Truth By His Hand

by Casey Cameron

  I showed up to my date with Brandon wearing my tightest, skinniest jeans at Mariah’s insistence, and a sleeveless shirt that showed off the tattoos on both my arms. “It makes you look extra-edgy and kind of rebellious,” she said, affectionately flicking the flat disc set into my earlobe. “Like an unruly brat who needs to be broken.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the message I want to be sending,” I said, pulling at the material of the shirt where it was clinging annoyingly close to my throat.

  “Who said it’s for your benefit? This is purely me playing dress-up. Now turn around again.”

  I wore the outfit anyway, though, because it saved me the effort of agonizing endlessly about what to wear. I’d never been on a BDSM-flavored date before, and with my usual tendency to obsess over things, getting caught up on that could have lost me hours.

  Dinner with Brandon was at once pleasant and incredibly awkward; the food was great and the eye candy was fantastic, but our conversation more closely resembled negotiating an armistice than getting to know a potential partner. What are your hard limits? Have you picked a safeword? Do I need to use a condom for oral sex? Still, my date was charming and eager, and he didn’t push me at all or make me feel self-conscious about my inexperience. He just asked a lot of questions about what I did and didn’t want, nodding at my answers like he was marking off a mental checklist.

  After dinner I let him drive me back to his place, and as he parked the car outside a tidy blue-shuttered ranch house, he turned to me and said, “Just to confirm so I’m clear on your limits: no welts, bruises, or breaking skin; no fluids other than spit and cum; no blindfolds, gags, or other inanimate restraints; and no non-consensual role play.”

  Someone hadn’t given my body the message that he was listing off things that weren’t going to happen, because I felt my heart speed up as the list went on, and I had to swallow around a sudden lump in my throat. Hearing all that spelled out like a shopping list was making this whole thing start to feel a lot more real. But he’d covered everything we’d talked about, so I nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  “Good.” He pitched his voice a little lower, a little more commanding. “Now remember, as soon as we cross that threshold, I want you on your knees.”

  That should have excited me, I thought. That command, that demand for subservience was exactly the sort of thing I’d seen time and time again in kinky porn and erotica anthologies Mariah wouldn’t stop recommending to me. The subs in those stories and videos all seemed to love that moment—they definitely responded to their Dom telling them to get on their knees.

  My only response was a sort of idle curiosity as I wondered if his floors were hardwood or carpet. My knees weren’t as resilient as they used to be.

  I followed him into the house, and my shoes squeaked on smooth ceramic tile—damn it—as I walked in. Brandon turned to me expectantly, and I cleared my throat. “So, uh…just kneel here?”

  He gave me an indulgent smile and said, “Yes, right here.”

  So I did. I had to shift a little to find out where I could put my weight without bruising in two seconds flat, and I wasn’t sure if I should kneel kind of upright or more sitting down on my feet. I went with sitting because it seemed easier, and he seemed pleased enough, so it couldn’t have been too wrong.

  I took a moment to consider how it felt. It felt like kneeling.

  “Now, stay there. Don’t move from that spot, and I’m going to get a few things.”

  He vanished down a hallway, leaving me staring at the mission-style walnut storage bench in his hall. Above it hung a matching rack of hooks with a set of keys dangling off it, along with an umbrella and a fuzzy knit cap. It all looked very mundane and non-threatening.

  Brandon’s goal here, obviously, was to build up a sense of anticipation, to really make me aware of the fact I was submitting to his whims and to make me excited about what was going to come next. I wasn’t excited, exactly—there was a sort of anticipation, but it was less “ooh, I can’t wait” and more “get on with it.”

  On several occasions, Mariah had extolled the many virtues of “subspace” to me—which sounded like a silly term, but I did understand the concept. I wondered if this waiting period was intended to send me into it. I definitely wasn’t feeling any more horny, or eager, or relaxed; the only change was an increasing awareness that I was slightly uncomfortable because the floor was hard and my jeans were a little too tight around the knees and oh my god, there was a seam in Brandon’s wallpaper right in front of me where the pattern was off by a couple of millimeters and now that I’d noticed it, it was going to drive me utterly insane.

