The other day I was going to do a post about the breast carvings, but then I got distracted by Mt. Onippleus and didn’t do it. So since I get to stay up past bedtime on nights when Master is out of town and might be on msn, I figure I can do it now. Plus I read a post today that mentioned cutting and reminded me about it.
The scarring is finally starting to come along really well. I can’t even remember the last time (before last week) that the words had to be redone. I want to say it was in November but I am far too lazy to look and I never did get those tags done on the posts.
The scars remain pretty clear for a long time now. And in certain spots on the letters, He doesn’t even need to cut anymore. It’s a very defined scar. Most especially at the top of the “L”. We found out that doing a lighter cut scars better. I think previously the cuts were too deep and too “clean” so it was healing too nicely.
I figure it won’t be long and He’ll be down to needing to do this once a year, if that. How cool is that? :)
I get the idea that some people think it’s about the cutting or about the blood, but it’s not. It’s about the mark. His mark of ownership. Permanent. A tattoo is great (I don’t have any but I like them just fine) and He still wants to have me tattooed, but for this mark, He (we) wanted something more, something different.
The cutting didn’t start out initially to be this mark of ownership. I have this fetish for being Master’s canvas, His bloody canvas. Something that Master shared, considering His affinity for collecting and using knives and swords. There were numerous marks before these two words and I still carry the scars for a lot of them. He was prone to making slash marks, lines, pokes and tiny stabs, with no discernible pattern that I ever saw.. simple knife play. He cut me and I stood still, offering my skin, my body, for Him to “draw” on.
The words “owned slave” aren’t even the first words to have been carved in my flesh. I believe the very first words on my breasts were ‘cunt’ and ‘slut’. I wore His initials on my asscheeks for a while, and then sported ‘cunt’ in *huge* letters across those cheeks. I’m pretty sure there’s still a faint remnant of the ‘T’ back there.
When He began talking about having me permanently marked, we talked through all the ways to do it. We(I) wasn’t ready for branding yet, the tattoo felt too cliche to us, and we kept coming back to the words. To scarring.
It fit the bill for us, for Him, on several levels. It’s painful (and how He does like that!), it’s different, it’s something that He can do Himself, marking me through His own doing. The whole process of doing it is ritualistic, and leads me down into a rabbit hole of feeling incredibly owned. He’s never once restrained me when He’s done it. I’m expected.. required.. to sit exceptionally still, to not jerk or squeal or even to talk much. I can whimper if I don’t breathe heavy when I do it. Every curve of every letter feels like it’s being seared into my chest in painstakingly slow motion and likewise, is being seared into my brain.
I think every single time He sees my naked breasts, He reads it outloud to me. “Owned slave. And who owns you, cunt?”
You do Master. Forever.
I know the blood squicks people out. I know the thought of being carved is “over the top” for some. It’s just not about that for me. Of all the pictures I post, it’s the pictures of those words that I post with the most pride.
I am scarred, permanently marked, forever labelled, as an owned slave. By His own hand. It’s a dream come true.
Cut for pictures
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Uncategorized | kaya | 
Wednesday February 28th, 2007 11:02pm | 
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