Tied for Waxing (OD)(OD = Orgasm Denial

It started with a group chat and a stupid emoji.

Lana was training in cosmetology, and I guess she needed practice hours or something -- she posted:

"Need a warm male body, semi-hairy. Free wax, zero judgment ????"

I replied "lol," just that. She answered in under ten seconds:

"That's not a no."

I should've bailed when she sent me the location: the student clinic, after hours. I should've bailed again when I saw she was the only one there -- standing by a padded table with gloves already on, humming to herself.

But Lana wasn't the kind of girl you said no to. Not because she was aggressive -- more like... alive. All the time. Bright eyes, strong shoulders, a braid she constantly threw over her back like punctuation. She wasn't flirty. She was physical. Handsy. Bold.

She looked up from her setup.

-- You're late. Shirt. Off. Now.

I laughed.

-- You're not even gonna buy me dinner first?

-- Nope. I'll feed you humiliation instead. Much cheaper.

She said it like a joke, but didn't laugh. Just pointed at the table.

The clinic smelled like disinfectant and aloe. Cabinets full of soft towels, bottles labeled in pastel, a ring light left on. I took off my hoodie, then shirt. My skin felt colder than it should've.

-- Pants too.

I hesitated.

-- Come on. I've seen dicks before. Not yours. Yet. But don't flatter yourself -- this is medical.

I dropped my jeans. Left my boxers on. She rolled her eyes.

-- Modesty. How cute. Lie down.

I lay on my back on the vinyl padding. It crinkled under me. My hands were folded over my stomach until she took one wrist and gently tugged it aside.

-- I'll have to strap you in. Otherwise you'll jerk around like a baby deer when I rip the strips.

I thought she was joking. She wasn't. She actually pulled two cloth straps from under the table and buckled my wrists to the side bars. Then my ankles.

I gave a nervous laugh.

-- You're not actually trained for this, right?

-- Nope. You're my test subject. Try not to scream.

She winked.

Then things got quieter. The air turned dense. She moved around me with calm efficiency -- applying warm wax to my chest, laying the strips, then peeling them off with practiced motion. I winced, flinched, grunted. She giggled.

-- Awww. Poor baby.

Eventually, she moved to my stomach. I felt her fingers trail lower, spreading the wax carefully across the edge of my waistband.

Then she looked at me.

-- Off.

-- The boxers?

-- No, the shoes. Yes, the boxers, genius.

I hesitated again. She didn't wait. She just hooked her fingers and yanked them down. My dick, halfway soft but tingling, flopped out -- already reacting from all the skin contact and her voice.

She froze.

-- Oh... you're that type. The twitchy one.

-- It's not--

-- Shhh. No talking. Just trust your technician.

She didn't laugh this time. She smiled. That slow, dangerous kind. Then she leaned in.

Her fingers started applying wax to my upper inner thighs. I squirmed.

-- Stay still.

-- You tied me down.

-- Exactly.

Her hand brushed the base of my shaft. Not an accident. My cock jumped slightly.

She paused.

-- Wow. That's fast. Didn't even touch you properly.

Her voice dropped a little.

-- Are you sensitive? Or just starved?

I didn't answer.

-- Let's find out.

She pressed down again. Slower. Deliberate now. Her glove was warm. Her other hand gently cupped under my balls to stretch the skin for application. But instead of pulling away... she stayed. Fingers massaging lightly, back and forth.

I sucked in a breath.

-- Lana...

-- Shhh. Focus on breathing.

Her gloved fingers circled the shaft. Not tight. Not stroking. Just... presence. My erection grew against her wrist, helpless. No room for thinking, just heat and pulse.

She leaned close to my ear. Whispered:

-- You're getting hard while tied down on a medical table. Do you know how stupid that looks?

I groaned. Tried to lift my hips. The straps held.

-- Don't move. You'll make me ruin the wax line.

Her hand stroked once, slowly, then stopped. Waited. Then again -- a cruel tease. Pressure building, denied again. My legs twitched.

She tilted her head, mock curious:

-- Do you want to come?

I nodded.

-- Huh. How tragic.

Her palm closed gently, just enough for friction, and she began a rhythm. Soft. Perfect. My body clenched.

-- Nnnh-- please...

She stopped completely.

I gasped. The ache rolled through my entire lower body.

-- There. See? That's called control. Mine, not yours.

She stood up, peeled off the gloves, and reached for a fresh strip.

-- Let's finish the wax. Then we'll see how many more times I can almost let you finish.

My hands strained against the cuffs.

And she just hummed, like nothing was happening. Like she hadn't just pulled my body to the edge and left it screaming.

The next twenty minutes were some blur of wet heat and electric pressure.

She kept working -- smooth, professional -- waxing my hips, inner thighs, the V-line where everything felt too exposed. But it was her hands that made it unbearable. Always brushing too close. Always touching just enough. Not enough to be generous. Just enough to keep my dick pulsing so hard I could hear my own blood behind my ears.

She moved between my legs like she owned the space. Like this wasn't weird. Like I was just another surface to polish.

At one point, while smoothing a fresh layer of wax, her knuckles dragged across the head of my cock. It twitched. I grunted.

-- You really are a wreck, huh?

