Strapped down, like an animal. Writhing in agony as search for release. From the bindings? Oh no. From the sexual need, the fever that races through your body. You beg me to touch you, to give you the release your body so desperately seeks. And so I do. Bringing my fingers down to trace a path from your nipples up to your throat, I whisper hints of the pleasure and pain you'll be made to endure.
Taking the flickering candle from the bedside, I ask you if you want to know what real heat feels like. Small beads of sweat appear along your brow as you shake your head frantically. But I ignore your cries, and tilt the candle to drip a trail of hot wax into the silky valley between your breasts. You gasp in pain as I turn my attentions to each of your spiked nipples. Once, twice, on each of the rounded tips. Your back arches up, and again, I hear you cry out. But still, I do not stop. Reaching down, into the v formed by your pubis and silken thighs, I gently spread your nether lips. Having fully exposed your pulsating bud, I drip one single, solitary, burning drop onto your nerve center. You buck and thrash, pulling at the ropes, screaming in delicious pain. Raking my scarlet fingernail over your abused button, I slowly peel away the hardened wax, eliciting more cries. But these are of a different nature. Now you beg for more contact, harder contact.
As I laugh cruelly, I turn my gaze to your face. But what do I find? Tears. Placing the candle in it's holder, I gently caress your luxurious hair. Kissing away the salty trails, I tell you not to cry, for there is much to come. Reaching once more to the bedside table, I retrieve the candle. Dripping the hot wax into your navel, I place the lit candle, upright, into it. Your body is now the most sensual candleholder I've ever beheld. While the hot flame melts the burning wax onto the delicate flesh of your stomach, I grace your soft lips with a tender kiss. Your tongue searches out mine, but I pull away.
