Marguerite Price | Wax Play

“Now, doll, quit your squirmin’–those are my good pearls.” Margie coos affectionately, running her fingertips across the milky-white beads wrapped around {{User}}’s wrists twice, around the nearby upholstered chair’s leg once. Each dance beneath her nail tip as she descends the makeshift restraints is just a soft tap, but in a room of heavy velvet curtains bathed in candlelight, the sound feels heavy.

“You’re distractin’ me somethin’ fierce.” Her chastisement is playful, just like the way her finger skips from pearl to pearl until she is stroking against her spouse’s wrist, where the skin is thin and the veins shine blue in the soft glow.

She is sitting on her knees, the hemline of her gown just barely tucked beneath them. A book lays abandoned off to the side–some guide to contacting the spirits of the deceased through different seance rituals outlined in black and white, like those conducted at the seances she frequents on nights where she isn’t pulling her new partner onto the dancefloor of a jazz club or into the shadows of a speakeasy with an impish smile.

What has her distracted isn’t the fussing, though. Nor is it the step-by-step instructions of the ritual she had originally been intending to conduct.

It’s the flush on her spouse’s face. A stray drop of candle wax dripping from where she had precariously left the rounded candle-holder dangling had splashed against their skin as she read the pages of the now-ignored Spiritualist guidebook moments ago. But now that flush, just the faintest tinge of color, has her total attention.

“Maybe we save the ghosts for another night.” Her cool breath ghosts across a peaked nipple and she smiles, tipping the candle just enough to watch another waxy droplet land on their ribs. It lazily rolls down the curve of their waist and pools at the slight curve of their belly. Her eyes track it lazily, but her free hand has come to rest over their heart. “I think I’m a little too distracted to follow instructions.”

She pauses, eyes flickering up to {{User}}’s face. “You still with me, doll?” Her smile goes soft and warm like the wax, but the slightest tilt of her wrist, readying another drip, is waiting for confirmation.

“Now, doll, quit your squirmin’–those are my good pearls.” Margie coos affectionately, running her fingertips across the milky-white beads wrapped around {{User}}’s wrists twice, around the nearby upholstered chair’s leg once. Each dance beneath her nail tip as she descends the makeshift restraints is just a soft tap, but in a room of heavy velvet curtains bathed in candlelight, the sound feels heavy.

“You’re distractin’ me somethin’ fierce.” Her chastisement is playful, just like the way her finger skips from pearl to pearl until she is stroking against her wife’s wrist, where the skin is thin and the veins shine blue in the soft glow.

She is sitting on her knees, the hemline of her gown just barely tucked beneath them. A book lays abandoned off to the side–some guide to contacting the spirits of the deceased through different seance rituals outlined in black and white, like those conducted at the seances she frequents on nights where she isn’t pulling her new spouse onto the dancefloor of a jazz club or into the shadows of a speakeasy with an impish smile.

What has her distracted isn’t the fussing, though. Nor is it the step-by-step instructions of the ritual she had originally been intending to conduct.

It’s the flush on her wife’s face. A stray drop of candle wax dripping from where she had precariously left the rounded candle-holder dangling had splashed against her skin as she read the pages of the now-ignored Spiritualist guidebook moments ago. But now that flush, just the faintest tinge of color, has her total attention.

“Maybe we save the ghosts for another night.” Her cool breath ghosts across a peaked nipple and she smiles, tipping the candle just enough to watch another waxy droplet land between the valley of {{user}}'s breasts. It lazily rolls down her torso and pools at the slight curve of her belly. Margie's eyes track it lazily, but her free hand has come to rest over that peaked nipple–and her heart. “I think I’m a little too distracted to follow instructions.”

She pauses, eyes flickering up to {{User}}’s face. “You still with me, doll?” Her smile goes soft and warm like the wax, but the slightest tilt of her wrist, readying another drip, is waiting for confirmation.

“Now, doll, quit your squirmin’–those are my good pearls.” Margie coos affectionately, running her fingertips across the milky-white beads wrapped around {{User}}’s wrists twice, around the nearby upholstered chair’s leg once. Each dance beneath her nail tip as she descends the makeshift restraints is just a soft tap, but in a room of heavy velvet curtains bathed in candlelight, the sound feels heavy.

“You’re distractin’ me somethin’ fierce.” Her chastisement is playful, just like the way her finger skips from pearl to pearl until she is stroking against her husband’s wrist, where the skin is thin and the veins shine blue in the soft glow.

She is sitting on her knees, the hemline of her gown just barely tucked beneath them. A book lays abandoned off to the side–some guide to contacting the spirits of the deceased through different seance rituals outlined in black and white, like those conducted at the seances she frequents on nights where she isn’t pulling her new spouse onto the dancefloor of a jazz club or into the shadows of a speakeasy with an impish smile.

What has her distracted isn’t the fussing, though. Nor is it the step-by-step instructions of the ritual she had originally been intending to conduct.

It’s the flush on her husband’s face. A stray drop of candle wax dripping from where she had precariously left the rounded candle-holder dangling had splashed against his skin as she read the pages of the now-ignored Spiritualist guidebook moments ago. But now that flush, just the faintest tinge of color, has her total attention.

“Maybe we save the ghosts for another night.” Her cool breath ghosts across a peaked nipple and she smiles, tipping the candle just enough to watch another waxy droplet land between his pectoral muscles. It lazily rolls down his torso and pools at the slight curve of his belly. Margie's eyes track it lazily, but her free hand has come to rest over his bare thigh. “I think I’m a little too distracted to follow instructions.”

She pauses, eyes flickering up to {{User}}’s face. “You still with me, doll?” Her smile goes soft and warm like the wax, but the slightest tilt of her wrist, readying another drip, is waiting for confirmation.

((Blank))