Truth By His Hand

by Casey Cameron

  “God. Yes.” His ass was just over my hips, the head of my cock just brushing his skin, so close to what I wanted but not quite there. I wanted to buck up against him, but I already knew he wouldn’t allow it. I knew him too well for that.

  “You’re going to service me and then I’m going to ride you, but you’re not allowed to move. Hands stay on the bars at all times, hips stay on the bed.” I gave him a jerky nod, and he smiled down at me, all soft and warm. My arms started aching from the effort of following his orders almost immediately. “Good boy.”

  He climbed up my body and turned around, giving me a perfect view of his ass that I just wanted to sear into my eyeballs to treasure at all times. Slim, but with a little curve to it; creamy, smooth skin; and best of all, it was attached to Ellison. Who was currently spreading his cheeks wide and lowering himself to my face.

  I practically dove in, unbearably eager to touch any and every part of him, but especially here, where the skin was warmer and smelled so strongly of him—sweat and musk and faint notes of vanilla from the fancy organic body wash I’d seen in his bathroom. My cock throbbed and dripped onto my skin as I tasted him, circling my tongue around his puckered hole and savoring every sound he made as I did—low, half-voiced moans of approval that felt almost unbearably good in my ears.

  Ellison rocked his hips back against me, pressing into my licks and kisses, and I thrust my tongue into him, unable to hold back a moan of my own. He just tasted so good—felt so good—that having him here like this, where I could touch him at all, felt almost as good as his hand on my cock. His hands were splayed across my chest for balance, his weight solid and lovely as it made my lungs work twice as hard for air. I was pretty sure I didn’t need air as long as I had him. Especially when he reached over occasionally to tug or flick at one of the bars in my nipples, sending white-hot flares of pleasure straight to my cock.

  I stretched my neck forward automatically as he moved away, not wanting to give him up, but I remembered his orders and let my head drop back to the pillow with a groan. I pinched my eyes shut, half afraid the mere sight of him might make me come if I got too much of it.

  I gasped as Ellison’s lube-slick hand wrapped around my cock. “You did such a good job that I think I’m going to take you just like this,” he mused, giving me a long, slow stroke that made me whimper out loud. “But it’ll have to be very, very slow. Don’t you dare move.”

  Opening my eyes was still a risky venture, but I tried it. Ellison’s cool gaze met mine, and I shuddered at its touch. “I’ll be good, sir,” I whispered.

  Everything that came after that was exquisite agony. He teased himself with the head of my cock, rubbing it over his hole before shifting to press it inside. It was—fuck, so tight, wet with lube and my own saliva and precum, a filthy, sticky embrace that wrapped me in pleasure as he rocked slowly back and forth, letting himself get thoroughly used to the sensation before going for more.

  My hips were straining, my muscles tight with the monumental effort of staying still. I wanted so badly to move, to grab his hips and fuck up into him with wild abandon, to feel the silk heat of him clutching my body until we reached our peak together. Doing that would have been uncomfortable for him, though, and more than that, he’d told me not to. I wasn’t going to let him down.

  Eons later, when I was reduced to heaving half-sobs of desperate need, he finally slid fully down onto my cock, and this—this was the sight I wanted seared into my eyeballs, of him with his chest speckled pink and gleaming with sweat, face flushed with effort and pleasure, cock jutting proudly out and glistening at the tip. He smiled down at me, a benevolent god granting me my heart’s desire.

  He didn’t speak as he started moving, lifting himself up and down on my cock with sinuous rolls of his hips. Every sensation was magnified, the stretch and drag of skin with no barrier between us, the fluttering contractions of his muscles as he moved, the hot, slick slide of his body as it took what it wanted from mine. What I saw in his face when he looked at me was faintly distant, vaguely detached—like I was a particularly interesting bit of interactive pornography. I would have expected that to sting a bit after all our recent declarations, but far from it, I thrilled at the idea of him using me. I loved knowing that he wanted me enough to take his pleasure from me. And I loved knowing I could give that to him.

