I lay on my back, naked, of course. My wrists and ankles crossed and cuffed together and to the table. Rather than being stretched, my elbows and knees are bent, opening me up to her ministrations. The room is slightly cool and absolutely silent which adds to the heightening of those senses not cut off by the soft leather blindfold and thick gag.
Every sound is magnified in my ears as if electronically amplified and enhanced. My every breath roars in my ears. Her steps on the soft carpet are as loud as boots on dry leaves. A single drip of hot wax on my flesh sounds like the splash of an enormous rock thrown into a deep pool.
Scents that would have normally passed unnoticed flood through me in a torrent: the light scent she wears, the rich, thick, animal smell of the leather in which she is clad, the dense aroma of the melted wax, my own scent just as my excited skin breaks a sweat.
But it is my sense of touch that overwhelms all others. It is as if not just every nerve but every neuron, every cell in my body is filled with electricity and swollen to twice its normal size. The merest caress of her breath across the smooth skin on the inside of my forearm flashes like a strobe light throughout my entire being. My skull cannot contain the sensation of her fingernails tracing the faintest of lines up my thigh and they burst through my mind like an explosion.
The gag, thankfully, forces my breathing to a reasonable depth and rate as my heart pulsates rapidly in my chest. I work to keep myself just as open, exposed, and without cover mentally as I am physically, to keep my thoughts focused on the perception of every sensation, the moment just before my mind takes them and tries to categorize and define them. In this ultra heightened state, I couldn't create a coherent thought on my own if I had to.
"Are you there, my precious beast? Are you well?" she whispers to me, so close that I feel the brush of a few strands that have escaped from her carefully created hair style and the warmth of her breath on my ear.
Are you well, I think. Our precisely developed and oft-practiced code rises to the top of my consciousness. I nod my head twice and grunt three times though the gag. I picture clearly the smile which I know curls just the corners of her mouth even with the blindfold turning my visual world into the black of a deep and silent cave.
She traces her fingernails, first one, then two, then all five, slowly across my torso from my neck, around the clothespins and clamps on my nipples, and down my right side, causing my stomach muscles to jump involuntarily. As always, this elicits a chuckle from deep in her throat. Just as her last finger clears my skin, her other hand flicks one of the clothespins around my left nipple sharply. All at once, I breathe in sharply, my stomach muscles and genitals contract, and a brief moan of pleasure comes unbidden and unstoppable from my chest.
"Tsk, tsk, breaking silence again, my pet. 20 seconds this time." I force myself to exhale slowly so it will not be perceived as a sigh as I wait, longing, for the infinite seconds to pass before she will touch me again. I have attempted to count them off myself many times but my mind races and my count is usually double the prescribed number. With my complete trust in her, I know she is watching the seconds pass on the silent clock, as anxious as I am, or maybe even more so, for them to pass. To pass the time instead, I try to focus on each item she has placed upon me in turn: soft, firm pressure of the blindfold over my eyes, hard, tight force of the gag pulling back my lips, cold tension of the clamps on each nipple surrounded by the rougher, warmer sensations of the clothespins around them, rigid tension of the leather strap pushing down and separating my testicles, pulling and cracking of the hardening wax on my flesh, and the plug inside me stretching open my ass.
