“Of course I am.” He flicked a glance toward the table, looking through his lashes in a way he knew from past experience was winsome and alluring. At least, previous Masters and Mistresses had said so.
“Of course you are … ?” There was a pregnant pause before Michael gave in and gave Rob what he wanted.
“Of course I am, Sir.”
Another glance from beneath his lashes revealed a slight smile on Rob’s generous, sensual mouth.
“Remove the cloth,” Rob directed. When Michael moved to stand, Rob’s big, hard hand wrapped around the back of his neck. “Oh, no, Mikey. Crawl.”
Neutral. Keep it neutral.
Michael stretched forward, crawling slowly toward the table set up along the far wall. Once he’d arrived, he pushed up to his knees and reached to take hold of the cloth suspended over the surface.
“Use your teeth.” Rob’s voice was faintly amused.
Fuck neutral. Rob was pressing his buttons on purpose, and if he was any kind of Dom he’d know how to deal with an irritated submissive.
Michael lifted his chin and gave Rob a direct look. “Really?” Nothing more than that. Just really ?
Rob’s eyes glittered, his jaw set, and for just a moment Michael was afraid of what beast he might be poking. Then Rob tilted his head, looking Michael over from head to toe, and sighed.
“I suppose you’re right,” he conceded, eyes glinting with laughter. “I’d hate for anything to be knocked over because you were being clumsy.”
Oh, that bastard.
“You may stand and remove the cloth.”
Michael ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached, but he managed to keep silent as he stood and carefully lifted the black cloth to unveil the implements spread across the table.
He probably should have been prepared. After all, he and Rob had reconnected at a wax play workshop. Still, the crock-pot of melted paraffin wax seemed to almost throb in time with Michael’s heartbeat.
Letting his gaze travel down the table, Michael felt his pulse pound with anticipation. Rob hadn’t prepared any colored wax. In fact, there was only the crock-pot and three melting jar candles. What caught Michael’s attention were the accessories.
A large thermal bowl filled with ice sat next to the crock-pot. In front of them both lay a wide assortment of tools. There were picks and sculpting tools, and various instruments meant to manipulate soft, warm wax. At the very end of the table was a large knife.
Actually, Michael realized, it was not so much a knife as a modified sword. A sword very like the one Achilles had used to spank Petroclus so soundly.
Oh.
Oh .
His hand was lifting before he even realized it, and Michael quickly lowered it to his side. He didn’t have permission to touch.
“Go ahead, Michael. Explore a little bit.”
Michael wanted to look at Rob — wanted to see if the amusement in his voice was visible on his sculpted face — but he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the sword.
He raised his hand again, running one finger the length of the blade like one in a trance. He was in a trance, hypnotized by the candlelight shimmering on the melted wax, on the surface of the blade.
The weapon was dull; no edge to the blade at all, so there was no chance of someone being cut accidentally. Which was good; Michael didn’t do sharps, didn’t need that sort of pain to stay level.
No, it was clear this blade was meant to scrape the hardened wax from a submissive’s sensitive skin. And, he couldn’t help but think, it would make a perfect paddle.
Sudden heat enveloped his back, and Michael realized Rob had moved closer, standing directly behind him.
“Familiar, isn’t it?” Rob’s breath tickled his ear, and a shudder worked its way down Michael’s spine. “I’ve imagined using it on you a million times.”
Michael didn’t respond, not out of respect but because he couldn’t have forced words past the boulder lodged in his throat.
A soft touch on the side of his neck — a kiss? — and Rob pulled back, leaving Michael yearning for another touch.
“Get on the table.”
Michael kept his eyes lowered as he moved to obey. He was slipping. Not into subspace, not yet, but into the submissive mindset; into the place where his Master’s Will was Michael’s pleasure.
It was an easy transition, and a hard one at the same time. Easy to give before the force of Rob’s personality; easy to bend to the hand of a skilled Master. But oh, so difficult to put aside their history, his own hurt, and trust himself to Rob’s care.
