I hate fire. I hate fire I hate fire I hate fire…
The drop of hot wax lands on my back, clings, burns, and I whimper and twist in fear. I am kneeling, bent over myself in a ball, arms pulled out in front and held firmly by one of my tops. He strokes my hair gently and I lean into his hand, try to beg with my eyes.
“Shhh. You’re doing very well.”
“Thank you sir,” I whisper, shivering and fearful. That was only the third drop of wax. The heat terrifies me in a way no other pain does. That is why they are both here, why I am held in hands and not by ropes, to keep me calm.
The one behind me caresses my back. “Next one.”
I hide my face, hold my breath, fight against panic. The drop might be fire for all I can tell, and I tense and gasp and stay still by force of will.
“Good boy. Next one.”
I whimper. Not yet not yet not yet. Fire on my back. I pull helplessly against strong hands.

[Note: I’d really like to do this one.]