The basement smells of honey and winter pines before a single wick is lit.
Four pillar candles sit on a steel tray: ivory soy (the lowest melt), beeswax gold, scarlet paraffin, and midnight-blue paraffin laced with micro-glitter. A stainless ladle, a thermometer, and a bowl of half-melted wax wait on a mug warmer humming at a constant 50 °C.
Eva kneels nude on a rubber mat dusted in talc so the wax will lift clean. Her wrists are cuffed in front—mobility for safeword taps—but her ankles are hobbled by a 30-centimetre chain, just shy of a crawl. Her eyes twitch from candle to candle, wonder tinged with dread.
Zoe and I wear leather aprons and nothing else.
“Colour?” I ask.
“Green—nervous green,” she whispers.
I lift the ivory pillar, drip a tiny bead on my own forearm first—always a demonstration. Eva watches the bead bloom, then cool. I raise her right breast, let a drop hit the slope above her nipple. She gasps: surprise-hot, then instant-neutral as the soy sets soft.
“How’s the brightness?”
“Bright but sweet,” she exhales.
Zoe lights the beeswax. A warm honey scent unfurls. She circles behind, drips a gold rivulet between Eva’s shoulder blades; it runs like molten amber, pooling in the small of her back. Eva arches, the heat mapping her spine.
We alternate—ivory on her breasts, gold down her back—until her skin blooms with soft constellations.
Scarlet paraffin melts hotter. I hold the thermometer over the ladle: 54 °C—safe. One scarlet drip lands on her lower belly; Eva jerks, hissed breath. A colour check: she lifts two trembling fingers—our pre-arranged “still green” gesture.
The scarlet becomes a script: we write vulgar names—toy, pig, filthy—across her thighs. The wax stings, cools, locks letters against flushed flesh. Shame radiates crimson to match.
Zoe trails a line from nape to cleft with the midnight-blue glitter wax. Sparkles catch the amber LEDs—tiny galaxies. Eva’s moan vibrates between pain and awe.
Heat builds; pores bloom sweat beneath the shells. Each new drop lands on her damp skin, sizzles softly. Beeswax over scarlet, ivory over blue—layering until she’s armored in molten lace. She breathes like a bellows; her inner thighs shimmer with arousal slick.
I ladle blue across her left buttock in one slow sheet. She yelps—the heat sharp—then shudders as the cooling pulls flesh taut. Zoe cups her chin, spits softly. Saliva slides down, mixing with the wax ridges. A humiliated whimper escapes.
“Say why the burn makes you wetter,” I demand.
“Because—because it writes your claim—I feel owned in every drop—” She stumbles, her body trembling.
Her clit swells, trapped untouched between wax-flecked thighs.
Contrast sharpens nerves. I fetch a stainless ice cube, glide it over the scarlet letters. Wax cracks, shards falling. Heat-ghosts turn to cold lightning—Eva squeals, her thighs buck. Zoe catches the fragments, sprinkles them back onto her tongue, tasting shame.
We chip away the honey-gold on her spine, peel the ivory petals off her breasts; each flake tugs sensitive hairs, resetting the burn to a tingling itch. Her nipples stand dark plum, begging.
She is molten-need personified. We haven’t touched her clit. Her pulse jumps visibly at her groin; every breath fogs the LEDs.
I crouch, blow hot air over her slick folds—no contact. She sobs. Zoe grips her wax-armored buttocks, spreads her open; blue glitter shards rain onto the mat.
“Ask,” I murmur.
“Please—let me come—set me on fire inside—”
I drizzle fresh scarlet just above her hood; the heat kisses nerve, denies payoff. She convulses, orgasm poised. Zoe flicks a knuckle over her nipple—sharp spark—and Eva crashes… only to find the orgasm stolen by absence of friction. A ruined quake—fluid seeps, her thighs quake, pleasure aborted.
Her cry shatters the air.
While aftershocks twitch, we soothe: aloe-slick fingers caress red patches, an icy cube circles her clit—tantalizing, not granting. Denied again, her need spirals.
Tears mix with glitter on her chest. “Colour?”
“Green—melting—want—” her voice grainy.
We exchange a nod; final mercy.
I light a tiny tea-light bleached to 47 °C. Hold the flame above her mound, tilt: a steady drizzle flows onto her clit proper, sealing it in a warm shell while Zoe rubs circles through a latex glove, pressure perfect.
“Count.”
“One—two—three—”
At six the shell cracks under her finger; wax and slick merge; friction ignites.
“Come.”
An orgasm erupts—loud, messy, unstoppable. The wax splits, hot-cold pulses clenching; she screams gratitude, her body jerking the chain taut. Wet gush coats our knuckles, extinguishes the last drips of flame.
We sponge away remnants with warm, oil-infused cloths, revealing rose-pink skin beneath confetti. Her wrist cuffs loosen, her ankles freed. She collapses on a flannel blanket, shivering in dopamine after-rain.
Electrolyte water, soft kisses, a lidocaine mist on the reddest spots. Her breathing steadies, pupils dreamy.
“Colour?”
“Emerald dawn,” she smiles, sticky lashes glittering.
Candles snuffed, wax shards tossed. The basement dims; honey and pine linger. Eva sleeps between us, skin still marbled faintly with poetic burns that will fade by morning—except the hidden one: the memory of fire denied, fire given, fire always asking for a deeper shade…
The St Andrew’s cross dominates the west wall like a dark cathedral window: X-arms of matte oak, padded cuffs at the wrists and ankles, and steel eye-bolts inset for a quick-release. I polish the leather with a sweet-orange balm; the room fills with a citrus hush that settles over the concrete like velvet dust.
