The moment I hear the strike of the match against the box I know I'm in more trouble. The whoosh of oxygen racing to fuel the flame. The fizz and crackle as it catches. The flicker that the blindfold makes impossible to perceive, yet my mind sees anyway.

I struggle. Rope bites my wrists behind me. Gnaws the swell of my breasts, and flesh of each thigh bound to its calf. Intricate, showy knots, I expect, his firm loving guidance moving me into each position as he diligently worked. Artful. Knees apart, leaking onto the sheets. His prize.

Another fizz reaches my ears. Sparks. Embers I wish I could see spitting and dancing as the second whoosh roars. Smaller than the first, yet amplified by the silence in the room, punctuated only by my muted whimpers through the sodden panties he's stuffed there.

My panties. Wet before he even began, infused with need from his relentless teasing all day. Messages, both suggestive and downright filthy, detailing what he was intending to do to me. Of what he'd just done. Of what was still to come.

I squirm amid the curling sulphur of the blown-out match. Heat pulses beneath my skin. Droplets emerge at my splayed entrance offering contrast as the air cools them, before they descend on diaphanous strings of desire to the sheets. Liquid want that he periodically scoops and tastes from the tip of a finger.

My breasts quiver, still wet and alert from the ice he'd dribbled across them. Everything's contrast with him. Shallow then deep. Light then darkness. Ice then…

…Fire.

The unmistakable aroma of wax greets my flared nostrils and a fresh wave of fear grips my body. Fear that makes me drip further and hold my breath, only releasing it in a taut burst when I realise he's purposely heightening the anticipation.

Fuck, I love him. Probably more than his wife does, tucking their daughters in bed oblivious to him exorcising his unmet fantasies and needs halfway across the city. Craving him to take me places I cannot alone. To that precipice. That unknown, unpredictable, unfuckingbelievable edge where nothing but suffocating pleasure resides.

A distant flash. A mechanical shutter. The thought of my captured arousal splinters my brain like shot wood. Me. Digitized. Raw. Unmasked even through the blindfold, smooth curves interrupted only by rope and trust.

His growl of approval and muttered, "That's my girl," sends a shiver racing down my spine to ignite my already inflamed pussy. Heat tears upward and eddies around my breasts roped in his skilfully constructed harness. The unforgiving knots flex against my spine as I wriggle.

I can barely take any more, and he knows it. That's why he does nothing. Lets me reflect on the path every freezing rivulet took to my erect nipples. Every handprint that crashed into my flushed backside. Every stinging imprint of the crop that swished up against my soaked pussy lips. Every cry as I shamefully pleaded for more. More sweet agony. More torturous heat, more cold, more force, more dark corners of my mind swept free of cobwebs, exposing needs I never knew it contained.

He knows where the delay takes me. The heightening of every sense, every inner fibre aligned and charged before the inevitable splash of searing wax paints my breasts and nipples crimson.

Contrast.

Highs. Lulls.

Pleasure. Pain.

Restraint. Freedom.

All bound by the thread of time. Elastic and immeasurable, it ticks unmetered, the way it did when he undressed me, item by item in the sanctity of my bedroom. Made me sink to my knees. Crawl to him, swaying like a rope bridge, to gaze up and hungrily suck his magnificent cock until he tore my head from his spit-soaked shaft, cruelly denying me the salty ribbons I know he'll soon surrender.

When he's ready. When he thinks I'm ready.

I loll my head. Mouth dry, yet I sense saliva dripping beyond the edge of the gag to roll down my breast. It dangles from my nipple as the camera clicks again, before stretching then snapping to splash into my lap.

Fuck.

I know the fire is imminent. With each second that passes I convince myself I can feel it peppering my tits. But the heat tearing through my spasming body is merely a projection. A foreshadowing; my warped and heightened desire making it real.

His breathing tightens and I imagine how hard he must be for me. How much self-control it must take to exert such patience. How much I crave his rigid shaft in my mouth. My pussy. My arse. His come splashing in me. On me. Claiming me before untying and hugging me whole again.

Pain rips through my body and I cry out, only to realise the liquid dotting my chest is spit not wax. Just another manifestation.

My orgasm is right there. Right fucking there. A touch of his fingers. A breath. The merest suck and I'll tumble. But I have to dig deep. Fight it. If I come before he says, he'll leave me hanging and return later. Deny me all over again.

Fuck.

His lips smack as he collects another string of juice and savours me. Like he's choosing the perfect moment. The perfect vintage. Decadent and wrong, the thought of him enjoying me careens unchecked through my head, jerking as his fingertip glides between my slippery folds. I sob as I twist and clamp the orgasm back. Delirious. Drooling. Desperate. Dying to hear the word almost as much as the pain I know will accompany it.

He tastes me again. Breathes out, almost a finality to it and my heart thumps uncontrollably.

Wax drifts to my nostrils again. And this time heat. Definite heat, my electrified skin absorbing the flame's aura.

FUCK.

I tense and my muffled scream almost drowns his single word: "Come."

Then everything turns inside out as the first splash from the candle sears my aching flesh, and my crushing release becomes his.