Wax Play (Jack POV)

One after another your friends are grabbed by men. A man with smoky gray hair approaches you. His arms are covered in tattoos of swirling smoke and fire. He stepped close, the smell of smoke wafting around him. The smell of a bonfire on a cool summer night.

“Come with me,” he says, his hand warm against your cheek. His calloused palm glides over you cheek, circling around the back of your neck. You walk forward, his hand firm, but not squeezing. Other men watch as he guides you across the floor. Many of them look as if the smoky man released his hold, they’d grab you in an instant. The thought gives you chills, but looking up at the smoky man, you’re still not sure if he’s actually a better option.

“What are you going to do to me?” you ask. But no answer comes, just a grin on his face.

“Get on the table,” he says, releasing the back of your neck. The table in question is long, padded, and features restraints at either end. You sit on the edge, watching as he strikes a match, lighting a tall slender candle. His back is to you, a small voice in your head urges you to run, but where? He uses the first candle to light an array of candles on the side table. “Lay back,” he says once the army of candles are lit.

You suppress that voice urging for retreat, and lay back on the padded table. He lightly guides your arms to above your head, where he tightens the restraints. Next is your ankles, restrained to either corner of the table. There is no running now.

“I watched your matches, you were quite impressive as a fire type specialist,” he says, picking up a candle, intently watching the flickering flame. “Besides the ghost types,” he looks away from the flame, staring into your eyes.

He tilts the candle above you, and a sudden heat stings against your abdomen. “Ahh,” you squeak in surprise, squirming in your restraints.

“Can you feel the heat?” the candle is lower, the next drip of wax hits. The heat increased, the wax having fallen a shorter distance. You squirm, as drip, drip, drip, wax dots your skin. Quickly hardening after impact. “Do you love the flame?”

It barely sounds as if he’s talking to you. The question almost directed at the candle, or even the flame itself. “Yes,” you gulp, not knowing if he actually wants an answer. And you do, you do love fire. But you have a feeling you and him love fire in different manners. You’ve always admired, respected fire, he seems obsessed, fully consumed in the flickering light.

“Good,” he says, the candle tilting more. The flame licks more of the wax, and the drips increase their speed. Drip, drip, drip, each leaving a stinging heat across your pale stomach. You wince as his hand drifts lower above you, the heat in each drop of wax growing, until the sting feels more and more like a lasting burn. You lean your head up, looking down over your body, your body dotted with small black spots of dried wax. A tender redness growing everywhere.

He swaps candles, a quick reprieve as he places the black candle on the table, returning with a green candle in the same tall slender style. A hot drip at your collar bone, the candle lowers. A hotter drip at the top of your breast, the candle lowers. You look up watching in anticipation as a green waxy tear forms at the tip, threatening to fall. Any moment, and you gasp as it falls hitting ever closer to your nipple. Another hotter dribble dries on your tit, and another. Another. Another.

He circles lower and lower, closer and closer to your nipple, the wax hotter and hotter each time. Your breathing quickens, the stinging pain adding up as he slowly paints your chest with green wax. You worry that he won’t stop lowering until the flame licks at your skin, if he intends to burn you. The heat of the wax dissipates quickly, leaving a hard wax that pulls at your skin, cracking and scratching with each breath, but it doesn’t feel like a lasting burn, not like what would come from the flame pressed to your skin.

You shriek at the first touch of hot wax to your sensitive nipple. The heat shuddering through your body, as the sting is heightened, you thrash in your restraints, luckily avoiding another droplet to your nipple. He places a hand against your sternum, wax cracking under his touch. “Still,” he commands, holding the candle upright. You stare at the trickle of wax running down the candle, hardening before even reaching his fingers.

His hand holds you down to the table, the pressure making it harder to breathe, the anticipation occupying your whole attention. He tips the candle and new melted wax wells at the end. And another hot droplet hits the other side of your chest. You writhe under his strong hand. He keeps your torso in place as your legs and arms flail with whatever slack the restraints allow. He repeats a mirrored trail on your other tit, circling to his final destination, your muscles tightening in anticipation. The drop touches your nipple, repeating the same flare of heat and pain.

The weight of his hand on your chest is lifted as he places the candle back on the table. He returns with a large candle in hand, the center having melted out forming a wax cup with a molten center. He sets it next to your head, and you can see the light flickering through the thin wall of red wax.

He runs his nails along your skin, digging the tips of his fingers into your flesh. They run over your chest, breaking apart wax, leaving new streaks of stinging pain from the scratching. Your skin is sensitive from the wax. He runs his nails along your chest, then down your abdomen.

His touch digs into the mound above your pussy, and one hand falls away, as the other touches you. His fingers pressing into you, his rough touch sending waves of pleasure through you. Your heart skips when he picks up the candle next to your head. He tilts the candle, and a steady hot stream of wax falls from the lip, as he draws a line of red wax from your elbow down to your armpit. Your breath hitches, as the pain rocks through you, combined with the pleasant touch of his other hand.

Red wax draws a line down your other arm. Looping circles on your thighs. Everything within you ignites as a splash of wax hits your neck, the drying wax cracks as you gasp for air. All the while your pussy aches for more of his touch, the rough plunging of his fingers, or the calloused palm against your mound. As he draws in red across your stomach.

“I’m going to, I’m, I’m,” the words pour from your mouth. You never quite get to the final word, but the grin on his face reveals he understands your meaning.

Your mind ignites in a flare of pain and pleasure. As two sensations wash over you. The first being an amazing orgasm as his touch pushes you over the edge. The second being the white hot pain of a large splash of wax against your abdomen, red tickling against your underboob all the way down to your navel. Your lungs struggle to draw a new breath, as your core tightens around his fingers. The pain and pleasure blending into one, taking hold of your body as your writhe and convulse.

He sets the candle on your stomach. Each heavy breath threatens to spill the remaining wax over your body. You quickly attempt to control yourself, shivering aftershocks making it difficult. He unzips his pants, pulling his cock free. He strokes himself, using your fluids that cling to his fingers as lubricant. Your gaze flicks from his cock near your face, to the candle wobbling on your stomach with each breath.

You flinch as a jet of cum hits your face, you hold your breath scared of tipping the candle. The second and third strings of jizz don’t come as a surprise. He groans, as he finishes on your face. The heat of his cum not coming anywhere near that of the wax. He unfastens your hands, and you grab the candle. Sitting up you blow out the flame. “Here you’ll want this,” he laughs, handing you a rawst berry from his table, taking the candle.

Someone announces another break. You unfasten your legs as the crowd that had watched you disappears. You find a towel on your way to where some of your group waits. You wipe your face clear of his load. Yuruki offers to help you clean up, you pick at wax clinging to your skin, while she squeezes a thick cooling gel from the blue berry. Her touch feels amazing with the cool gel against my angry reddened skin, the heat faltering at Yuruki’s touch.