He kisses a trail from my mouth down my neck, his lips hot and urgent. "Gonna mark you all over," he growls, his breath skating over my damp skin. "Every inch of this perfect, plump body. My brand." His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, sucking hard until the skin burns. I gasp, my hands tangling in his thinning hair. He moves lower, to the swell of my breast, sucking a dark, possessive circle around my areola. The sensation is sharp, sweet—the pull of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth near the silver barbell. My nipple tightens to a painful point. "Yes," I whimper, arching my back, offering more.
He worships my other tit the same way, leaving a matching bloom of red and purple. His mouth travels down my sternum, over the soft curve of my belly. He pauses at my navel ring, flicking it with his tongue before sucking a bruise just below it. Every new mark feels like a claim, a dirty secret painted on my skin in colors only we can see. I'm panting, my cunt throbbing in time with my heartbeat, a fresh slickness coating my inner thighs.
He gets up, the bed dipping as he moves. I watch him, my vision blurred with lust, as he picks the bag and opens. He pulls out a length of soft, cream-colored rope. My breath catches. I've seen it before, tucked away. I've fantasized about it.
He turns, the rope coiled in his hand, and his eyes meet mine. A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. "Look at that blush," he says, his voice a low, nasty rumble. "My shy little girl. But we both know what's in that pretty head, don't we? You've been dreaming about this. Dreaming about being tied up and used by your dirty old man."
I can't speak. My cheeks are on fire. He's right. The thought of being bound, completely at his mercy, has been a secret loop in my mind for weeks.
He comes back to the bed, kneeling beside me. He leans down and kisses me, deep and slow. "Gonna make it real, sweetie." His hands are gentle but firm as he guides me onto my stomach. He gathers my wrists and pulls them behind my back. The first loop of rope is snug, not biting, as he secures them together. The confinement is immediate, thrilling. He pushes my shoulders down, arranging me so I'm lying flat, my face turned to the front. He parts my legs wide, using more rope to tie each ankle to the corresponding bedpost. I'm spread open, utterly exposed. The cool air whispers over my wet, swollen folds.
He kneels between my splayed thighs, his hands smoothing over my ass cheeks. "Fuck, look at this," he breathes. "This perfect, meaty pussy, presented just for me. Begging." He leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to my lower lips. I shudder.
He reaches over to the nightstand and pulls out a small box. From it, he takes three candles. They're a creamy ivory color, medium girth, short. He holds one up so I can see it. "Skin-safe, sweetie," he murmurs, his voice dripping with false reassurance. "Don't you worry your pretty little head." The way he says it, so casually nasty, makes my cunt clench. I'm already dripping.
He lights the first candle with a soft click. The flame dances, casting warm shadows. He kisses the small of my back, then moves up. He licks a broad, wet stripe over the underside of my heavy breast before positioning the candle just above it, on the soft slope of my pectoral. He holds it steady, tilted.
The first drip of hot wax hits my skin.
I jolt, a sharp cry tearing from my throat. It's not pain, not exactly. It's a searing, intense focus. The wax pools, thick and hot, and instantly begins to cool, tightening on my skin. He pours a slow, deliberate stream, painting a burning trail from the swell down toward my nipple. I moan, long and low, my hips shifting helplessly. A fresh gush of wetness seeps from my cunt, soaking the sheets beneath me.
"That's a good bitch," he comments, his voice calm, admiring. He sets the base of the candle into the soft wax he's just poured, letting it stand upright on my tits. The weight is strange, the heat a constant, throbbing presence.
He lights the third candle. This time, he kisses around my belly button, his tongue dipping into the pierced hollow, before positioning the candle just beside it. He pours the wax in a circle around my navel, the drops splattering and spreading. The sensation is unbelievable—the heat radiating deep into my belly, contrasting with the cool air on my wet pussy. I moan harder, my back arching. He sets the third candle standing in the wax moat.
My whole torso is on fire, my mind whiting out with sensation. He leans over me, his hand sliding between my legs. His fingers find my clit, swollen and jutting from its hood. He rubs it, slow, firm circles that have me sobbing into the mattress.
"I'm gonna eat you," he announces, his voice a dark promise, "until these candles melt all the way down. A little ritual. To make you mine in every filthy way." He says it like it's a sacrament. A nasty, beautiful sacrament.
Then his mouth is on me.
He doesn't tease. He devours. His tongue spears deep into my hole, fucking me with it in messy, passionate strokes. He french kisses my cunt, his lips sealed over my entire soaked opening, sucking hard. I scream, the sound muffled by the bed. He alternates—deep, plunging licks into my core, then broad, flat laps over my swollen outer lips, then focused, cruel flicks on my clit.
