A SLAVE'S JOURNAL, CHAPTER 6

Finally, it was done. Professor Blackthorne placed the candle back in its holder and gave me a few seconds to compose myself. The sting of the heat faded away, and I could feel the cooled wax tugging at my skin as my chest rose and fell. I looked down at the pattern of red polka-dots on my skin, my pale supine body somewhat alien to me.
“Close your eyes,” the professor said to me, lightly touching the center of my chest with his fingertips. I expected some sort of wonderfully sensual and erotic touch, then; not the cold blade of the knife that came next to my senses. Oh my God, he’s going to kill me, ran through my mind, and a burst of adrenaline set my heart racing.

“You’re flushed, my dear. No need to worry. I’m not going to kill you. If I wanted to do that, I could have done it many times over by now.” Yes, but maybe you’re just playing with me, like cats do with the mice they catch before they eat them, I silently replied. “The knife is simply the most efficient way to remove the wax,” he continued, and he very slowly scraped the point of it across my chest, from nipple to nipple. I was 90 percent certain he meant me no harm, but that 10 percent of fear kept me at high alert and, interestingly, high arousal. Every time the knife passed over my heart, I was reminded that I was utterly at his mercy. He could dispatch me before I even had a chance to scream.

The professor did play with me before he set to the wax, experimenting with different types of pressure and speed to see which would simply speed up my breathing and which would evoke a gasp and an arched back. Rather than a cat cruelly torturing a mouse, however, he was a talented musician trying out a brand-new instrument.
Finally, Professor Blackthorne fell to the job of cleaning me up, scraping and peeling the wax, relishing my reaction to the scrape of his fingernails on my erect nipples. On the whole, however, I relaxed, relieved that my fears were unfounded. It’s all a game, I told myself, Silly. You should have known that. He wouldn’t murder someone right here in his study. As he worked, and the process became more tedious than painful or erotic, I started coming back to my usual self. “Aren’t you finished yet?” I quipped, and laughed a little.
Quicker than thought, the tip of the knife pressed into my upper thigh, cutting so hard into my flesh, I knew my blood would come with just a tiny bit more pressure. My muscles went tense and eyes went wide. “Do not forget yourself with me,” the professor said. He was very quiet but deadly serious. “Do not forget who’s in charge, here.” The knife’s blade moved to press against my cunt. The metal was cold on my labia. I was afraid to even breathe, lest my movement make it slip. “No, Sir,” I managed to whisper. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” he said with a chipper tone, and tossed the dagger onto a chair. I cracked up laughing, and, rather than punishing me for it, he joined in, too. But that was not the end of my adventure...

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