The place was kind of skeevy and the setup wasn’t the best, but the people were friendly and eager, and I trusted him to be able to make something magical happen.

For the last year or so, I’d been trying out different kinky activities, attempting to figure out not only what my likes and dislikes are but also my limits within those activities.  Heady stuff for someone who never knew limits existed until becoming involved in the kink community.
During a kink event several months ago, I’d witnessed a couple of wax scenes and was more than intrigued.  Hot wax play is edgy, in that there is a significant element of risk, both because of the materials (fire and hot liquid) and because it’s critical that a skilled and attentive person conducts it.  But wax play did not seem to cause a lot of pain, and I liked that; I’d discovered that I only liked pain play when it was integral to sex or sexual activity; it was not something I sought out for its own sake.

What fascinated me most about the wax scenes I’d witnessed was the interplay between the giver and the receiver, the creator and the creation, the way that the whole scene was more about art and performance than about pain, or even eroticism, despite the nudity and the body contact.   So, after watching these demonstrations, I approached the presenter and offered to be a model for him if he happened to be doing a demonstration in my area.  Just recently, he took me up on my offer and I became his model for that night.

There we were, then, in a transformed photographer’s studio rigged as a play space, with strobe lights and house music, gearing up to step onto a stage and show an audience what a hot wax scene was all about, and I was putting my faith in this man to use me carefully in creating something dangerous and beautiful.

After we talked about how the scene would progress and what would happen at each step, I helped him prepare the wax.  There are lots of candles involved: the large votives were the ones to be melted and poured over the model;  the smaller votives, short tapers and birthday candles would be used to decorate the hot wax base once it had cooled a little.  Usually,  he chooses colors for the base, but tonight he was going formal with only black and white wax, with small red and white votives and birthday candles for accent.
I’m kind of concerned about the birthday candles, I told him.  They’re unstable and they burn pretty quickly.  I won’t light them until I’ve put them all in place, he promised, and I’ll be monitoring  them constantly and checking in with you.  Still, you need to let me know right away if you feel uncomfortable or in pain.  And I told him I would.

Once the wax was ready, we stepped up on the platform.  The organizers had set up chairs for the people who wanted to watch, so it was like a stage in a theater.  I had to be nude for this and he likes to be nude as well; he embraced me lightly, kissed me on the forehead and  told me we needed to get undressed.
I helped him take off his clothes first; jacket, t-shirt, kilt.  I bent to help him take off his boots, but he said, no, leave them on.  But they’ll get spattered with wax, I protested.  He shrugged; I like the look, he said, and the wax on them reminds me of the scene.
There was a spotlight on us, and I couldn’t see beyond the first row of seats, but I was painfully aware that there were people there and that they were watching me.  I’d pulled off my shirt and he was crouched at my feet, helping me strip off my jeans.  This is the hardest part, I said, taking off my clothes in front of an audience.   Focus on me then, he told me, that will make it easier.  So I did, and it did, and he held my eyes as I stood naked, feeling much less vulnerable.

Because the wax would otherwise adhere to the model’s body, the body is coated in oil before the wax is poured on.  He usually uses baby oil, I think, but that night we had flaxseed oil, and I’m glad we did.  It has a warm, organic scent and feels texturally different to me, though that could be my imagination.  Because I love contact, to be touched and stroked, I reveled in this part of the process.
He began behind me, pouring the oil in his hands and smoothing it down my back in long strokes, with circles around my ass; my head dropped forward in bliss as he rubbed the back of my neck.  Throughout, he talked to me, low voiced; nothing-sayings, really, but enough to keep me engaged with him and focused on what he was doing.
He shifted to the front, starting with my throat, circling it with oiled palms and running his thumbs along my jaw.  Then, down to my shoulders and arms, lifting each of my hands and working the oil in to my palms and fingers.  My chest was next; he covered my breasts, cupping and kneading them, playing with my nipples.  I smiled, in amusement and pleasure, and he smiled back; now we were co-conspirators.
He worked his way down my rib cage and belly.  Spread your legs a bit, he said.  When I did, he covered my pubic mound and slid his hand between my legs to envelop my pussy and it felt really good; warm oil,  the slick skin of his palm, the firm but gentle strokes – a caress as well as a utilitarian application.
As he knelt doing my legs and feet, he looked up and said, the scent of this reminds of art school and the linseed oil I used to clean my brushes.  I like it, I said.  I do, too, he replied.

