He’d had his vamp pals snatch her off the street and they’d been warned not to touch a hair on her head, not to leave a whisper of a bruise on her skin, not a scratch. So now he examines her up close, looking for a sign that she has been damaged. There is a faint greenish cast along her jaw, but it’s an old wound, faded. A nick at her knee suggests she’d been shaving her leg too quickly. Otherwise, she is unmarred. Pristine.
It doesn’t get any better than this, he thinks. She is shackled to the standing ‘X’ in the middle of the room. Her arms are stretched up and out and cuffed in plain manacles. Her legs are also stretched wide open, shackled at the ankles. She looks none too comfortable, but her comfort is not his concern. She is naked and blindfolded and silent. He examines her body with a practiced eye. Where will she be most vulnerable? He wonders.
Torture is his gift and he intends to use it creatively. But this is more than torture. More than pleasure and pain and they both know it.
He smiles to himself and begins lighting the paraffin candles that line the room. He knows that she can hear the match grate against the box, smell the sulfur and he knows that she will be anticipating what is to come with both dread and delight.
By the time he has made his way around the entire room, the first candle he has lit has produced a pool of melted wax. He’d purchased the candle from a specialty store; the wax melted at a lower temperature so while hot, it will not cause any real damage when he pours it over her skin. He takes great delight in the thought of her nipples, erect beneath a thin film of white wax.
Before he begins, he tips the ‘X’ back just a little, and then he leans down to suck her pale pink nipple into his mouth. She whimpers beneath the duct tape. He sucks a little harder, closing his teeth around her, biting and pulling at the same time. Her nipple rasps out of the grasp of his teeth and before she has had time to recover, he tips the candle over and splashes the hot wax over her peaked flesh.
She screams. At least, it sounds like a scream. The wax hardens immediately. He was right; it looks beautiful. He wishes he had thought to buy a different colour. Next time. He focuses his attention on her other breast, pays it the same careful attention, is rewarded with the same muffled yelp of pain.
He stands back and ponders her tits and feels the weight of his cock in his pants. Maybe next time she’ll return the favour. Already her nipples have softened beneath the wax. Pity. They’re so pretty when they’re hard. He has a Rolodex of memories of those tits, those nipples straining against skimpy tank tops and gossamer blouses and, a handful of times (no pun intended), between his fingers, against his tongue.
Christ, he’s hard. So he puts the candle down and strips off his clothes and stands there, his cock bobbing like a prize fighter, naked before her unseeing eyes, her quiet mouth, her shaved pussy.
“If I take the tape away, do you promise to stay quiet?” he says.
She seems to consider his request before nodding, once.
He reaches up and picks at the end of the silver tape. When he has it, he pulls the tape from across her mouth and watches her tongue immediately flick out to wet the hurt. He wants her tongue in his mouth and so he steps forward, breast to breast, and kisses her. The platform has put them at almost the same height, but they are not equals, at least not tonight. He can feel that smooth surface of the wax against his chest and he knows that underneath it her nipples are aching to be touched.
He trails his fingers over her breasts, over the landscape created by the wax, and he wonders how the wax would feel against her smooth sex. Considers for a moment asking her permission and then remembers that that is not their arrangement. He can do what he likes. They have a safe word.
He steps back from her and then moves to adjust the ‘X’ once more so that she is lying back, almost flat. He considers the possibilities. He skims a hand down her body, coasting the slope of ribs, the curve of her belly and the bone of her hip. Her clit is exposed. It’s the sweetest, most vulnerable thing he’s ever seen.
He picks up the candle and moves to stand in between her legs. Tips the candle, watches the wax begin an almost slow-motion descent to the spot just above her pubes. Splatters. Her mouth pulls back, the low rumble of a groan curling around her larynx.
The position of her legs, splayed open on the rigid ‘X’ will not allow his dick access to her slit, so he reaches for her with a finger. And when he touches her, barely, he can tell she is close. He pushes three thick fingers into her and tips the candle, moving his thumb from her clit to expose it to the splashing wax. She hollers, full-throated, and surges against his thrusting fingers. She is a thing of beauty.
Now he needs to be in her.
He steps back, reaches for the key to unlock the metal at her feet and then steps forward again, pulling her legs around his waist. Just before he pushes into her, past the crust of wax that mimics a barrier he has already broken once, he removes her blindfold. Her eyes are calm, forgiving.
He sinks into her, picking at the crust of wax at her breasts, scraping it away with blunt nails, knowing that the newly exposed flesh is tender and vulnerable.
There is a knot in his throat and he swallows it back. She is watching him carefully, waiting for him to come, knowing that he won’t, at least not in her. He pulls from her abruptly, turns and spills into his clenched fist.
He doesn’t turn back. This, too, is part of the bargain. To protect her, he must hurt her, just enough so that he knows she is safe from him. That is all that matters. He knows with certainty that she will never utter the word they’ve settled on; the word that calls a halt to their evermore increasingly dangerous games. Each time he pushes her farther and then he joins her on the precipice. This is the price of their love.
“Angel.” Her voice calls him back.
He stops, but can’t bear to look at her. His sullied treasure. Their dirty secret splashed across her perfect breasts and thighs.
He waits. For a long moment he waits, but there are no words, just a silence that says even more than his violence ever could.
Story Index Thoughts