Erotic short. Samuel Coates experiences the kisses of a candle.
Rated E, cis M/trans M, 650w. Wax play and rope bondage, relationship between a captain and a sailor. More of Tom Warren and Samuel Coates!
Coates is breathing slowly and regularly, as evenly as he can, as he stares up at the bindings on his wrists, the way it weaves neatly and perfectly through his wrists, looping around them before it knots through the middle of them.
The rope bondage is as solid as manacles might be, binding his wrists in place, and he’d been hypnotised as Warren had wound the rope around them and told him precisely what he was doing, showed how the rope was spread between each wrist, balanced by the knots.
It had been nothing for Warren to tug him by the centre of the rope cuffs and loop them over a hook on the pillar in front of him — it’s a high cook, just a little higher than Coates can comfortably reach up for, and he’s almost on his tiptoes, bent forward.
He’s wet as anything, throbbing between his legs, and he can’t help but wonder if Warren is going to fuck him just like this, if he’s going to slide in from behind him and fuck him like he’s stuck in place, and fuck, fuck, but it makes him imagine being in stocks or something like that, being bound in place for everyone to find and fuck as soon as they walk past.
“Ready, lad?” asks Warren from behind him, and Coates’ breath hitches in his throat.
“Yes, Captain,” he says, closing his eyes tightly and gripping loosely at the rope running between his wrists, his thumbs pressing against the fabric of the rope.
When the wax lands on his shoulders, for barely a second, it doesn’t hurt, and he’s confused, just feels the drip of it and the slight weight of it, heavier and thicker than water, and then it’s hot, and he moans, clutching tightly at his bindings as he feels the wax slide down his back.
More drips of wax land against his shoulder blades, and the heat is sublime and strange, makes him writhe in place in a way he doesn’t ever when receiving a simple beating — his cunt is throbbing, wetness slick between his thighs, and this pain is just so different, so unusual, sinks deep into him like it’s going to make a home there.
Warren manages to drop a line of candle wax right over his spine and it slides down the line of it, making him whine and spread his legs wider apart.
Warren chuckles and says, “Good lad. Didn’t think you’d be such a slut for this one.”
“I’ll be a slut for whatever you give me, sir,” says Coates, and he’s rewarded with a slap to his open cunt that makes him wail, jolting on his feet and having to rely on his hanging arms to keep from falling, the slap sending an electric thrill up his spine, making him clench wetly around the aching nothing.
“You always say that,” says Warren. “What say you I flip you over, hm? Get you back on your shoulders with your knees bound to your wrists, stick one of these candles in here…” Three fingers slide into his sopping cunt as Warren drizzles more wax over his mid-back now, making him squirm, not knowing whether to draw away from the drip of it or grind himself back onto the captain’s fingers. “I could use you as a candlestick holder, watch the hot wax drip down the shaft of it and land on these pretty lips of yours. How’s that for a kiss?”
“Fuck me,” moans Coates, just a general exclamation, before moaning, “Please, fuck me,” at the first dazzling drip of wax over one of his arsecheeks.
“Patience, patience,” rumbles the captain, and Coates thrusts back onto his fingers, gasping, and does his best to focus on what Warren asks him.
His mind is a mess of wax and heat and want by the time Warren finally sinks his cock inside him, and Coates’ moans are incoherent as, his hips slapping loud against Coates’ arse, the captain deftly pries the cooled wax away from his skin with a knife.
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