Truth By His Hand

by Casey Cameron

  Once inside he kept the waiting game going. He offered me a drink, made me stand where I was while he did some unknown task in another room, and seemed to keep finding excuses to wander back to me and drag a possessive hand across my shoulders or head or ass…but never my cock.

  Finally he took me to the bedroom and ordered me to strip down to nothing but the panties. I stood in front of him, anxiety and embarrassment twisting together in my stomach, but damn it, my cock was still shamelessly hard, straining at the delicate fabric as if it was trying to reach him, trying to stretch its way into his touch.

  “Beautiful,” he said as he touched my face. A faint flush of pride went through me at his words even as I squirmed under the lie—I looked ridiculous, vulgar, wrapped in finery I didn’t deserve. There wasn’t anything beautiful about me.

  But the way he said it…it wasn’t a mocking tone, forced or insincere. His voice swelled with fiercely possessive pride. Like I was something he treasured and wanted and desired. I closed my eyes, letting the word wash over me, tickling with self-consciousness but warming as it settled.

  He had me lie on the bed and sat next to me, still fully clothed but with a couple of buttons undone so I could see a tantalizing sliver of skin. I wished I could taste it, wished I could sit up and lick the salt from the divot at the base of his throat, but I couldn’t. I lay where I was, held down by Ellison’s whims.

  In his hand was a small black bullet-shaped device with a red button. “What effect do vibrators have on you?” he asked as he pushed the button. The device sprang to life, buzzing audibly in his hand as he turned it back and forth, his attention on it more than me.

  What did that even mean? Was he going to put it in me? “I’ve never used one. Is it…supposed to have an effect on me?”

  He chuckled, glancing sidelong at me as he clicked the vibrator off. “Some men don’t have any reaction to them. Some can’t stay hard through the vibrations. And some can come from it, depending on where it’s used.”

  “Oh,” I said, my throat dry. I didn’t know if I was supposed to be saying anything, but I tried to repeat my mantra: if Ellison wanted something from me, he’d say so.

  “We’re going to find out which of those you are,” he said, clicking the button back on. I nodded at him, pinching my eyes shut as my cock throbbed in anticipation of who knows what.

  He rested the vibrator ever so gently at the base of my cock, and I gasped—not quite in pleasure, because it tickled more than anything. The lace scraped irritatingly against my skin; I wanted to bat his hand away and scratch, but the vibrations began to trickle through my cock and distract me from the itching under my skin. I strained at the lace, still leaking precum, still hard for him.

  “So far so good?”

  “Yes, sir,” I breathed, then moaned as he pressed it a little harder to my skin.

  It was unlike anything I’d felt before. The closest I’d ever come to something like this was one of those novelty cock rings you get in vending machines in gas station bathrooms, and it had just buzzed distractingly against my pelvis for a few minutes before the stale batteries cut out.

  The vibrator in Ellison’s hand was a good deal more powerful, and didn’t have layers of rubber of questionable origin between it and me. Only a layer of filthy lace was between me and the torment his hand pressed into my skin.

  He traced a line with the thing partway up my shaft and then back down, dragging it against my balls. I yelped and writhed under the vibrations, not quite in the realm of pleasure but maddeningly close. My balls tensed under his assault, my thighs quivering with effort as I tried to stop myself from pulling away.

  When he pressed it firmly into the spot just behind my balls, I couldn’t help but moan out loud. I’d always been sensitive there, and the vibrations seemed to go right through me, jolting through my prostate and through every inch of my cock, surrounding me in buzzing sensation, light and fizzy and penetrating deep into my body.

  “Oh—oh fuck,” I gasped as he moved it in little circles over the lace. I looked down, but I couldn’t see what he was doing; I could only see my cock tenting delicate lavender fabric, obscene and darkened with precum. It was perverse, discordant, but even as I twisted at the unbearable wrongness of it, I remembered that Ellison had put it there. Ellison had wanted this. My head fell back onto the pillow as I groaned, totally his and totally loving it.