Her tone was all amusement now -- light, teasing, but precise. Like she knew exactly how far she could go without letting me tip.

She glanced up.

-- Don't worry. We're not done. You'll leave... emotionally exfoliated.

She said it with a giggle, then bent down again. Her fingers slipped under my balls. She tilted them slightly to reach the skin underneath -- but her grip never loosened.

I was breathing in sharp little gasps.

-- Lana, I can't... I really can't--

-- What? This?

She slid her palm over the shaft. Open. Flat. Just one pass, slow and steady.

I arched, tried to fuck into her hand, but the straps held firm. My wrists ached. My thighs trembled.

-- Oh, baby.

She said it like a mock sympathy line.

-- You've got no self-control. I can feel it. Every little twitch. It's like handling a loaded hose.

Her fingers curled, gave me a tight, wet stroke from base to tip -- just one. I whimpered.

Then nothing.

She let go completely and turned away, rummaging in her kit.

I lay there, veins bulging, dick shiny and hard, twitching in the open air, with zero friction and no hope. I was going insane.

She returned with a lotion bottle and a fresh pair of gloves. Her lips were glossed now -- I hadn't noticed before.

She straddled the stool, sat between my legs again, and poured lotion into her palm.

-- Post-wax soothing gel. Reduces redness. You need it.

She reached down and began to spread it across my thighs, hips, pelvis. Smooth, cold, slow. Her hands were all over me again.

Then, out of nowhere, she grabbed my shaft at the base. Not too hard. Just assertive. Thumb brushing along the underside.

-- Do you think I'll let you finish?

Her voice was low now. Flat.

-- You're just lying there. Twitching like a dumb dog. You'd probably cum in ten seconds if I gave you real friction.

I moaned.

-- Please...

She tightened her grip, but didn't move. Just held.

-- Look at you.

Her hand gave the faintest flick. Just enough to send a jolt.

-- This thing is literally begging. Like a dumb animal. No pride left.

I nodded. I couldn't even lie. My body was desperate, and she was smiling like she was sipping a drink at a patio brunch.

-- Tell me you don't deserve to finish.

I hesitated.

She gave me three strokes in a row -- tight, wet, fast.

-- Say it. Or I give you nothing for the rest of the hour.

-- I don't deserve to finish.

-- Say it again.

-- I don't deserve to finish...

-- Louder.

-- I don't deserve to finish.

She nodded with approval and squeezed my balls gently.

-- Good boy.

And then she edged me again. Full strokes. One hand. Then both. My body convulsed. I sobbed through clenched teeth.

And right at the edge -- right there -- she stopped. Pulled her hands away. Stood up.

-- And... denied.

She wiped her hands with a tissue, checked the time, and started gathering her tools like the session was over.

-- Lana... please...

She tilted her head. Her braid swung over her shoulder.

-- That's Block 2 done, sweetheart.

-- Block what...?

She leaned over me, lips close to my ear, and whispered:

-- Block 3 is where you beg properly.

I didn't know it could feel like that. Like my cock wasn't just hard -- it was boiling. Every nerve was raw, every twitch was louder than thought.

She walked around the table slowly, snapping off her gloves, whistling some pop tune under her breath. I was still cuffed -- naked, leaking, and fucking vibrating with need.

-- You okay down there?

I swallowed.

-- I'm shaking.

-- Mhm. That'll happen. You've got too much blood in the wrong head.

She walked back into my view, holding a towel and lotion bottle. Tossed the towel over my chest. Rested the bottle next to my hip. Sat down. Crossed one leg over the other, leaned on her elbow.

-- So. Ready to admit how pathetic you are yet?

I blinked.

-- Lana, please. Please, just--

-- No no. This part's important.

She slipped her hand back between my legs. Took me in her palm. I gasped like I'd been punched in the gut.

-- Tell me what you are.

-- I don't know...

She squeezed -- not painfully. Decisively.

-- Say it.

-- I'm pathetic...

-- For who?

-- For you.

-- Say the rest.

-- I'm pathetic for you. I don't deserve to cum. I'm just a mess. You made me like this.

Her thumb slid over the head. She gave me three long strokes. My thighs spasmed against the restraints. My stomach seized.

-- I'm gonna--I can't--

She stopped again. My scream came out as a choked sob.

She stood. Not rushed. Calm. Fucking calm.

-- I can see it. Right there. The edge. You're practically drooling out of your dick. But no. Not today.

I was crying now. Not weeping, but wet eyes. No pride left. Just skin and denial.

She walked behind me, out of my field of view.

Then she spoke. Quiet. Neutral.

-- You're not cumming until I say. Not tonight. Not this week. If I see your name on my screen, I expect you to be hard. Still. And aching. And polite.

My voice cracked.

-- Please let me... please just--

She stepped back in front of me. Bent down. Her face level with mine.

-- Do you want my mercy?

I nodded fast. Couldn't speak.

-- Then learn patience.

And she spat -- right on the tip of my dick. Let the saliva run down, warm and slick.

-- That's all you're getting. Clean yourself up in your head. You earned nothing else.

She grabbed a tissue. Dabbed me once. Just to tease more sensation. Then turned off the light. Left me strapped, shaking, glowing red under the exit sign.

She didn't even close the door.

the crackle of air

(Written and edited by AlexisVriting)