The sensations layer, impossible to separate. The hot wax cooling and tightening on my tits and belly. The hotter, wet fire of his mouth between my legs. I'm moaning, a continuous, broken stream of sound. I feel myself gushing, my juices coating his chin, dripping down his neck. He drinks it all, groaning against my flesh.
"So fucking wet," he snarls, pulling back for air. "Drowning me. My perfect, messy girl." He plunges back in.
The candles drip. Slow, steady. Rivulets of wax run from my breast, over my ribs, onto the sheet. A pool forms around my navel, spreading warmth across my lower belly. He doesn't mind. He eats me through it, his tongue lapping up my cream mixed with the faint, safe scent of melting wax. He stuffs his fingers into my dripping hole, then brings them to my mouth, smearing my own slickness over my lips. "Taste it. Taste how fucking good you are."
I suck his fingers clean, my eyes rolling back.
The candle on my tit gutters and goes out. He blows out the one on my belly. The wax is a hardened landscape on my skin. He picks up the belly candle, now a short stub, and holds it over my mound.
He pours.
The wax hits my clit slowly.
I shatter. A raw, ragged moans is torn from me. It's a lightning bolt of pure, shocking sensation—searing heat on the most sensitive part of me. My entire body convulses, straining against the ropes. My cunt pulses violently, drenching his hand which is still cupped beneath me. He pours more, the wax spattering over my mound, my outer lips, my thighs. Each new splash sends another shockwave through my system. He keeps pouring until the candle is gone, then rubs the hot wax into my skin with his palm, massaging it into my folds, over my throbbing clit. I'm sobbing, coming in endless, dizzying waves.
Finally, he stops. He unties my ankles, then my wrists. My limbs are limp, trembling. He helps me sit up, then guides me to stand, shaky, in front of the full-length mirror beside the dresser.
He stands behind me, his chest warm against my back, his hands coming around to grope my wax-splattered breasts. The temporary streams of redness from the heat glow against my skin, crisscrossed with the dark purple of his hickeys. I look utterly debauched. Owned.
He kisses my neck, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Who is your love?" he whispers, his voice rough.
"You," I breathe.
"Who is your master?"
"You."
"Who is your fiancé?"
"You. Only you."
He smiles, a nasty, proud smile. "That's right." His hands slide down, gently peeling the cooled wax from my skin. It comes off in flakes and sheets, revealing the flushed, sensitive skin underneath. He admires his work—the marks, the pink trails. He smacks my ass, making the flesh jiggle. "Beautiful."
He sits on the floor in front of the mirror, leaning back against the bed. "Come here. Sit on me. Face the mirror."
I obey, lowering myself onto his lap, facing our reflection. My hands go behind me, around his neck. He spreads his legs, forcing mine wider. I can feel his hard, thick length trapped between us, poking against the base of my spine. He reaches around, his fingers finding my swollen, exposed cunt. He rubs my clit, his touch knowing, relentless. I watch myself in the mirror—my face flushed, my tits heavy and marked, his big hand working between my legs.
"Who do you belong to?" he asks, his lips on my shoulder.
"You," I moan.
He pinches my clit, a sharp, delicious sting. "And what are you?"
"Yours." My voice is a wreck.
"My beautiful wife-to-be," he says, the words a filthy caress. He slides two fingers inside me, fucking me slowly, his thumb still circling my clit. I'm so wet it sounds obscene. I watch his fingers disappear into my puffy, reddened flesh, my inner lips clinging to them.
His phone rings on the nightstand. He doesn't stop fingering me. He reaches for it with his free hand, answers.
"Ethan." His voice is calm, normal, even as his fingers curl deep inside me, hitting a spot that makes my eyes flutter. I bite my lip to stay quiet. He listens. "Yeah. Okay. I'll be there in twenty." He listens some more, his fingers pumping slowly in and out of my sopping cunt. "We'll talk. Just… stay there." He hangs up.
He brings his wet fingers to my mouth. I suck them clean, tasting myself. He gently runs his fingers over my wax-marked skin, my hickeys, my swollen lips. "It's fucking beautiful," he says, his voice full of dark awe. "My masterpiece." He sighs, a real, weary sound. "My son needs me. I have to go."
He helps me up, his touch suddenly tender. He gets dressed quickly—pants, shirt. He comes back to me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me so passionately I feel dizzy. "I bought a wedding dress for you," he murmurs against my lips. "White lace. Gonna tear it off you after we make it legal."
I blush so hard I feel faint.
He kisses me once more, deep and final, then walks out. The door clicks shut.
I'm left standing before the mirror, his drool dripping from my kissed-bruised lips down onto my trembling thighs. I stare at the messy, marked, utterly claimed girl in the glass. My cunt aches, empty and wet. My skin hums. The silence he leaves behind is the loudest thing I've ever heard.