When he was done, he stood in front of me, and we embraced.  Ok, he said, lie down.  I stretched out on the plastic sheet we’d used to cover the carpet on the platform.  This was going to be the most difficult part for me: lying flat with no support for the knees or lower back would become very uncomfortable after a while.   For now, though, I was fine; I lay flat, with my legs slightly apart and my arms away from my body, as he’d instructed me earlier.
My eyes were closed; without him to center on, I became conscious of the movement and sounds of the watchers.   I sensed him kneel beside me, and turned slightly to look at him.  He stroked my head, brushing the hair back, and whispered, are you ready? I nodded. Good, he said, and kissed me.  As he stood, I closed my eyes again and waited for the wax.

Hot wax is an interesting substance. It goes from liquid to solid almost instantly as it touches the skin.  Burns from it are possible but not likely, especially in the hands of a proficient top, as he is.  All this I knew, but it was still a shock when I felt that first contact and I had to concentrate momentarily on remaining still.
It’s difficult to describe the sensation;  sharp and a little painful, but subsiding immediately and without any lingering pain.  What’s left is warmth, and as that first container was decanted over my torso and the rivulets of wax trickled down my breasts and sides, the warmth spread throughout my entire body.  I felt no pain at all as he continued to pour the wax over my legs – just heat.
I don’t know what color he used first; probably black.  My eyes remained closed while he was pouring,  partly to avoid the splatter but mostly to help me focus on how amazingly good the hot wax felt.   He paused when he’d finished with the first candle, waiting until that layer had cooled before continuing with the next.  That was the process – pour, pause, then pour again, until all eight or ten votives had been emptied.

The first layer hardened quickly, and as more wax rained down on it, the sensations changed.  I still felt the heat of the wax but much less so, and as layer upon layer built up, the sensations gradually altered from feelings of warmth to an awareness of the increasing solidity of the blanket of wax.  By the time all the wax was on me and cooled into hardness, it seemed less like a blanket and more like something a lot less yielding – a shell, maybe, or a carapace.  At the same time, the hard wax had a living, breathing quality about it that kept it from being claustrophobic; I felt embraced  rather than smothered.

When he paused to allow the first batch to cool, I opened my eyes.   I watched him as he moved around my lower body, canting his head one way, then another, scanning the hardening wax, gaze intent as he assessed his handiwork.  I thought, he’s figuring out how he wants to lay down the next layer.
I realized suddenly that wax play was more complicated to him than it was or could be to me; more than simply something kinky and fun to do – that, certainly, but more.  That at some level, this was an outlet for the creative impulse in the artist he is; that the sensory response he was experiencing  was distinct from what I was experiencing, and for more reasons than the differences in our relative positions. That this response was feeding some hunger in his being that was as unique to him as my needs were to me.

Then, abruptly, everything changed. The shift in perspectives was so sudden and so rapid, it was disorienting, and so strong that the jolt was almost physical; the perspectives themselves were so antithetical, it was jarring,and,ultimately, it’s impossible to articulate adequately.

I was at once two-dimensional and three-dimensional.  I was the portrait being painted and the subject behind the canvas, staring out at the painter through a face-shaped hole.  I was the flat canvas and the work slowly being wrought on it.  I was being created, but by being created, I was making something too: my creator.  He was bringing me to life, but in doing so, he also was brought to life.  Without me, the creation, he would not exist; without him, the creator, I would not exist. We were both creators and created, givers and receivers simultaneously.

He sensed me watching and looked up, his thoughtful expression changing to a smile.

But experiencing those discordant perspectives was both transcendent and impossible to process in the moment;  I closed my eyes against them, and kept them closed.  He knelt beside me and asked, how are you doing? are you feeling okay? I said, I’m doing fine, and I feel incredible.  Then he got back to pouring the remaining candles, but after each one, bent down or knelt to find out if I was all right and liking what was happening.
When one of the interstices seemed to be lasting too long, I flicked my eyes open, to see him standing athwart me at hip level, his booted feet close to my outstretched fingers, ready to pour another candle.  From my position on the floor, he looked like a giant, his nakedness seeming, for some weird reason, to accentuate his height.  He was watching me, watching my face, my eyes.

Once all the wax had been poured and had cooled, he sat cross-legged beside me and began to position the small red and white votive candles all over my body.  He put two small tapers between the fingers of each hand; then, coming to his knees, he placed the red and white birthday candles in a pattern around the votives.
I was scarcely aware of what he was doing.  My eyes were still closed and my focus was almost entirely inward.  At some lower level of consciousness, I could hear subdued voices from the audience and the susurration of clothing as people shifted in their chairs.  Every once in a while, a comment penetrated; I remember someone saying that I had nice curves; he responded but I don’t know what he said; I have just the memory of his voice above me.