  By the time I heard heavy footsteps coming back toward me, I was about ready to either tear the wallpaper out or burn the house down. I looked up at Brandon, relieved and grateful to have something else to focus on.

  And wow, was it ever a nice thing to focus on. Brandon was wearing skin-tight black jeans, with tall shiny boots that laced to just below the knees, and his bare chest was crisscrossed with black leather straps that hooked around his shoulders and emphasized the curve and bulk of them. He was tall and broad and hairy-chested—exactly the sort of intimidating Dom I’d seen in those porn videos and jerked off to too many times to count. For the first time tonight, my cock showed more than a token interest in the proceedings.

  I could smell the leather on him as he approached me, big scary boots thumping ominously with every step. I breathed deep and looked up at him, awaiting my next instruction.

  “Eyes down,” he said, and I frowned as I obeyed. So much for the eye candy. “Your eyes are on the floor and your hands behind your back unless I tell you otherwise.”

  “Okay,” I said, clasping my hands behind my back.

  “And you will call me ‘sir,’” he corrected.

  “Yes, sir.” It felt a little silly coming out of my mouth, but it did at least set the mood.

  Brandon moved into his living room with heavy, confident strides as I stared obediently at the floor, following the patterns threaded through the tiles for lack of anything better to do. “Come over here, boy,” he said. I started to push myself to my feet, and he stopped me with a stern voice. “On your hands and knees.”

  Grown men were not meant to crawl on their hands and knees—I wasn’t sure I even remembered how. I’d been done with that nonsense since about the time I was potty trained. My movements were awkward and jerky, and my face burned as I approached Brandon, way too aware of how ridiculous I must have looked to him. He couldn’t even get a good look at my ass from this angle, and I was starting to resent that I’d spent all that time wriggling into these jeans.

  He had me kneel again, and at least this time it was on carpet. For a while, he just circled me like a lion stalking its prey, and I had to admit that was a little hot, the way it made me think about being overpowered, and the obvious intent and desire in his actions.

  “Take your shirt off,” he ordered. Now we were getting somewhere—my cock was definitely paying attention.

  As he came to rest in front of me, I caught sight of something long and thin hanging down from his hand, with a flat bit of leather at the end—a crop, I realized with a faint thrill of fear. He dragged the leather tip slowly up my belly to flick at one nipple ring, then the other. I shivered at the contact, arching forward for more.

  “Do you like that?” he asked, like he didn’t care one way or the other about my answer.

  “Yeah, they’re pretty sensitive,” I said, then after a pause added, “sir.”

  “Good boy,” he said, and my mouth kind of twisted as I processed the sound of it. There was something about it that felt a little warm and tingly, but the predominant feeling was one of absurdity at being called “boy” when I was 34 years old and arguably a responsible adult. Maybe I would get used to it.

  He moved out of my limited sight again, and I heard the swish of the crop through the air behind me. “Stay where you are and stay still,” he said, his voice low and growl
y and delicious, “or I’ll have to punish you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The snap of the crop against my skin was sharp and unexpectedly thrilling—painful in the way a static shock was painful, brief and sudden and gone in an instant. It wasn’t really doing much for me below the belt, but it was interesting. I’d really suspected I didn’t have the pain tolerance for this.

  I’d told Brandon about my fears about the pain, and he was clearly keeping it in mind, because he didn’t spend long at all cropping me—just a little taste, part of my sampler platter of kink. He had me take off the rest of my clothes and gave me a few bare-handed swats on the ass, and that definitely had an effect on me and made my cock leak shamelessly. It wasn’t entirely what I was looking for—didn’t seem to scratch the itch in my brain—but it was something, and I was almost disappointed when it ended.

  After that, he moved on to manhandling me more directly. He shoved me back down to the floor and made me lick his boots, which tasted bitter and had the faintly menthol odor of shoe polish; I wondered if spit was going to damage the leather. My mind wandered into a segue on the care and maintenance of good leather boots, which I knew nothing about but was happy to theorize at length about to keep my mind off the pressing question of whether or not the boots my mouth was on were regularly worn outside.

