"A cutting. A four-sided lozenge around the ``C'' which I branded on your left hip this summer in Verona: this is how I shall mark you, slave". My Mistress's voice was clear and strong, sureness and decision ringing in it. I have not heard it otherwise, when She is actively being my Mistress. Nor can my slave's voice, when it comes from the same woman, ever be mistaken. And many other tones of voice are those of my beloved friend, each charming and unique. They have names, each of these personas, by which I can call them out. Beverly is her birthname. Cassandra --the seer, the shaman, the woman of power and of magic-- is how she long identified, and the name of my Mistress. And on her birthday, on that magic day in a cabin among the redwoods of the St. Cruz Mountains, when she asked me to give her a slave name, I had no doubts -- Ariel, sprite of Air (and Water), to balance the overwhelming Fire (and Earth) of powerful Cassandra. Ariel. Beverly. Cassandra. My slave; my friend; my Mistress. My love, each and every one of them, and each and every one of her other myriad aspects. She has given names to "facets" of me, too, but I can't feel for them. They're convenient, to know when she's calling on her slave, or on her Master, specifically -- we have committed to always being there for each other when called. But -- there's only one of me. Some would no doubt say that even that is possibly already too many:-). I had known for a while that my Mistress wanted to place some further permanent mark upon me, and accepted that happily and serenely. And if it should end up not happening ("the best-laid plans of mice and men gang oft agley"), that would be fine, too -- I had no attachment. But when I heard her voice sound so sure -- I knew it WOULD happen, and how it would go, and how it would feel -- and for an instant I was frightened. Well do I know the feeling of the blade splitting my flesh open; it used to be a real passion of Laylah's. And she had managed to guide me over my block regarding blades -- even to give me a taste for them, when I'm topping, or in the abstract -- but the sheer physical sensation is still hellish to me, intense and strong and violent and extremely unpleasant. And that, I guess, is part of why it's so appropriate for a token of extreme submission, of slavery. A whipping on my back, or any beating on my buttocks, still carries some element of pleasure, although that element may of course be mostly submerged by sheer intensity of pain; even flames, and searing hot metal, while terrible, awaken something in me physically, something powerful and in a sense desirable. But to submit to a cutting -- THAT is pure, unadulterated, total bending of my will, of my whole being, to another. Just because I get nothing but loathing from it, physically, makes it, in a sense, an ideal gift. And that -- if my Mistress commands it -- is exactly what I want to offer to Her. A gift of myself. It used to be, the first few times that Laylah cut me, that she could do it only in non-safeword scenes: there was no way I could stop myself from safewording at the supreme instant -- so what was needed was for her to be able to hear my safeword, smile her tigress smile showing her perfect teeth, fix her gaze into mine, and proceed anyway, shattering my will and my resistance at the same time as her blade broke my skin and sated itself on my blood. But I've come a long way since. I now know what a top can get from cutting, the sensation of power, the feeling of ultimate control in shedding one's beloved's blood. I do not know, nor may I ever learn, what some bottoms feel, that they can enjoy being cut, even cutting themselves; but I do not need to know. I can offer my skin, my flesh, my blood, my pain, my suffering, my fear and loathing themselves, in a veritable sacrifice, in the closest I can come to -- a perfect gift. When I say I get nothing from it, I speak of physical sensations, and of feelings during the cutting itself; it does have redeeming features on other planes. The burning and tingling sensation in the following days as the wound heals is less unpleasant, and it can become happy-making if it calls to mind my Mistress's joy at receiving the gift she's demanded. The mark lasts longer, it may even be permanent, and will affix into my flesh -- for good, maybe for ever -- the same memory, and the undisputable sign of my submission. And during the scene, or right after it -- the blood. I have a respectful fascination for blood, my own no less than others'. It is liquid, and it is life -- it is the elixir, the red gold, that alchemists wrote about. Even a drop of it is precious. It glistens on the blade, it shines in the light, it graces the skin with its beautiful red colour, as it oozes onto it from the wound. I love shedding blood, and having my blood shed, by whatever means -- and it must be admitted that, no matter how they feel on the flesh when they're doing their work, blades are most effective for this purpose, most focused on the job. The closest I got to death so far was by haemorrhaging; and I remember how blissful it felt, as my life, my very soul, was seeping away from me together with my blood... if I ever have to suicide I want it to be by cutting my wrists' veins in a warm bath, like the philosopher Seneca was ordered to do by the tyrant Nero; I can conceive of no sweeter death. All this ran through my mind in a fraction of a second as my Mistress Cassandra spoke those few words, exciting my fears, and quelling them again at once -- my love for her, my submission to her will, flaring up in a blaze of happiness. Earlier in the week, my beloved slave, adorable topazzz, had also asked me for a cutting, as it happened. So, the three of us went shopping for the blades and associated hygienic supplies, planning both cuttings for the same night. Alas, before that night came, topazzz had some unrelated medical problems that, out of prudence, made me decide to delay her cutting to some future date; my Mistress also decided not to cut me at that