Right Message, Wrong Man

by Annabeth Leong

  I’d dressed like a slut because I thought he’d like that. I was sticky between my thighs even before he let me in, just from fantasizing on the bus ride over. He made it sound like a threat, but the idea of him hurting me to my limit exhilarated me.

  But I didn’t see what he thought of my outfit, because he barely gave me a chance to breathe. The moment he opened the door, he swept me into a head lock and jerked me into his apartment. The door slammed shut behind me, and Jaron lifted me over his shoulder and carried me to the bedroom. A few seconds later, he dropped me onto his bed, which he’d covered with a clear plastic shower curtain liner.

  “I’m not going to tie you because part of your job is to beg me to hurt you. I don’t care if you like what I’m doing. You move toward me, not away. Never away. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take off your clothes, then, slut.”

  My throat clenched as I stripped for him. I tried to look sexy doing it, rubbing my nipples and sticking out my ass, but I was too excited to concentrate on it. I dropped my clothes on the floor beside the bed and turned onto my back. My body quivered so much from the anticipation that my teeth chattered.

  Jaron stood at the foot of the bed holding a thick candle with three burning wicks. “Pick up your panties and shove them in your mouth. I don’t want you screaming so much that someone calls the police.”

  I obeyed. I really had been turned on—I tasted the tang of my cunt soaked into the fabric of my panties.

  “People think of candle wax as this sensual, erotic thing,” Jaron said conversationally. “But different wax burns at different temperatures. This isn’t going to give you burns that need medical attention, but it’s nothing you would buy in a couple’s kit.”

  Before I could respond in any way, he tipped the candle over and dumped the wax onto the tops of my feet. If not for the panties in my mouth, I would have brought down the roof. As it was, I still wasn’t sure the police wouldn’t get a call.

  It felt like liquid fire, and it molded instantly to my skin, making it impossible to escape the burning. I kicked helplessly, trying to writhe away from a sensation that was soaking ever deeper into my skin. “Just think about what that’s going to feel like when I pour it on those shaved cunt lips, slut.”

  I couldn’t help it. I spat out the panties. “No. Jesus, please. No.”

  “Put the panties back in your mouth now,” he ordered. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware of having a safe word, but primal panic made it hard to think straight. I tried to crawl away, up toward the head of the bed.

  “Do you want me to pour it on your pussy right now? What did I tell you about moving toward me?”

  “Toward you, not away,” I gasped, still scrabbling desperately at the shower curtain liner. For a second, I had hoped the pain on my feet would ease as the wax dried, but so far the wax only seemed to seal in the molten sensation.

  “Then get on your back again, lift your chest up toward me, and beg me to pour some more wax on you. You tell me where.”

  Why had this seemed like a good idea? All my revelations about being a masochist seemed like the stupidest train of thought I’d ever had. All I wanted was to stop the pain. How could I beg for more of it?

  “Now, slut.”

  I responded to the note of command in his voice despite having a brain full of animal instincts. I rolled onto my back, still shaking my feet as if the pain might fall off if I moved them right. With a deep breath, I stuck out my chest. “Please, pour some more wax on me.”

  “Are you going to scream when I do that, whore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wrong answer. Since you spit the panties out, you don’t get to scream anymore. You’re just going to have to stay quiet. Now where am I pouring this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The cunt, then.”

  “No. Oh God, please, not there.”

  “You’d better tell me where, then.”

  I hesitated. Nowhere I could think of seemed like a good place to have wax poured on me. The candle moved toward my cunt, and my desperation prompted words to explode from me. “My stomach! Please! Just not my cunt!”

  “Stomach,” Jaron smirked.

  “Is that wrong?”

  “Too late now, isn’t it?”

  It was wrong. I’d had no idea how soft and sensitive my stomach was until the wax hit it, first in a few searing drips, then in an inexorable stream of pain. I shoved my fist into my mouth and chewed it, sweating and shaking at the effort it took to stay in place.

  “Good girl. You’re starting to cross over.”

  He was right, though he’d had to point it out to me. I could feel my wires crossing. My stomach screamed with pain, but I also wanted him to do it again, just a little more.

  “My breasts next, please, sir.” I regretted the words the instant they crossed my lips, but had no way to unsay them.

