It began with a request for the misery stick and wax, after a long and trying period of not seeing each other. I had fantasized about him all day, touching myself periodically throughout the day in anticipation.
Even tired, he granted my request. Though not before tying my wrists to my chest, a harness going around both chest and waist, a new experience of rope binding my mouth. He teased and taunted, brought me to orgasm and denied other desires of mine.
I would have been well satisfied with the experience at that point, but he still fulfilled my original request. Grabbing the rope between my chest, he pulled me out of the center of the bed, rolled me to the side effortlessly. He placed a large towel down in the middle of the bed, then grabbed the rope around my back and rolled me onto the towel.
“Where do you want the wax?” he asked, already dripping a few spot onto my stomach where the rope was not.
Did he forget I couldn’t speak? I tried to reply to his question, but my frustration of the muffled sounds my mouth could produce only elicited a chuckle from him.
Splat, the wax dripped onto my hips, where the heat seemed more intense. He grabbed a thigh and moved it apart, exposing the sensitive inner side. Drip, drip, drip, it seemed hotter than normal, and my leg tensed under his hold and the wax, bracing for the next unexpectant onslaught. Confused, I wanted to move into the heat, it dripped, I wanted to move away. No matter my wants, his hand firmly held my thigh. And then some wax poured down and splattered where thigh meets lips of sex, and my lip burned with such intensity that I shook my head no, tried to buck against his touch, yelped against the rope.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he cooed, put down the candle, rubbed between both my lips, my wetness parted and allowed his finger greater access. “I didn’t mean for it to hit you there, no wonder you went a little wild.” His calm voice and teasing finger soothed me, and I felt myself relaxing into the bed again. I shut my eyes, and then felt the scorching wax on the other thigh, making its way up towards my sex, his finger abandoning my sex to hold the thigh in place.
I asked for this? I thought briefly. And the sensation of my passion and pain melded, and I remembered why. I moaned, and then screamed as yet another drop went astray and burned its way down the side of lip and thigh.
“Babe, I’m so sorry. No more wax,” he apologized, and I opened my eyes to see him put the candle on the nightstand. Again, his finger traced the crevice of my entrance, explored up to my clit, gently stroking up and down. Once I relaxed, he got up and went into our chest. I saw the knife, and closed my eyes, anticipating the cool steel. The tip traced along my rib cage, the blade gliding along my stomach, wax a slowly barrier as the steel gently separated the wax from skin. It was such a unique sensation, where the stiff cold replaced the fluid hot-turned-cooled-wax marks. The knife moved to my thighs, and beginning at knee, moved up with the slow intent of peeling the wax off. I groaned, it felt so amazing; I felt like the focus on his attention with the deliberation he was giving to the task.
The flat of the blade skimmed so softly across my lips, the chill soothing the parts that still seared.
He put down the knife, and apologized, then used his fingers to gently pull the wax out of my trimmed-but-still-there pubic hair. It tugged, it didn’t feel good, but was over quick enough to keep me in my sensitive fuzzy mind.
He laid his body over mine, breathed against my mouth that ached to kiss him, smiled at the taunt barrier preventing me from doing so, and entered me swiftly. I lifted my legs up to give him greater access, held the rope against my chest and bit down what was between my teeth at the pleasurable intrusion. He brought me to orgasm before pulling abruptly out, and grabbed the rope to manipulate me head down on the bed. “Are you okay?” he asked, and I tried to nod. I positioned my ass up and knees together, and he situated himself at my entrance, sliding in only about halfway before almost completely withdrawing, a few times taunted, before thrusting into me as hard as he could. I moaned: some from pain, most from pleasure.
He again played the just-the-tip game at my entrance, and leaned over to grab something. The tiny rod of the misery stick rubbed against my butt, and came down softly a few times. He increased the impact of the stick slowly, sliding himself in and out of me, my entrance so incredibly sensitive, my cheek beginning to sting and distract.
The biting of the rod became more of the focus eventually, and I tried to rotate away, tried to push back on his sex to distract him or me. I shook my head no as much as I could between pillows and mattress. “Fuck it,” he said, and I heard something fall to the ground, before he grabbed the rope around my waist and pulled me back, impaling me hard onto his shaft.
He hit a wall, and I tried to push myself away. He pulled back again, allowed distance, pulled. Oh my, I was orgasming so hard. Pain and pleasure again melded into one sensation, and it made me mindless, only aware of my body tensing and releasing and feeling.
My toes curled so much they hurt, and still he pounded into me. Orgasm crashed upon another, swept me far away, until he finally groaned against me.
When we stilled, he expressed his like for the harness around my waist, untying me, kissing me softly. As the rope left parts of it, it trailed against my responsive skin. When finally the rope was gone, he whispered, “come here,” and pulled me into his arms, kissed my forehead. He stroked my skin, occasionally skimming over the raised lines on my cheeks from the stick, making me gasp. He kissed me and made me feel loved and cherished. His hand moved to my throat and without controlling my breathing, he moved me away to kiss the side of my mouth and manipulated me again to his lips. It took my thoughts away again from the present, and I slept.
To see the picture of this: His Rope