“Well, if you wanted to get all armchair psychologist about it, you could theorize that it’s because I was bullied as a child for being short, which made me feel powerless and crave a way to seize power in my life as an adult. You could assume I like having people on their knees for me because it’s a way I can look down on them for once, instead of the other way around.” The smile was back in his voice again, light and dancing. “Or you could say that it’s just the way I’m wired, and there’s no reason for it beyond a trick of genetics and brain chemistry. Either way, I’m going to get off on it.”
“You were bullied as a kid?”
“No.” He chuckled as I gave him an exasperated shove with my elbow. “Believe it or not, I was taller than most kids my age until high school—and by then, I’d settled into a social group of twisted misfits who didn’t care one way or the other.”
“So you really don’t think there’s any reason for it? You just…like this because you like it?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“Man,” I sighed, “what must it be like to be so confident and self-assured?”
“Pretty enjoyable. I highly recommend it.”
“Yeah, well…I looked into it and decided it wasn’t for me, apparently.”
We both went a little quiet after that. I was okay with it; I felt a little too worn out to carry on an intelligent conversation. Having feelings really sucked sometimes. The weight of Ellison’s arm over me was like being tucked tightly into bed—a warm blanket keeping all my soft parts in and safe from the world. This was something I could get used to.
“What are we?” I asked quietly. I felt Ellison’s body jerk behind me as my voice broke the silence. Had he been falling asleep? Great, now I was going to sound needy and inconsiderate.
“What do you mean?” His voice was gravelly but unperturbed, and he burrowed gently into the back of my neck.
“I mean…what’s this called, what we’re doing? Are you my Dom? My boyfriend? Are we dating, or are you just some guy who fucks me sometimes?”
“What do you want this to be?”
“No, that’s not what we’re doing right now.” I gave his arm an irritated shove so I could wriggle around to face him, because it’s hard to properly chastise someone when their crotch is pressed up against your ass. “This isn’t a game of ‘What’s River Thinking?’—I don’t want you to dig up all my repressed feelings. I just want to know what you want.”
He eyes flicked away from mine—it was probably the first time he’d ever been the one to break eye contact, and I kind of wished there wasn’t so much at stake so I could really enjoy turning the tables. He chewed on his lip absently as the silence stretched on far too long for comfort. Every second that ticked by was a warning bell telling me the answer was going to be something I didn’t like.
Finally he looked back at me, and his expression was the softest I’d ever seen it as he reached up to brush a lock of hair off my forehead. “That’s my answer: what do you want it to be? I want to be that for you.”
I couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than if he’d said he definitely wanted to be dating me. “I can’t help but think that’s a way to trick me into answering your question.”
He puffed out a quiet laugh. “No tricks—I’ve come to care about you a lot, and I want to know you’re getting what you want out of this arrangement. There’s certainly a selfish, greedy part of me that wants full, unrestricted access to you, but if you want something more casual, I’ll be perfectly content as long as you’re happy.”
“Okay, see, that sounds an awful lot like you have a preference here. You’re saying you want a relationship, but you don’t need one.”
He laughed again and pulled my hand to his lips; the gentle kiss he planted on my palm made me shiver all over. “I guess you have a point,” he murmured against my skin.
My brain was short circuiting a little because, you know, Ellison and lips and hand, but I managed to string a few words together in response. “Well, me too. But I wouldn’t really say I’d be ‘perfectly content’ staying casual. More like ‘grudgingly content.’”
“Content-ish?”
“Exactly.”
“Then I suppose that means we’re officially dating.”
“Cool,” I said, because shouting “yay” probably would have seemed immature.
“Cool,” he repeated, his tone wavering like he was holding back a laugh.
We settled into silence again, which felt strangely awkward after that conversation. Shouldn’t we be whispering sweet words into each other’s ears, or sharing every detail of our lives, or just talking about nothing for hours? Those all seemed like more relationship-like activities than just lying there. But Ellison was stroking my hair again, and being here next to him was just so nice that I couldn’t be bothered to do anything but make the occasional sleepy, content noise into the hollow of his neck.
“Hey, um…” Ellison’s hand stilled in my hair as I spoke. “I know this has been kind of a weird and awkward date, but if you’d like to stay the night, you’d be more than welcome to.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “It’s not going to stop you from falling asleep, is it?”
“Nah, that’s just an ‘other people’s beds’ thing, not a ‘sharing the bed’ thing. I’ll sleep just fine.” Maybe even better than if he left, honestly. Without another body in the bed to distract me, I’d have nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company, and they were shitty houseguests.
“Then I’d love to,” he rumbled, pulling my balled-up body a little tighter against him. He couldn’t see my face, so I allowed myself to smile just as wide as I wanted to as I snuggled into the warm circle of his arms.
11
“River! You came!” Mariah gave me a running tackle-hug, squeezing me against her tuxedo-clad bosom. She wasn’t the official host of the party, but it was the first one at the Center for Alternative Sexuality since she’d finished her new mural, so she’d decided to look the part…from the waist up, at least. From the waist down, she was clad in a hot pink miniskirt and matching ruffled bustle, the stacked layers of lace making her butt look halfway between a wedding cake and a bath pouf.
