I lie naked on the massage table. Plastic sheeting protects it, covered by a sheet, covered by me. There is plastic on the floor as well. Welts are rising on my back and arse from the earlier flogging, and I wriggle – just a little – to feel the lines of burn.
“Stop moving,” Hygeia warns me, and I settle.
“Yes, mistress.” I have been saying that all evening. She likes to hear it, and I am happy to comply. Nike, her slave, has been saying it a lot that evening as well.
I can see Hygeia grinning above me as she orders Nike to fill a cup for her from the sideboard (she has a gentle heater designed for keeping massage oils warm, and it is ideal for melting wax as well). Nike is swift, and once the cup is filled she shuffles over on her knees, the cup held carefully in her hands, a silicone brush held between her teeth.
I know what is coming. It’s been talked about, and we have played with wax a little previously. But not like this. This is considerably different.
Hygeia begins by dribbling wax from a height, small explosions burning my stomach and breasts where it lands in tiny droplets. She tips carefully, so only a small amount falls each time – little enough so that each landing area is well noted by my gasps of pain.
Soon, she bores of that (she bores quickly, does Hygeia), and starts to use the silicone brush, basting my nipples in white fire. She is generous with the liquid, ensuring each nipple and the surrounding aureole is well covered. The brush draws circles outwards from the point, and as the wax hardens it presses my nipple down flatter to my breast.
Moving down my body, she again dribbles the wax, tormenting my thighs both inner and outer (she ordered my legs open, and I have carefully stayed that way). I squeal as they land and dry, feeling like they are burrowing into my flesh. This irritates Hygeia, and she orders Nike to gag me with a bit. It doesn’t prevent me talking if needed, but my tongue is depressed by the weight of it, and I am less likely to break her concentration.
Prior to this evening, I had been ordered to shave myself smooth – not my preference, generally, but something I was happy to oblige her with. Now, I found out why – with the brush, she begins to baste my cunt.
“I’m going to turn you into a doll,” she informs me. “You’ll have no genitals at all!” The idea amuses her, and she laughs as she carefully strokes my labia with the brush, coating them in wax. Moving upward, she covers my mons – where hair had been until that morning – laying the wax on thickly. She appears delighted with the results, and she smears on more with her hands, increasing the covering. My cunt is on fire, and I can feel the desire for orgasm pulsing through me, but an outlet is denied.
Even if I wanted to, I cannot come. There is nowhere for my fluid to go. I am sexless, de-feminised, made into an object. I have never felt hornier…
The wax has dried, and there is weight on my breasts and cunt, drops of not-semen on my belly and thighs. The cup is near-empty.
Bored again, Hygeia orders Nike to bring over the brushes. Together, they ‘curry’ me with thoroughness, their heavy bristles stroking me roughly, teasing me indiscriminately, and scrubbing me clean.
I do not get to come for hours. But when permission is given, I come very hard indeed.