Dave and Kym Wilde

Dave takes the hits like he was built for it. Kym stands over him, gloved hand wrapped around a candle, tipping hot wax straight onto his chest. Every drop lands with a sharp sting that melts into heat, and he groans through the gag, eyes dark with want. She tightens the ropes across his wrists, boots planted either side of his ribs, and the leather creaks when she shifts her weight. More wax follows in slow, deliberate trails down his stomach, each bead hardening against flushed skin. Dave arches into the pain, breathing hard through his nose, pulling against the cuffs that hold him spread out on the floor. Kym leans down, breath close, and lets the next splash fall lower, right above the line where pain turns into something else. He takes it all, body shaking, every mark she leaves making him harder.