Emotions churning, Michael moved to the table and sat with his legs dangling over the edge. He sat straight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes firmly fixed on his loosely curling fingers. He completely ignored the erection standing proudly away from his body. Erections were to be expected. He was a sexual submissive, after all. The mere sight of the pot of wax and the sculpting tools would have been enough to send the blood rushing from his brain to parts far south.
This erection had nothing to do with the Master standing facing him. And it certainly had nothing to do with the memory of Rob’s hand on his dick, of Rob’s cock in his mouth.
“Lay on your stomach.” Rob’s voice was a low rumble, and Michael quickly complied. Pressure on his throbbing dick was good. Pressing his face into the padded table, safe from Rob’s intent scrutiny, was even better.
“Now take hold of the handles.”
Michael obediently wrapped his fingers around the handles located underneath the table. Rob knew what he was doing, the bastard. He knew that by making Michael restrain himself he was driving home the knowledge this was Michael’s own choice; he was submitting because he consented to, not because Rob was forcing him.
Once he was comfortably situated, Rob moved next to him, running a hand up the length of his spine. Michael really didn’t mean to react, but his body moved without his permission, arching into the touch and drawing a low hum of satisfaction from the Dom.
Rob walked along the table, firmly stroking Michael’s skin, sending little tingles of electricity along his spine, down the insides of his thighs. When he’d circled the table entirely, Rob pulled loose the tie in Michael’s hair, prompting a protest.
“I don’t want to get wax … ”
Rob cut him off by leaning over and giving him a sharp crack across the ass before he could even finish his sentence.
“Did I ask you a question?” Crack! “Did I tell you to speak?”
Michael sputtered, but managed to keep his mouth shut.
“Clearly we have trust issues, Michael.” Rob smoothed a soothing hand over Michael’s stinging ass cheeks. “But trust issues aside, I will not tolerate your disrespect or defiance.”
Michael wanted to growl. He wanted to tell Rob to shove it up his ass, and to get up and storm out of the room.
But he wouldn’t.
He couldn’t. That would be letting Rob win this battle of wills, admitting the Dom had bested him. Worse, it would mean failing as a submissive, and that was intolerable. A submissive is what Michael was; it was the core of his identity. If he couldn’t submit, even to Rob, then he had failed at a cellular level.
“Yes, Sir,” he muttered, voice low and just a little resentful in spite of his best efforts to keep his tone even.
“Better, Mikey.” Rob stroked him again, fingers teasing the sensitive spot at the base of his spine. “I wouldn’t get wax in your pretty hair,” the Dom continued, moving his hand to toy with Michael’s hair. He didn’t elaborate, but instead began to comb his fingers through the tangled mass, drawing it up off his neck and tying it into a much higher ponytail.
Feeling a tiny bit abashed, Michael gave a little sigh. “Thank you, Sir.” Dammit.
“You’re welcome.” Rob was moving again, standing in front of the wax table and examining the items neatly arranged there. With a satisfied nod, the Dom picked up a bottle of unscented baby oil, and a tiny vial Michael knew contained some sort of essent
ial oil. He wondered what kind it was. Would it be something that merely smelled nice, or would it be something with a little bit of bite?
Now the preparation began in earnest. Rob poured a small pool of oil in his palm, holding it for a moment until the liquid warmed to skin temperature. Then he began to spread it over Michael’s skin with slow, sweeping movements.
It was almost mesmerizing, the way Rob touched him, melting muscles and resistance with each stroke. It was one of the things Michael needed from a Master, this caring touch before and after a scene. Under Rob’s careful ministrations, Michael admitted, if only to himself, he needed this as much as he needed a firm hand.
Rob’s hands glided over him, pressing deeply into muscles, relaxing tension Michael hadn’t even realized he had. When the Dom worked his way down Michael’s legs, then up his thighs, digging his thumbs into the long muscles, it was all Michael could do to keep from moaning and arching up into the touch. He must have made some movement, because those magical hands lifted and Rob made a low, satisfied sound.
