The Auction

Task at Hand

Amelia's POV:

I hum softly, organizing the candles on the table, delaying the start of Atlas's punishment.

"Atlas, do you know why you're being punished?" I question calmly, finally choosing a candle.

"Yes, Mistress. I chose to take my collar of without permission even though I knew it was disrespectful and against the rules."

I nod, his reply adequate.

"From now on will you remove your collar without permission?"

"No, Mistress. I will wear my collar all the time to reflect the pride I feel for being chosen to serve you, Mistress."

I hum thoughtfully, his reply more satisfactory than I originally expected.

"That's sweet..." I muse, gently stroking him. I don't know if his reply was sincere or if he was trying to kiss up, but it doesn't matter much either way.

Atlas squeaks when I finally tilt the candle over.

He jerks his hips out of the way the second the red wax decorates his manhood.

"You are going to look like a Dalmatian after this, Love;" I muse. He whimpers, clenching his jaw tightly as he nods along. "I suppose this punishment is more fitting than we originally thought though, huh?

"I get to mark my slave because he took off his collar. I bet you'll prefer to wear your collar than have this daily though," I tease softly, leaning to lick his nipple.

He jumps as if that had hurt him more than the wax and I grin wickedly.

"Do you think I could coat the entire tip from up here? My aim might be a bit off and you're kind of jumpy, but think about how we could have a mold after," I muse, my stomach tingling as I grow more aroused.

"Please don't," Atlas begs, his chest heaving although  I've barely done anything.

"No?" I tease, releasing more wax on him.

He lets out a feral grunt, flexing against the bonds and for a moment I wonder if a submissive has ever muscled their way out of a Saint Andrew's Cross before.

I dismiss the worry quickly. My submissive is in shape, but he is no Hercules.

He remains perfectly in his bonds, only tugging mildly at them as the wax dries.

"Color, Atlas?"

"Green, Mistress," he answers, barely letting me finish.

Delightful.

I run a finger up his manhood, feeling how the texture changes on different places from skin to dried wax.

Poor, Slave...

Taking pity in a way, I set aside the candle, moving to the bowl of ice.

He must know my intentions because he whines and squirms when I return in front of him with ice in hand.

As a dominatrix, grabbing your man by the cock seems like an ultimate power move.

It's not as sexy as I imagined though.

He screeches more than I thought he would.

I do have a handful of ice though, so I understand his reaction as well.

"Mistress! Mistress! I will never take my collar off again!" Atlas assures as I press my body into his, keeping him in place as I let the ice melt on his cock.

The melting is a slow process since the wax has dried and all that melts the ice is the temperature of his skin, but I feel as though it really helps me drive my displeasure home.