A Wayward Game Read Online Free PDF Page B

and heels that I am wearing are the standard trappings of
a sexy fantasy, but they do not make me feel objectified. Indeed,
they allow me to assume a degree of strength and confidence that I
do not normally possess. Nakedness, on the other hand, is
associated with humiliation and helplessness; when it is not
shared, it is often seen as a form of degradation. He enjoys this
feeling of shame – for him, it is all part of the fantasy – and yet
I want to take him beyond that. I want him to learn to love, or at
least to accept, his own body.
    I stand up and
walk over to him, smiling. I stand in front of him and place one
hand on his waist and the other on his shoulder, and feel a little
flutter of pleasure as the lace of my corset whispers against his
naked skin.
    “Your body is
exquisite,” I say. “I could kiss and touch and fuck you for the
rest of my life, and still never have enough of you. You are
astoundingly beautiful. Do you believe me?”
    His eyes close,
and his throat constricts as he swallows. He does not respond. No,
his silence tells me, he does not believe me. And why should he?
Nobody has ever told him such a thing before. He has always worn
his ordinariness like a glove, growing into it until it became as
comfortable and known as his own skin.
    “Do you think I
would lie to you?” I ask. My hand slides around his hip to his
right buttock, and I run my fingers over the flesh there.
    “No,
Mistress.”
    “Then say it.
Say, ‘I am beautiful.’”
    “I am
beautiful,” he mumbles, and I bring my hand down hard on his
skin.
    “Louder,” I
say.
    “I am
beautiful.”
    “Good boy.” I
put my hands on his shoulders, and look into his anxious blue eyes.
“You know, a body like yours should be adorned.”
    A questioning
look flares in his eyes, and I smile.
    “Get down on
your knees,” I say.
    He scrambles
down onto his knees.
    “Now hold out
your hands.”
    He obeys, and I
take some cuffs from the table and fasten them about his wrists, so
that they are bound together. A short chain runs from one cuff to
the other, glittering in the soft light. He sighs as the shackles
click into place, and looks up at me, his eyes dazed with lust.
    “Now,” I say,
“lean forward, and put your lower arms on the floor to support your
weight.”
    He leans
forward until he is almost in a praying position, with his lower
arms and legs on the floor, his spine almost straight, and his head
bowed. I look down at the pale expanse of his back and the ridge of
his spine, his exposed haunches, and the dusty soles of his feet. I
feel a quick catch of desire in my heart, my stomach, and my
groin.
    I kneel beside
him, and gently place one hand on his buttock, stroking and
soothing him. Then, with my other hand, I take a bottle of mineral
oil and dribble a small amount over his back. I massage it into his
skin with long, gentle strokes, running my fingers lightly up his
spine to his shoulders and then circling back down, until his
entire back gleams. He sighs, and I feel his body relax; the slight
tension in his shoulders slackens.
    I replace the
oil on the table, and take one of the candles. I hold it over his
back, and then tip it to the side so that the molten wax dribbles
over his skin in a thin stream. He gasps as it makes contact,
cools, and solidifies, leaving a splash of blue. I know how this
feels: the discomfort is very slight, little more than a mild
sting, but to feel the wax glowing, cooling and hardening on your
body is an erotic, luxurious sensation. He stretches out his
fingers above the cuffs and sighs, like someone in the midst of a
soothing, pleasurable dream.
    I put the blue
candle back on the table, and take a red one instead. He gives a
small moan as the red wax drips onto his skin, running away from
his spine in a narrow rivulet before it hardens, forming a shape
that reminds me of a stalactite or frozen waterfall.
    “Do you like
it?” I ask, stroking his buttock.
    “Yes,
Mistress,” he says, and his