  Jaron stroked my head, obviously pleased. “That’s what I want. Good. Let me give you your panties back.” He stuffed them into my mouth, gentler than I expected. I relaxed a little as he ran a finger over my cheek, but just a moment later, my entire body strained and tensed as wax poured onto my nipples and heat soaked into my breasts. I bit down on the panties until my jaw ached, and screamed through my clenched teeth.

  My head shook back and forth. My only thought was the word, No.

  “I can’t give you a rest, slut, because the candle burns really fast with all these wicks. Spread your legs.”

  I whimpered. Jaron’s free hand moved to my thighs to help me spread them, and I tried to bat his hand away. “Toward, not away,” he said sharply, and I groaned and slid my hands under my ass to keep them out of the way. It took every ounce of willpower I had to spread my legs apart and lift my vulnerable cunt toward him. Tears trembled in my eyes as I forced my legs to stay in place, despite the constant, twitching urge to snap them shut.

  Jaron met my eyes, grinning more broadly now than I had seen. “You look so beautiful like that, Lila, giving yourself to me, crying for me. This is what I wanted. I’m going to fuck you as soon as I pour wax all over your pretty clit, then you’re going to be mine. Do you want that?”

  The tears began to fall as I nodded, my thighs quivering from the strain of locking them open. Jaron kissed my forehead quickly, then tilted the candle.

  One drip of white-hot wax on my mons and I had changed my mind about pain again. Everything about me went blank. I felt nothing, thought nothing, and was nothing except the excruciating trail of wax, leading to my outer lips, then falling faster and more heavily as it approached my clit. By then, I couldn’t have moved even if I’d decided to. Panic froze me more completely in place than will ever could. A drop of sweat rolled from my armpit and down to the shower curtain liner with an audible plop.

  “Yes,” Jaron whispered, and I could do nothing but scream as liquid fire sought out my clit with an unerring precision that no lover had ever possessed. It stabbed into my pelvis and would not relent. I wound my fingers into my hair and pulled to distract in any way from the blistering pain spreading all over my cunt.

  It was horrible, but it wasn’t bad. Because now my clit felt enormous, five times its normal size and throbbing, and I felt that a single touch would make me come.

  Dimly, I heard Jaron blow out the candle, unzip, tear a condom package open, but, lost in a white world of pain, I couldn’t respond in any sensible way. “You’re soaking wet, slut,” he said.

  I let the panties fall from my mouth again. “Please, I need you. Do anything you want to me.”

  “Oh, I will, Lila. I will.” Jaron thrust his cock into me and began to fuck the breath right out of my lungs. I thought my clit hurt from the wax, but that was nothing compared to the way it felt when his pelvis crashed against that sore, sensitive, still-heated flesh.

  Trapped in the backwards, contradictory state that the pain had created in me, I continued to move toward Jaron, lifting my hips, fucking him back as
hard as he fucked me. Wax flaked everywhere from my stiff, reddened skin. Jaron’s fucking made me come, and that hurt, too. I moaned brokenly as the orgasm bit down deep.

  Then I surprised us both by reaching up to Jaron and pulling him down into the sweetest, most romantic kiss I’d ever given anyone.

  Cool washcloths and lotion and water and air blown softly and shiveringly over all my aching parts. His hands and his lips, and one gentle kiss on the tip of my clit. I wasn’t coherent for most of it, cocooned in the confused pleasure of the intense pain he had inflicted.

  Eventually, he settled on the bed beside me and took me in his arms, and touching his skin made me desperate to fuck him again. I rested against him more completely than I had in months, and all the misery he’d put me through—both that night and in our time working together—made a simple sort of sense. This perfection only existed on the other side of all that misery, and only Jaron could push me hard enough to make me dive into that misery and swim through. I nestled my head under his chin.

  “Please don’t fire me,” I murmured.

  “I’m not going to fire you. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

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  About the Author

  Annabeth Leong found relief in erotica. Reading others’ stories opened up a world of freedom and exploration. Writing it increased the thrill. Since her first published story in 2009, she has written for anthologies by Cleis Press, Ravenous Romance, Coming Together, and Circlet. Her work has appeared online at Every Night Erotica and Oysters and Chocolate. She is pleased to participate in Forbidden Fiction’s Special Collections. Besides freedom of speech, Annabeth loves shoes, stockings, cooking, and attending concerts—probably in that order. She lives in Providence, Rhode Island.

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