  When I’d finished giving his boots a tongue-bath, he dragged me by the hair to his bedroom, shoving me against the wall and pinning me there with his bulk. My cheek was pressed to the painted plaster—thank god there was no wallpaper here—which was pleasantly cool under my skin. His body behind mine was hot and slightly damp with sweat, very solid and masculine and just what I’d been looking for.

  Except…it wasn’t.

  It was nice, sure. Enjoyable, sexy, fun. But I wasn’t getting carried away by sensation the way Mariah had described when she told me about her first experience subbing. It was just sex, and I definitely loved sex, but that wasn’t all that I was here for.

  After thoroughly showing me who was in control, Brandon shoved me back to my knees and made me suck his cock. I felt a faint tinge of regret as I tasted the latex of the condom, wishing I hadn’t told him to use one. I didn’t usually use them just for blowjobs, but I’d been feeling sort of on the spot and self-conscious about my lack of experience when he’d been asking me all those questions, and asking for a condom with a new partner seemed like the responsible sort of thing someone would ask for when they had a clue what they were doing. But the barrier only reminded me how carefully planned this whole thing was, how everything we were doing was a show we were putting on for an audience of two.

  But the cocksucking was fun, anyway. He called me a slut and a whore, which was less fun, but I didn’t really mind. Then he threw me roughly on the bed—fun—and proceeded to fuck me while pinning me down with all his weight, so firmly that I almost had to struggle to breathe.

  Definitely fun.

  And yeah, his dick was huge.

  Afterward, he wrapped me in a big fuzzy blanket, brought me a glass of water with a slice of lemon in it, and rubbed my back as we sort of cuddled awkwardly while sitting up on his bed.

  “How are you doing?” he asked me, his hand warm and comforting even through the blanket.

  “Fine—I’m not, like, shell-shocked or anything. I had a really good time. I mean, obviously,” I said, waving a hand vaguely at the huge wet spot he’d made me make on the bed.

  He smiled at me. “I’m glad to hear it.” We sat there for a few minutes longer, and he said, “Was there anything that approached any of your limits? Anything you want more or less of?”

  I chewed on my lip as I mulled it over. I hadn’t been a huge fan of the name-calling, but it hadn’t bugged me—it certainly hadn’t come anywhere near a limit. “No,” I finally said. “I don’t think anything we did was close to a limit. I probably could have gone a lot farther.”

  “I got that impression.” Brandon looked at me, long and considering. “Do you want to go farther?”

  My brow furrowed. “I…I’m not actually sure. There’s nothing I can put my finger on that I want more of. I just felt like…I don’t know. It wasn’t enough?” I realized what I’d just said and nearly choked on my lemon water. “Not that you were bad or anything! I mean, you were great, and I had a good time, and I don’t want to sound like it was bad sex—”

  Brandon chuckled. “Don’t worry, I understand. If you’re interested in doing this again, I’d be happy to help you explore your limits. There’s a lot we can do beyond what we did tonight.”

  “I don’t, um…”

  “You don’t have to answer right now,” he said with another soothing stroke of my back. “I wouldn’t want you to make any decisions while you’re still coming up—I just want you to know the offer’s there.”

  I let out a quiet sigh as he stroked me, sipping my water thoughtfully. I could have told him that I wasn’t actually “coming up” from anything, but honestly, I didn’t want to have any more conversations with him. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, or with talking to him—I was just tired and vaguely dissatisfied and in no state to have more reasonable conversations about safe, sane, and consensual kink.

  Brandon dropped me off by my car so I could head home—he’d offered to let me stay the night, but I’d never been able to sleep in other people’s beds, no matter how comfortable they were. Even if I could, staying the night probably would’ve given the guy the wrong impression.

  I was still pretty wired when I got home, though, despite the long and thoroughly confusing day. I sat down at my desk, pushing my pencils into a neat row as I looked at the comic page I’d penciled out the day before.

