Control wax and denial.

July 17

Tonight is the night. He will be here soon. You feel your hands shake slightly, giving away your nervousness as you wrap the thin leather cord of heel around your ankle. You take a moment, taking big breaths to calm your beating heart and soften the tremors. Your stomach flutters, and you are reminded of everything he has said to you—the sound of his voice on the phone, his beautiful pictures.
You stand up in front of the mirror and give your head a slight shake, examining yourself. The thin red dress clings to your body perfectly. You move your manicured hands, ***ted in matching red polish, over your dress, straightening it out. You stop as you run them over your breasts to calm your erect nipples, which are swollen and begging to be touched. The sensation runs through you and your eyes close, imagining his big, strong hands caressing them. Quickly, your eyes snap open and you shake your head again. "Focus," you tell your reflection as you check your hair and makeup, knowing full well they will be a mess by the end of the evening.
Satisfied, you move out of the bedroom and slowly walk down the hall, swaying your hips to an audience of none. You glance at the clock; just a few more minutes. Your breath catches in your throat and you pick up the glass of wine you poured, drinking it quickly to steady your nerves. You doom-scroll as the time ticks by, wondering if he is going to be late. 8 o'clock is approaching. You walk around your house, lighting candles, making sure the flickering light casts just enough shadow. You hear a loud engine pull up and turn off, and immediately your pulse hammers in your throat. You can't help but wonder, "Why am I so nervous?" It is just a man. You have had others. You know the answer, but you won't admit it to yourself. Not yet. You are almost unable to stifle a giggle rising within you when you think about how ridiculous you are being.
The door rattles as he knocks, sending a jolt through you that brings you back to the present.
"It's open," you say sweetly.
He opens the door slowly to see you leaning against the couch, legs crossed, hand on your hip, biting your lip. You show your best, most delightfully hungry look. You want him to melt before you. He walks through the door and closes it softly, never taking his eyes off you.
"You look beautiful," he says; his voice dances in your ears. Still standing in the foyer, he slowly takes off his jacket. His thin white t-shirt does little to hide his flexing muscles as he removes it and hangs it on the hook. You can feel your face flush as he continues to stand there, looking you up and down. His bright blue eyes pierce into you. You fidget, grabbing a clump of your hair and twirling it.
"Are you just going to stand there?" you say nervously, trying to control the situation.
He just smiles. "Come here," he commands, not taking a step toward you. His voice fills your ears. Your body automatically wants to follow his command, but he isn't getting control that easily. You hear the hitch in your voice betraying you when you say with a seductive smile, "Make me."
His eyes darken as a smile appears on his mouth. He takes two steps toward you, muscles in his shirt rippling as his hands flex at his sides. "Here... now!" He points to the floor right in front of him. You are gliding across the room before you even realize it, eyes wide. You were planning on teasing him, but your body just gave in.
His presence looms over you; you can feel his strength wrapping you like a heavy, warm blanket.
"Good girl," he whispers, running his hands down your arms to steady your shaking hands. His warm skin feels like fire against yours. The sound of him calling you a "good girl" melts you, and you fight the urge to collapse into his arms. He lifts your chin and gently kisses you; his thick, warm lips press against yours, and electricity gathers around your ankles, shooting lightning up your legs.
Once he pulls away, you grab his hand, intent on leading him to the living room, but he doesn't budge. His powerful grip stops you immediately. He pulls you into a passionate embrace, his heat pressing against you, his bulge hard against your stomach. Your nipples ache against his heaving chest. His lips press against your neck, and you don't recognize the moan that escapes you.
"Mine," he breathes into your ear. Your body vibrates.
"Yes, Daddy," you whisper, shocked by your own submission.
"Take me," you beg.
"Not yet," he retorts.
He leads you into the living room and sits in the armchair, grabbing a candle and setting it beside him. "Are you going to be a good girl?" he asks deeply.
"Yes," you answer weakly.
"Yes what?" he replies. *** tickles your brain—it is exhilarating.
"Yes, sir," you say.
"Good girl." He gestures to the floor. "Dance for me."
You sway to the music, eyes closed, hands moving rhythmically over your body. You lift your dress just enough to tease him.
"Very good girl," he says. "Now, strip for me."
You slowly shed your dress, leaving you in nothing but your lace underwear. He watches with a hunger that makes you feel exposed and needy. He motions for you to kneel at his feet. As you do, he picks up the candle, the wax pooling into a translucent, golden liquid.
