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Quickly the villain got off Zantar and cleaned himself. Now to forever memorialize this occasion , the tyrant thought. He went over to a heated branding iron that lay in a nearby brazier and, with a rapid movement, he moved to set his personal brand into Zantar's exposed right rear arse-cheek telling the now thoroughly demoralized and humbled young rebel that this mark would symbolize his new status as his "property" and mere sexual plaything.
Zantar was still so emotional stunned and distraught by how he had been humiliated, emasculated and, sexually abused by his hated foe that he raised no protest as the hot iron moved toward his skin. A low howling whimper of pain coupled with the tone of one experiencing abject shame was the only sounds the despot heard as the tattoo was forever affixed. Pleased with how things had gone so far the tyrant called the guards to take Zantar to a cell after first instructing them to stop at the armory with him to have him fitted with an ingenious genital cover composed of chain links.
They cut Zantar free and lifted him off the bed. The autocrat was pleased to notice that Zantar offered no resistance and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the floor not daring to look up into the face of the man who had ravaged him. He stood before the hated ruler, his muscled torso shivering as he swayed held up only by the firm grip of the soldiers who steadied him with some difficulty. Zantar had undergone quite a change from the once angrily insolent strutting youthful fighter who had previously gazed on the tyrant with such haughty contempt. A few drops of what looked like tears fell from the prince's downturned face and hit the floor. The ruler sighed and waved the men off as he turned away to dress.
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