Two things sat on the bed, neatly laid out next to each other. One was a pair of lacy panties—hardly more than a flimsy lavender scrap, a delicate swirl of thread and negative space. The color of the bedspread showed through faintly, the same way my skin would if I slipped them on.
The other object was a smooth black butt plug, with a small plastic rectangle sitting next to it. A remote control. The plug was, I couldn’t help but notice, about as big around as Ellison’s cock. I could imagine how it would feel inside me, a constant reminder of what he could do to me.
“You’re going to pick one to wear tonight,” he said as I stared. “Which one?”
I pointed at the panties almost without thinking.
“That was quick. You must be sure of your decision.”
Was I? “Yeah.”
“Tell me why you picked that and not the plug.”
“I…” I rubbed my hand across the top of my head, trying to gather sense out of the swirling mass of confusion in me. “It’s not like I’ve ever been into wearing panties before or anything, but I like the idea of you…decorating me, I suppose. You picked out my clothes for a date once before, and I liked that. I—I was hard the whole time I was getting dressed.”
“I liked that too,” he purred. “Were there any other reasons you didn’t pick the plug?”
My stomach went a little bit knotted, anxiety bubbling as the words formed. “It reminds me a little of the rope thing. Loss of control. Being at the mercy of an inanimate object.”
“Hmm. Does that mean it’s a hard limit?”
The knot tightened, and I had a brief urge to tell him yes, to spare myself any future threat of it. But I’d only ever been able to give him the truth.
“No, I don’t think it is; the idea is just a little much to bear. And also…I think it might be…too good.”
“Tell me about that,” he said, his voice low and rich.
“I’d…it’s just big enough that it would be reminding me of your cock. And knowing that you were in control of it, it would be like you were fucking me, even though you weren’t touching me. I could see myself losing control entirely.”
“You think you’d come in the middle of a crowded restaurant?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a distinct possibility,” I said, my voice cracking. I could imagine it, sitting across a table from him while the wave of pleasure rolled over me, eyes locked while he watched me come in my pants. While he made me do it.
“I like the sound of that.” He picked up the plug and tucked it away into his closet of delights, then took the panties in his hand and drew them through his fingers, rubbing the sheer fabric with a lover’s touch. “You’re going to wear these for me tonight, and another time I’m going to make you wear the plug. I’m not going to tell you when. I want you to have that on your mind every time we see each other until then. I want you terrified every time you knock on my door that tonight might be the night.”
“Jesus,” I muttered as my cock throbbed at his words. “The things I never thought I’d be into.”
Ellison chuckled and handed me the panties. “Put them on.”
I held them between my fingers, such tiny, insubstantial things. Thin and airy, they looked like they’d tear at the slightest pressure, as thought my cock might burst a seam just from the effect Ellison’s voice had on me. I’d never worn anything like this before—the sexiest undies I’d ever owned were a pair of black silk briefs which, while they made my ass look fantastic, were absolutely nothing like this thing I held in my hand.
It wasn’t something that would look good on me. It was too incongruous, too dissonant. Ballsacks and lace just don’t go together. But there was something undeniably appealing about the idea of having something so lovely on my skin, even if it didn’t match the rest of me. And knowing that Ellison wanted me to do it counted for a lot, as far as my cock was concerned.
I swallowed as I noticed his eyes boring into me. “Are you going to watch me?”
He smirked, stepping back as if for a better view.
“Put them on.”
I blew out a breath, annoyed with myself. Honestly, what had I expected? I did my best to stay poised and graceful as I stepped out of my pants and underwear, and held the tiny slip of fabric like it might dissolve if I handled it too roughly. I stepped one leg in and then the other, stumbling a tiny bit on the second one because my knees were already shaking. We hadn’t even left the house yet, and I was already turning into a puddle. This was going to be a rough night.
I realized as I tucked myself into the garment that it had been made with my anatomy in mind—I’d expected my balls to be painfully squashed, but it seemed roomy enough. Not precisely comfortable—I wouldn’t be wearing these out for a run or anything—but it wasn’t bad. It was something I could handle for an evening.
As generous as the cut was, my cock was another story entirely. I had to do some serious adjusting to get myself all the way in there, since I was still shamelessly hard. When I looked down, the sight of the lace bulging out, straining against the hard line of my cock beneath it, made me flush with a strange mix of shame and arousal. It seemed wrong somehow, like I was desecrating something beautiful, but at the same time, seeing the delicate patterns stretching over my most sensitive skin, feeling the lace dampen at the tip of my cock, a filthy blemish on something so pristine, was…wow. My cock throbbed with every beat of my heart, desperate for the action to start.
Ellison stepped forward and carefully dragged one finger down the ridge of my cock. I gasped and shuddered under his touch, the friction making the lace rub against the head and making me aware of every bump and ridge in the pattern. “How does it make you feel?”
“Kind of ridiculous, like—like I’m defiling these things,” I said, fighting to hold back a gasp as he slid his hand down to cup my lace-wrapped balls. “Humiliated. Afraid of what you’re going to do to me. Ashamed of what people might think if they knew. Aroused, because you made me wear it. I think that just about covers everything.”
