Melting

This erotic story excerpt from Untouchable by Elizabeth SaFleur is published with permission.

Hottest20 minsAdult MFContemporary
Erotic sexy story for women by Elizabeth Safleur

Carson stood in thrall of London, who sat in his old hardback chair, a holdover from his father’s study. He doubted good old dad would have understood his methods. But perhaps he’d have appreciated the nude and blindfolded London, whose bare ass now graced its seat. She wore only his belt around her waistline.

As directed, her ankles circled the chair legs, which deliciously spread open her knees. She presented a portrait of perfect submission. If she’d stop fidgeting.

She cocked her head, listening, as he undressed. Now wearing nothing but a pair of well-worn fatigues, he was ready to do battle with her cheekiness—both literally and figuratively.

When he ran his hand from the crown of her head down to the side of her face, she leaned into his touch.

He’d secured her hair into a tall, messy ponytail with an elastic, a leftover from a long-ago liaison with someone whose face he couldn’t have reconstructed if he’d tried. With London, so seductively perched on his desk chair, all past play faded like century-old wallpaper.

“London, what is the first rule of a Dominant-submissive scene?”

“Listen to you.”

“No. The first rule is to stay safe. If I restrained you, would you feel safe or in danger?”

“Protected.” Her answer collided with his question. Her chest pinked as if embarrassed by her quick admission.

He understood a woman’s deep-seated need to be special, cherished and chosen. But London’s answer was unexpected. From her.

One weekend wouldn’t be enough to solve the mystery of London Chantelle. Yet his desire to take down at least a few of her walls made his cock swell, a signal at least one part of him was up for the challenge. After all, he’d spent countless weekends teasing a sub’s trust to the forefront, and its ensuing courage. This weekend wouldn’t be any different. More intense, considering the effect she had on him, but still just a weekend.

“What now?” she asked.

“Right now, all I will allow is that you sit there. Wait. And listen.”

He turned toward the massage table he’d set up. As he prepared the wide surface, he didn’t hide the sounds he made. Plastic rustled as he encased the table. He snapped a sheet over the top and smoothed it over the sides. He positioned a long neck pillow at one end to help ensure her hair spilled over the edge. Each step invigorated him.

Every candle in his room was lit, over two dozen pillars similar to the ones he’d used in a demonstration he’d given at Accendos months ago. The young girls giggled and screamed as their partners dripped hot wax on their bellies and breasts. No one got burned or hurt. The sensation play simply brought out their innate melodrama. He’d been bored to tears. Right now nothing interested him more.

After laying London down on the table, he took a moment to admire the wisps of caramel and chocolate strands by her cheeks, her ponytail dripping over the edge of the table.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No.” She shifted and the plastic crinkled underneath the sheet. “I’m fine.”

He freed his belt from her waist. A loud clank when it hit the floor made her startle.

Good Sex Stories Helena Nista

He picked up a bottle of oil and snapped open the top. After filling his palm with the lubricant, he spread it over London’s stomach. He moved to her breasts, kneading and then pinching her raspberry nipples. Her back arched into his hands, and her hands grew white from fisting the sheets by her side.

After attending to her arms and hands, he poured more oil over her pussy. He made sure every hair was coated in the emollient. He wasn’t in the business of giving bikini waxes. Soon her thighs, calves and feet wore an oily sheen illuminated by the candles.

She glowed like a marble sculpture—if it wasn’t for her constant wiggling.

“Relax.” He massaged her feet, pulling on each toe and massaging her arch. Finally her hands unclenched their hold on the sheet and splayed open.

He tipped a few teaspoons of melted wax from one of the candles into his hand. “Tell me if this burns.” He spread the warmth over her greased belly.

She inhaled sharply and her hands darted up and then settled back down.

“London?”

“Not burning …” He could tell she squeezed her eyes tighter under the blindfold.

The wax grew tacky under his palm. More gasps came from her throat as he dribbled a large drop from the candle onto her arm. Her hands jumped from the sheet only to float back down.

“Shh, feel it.” He grasped her wrist and angled it away from her body. “Palms up. Don’t move.” He picked up two pillar candles, one in each hand. “No matter what, London.”

He tipped both candles over her wrist. Her fingers danced as the drippings made contact and she gasped. “Oh!” A wax line formed, the edges pooling on the sheet.