point. My US trip was drawing to a close, and Beverly and I went to spend our last night together in a motel in New Hampshire. When we got there, my Mistress informed me that it was there, in that room, that I would be cut... it was with the slightest shivering that I accepted her decision. First we played in other ways, mostly with me on top. So many things that we had wanted to happen on this trip had turned out not to... this was the last night in which to make into reality as many of them as would fit -- joyfully, intensely, without attachment, we went after quite a few. Then -- once more -- Cassandra's voice. "I am ready to cut you now, Andros". Well, that wasn't much advance notice, but I did my best -- concentrated, shifted my mindset in response to the name she had called -- "I am ready, Mistress". She looked at me appraisingly; I had the impression she was amused. "Oh no you aren't... not so fast! Lie down on the bed, on your back; I'll *make* you ready!". Oops -- my mistake; she had said she was *ready* now, not that I would be *cut* now... she wasn't hurrying me, not at all. She knows me well; I am very _fluid_, but not necessarily very _fast_... Sheepishly, I obeyed and waited. She lit candles, put on what would clearly be my cutting music -- Roxy Music's "Avalon". The mellow, sensual, intense mood started spreading. She got a horse-hair whip, came next to me on the bed, grasped my hair, smiled her strongest smile -- my sense of being *owned* grew apace. The whipping was little more than a warmup, for all that my chest is so much more delicate than my back; it did, however, start endorphins flowing, and provide the time and setting for the fullest mood shift to deep down into the full awareness of being her love slave. I am pretty sure that she also wanted the words to send me some message, as she sang along on quite a few of them in her best, warmest, most magic voice -- but I was too far along on my trip to space to stay verbal enough to get whatever message that was... no matter: she knows about my non-verbal states, and if she needs to drive something specific home, she'll know how to find plenty of other ways to! It's such a wonderful thing to give over one's trust *so* completely, to a Shaman even before than to a Mistress, a Top, a Lover, a Friend... to KNOW that she knows where she's going, that she's been there before, that one can allow oneself to open up totally and follow wherever she leads... the Lady is my Shepherd, I shall not want; in pastures of fresh grass She leads me to rest... [One advantage of switching is that I well know how these perceptions from the bottom may be mismatched with reality -- that the top is still human even in the most exalted moments... and this knowledge does not interfere with the letting go, the sense of sacred, the total handing over of self -- indeed, it makes it more meaningful and significant!] After a time, she adjusted my position on the bed to get as much light as possible onto the brand on my left flank, and had me prepare the knife. She gave me a towel to bite down on, since screams were to be avoided... I heard her say a single word: "Earth". "... but Iron, cold Iron, shall be master of them all". Cold steel. Sharp blade. Its treacherorous caress, so feathery light as the edge kisses the skin -- and splits it, devours it, proceeds to the layer of fat, the fascia, the muscles, the bone... spreading destruction in its wake, spirit of Doom, harbinger of Death... No, it wasn't THAT deep -- by no means; like most good in-scene cuttings, it barely nicked the fascia, if that; but THAT is the jumble of messages that the physical sensation of a cold-blade cutting always sends to my hindbrain. The first of four sides of the lozenge I was to receive was done, and already I felt it beyond me to keep still, to keep offering myself to the knife... Another word came from my Mistress's lips: "Air". And it bit again... The blade had perhaps lost a tad of its sharpness already, and my Mistress compensated by a slight increase in the pressure. Both the lesser sharpness, and the higher pressure, enhanced the pain, and with it the sense of irretrievable physical loss... I inhaled sharply, I gritted my teeth, I summoned all my strength to remain offered, opened, given, to the Sword mangling my flesh. One more word was spoken: "Fire". By the time the third cut started, I was sobbing. No trace of any endorphin rush was left -- just a shattered, tortured animal looking up to its cruel Mistress's face -- and finding nothing but Light, and determination more steely than the blade itself... Oh, well had my Mistress judged to sink me in the waters of Paradise of submission to Her before starting this... I burned in the pyre of Her eyes, a thousand times within one second I offered myself over and over again. One last time, She speaks: "Water". The last one: my submission is by now the same as that of the gazelle, deadly wounded and separated from its pack, to the lions that are devouring it, tearing its flesh to shreds, shedding its life-blood upon the parched prairie -- oh may your steely claws and teeth be fast, my Mistress, and merciful in their cruelty, that oblivion may soon come... The fourth cut is finished, the lozenge is closed, and it is of course not the oblivion of death that comes, but my Mistress's beloved voice once more, deep and solemn and wise and clear: "The fire-brand which marks you as my slave is now separated from the rest of your flesh". I feel these words wash over me, over my whole being. Some part of me, somewhere, is drenched in them and will retain and process this knowledge which my Mistress has imparted. Not my mind, surely, which feels worn and consumed, far from up to the task. But my Mistress, I feel -- I KNOW -- is now just as happy to have me floating freely in her love, abandoned, given. Her tenderness engulfs me, as she again speaks, Her magic transmuted into the warmest, most caring affection -- "Sweet Andros, wonderful slave!"... And sweet is it to sink into this sea.