“What—” And then a small stream of plops, light and brief, not painful at all for the first split second, then shockingly warm. The smell of burning wax reached me, and I realized what the plops were. “Oh fuck . . .”
I wanted to protest, but my muscles, even those of my vocal chords, locked up. The next drizzle was still light, but denser, hotter. The one after that was even more so, approaching the point of discomfort. The hotter they were when they landed, the longer they took to harden and cool, and the more painful they were.
“How does that feel?” Robin murmured, gently peeling up one of the early lines, which came off my skin easily thanks to the olive oil.
“How do you think it fucking feels?” I grated. “It’s fucking burning.”
“Not quite. If it were actually burning, you’d be yelling a lot more, not just gasping.”
The next time the wax fell on my skin, it wasn’t in a cluster of small drips, but in an actual stream—small, but thicker and heavier than before, and far hotter.
“Oh God!” I groaned, writhing as I waited for the layer on my back to cool and congeal. The wriggling moved the stainless-steel dildo in my ass, rubbing the cold ridges against my prostate, and then I groaned for another reason entirely. My nerves, still frayed from that session with the plug and from the ice skating across my skin, were approaching the point of overload. I was having trouble making sense of what was hot and what was cold, what hurt and what felt good. “I don’t think I can—”
“You can.” Robin’s lips tugged at my earlobe, his voice dipping to a sexy murmur. “You want this, because you need to know if you can take it. If you can’t endure this, how will you ever endure that whipping you want so badly, the one that makes you bleed?”
I shuddered and humped the bed, immediately caught up in the fantasy that had thrilled me time and again, imagining small lines of fire streaking down my back, slicing me open with shallow little cuts from which my defective blood would well and trickle. Robin took the opportunity to fuck me in slow, shallow strokes with the dildo, the ridges bumping back and forth through my twitching ring of muscle. Beginning to warm up now, it just felt good, and I lost myself in it, in the delicious fullness and pressure, the easy glide of those bumps.
“Fuck . . . Fuck, Robin . . .”
He tutted. “I didn’t give you permission to call me by name, whore.” He drew the dildo out abruptly. When it came back, it was freezing cold again, and thicker than before.
“There are two ends to it,” Robin explained. “This one is fatter. Fucking huge, really. The size of cocks we usually only see in porn films and on the exceptionally gifted.”
I wanted to make a quip about his own attributes, which were by no means insubstantial, but my brain had given up language as a losing proposition. He stuffed that fat dildo in me, filling me so full I thought I might burst with it and freezing me all over again. While I was gasping and groaning, trying to adapt to the new intensity, he poured another dense stream of wax down my shoulder.
“Jesus!” I yelped, bucking and twisting, which only made the presence of the steel sheathed in my ass all the more intense. The wax wasn’t cooling, didn’t feel like it would ever cool. It just sat, massed on my skin, hot and heavy, condensing. “Jesus, fuck!”
No sooner had it begun to cool than there was another, and another. Each time he seemed to pour more wax, or the wax itself seemed hotter, and I couldn’t figure why it was getting hotter—
“I’m moving the candle closer to your skin,” Robin answered, cluing me in to the fact that I’d gasped the question aloud. “The less time it has to travel through the air, the hotter it is when it arrives. Just how much will it take to make you scream, I wonder?”
“Please. God, please!” I didn’t really know what I was begging for, but it didn’t seem to matter, because Robin poured another stream of wax down my spine.
“You’re to address me as ‘sir.’”
“Please, sir! Take it off . . . Please . . .” No matter how I squirmed and wriggled, I couldn’t seem to shake that line free. Worse, my movements made it spread, reaching across my skin in hot tendrils. It burned. He had to be burning me now . . .
“No.” His voice was calm, implacable, and he did it again, moving to my as-yet-untouched lower back.
Moans turned to whimpers. Whimpers turned to quiet, keening wails. And the wails rapidly escalated to yells.