“You are being cuffed to the table with wax. If you break these restraints, I’ll find something stronger.”

She curled her fingers as if she tested the bond.

“Confirm.”

“I-I won’t break them.”

He streamed more wax until she wore a thin manacle on her wrist. The bond barely covered her skin. If she was the submissive he believed, she’d feel it like an iron chain.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said.

She sent her other arm out, away from her body as if ready for the same treatment. Her acceptance of his handling made his groin tighten in anticipation. Primal London had returned.

He secured the other wrist with a waxy shackle. But her legs would require more than candle drippings. In addition to the soy candles, he’d warmed his largest block of paraffin in a crock pot. If his mother knew what he did with her Christmas gift, she’d lose her final hope of him ever being domesticated.

He dipped a ladle into the wax bath and continued until her ankles wore similar restraints to her wrists. Now cuffed by wax chains, spread wide, he stepped back to admire London’s captivity. A small smile played on her lips, finally relaxed. Finally giving into the inevitable.

He picked up a small paintbrush and dipped it into the pot. He painted a thin layer of wax over one nipple. She arched and sighed under the sensation. He then took one of the larger candles, and holding it high, let a long stream flow over her breast. She cried out and flinched. One hand broke through its cuff.

Her forehead furrowed. “I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Of course not.” He chuckled. “That’s the point.”

She returned his laughter, but quickly swallowed it back. “Carson? I won’t do it again.”

He touched her arm. “Of course you won’t.”

After he re-secured her wrist with more wax, her fingers quivered. Tension in her belly returned, perhaps fighting to lift herself toward him? Her pussy glistened, and not from oil, but from growing arousal.

She enjoyed being handled, he thought. He mentally added the sentiment to London’s List.

She balled her fists. The thin shackles didn’t crack. He spilled more melted candle onto her waiting body. A seal formed over her breast from drizzling wax, spiral-fashion. My mark. “This is the only white you should wear.”

He turned to the paraffin wax bath and scooped out a full dipper of the mix. With one long stream, he drew small circles around her other breast. A coiled cap formed over her flesh. She squirmed under the liquid heat, soft moans escaping her lips. More candle drippings formed waxy rivers and tributaries over her belly and her hips. Her skin reddened around the waxy parts from the stimulation and heat.

He traded candles. He’d empty one of its liquid while allowing the others to burn down more, creating their own small pools of melted warmth. Large sections cooled to semi-hardness. Unable to stay motionless any longer, her back arched with each new stream that met her skin. Wax separated and cracked, except for the thin shackles securing her wrists. She balled her fists, as if willing them to stay intact.

By the time he’d moved to her legs, she took in big gulps of air. He ran one long line of warm melted candle wax down one thigh to her knee. A light sheen had formed over her upper lip and forehead. When he crossed her low belly with a large spill of wax, she squealed. Her hands threatened to dart upward. Her manacles barely held. But she stopped herself from completely freeing her wrists and ankles.

His belly clenched. London, the woman who fought his every move in meetings, argued every word from his mouth, now fought to honor his control. The shields she’d erected to deny her desires had begun to fall away.

Now we begin.

“Won’t break,” she whispered. Her hands relaxed open.

“No, baby, you won’t break.” But you’ll break through. He’d pledged himself to her this weekend, and her armor would be no match for his resolution. She’d claimed she wasn’t looking for a master. Liar. In a few hours, the pieces had begun to fall away to reveal the real woman.

He’d broken through many subs’ walls. He would start out gentle and slow, let them grow comfortable with his hands, his voice and his touch. Their facades would slip. The needs they’d hidden would unfold. And then—and only then—they’d beg for him to scratch an itch they couldn’t name.

