your life, as well as over your wife." His whisper was strong, unwavering.With my legs spread open, showing my now denuded crotch, and my cock locked away in a cage...I looked into the camera and surrendered. Shame flushed my face, but I knew it was where I belonged. I gave up myself, and my wife. I gave them the power.As the tattoo artist began working on the soft bare skin right above my caged cock, Master Mark described the image being placed on me. It was 3 circles, one with a bold arrow piercing the female symbol/circle, and the male symbol that represented me had a 'soft' arrow, seeming to droop. Once it was completed, a heated branding iron was then brought over, and it was explained to me that it was an icon of their Group...the hind legs of a horse with a large cock jutting out. As the heat seared into my skin just above the tingling. Flaming red, en brosse, hair gave him the appearance of a huge, genetically modified, carrot. He held out a hand, calloused as if he had grown up swinging a pickaxe."Hi, I'm Mortimer Crippen, but folks generally call me Mort or Cripps. Do I call you Des or Dave?" Des will do fine ... err ... Mort."He pointed to a chair "Sit ye down, unless you would like to stretch out on the couch?" His accent was broad Norfolk; a dialect which a makes me giggle when I hear it, not as much as a Brummie accent makes me laugh but near enough. "The chair will do fine," I said and sat. He plonked himself down opposite me across the desk, picked up a sheet of paper and quickly scanned it."Omar Malaki has found nothing physical he can point to as a reason for your ED." He grinned, showing teeth like tombstones. "Does he still have that foxy Imelda as his receptionist?" Is she the drop dead gorgeous Venezuelan?"He shook his head. "No, Immy was Colombian; Omar is working his way through females, in a.
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