She was in control again, but missed the comfortable feeling of submission. Dana wished he'd get started, as she desperately wanted out of her own head.
"I'm thinking too much,” she said, looking up at his face.
He maintained eye contact but didn't say anything as he soothed her with slow, smooth strokes. She wanted to tell him to get on with it, but the part of her that'd been punished for making demands couldn't say it. She tried another angle.
"Please help me stop thinking and analyzing."
"Trying to tell me you're ready for the wax?"
She shook her head. “That'd be topping from the bottom, I'm just asking for help."
"But you aren't on the bottom. No power exchange, remember? Tell me what you want."
Taking a deep breath, she let herself get lost in his pale sapphire-blue eyes and spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “I want your finger to keep going past my bellybutton. I ache for the heat of the wax and the pain it can bring. I need sensation—my skin craves it. I'd like you to please take me out of my head, make me feel instead of think.” She closed her eyes and spoke faster. “It was foolish to believe I could be bound, and put into the right headspace for this, without feeling submissive, but I can't talk about it or even consider it at the moment. We'll have to address it later, but please not now."
His finger ran down her center again, starting at her chin, skating over her throat, moving between her breasts, down her stomach with a detour as he made a circle around her bellybutton before heading south. Her insides pulsed as it trailed over her pubic bone and finally sank into her folds, making a line beside her clit and circling back up the other side.
He continued drawing circles, varying the size without touching the throbbing target in the middle as the nerve endings all around it came to life, and she ached to be filled. She strained to move her hips to invite him in, attempted to pull her legs together to make him stop, but couldn't budge even a quarter inch. Her breath was coming in gasps again, but from pleasure instead of panic.
"I believe such thorough honesty should be rewarded. I love not having to guess what you're feeling, what you want.” He withdrew his finger and lifted a pillar candle over her breasts to medium height, tilting ever so slowly, until drips sprinkled to the space between. She moaned in bliss at the sensation—heat on the threshold of pain. He lowered the candle a few inches as he moved it towards her stomach and kept going, creating a wobbly dotted line of fire down her torso.
Her moans grew sharper as the sensation gradually edged closer to pain. The wax dots made a circle around her bellybutton, following the same path as his finger. She gasped as heat splashed onto the outside of her lips—both relieved and disappointed when none dripped inside.
Zach replaced the candle and pulled the power cord away from one of the crock-pots before carefully situating it between her legs.
Dana's neck was tired from straining to watch, and he said, “I can put a folded towel under your head if you'd like."
She'd been expecting a reprimand and felt a little disappointed at being given a choice—not disenchanted enough for self-denial, though. She smiled and said, “Yes, please."
He took a few minutes to get the height right, refolding the towel until he was satisfied with the way it supported her head, double-checking to make sure her breathing wasn't restricted. Reaching for the bowl of ice, he set it below her feet and retrieved a large shiny cube, holding it above the crock-pot a dozen seconds before moving it to her chest, a few inches above her nipple.
It took eons for the drip to materialize; the lights beyond illuminating and making it appear larger than life. Trapped, she had no way to move away as it gained mass. Time slowed for the split second it took the drop to lengthen, break off, and finally splash onto her nipple. She gasped as if her breast had been struck by a flogger instead of a single bead of water, and gave a futile attempt at squirming as it slid towards her ribs—frosty and wet.
His hand descended, circling her left nipple with the ice, the piercing cold drawing it into a small pebble. He lifted the cube over her right breast, and her pussy clenched around the nothingness as she realized she'd have to watch another drop form, wait for it to fall. It took an eternity to gain enough volume for gravity to pull it down, and she inhaled sharply as it crashed onto her nipple—cold, wet, and heavy. As before, he lowered the frozen cube and trailed agonizingly frigid circles.
The ice was casually tossed back into the bowl, ringing into the side like a bell. She could smell the melted wax, not a candle scent, just the paraffin. She wasn't sure if the room was warmer, or if it was only her.
