If it weren’t for the sound of creaking leather, I would think that I was alone. Pel hasn’t talked for almost 10 minutes but I can hear him by the toy chest or in the closets. I know that this is all a ploy to keep me guessing as to what what he’s doing, what comes next…

I smell incense burning. Apples and sandalwood drift through the room. The scent enticing and distracting. Pulling me into memories of the last time I smelled this. Years ago on our honeymoon, after an intense session of flogging. Laying with my head on his lap, smelling his unsaited arousal. Knowing that we only rested before something new.

I breath it in then feel a hot burn connect and pool then go cold and pull my skin taught.

Again, it spills across my skin, the burn and surprise pushing me, tumbling into float. It burns its way across my taut flesh until cooling into runnels.

The pain comes. The heat right on the edge of burning. Then cooling and hardening. Some, distant part of me says, wax. “He’s using wax,” but that logic is soft words said from horizons away.

I anticipate the next pour and when it comes I shudder as the pain tips me further. Closer and closer to orgasm. The wax running, still warm against the softness of my damp cunt. I whimper around the gag, as much of a beg I can muster. My thoughts shattered across the feelings of the flame made physical.
So close to tipping over the edge…

The sharp, harsh snap screams me awake. The electric sharpness and the small lightning pounds through nerve endings. No longer floating, I scream against the gag as electricity pours through me, for eternity…for moments.

He loosens my gag. The wet plop comes free, teeth no longer clentched, but the memory of the actinic fire coursing through my nerves…fades into shame…

His words, soft against my ear, almost bring tears. The extent of my failure made known and complete.

The soft growl breathes out, “Did I give you permission to cum, slut?”

The word slut rocks through me, so tame. But it rocks me back. Like I’ve been smacked with a baseball bat. Pel never calls me things other than his Morrigan or his Darkest Night.

I listen closely, hoping to hear more words, as the gag is replaced with a fresh cloth. Then I’m biting into the fabric hard again. The electricity snapping into my skin, right on the verge of damage…

“Who is this?” the fear gibbers in my brain, is it Pel…it was his voice…wasn’t it?