“Of course I came,” I said, my voice a little strangled from oxygen deprivation. She released me a little apologetically, brushing my shoulders off briskly and tucking my collar back into place where she’d crushed it a little. “I couldn’t miss your big debut. Plus, you know, all the public sex and stuff.”
“No sex allowed at this party,” she said, one finger raised authoritatively in the air. “The venue doesn’t allow it, but you can give and receive all the beatings you want.”
“Public beatings, then. Couldn’t miss those.”
“Much better.” She took me by my elbow and led me to the wall she’d spent all week adorning with vulvas in all shapes and sizes—dark, light, hairy, shaved, all states of arousal and openness represented. “Guess which one’s mine,” she said in an exaggerated stage whisper.
“I’m going out on a limb and saying it’s one of the black ones.”
Mariah gave me a gentle punch in the shoulder. “Nice deduction, Sherlock. But which one?”
I pointed at one near the ceiling. “The one with the hood piercing.”
“Ohhh yeah, I forgot I showed you that,” Mariah said.
“You showed everyone that, Mariah,” someone piped up from a seat nearby, and I saw Deirdre lounging there with a can of soda. “Everyone but Ravi—the poor guy was feeling left out.”
Mariah hopped onto the couch next to her, her ruffles fluffing out around her. “Well, let’s fix that. Where’d he go?”
“Since I’ve already seen the show, I think I might go wandering,” I said, gesturing toward the area I heard the most noise coming from. Mariah waved me off, thoroughly distracted by catching up with Deirdre.
The space was surprisingly nice, considering from the outside it looked like a nearly-abandoned warehouse. Most of
the floors were honey-colored wood instead of the concrete I expected, the walls were all covered in artwork and educational posters, and the lighting gave it a warm, comfortable look. The only thing breaking the pleasant, homey atmosphere was the occasional smacking sound or cry of pain or pleasure, and even that was starting to seem almost pleasant to me at this point. A few weeks with Ellison had changed my outlook in a number of ways.
There was some kind of demonstration going on in an open area; a man was bent over something that looked something like a blend of a sawhorse and a massage table, forced into a hands-and-knees position while a woman swung a flogger in graceful arcs, striking his flushed skin over and over again. She paused, stepping back to explain something to the assembled watchers—something about balance and height that I couldn’t quite make out—and I saw some sharper, more defined marks that I now recognized as being from a crop.
Since we’d agreed things were “official” a couple weeks ago, Ellison had seemed almost determined to leave his mark on me every chance he got. I shivered as memories of a couple nights ago flashed through my head—Ellison had cropped me, leaving bright pink marks all up and down my back that he’d kissed better afterward while telling me that next time he might take the crop to my cock. I’d nearly come on the spot as his words jolted through me.
The woman started swinging the flogger again, and the sub was instantly lost in the pleasure of it, his eyes going glassy as he gripped the edges of the bench. Even though I’d never seen my own face in the middle of our scenes, I recognized the look.
Did Ellison want to dominate me at an event like this? I tried to imagine how that would feel, shivering as I watched the muscles in the man’s back quiver and bunch with every strike, watched him panting in obvious pleasure. The idea of all those eyes on me was terrifying but strangely compelling, an exhilarating sort of helpless feeling that writhed in the pit of my belly.
And even deeper, below the helplessness and the fear, was another little seed of excitement: if I were in that man’s position, the onlookers wouldn’t only see my pleasure and my pain. They would see exactly who I belonged to.
I hurried away from the demonstration, far too aware of the heat pooling in my cock. Even though I was pretty sure nobody here would judge me for it, I still wasn’t too fond of the idea of walking around with a prominent hard-on. On one side of the building were a few little nooks curtained off for some semblance of privacy—open on one side, since obviously nobody came to a place like this to be discreet, but out of view of the rest of the building—and I caught sight of someone trying out sounding, which…ugh. I shuddered and looked quickly away. The guy sure seemed to be enjoying himself, but as far as I was concerned, it was a big old nope.
Ellison could probably make me do it, though.
I peered into another curtained nook and saw a woman half in shadow, kneeling and bound. A little shock went through my heart, fear and awe twisted together like the rope wrapping her torso and arms. They hugged her skin, clinging like an expensive dress, winding around the curves of her body and pressing into the skin, a lover’s caress written in smooth strands of well-worn hemp.
She was breathtaking, all whorls and knots over pleasure-flushed skin. It looked like it must have taken hours to tie her like that, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to be in her position, allowing someone to wrap me so carefully until I was so utterly helpless that I couldn’t raise my arms from my sides. How would it feel to kneel in supplication, knowing I would only be free when my Dom wished it?
How would it feel to be that beautiful?
I caught a flicker of movement from the shadows behind her and glanced over to see her Dom returning, a leather strap in his hand and another coil of rope draped over his shoulder, blood-red and ominous. He moved with easy confidence, swinging the strap in idle circles as he stroked the rope skimming his chest. I gasped out loud, but it wasn’t because of the promise of pain in the strap or because more rope was about to be added to the already-overwhelming scene in front of me.
