The Wax and the Willing

I had always been curious about wax play, but I never thought I’d actually try it. That changed the night I met her.

She was a performer at a local burlesque show, her confidence and charisma captivating the entire audience. After the show, I found myself lingering near the stage, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. To my surprise, she approached me.

“You looked like you enjoyed the show,” she said, her voice smooth and sultry.

I nodded, my words failing me. She smiled, a knowing glint in her eye, and leaned in closer.

“I have a private performance tonight,” she said. “Interested?”

I shouldn’t have said yes. I knew that. But something about her drew me in, and before I could think better of it, I was following her backstage.

The room was dimly lit, with candles flickering on every surface. In the center was a table, its surface covered in a soft, white sheet. She gestured for me to sit, and I obeyed, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Have you ever tried wax play?” she asked, her fingers trailing along the edge of the table.

I shook my head, my throat dry.

She smiled, picking up a candle and holding it above my arm. “Trust me,” she said, tilting the candle slightly.

The first drop of wax hit my skin, and I gasped—not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of the sensation. It was warm, almost soothing, and as more drops followed, I felt myself relaxing into the experience.

She moved the candle over my body, each drop of wax a new sensation. Sometimes it was warm, sometimes it was hot, but it was always exhilarating. She whispered instructions, her voice a mix of authority and tenderness, and I obeyed without hesitation.

By the time she finished, I was trembling, my body and mind utterly spent. She removed the wax, her touch gentle, and smiled down at me.

“You were incredible,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I didn’t know how to respond. All I knew was that I had experienced something I would never forget.

As I left the club that night, the city lights blurred around me, but the memory of her touch remained sharp and clear. I knew I would return, drawn not just to the wax, but to her—the woman who had shown me its power.