She peered into the flame, watching, waiting, hoping. It flickered and danced, casting an odd amber light on all the surfaces of the room. Its capricious flame did not burn into every corner like the extinguished lights above, instead, it lit only what it chose to illuminate at that particular moment, the rest being bathed in shadow, until the dancing flame chose it next. Her eyes focused on the flame's dance first, of course, but they could not help but wander. They wandered down the long, dark crimson shaft of the candle, the nourishment of the whimsical flame, and further, down to his hands. His hands were a deep tan, almost the shade of the candle, they had a certain health and strength to them that could not be repressed, and a certain spirit that would not even try to do such a thing. These hands carried the candle carefully, steadily. They were careful and steady in all that they did, and this was no exception. The candle had to be held perfectly upright, for as the flame danced its sensual dance, the shaft that was its nourishment slowly melted into liquid, and the liquid was trapped. The liquid concentrated at the top of the candle, beneath the flame, and he carried it steadily to prevent one precious drop of it from spilling. One drop did make its escape, and that is what caught her attention next. A single drop which escaped from a small crack in the side of the walls of solid which held in the liquid. Still, though one was solid and one was liquid, they were one in the same; the liquid drop left a trail of solid down the shaft as it made its escape, itself congealing before it could reach the middle. She stared at the drop with her radiant blue eyes, a momentary distraction from the hypnotic flame. He gazed at her intensely, his soulful eyes of brown meeting hers of blue, then moving downward, her slim, lithe neck, her shoulders where her collarbone just peeked through her supple flesh, her small, round breasts, her flat stomach, and below, all of it a canvas of creamy white upon which he would paint. He came out of the shadows, and broke the spell of the flame once again to take in his arms. Tan like his hands, smooth and long, with just a hint of animal strength. It was one of those very hands and arms that now descended, to caress her raven locks and her delicate neck, to send a delicious chill up her spine as it brushed across her shoulders, and to rest there, its firm yet gentle grip restraining and reassuring her all in one touch. She watched the flame again, her eyes could not stray far from the flame. The flame, guided by his hand, rose high above her, until it and the candle it slowly consumed was hovering above the pale flesh of her stomach. He tilted the candle, setting it into motion, the liquid pooling at the edge. The angle increased, and so, the liquid grew more eager to leap from its prison, and finally, aided by gravity, some of it did. He quickly righted the candle when the liquid started to flow, but a flow of it had already started. The liquid seemed to fall in slow motion as it burned through the air, spreading out into small droplets, and then forming into larger ones, always twisting, turning, flowing. Contact. The red heat struck the pale white canvas, and the canvas shuddered in response. She gasped as it struck her, squirming as the sweet pain emanated from the point of impact. It was pain of course, the liquid sent a sting through her body and turned her soft white flesh a sensitive pink, but pain in such a fashion so lovingly administered could only bring her pleasure, and that is all she felt. He tipped the candle again, another flow, this one directed higher, where the bottom of her ribs were just visible. Her body shuddered once again as the second impact followed the first, this one dispersing slightly upon impact and sending a tendril lapping up to her breast. She moaned softly, feeling the pain but not being repulsed by it. It was not the biting pain that dulls the senses and awakens the instinct to escape; it was a bittersweet kiss, an invigorating spark to the fires of passion. And she felt the heat of the spark all over her body. When the spark faded, when the liquid turned to the solid from which it came and left a trail of hard wax and pink flesh, he tipped the candle again, sending another wave of delight through her. Some were pools, some were drips, some were streaks, some were drops; all were signs of where a lingering, stinging kiss had awakened her senses. A quick streak across her nipple. Her back arched. A lingering puddle in the space where her neck meets her chest. Her pulse quickened. A single drop to her flower. She gasped. Trails of red crisscrossed her body, lines of solid wax, as solid as that of the candle. He raised the candle to his lips, and with but a breath, its capricious light was no more. In the darkness, she could not see him, but she could feel his presence. Her pulse quickened in anticipation, her excitement growing even more because she now had no idea what to expect. It thus came as a shock to her, but a particuarly enjoyable one, when his strong hands reached out from the void and started to softly massage her breasts, his fingers extending and lightly pinching her nipples. The pressure increased on them, so much that it grew painful; but much the same as with the kiss of the hot wax, pain so lovingly administered was nothing but pleasure to her. It was then that her excitement grew so great that she opened her legs, perhaps almost involuntarily. And so, with the remnants of wax painted on her body, and his hands on her breasts in the darkness, they made love...