We mark what we would own, lining skin with scratches and bites. We write our ownership in the calligraphy of the cruel, broad brush strokes of word and whip, leaving scars both emotional and physical. The most delicious of morsels are plucked still red and sore, a tasting of plump flesh engorged with pleasure.
It becomes an internal anthem, a mantra to self, and this belief of place, this dedication to the life carved out by you, for you, with you, is enough to fill you entirely, washing away the grit that would sandpaper you into nothingness.
Madeleine laughs. "I'm a woman… you shouldn't get your hopes up."
D’jaevle looks down at you in his lap, "And I am cruel. I shall leave one here," his finger runs over your neck, right where it meets your shoulder. "And here,", his finger slips down to your breasts, tracing the curve of one, stopping along the side, "Maybe here…" the finger continue to your hip, lazily teasing the skin.
Madeleine grins. "All new places… perhaps one day, there won't be a single part of me below the neck that you've not marked."