“You’ve always been gorgeous, Michael.” Rob’s voice was low, holding a sharp edge that let Michael know the scene was well and truly started. “But now, all grown into this hot body and all gleaming with oil … ” Rob trailed a light hand over Michael’s ass, tickling the sensitive skin still stinging from his open hand. “Now I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite so breathtaking.”
The touch, the oil, even the location — Velvet Ice, the place utterly synonymous with submission to him — were working on Michael, softening his anger and smoothing the sharp edge of his hurt.
A cool drop touched the top of his spine, then another and another until Rob had made a line from Michael’s nape to the small of his back. A rough finger dragged through the drops, releasing the scent of peppermint even as his skin tingled pleasantly as the oil worked into his pores. Light sweeps under his shoulder blades and across the top of his ass finished Rob’s preparations, leaving Michael slick and warm and tingling under the combination of the oils and Rob’s touch.
Michael struggled to hold back a shiver as he felt Rob move away from him again, more a stirring of the air than anything else. A gentle hand in his hair kept him from turning to follow the movement. A whisper of silk was his only warning as Rob wrapped a length of black cloth over his eyes, blocking out the rest of the room and causing Michael’s senses to narrow sharply to touch, scent and sound.
As if he could feel Michael straining to hear, Rob moved silently, taking his time and leaving Michael to slowly tense again, anticipating the next touch. When it came, it was shocking in its intensity.
Wax, hot and silky, drizzled in a line along his back, following the trail of peppermint oil on his spine. Then Rob’s fingers, spreading the wax in feathery patterns Michael could feel cooling and hardening even as Rob stroked through them.
Again, the trail of liquid fire, tracing the wings of his shoulder blades, then spreading quickly, forming a thin layer of wax that tugged at his skin even with the oil.
Over and over Rob drizzled wax over the exposed skin of Michael’s back, decorated his flesh with loops and swirls. Blind, Michael could do nothing but drink in the sensations: the heated trails over his skin, the heady scent of the peppermint, the icy burn of the essential oil on his skin made even more intense by the melted wax.
Rob moved. Michael felt it in the way the air caressed his skin. There was a pause, then Michael sucked in a sharp breath as an icy circle was traced at the base of his spine. Rob had plucked an ice cube from the waiting silver bowl, and was tracing a spiraling circle around the bundle of nerves just above Michael’s tailbone.
This time there was no pause, just the slow, thick pooling of heated wax, sending sensation screaming over nerves already jangling with peppermint and ice.
Rob was working slowly, methodically building up a base of wax suitable for manipulating. Warm fingers danced over Michael’s skin, forming rounded edges that were raised just enough to capture the next ladleful of melted wax, until Rob had built up a wide oval of thick, semi-solid wax spanning Michael’s lower back.
Cold again, ice tracing the edge of the wax, intense and stunning.
Next came the decoration, as Rob began to carve designs in the wax. The pressure flexed and released, the wax pressing warm against Michael’s skin as Rob manipulated the various tools. A pricking sensation, then a rush of cold, and Michael gasped. Rob had used a small, pointed straw to burrow through the wax, then had forced icy water through the tube. The hot and cold streaked over his skin, forcing a low cry from his tight throat.
A breath of time, then a breath of warm, moist air tingled over the exposed skin on either side of the puddled wax. Warm hands smoothed up his thighs, spreading him for Rob’s eyes, Rob’s touch. It was insane, how sensitive every inch of exposed skin was, as if having his eyes covered had made his flesh a thousand times more receptive to touch.
And Rob was definitely touching him.
Hands along his legs, warm breath misting over his skin, even the slick rub of leather on his inner thighs when the Dom moved to kneel between his legs on the table. Michael could feel him there, feel the press of vinyl against skin but, even more, he could feel the force of Rob’s presence, filling the air around him.
Firm hands grasped his cheeks, kneading deeply and surprising a long groan of appreciation from him. Then he was being spread, opened wide and made completely vulnerable to the only man who’d ever had the power to utterly destroy him.
A brush of rough silk hair whispered over his inner thighs, then heat, warm and velvety swiped the length of his crack. Rob’s tongue.
