My fingers keep rubbing your wrist and I am waiting. It’s a moment that is intimate, focused, tense, but not -- not yet -- impatient. Seconds pass and you are not letting go of the candle and when I touch it, close enough to the flame so wax drips on my fingers, your grip becomes tighter.
I let go of your hand but stay leaning over you, looking at your face, the dark stripe of the blindfold, the grotesque adornment of the burning candle between your puckered lips encrusted with coagulating wax, the hissing breaths. Something shifts again and I’m suddenly aware of my arousal, of how sensitive my nipples are, of how my breasts feel fuller, of how flushed and wet my cunt is throbbing, of how raggedy my own breath is becoming.
You can’t see me smile, but I do, a shifting wave of warmth washing over me. I rub a corner of your mouth with my finger. “Let go of this one, J. I want your mouth.’’ Your reaction is delayed by a fraction of a second, whether by your dazed state or surprise, before I can gently remove the candle. I move it slowly away and pour the last few drips of melted wax onto your exposed neck. A sudden, violent shiver and a moan make me gasp, the candle is turned upside down and pushed somewhat violently onto your chest, over your left nipple, the soft, still hot, barely extinguished candle top squashed against your skin. I lean down again, my hair brushing your chest again and breathe a Marlboro and whisky tainted ‘’Good boy” into your mouth, the candle now rolling on the workshop floor, my nails scraping through the wax splatter, my chest pushed against your side.
I bite your lower lip, gently, then harder, but not as hard as I’d like to, then move myself so the weight of my upper body is covering yours, my hands on both sides of your face, stroking, scratching, pressing, feeling you, wanting you, my eyes fixed on your mouth, my breaths fast and panting now, “Such a fucking slut. Look at you, J. No, you can’t, can you? But I can. Shameless. All mine. Tied up for me. Your ass filled. And you love it all, don’t you, J? Dripping and throbbing for me,” my hand moves down, around the candles attached to your rigid cock, between your legs, under your balls to where the toy is vibrating.
You are moaning now, your head trying to roll side to side, the sounds coming from your mouth making me more aroused, my arousal making me want to break you into pieces, “My deviant bitch boy. My filthy fucking whore. I want you like this so much. Oh fuck...” I am snarling my desire into your face now, all the beauty and all the grotesque ugliness of it, my own face lower down, a stream of obscenities murmured and hissed into your ear between flicks of my tongue on your skin and little bites on your earlobe, punctuated by my fingers pinching and scratching your upper body.
I’m not entirely sure if it’s what I am doing or the effects of the toy vibrating relentlessly inside you, but the way your body feels has changed, it’s tensing more and relaxing less, your head starting to loll as soon as I let go of it even for a few seconds, your mouth half open, the sounds deeper, even less articulate. I move away a bit, still remaining close to the board, my hands still touching you, but less mobile; one on your upper thigh, the other on the side of your neck, its fingers on the shoulder, its thumb lightly resting on your throat.
Your hips and whole under-the-waist area of your body are flexing, moving as much as the restraints allow, the ohhs and moans and growls louder as I watch you shiver through a heaving series of what certainly appear to be minor non-ejaculatory orgasms or very close edges.
My breathing is slower, I see you again, against the background of my want, reduced to this quivering mess of wax-covered, scratch-marked skin, thrown back head, mouth ajar, throbbing, twitching cock dripping precum just-below the candle flames, ropes holding you in place; horrible, broken, beautiful, infinitely desirable.
What happens next surprises even myself, I have neither planned it or felt it coming. I remove my hands from your skin, pull the toy out of your ass and pull the blindfold off your eyes, discard them both, move out of the way with a shove of my foot.
You are still panting, blinking, blinded even by the low light, but more aware, more here, less gone, trying to find my eyes with yours. I must look awful again, a red-faced sweaty disheveled mess, but I don’t care now, catching your gaze, my mouth curling up in a smile.
“Fuck...” you offer, somewhat redundantly.
“We’’ll see about that,” I say, briskly taking the candles out of your hands, putting them out as I do it, reaching to the workbench for a narrow knife, cutting the tape along the remaining two candles while they are still burning, pull the rest off with a snap accompanied by your sharp yelp, kill the remaining one with my fingers. The cock ties are next, other restraints follow, some impatiently cut, some untied.
You move carefully, clearly still in some kind of daze, and I help you sit up, rub your wrists and ankles, let you half slide half climb down the board. You lean back on it for a short moment, then try to take a step and wobble. I catch you before you slump towards me, my arms around you, holding you up a bit.
There is no answer but the way your body feels seems to suggest a tentative “maybe a bit”. I hold you closer then grab as much hair at the back of your head as it’s possible and pull it back so I can see your face. I’m openly laughing now.
“You don’t think I’m done with you yet, do you?”