Page 108 of Not Safe For Work

“Do you want me to remove it completely?”

“No. No, this is…” He rocked back and forth just slightly, still fucking himself on the stationary toy. “Is good.”

“We can stop if—”

“Please don’t stop.”

I picked up the ladle again. “Tell me your safe word.”

“Red.”

“And you’re not using it now?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled. The tension in his muscles—what wasn’t hidden beneath the layer of wax—started to ease.

So I poured some more on and let his whimpers give me goose bumps all over again.

As much as I enjoyed the exhibitionist aspect of clubs like the one we’d tried to attend, there was something to be said for having him like this. Alone, contained within one room with the rest of the world locked outside. In here, every cry, every whispered curse, every catch of his breath, was for me and me alone to hear.

After a while, a thick layer had formed on top of his back and shoulders. I put the ladle back in the pot and, with a butter knife that was deliberately kept cold, scraped the wax off his skin. He gasped and twitched beneath the cold metal, and swore when the wax grabbed an errant hair.

“Just be glad I’m doing this on your back.” I laughed. “Maybe if I ever want to punish you, I should put wax on your chest.”

A strangled sound escaped his lips.

“Relax.” I peeled another piece of wax off the groove of his spine. “You’d have to fuck up pretty hard for me to wax your chest.”

“That’s—damn it!—encouraging.”

I laughed. “It’ll teach you to behave, won’t it?”

He wisely didn’t even try to mutter anything under his breath.

I removed the last piece of wax, and I ran my hand over his newly exposed flesh. “There. Now I can start all over again.”

“Oh fuck.” He released a heavy sigh.

“You want me to stop?”

“No. Just…” He rolled his shoulders as much as his position allowed. “It’s intense.”

“As it should be.” I dipped the ladle again. “It’s supposed to be.” The wax hit just below his shoulder blade, and the throaty cry he released damn near made me come right then and there. I poured more on. He whimpered. Fuck yes.

I drew lines all over his back. Swirls. Switchbacks. Sometimes he hissed, sometimes he just recoiled. Other times, his muscles twitched, but he moaned so quietly it was barely audible. By the time I’d covered his back in wax again, his skin was gleaming with sweat, and the ends of his hair were damp and curling.

I put the ladle back in the pot, and this time, left it there. Touching his shoulder, I said, “You did well. Did you enjoy it?”

“Intense,” he murmured. “Yeah.”

I smiled and squeezed his shoulder. He may not have been a masochist per se, but he was no wimp.

I shut off the Crock-Pot and started removing the wax from his skin again. This time, he barely responded. The occasional soft moan, but that was it. He was probably floating on a cloud of endorphins right then. Maybe not all the way into subspace, but damned close.

I carefully slid the toy free, and he moaned, letting his head fall forward.