Wax On, Wax Off

Ash arrived on time, as always, she's very punctual.  I greeted her at the door, gave her a quick hug, and led her in. 

She's a petite, tiny girl.  She claims five-feet as her height, but I think she exaggerates a bit, though I've never called her on it.  With medium-length, dark hair and an elfin smile that can light up a room, she is a joy to be around.  She is not a submissive -- she likes restraints and sensation, but playfully, sometimes with force and violence, but never with willing submission.  Ask her to bend over a chair while you cane her bare bottom and she'll jump at the opportunity to scream and writhe -- tell her to bow her head and she'll lay bare your every inadequacy and self-doubt with an acid, wickedly perceptive tongue.

She is a delight.

She made a quick trip to the bathroom to wash up and came back naked with her hair bound up in a tight bun.  She pranced across the room toward me, then stopped short and cocked her hip at me.  "Ready?" she asked coyly.

I grabbed her by the neck and pulled her to me, kissing her deeply and running my hand over her breasts -- tiny A-cups with itty-bitty nipples that become hard as pebbles when she's excited.  Let her hear you call anything about her "itty-bitty" and she will bite.  When you least except it.

Ash takes a little girl's delight in being picked up or carried, so I scooped her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom.

The room, I'd already prepared.  Wax is messy.  Even if it doesn't drip on the carpet or upholstery when it's liquid, the little solid spots and strips go everywhere and are impossible to get out, so I tend to make extensive preparations when playing with it.

The entire room, from waist height on the walls, down to the floor, up and over the bed, everything was covered in paper painter's mats -- the kind that have an absorbent paper on one side and plastic on the other.  The pieces were held together with painter's tape.  Excessive?  Maybe, but I don't like cleaning up and it's easier to just ball up the waste and throw it away.

Next to the bed was a table with seven Crockpots.  This particular scene had required some planning and a few of those were borrowed.  No, not everyone knew what they were going to be used for -- some people were told bean-dip for a party. 

I stopped in the doorway and we both surveyed the room.

"You know," I said, "I always feel a little like Dexter when I'm getting ready for a scene like this."

Dexter, if you don't know, is the Showtime series about a serial killer who wraps everything in the room in plastic before carving his victim up.

Ash turned her head to stare at me.  She gave me one of her Looks.

"Not the most comforting thing to tell the girl who's about to be strapped down and helpless?" I asked.

"You think?"

I grinned and set her down, then grabbed a rubber swim cap from the table and helped her put it on to protect her hair.  She climbed onto the bed and spread her arms and legs for me.  I walked around the bed, attaching cuffs to her wrists and ankles -- cheap, neoprene cuffs for this scene, not the good leather ones.  I clipped the straps attached the bedframe to each cuff and pulled them tight, stretching her arms and legs to the corners of the bed.

"Too late," I whispered evily, leaning over to give her a peck on the nose.

She made a raspberry-sound.  "You wouldn't hurt me," she said, "you take better care of your toys than that."  I had to laugh.

From the table I grabbed two vibrating eggs and some lube, tested them again to make sure the batteries were good, and inserted one into her ass and the other into her pussy.  I ran the wires for the controllers under her legs and out toward the side of the bed.

Next, I got two small boards from the table.  Each is about the size of a spread hand and has holes on either side of where the fingers would be.  Through the holes runs a soft, thin cord, one cord for each finger, one set of holes for each finger-joint, and a thicker, velcro strap at the wrist. 

I slid these under Ash's hands and slid her fingers beneath the cords.  I closed the wrist strap and laced up each finger.  I find these useful for girls who have nimble fingers, the ones who can somehow get their digits down to the buckles on the wrist straps.  I use them instead of fist-mittens when I want to still have access to her hands -- since the palm is so sensitive, it's a shame to cover it up.

Last in the preparations was small piece of tape which I placed over her belly button.  Ash loves wax, but hates cleaning it out of her belly button, and I am nothing if not courteous.

For a few minutes I simply caressed her, running my fingers lightly over her body from wrists to ankles and back again, then it was time to get started.

Ash's eyes were closed, a lazy half-smile on her lips from the feeling of being stroked and petted.  I reached over to the table and took a Pyrex measuring cup, filled it with melted wax from one of the Crockpots, and wiped the side with a towel to ensure none dripped before I was ready. 

I sat on the bed beside her, leaned over and put my mouth over one little nipple, swirling it with my tongue and scraping my teeth across it gently, then raised the cup high, so the wax wouldn't be hot enough to burn the sensitive flesh there, and poured a generous stream of hot wax onto her pelvis just above her clitoris.  The wax pooled and flowed, running down the crease of each thigh.  I adjusted the pour a bit to ensure that it hit and fully covered every bit between her legs, coating her pussy lips thoroughly.  It pooled on the painter's mat underneath her and slowly seeped between her ass cheeks.

I believe her exact words were: "You fucking bastard! Oh, fuck! You fucking bastard!"

I smiled.

