There is something unique about the sensation of molten candle wax on skin. It burns, and yet does not burn. It is pain, and yet there is something deeply sensual and erotic about it. This piece was written almost exactly two years ago. But it could have been ten years.
She hears the strike of the match.
It hisses as it flares. Pungent, acrid, dangerous.
She tests her bindings, flexing against them. She is a stretched in a wide X, face up on the stripped-back brass bed. Her ankles and wrists have been secured to the frame. A blindfold has removed her sight.
She is in fear. She is in love. She is naked.
He is close to her. She can feel his presence as if touching. She senses the application of flame to wick. Her muscles tense. A low moan escapes her throat. She does not know if it is in protest or arousal.
She can barely breathe as she awaits the first molten drop to splash onto her proud breasts and urgent nipples.
Candle wax on skin.