Zach dipped a large ladle into the crock-pot. Quickly and without warning, he brought the dipper up and splashed fiery wax onto her left nipple. It came from high enough so the pain was bearable—until he lowered his hand and made circles around her breast with the stream. Dana tried to shrink into the table to escape the heat as a white spiral was painted up and around, eventually centering on her nipple and she gasped at the sensation of fire enveloping sensitive nerve endings.
There'd been no intense pain yet, just hot and cold, pleasure and discomfort. She felt more alive than she could remember feeling in an extremely long time.
Zach stopped a moment, looking into her eyes and bending down to kiss the tip of her nose before dipping the ladle again and giving her other breast the same treatment.
Next came the green pillar candles, and he drew designs on her stomach and inner thighs—squiggles and spirals and curlicues with dashes and dots linking them, her squeals and moans becoming background music to the dance he was choreographing with the flame and wax.
He moved the large cheval mirror to the base of the bondage table, angling it to give her a good view of her torso and legs—her clit and pussy peeking out from between relaxed lips dotted with wax. Dana's reflexes struggled to pull her knees together at the sight, and she was both frustrated and comforted when her bonds held firm.
She groaned as Zach reached for another piece of ice, her apprehension growing as his tongue snaked around the corners, rounding them, while his eyes dared her to look away.
She tried to withdraw into the table as his hand moved towards her pussy, cold touching the outside of her lips, running up and down the right side a dozen times, then the left. The fingers of his other hand spread her open, giving him room to swirl the ice in circles around her clit.
She sucked air into her lungs, wanting it to stop, needing it to continue—her passions blazed beyond lust and she didn't know what to yearn for. It didn't matter, she was tied down and at his mercy, experiencing only what he chose to give her.
The circling stopped and the cold stayed on the left side for several heartbeats before moving to the right. Freezing it. Right side, left side, right, left. Top.
She screamed, her voice filling the room, spreading out into the darkness. It was too much; she couldn't... the intensity slid away from her clit and into her depths, freezing her inside. Her eyes opened to his hand dipping the ladle, and seconds later hot wax poured onto her clit and she howled in silence as an orgasm claimed her breath as well as her body, rocking her insides since her outsides were bound motionless.
Biting ice was followed by liquid fire, surrounding and encasing. The pain drew her under, taking over her senses, allowing her to sink beneath the soft luxury of it. Her lower body jerked in the bindings, her hands moved the few inches allowed, and her stomach muscles writhed as they battled the enforced immobility. She screamed at the pleasure and torment and overwhelming sensations, the orgasm fighting her restraints as it rolled through her body.
When the room was finally quiet, so all she could hear was the sound of her ragged breathing, she opened her eyes to see Zach standing patiently, watching over her.
"Touch me, please? Hold my hand?"
His gentle strength anchored her, and when he saw her relax, he caressed the skin between her thumb and forefinger. “I love your responsiveness. Are you finished, or would
you like more?"
"More, please, Sir."
She lost track of time as her world became a blur of lava and ice, and a dozen mini orgasms. He encased her nipples and clit, pulled the cooled wax off, and did it again. Her torso reminded her of graffiti, with stripes, dots, and shapes in a myriad of colors. He piled the viscous paraffin, building a wall on the side of her breast, and propped ice on it before surrounding it in molten wax. He did the same at her clit, encasing multiple frozen cubes on either side. He stuffed her pussy with penetrating cold and blocked the entrance with a barricade of heat. Hot and cold became nothing but sensation—the pleasure and pain merging until she couldn't tell the difference.
Dana was floating through the sensations when she felt him breaking large pieces off. He'd done so before only to melt it and pour it on again, swapping crock-pots when necessary. This was different, as she realized he was removing all of it.
The air around her came alive, tickling her senses, moving over and around her skin.
