Master Apprentice
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I can smell it as I enter our chambers, dark and rich, heavy with spice and sweet with honey. Wax. Melting, melted.
I harden. He's been holding this out like a prize for weeks, months. Reward for some elusive ideal. I have no idea what I have done to make this the night, but I won't questions it -the Force speaks to him in ways I cannot hear.
It is dark, but I can see light flickering through the open door to our room. It proves to be fire, lit beneath the bowl that holds the wax, now a thick, viscous liquid.
He's waiting for me, naked, hair unbound and flowing over his shoulders, down his back. He smiles as I come in. There is love in his eyes and something predatory and it suddenly occurs to me that he has been anticipating this more than I have; the one he was making wait was himself.
I stand by the door, in the shadows, breathing deeply, pulling the scent of the wax into my lungs, letting the anticipation settle on my shoulders like a cloak.
He waits patiently, standing by the bed. Occasionally he stirs the wax. It is quiet, calm, almost domestic, but I can feel passion, coiled like a wild animal, waiting with patience born of hunger.
When the waiting has become more than I can bear, I remove my clothes, not fast, not slow, neither in a rush nor teasing. I simply take them off and let them drop in the shadows.
I step into the circle of light, moving toward the bed. The plain white sheets are painted crimson by the dancing firelight reflected from the bronze bowl.
He points to the bed, long fingers bringing my attention to the leather straps in each corner. I climb onto the bed and slip my feet into each loop before lying back and putting my hands into the loops above my head. I am bound, held spread eagle and still, but if I need to, I can slip from the bindings in seconds. I will not need to.
A rumbling sound comes from deep inside him, not a purr, nor a growl, but something made of both. Our eyes meet, his dark with arousal, warm with approval, and then his hand moves over my face, closing my eyes and my mouth, silent requests, as effective as any blindfold and gag.
My eyes close and the darkness is complete, at once making the room shrink and expand. I grasp the leather that binds me at my wrists, holding tightly to it until I can feel it bite into my palms.
There are no sounds but our breathing. Nothing but darkness and the sound of two people consuming the air.
Time stretches, narrows, expands and contracts as it is his turn to make me wait. I would be lost, but for the leather that lies slick in my palms and the gentle rush of air leaving his lungs.
The first drops hit my chest without warning and I barely reign in my hiss. It burns, though the initial intensity fades quickly, leaving my nerves close to the surface. I am ready for the next drops, controlling even the twitches and jerks of my muscles, holding my breath while he pours.
We develop a pattern, I holding my breath, stilling every part of myself while he pours, drawing sigils and prayers upon my skin. When he stops, I breathe again.
His flesh never touches mine, only the wax -on my face, my chest, a drop on each nipple making them hard as they reach for more. On my hips and thighs, my shaft, full, fuller when he has let the wax touch me there. I am his canvas, painted with the pain of heat and the subtle pleasure of nerves awakening.
Once he is done he waits. Again there is no sound in the darkness, only our breathing, heavier now, scenting the air with desire. The wax cools, becomes hard and unyielding, until finally he begins to peel it away.
My flesh sings out at the air's touch and as the last of the wax is pulled from my shaft, sliding away whole, I come. My seed splashes against my belly and I shudder as the hot drops baptize my newly exposed skin.
He touches me then, fingers pressing into the patterns he made, pushing hard enough to ensure that morning will find his markings still coloured on my skin.
I stretch, satisfied, complete; the marks he has left on my soul will never fade.
End.