Again and again Rob stroked his most private flesh, wide, sweeping licks that had Michael’s breath hitching in his chest and his fingers clenching the handles of the table, fighting to hold his position.
Just when he thought he might — possibly — have his reactions under control, Rob upped the ante, stabbing with a firm tongue, teasing and tormenting Michael’s rim, fucking him until Michael arched into the touch.
“Oh, no,” Rob murmured, the vibration of his voice shivering straight into Michael’s body. “Don’t mess with my artwork.” One hand left Michael’s ass, and he moaned at the loss. Rob ignored his protest and traced a finger over the wax patterns hardening on Michael’s back.
“You’re beautiful like this. Don’t move.”
Then that tongue was back, crazy-making, delving in, in, in. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see, all Michael could do was feel. And he felt like his skin was electrified, his entire body one exposed, shuddering nerve.
The energy needed to go somewhere, and it escaped in a low whimper, a wordless plea, though even Michael couldn’t have said if he was begging for more or for less.
“Oh, yeah, Mikey, let me hear it.” Rob’s breath puffed damply against Michael’s asshole, and Michael shuddered all over.
His dick was an iron spike, a two-ton bar of glowing steel. He was afraid that with another thirty seconds of Rob’s tongue in his ass, he’d blow, shoot all over the massage table without even a touch to his cock. It was maddening, embarrassing, and So. Damned. Hot.
Rob pulled back, and the air around Michael cooled enough that he could suck in a full breath for the first time since Rob’s evil, evil tongue had come into play. A pause, insanity inducing because Michael couldn’t see what was happening, a rustling sound, then something thin and flexible was being smoothed over his crease, poked just a tiny bit into his hole.
He hadn’t played extensively with wax, but he’d been through Master Sin’s workshop more than once, so he recognized the sensation of plastic wrap being laid protectively over his anus. And the knowledge allowed him to prepare for what came next.
Wax, hot and penetrating, kept from his opening by a thin barrier of plastic wrap, rushed down the length of his crack, puddling hot and blistering at the base of his balls. His nerves sizzled, his brain seared by molten pleasure.
His back arched, he couldn’t
help himself. Even as he cried out, keening the excruciating pleasure, he felt the wax on his back crack, crumble as his muscles flexed beneath it.
“Bad, Michael.” Rob was crouched over him, warm leather and even warmer skin pressed all up against Michael’s back, pressing bits of hard wax into his skin as his voice rasped in Michael’s ear.
“I told you not to move.” His breath, his words, the very air around Rob vibrated, shivered over Michael’s skin in an unbearable, intangible caress.
“I’m sorry,” Michael choked out. Words were literally painful, as if his very lungs were filled with soft, melted wax. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he finally managed.
Rob shifted, pressing his shins over the backs of Michael’s thighs, pinning his lower body to the table. “You say you’re sorry, but you’re still moving, Mikey.”
And, oh fuck, he was moving, writhing under the lightning streaks of the wax and the velvet lash of Rob’s words.
“Do you need to be punished?”
No. No. Because if he gave in to it, gave Rob that power over him, how would he ever protect the last corner of his heart which he’d kept safe for all these years?
“No, Sir,” he panted. “Please, Sir, I don’t.” His voice was trembling, he knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. What was pride in the face of what Rob was drawing out of him?
“Don’t need it? Or don’t want it? Because, baby, you’ve been all but begging me to punish you since I walked into that workshop.”
*
So fucking beautiful, so warm and sleek and strong beneath him. Michael was a feast for the senses, a freaking Carnival of delights.
The break in his submissive’s voice as he begged Rob not to punish him sent shudders of reaction down Rob’s spine. Partly because he knew he was going to punish him anyway, but mostly because he knew that when he did it, Michael would love it.
But it could wait a bit.
Sitting back on his heels, Rob began to play with the rapidly cooling wax between Michael’s impressively firm cheeks. Pressing, kneading, Rob felt like an overgrown child with some X-rated Play Doh as he formed hills and valleys, adding more wax here, swiping through with an ice cube there, and generally tormenting Michael until his slender back was in a constant, agonized arch.