Still drifting, she heard and felt her left wrist cuff being disconnected. She wasn't ready for this to end, didn't want released, but she stayed quiet, waited to see what he'd do next.
She breathed a sigh of relief when he bound her hands to the upper corners of the table. The strap around her upper chest was unfastened, and the towel was no longer under her head, though she didn't remember losing it. He manipulated her like a rag doll, situating her feet just below her ass and binding her into basic missionary position, forcing her knees towards the corners of the room by stretching the rope tight between thigh cuffs and table anchor. For good measure, he ran a wide band around her legs and tied it off to the anchor points, tightening and spreading her even wider, with no hope of pulling her thighs together to protect what lay between. She raised her head and looked down, the sight in the mirror obscene, but she hoped it meant he'd fuck her. Soon.
She saw movement to the side and turned her head as he pushed his boxers down, revealing a beautiful cock rising from blond curls, so hard it probably hurt.
He stood still, letting her look. She shifted her focus to his face and sensed a grim determination in his icy blue eyes. The quiet intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and she broke the silence with, “I want you."
His gaze remained focused, but he finally spoke. “This is new for me, but I find I want to hurt you. I love the sound of your screams, but I can only do so much with wax before I risk burning you."
He finally stepped towards her, but still purposefully didn't touch her. “We agreed to no power exchange, I'm not asking for your submission, but I am asking if I can give you more pain. I want to push you; I need to hear you scream."
Dana's mouth answered for her again. “Okay."
He nodded once and walked to the wall, returning with a short flogger. Her breath caught as he gracefully hoisted himself onto the table with one arm before getting situated between her legs on his knees, his ass on his feet.
Without warning, he swung the flogger and hit her pussy. The strands feeling as if they were slicing into the delicate skin inside, and her legs desperately fought the restraints, attempting to protect the super sensitive nerve endings at the apex of her thighs.
Another strike came, and another. She began screaming. The pain was unbearable, and she couldn't pull her knees together, couldn't use her arms. Without the chest restraint, she thrashed around a great deal, but couldn't avoid the blows. They kept coming, one every three or four seconds—too soon for her to manage the pain, and it started to build on itself. He picked up the pace, striking every two or three seconds, his arm raising and lowering, raising and lowering.
"Ottoman!"
He redirected in mid-swing, striking his own leg to avoid hitting her again. She saw him wince, but didn't feel the least bit guilty.
Blue eyes met hers as he ran his hand through her folds, her hips trying to follow as he lifted it, his fingers glistening wet. He kneeled up, allowing her to watch him roll on a condom before sitting back on his feet.
"I'd like to give you ten more strokes on your pussy—ten strokes you can't safeword out of—and then I want to fuck you. Do you agree?"
She almost came from his words. She wasn't sure she could handle ten more strikes, was positive it was a bad idea, but wasn't capable of saying no at that moment. She nodded her head in agreement and he smoothed the condom again before reaching for the flogger.
The blows began without warning.
There was no time between them; they just rained down on her pussy, on her clit—the thin rubber strands biting into her. She screamed and thrashed like an animal trying to escape the brutality.
And then it stopped and Zach was above her, entering her. She was wet, ready for him, but his entrance was an invasion as he drove into her and began thrusting, stealing her breath as he plunged. His eyes reflected barely contained violence, a raging storm, and her orgasm engulfed her, his fierce gaze never leaving hers as she came under him, their passion a tangible thing that took her breath away as her body jerked and reacted to his.
He fucked her through the climax, not letting up, maintaining an almost inhuman pace as his hips savagely rammed into her and his eyes stayed locked onto hers.
One zenith receded and another took its place, rocking her, sustaining her through the bestial fucking. When at last he came, he did so with a roar, pushing into her with his back arched and his face aimed towards the ceiling as he froze and filled the condom, his cock jerking inside of her as he remained perfectly still, frozen in time.
His first words when his orgasm faded were, “Are you okay?” Genuine concern reflected in his face.