“I knew I could make you scream.” By now it felt like my whole back had been burned, intense and persistent in some spots and slowly receding in others. Still he refused to relent, going back over territory he’d already seared, from which he’d peeled the wax away, and adding hotter, thicker rivulets. I danced against the surface of the bed with each new, scalding puddle that splashed onto my skin, and every motion stirred the dildo, over and over. I was rapidly approaching the point of insensibility.
“You look so fucking good, moving like that. And you sound even better.” I could only imagine the words were meant to be encouragement. I trembled, limp and panting, waiting for the next assault on my nerve endings. But Robin merely drew the dildo out of my ass.
“If I had more time, I’d have you shave your ass and balls and thighs, and pour wax over them too. Ah well. Maybe another night. Roll over.”
No sooner had I obeyed than there was ice again. The runoff pooled in my navel, chilling me until I was flaccid. Robin took me in his cool, wet hands and stroked me to fullness. That was better. I could cope with that. I moaned, sinking back into the bed and letting myself enjoy it.
Which was, of course, when he grabbed another ice cube and wrapped the hand holding it around the end of my dick, pressing it against my frenulum. I howled again and nearly came off the bed, shouting for him to Stop, stop, take it away, please God, take it away.
When he wiped off the water and started to massage olive oil over my chest and stomach, I began begging in earnest.
“Fuck . . . Oh, fuck no. Not the wax. Not there. Jesus, please . . .”
I checked out. Disconnected. Felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. Everything hurt, but it didn’t seem to touch me, except to leave me strangely euphoric. Not like when my joints hurt at all. The fresh clumps of wax on the sensitive skin of my belly still scalded, and I could hear myself moaning and wailing, begging for mercy, but it felt like the words were coming from another person, one who didn’t really matter because I was somewhere else.
There were no more streams, and his fingers were working more lube into me. I heard the sound of a condom being rolled on, and then he pushed my knees up and apart, and slid easily into my ass.
“Fuck.” He panted, shuddering. “Even after all that, you’re tighter than you were yesterday.”
The cold and the pain had tightened me. With my muscles no longer numb from that freezing steel dildo, and sore from all the stretching, I felt every goddamned inch of him working in and out, rocking, pushing up against my prostate as he angled for the sweet spot.
I began to beg for something else entirely, for Robin to fuck me harder, to keep going. He obliged, releasing my knees and letting me hook them over his hips, my ankles riding his ass. But then there was another piece of ice, again chilling my nipples to hard, painful points. I cried out, clamping down on him, and he growled in response.
“Fuck, yeah, that’s it. Squeeze harder, bitch. I wanna feel like mine’s the only cock you’ve ever taken.”
The ice cube melted, and I relaxed. He stroked in and out, pumping his hand up and down my dick until I was hard again and the skin of his fingers and palm had lost their chill. Then he went still. His hand disappeared, and my entire world ignited as he poured a thick layer of wax directly on one of my cold, diamond-hard nipples.
I screamed. There was no other word for it. It was too sharp and shrill to be a yell or a bellow. I screamed like he’d touched my nub with the burning end of a hot cigar, not merely a heavy glob of wax. It burned and burned and burned, and I felt like it was incinerating me.
>
He began to thrust again. My entire body clenched and shuddered, and he had to work harder to move his dick in and out of my ass, forcing me loose again. The cycle started all over on the other side, and my screams got even louder, shriller, mingled with incoherent babbles that could have been absolutely anything, from desperate pleas for him to stop to prayers for divine intervention.
He plowed into me, ruthless, unyielding, no matter how hard I clamped around him, no matter how powerfully I shuddered. It took so long for that wax to cool; surely my skin would be blistered.
He gripped my dick and jerked me again. “Come for me, bitch. Come now, or I swear to fucking God I’ll pour the rest of the wax right on your fucking cock.”
