Work Text:
The first drop of wax that hits your skin gets a cry out of you that immediately stops his hand, and he uprights the pitcher votive in alarm. He'd feared your pain, to be honest, and is so intensely focused on listening for your safe word that he's almost forgotten to enjoy himself.
But you haven't. When you feel no further lover's spit of wax against your back, you shift and look up at him expectantly. Impatient as you whine, "Come on, Miles, I'm okay! Keep going!"
He looks down at you with no small degree of disbelief; but then, this wasn't his idea. It had, predictably, been yours, inspired by a news story that had been making the rounds and a surprisingly positive reaction to a splash of wax that had leapt from a candle you were moving to a different countertop. And you had been downright underhanded in convincing him to overcome his reluctance and try it out with you. You're an investigative journalist. That means you should be curious and adventurous, right?
"That Afghanistan shit was less stressful than this," he mutters to himself, still visibly less than thrilled at the possibility of harming his girlfriend, yet nevertheless compliant enough to tilt the pitcher once more and rain wax upon your naked body.
It's strange, the way your body instinctively reacts with shock to this stinging sensation, but then quickly smooths its own panic down to warm, anticipatory excitement. No different than feeling shower water flush hot without warning, that pleasant surprise that you quickly adjust to. It pools on your flesh like cum, drying down quickly until you can feel it stiffen the skin where it lands.
"It's edible, by the way," you remind him between breathless gasps, wiggling your hips invitingly as you shoot a playful smile towards his perturbed expression.
"Yeah, I don't think so."
"How are you ever going to write an amazing, well-researched article without getting involved?"
"I definitely don't think so."
"No fun," you whimper, but you know that's being unfair. That Miles is even entertaining you by accepting this sexual research mission instead of immediately shit-canning the idea is fabulous in itself, and a testament to the wisdom that, at the end of the day, he really is up for anything -- for better or for worse.
In fact, you can almost read his flat patience with your wriggling desperation as something within the ballpark of casual sadism. A lesser man, one with little self-control, would have given up by now, too tempted by the sight of your prone, naked body to continue chastely baptizing you with wax when he could be crudely sticking his cock into you instead. But Miles is coolly maintaining control as usual, shaking his head as a helping of wax to your ass makes you jerk violently and cry out his name.
"That wasn't even that bad," he chides, then catches himself, realizes that he's actually getting into this scene. "Oh, fuck. What am I even saying?"
"That's fucking hot, Miles. Don't stop!" And to assure him that you mean more than just the wax, you turn over and show him your throat, presenting him with a canvas of skin even more sensitive than what he's been torturing thus far.
He gives you a look of warning, a silent reminder that he will not be pleased if you push yourself too far. But now that he's personally seen how much this simple action is turning you on, he nevertheless cannot help but want to please you, and, as something of payment for this scene, he takes the time to squeeze your breasts as he bestows wax upon your painfully tight nipples.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," you gasp, tearing into the sheet beneath you as the dual sensations tag-team your nerve endings into submission. "This is like being in heaven."
"Don't let the Church hear you say that," he deadpans, casually sending an almost thoughtful stream of wax down your stomach as though he's Jackson Pollock.
"How can you be so calm -- ?" you demand, the sticky, tacky heat of the wax on your stomach involuntarily curling your torso and arching your hips upward. But the action alters the trajectory of the candle's drip, and you cry out in earnest when you feel tight-fisted, clutching heat curving around your clit.
He's accidentally dripped wax directly onto your cunt, and Miles, this time genuinely unsure if your bowing back and wordless whimpers are the product of sincere agony, immediately jumps into action.
"Oh, fuck me," he snaps, fumbling the pitcher onto the nightstand and snatching the towel meant for cleanup. But it just makes things worse, was only meant to wipe down your body after he'd cleared the wax with a knife, and you whine his name as wet wax smears against your fold. Only one thing left to do.
Miles ducks between your thighs, quickly clearing the wax away with diligent, workmanlike strokes of his tongue. Your hands instantly find and grip that enviably soft and tufty hair, tugging weakly as he devours every droplet, practically forcing you into an orgasm that rattles your body and seems to echo intensely against all of the thick cum pools of wax that have dried against your soft skin.
He would ordinarily take in this reaction with pride and satisfaction, but for now, he twists away from your body, choking, spitting chunks of stray wax onto the floor. Evidently, edible does not mean delicious.
"Fucking shit, it's like shotgunning Satan's spunk," he bitches, retrieving the towel and wiping his tongue of lingering residue.
You got him into this mess. Maybe you should feel a little more guilty. But the climax he'd just given you was so toe-curling delectable that you can only ride high on its pleasure, grinning with relief and letting yourself lie back like a princess as he retrieves the knife that will free you from your many traces of wax.
"That," you muse, "should definitely be the pull quote for your article."