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Returning home early from work has its rewards.

Making me gasp, squirm, arch both into your touch, and away from you.

I can feel my thighs grow damper, my stomach muscles jumping when your knuckles brush over them. Your hands cup my hips, thumbs settling in the hollows of them. You smile, tightly, when I push up against your hands, wanting to coax your fingers downward. But you simply move away, shrugging out of your jacket, flipping up your sleeves.

My eyes are heavy, and wary, as I watch you. Above my head, my fingers itch to touch you, to feel your skin and the texture of your hair. My lips tingle when my gaze drops to your mouth, other parts of me tingle when my gaze roams your body.

You move towards me once more, with a tall, slim tapered candle in your hand. Immediately I shrink back, squirm, tug on the wrist shackles, shaking my head. My voice is almost scratchy, husky, and tinged with an edge of uncertainty, even as I half-laugh.

"Wait, no. You can't mean!" I squirm, not in fear of pain, but in fear of an overload of sensation.

You don't respond, simply stand in front of me, so close that I can nearly feel the texture of your clothes on my skin. Your hand reaches out, lifting the candle, tilting it. My whole arm jerks when the first drops of hot wax land with unerring accuracy on the inside of my wrist.

Steadily you move down the inside of my forearm, each drop gathering the nerves, making them jangle, even as my I am bracing for the next. By the time you scatter wax over the sensitive skin of my inner elbow, my heart is pounding and my breathing is short. Soft whimpers and quiet moans escape, even as I bite down on lip.

It is harder to watch you, to see you move, harder for my mind to deal with anticipation of each hot drip than it would be if I was blindfolded. Watching you, I can't escape. And you know it.

The hot drips on my shoulders make me shudder, it is half torture to watch you raise the candle to my other wrist.

All the way down, slowly, steadily. That first shock of that liquid heat, the near tickle as it slowly cools, each consecutive one bringing a reaction. Over my collarbone, then dripping down, directly between my breasts. My eyes meet yours, my lips part on a gasp as in my peripheral vision I see the taper angle, the flame rising higher, seconds before the wax strikes, rolls,cools over the inner swells of my breasts. Bracing myself for the sting and flashing burn on my nipples, but you move, teasing. Over my belly, the plane of each hip, the sensitive tops of my thighs. Driving me crazy, making me writhe and pull on the shackles. Then your hands, stroking over my skin roughly, rolling, scraping the beads of wax off my skin, rousing me even more. Feeling your hands linger, sometimes gently, usually not so. Racing over me at other times, everywhere at once. The room filling with my moans and whimpers and soft sounds of pleasured distress, my harsh breathing, and yours.

Suddenly unlocked, my hands free to stroke over you now as you bend to release my ankles. Tugging your shirt free, sliding my hands over your hot skin, frantic to touch and feel. Impatient when you fumble for just a second, then suddenly scooped up, the room spinning.

Dumped unceremoniously on the bed, and I don't even have time to stretch my legs out- your arms are under the backs of my knees, your chest pressing into me, pushing my knees against my shoulders. And you are there, sliding against me, your cock hard and throbbing and hot and then *in*. Filling me so deep, buried fully. You withdraw slightly, then shove, hard, pushing in again. Keeping me curled into that ball, folded tight as you fill me again and again, sending me rocketing higher and higher. Every inch of me tingling, my legs shaking, muscles quivering. Feeling that burning deep inside, low in my hips, spreading up and down and every which way.

So close, right on that razor edge, my eyes open to see you, your face so intense, set and hard and right above mine.

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