I wailed, and for a terrified eternity it didn’t seem like I could come. There had been too much hurt, too much cold, too many times when I’d been aroused and then pulled back. I was tired, fucking exhausted, my nerves jagged, and how was I supposed to come like that when I felt like the last of my energy was being spent keeping myself open to him?
I strained and struggled while he stroked my cock, sliding the skin back and forth with frightening strength and speed.
Then his hand was gone, and I sobbed again, knowing what was coming, trying to reach for my cock to finish myself off so he wouldn’t do it. But he slapped my hand away, and something searing touched my dick.
I shrieked and erupted, coming in agonizing bursts, my body locking up with each spasm as it surged through me from my balls outward. I couldn’t even feel the cum that splattered onto my chest over the layer of wax.
I came back to find myself whimpering and moaning. Robin’s wet hand peeled the blindfold off my eyes and his lips were on mine, kissing me even though I was unresponsive, too overloaded to return it.
“It’s okay. Shh. I’ve got you.”
“My dick!” I gasped when that first stunned moment had passed. I was too horrified to be angry, though I wanted the accusation to carry more weight than my helpless, boneless state would allow. “You poured wax on my dick.”
“Shh, no, I didn’t.” He kissed me again. “I promise, I didn’t. It was ice. Just ice. Your mind tricked you into thinking it was wax.”
My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment even the flickering light of the candles seemed too glaring. Blinking in disbelief, I realized he was telling the truth. There was no heat on my cock from still-cooling wax, only a residual chilly numbness and a sensitivity so keen that even the weight of his body resting on mine was agony.
It took every last bit of fortitude I had not to whimper. I trembled beneath him as he pressed gentle kisses all over my face.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. Shh. You’re okay.”
I was okay. He’d run me through the wringer, fucking my mind as thoroughly as my body. My skin was too big, too alive, every nerve aflame. My hips and knees were aching from being spread and wrapped around him . . .
My hips and knees. I did a quick mental inventory and realized nothing was damaged.
It felt like it had been hours, eons, since I thought about my hemophilia. Not since he brought out the knife. After that, I’d stopped thinking about anything at all. All I’d done was feel.
God, had I felt. Pain and panic and pleasure—but not worry. Never worry.
My shaking grew stronger at the thought, though I had no idea why.
Robin drew back and put his fingertips under my chin, compelling me to meet his eyes. “Okay?”
“Sure,” I said readily, eagerly, nodding like a bobblehead.
Then I burst into tears.
Robin
Geoff was flying, and he wasn’t coming down anytime soon. Which thrilled me. I’d delivered exactly what he needed, if his teary babbling was any indication. I loved listening to it, loved knowing I’d given him the experience he’d been yearning for probably since he hit sexual maturity.
I basked in it, held him while he lay there, half-insensible. His tears had subsided, but he was still having a hard time making his body and brain connect again. I made him drink several times from the bottle of water I’d placed beside the bed, and he guzzled it as though its cool moisture was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.
I was buzzed myself, drained and yet high from launching him into subspace and taking care of him in the aftermath. God, I’d missed this feeling. I’d known topping him was going to be a hell of a ride, but holy fuck we had some amazing chemistry in a scene. The connection I’d felt with him all evening, the way our energy had fed off one another, was just intense.
So different from that last year with Kyle, when all our scenes had ended with me feeling like I couldn’t give him what he needed. That, or with anger because I wouldn’t give him what he demanded.
When Geoff finally settled again, a dreamy smile on his face, I picked up the knife. Instantly, his gaze sharpened, and he gave me a questioning look.
“I’d suggest you keep very, very still,” I said gently, and with complete confidence. I was getting tired, but I needed to keep him in that place where he knew, no matter what I did, he was safe in my hands.
“Oh, God, no,” Geoff whispered, quivering.
“Shh.” I brushed a kiss over his lips. “Just let it go. It’s all on me now.”
