It’s not so much about the pain
as it is about the anticipation.
That’s what hurts the most.
wax
Recently, the Redhead, Craftsmate and I were at an event with some readily available candles. We were all sort of goofing around about it, but we each wound up taking some afterwards for “personal use”. The shifty glances the three of us were giving each other were kind of priceless.
As the evening wound down, I shoved a bunch into Craftsmate’s shoulderbag.
“Did you take any for yourself?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t have my backpack, where would I put them?”
He smirked, “I have a few ideas where you can put them.”
Currently, they reside in the top lefthand drawer of my desk.
This.
This I would like to try.
It’s been almost a year now since the last time I tried waxplay.
The last time, I had to perform it on myself while the thief watched. There’s something a lot more daunting about doing it that way. You would think that being in relative control of the candle would make the experience a little less intimidating, but you tend to actually have a lot less control over the candle when your hand is shaking than you’d like.
We started with it over my breasts, on my nipples. I shivered when started to drip onto my thighs. I protested when he suggested I put it on my clit. I had never done that before or had anyone put the wax there. When I finally agreed, I swear I saw white the moment the wax made contact with my clit. I cried out, my body shook, and I wound up spilling more wax on my thigh and over my slit.
“I’m proud,” the thief said, “and, damn, that looks awesome.” He gestured to the wax that covered my body. I blushed and chuckled.
I think I am way overdue for another experience like that.
I just got a wax today and now I can’t stop running my fingers over it. So smooth.
“I’ll be anything you want,” she said, “so long as I’m useful.”
She hated when people like them got over the top. She hated the pushcarts and the pony play and the ornate arrangements of flesh made to be something of use. She wanted to be used simply, to be reduced to function and not form.
And so he turned off the fuse box and blamed the storm. And she went to get a book of matches.
The Winter Formal, Part 5
At this point, Blue’s boyfriend comes over. Yes, boyfriend. We’re going to call him Byron. Because of alliteration and also because he’s the sort of romantic hero-looking fellow that Byron would write about. Maybe. It’s been a long time since I read Byron.
“So, you look hot,” Byron announced when he saw me, “like, really though.” I laughed and rolled my eyes. I’m not the best at taking compliments.
He took a seat and pulled me into his lap while Blue set to talking to someone else. I started fiddling with a candle on the table and was warned about getting wax on myself. To demonstrate my bravado, I blew out the candle and dumped a fair amount of wax on my wrist. The joys of being a masochist.
Blue put his wrist out and I waited for the wax to cool a bit more before pouring some onto him. “Christ, that hurts,” he muttered.
We were all, vaguely, flirting from there. There was talk about hitting the dance floor. I rose up from Byron’s lap and gestured the group on. Blue wrapped an arm around me as we walked. "That’s it,“ declared Blue with a grin, "we’re going to have a threesome.”
“Oh, shut it.”
“Nope,” Blue insisted playfully, “we’re having a threesome.”
I shook my head. “Okay, dear.”
Just was alerted that I got a new email. It was from a certain tumblrer who I admire very, very much. And who clearly knows me very, very well.
©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#251)
Cool weather means more candle rights?
So, I think I encountered a sadist in a real-world situation. It was interesting.
I got a wax today. It’s all gone and I literally cannot stop looking at it and touching it. Because I’m far too easy to please. And it’s so damn smooth.
Usually, I keep to a routine of every six weeks, but my recent two months abroad threw it off. For those of you who don’t know, if you don’t wax for a while, the hair comes in thick and it hurts much more than usual to have it waxed.
I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that my esthetician had a sadistic streak. Not for the stereotypical “oh she rips off waxy paper from my vagina” reason. But more for her demeanor while she carries it out and the little comments she makes. This theory may have been confirmed today after the following exchange:
Her: I’m pacing myself. I’m trying not to torture you.
Me: Thanks.
Her: Because, you know, if I wanted to torture you, I’d just use a bigger strip and pull slowly.
And then there was this happy little distant smile that was gone as soon as it came.
The temptation to make a “burning the candle at both ends” joke is almost too great.