She nodded, realized he needed more. “I'm great, Zach. Thank you, that was... thank you."
He unhooked her wrists and sat back on his knees to release her ankles and thighs. Looking up, eyes meeting hers again, he leaned over her as if he were doing a push-up and stopped halfway, keeping his weight off her.
His lips touched hers and emotion poured through the connection. She shyly reached up with her hands, caressing his face as he kissed her with a gentle passion that made her want to cry.
He kissed her breathless again before rolling sideways, landing beside her with his right leg curled over her hips, head propped on his hand. “I assume from all those orgasms it was good for you?"
She grinned, totally sated, and moaned her agreement. “Good might be an understatement."
His face turned serious. “We should've talked about safewords more before I asked you to give it up for me. Even for ten strokes... but in the heat of the moment..."
She sighed. “Yes, probably, but don't beat yourself up. We'll talk about it later, but please, not now. I want to float."
Dana relaxed into his arms, drifting in and out of sleep until Zach carried her to the playroom bed, cradled like a small child. He removed the hardware from her body, and insisted she drink a glass of water before he let her fall asleep.
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Chapter Five
* * * *
Dana woke to the smell of food the next morning, a vanilla and cinnamon scent tickling her consciousness, waking her with the promise of something good.
She heard footsteps and opened her eyes to Zach setting a platter on a side-table. She sat up, smiling as he pushed pillows behind her, kissing her on the forehead before he stood and pulled a tray from behind the bed, opening the legs and situating it over her lap.
A plate of waffles was placed in front of her, the pat of butter still in the process of melting. He arranged her milk and silverware before retrieving another tray with a flourish that made her laugh.
"This smells wonderful.” She took a bite and moaned at the blend of cinnamon and vanilla. She'd never eat cinnamon again without thinking of Zach.
He gingerly got into bed and pulled his tray over his lap. “I love your noises, which I assume to mean you approve. You can't buy frozen waffles with the perfect balance of cinnamon and vanilla, so I had to exp
eriment until I figured it out. I'm not a cook, but this recipe is hard to mess up, and my waffle iron is smarter than most—just heat it up and set the timer."
Dana wasn't in the mood for small talk. She had an appointment with a client in four hours and wanted a conversation with Zach before she left. “Tell me your thoughts on safewords."
Zach looked uncomfortable as he reached for his milk, taking a drink before answering. “Bethany didn't have one. We got a lot of grief from our friends in the scene, but she was so submissive I don't think she'd have used it, and not giving her an escape clause made me more mindful and attentive. I couldn't assuage my culpability by telling myself she'd safeword if it was more than she could handle. I was fully responsible for stopping or slowing down, which I was quick to do if I thought she was having too much trouble."
"If she'd tried to stop something, how would you've handled it?"
"If she'd withdrawn her submission I'd have released her immediately. I had her obeisance because she surrendered it to me, not because I took it."
"She stopped a punishment once.” He sighed, giving a sad smile. “She'd lied about something substantial, and for one month nothing that went into her mouth was to be palatable. She had nourishment, but it was, for example, boiled cabbage and refried beans with mangos in them. Or it was food she liked, that looked good, but with an ingredient missing; like brownies with no sugar. I also put hot sauce in a few things—not so much she couldn't stand it—just enough to be uncomfortable. Shaved ginger gives similar results without the risk of burns, so I used it more frequently."
He ran his hands through his hair, agitated. “For the first couple of days she was restrained by a twelve foot chain attaching her collar to the base of the cross in the playroom. There were no padded pieces of equipment to lie or sit on within reach, and I allowed a throw rug and blanket after the first night. I released her after three or four days, but locked her bondage mitts on, so she didn't have use of her hands but could move freely around in the house as long as there were no doors to open. Since she couldn't wipe, I closed all of the bathroom doors so she'd have to ask permission. I wanted to make sure I was there to clean her up afterward."
Safeword: Davenport Page 4