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.