The knife had been a really big gamble. We hadn’t negotiated something that edgy, and normally I wouldn’t have introduced it without a discussion first. But I’d spent all day trying to figure out ways of giving him the sense of being forced that he wanted, without resorting to manhandling him into compliance in ways that might be injurious. The knife was what I’d settled on.
There was psychological currency in using something that would specifically speak to the part of him that had such a . . . complicated . . . relationship with the concept of bleeding.
Which was what I wanted to investigate now that he was returning from orbit.
“How do you feel, knowing I’ve got a knife against your skin?” I asked mildly as I laid the flat of the knife flush against his skin and began to carefully pry the hardened globs of wax up. Once the edges were loosened, they often came up easily, courtesy of the oil. Thankfully, he had no chest hair to speak of.
I saw him come to the gradual realization that he was still safe, even with that knife scrape-scrape-scraping at his skin. The fretful expression that had crept in was replaced slowly by bliss, and he sank back into the mattress like all his bones had melted.
“I asked you a question, Geoff.” I didn’t want him checking out entirely again.
His pale lashes fluttered as he licked his lips and frowned. I was sure he was going to ask me to repeat the inquiry, but finally he murmured, “Strange. Afraid. Contradictory.”
I peeled a long stream off his abs, which twitched as the wax caught the fine, tiny hairs close to his navel. “Want to elaborate for me?”
“I know—” He swallowed and started again. “I know you won’t cut me. And I know if you do, it’ll be something minor. I’m infused, so it won’t be a problem. But—”
“But your lizard brain is still telling you you’re in danger of bleeding, and for you, the idea of bleeding has all sorts of baggage attached?”
He nodded slowly, licking his lips again.
“But that video you sent me. That sub bled. You want that.”
His lips curved. “People want to jump off bridges with just a bouncy cord keeping them from going splat. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t scare the piss out of them. Oh!”
I was below his navel now, where the hair was getting a bit denser. His startled exclamation was followed by a hiss, and something evil inside me loved that sound. I yanked the next blob of wax harder, grinning at him, and he whimpered and moaned, and his eyes started to look less focused again.
His skin twitched reflexively when the blade touched his groin next. He tensed, bracing himself for the next pull.
The nick was accidental, a minuscule zig when I should have zagged.
I wasn’t going to let him know that. I’d be
damned if I let alarm and fear ruin this for him. I saw the nick register, saw his eyes fly open, but I didn’t react. I gathered up a bead of his blood on my fingertip and held it up for him to see.
“And now you’ve bled for me.” I kept my voice level, confident. He’d said he was infused and that minor cuts were no big deal, so that’s how I was going to handle it.
The expression that he rewarded me with was sublime. He stared at that crimson drop, transfixed, and it was like he’d never seen it before. In this context, as something he didn’t need to worry about, it was new.
I brought my finger to his lips, and his tongue snaked out to flick the bead away. He closed his eyes, and his hips bucked. His cock filled quickly, and he gave me a look of raw need. What was it about him that made me powerless not to respond?
I closed the knife with a snap and tossed it aside. Then I rolled him over, and my fingers were in his ass again, parting him. I hadn’t come yet, though I wasn’t sure he had realized that until now. I was still hard, sheathed in the condom, but I’d stopped fucking him so he could recover from that first orgasm.
He was going to feel fucking incredible around my dick. My nuts were pulled up so tight, so very close to climax, that just about anything could have pushed me over. He shifted restlessly, trying to urge me to do more, and that was no good. I wrapped my hand around his throat again.
“Don’t even think you call the shots here.” I nipped his earlobe firmly enough to be sure I’d leave a bruise. He moaned softly. I sawed my fingers in and out, fucking him harder, faster. “I’ve got the knife. I’ve got the hand on your throat.” I tightened my grasp minutely to emphasize that point. “I’ve got my fingers shoved up your ass, and if you even think of fighting, I will make you very sorry. This is my show. I’ve got the control, and you’re going to do exactly what you’re told.”
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