Scream of an Angel

“Turn around, Please” Commanded the the tall unicorn stallion reclining in his favorite chair. He spoke in a soft English accent, his words ringing powerfully through her even without his use of volume.

He stood impressively tall for a stallion, well built and muscular. His coat was purest white, matching his starched dress shirt, and his hooves were a fine medium blue. His horn was long, the mark of a fine pedigree and the utmost societal standing. He wore a fine tailcoat, neatly pressed, along with his blue vest and purple bow tie, all which complemented his colors without even a touch of gaudy flashiness or stylistic excess. A gold-rimmed monocle balanced before his eye, its thin connecting string swooping from his face to the lapel of his coat. His blue mane, tail, and mustache were neatly combed, their colors identical to that of his hooves.

She stood nearly as tall as he, the elegant mare before him. Her form was thin and curvaceously delicate, matching her dainty and delicate features. Her horn was as long as his, but was sharper, an almost dagger-like projection from her forehead. Her mane and tail were the lightest shade of lavender, complementing but never outshining her violet eyes. Her coat was also white, uncovered from all clothes. Her flank was marked with a group of Fleur-de-lis emblems, two purple and one gold.

. Her hooves sunk into the oriental rug as she turned slowly, allowing him to investigate every detail and nuance of her form. The room spun around before her, and she realized how truly massive it was for its single occupant. To the north, there were three plate glass windows bordered by blue stained glass, set between her and them was the massive sleigh bed, with sheets of the lightest blue. To the west, was the door back to the house, and a row of bookshelves lined against the wall. To the south was the massive stone fireplace, inside which a healthy fire crackled. A large painting hung above the blueish white marble mantle, a simple but enthralling piece of a still pond with colorful lilies. Finally, to the west was the master of this domain, Mister Fancypants himself.

She finished turning, coming to a halt, and gave the unicorn a bow. He smiled back to her, flipping through a dossier.

“Please, take a seat.” He commanded, watching her fold herself neatly on the comfortable rug.

“I was not lied to, You are quite beautiful, Madame.” He commented, eliciting a blush across her cheeks.

“It pays to have powerful friends.” He mused, recollecting the nearly princely sum for which he purchased her. Her seller hid behind such a wall of anonymity that she could not be displayed at the auction, but under the tactful advice of one of his dearest Manehattan friends, he bid. And was outbid, and bid again.

He closed the dossier, and smiled at her. “Can your innocence be anatomically verified?” He asked, tapping the thick paper cover to the folder. She nodded slowly and sheepishly.

“Is it true that your youthful appearance is magically preserved?”

She nodded again, almost speaking out, but she held her tongue.

“Well then! Madame, as of this moment you have become a possession of my household. In private I am to be referred to as Master Fancypants, and otherwise you will call me by a socially appropriate term. Do you understand?”

Fleur-de-lis nodded, lifting her head to face him. “Yes, Master Fancypants.”

“So then! There is but one matter to take care of.” Fancypants chuckled, turning his head towards the fireplace for a moment.

Fleur-de-lis looked up at him quizzically, and waited for her master to explain.

“In order to affirm your loyalty to me, We shall impress upon you a mark of servitude.”

Fleur-de-lis nodded. “Of course, Master Fancypants.”

“I have decided upon its placement, upon your inner thigh. Do you feel ready to be marked presently?”

Fleur-de-lis nodded.

“Good girl. Please step to the fire and retrieve the instrument.”

At his command, she stood up, and stepped towards the fire. A long metal rod jutted out of the fireplace, its end buried deep in the glowing coals. She grasped its handle, a heavy spring, and lifted the rod from the fireplace grate, feeling the warmth of the fire greet her through the iron.

The end of the rod lifted out of the coals, glowing a lively crimson red. It was in the shape of a three-pointed crown, his cutie mark and a well-recognized symbol. She spun the rod in her hoof, bringing it back towards him as its glowing color faded slightly.

Master Fancypants stood out of his armchair, and took the rod from her hoof. With a sweeping gesture of the rod, he instructed her to lie across the rug before him. She obeyed, lying on her back with her rear legs splayed for him, exposing her anatomy and the soft skin of her inner thighs to his mercy.

“Jolly good! Please stay as you are.”

She closed her eyes and breathed heavily as he closed in. He lifted his hoof, carrying the iron up with it. For a moment, he held the iron just above her sex, watching her sweat slightly as she felt the heat radiating from the iron.

With a smile, he brought the rod ever so closer to her. Her face contorted slightly in pain from the sudden sting and surge of heat over her delicate and untouched organ. He retracted the rod, watching her breathe out slowly. She opened her eyes sheepishly.

“Relax, madame. We have not yet begun.”

She closed her eyes again as he changed the angle of the rod, pointing its end towards her inner thigh, just to the right of where it was before. He rotated the crown, finding a good angle which looked to frame her anatomy and form nicely, and flexed his shoulder.

With a single smooth thrust, he pushed the rod into her flesh. Smoke began to rise from her inner thigh as her fur coat burned away and the rod pressed into the soft skin underneath. The sizzle of flesh echoed in his mind as his nostrils were greeted by the scent of burnt flesh and hair. She did not move, nor flinch as the rod pressed inwards, locking into to her flesh as she began to cook.

She opened her mouth and her lungs contracted, letting out a long scream. Her vocalization was powerful, high pitched and yet not shrill or piercing. It sounded more like a note held from an opera singer while stretching her voice than a scream of anguish, but in every delightful moment of her cry the incredible pain shooting through her body could be heard and practically felt. The sound was too pure, too lovely, and too powerful to be the cry of a mortal being. Nay, it was the sound, the very sound, the wail of an angel as she fell into hell.

He held the brand steadily, drinking the scream with a smile growing upon his face. She held her note as her flesh burned, until the brand was done. With a slow and relaxed pull of his hoof, the iron separated from her, leaving a delightful mark underneath. Her scream ended, fading into her slow and heavy breathing.

Fancypants stepped back, dropping the iron onto the cold stone floor. He placed his hoof over his heart, still listening to the echo of the beautiful sound ringing in his ears and in his mind.

“Madame...” He began, astonished and amazed. “You have the most delightful scream!”