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I was horrified. It had been a warm day and I’d suddenly become sure I needed a shower.
The reflected light on his face showed he was rapt in what he saw. Me. All icky and ugh and I wanted a damn shower, and a change of clothes, and then I wanted him to do nasty sexy things. I wasn’t doing anything without a shower first.
Again he touched me, massaging my inner thighs and my feet, my legs and my body, but not going over any erogenous areas. So close to where I wanted his hands.
If I held my breath, I could imagine his fingers straying sideways, bumping and sliding over the lip of my labia then dipping inside, playing in my moisture. I remembered his fingers from other nights – thick, manly, just right for fucking me. When he shoved two or even three of them inside at once, the stretch on my walls was electric.
I got so wanton I angled my pelvis sideways an inch or two to encourage him. No luck.
I exhaled as quietly as I could, small shuddery breaths while the want pumped in, filling my body to bursting.
God. Touch me already!
But, he teased me, got me aroused, then he went aside and sat on the couch and read a book. A book! I raised my head and glared. After a minute or two, I squirmed once, wishing I could rub my legs together. Another few minutes and I couldn’t help squirming some more. I wanted his touch. He kept reading, the pages turning methodically as if I wasn’t tied up half-naked on the table.
Bastard. I could see where he was heading with this.
And just the idea of it kept me thinking about coming. I squirmed some more. For half an hour he alternated reading with massages then he went to the kitchen and returned with a jug of water. Ice water that he dripped onto my groin and my breasts until I gasped. At least I was cleaner. Numb in spots, less horny, but cleaner.
To my annoyance he kept up the dripping until I was certain the mattress would be getting soaked. His warm palm touched my thigh and he held me there. He stopped me from dodging the icy coldness with that big hand of his wrapped across my inner thigh muscles. I flinched. The contrast of hot skin, him controlling my leg, and the cold water dripping onto my clit confused my body. I shot straight back into arousal and had to bite back a groan.
The massages and the cold alternated. He remained silent. A moth came in and flew about the lights, battering itself endlessly. I was ready to combust, but I kept myself fairly still and quiet even if now and then I clenched down there. Even if my clit was standing up hard under the cloth. With the light focused on my crotch, I could think of nothing except how much he wanted me to come.
Then he went away again and returned with one of the white candles I kept in reserve for power failures. I squeaked at the flame as it danced in the breeze. Lycra melted didn’t it?
“Worried?” He inserted his hand under the cloth above my leg, tented it up. I watched anxiously as he dripped wax onto the cloth over his hand. “Don’t be. I know the melting point. I give you permission to scream if it hurts, but if I check and find you lied, I’ll punish you.”
He hadn’t followed through on that last punishment but I wouldn’t lie. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Rigid, I waited for the first drip as he held the candle above my leg. It hit and heat spread. Bearable. I relaxed as the line of wax advanced up my thigh and only tensed as it neared my groin. I pulled at the cuffs, wriggled my butt a few inches up the pillows to get away until he held me down. I squeaked at the impact. Warm only. The first drips there pattered around my clit. He moved up my body drawing a line toward my breasts. Tap tap tap. My nipples budded tight and poked up like tiny beacons.
“These are mine,” he whispered, and his hand gripped the base of my breast. The candle was above me. The pool of wax at its top end glinted when he tilted the candle. I groaned before the droplet hit my areola, as much from his possession of my body as from the promised heat of the wax.
This time I couldn’t stop myself arching into the air. From my nipple, the heat flowed to where he held my breast in the half circle of his hand.
“Want something?”
I wet my lips but only stared as he shifted his hand and took hold of my other breast. Then he warmed the tip of that nipple with more drops of wax. Desire trembled up and down my body, rippling, gathering where the wax sent liquid heat into my skin.
When I was panting aloud at each new drop, he blew out the candle and left me in the dark. The wax dried. My need waned and I became aware of the stiff wax crinkling the material. Arousal was there but lessening.
The creak of the couch and the floorboards told me he was coming over. Metal glinted then I heard the distinctive purring snick of scissors opening and closing.
“Interesting. I wondered if you’d beg to come after that.”
Not a question. How could I beg without speaking? I guess I’d wriggled enough, though, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I was that malleable. And I couldn’t conceive of doing what he wanted. Just the idea of masturbating in front of him made my lady bits shrivel.
“I could try to get the wax off with a knife but I doubt it would work. And so…”
For the first time he touched me directly and intimately. His finger and thumb found one nipple. I had time to squeak once before he tented up the material, brought the scissors close and snipped away a circle. In the half-dark. He’d cut right next to my nipple, in the dark. I shrank and tried to merge with the mattress. Damn. Then he grabbed my other nipple and did it again. Jeez!
When he grasped at my groin I was ready and only caught my lip between my teeth and whimpered. There was light down there. He wouldn’t cut any of me off. Would he? I held my breath while I listened to the metal blades scissoring shut, as they cut. The pull on the catsuit lessened. Cool air brushed my nipples and clit.
“Better.”
I squinted into the light. The coolness there made it clear he had done what I thought he had.
“Want to say anything, Jodie?”
