Page 89 of The Tenth Muse

If I didn't know better—didn't know that Mistress truly had my best interest in her hands, I would believe she was tearing flesh from my bone, as well as the wax that is undoubtedly caked beneath her otherwise pristine fingernails. I scream out from the sensation, knowing that no one can hear me. Knowing that even if someone could hear my screams of pain and lust, that no one would do a damn thing about them.

I wouldn't want anyone to stop Mistress from treating me like her toy anyway.

Because this is just as much for her as it is for me.

“Crying already?”

Taking stock of my body, I realize Mistress is right. At some point, tears have started to flow.

In a different place and time, I might be embarrassed by the scene I am creating.

But right now, with Mistress's nails digging into my skin and her hot breath tickling the shell of my ear, I'm content to be her toy. Content to be her messy, pathetic plaything.

“Where are you?”

I smile, despite already feeling intoxicated by Mistress's overwhelming power. “Green, Mistress.”

With the same ease in which she first mounted the table, Mistress sets her boot clad feet upon the cement floor. “Turn over, pet.”

Obeying her commands is easy, the smallest bit of praise she rewards me with enough to have me sliding my thighs together, searching for the barest hint of friction. And when Mistress notices, she doesn't chastise me this time, simply laughs a wicked, sinister sound that sends shivers down my spine against the cold table beneath me.

Mistress takes her time, slowly eyeing my body. And though she uses nothing but her eyes, I swear that I can feel the phantom touch of her hands as she boldly looks her fill.

“You make the most beautiful canvas, pet.”

Slowly, Mistress removes her boots and pants, discarding them on a chair strategically placed within tossing distance of the table. She keeps on her simple, gray cotton panties, and while most women would find them utilitarian more than aesthetic, I can't help but admire the way in which they frame her body.

She notices my gawking, and as any equally bratty top would, chuckles as I try to avert my gaze in embarrassment. “You don't have to be ashamed, sweetheart. And you are permitted to look as much as you would like. It is only touching that you must ask first.”

With her permission, I take in her body, admiring the way her chest rises and falls with each steady breath she takes. I watch as her hands flex against the table, each muscle and tendon moving together in a way I itch to feel against my skin.

Mistress steps away from the table for a moment. Never truly leaving me alone, she continues to talk to me in low, soothingtones as she refills her canisters and containers. “Lie all the way back for me. Show me all that stunning skin I have to play with.”

Her confidence makes it easy to comply and I find that I'm thankful our scene has me on my back while on top of a table because I would otherwise certainly have sunk to my knees, desperate to please Mistress however she saw fit.

Repeating the process she started with on my back, Mistress tests out the temperature of wax before painting me with an artist's brush. Hot wax pools in my navel, making me hiss in pain before giggling as the sensation of the wax hardening happens before my eyes.

Wax pours over my breasts, the pain sending lightning bolts of lust straight to my cunt. My back bows off the table as Mistress runs a cube of ice over my skin, its cool liquid leaving a trail in its wake. And when she trails the same ice cube between my thighs, circling my clit with the torturously cold cube, I lose control, screaming into the otherwise quiet room.

And the entire fucking time, she smiles.

“Goddamn fucking sadist.”

Fingers close around one of my nipples, Mistress inflicting pain on me worse than any wax she could ever pour across my skin. “I bet you didn't think that you said that out loud, did you, pathetic, little pet?”

My eyes go wide, and that laugh is back, equal parts turning me on while terrifying me just the same.

Mistress drizzles wax over the sensitive skin of my thighs before dragging her fingers through the mess. She rubs the wax into my skin and it's only then that I realize she is wearing black latex gloves.

Again and again she pours wax onto my body, never keeping up a predictable pattern. When I think Mistress is about to pour wax on my leg, she surprises me, drizzling it on my stomach. When I expect a warm sensation to bloom across my stomach,it hits my chest, flooding my cunt with the desire to be filled as the wax seeps across my flesh, trickling down to the plastic tarp beneath us.

My entire body is radiating warmth, a smile stretching over my sleepy face.

And when Mistress crawls over me, massaging my body with her own, I truly sink into another world where the only responsibility I hold is to experience the pleasure Mistress helps me to achieve when we work together toward my release.

I watch dreamily as Mistress removes her latex gloves, her motives becoming clear. And when recognition dawns on my face, she laughs again, and part of me secretly wishes I could capture Mistress in this moment forever at the intersection of where she brings me both exquisite pain and pleasure while commanding my body.

One hand delves into the space between us, quickly finding a place untouched by wax. My thighs spread and I swear to Christ I can feel my arousal as it drips from between my lips. “You made such beautiful noises for me while I was dripping wax over your body. Will you sound just as pretty while I'm making you come?”

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