“Good boy,” he murmured low in my ear, sliding his hand up to my cock again and giving me a light squeeze that made me moan out loud. God, I wanted him, and he was just going to keep teasing me, maybe for hours. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Oh, sure, I could have told him to stop, but how could I, when debasing myself like this rewarded me with this look in his eyes?
I was hopelessly, helplessly trapped by him, and I didn’t think I really cared.
He spent a minute inspecting me—with his hands, mainly, so I doubted the efficiency of it. It was like he was inspecting an object—something he was about to buy. He straightened the fabric on me, tucked me in a little more, and slid his hand into the back of the panties, skimming over the curve of my ass and letting one finger dip between the cheeks. I gasped at the brush of his fingertip—not quite at my hole, but close enough to send shivery little sensations to it, my body lighting up with anticipation of what was to come.
When he’d satisfied himself and made me leak about a gallon of precum all over the lace, he instructed me to get my pants back on so we could leave.
Of all the things I’d learned in my time with Ellison, this was probably the most unexpected tidbit: lace is not a comfortable material to wear on your junk. It’s scratchy and bumpy, and it’s this strange combination of too breathable and too sweaty because of the synthetic fibers. Little patches of sweat formed here and there, cooled occasionally by airflow where I wasn’t expecting airflow, and I felt bright little flashes of friction as the fabric of my pants rubbed against the more delicate parts of the pattern.
The experience was giving me a new appreciation for the things women did to get ready for dates—I could remember a couple of times I’d gotten to the bedroom and found a pair of panties a lot like these, and at the time I’d been a little indifferent to the sight of them. They were nice, sure, but I was interested in what was under them. I really should’ve been more appreciative, considering how
much they itched.
Any discomfort aside, my hard-on was annoyingly—almost painfully—persistent. There were moments when it faded to half-hard, but then Ellison would make some little comment or just look at me with those piercing eyes, and I’d be rock hard again in an instant, thinking about the things he was going to do to me when he got me back to his house.
Hell, he was probably going to do things to me at the restaurant, and that was almost as good.
I was vaguely aware of conversation and good food going on around me, but for the most part my attention was on my cock and Ellison’s face, and the flavors of what I was eating blended together a little bit, into just this vague sense of “good” that kept getting overpowered by “oh god he’s looking at me again.”
“How are you feeling right now?” he asked me over a course of butternut squash soup. I think it had nutmeg or something on the top. I didn’t really care.
“I’m…I’m feeling a lot of things,” I said, vaguely wishing he’d let me leave it at that, but since he wasn’t, I did my best to pinpoint some of them. “I’m embarrassed about what we both know I’m wearing.”
“Why are you embarrassed? It’s not like anyone around us knows your dirty little secret.”
“Yeah, but I do. And you do. You’ve got this thing about humiliating me, making me feel uncomfortable, and it’s kind of annoying how good you are at it.”
Ellison rested his chin on his hand and gave me a placid smile. “What if this isn’t about humiliating you? What if it’s just that I like dressing you up? I like decorating you, and I like the way your cock looks when it’s hard and leaking and wrapped in something pretty and delicate.”
My breath caught a little, the way it always did when he said things like that. Maybe it was a sign of my rampant self-esteem issues, but I always soared when he admitted he liked looking at me. Most of the time I didn’t feel much like I was worth looking at. “I guess that would change it a little. But you can’t honestly tell me it’s not at all about making me uncomfortable.”
He leaned back in his seat with a smug smile on his face. “No, I can’t.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I grumbled, sounding a lot grumpier than I strictly was.
“Do you like dressing up for me?”
“I…” I shifted in my seat, the damp lace rubbing maddeningly against the head of my cock. My balls were aching at this point, throbbing with every heartbeat with a mix of desire and not-quite-pain. It was strangely pleasant, in its way. A constant reminder of the things he was doing to me, the things I would keep letting him do as long as he wanted me. “Yes, I like it. I like pleasing you.”
“Good boy,” he said, approval clear in his tone.
I jumped at the feeling of something brushing against my leg. I realized it was Ellison’s foot—he’d wriggled a foot out of his shoe and was slowly dragging his toes up the side of my calf underneath the table. I swallowed as I looked at him with a mix of fear and annoyance. What exactly did he think he was doing?
He was slumped low in his chair—not suspiciously so, just enough to look comfortable, like he was enjoying the slightly-stuffed glow of a good meal. The tablecloth hung low over the sides of the table, so nobody would know what he was doing to me, but I couldn’t help but notice every person at every table surrounding us as his toes crept up to the inside of my thigh.
But I opened my legs for him, because I was utterly his.
My eyes fluttered shut as his foot reached my cock, straining at my pants. It leapt under his touch, pulsing strong and needy at the faint brush of warmth and pressure.
“You really do like this,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “You like when I make you into something that pleases me. A doll to dress up, a two-holed slut for me to use any way I want.”
I dropped my eyes to the tablecloth, unable to bear the dual assault of his touch and his eyes. He dragged his foot a little more firmly up my cock, upping the friction of lace against my skin, intensifying it to something just on the right side of pain, just enough to remind me undeniably that he was there, that I’d let him in.