  His hand was moving again, sending jolts of pleasure through my cock like tiny electrical shocks. He didn’t linger on my balls this time, and I felt everything go tight and hot as the vibrator traveled up the length of my cock. I gasped, flooded with sensation as he reached the base of the head, pressing the vibrator into the sensitive spot on the underside.

  It hit me before I knew it was coming. My body seized up entirely; I nearly doubled in half, my eyes wide and locked on Ellison as my cock pulsed hard and hot under his buzzing assault. I felt liquid flooding my groin, cum seeping through the gaps in the lace to ooze down the sides of my hips, soaking the lace and my skin all hot and sticky and filthy-wet.

  Ellison held my gaze through it, his face hard and his eyes sharp as I spilled what felt like gallons of cum into the lace panties he’d put on me. Finally when the last wave of it had passed and I could suck in another breath, I fell back against the pillows, drained of everything but pure awe.

  “Holy shit,” I groaned, throwing one arm across my eyes. “Just…holy shit.”

  A firm hand wrapped tight around my wrist, and my arm was yanked back down to my side. Startled, I nearly choked as light pierced my eyes again, and when I looked at Ellison, my heart nearly stopped. His face was hard, his eyes cold and cruel.

  “You didn’t ask me for permission.”

  I felt like he’d hammered an ice-cold spike through my heart. “I—I’m sorry,” I whispered, crushed under the weight of what he’d said. I’d let myself get carried away, selfish and floating in sensation, and I’d failed to follow his order. I’d let him down.

  And he was going to punish me for it.

  I couldn’t quite identify the emotion making my heart race as he pierced me with his gaze. It was a little bit fear, a lot arousal, and maybe just a hint of curiosity. I’d never failed to follow his instructions before. What was he going to do to me?

  “Get up on your hands and knees.” His voice was cold; I hadn’t realized I could ever long for his usual clinical detachment.

  “I’m sorry. I—what are you going to do to me?” I asked, already shaking as he moved on the bed behind me. Spanking? Whipping? Paddling with a hairbrush? I shuddered, trying to imagine the thump and sting, my mind racing. Would there be bruises?

  He gave me a sharp smack on the ass, then ran his palm over the stinging spot. “Whatever I want to,” he growled.

  My breath picked up, my legs quivering under me. The lace against my skin was going cold and sticky, my cock soft within them. I fought down a little surge of panic, nagging uncomfortably at my core. Now that I wasn’t hard and desperate to come, it seemed like his mysterious promises held a lot more danger, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  “I’m going to use you,” he said, his voice softer as his hand skimmed over the curve of my ass. It settled the jangling nerves inside me, the way he’d given in just a little bit. Like he’d remembered how anxious I got about not knowing what was coming. “You’re going to stay there while I fuck that hole for as long as I want, and you’re going to wear those filthy panties while I do it.” He reached a finger inside the waistband, pulling back until the elastic cut into me and then releasing it. I gasped at the sharp sting of it against my skin.

  It helped, though. I felt a little steadier, just knowing.

  He gave me another smack that made my skin burn, and then there was a different pressure—his hands pulling on the fabric surrounding me, knuckles digging into my ass. A ragged sound cut through the air.

  Oh god, he’d torn them open.

  Something about it felt like a violation. My hands clench
ed into tight fists, and I gritted my teeth. It didn’t make sense—the panties weren’t mine. I hadn’t bought them, and I hadn’t even wanted them, but I couldn’t help but feel a sense of fierce possession and aching loss. He’d given them to me—a gift, and now he’d taken it away. Ruined it.

  Though to be fair, maybe I’d already ruined them. I wasn’t sure how well they’d have cleaned up after what he made me do in them.

  A moment later lubed fingers were pushing their way into me, stretching me open with ruthless efficiency. It was a clear statement: he didn’t care if I enjoyed it, he only cared about not damaging me in the process. And somehow…that made it a little better for me. Knowing that I was about to bring him pleasure, that it wasn’t my responsibility to do it. That he would take what he wanted from me, and I would make up for my transgression, and everything would be okay again. I welcomed his fingers, and I knew without a doubt that I would welcome his cock.