Jesus, what he could do with London Chantelle. His mental clock ticked loudly inside and saved him from imagining impossibilities. Like having more time. Minutes and seconds would dissolve. His forty-eight hours would be up with London soon enough. And then he’d be back where he started—a new countdown, a different sub, another weekend.

~~~~~

London’s world became heat, her breath, and little jolts from Carson’s body connecting to the table. More candle wax poured over her legs. Sometimes zigzag patterns coursed over her skin. Other times, a steady stream poured over knees, hip bones, and her breasts. She grew dizzy from panting.

As a little girl she’d spend hours at the beach squeezing rough, sandy liquid through her fists over her legs until tall, drip sandcastles rose on each thigh. She must resemble such a structure, tall turrets rising from her body. No inch of her body could be exposed. She had to be mummified, encased by wax—and his unerring desire to keep her.

She wasn’t truly chained. One flick of her wrist or her ankles and she could roll off the table in seconds.

But reacting to him, to his commands and touches, sent crackles of excitement and pleasure up her spine.

“Beautiful.” Carson’s voice was edged in emotion and approval.

Her pride, so willing to scream at her for her weaknesses, shifted. In this moment she wanted to belong to him. She wanted … whatever he wanted. Anchored to his will.

Under the gummy wax and oil, her body seemed to whirl in a flat spin above the table.

Carson’s hand entwined in her hair and pulled, baring her throat. She crashed back to the surface. His teeth nipped her neck and a low growl rumbled through his lips. His fingers touched her pussy. He separated her labia and touched her inner lips, but didn’t enter. She wanted to lift her hips, making him dip in further and penetrate her.

The table jarred from a shudder that ran through her, and more wax cracked and separated from her oiled skin. The blindfold dragged over her forehead and through her hair. In the flickering light she had trouble focusing on Carson’s body leaning over her.

He spoke no words, but cupped the back of her head and lifted, as if he wanted her to see his work.

Thin strips of white covered her body, far less than she believed when her sight had been unavailable. Her breasts were topped with small mounds of wax in uneven ringlets. Long, thin Xs lay on her belly, and reedy wax lines encased each ankle. They’d felt so much heavier when she couldn’t see.

She gazed into his face. “I didn’t break them.”

“No.” He laid her head back down and smoothed her hair.

A long scrape of something sharp released some of the hardened shell encasing her forearm. Carson lifted a piece that dangled from the tip of a forked blade. “Time to uncover your lovely skin.”

She shuddered at the sight of the knife. The two points curved, like a snake’s tongue split down the middle.

He brought an edge down to her stomach and scraped from her belly button to her hip. “Close your eyes.”

Her lashes fell. Nothing but tiny flickers of low candlelight made their way through her eyelids.

Scrape. “When you entered Accendos, so many eyes were on you.”

“I didn’t notice.”

Satisfying sex stories at The Ripped Bodice

Scratch. “Why don’t you like being watched? Admired?” Another long graze of the knife down her thigh released more wax crumbles that tickled the sides of her legs as they fell to the sheet.

“Please, don’t—”

“Don’t what?

“Talk about … others.” She hadn’t meant to voice the intruding memories. Her stepfathers eyeing her up and down with salacious grins, like they saw a woman instead of a daughter. And then Michael and his desires?

“I won’t let anyone near you,” he said. Her eyes fluttered open and found Carson’s handsome face. The memories retreated. A long scratch of the blade up the inside of her thigh made her tremble in some unnamed anticipation.

“Are your nipples hard, London?” The two tips of the knife lifted a large piece of wax over her breast. A desire for him to thrust the blade underneath, score the sides of her nipple, washed over her. He wiped his finger across her sensitive peak.

“Ah, God.” She couldn’t stay flat against the table as he swirled his finger over her nipple. Gummy flakes rolled under her back as she lifted into his touch.

He returned to scratching off more wax bits with his knife. Long scrapes released her legs until only her ankles and wrists remained encased. The handcuffs had fractured and threatened to drop off. But she’d kept her hands and heels glued to the surface.

Carson laid the knife on the small stand next to the table. He placed his hand between her breasts as if checking her heartbeat and gazed into her eyes. “Breathe into my hand.”

She let her ribcage fully expand.

He moved to her ankles and crumbled the wax bonds. Flutters of panic and urgency crossed her whole body at feeling his strength. After giving the same treatment to her wrist cuffs, he looked down at her. His hawk-like gaze burned with intention.

Her imagination took over. She ripped her gaze from his face to his pelvis.

His cock pushed against his OD green fatigues. She wanted him to grasp her hair and drag her closer. She imagined after unzipping his pants, he’d present his cock to her. He’d hold out the thick cockhead for her to wet with her tongue, slicking him so he’d glide in easier. Inch by inch, she’d take him down over her tongue to the back of her throat. He’d grasp the back of her neck, force her to take more, always more. The image was so strong juices trickled down her inner thighs.