I have no idea how long it took to decorate me with the smaller candles – time did not exist, and seemed irrelevant anyway.  Eventually, he was done.
Hey, he said, stroking my hair, and I opened my eyes.  I’m going to light the candles now, okay? Tell me if it gets too hot anyplace.  I said, okay, I will, and shut my eyes.
Again, some unknown amount of time passed as he lit the candles and exchanged comments  with people in the audience.  I had centered my attention on my skin, making it hyper-aware and ready to alert me if something unplanned happened and a spot got too hot.  Once, very briefly, I opened my eyes, and I have a snapshot in memory of him, somewhere near my shoulder and stretching  down the length of my body to light a candle, the flames of the already-lit candles illuminating his face and chest from below.

Wow, he said.  This is amazing.  You need to see how you look.
Pulled into full awareness, I slid my gaze to him, reluctant to move my head and dislodge some candle somewhere.   He was sitting back on his heels, his hands on his thighs, near my shoulder.  I can’t see myself from this position, I said, and I can’t raise my head to look.
He scooted behind me.  Relax, he ordered, just let your head relax and I’ll lift it.
He was right, it did look amazing.  My foreground vision was blurry with candlelight, the individual flames nearly impossible to distinguish.  Like a road vanishing on the horizon, the candlelight swept the length of my torso and thighs and disappeared into the darkness near my feet.  From my near-the-ground perspective, I couldn’t discern a pattern in the candles, but I was sure it was there.  Oh, yes; so beautiful, I sighed, and he let my head down gently.

I’m getting really uncomfortable lying here, I said; my back is starting to hurt.  We’ll wrap this up then, he said.
He called out to the audience, anyone who wants to, come up and make a wish on a candle and blow it out.  Do you have any wishes you want to make? he asked me.  Of course, I said.  I’ll keep the two tapers for you, then, he said; you can use them to make your wishes.
A crowd gathered near the stage; I couldn’t see them as a group but each came into my field of view as he or she bent to select a candle, blow it out and make a wish.  Soon enough, all the candles had been extinguished except the tapers between my fingers.  He removed each one and held it close enough for me to blow out.  Ok, go ahead and make those wishes, he said, and I did.

He got to work removing all the candles and laying them aside.  Now comes the fun part, he said, smiling, and knelt between my legs at my feet.  With the candles out and gone, I felt more at liberty to move, so I lifted my head and watched as he closed his hands around my ankles, then slid them up my legs, dislodging the wax as he went.  When he got to my groin, he put his hands together to form a wedge; it looked as if he were praying or getting ready to dive.  Starting at my pussy, he moved this wedge of his hands slowly up the middle of my body, splitting the shell of wax so that it fell to either side of my torso. To be enclosed, then released, to feel the weight of the wax gradually slip away, to be physically freed from the scene and emerge holding tight to the memories of what I’d felt – that was a distinctly different sensation.
Most of the wax came off in that one sweep, but he spent several minutes removing as much of what remained as possible and massaging the warm remnants of oil and wax into my very grateful body.
With the wax gone, I started to get chilled and stiff, so he helped me to a sitting position, then sat facing me. We talked for a little, each providing the other some brief feedback on the scene and fielding comments and questions from people who came up to us.

Cleaning yourself up after wax play, if you’re the model, is tedious and prolonged, and only made better if the top gets into a hot shower with you and does most of the soaping and scrubbing. I knew I didn’t have that luxury at this facility; hot water from the sink tap, a washcloth and the French soap I’d brought would have to suffice.  I stood up to make my way to the bathroom, my towel wrapped around me, and he stood up with me, ready to get dressed and mix with the crowd.
For some reason, I happened to look back at the plastic sheet where I’d been lying.  I was startled to see that, in falling and fragmenting around me, the wax had made an outline of my body from my shoulders to my parted thighs. Ifossilt was kind of neat; quite distinct, an undeniable, nearly perfect hourglass shape, formed by contrasting bits of black, white and red wax.
He came to stand beside me and draped his arm around my shoulders; both somewhat bemused, we looked at the beautiful remains of the scene.

See? he said; I told you.  You were amazing.


~ by Blue Eyed Gypsy on February 15, 2014.

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