Branded tells the story of sexual identity without proclamations. At a time when sexuality is often compressed into rigid definitions and social media slogans, this ebook—set in the Velvet Mexico publishing house—invites us to slow down, observe, and live. The protagonist, Elena, enters the scene declaring herself a lesbian. But what follows is not confirmation, but transformation. The novel doesn’t offer answers, but experiences. In doing so, it touches on one of today’s most urgent themes: the fluidity of desire.
This is not about gender, but about sexual orientation. The book does not explore non-binary identities or gender transitions, but rather how desire can shift, expand, contradict itself. Elena engages in polyamorous relationships, faces “lesbian panic,” and experiments with erotic submission. None of this is framed as deviation, but as a journey. A journey that resists being boxed in, but instead asks to be understood.
Power is not a game, it is pressure. The relationships Elena weaves—with Claudia, Lorenzo, and Elisa—show how desire can be a tool of control or a lever of awareness. The novel thus enters the heart of the debate on consent: not as an abstract formula, but as daily practice, built on responsibility and listening.
The novel also tackles a delicate and very timely subject: unbalanced relationships, where submission is not imposed but sought. Some women, like Elena and Elisa, find in erotic submission a form of relief, a temporary suspension of emotional weight and responsibility. It is not weakness, but a choice that can become conscious—as long as it does not turn into dependence or abuse. As bell hooks writes, “love cannot exist where there is domination”—yet desire can also be a form of negotiating power, if lived with clarity and consent.
Michela Murgia, in her God Save the Queer, reminds us that “the boundary does not surround us, it crosses us.” It is precisely in this space of contradiction that the novel moves: between pleasure and danger, freedom and dependence, authenticity and pretense. Submission, in this context, is not surrender but a practice that can reveal deep truths—if those who live it have the tools to recognize and narrate it.
Why does this novel speak to the present? Because we live in an era where LGBTQ+ visibility grows, but so do expectations of conformity. To declare oneself lesbian, gay, bisexual, or queer does not mean being boxed in, but telling how one recognizes themselves at that moment. The novel does this without moralizing, without homework, blending story and experience, page and skin.
The challenge is this: stop asking for definitions and start listening to stories. Stories that are not always clean, not always uplifting, but for that very reason true. Velvet Mexico’s novel is one of these. And it deserves to be read not only as erotic provocation, but as a reflection on freedom, desire, and the possibility of being authentic even when we are not clear.