Sunset. It's not late yet. After dinner. After drinks. Our guests are tired, we are not. They're asleep in the next room. She finally stops singing and puts down her guitar. It always makes me want to take her and throw her to the bed when she plays. Sometimes the urge overwhelms me. She knows it, and so my wrists are lashed to the bedposts.
“I want to get some work done.” she'd said.
The belts are making my wrists are a little sore now, but it feels good. It tests my patience.
As she finishes writing down the last of the lyrics, she puts her pen back carefully and caps her inkwell. I love that she writes with a pen. I love how the paper soaks up the black of the ink. I love that she won't use a regular spiral notebook because her ink bleeds. I love everything she does.
She turns the lamp down and slides open a drawer in her desk to remove a long match. She strikes it. The phosphorus flashes bright for a moment and, turning toward me, exhibiting her body she watches the flame calm down and start to burn normally.
The smell of sulfur and woodsmoke drifts toward me and I close my eyes, inhaling sharply and taking in the scent. When I open them again, she's taken a candle from the corner of her desk and moves the already black wick to the burning tip of the matchstick and it ignites slowly. Once the wax has started to melt, she puts the end of the match in a glass of water, so it won't fill the room with sulphur. A little is good, too much though, and we wouldn't be able to smell each other. She climbs onto the large bed and walks on her knees toward me until my legs are pressed together between hers.
The muscles of my abdomen tense as she tilts the candle in the air. I know what's coming, but she doesn't let it drip yet. 'What are you waiting for?' I think to myself. She doesn't steepen the angle. She just stares at me intently. In a moment, she looks down from my eyes to my stomach and I understand. The candle has to burn down, and then I get the fire she's promised me to. A minute goes by. Two. Seconds more...
I lose track of the moments, looking into her eyes until a single drop, heated all too well by the wait rolls over the edge and falls to the center of the arch place where my stomach meets my ribs. I arch my back in a moment of sensation, and I suppress a moan into a quiet gasp so our friends won't hear us.
She smiles devilishly, enjoying my vulnerability. Even so – all the more so, really – I trust her with my body. I trust her to know what I want, to know how just I like to be hurt, and never to hurt me. She loves me, and I love her.
“Ah...” I moan out loud this time and her smile widens.
Another drop hit me just an inch lower. She's so happy right now and I couldn't be more excited. There's never been a night like this – there never is. Another transparent jewel of the liquid wax drops to my chest. I twist my spine and squirm against my restraints, just to feel her power. She squeezes down on me with her thighs and holds me still until I surrender to her again.
“What should I do with you tonight?” she wonders aloud.
I nearly open my mouth to answer her before I realized she was asking herself, despite having addressed me. She leans down toward my lips, and spills a long drip of wax onto my breastbone, running a line up to my neck, almost letting the burning liquid touch my throat before she pulls it away to the side, breaking the illusion, She does not get any on the sheets. She is still in control. Of the candle. Of the fire. The pain. Of me. I writhe underneath her again, and she presses down on my chest with her free hand as she kisses me.
“I know...” she whispers in my ear, her voice hot and breathy. “We'll find out just how much... stimulation you can take tonight. Without drawing any attention.”
She motions to the wall between bedrooms as she speaks. There is a sudden rush of heat on my left nipple. She always starts with my left. I don't know why, just a force of habit, I suppose. I bite my lip to stifle a sound and wrench against the belts to my right. A hand gently taps my right cheek to keep me from moving.
Another drop and I struggle again. This time the contact she makes is not so gentle and I moan again, louder, this time looking straight into her eyes. She squirms a little and I can feel her thighs tighten and now the slightest bit of moisture. In a moment her scent starts to saturate my breath and I cannot help but smile.
This time she touches the candle's edge to my right nipple for a moment. The flame itself never touches my skin but for the briefest instant, I can feel that if she left it there for another fraction of a second it would burn. This time I do not stifle anything, the only sound I can make is a gasp, and I arch forward and snap at her, trying to bite her shoulder.
We are operating purely on instinct now, and she runs her fingers through my hair and kisses me while holding my head to her mouth. She moans for a moment then recoils back into a vertical position on her knees. There is a space between her and my legs now, but not much. She places the candle on the night-stand and runs her fingernails gently along my chest.
“What else are you going to do?” I ask boldly.
She looks at me curiously for a moment. It's far from forbidden for me to speak, but I rarely do when she has me so still.
“What should I do?” she asks me, intrigued.
She can tell I want something from her.
“Tell me a story.” I say, simply.
“I want to hear about you. I want to hear something...” as I search for an adjective, she smiles and squeezes my chest.
“I know what you want to hear.”
I smile and relax, waiting for her to speak. I know that we'd return to our own fun later. The night is still young, the sun still falling behind the mountains. As she finds her starting place, she turns around and lowers her slick, wet lips to a place where my tongue can reach, and places her hands where she can touch me more directly.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/love-stories/candlelight-and-belts-preamble.aspx">Candlelight and Belts - Preamble</a>