“Look at me.” It was firm, but it hardly sounded like an order—more like he was stating what we both knew I would do.
Composure was getting harder and harder to come by as I looked at him, at the endless blue of his eyes as they drank me in. I shuddered under the intensity of his gaze, and at the even firmer touch of his foot against my cock. God, I was halfway to coming in my pants. My cock throbbed again; more than halfway, if I were being honest with myself.
“Do you like that I’m doing this to you?” We both knew the answer, but I nodded anyway. “You like that I’m making you lose control. I can feel how wet you are for me, just soaking yourself with precum. How close are you to coming right now?”
“Not—” My voice broke on the words as he dragged his toes down to nudge at my balls, enclosed in their sweetly defiled pouch of lace. “Not far at all. I will if you keep doing that.”
“Hmm.” He stroked up the length of my cock again, and I felt a spike of fear, at what I’d just told him and the implications of it. Why did I keep giving him every key to tearing me apart?
A server came by, and thankfully Ellison dropped his foot back to the floor so I could manage to stammer out my thanks for the next dish, some kind of…bread…thing. It sat forgotten on my plate as the server left and Ellison’s foot returned.
“Ellison,” I gasped, my cock pulsing under his touch, swollen and needy. “I’m…are you…”
I was teetering dangerously close to the edge, my eyes beginning to water—I couldn’t tell if they were tears of panic or stress or pure anticipation of physical relief. They burned as hot as my skin.
“You’re blushing.” A flat observation, unaffected and uncaring.
“No shit,” I muttered, then gasped as he flicked his big toe against the head of my cock. Jesus, his feet were dextrous.
“Be polite,” he said, chiding. “We’re in a refined establishment. This place demands more decorum.” He dragged his toe over the head of my cock again, and my eyes went wide. I gripped the edge of the table with blind panic, frantically clawing my way back from the edge.
“Ellison, please,” I gasped. “I can’t—I’m going to come if you do that again, and I—I can’t—“
Ragged desperation dragged unsteadily through my voice like cracks in plaster.
Suddenly his foot was gone. I gasped again, this time from the loss of sensation, and my cock throbbed dangerously again, but the desperate need receded in its wake.
Ellison straightened up and leaned forward, the mask of the wicked tormenter fading—just a tiny bit—and softening. “I’m not going to make you come in the middle of a crowded restaurant and walk out of here with a huge stain on your pants. But I love that you would let me. And I want you to remember that you would.”
My breath went short as his words sank in. I would have. I wanted so badly to please him, wanted the pleasure he could give me with such a burning fire, that I would have let him reduce me to a quivering orgasmic wreck, damn the consequences.
I would have disgraced myself entirely for his pleasure.
“Thank you,” I whispered, struggling to catch my breath.
“For what?” he prompted.
“For having mercy on me.”
“From now on when you thank me, I want you to tell me why, even if you know I know why.”
Confusion helped bring me down from my terrifying heights. “Why would you want that?”
His lips curled in a perfectly-measured smile. “Why don’t you tell me? Think about what I might get out of it.”
There we go—something to focus on. A little logic could distract me from my throbbing cock and my rushing head.
“I guess there’s a sort of power to it,” I said, chewing on my lip as I screwed up my face in thought. “Ritual and ceremony—a reminder that I’m following your orders. And knowing you, you probably get off on me strugg
ling for words to express myself. Forcing me to not only identify very specifically what I’m thankful for, but talk explicitly about embarrassing things like sex and BDSM probably does a lot for your weird self-analysis kink.”
His eyes glittered silently, his smile widening.
“Does that just about cover it?” I said, my tone just a little bit cocky. It wasn’t often that I rendered him speechless.
“That covers it, yes.” He picked up his fork and knife and started cutting up his food like nothing at all had happened, like he hadn’t just brought me about a millimeter from coming all over myself and then given me some weird order as part of an ongoing dominance game in the middle of a four star dining establishment.
The rest of the meal passed much like the beginning, with him gently teasing me with looks and words, and my cock hard and desperately aching for him to do anything at all to me. I would have even taken the footjob, if it would relieve just a little bit of the pressure. It got so bad I half considered excusing myself to the bathroom to jerk off, but I didn’t bother even fantasizing about what a relief it would be, because I knew it would be against the rules. Ellison wouldn’t want me getting off without him, and certainly not before he decided to allow it.
The drive back to his place was another kind of torture, a haze of wondering what he had in store for me while the lace panties kept rubbing and scratching my skin, kept reminding me of his touch all over me. I was absolutely dying to come at this point, soaked in precum and writhing a little in my seat just to get more pressure against my cock. I half wondered if I might be able to get off just from the pressure and friction of fabric stretching across my groin, but Ellison didn’t give me the chance to find out.
“Stop it,” he said, not even looking in my direction. Like he knew exactly the effect he’d been having on me, and what the movement in the corner of his eye must mean. “You’ll get to come only when I give you permission.”
I let out a frustrated groan, my head falling back against the headrest with a thump. Misery, thy name was Ellison.
Truth By His Hand Page 22