  His rhythm began to falter, and he started stroking his cock in time with his rocking, his gaze turning hungrier, his eyes roaming more freely over my body. These helpless little groans were coming out of him, deliciously thrilling. “Open your mouth,” he rasped, angling his cock down as his strokes got shorter and faster.

  I opened my mouth wide without hesitation, and he let out a long, ragged groan. His body clenched and pulsed around me as hot jets of cum hit my face, my neck, my chest; some landed in my open mouth, and the burst of hot salt on my tongue was what tipped me over the edge. “Fuck—fuck—” I gasped as I came, spilling into him, my thighs trembling with the effort of staying still.

  Ellison made a low, pleased noise deep in his chest and reached down, gathering up a spatter of cum on my cheek and feeding it into my mouth. I accepted his finger eagerly, glad for something to focus my mind on to bring me back down to earth. I sucked him clean, my eyes flicking up to his, and he grinned down at me as he slid his finger from my mouth. “Good boy. You did everything I asked.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my voice sounding dreamy and distant to my ears.

  “For what?” he prompted, that stern edge back in his voice.

  “For…” I pinched my eyes shut without thinking, but I forced myself to open them and look at him as I answered. “Thank you for allowing me to put my cock in you. And…for telling me I’m good.”

  He nodded, smiling wider. “And thank you for talking some sense into me. I’m glad I didn’t miss out on something this wonderful because of my own baggage.”

  “Can I let go of the bars?” My arms were on the verge of falling out, and my chest felt like it might burst with surging desire. “I want to touch you.”

  Ellison chuckled. “Yes on letting go—no on touching. Let me get us cleaned up first.”

  I let out an impatient whine but obeyed, and when he was done, he rewarded me by stretching out on top of me, all his glorious skin right where I could reach it. I stroked my hands over him for what felt like hours, drinking him in and feeling the thump of his heart against my chest.

  When I’d had my fill of touching him—well, not entirely my fill, because I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop wanting more—I sighed, my face half-buried in his upper arm where it was stretched languidly over my head. “I’d really like to, y’know, actually sleep together, but I should…probably get going, since I can’t.” He nuzzled into the side of my neck, all warm and soft, and regret pressed down on my heart like a steel plate. “I’m sorry I’m so weird.”

  He planted a kiss on my throat, my pulse going all fluttery under his lips. “Why don’t I come back to your place with you?”

  I winced. “That’s…no, you really don’t have to do that.”

  “Do you not want me to come over, or are you feeling self-conscious about making me do it? Because if you really don’t want me there, I won’t come.”

  “I don’t…I mean, it’s fine if you do, but…”

  “Then I’m coming,” he said simply, rolling off me and out of the bed in one smooth motion. He held out his hand to me while I blinked silently at him. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t want to do it. Anyway, I’m sure an unexpected cab ride doesn’t fit into your budget for the week.”

  Shit, I’d completely forgotten he’d driven me here. And just like that, he’d maneuvered me right where he wanted, fighting one neurosis with another. I sighed as I took his hand. “You’re too damn insightful.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  We didn’t talk much as we got ready—struggling awkwardly into your pants isn’t very conducive to good conversation—but in the car I tried out t
he “invasive questions” approach. And okay, maybe the questions weren’t all that invasive since I mostly asked him about work, but it was pretty effective. He told me a little about one of his classes and rambled for a few minutes about his favorite TA before he turned it around on me and started asking me about college—what I’d studied and why, how I felt about the school I’d chosen, all the usual Ellison stuff. I answered his questions with a smile I couldn’t quite tame, and I caught him giving me a couple of odd looks, but he didn’t derail the conversation to ask me about it.

  To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure why I was so happy, when even my attempts to examine him resulted in me examining myself for him. But just knowing that I’d gotten something out of him, that he wasn’t forever destined to be this vast mystery to me…well, it felt good. It made me feel like this relationship was something I could someday get the hang of.