The Dom was Ellison.
My gasp rang in my ears, but Ellison hadn’t heard; his attention was entirely on the woman on the floor, his blue eyes glittering as he crouched in front of her and set the strap aside. He pulled the rope from his shoulder and dragged the loops of it across her face. She turned toward the touch, her eyes closed as she breathed in the scent of it and the look of pleasure on her face deepened.
“Feel that?” His voice was low, thrumming with that dark and sinful tone I was coming to know so well. “You know what that means, right?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, breathless. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes pinched shut. “It means you’re going to bind my feet, too.”
“Good girl,” he murmured as he stood up, drawing the rope smoothly through his hands as he looked down at her, his lips pursed as though he was considering his approach. Everything about him was fierce and predatory, the wicked gleam in his eyes making my heart fall out of my chest.
I wanted that look to be for me.
He began to unwind the coil of rope, and I felt something snap inside me. “I can’t believe you!” I spat as I stepped forward into the curtained nook. “What are you doing?”
Ellison’s eyes widened, then popped a little wider when he saw who was addressing him. I was so full of fury I couldn’t fully appreciate his shock, but there was a tiny spark of satisfaction when I saw that tiny crack in his mask of perfect composure.
“What are you doing?” Ellison hissed.
“Interrupting something, apparently.” I gestured at the kneeling sub with disdain as she looked between the two of us, her shoulders tensing like she was straining at her rope. My chin raised, I dared him with a dagger-sharp glare to make a feeble excuse, to give me a “this isn’t what it looks like” speech.
The speech didn’t come. “Yes, you are,” he said, his voice infuriatingly steady.
I just spluttered helplessly for a moment before I remembered how words worked again. “Well? Are you going to explain yourself, or are you just going to stand there?”
The woman was struggling at her bonds in earnest now, her expression growing frantic. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean—I’ll go. Please, I’ll—” Her voice was strained, stumbling over the words like she was having trouble drawing breath.
Ellison moved to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. His voice went low and soothing, all velvet softness and care. “Easy, Kayla. You’re fine—I’m taking care of this. You’re right where I want you to be.”
Kayla looked up at him, tears streaking her face, her shoulders shuddering, and my heart sank.
Oh my god, I was the world’s biggest asshole.
And of course, Mariah chose that exact moment to appear behind me.
She didn’t miss a beat. “Hey, River—I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got something to show you over here.” She grabbed hold of my arm, squeezing tight enough to make me wince—when you’ve got to use one hand for everything, you apparently build up some truly shocking grip strength—and dragged me unceremoniously away from the scene.
Once she’d pulled me into a secluded hallway, I gave her a weak grimace. “I’m guessing you don’t really have anything to show me.”
“Oh, I sure as hell do,” she said, releasing me with a small shove and jabbing a finger toward her terrifying scowl. “It’s this face. You see this? It’s my ‘what the fuck were you thinking’ face. What the fuck were you thinking, River?”
Mariah’s “what the fuck were you thinking” face was kind of legendary in our social circle, and I shrank back from it like I’d been burned. My fury was fading a little now that I didn’t have the scene right in front of me, and I rubbed at my forehead, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I was thinking I just saw someone I’m dating do something he shouldn’t be doing, and I wanted to put a stop to it.”
Mariah stepped back, her fiery look softened a little by confusion. “Wait, he’s not allowed to do that? You two
are exclusive now?”
“I—” My brain ground to a halt. “I don’t—we didn’t actually talk about it. I guess I just assumed.”
“And you know what they say about when you assume?”
“You make an ass out of—”
She whacked my chest sharply with the back of her hand. “Don’t fucking do it. But more importantly, you don’t interrupt a scene in progress. You’ve got someone in an emotionally vulnerable state—sometimes two someones—who you could do some real damage to if you just go barging in. Sometimes physical damage, if you show up at the wrong time. You don’t interrupt a scene unless it’s a legitimate emergency, or you see something questionable happening in it, and even then you get an organizer who might know more about what’s going on.”
I rubbed at my chest with a frown. “Yeah, I’m kind of getting that now.”
Mariah let out a sigh, the stubborn set of her shoulders relaxing a little. “I’m sorry that you saw something upsetting, and I feel for you, but seriously—don’t do that again. You could have gotten kicked out—some people have been blacklisted for that.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Ugh. Of all the things I didn’t want to do right now. “No, you can go do your art show schtick—I don’t want to keep you.” I put my back to the wall and started sliding down it, but Mariah caught me before I could get very far.
“Not here, frowny-pants,” she said, hefting me back up. “There’s a quiet area over this way that’s much more comfortable to sulk in. We’ll get you settled in and you can have a power pout while you wait to talk to Ellison.”
“I’m not sure I want to talk to Ellison.” Sitting on an actual chair did sound good, though—as much as a concrete floor in a dim hallway added to the ambiance for a session of self-pity, I wasn’t quite miserable enough to want a cold, aching butt on top of it.
“Tough,” she said, “you need to.”
She may have been right, but that didn’t make the thought any more pleasant. “He’s going to be mad, isn’t he?”
Truth By His Hand Page 16