Eva steps forward, her breath fogging in the cool air. Her skin still shows pale ghost-patterns where the wax games burned and healed. Tonight will mark her differently.
Zoe fingers a pair of floggers—an elk-hide thuddy one and a deer-hide stingy one—while the Magic Wand charges on a side console, its blue LED pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Colour?” I ask.
“Fresh-grass green,” Eva answers, her voice calm but thready.
We secure her: her wrists high, arms making a perfect V; her ankles wide on the lower posts. Her knees flex; her hips thrust forward just enough that her mound hovers half a fist-breadth from the oak. She tests the cuffs—no give—and exhales a tremor of surrender that waves down her body like wind through wheat.
I stroke her biceps, feel gooseflesh bloom. Zoe knots a black silk ribbon over Eva’s eyes—no blindfold tonight, just a reminder: see only what the ribbon allows.
A jazz line hushes from a speaker: a slow upright-bass figure counting time with our pulses.
I take the elk-hide flogger first—twenty-one tails, buttery-soft weight. One practice swing cuts the air with a muffled thunder. Eva flinches at the sound alone.
I plant the first strike low on her right buttock. A whomp more felt than heard; flesh trembles, colour blooming a slow rose. The second strike mirrors the left. I settle into a rhythm—left, right, pause; rising to the upper thighs, then down again. Ten blows, then a pause: my fingers press the marks, checking heat, checking the capillary colour. Good.
“Yes, yes,” Eva whispers—already floating.
Zoe circles, the deer-hide in hand. She taps Eva’s shoulder—a warning—then flicks a stinging tail across her upper back. A gasp; shoulders tense, then melt. The sting layers over the thud, bright on low. Two voices of pain begin a duet.
We work in sets of ten. After each, I ask “Colour?”
She answers a steady “Green.” Endorphins rise; her breaths deepen. Sweat beads in the lumbar hollow, catching the bass line’s shadowy lights.
By forty strokes total, her thighs are a mottled sunset, her back a pink dawn. She’s panting, half-smiling—impact space.
I brush my lips to her ear. “Ready for drum and hum?”
Her nod rattles the cuffs.
I unhook the Wand, its silicone head already warm. I drag it along her inner thigh—no power—letting her smell the faint clean-plastic tang. She squirms; chains clink.
I click level 1. A low purr vibrates through the oak into her bones. I lodge the head between her labia, the handle lashed to a small D-ring so it presses firm against her clit but can’t grind.
Her moan lengthens into a vowel-less sound.
Zoe now flogs her hips and flanks—sting where nerves feed the same pelvic plexus the Wand excites. Each strike pops while the vibration thrums; the cross itself hums in resonance.
“Count ten strokes,” I tell Eva. “On ‘ten’ you may not come. This is worship, not relief.”
She gasps agreement.
Strokes: one—wand purr, hips jerk; two—sting hotter; three—silent shout. By seven her knees shake, slick glistens down the oak leg. At nine her voice cracks, almost a sob. Strike ten lands; she freezes, panting, the orgasm crouched inside muscles like a coiled cat.
I drop the flogger, step to the front, still the Wand. “Hold.”
She vibrates just in breath, her whole body begging every nerve to fire.
Thirty seconds—an eternity—then I tap the power again, a short burst, then off. Pleasure spikes, then collapses. She screams frustration, then laughter.
We repeat: the flogger thuds, the Wand hums at level 2—deeper, wilder. Her skin glows; her clit swells against the silicone. She cries “please!” on stroke eight; on ten I switch the Wand to level 3 for one count, then off—ruining another crest.
Tears slip beneath the ribbon; she arches, the cross creaks.
“Colour?” Zoe asks, her voice soft steel.
“Green—dizzy green.”
My hand rests over her sternum—heartbeat rapid but not sprinting. Safe.
“Beg me right,” I whisper, my hand slipping to her throat, not squeezing.
“Please, Mistress—need release—been a good canvas—please let your slut splash.”
Zoe kisses her nape; I power level 4—a throbbing roar. I flog once, twice, thrice across her buttocks—hard; red streaks flare.
The orgasm races—she howls—but a breath before it tips I flick off.
A ruined spasm rips anyway—her body convulses, but the climax is strangled half-born. She sobs, biting the ribbon.
“Feel the ruin,” I murmur. “Your pleasure belongs to us.”
We untie the ribbon so she sees us. Tears, sweat, flush—portrait of need. I kneel, hold her gaze.
“Last chance. Come loud or never tonight.”
The Wand level 2 seats; Zoe’s fingers slip inside, curling forward. Ten flogger strokes roll a mixed thud and sting along her thighs.
“Now.”
The orgasm detonates—full, ragged, endless. She screams—sound bending rafters—then sags. The Wand stays until tremors fade.
Quick-release clips pop; we catch her sagging weight. She shakes but smiles in dazed triumph.
Aloe and arnica balm buff the crimson stripes; water touches her lips; a fleece blanket cocoons her body. Her heartbeat slows under our palms.
“Colour?”
“Forest after rain,” she whispers.
We settle against the cross’s shadow—two Dommes flanking their storm-spent toy—while the bass line finally fades, and the basement hush reclaims its throne.