  In the morning, he made me breakfast. It was weird as hell to see someone other than Mariah bustling around my kitchen—Dan had never been one to cook—but I liked it, even though there were these brief flashes here and there of mild background irritation when he did things just a bit differently than I would have. I was perfectly aware it’s crazy to feel jumpy because the guy making you an omelet uses a fork to mix the batter instead of a balloon whisk, or wants to use the left burner instead of the right, so I sat on my hands—figuratively, because literally I was kind of lingering around and watching over his shoulder while trying my best to not offer any “helpful” suggestions. Maybe I didn’t need to bother holding back; by now Ellison had to know full well that irrational anxiety was just part of my charm, but that still didn’t mean I particularly wanted to keep reminding him of it.

  He must have noticed my none-too-subtle hovering, because he glanced my way and said, “Why don’t you set the table?”

  I could tell it was an order, in its way—a thing he wanted me to do for him. His delivery was smooth and mild, but with an undercurrent of certainty, like he knew I was going to do it. And of course, I did.

  Anxiety didn’t leave me entirely alone—I agonized over the silverware for a minute or so, trying to remember whether the fork was supposed to go on the left side or the right, wondering if I was supposed to be making a formal show of it. Should I lay out spoons, even though we probably wouldn’t need them? That might be a nice polished touch, but if I put them out I’d have to wash them, so I left them in the drawer. My tiny table was barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but I made it work somehow, and a minute later Ellison was serving up a nearly picture-perfect omelet, split neatly in two.

  Our halves matched exactly. I may have fallen a little in love with him right then.

  I realized between bites of perfectly fluffy omelet that he’d given me an order in my own apartment, and I hadn’t freaked out even a little bit. Why had it been okay this time and not the last? Maybe it was just a comfort thing—we’d had more time to get used to each other, and build up a little more trust. Still, when I thought about him taking control entirely, it made my stomach clench—maybe a little less than before, but still a tight, sick sort of feeling I didn’t want to spend much time with.

  This time, though, he hadn’t been taking control—not exactly. He hadn’t taken the wheel from me, he’d just…steadied it a bit.

  I kind of liked that.

  After breakfast, we took a long shower together, kissing under the spray until the water ran cold, and then he fucked me slow and hard, pressing my face deep into the pillows while he told me how good I was, how perfect, how much I turned him on when I was a dirty little slut for him. I came entirely untouched, his fingernails drawing hot, angry lines down my back that burned and stung when he came all over them a few moments later. I nearly cried, it was all so dark and savage and utterly beautiful.

  We spent the entire day like that, just fucking and cooking and talking and occasionally showering, and when he finally left late in the evening, I could hardly remember the last time I’d spent so much time with someone and not been dying for them to leave by the end of it.

  I lay awake for a long time without his weight beside me to settle me, wondering with a tingling mix of worry and excitement which of my barriers he would systematically dismantle next.

  13

  Now that Ellison and I were irrevocably, officially dating—explicitly acknowledged on both sides, complete with squishy feelings and squishier sex—it was like a massive portion of my brain had been freed up for other things. Not that I was entirely done worrying, of course. As long as I was alive, I’d be able to find something new to worry about, and if there turned out to be an afterlife, I’d probably spend it second-guessing.

  Still, when I wasn’t second-guessing my life choices, I was managing to throw myself into my work with an inspired energy I hadn’t felt in a very long time—probably since the early days of the webcomic, in that exhilarating phase of creation where progress seems so fast because you’re laying down broad strokes so quickly. It’s always the detail work where things get tricky.

  Maybe it was because the internet backlash against the comic had eased up to a manageable riot, maybe it was because the new direction was actually a better one, or maybe it was just because I was high on endorphins from regularly having the brains fucked right out of me, but working on Boundless Fate seemed easier these days. The pages seemed to flow more easily, dialogue was more natural, and more and more I was able to finish up work for the day in the early afternoon, leaving me free hours to luxuriate in my spare time.

  “Luxuriate in my spare time,” of course, usually turned into “obsess endlessly about every aspect of my relationship with Ellison,” so I decided to start filling up my time with research instead. There was a quirky LGBT bookstore with an enormous section on kink that Mariah had been nagging me to check out for months, and Tea had mentioned wanting to go too, so that would be good for an afternoon, at least.

