The Invisible Hand Pt. 01

He mumbles. I lick his dick and whine some more:

"Please, please!"

"You have a good point, my love," he concedes and I jump to kiss him.

It doesn't last long, because he pushes me on the bed, where I lie limp, waiting for him to tie me properly. My hands are cuffed and pulled to one side of the bed, while I kneel on the floor on the other one and my torso lies on the mattress.

"Here, this will help," he murmurs, as he gags me and provides me with a bell in place of my safe word. This is not good: it means that I'm going to scream a lot.

Then he massages my back with oil. The tarp under me crackles as I revel in pleasure. It won't last long. Indeed, his hands leave me. What the fuck? I gasp through the gag as a terribly chill breath of air sweeps over my back. It's got to be one of those freeze sprays that one can use for inflammations after an injury. This is bad: if my skin is cold, everything that touches it will feel much hotter than it actually is!

His cock begins its slow penetration of my sex. It doesn't even need lubrication: begging always makes me wet. With my ass filled too, it feels even better! I don't have time to enjoy it, because the first drop falls in the center of my back, making me shriek through the gag. It doesn't matter that I know that its temperature is well below a value that could hurt me, the wax feels scalding! Something rubs it. What is he even using, a brush? No, it feels more like a stick. Drip. I yell again, as he penetrates me even further with a satisfied grunt. My spasms are good indeed.

"Don't shake, or I'll have to remove the wax and start again!" my demon complains.

No no no! That's definitely not happening. It takes all my might, but I manage to stay relatively still as he drips hot wax, blows cold air on my skin and fucks me, ever so slowly.

"Good, like this," he encourages me "Don't give up. I intend to do most of your back, so this will take a while."

He and his goddamn perfectionism! He goes on, painting me, sometimes stopping to look at the tablet for reference and distractedly fingering my clit or moving my butt plug in and out. I love and hate him and what he does to me at the same time, but I never stop him, reveling in my paradoxical pleasure.

I'm so tired now, not out of exertion, but sheer amount of stimulation. Fuck! The unrelenting dripping of the wax does not let me, my gluttonous pussy does not accept rest. My view is blurred by tears and I can taste my salty snot on my lips.

My ass now hurts too. The butt plug seemed a good idea at the beginning, but now it's just wrong! As soon as he pauses, I wiggle my butt and he understands. Better, much better. Incapable of resisting it, he extracts his shaft from my pussy, making me scream of frustration, and fucks his favorite hole as he continues the patch between my shoulder blades.

More time passes. I don't even know how much. My anal gape closes. I was right, the pussy is better! Indeed, he invades me again and I try to squeeze his member as much as I can.

"Be patient!" he warns me.

Right. His inspiration. He's doing my lower back now as I vent my pain with screams. I can now feel the crusty sensation on my skin. The piece is almost complete. Some time later he begins rocking his hips harder and his hand finds my clit. I'm cumming, I'm finally cumming. He pinches my button and I shriek at the top of my lungs. This is not just one orgasm, it's a wave, periodically surging and shaking my whole body, while my demon fills me up with his cum. Everything goes dark.

I'm awakened by the smell of jizz. I open my eyes just a little, only to see his cock on my lips. As a conditioned reflex I lick it and suck the very tip. I feel so tired… I close my eyes again, fantasizing of sleeping with him inside my mouth, a meat pacifier. He's caressing my hair. My head is resting on his belly. I keep transitioning in and out of sleep, his flaccid dick in my mouth.

"Don't you wanna see the result?" he asks me in a whisper.

I open my eyes again and I see his tablet. There I am, in a staged photo that must have required his camera, spent on the bed, still tied, with my sobbing face plastered on my back. It is artful and clever. Since the color of the canvas is just that of my skin, he simply sketched my features with black and red wax, with a touch of pink where I was blushing and an almost transparent variety for my tears. It's amazing how with a few strokes he rendered so many emotions.

I reach with my hand to my back, only to find skin.

"I removed it while you were asleep. This is performance art, after all, it's not meant to last," he tells me with a chuckle.

I moan and go back to sleep.

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