It was the flame that was the problem. The sizzle of the wax as it splattered against her skin, instantly turning into something harder, almost like some sort of armour she could coat herself in, she could handle. She could even handle the way it sloshed slightly inside the crater of the candle, as lurid and grotesque as it was. It was the flame, that heat that flickered and dazzled, looking like it might spill out with a goblet of the stuff, that she was worried about.
It was an irrational fear, but to her it was a warning light, something that told her that this was not ok, that this was, in fact, a step further than she wanted to go. But that was one half of her brain, the conservative, the one that wanted her to stay at home and watch Carnivale instead of going to that party when she was at University, when she’d met the first guy who’d tied her up, and figured out that this was one of the things she wanted out of life.
She’d not listened to it then, and she was ignoring it now, turning a deaf ear to her better judgement and revelling in the debauchery of the candle, the burn of the wax. She was turning herself into a Pollock painting, an abstract arrangements of dots and splatters, each with some sort of obscure meaning, something she couldn’t divine. But he was paying attention to where every one landed, and more than a little of that attention was being lavished on her chest.
Her nipples were starting to look like their own little islands of wax, a malformed, hard focus of the stuff, twin points that had no right being so symmetrical amid a sea of asymmetry. She bit her lip, and he kissed it. When he pulled away he took the bottom one with him, latching onto it with his teeth, and she melted just like the wax in the candle. A little more symmetry for him to play with.
The candle flickered in the corner of her eye, and she started to get used to it, if only a little.