  The bookstore was every bit as quirky and amazing as promised, and it took no time at all for me to immerse myself in the expansive shelves. As I crouched down to inspect some stuff on a lower shelf, Tea leaned over me and snickered.

  “You, sir, have got a truly massive hickey.”

  “Shit.” I tugged at my collar to rearrange my shirt on my shoulders. “I really thought it was covered.”

  “Relax,” they said, patting me gently on the head. “I only noticed it because I can see right down your shirt at this angle. Very impressive, though. A-plus for effort on Ellison’s part.”

  I groaned as I stood up, double-checking that my shirt was straight. “I’m 34 years old. Covering hickeys should not be a part of my life anymore.”

  “You could tell him to stop.”

  “I could, yes.” Technically, it was a very reasonable suggestion. The back of my neck prickled with a creeping flush. “But I kind of don’t want to.”

  “Been there, done that. Don’t really want to do it again, but probably will anyway,” they said with a shrug. “Do you at least have a little time to heal up before he attacks you again?”

  “Oh, about…” I glanced at my wrist—not for the first time, I wished I’d gotten around to getting a watch tattooed there back when I was more willing to suffer for a joke. “Four hours. We’re going to Taste tonight.”

  Tea’s face brightened. “Oh, that new farm-to-table place on Central? I keep meaning to go, but it’s so pricey.”

  “Yeah, it is.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Dating this guy is turning into a constant struggle with my budget.”

  “He’s got expensive tastes?”

  “No…sort of. I don’t know.” I pulled another book off the shelf just to have something else to focus on, and leafed through it without really taking in the words. “It’s not like he’s pushing for going out to fancy places or anything, but whenever he talks about socializing with other people, it’s always, ‘we were at this artisanal whiskey bar,’ or ‘the three of us had just gotten box seats.’ It’s pretty clear
he’s, you know, accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and I don’t want to make him slum it just because I’ve got issues.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him that if he wants to go to the ritzy places, he’s got to pay?” I raised one eyebrow, and understanding crossed Tea’s face. “Right, I forgot I was talking to you.”

  “Exactly.” I shoved the book back into place like it had personally offended me. “There’s just no good solution. Either he gives up something he obviously likes, or I stop being such a neurotic mess.”

  “That second one sounds good. I’d go with that.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?” I muttered, turning my attention back to the shelves. The selection of books laid out before me was truly shocking. Just as there were a thousand different ways a person could differ from the mainstream in their sexual expression, there were a thousand different ways to write about every activity. It was enough to leave a person awestruck, overwhelmed by the enormity of the human experience.

  “Oh, this one sounds nice,” Tea said, sliding a glossy tome off the shelf. “‘The Art of Shibari: a Visual Medium.’ Could be up your alley.”

  I swallowed as I watched Tea drag their fingers across the photo on the cover: a couple bound in complementary harnesses of twisting rope. They were long-limbed and graceful, posed like ballet dancers to emphasize the way the rope crisscrossed its way across their lean forms.

  “Sounds interesting, I guess,” I said, hunting frantically for something else to focus on. My eyes landed on a book called “Call Me Daddy.” Yeah, maybe not.

  “This is amazing,” Tea said, sounding awed as they paged through the slick, heavy pages of the book. “I mean, I’m not into this kind of thing at all, and even I can appreciate how gorgeous this is. Look at this one.”

  The page they pointed at showed a man on his knees, elaborately knotted rope circling every limb. His skin was decorated with graceful, sweeping lines tattooed across his chest and arms, and the rope seemed to follow those lines, accentuating them and drawing the eye to his muscular chest and toned belly. Flat, twisting knots sat over his heart, at his shoulders, curling around his hips; they were places for the eye to linger, to drink in the sight of a man decorated and subdued. His wrists were bound, a short length of rope connecting them to his ankles and pulling his back into a subtle bow, the arch of someone in the throes of pleasure, fully immersed in the experience of being on display for others’ enjoyment.