Story Time Part 3: Wax Play Barella
TikTok video from 2022-05-04
This is part three in my Poly Play Time reflection series, and today I want to share a story that caught me by surprise—not because anything went “wrong,” but because it reminded me how much room there always is for deeper communication and awareness, even among seasoned polyamorists and kink players.
Let me set the scene.
A few weeks ago, I hosted a small gathering where we explored wax play—a beautifully sensual and sensory form of kink that uses warm wax to create both pain and pleasure on the skin. It was intimate, consensual, and, at first glance, a truly connected experience for everyone involved.
I sent out the invitation.
We discussed the activity ahead of time.
Everyone agreed to participate.
There was mutual consent and what seemed to be shared enthusiasm.
And still, after the scene had ended, I learned that two of the participants—both of whom I believed were fully immersed and enjoying themselves—had felt unexpected discomfort. Not from the wax or the play itself, but from the emotional dynamic that unfolded during the scene.
Here’s the nuance that surprised me: the discomfort wasn’t about me. It wasn’t caused by anything I said or did. In fact, both people involved knew that I was fully supportive and genuinely happy about the scene that was unfolding between them.
What caused the discomfort was internal—a sense of awkwardness or guilt she felt for sharing a moment of closeness in front of me, with my boyfriend.
These were two people I trust and care about deeply. One of them is Sapio, my boyfriend and a top I’ve shared many powerful scenes with. The other is a platonic friend who had done wax play with Sapio before. This was likely their second scene together. They were fully engaged in what they were doing, and from my perspective, it was beautiful to witness.
In fact, I was sitting there thinking, “How lovely is this? Look at the way he nurtures. Look at the care and attention he brings to the scene. I’m so happy to see him sharing that energy with her. She deserves it.” She’s been single a long time.
And I meant it. Truly.
But in her mind, something different was happening.
Despite knowing my comfort level with polyamory and with Sapio’s other partnerships, she was still navigating internal scripts—ones shaped by monogamous conditioning, cultural expectations, and the residual belief that their closeness might somehow be stepping into my space or inviting unspoken tension.
This moment was an important reminder: just because I am polyamorous doesn’t mean others instinctively understand my boundaries—or their own.
I had assumed that my openness and encouragement were clear. I had assumed that my energy of “please, enjoy each other” was received as intended.
But what I hadn’t done was check in directly.
And to be fair, she hadn’t either.
None of us paused to ask:
“Are you okay with this level of intimacy in front of a partner?”
“Is there anything we should be aware of as we play together?”
“Would a verbal check-in feel good before, during, or after the scene?”
We all operated on assumption—and that’s where the emotional friction crept in.
The truth is, we had a beautiful night. The scene was sensual, creative, and deeply connective. I took video and photos, but what lingered for me afterward wasn’t the photo. It was the realization:
Even in spaces of high consent and emotional safety, we can still miss opportunities to communicate proactively.
Because no matter how comfortable we are with our own desires, dynamics, or relationship structures, others may still be carrying fear, guilt, or assumptions about how they’re allowed to show up.
That doesn’t make anyone wrong.
It just makes communication even more essential.
This experience reminded me of something I come back to often in both polyamory and kink:
Assumed comfort is not confirmed consent.
Unspoken permission is not the same as clear communication.
And even when everything looks fine, a gentle check-in can open the door to greater ease, clarity, and connection.
Next time, I’ll do things a little differently.
I’ll ask the extra question.
I’ll invite others to share what’s coming up.
I’ll make room for emotional nuance—even in the heat of sensation and play.
Because this isn’t just about wax, or tops, or who sits where during a scene.
It’s about honoring everyone’s entire experience—from physical sensation to emotional resonance to internal storylines we may not even know are playing out in the background.
That’s what makes conscious kink so powerful: not just what we do, but how deeply we choose to listen—to ourselves, and to each other.