He ran his hand down her belly to her mons and without hesitation, slipped a finger deep inside her soaked pussy.

“Oh. Carson!”

“Sir.” He swirled his fingers inside her.

“Oh, yes … sir.” She squirmed as his thumb played her clit.

“Do you want to come?”

And more. Make me … “Yes. Please!”

“Please what, sweetness?”

“More, may I … ah …”

He circled her back with his free arm and pulled her closer so she curled into his chest. Even when she began to release her essence over his hand and down her legs, he didn’t stop his machinations on her pussy. He drove his fingers deep and hard, milking every last spasm from her body.

When he eased her to her back, she reached up to his neck and pulled a bit of wax hanging from his hair.

What would he look like with longer hair? Like a Roman warrior. Gold flecks from candlelight danced in his dark brown eyes.

Carson lifted her from the table, her body warm and slick from perspiration and oil. He carried her through the door, down a long hallway and into a bedroom. His room? Then into a Roman bath. No, wait. The master bathroom. Her eyesight wandered, an attempt to get her bearings. The pearl white and gray tiles showcased yet more taste than she believed someone like Carson could possess. But why did she think she knew this man at all before?

He set her on her feet inside a large glass box. A shower? Why wasn’t her mind working?

Without letting go of her back, he stripped off his fatigues, one-handed and more gracefully than she thought possible given his large hands. He stepped inside and a stream of warm water turned on immediately—soaking them both. He eased her closer to the wall until her hands touched cold tile.

“Present that sweet ass to me,” he said.

She arched her lower back and caught the tip of his cock in her crack. She wanted to turn around, drop to her knees and suckle him until she choked. Instead, as if reading her mind, he settled his hand on her back to keep her in position.

She dropped her head back and pressed backward, tried to capture more of him between her legs.

A low sound from Carson echoed in the shower. A signal of amusement? “None of that,” he said.

His hands massaged her shoulders, her back and arms. Soapy rivers sluiced down her thighs, rushing between her feminine lips. She closed her eyes. More fingers touched her there. She rested her forehead on her forearms.

Her teeth sank into her flesh, a failed attempt to stop a whimper. “Carson. Sir.” She breathed the last word into her skin.

“Yes, London?”

She pushed off and turned to face him—without permission. His hand left her sex. Would he punish her? Drive her to her knees, force open her mouth and use her? Yes, please.

His eyes held an irritating triumph. But she didn’t have the strength to deny her feelings any longer. She wanted him. Her yearnings were real. Illogical, but true. She wanted to let go, get lost, and spin out of control. Even if just for one weekend.

She groaned as he slipped a finger inside her heat, a slow slick glide that made her shudder.

She grasped his forearm. Feeling his strength tipped her to the point of no return. “No more limit on you … being with me. I want to …” She grasped his cock, equally steely and hot as the rest of him.

He tutted and she dropped her hand.

“P-please.”

“Do you want my cock here?” He pulled his finger out and then pushed back inside.

She arched her hips to reclaim his intrusion. “Yes.” She really, really didn’t care what she had said before.

He pressed her back into the shower tiles and pulled her knees up around his hips. His mouth came down on her lips and he sank deep inside her in one glide. He held himself in place as if letting her get used to his invasion. His lips began to move, as if testing her willingness. She opened to him fully, letting him take full possession of her mouth. He grew more insistent, his tongue tangling with hers.

Finally, his hips rocked, pressing her against the tile. His hardness took up every millimeter of space inside her. Her aching turned vicious, her need for him to go deeper, harder … She snapped awake from her trance.

What the hell was she doing?

“Wait. Stop.” She released her grip on his ass. She hadn’t realized she’d grasped him to begin with.

He leaned back but didn’t slip free from her.

She panted in the steamy heat. “I don’t-don’t know what I’m doing here. Wasn’t thinking.”

“You’re scared.” His hand went to her throat.

Oh, love that. Tears pooled in her eyes. She shook her head. “Our agreement. What I wanted …”

“Third lesson. Don’t force it. Tell me what you really want.”

His legs quaked under her, his voice edged with a grit. He’d been holding back his own release. For me. He moved his hand to one of her wrists and raised her arm high. He pressed it against the wall behind her, above her head. She read his eyes. He knew what he was doing. He helped her decide. But she had to say the words.

The words that have been on my tongue since first meeting you.

She slid her other hand back around to his back. “Take me.”

*

Begging for more? You can buy Untouchable here.

Find out more about Elizabeth Safleur.

Show your inbox some love