Wax & Water

A short story with D/s.

She put her thumbnail behind his ear and began to press hard, into the fold where it joined his skin, pinching and pulling as her nail dug in and scratched. It was a hidden spot, one of her favourites, where she could slash and scratch and nobody would be the wiser.

“Come on,” she barked, at his distressed, sleepy face. “Hurry up!”

Leading him off the bed, she yanked in the direction of the closet, with him stumbling after, his long limbs never meant for a journey on all fours. She made him kneel and open his mouth, wrenched the closet open and grabbed the large cardboard box, with the marker scrawl ‘Toys’.

“I don’t want the neighbours to hear.”

His eyes glistened, his brow tensed and though his mouth gaped she saw his lips twitch

The ball gag was red rubber, with nylon straps and a sliding latch, and she popped the gag into his open mouth and brought the straps around his head, brushing her fingers through his silky short hair. It was already adjusted to fit tight, the plastic buckle clicking into place.

A hand on the back of his head told him to lie face down, and he didn’t need her to tell him to put his hands behind his back. Rope, doubled over and then looped around and around and tied, held his wrists together snuggly.

She tried her handiwork, gave a little noise of satisfaction and stepped off him. “Up, get up, come on. Into the bathroom. Lie down on the tiles there.”

Cold white ceramic pressed against his back, his legs stretched out and his shoulders held so he wouldn’t crush the circulation from his arms. He could see the cast flowers in the bright ceiling light, the edge of the shower curtain with it’s bold geometric shapes and then her face looming over him, her jaw tensed so her mouth was a line.

She breathed in, letting that feeling of preparedness rush into her body as the match flared in her hand and lit the three taper candles she’d set up on the back of the toilet tank. It was like this way before she prepared to jump into water or to wrench off a bandage from her skin, steeling herself for something that scared her.

Sadism. She switched off the overhead light and squatted on his chest. He was naked, as he had been when he was sleeping, except for the locked collar, and she was dressed in comfortable weekend wear, her painting jeans and the bright university sweatshirt, rolled up to her elbows. This was the hard part, starting to hurt. It was her little secret, she often barreled into hurting someone as intense as possible so she wouldn’t lose her nerve.

Slap. She held his head up with her other hand, preventing it from snapping to the side with the force of the blow. Slap again. Spit, saliva on his face, just over the left side of his mouth where the strap of the gag pulled into his lip. Her nails found his nipples, pinching and probing. He screamed into the gag and she looked into his eyes. The nervousness, a sort of stage fright, was replaced by a warm thrill. Slap again, palm on cheek, cradling the hard line of jaw and feeling the valley his teeth made between the bones as she held her hand against his skin.

She took the candle from the holder, looking at all the wax that had melted, and held it over the back of her hand to judge the distance. Hot, but not too hot. She tited the candle at what she guessed was about right and let it drip. It didn’t make any noise when it fell on his skin, but he bucked and snorted, telling her that she’d got it just right. She sighed and shifted her hips, sensing the warmth and wetness of her own melting, not unlike the liquefaction of the wax under the flame.

Soon he was peppered with little circular splatters of wax, white circles on his chest and stomach. The other two candles gave enough light she could watch the muscles under his skin shift a little. She replaced the candle back in the glass holder, nudging him with her foot and then kicking. Seeing him like this, the desire to pick him up and comfort him was a craving for a release she denied herself. Instead she took off the gag.

When she ordered him into the bathtub, he knew she was going to get the large plastic bucket even before he was kneeling down. She filled it at the sink, water made more cold by its trip through icy pipes outside. She could feel the chill radiating off the tap, pain she’d fetishized even as a little girl. Bucket full, she put the stopper into the drain and upended the whole thing over his head.

His shoulders braced against the chill, hunching up as the water splashed down over his naked body and bounced to strike her pants. Three more buckets followed the first one, her thighs pressing together as temptation to stop and take her release filled her, but she scolded herself, aware that he was suffering for her, a limited rare moment she’d be foolish to squander. She blew out the candles, leaving the small bathroom dark, and walked out, closing the door tight behind her.

Jeans unbuttoned, she slid them off to get the wet spots away from her skin and hop-skipped into the bed, that he’d been sleeping in before she’d attacked him. Where ever the water had touched her it tickled and tingled, and she took the big fluffy comforter and wrapped it as high as her chest. She could hear shivering and it aroused a part of her that wasn’t strictly sexual, making the world brighter and every breath of air feel better. On the other side of the door a beautiful (she had to use that word) man was kneeling and enduring and it was her job to feign indifference and read a book, because she couldn’t think of anything worse to do to him.

“God.” She let her lips shape the invocation to a deity she never believed in. “Oh god.”

She could still hear him, after she’d discerned that enough time had passed, which to him she hoped felt like it had slipped into timelessness. She opened the thin door that separated them and flipped on the light. He didn’t look up until she took him into her arms and got him upright, wrapping him in big, dry towels; fumbling the ropes off his wrists and massaging his hands; and keeping him steady so he wouldn’t stumble, all the way into her bed and under the blanket into the warm spot she’d just been occupying. He was her toy, her plaything, dragged out and beaten down, hers to break and now hers to patch up. She kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair, taking off her own clothes and pressing skin to skin.

1 thought on “Wax & Water”

Go on, say what you think!

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: