Wax play is something I’d never considered – or, to be honest, really heard of – until a few months ago. However, having explored it a little and read other people’s blog posts discussing it, it’s now something I really want to try! This scene involves a discussion where a new kink is explored: a conversation I can imagine myself having, to be honest. I’m not absolutely sure this totally qualifies for a Kink of the Week post, but please click on the lips below and check out what everyone else has been getting up to for this prompt!
She’s still up when I got in, even though it was late and I’m expecting to wake her as I stumble in the hall. I’m surprised by the light on in our bedroom, but giggle as I shed my heels and coat before collapse in a heap at the end of the duvet. She smiles fondly at me from her nest of blankets, the glow of her laptop illuminating her face.
“Did you have fun?”
“Umm huh,” I mumble into the sheets, “Danced my feet off. Why are you still up?”
“I found something. Are you sober enough to sit up? Your face-down-on-bed position isn’t doing much to confirm that you’re in a state to discuss this.”
I make a valiant attempt to push myself up on her elbows and look at her. “What did you find?”
She smirks. “If you go change into your pyjamas and take your make-up off, I’ll tell you.”
I pout, looking at her with pleading eyes, but she just shakes her head. “Nope. Pyjamas; make-up; teeth. Your cuteness will not work on me, honey.”
“My cuteness always works on you,” I remind her, crawling up the bed to push aside her laptop and kiss her. “If I wear the tartan sleep-shorts, will you spank me?”
She rolls her eyes. “You have a one-track mine. Go get changed: I might have something you’d like even more.”
She laughs at my eagerness to scramble up. “Is this going to end in sex?”
“Is someone greedy for more orgasms?”
She’s laughing at me, and I give her my most innocent, adorable smile as I scrabble for pyjamas. She’s already pulled her laptop back on to her knees, though, so I abandon my plan to beg more in favour of hurrying to the bathroom. As I clean my teeth, I watch myself dance and squirm in the mirror, overly aware of the ache between my legs.
Soon I’m pushing away her laptop again and climbing on top of her for more kisses. “Insatiable,” she mutters before flipping us over. I wriggle underneath her. “Are you going to be a good girl for me?”
“Of course, how could you doubt me?”
“Oh, I wonder…” She spoils the picture of innocence I’m sure I look by beginning kiss along my jaw. I moan and push my body up into her, but she stops too soon. She rearranges us – skilful touches, nowhere near where I want them, guiding me into the shape she wants. I’m still lying on my back, but my hands are now holding on to the railings of the headboard – kept in place by her warning look – and the pillows under my head forcing me to look up at her as she sits between my spread legs. Not that I’d want to look anywhere else.
She only touches me lightly, finger-tips tracing feather-light patterns on my legs, occasionally dipping below the hem of my shorts but not venturing further. She holds my gaze, silent and smirking, challenging me to hold my tongue for as long as I can. I try to win this time, lying still beneath her, but my arousal is growing, and I’m curious.
“What did you find?”
She shows her approval of my conceded defeat by brushing a series of kisses down my neck.
“You know one of the reasons you’re always trying to push me to taking you over my knee is the marks?” I open my mouth to object, but she stops me with a finger against my lips. “I know that it isn’t just for you. I love it, I’m so glad you told me that you wanted to explore this. I adore the sounds you make and how much it turns you on.”
I smile up at her, and she kisses me again.
“But aside from the sensations, I know you love how it looks. You’re forever turning around to see your cute wee bum all red in the mirror. You’ve asked me to take photos of the marks I left last weekend when we played with my hairbrush. You know that sex blog you were reading? On my laptop?”
“Oops…” I bite my lip guiltily.
“Don’t do that – I’d wager anything that you left the tabs open deliberately in an attempt to put those ideas in my head. I had a little poke around the blog though, and found something else…” she pauses for a moment, uncharacteristically hesitant, “How do you feel about wax play?”
I take a sharp inward breath, feeling myself clench in the way my body does when it’s struck by a particularly hot idea. I’m even more wet, and my mind is swirling with pictures of colourful wax dripping over my skin, falling in hot drops where her fingers are just now.
Having got the words out, she’s focussing on the movements of her fingers over my skin. She’s nervous. Although she has happily assumed the role as the dominant one in our kinky play, she is shy to share too many of her fantasies for fear of what I’ll think. We’re getting better at talking about it – though apparently trying to turn the tables by saying I’ll spank her if she won’t tell me what’s the most extreme thing she wants to try, will only end in me leaning over the kitchen table while she threatens to beat me with the rolling pin if she can’t find the wooden spoon.
“Really? I’d love to try it.”
“Yeah?” She’s still uncertain, but there’s a smile playing on her lips now.
“Yes. Hey, look at me?” She does. “The thought of it genuinely arouses me. I’ll beg if it convinces you. Please. Let’s try.”
She smirks, looking at me properly now, her eyes dancing with excitement. “I’d like to tie you down, so you can’t get away from me. Teasing you with little splashes of warm wax – building you up so you’re tense and on edge. Would I blindfold you, so you can’t anticipate where the drops will form? You’d just have to stay still and let me use your body as a canvas for my art.”
I whimper, partly because of her words, partly because of her fingers, which are climbing higher up my legs.
“Imagine the colours. Red wax being drizzled over your breasts. Drops of purple – maybe just a tiny bit too hot, making you squirm – on your legs. Pink and orange drips on your stomach. My own pretty little sunset.”
I moan as she ghosts over my clit with her thumb.
“What sounds would you make do you think? Little mewls as you squirm, maybe? Would you beg me to stop or plead for more? Or maybe I wouldn’t tie you up, but challenge you to make yourself orgasm while I’m creating pretty patterns on your skin…”
“Yes.” I interrupt her. “Yes, yes, yes. You’ve convinced me. I want to try it, but right now will you please just fucking fuck me?”
She complies.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.