  On the page, the rebellious slave Marius was kneeling before his demon master Vendix, a thick metal collar around his neck and chains binding his hands and feet. He looked up at his master with tears in his eyes while Vendix sneered down at him with unmistakable cruelty.

  I frowned as I picked up an eraser, fiddling with it between my fingers. Should Marius’s eyes be on the floor? Should Vendix look a little less mean? I hadn’t actually gotten a good look at Brandon when he was towering over me like a strappy Adonis. I had no idea whether he’d liked what he saw.

  I looked down at the page and groaned as I realized I’d drawn Marius’s scar on the wrong side again. I’d been called out on that almost a month ago, and I’d still only managed to make it through about half the archives to correct the problem. You’d think if my brain was going to obsess enough to make me double-check every one of the 388 pages I’d drawn, it would obsess enough to make me keep from making the mistake in the first place. Brains were assholes.

  Oh well, at least it was an excuse to try another approach. I started scrubbing the marks off the page and tried to imagine the new angle, the fall of Marius’s hair as he cast his eyes downward.

  It probably wouldn’t make a difference, but I might as well try. Maybe it would look better that way.

  Once I’d redrawn Marius with his eyes obediently averted, I made myself brush my teeth and head to bed. I took a quick look at myself in the mirror before I did, turning around and craning my neck to see if the crop had left any marks on my skin. I didn’t see anything, not even a faint flush of pink, and I was surprised to find I was a little disappointed.

  I spent a long while lying in bed and counting the bumps on my ceiling, mulling over the evening. It had done something for me, but something was missing. I just didn’t know what it was.

  4

  “Phone goes in the bucket,” Mariah said, holding out a bright yellow plastic bucket and shaking it at me. “House rules, no photos.”

  Eric and Taya’s house looked pretty much like any other nice suburban bungalow from the outside, and now that I was seeing the inside, I found it a little mind-boggling how normal it looked, at least in the entryway. The decorating was tasteful and modern, with a lovely framed painting that I recognized as Mariah’s work—a portrait recreated from a candid snaps
hot of Eric and Taya at Burning Man, but embellished and brought to life with Mariah’s blazing colors and deft brush strokes. So far, it looked like any other home where a couple of hip young artists had decided to settle down once they started to abandon their anticapitalist ideals in favor of an easy commute and enough space for all the blind three-legged cats they wanted to adopt.

  Already, though, there were little reminders that this wasn’t your standard suburban house. A bamboo-filled vase in the corner was decorated with some very historically and anatomically accurate Greek-style art, and among the thick, decorative bamboo poles were a few that were slimmer, smoother, and worn a little smooth and shiny as if from frequent handling. And on the table by the front door were three large punch bowls holding, respectively, condoms, packets of lube, and blue vinyl gloves. A roll of plastic wrap sat next to the bowls.

  The bucket rattled as Mariah shook it at me again. “Phone or no entry—come on, River.”

  I switched my phone off and dropped it in her bucket, which she stowed on a shelf by the door before catching me by the elbow and leaning in close to whisper conspiratorially, “Now it’s time to really have fun—grab some supplies if you need them.”

  “I’ll, uh…come back if it becomes relevant,” I said, eyeing the bowl of gloves suspiciously. Something about that particular shade of blue always made me feel a little on edge—maybe because every time I saw a doctor put one of those gloves on, they were about to do something very uncomfortable to me. “What’s the plastic wrap for, though?”

  Mariah held her fist up to her cheek like she was pulling something tight and waggled her tongue obscenely. Ah, right. Dental dams. Eric and Taya had thought of everything.

  A round-faced woman bounded around the corner, wearing nothing but a pair of iridescent fairy wings and holding a crop tucked under her arm that seemed to be tipped with silver tinsel. “Pardon me,” she said cheerily, leaning past Mariah to dig in the condom bowl for a second. “Aha!” she said as she came back up with two red-wrapped condoms held between her fingers. “I told her there were strawberry ones left. Oh, hey there, River!” She gave me a bright smile and waved her fingers, plastic packets crinkling. “So glad you could make it tonight!”