Last night, in a sleek hotel suite high above Shanghai’s restless glow, I transformed a sterile room into a stage for surrender. My Swiss sub awaited me, kneeling just as instructed—naked, still, his breath shallow with anticipation. The scent of sandalwood lingered, mingling with the promise of heat and control.
I arrived with custom candles, each color chosen with care: crimson for passion, lavender for calm, pearl-white for clarity, and teal for playful chaos. The flames danced as I lit them one by one, casting golden shadows across his bare form.
Without a word, I guided him forward, arching him just so. I lit a red candle and let the first drop fall. It landed on the curve of his ass—a sharp gasp, then silence. Beautiful. It was my favorite place to begin: intimate, exposed, completely mine. I watched the wax spread, a slow bloom of heat on skin, and followed it with more—lavender here, white there—each hue a deliberate stroke in our shared ritual.
“Breathe,” I reminded him, as he melted deeper into the sensation.
With each drop, our connection grew—nonverbal, electric, sacred. I layered color and temperature until his skin was a living canvas, painted with my intent. When the wax cooled, I peeled it away slowly, savoring his tremble.
By the time the last candle died, we lay surrounded by color, warmth, and silence. In the chaos of Shanghai, we had created a private masterpiece—etched in wax, sealed in trust.