She blew in and out rapidly for a moment, cheeks puffing, then grinned at me.  "Do it again! Do it again! Do it again!"

I laughed, turned on the two vibrating eggs, and got to work.

For quite some time, I tormented her with the wax.  I dripped tiny dots of it from close to her body that stung and solidified immediately.  I brushed it on with narrow paintbrushes, drawing streaks of warmth across her flesh.  I dropped long, heavy pours of wax that pooled and concentrated their heat before running down her sides in stinging rivulets.  Occasionally, I adjusted the controls for the two eggs, up or down at a whim.  I covered her in it until she was solidly encased from neck to ankles to wrists.  From her lips I drew sighs, moans, yelps, and more than one curse.

Next was her hands.  She opened her eyes and watched me when I told her they were next.  I took two large cups and filled them both. 

"Oh, fuck," she whispered as I approached.

I grinned and poured.  Both hands at once, directly onto her palms, cups close to her skin so the wax would have the least time to cool.  I continued pouring, covering each finger carefully.

I moved to the foot of the bed and she whimpered.  Ash's feet are very sensitive and a bit ticklish and, as she'd already pointed out, I am a bit of a fucking bastard.

First, I moved one of the crockpots to a stool at the foot of bed where I could get at it quickly and the wax would have less time to cool on its way to her feet.  I dipped a fresh paint brush into the pot and quickly flicked it at the sole of her right foot, spattering it with spots of heat.  Then I used another fresh brush, its bristles new and stiff, without any coating to deaden their effect, to spread the still soft spots of wax across the sole of her foot.

I did the same to her left foot, then filled a cup.  I used my fingers to spread some her toes and poured.  The wax was hot and stung my fingertips, but sometimes a sacrifice is necessary.  Ash made some pleasant, little mewling sounds as the wax poured between her toes and over the top of her foot.  I like that sound -- it's the sound of a job well and truly done.

I moved to the head of the bed and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, which was covered with a thin film of sweat.  I asked her if she was feeling alright and she assured me that she was.  I gave her a few sips of water, another kiss, and asked her if she was ready to finish -- she assured me that she was.

I wiped the sweat from her face and placed a length of tape over the seam between the bathing cap and her head so that no wax would seep under it.  Next came a pair of plastic domes over her ears and more tape to protect them, then swimmers' goggles and a nose-clip.  Finally I placed the mouthpiece of a snorkel between her lips and she bit down on it, grinning.  All of this proving, once again, that anything can be a sex toy if we but put our minds to it.

I held the snorkel tube straight up and out of the way, took a full cup of wax, and, staring deeply into her eyes behind the goggles, poured.  Refilled the cup and poured more.  And again.  Sounds came from the snorkel, but not the one we'd agreed meant distress.  The wax over her hands flexed as she tried to clench her fists.  I poured until her head was covered, joining with the wax that covered her body, until she was entirely encased in a thick, soft layer of wax.

I put my finger to her shoulder and pressed down, pushing it through the wax.  From the snorkel, I heard a deep-toned "mmmmmm".  This was our agreed upon signal for me asking and her assuring me that she was okay.  A shrill "eeeeee" from the snorkel would mean, well, something's-wrong-get-me-the-hell-out-of-this-you-sick-crazy-freak-what-were-you-thinking!  Or words to that effect.

But, still, we were not done.  Because, we know, if you have a girl tied down, helpless, encased in wax, and you hold her breathing tube in your hands ... you are morally obligated to fuck with the tube.

I placed my hand around the top of the snorkel, waited until she started to exhale, then clapped my palm over the top of the snorkel.  There was a moment of pressure as she tried to exhale, then it stopped as she held her breath.  I waited, counting silently.  There came pressure again, but still I held my hand in place, the pressure stopped.  A few seconds later, she tried to exhale again.  I kept my hand in place, counted to five, then removed it.

Air exploded from the snorkel, then quickly she inhaled.   I let her have several breaths, then waited until she started to inhale and clapped my hand over the top of the snorkel again.  I counted, knowing that each second would feel much longer to her.   The suction of her trying to inhale stopped, started, stopped, and started as tested for air.  I counted to ten, then fifteen, then twenty.  The suction as she tried to breath became more rapid.  At twenty-five, I removed my hand and air rushed into the snorkel.

I pressed her shoulder and got several short "mmm"s in between in- and out-rushing breaths.

On the table was a folded heating pad, which I reached inside and retrieved a warm knife.  The blade was dull, no sharper than a butter knife, but the warm blade would cut through wax like ...

I leaned over Ash's midsection and carefully carved away an oval of wax around her pussy.  I peeled the wax away, exposing her to the air.  Her pussy lips spread like the petals of a flower and glistened with moisture.  I bent over and gently ran my tongue up one side and down the other, then back up the center and over her clit.  I heard more noises that I like from the snorkel, so I repeated this again and again, gently and teasingly.

Then I reached for the table, filled a cup, and poured, sealing her pussy in wax again, because I am, as we've established, a bit of a fucking bastard.  In my defense, she had asked me to do it again.

