Page 56 of Salt Kiss
More comes, dripping down to my balls now and then splashed onto the backs of my thighs and knees and even on the soles of my feet. Flashes of searing heat, followed by unbearable surges of arousal. The cooled wax on my skin adds to it all, layers of sensation, cool and warm andso fucking hot. At some point I’m up on my elbows, my head hanging down and my ass lifting mindlessly in the air as he drips all over me.
Mark is laughing at me.Little wax tart, he says, his voice a little cruel and a little affectionate too.Look at you. Look at you.
When I think I can’t bear it without touching myself any longer, he makes it worse. He orders me to roll over, and now I’m allowed to look, and so I see as he alternates a turquoise candle and a gold one to create a beautiful play of colors on my skin. I see as he drips the wax up the line running from my navel to my sternum, as he drizzles it along my belly and chest.
He splashes burning wax on my nipple, waiting for me to settle down after each splash before he does it again and again, until both nipples are tingling with agony and my erection is a dark red bar hovering above my stomach.
And then he sets the still-burning candles in their holders, steps back, and looks at me. The room is lit by wall sconces and the tiny, flickering candles, and his eyes are blacker than the devil’s when he rakes his eyes over my spattered flesh. He runs a possessive hand over me, from the wax-bitten soles of my feet to my navel to my throat, his palm lingering there while he bends over and licks my lower lip.
“Open,” he murmurs, and I open for him because I will always open for him. His tongue seeks mine, rubbing against it, tasting it, and then he proceeds to map the rest of my mouth in a deep, exploratory kiss. Like for all the times he’s kissed me since Morois House, he’s never kissed me while I’m covered in wax, and so he has to commit it to memory.
I hope it’s a good memory because I’m trembling underneath him, burning alive inside my own skin. I don’t know that I’ve ever been this aroused, with every single part of me prickling and tingling and hungry for more, and the flames are still dancing and he tastes of pepper and citrus and spice, and I’m so hard—I’m so, so hard.
“You’ve been very patient, letting me play with you,” he says against my mouth. He moves his hand from my throat, and I hear the click of a bottle. And then oil, sweet and slippery, drizzles all over my cock.
It jerks up in response, from nothing more than that, and Mark pulls his mouth away from mine with a fierce oath, like it’s my fault that he’d rather keep kissing me than carry on with his scene. My mouth is wet when he straightens, clicks the bottle shut, and then gives me a series of hard, vicious strokes that has my back bowing off the table.
“Oh God, I’m—”
Mark’s hand has already moved away from me, and I have to bite back a series of choice words for him as my orgasm freezes right on the edge.
“If you can come from this, then you can come,” he offers, which is one of his favorite games to play, and one which he always wins.
Maybe I win too, depending on how I look at it, but it doesn’t feel that way as he lifts the gold candle and moves it over my hips. The first bite of fear, the first real flicker ofoh fuck, I don’t know, dances through me like the small flame currently guttering above my hips, inconstant and distracting.
Hazel. I’ve never had to say it, I’ve never wanted to, but I don’t know if I can handle hot waxthere—
I realize that the long pause, the drawn-out drama of the moment, is so I can say my safeword. He’s watching me and not the candle, waiting for me to speak. And if the wax dripped now, it would drip on my upper thigh, nowhere too painful. Oddly, knowing it would be that easy to stop him, makes me not want to stop him at all. Makes me want to see how far I can go for him. For me.
“Please,” I say. “Please.”
He licks his lip, the knot of his throat moving up and then down, and then I fully appreciate how much he wants this too. There’s a subtle hitch to his breath as he looks back at my oiled cock, a hectic thudding of his pulse at the side of his neck. An obscene tent in his trousers.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me, right before he tilts his hand and the wax lands on my skin.
I nearly scream, my back coming off the table, the air driven out of my lungs. The wax landed right on the tip, a sear of pure, undiluted pain, and is now dripping down the length of my shaft, its progress eased by the oil.
The pain is gone almost the minute it starts, but the after-effects—my pounding heart, my rigid muscles—linger even as the wax cools. I slump back on the table, my eyes going to Mark in some kind of plea. Again, the candle spends a long moment over my upper thigh, the wax slowly spilling down Mark’s hand instead of on my skin.
But the lingering heat, the hardening wax...it’s no longer anything like pain. It’s like being touched. Being stroked.
My skin tingles everywhere, still aware, buzzing and receptive to every tickle of cool air. And impossibly, I don’t even know how, don’t ask me to explain it, my dick is jerking up for more abuse, so swollen it feels like the skin itself might split.
“More,” I croak, and Mark smiles.
“More,” he agrees, and there’s another splash of burning wax, this time on the root of my shaft, dripping down my scrotum.
Again, I buck, squirming away from it, squirming toward it, and then still with that devil’s smile, Mark tilts the candle a final time.
It lands just below the head, on the soft skin of my frenulum, and this time, Idoscream. The pain punches right through me, right through my little fears and cravings and secret miseries and untold hopes, and claws something vital and primal right back out.
Even as my scream leaves my throat, my testicles draw all the way up, my thighs clench, and I’m fucking up into the cool air, the hard wax pulling at my crown and my shaft, and then I’m contracting, surging, ejaculating, high and thick jets that land on oil and wax, and I’m still screaming, I think, or something like it, still mindlessly fucking the air, feral as a trapped animal.
The pleasure tearing through me is painfully perfect, barbaric in its bluntness and yet exquisite in its unending torment. It goes on and on, built and layered on itself like the wax on my body, pump after pump of my hips in the air and the semen splattering on my stomach and chest.
Until finally,finally, it slowly ends, my body empty, my mind dazed.
I stare at the blurry dance of the candles’ flames, unable to form a single word.