"Hold still," he commands. He tips the candle, allowing a drop of hot wax to fall onto your shoulder. You gasp, your body jolting as the heat blossoms against your skin. You look up, eyes wide, breath hitching. He drops another—this time closer to your collarbone—and you whimper, arching your back.
"Is the heat too much?" he asks, his voice smooth and taunting.
"No, sir," you pant, "please... more."
He doesn't stop. He guides the wax in lines down your chest, forcing you to endure the sharp, stinging pleasure that leaves you trembling. You reach out to touch him, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head. "Did I say you could move?" He leans in, his face inches from yours. You are gasping, your clit throbbing with a desperate, denied ache. He releases your wrists, and your hands instantly fly to your own body, fingers brushing the sensitive skin he hasn't touched yet, begging for his contact.
"I need you, Daddy," you sob, the words spilling out of you as you writhe on the floor.
He stands up, hauling you to your feet by your hair, forcing you to bend over the seat of the chair. You feel the sting of his palm against your bare skin—smack—and then another. The spanking is rhythmic, unrelenting, and every strike sends a fresh wave of pleasure through your center. You are bound by his will, your body aching for the release he is so cruelly withholding.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking, "please touch me, please let me finish."
He stops the spanking, his hand resting firmly on the small of your back to hold you still. He leans down, his lips grazing your ear. "You don't get to finish until I say you've earned it. And right now? You have a lot more work to do to please me."
He turns you around, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes you feel small and completely his. "Now," he growls, gesturing to his lap, "show me how much you want to serve me."
You scramble to his lap, desperate to please him, your breath hitching as you settle against his hardness. You look at him with wide, pleading eyes, your body vibrating with the aftermath of the wax and the sting of the spanking. He sits back, legs spread, and you know exactly what your role is.
You begin to serve him with everything you have, your hands trembling as you unbuckle his belt and slide his pants down. You take him into your mouth, your movements slow and deliberate, worshipping the strength in him. Every time you try to s***d up, every time your own pleasure threatens to overwhelm you, he grips your hair and pulls your head back, forcing you to slow down. He dictates your pace, your depth, and the angle of your head, ensuring every second is spent entirely for his benefit.
"Look at me," he commands. You pull back, eyes glassy and unfocused, drool trailing from your lip. He reaches down and binds your wrists together with a silk tie he produces from his pocket, pulling them behind your back so you are completely defenseless against his whims. With your arms immobilized, you can only arch into him, offering your body up like an altar.
He drags his fingers down your chest and over your stomach, tracing the cooling wax trails. When he reaches your core, he finds you soaking, pulsing with a need that is nearly frantic. He strokes you, his thumb finding your clit, and you let out a strangled cry as he begins to work you. The friction is exquisite, sharp, and cruel.
He pushes you to the very brink. You feel the familiar, thundering pressure building behind your eyes, the sensation that you are about to shatter, but just as the wave begins to crest, he stops. He pulls his hand away entirely, leaving you gasping in the cold air, your body twitching and jerking in agony.
"No," he whispers against your throat, his grip on your neck firm enough to remind you that he is in total control. "You haven't earned it yet. Keep going."
You sob, your bound arms straining behind you, and you move back to him, desperate to please him so that he might grant you the mercy of release. You take him again, serving him with a frantic, submissive hunger. You move your hips, grinding against him, trying to push him toward his own edge while he relentlessly toys with yours.
He teases you over and over—fingers dipping inside, tongue tracing your most sensitive spots, then pulling away the moment you start to weep with the buildup. He ***s you to beg, to articulate exactly how much you need his touch, how much you need to belong to him, and how much you need the release that only he can grant.
"Tell me," he demands, his voice a low, gravelly growl in your ear as he thrusts rhythmically.
"I need you," you whimper, tears streaming down your face, your head bowed in total surrender. "I need your pleasure. I need you to finish me, Daddy. Please, let us finish together."
He leans into you, his weight pressing you back into the chair, and he s***ds up, his strokes becoming deep and powerful. He feels the rhythm of your body syncing with his, the way you are both spiraling toward that same point of no return. He guides you, his hands roaming your body to amplify every sensation, and when he senses that he is finally ready to let go, he grips your hips with bruising ***.
"Together," he growls.
He drives into you, hard and fast, and you finally let go of the control you’ve been fighting to hold onto. You shatter, a violent, overwhelming orgasm rippling through your entire frame, dragging a raw, primal cry from your throat. You feel him shudder against you, his own release hitting him with the same devastating intensity. You are both completely undone, held together only by the strength of his grip and the breathless, trembling reality of your submission.