Frantic noises echoed from the snorkel.  They were high-pitched, but not so high as we'd practiced for her distress signal, so I pressed her shoulder and they immediately lowered in pitch and became a steady "mmmm .... mmmm .... mmmm".

Followed by what sounded like, "Mmuuu mummmimg mmammarmmm!"

We were almost done, but I still had a couple things on the agenda for my little playmate. 

I took up the snorkel again, waited until she exhaled and then sealed it with my mouth.  I felt the suction grow, pause, and grow again as she tried to inhale.  Finally I inhaled deeply through my nose and exhaled slowly through my mouth.  She inhaled harder, trying to pull in more air, but I kept the rate slow and constant, controlling the flow.

When I'd exhaled, perhaps, half my breath, I reversed direction, inhaling through the snorkel.  She resisted at first, but then began exhaling, knowing that she couldn't win that fight.  I inhaled through my mouth, then exhaled through my nose and inhaled through my nose, making her wait with empty lungs.  Then, slowly, teasingly, stopping every now and then, I exhaled into the snorkel, allowing her to breathe.

I played at this for a while, touching her shoulder a couple times and receiving a reassuring "mmmm" from her.

I retrieved the warm knife and again exposed her pussy.  I pulled out the vibrating egg and turned it off, replacing it with her favorite dildo -- it is soft, but firm and she likes to have something to squeeze against when she comes.  Then I grabbed her favorite vibrator and began running it lightly over her clit.

Within moments I felt and heard the familiar signs of her orgasm.  I dropped the vibrator and replaced it with my finger -- her clit becomes sensitive when she comes and the vibrator is too intense, she needs something softer.  The dildo was being forced out of her by her clenching muscles, so I pushed it back in, then let it come out, only to push it back in again, all the time gently rubbing her clit.  I worked her like this for a while, drawing out her orgasm, then stopped.

I let the dildo slide out and put it aside, bent to give her a last little lick and kiss, then picked up the knife again.  I slid it through the wax from her neck to the open spot around her pussy.  Again around her neck and again around each thigh.  I slid my hands underneath the wax, starting at her pelvis and working my way up and to either side.  The wax pulled away from her body in two sheets, bending as I slid my hands up, over her breasts to her throat.  Her body was slick with sweat and the wax pulled away easily.

I did the same with her legs and arms, first carving a line, then running my hands along her body to push the wax away in sheets. 

The wax encasing her head and face was more difficult.  It stuck to the bathing cap, ear cups, and goggles, so those came off at the same time.  Her eyes were closed, hair drenched in sweat.  I pulled the snorkel from her mouth and wiped a bit of drool that came with it, then bent to give her a deep kiss.  Her lips and tongue worked slowly, drunkenly against mine.

"I'm going to run a bath," I whispered softly, so she'd know where I was going and that I'd be right back, and she murmured acknowledgement.  I went to the bathroom and started the tub filling, then returned to her.  I released her from the straps and cuffs, and unlaced the hand-boards.  I pushed as much of the wax as I could from one side of the bed onto the floor and picked her up, carrying her to the bathroom.

Gently I placed her in the bathtub.  Her limbs were loose and her head lolled from side to side.  I rested her head on a towel to keep it in place.  Eyes still closed, she smiled at me.

Keeping an eye on her to be sure she didn't slide down into the water, I undressed and climbed in with her.  I slid down behind her, keeping her between my legs and cradling her against my chest.  While the faucet ran to fill the tub, I took a bowl and used it to pour water over her, rinsing away the sweat and flecks of wax.  I rinsed her sweaty hair, then poured on some shampoo and massaged her scalp before rinsing it again.

I was starting to see signs of conscious movement in her limbs, so I gently kissed her neck and whispered, "You coming back, baby?"

"No," she murmured.  "Not coming back.  L ike it here."

Laughing, I grabbed a washcloth and soap to clean the sweat and wax from the rest of her body.  Her eyebrows and public hair would have a fine coating of the wax around them that would flake off over a couple days unless she scrubbed them -- which she wouldn't, I knew, because she said she liked seeing it, liked being reminded.

I looked her over carefully while I washed her.  There were a couple areas that were red and sensitive when I touched them, places where the wax had been just hot enough to scald the skin, but none were serious and I knew she liked that reminder, as well.  Just because I'm a fucking bastard, I prodded one forcefully.  Ash moaned and shivered.

I shut the water off and we soaked for a time.  When Ash was able to sit on her own I went to the kitchen and brought her a cold bottle of water.  Then I went to the bedroom and quickly stripped the painter's mats from the bed and floor, balling them and the sheets of wax into a corner.  I shut off the crockpots and coiled the extension cords out of the way, then returned to the bathroom.

I helped her stand, dried her with a towel, and then carried her to the bed.  I slid her between the sheets and crawled in beside her.  She curled her naked body around me, my arm around her shoulders, her hand resting gently on my chest, and her head on my shoulder.  She closed her eyes and smiled.

"Fucking bastard," she murmured.