  He didn’t even take his clothes off. His cock slid into me in one sharp thrust, and as he buried himself deep in me, I felt the harsh metal bite of his zipper against my skin. I wasn’t even worth pulling down his pants for—I was just a thing for him to use, and he would be as rough and careless with me as he wanted.

  I sagged with a whimper as he grazed my oversensitive prostate. My hips tilted automatically as I tried to change the angle, but he yanked back on me and growled, “Stay still. This is your punishment, and you’re going to feel it.”

  And oh god, I did. He thrust into me, quick and businesslike, my prostate screaming with every stroke. A twisting mix of sensation filled me in jerks and starts, almost-pain and not-quite-pleasure, neither of them quite on the right side of the line. I had to lock my elbows to keep from collapsing as he pounded his fury into me.

  Sounds started to come out of me, half-vocalized and punched out by the force of his hips slamming into me. Harsh bursts of emotion—sobs, of a sort, but without tears to accompany them. It was just all so much, so overwhelming. The sensation of his cock striking my most sensitive places, the knowledge he was using me without a thought of my own pleasure, the strange sort of catharsis of being punished for my transgression, knowing that as soon as he was done, as soon as I’d brought him pleasure, everything would be fine.

  I soared on it.

  His fingers tightened painfully on my hips—that was going to leave marks, I was sure of it—and with a loud grunt, I felt him come, his cock throbbing inside me and flooding me with heat and wetness and unbearable relief.

  When he pulled out, I nearly collapsed from the loss of him, every part of me wrung out and weak, broken down and not yet fully reformed, waiting for him to put me back together again.

  He slipped a finger inside me, curious and exploratory, and I heard him make a low noise of approval. His finger was wet when it came back out; he wiped it off on my thigh, his cum mixing with mine on my skin. Proof that he’d been there, that he’d used me and that I’d done what he wanted. I groaned softly, wallowing in the perfection of it.

  “You did so well,” he murmured as he tugged the ruined panties down my body. I shifted so he could remove them, wincing as the drying fabric pulled at the hairs on my skin. I realized distantly, after they were gone, that I kind of wished I could have seen what I looked like, well-fucked and debauched, wearing torn, cum-soaked lace. I should have asked him to take a picture.

  Smiling softly, Ellison helped me up and guided me into the bathroom, where he ran a blissfully hot shower. He soaped me up, cleaning me everywhere he’d debased me, and kissing me long and deep under the shower’s spray. I pressed myself hungrily against his skin and licked the water from his neck, clean and brisk and faintly salty under my tongue. He chuckled as he caught me by the chin and kissed me again, and he seemed to know exactly what I needed, because he just kept us there like that for a long while, connected by our mouths, tongues lazily exploring each other with gentle sweeps while I reminded myself who I was.

  And whose I was.

  The towel he handed me when we were done felt gloriously fluffy. I wasn’t sure if he actually bought some kind of super fancy towels, or if I was just so overwhelmed and touch-starved right now that sandpapery motel towels would have felt like heaven, but either way, I pulled it over me clumsily with a soft noise of pleasure.

  Ellison wrapped a towel neatly around his own waist and straightened and adjusted the towel I was tangled up in, mopping little bits of water from my face with the ends before coaxing them down, more onto my shoulders than pulled over my head like a hood. I let him adjust whatever he wanted, just happy for the attention.

  “Back there you were sobbing while I fucked you. Nearly crying.”

  “I…” Was I? That wasn’t quite how I remembered it, but then again, I hadn’t been entirely in my mind. “I didn’t think I was.”

  “You were,” he said, voice soft as he adjusted the edge of the towel a little more. It didn’t need adjusting—maybe he was just looking for something to fiddle with. I knew that feeling pretty well. “How are you feeling now?”

  I took a slow, deep breath, imagining it filling my body like a balloon, puffing my skin out into a River shape, making me solid where I’d been sagging. I stayed roughly River-shaped when I let it out again, so that was a good sign.

  “I’m feeling surprisingly good. It was…I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “It hurt, what you were doing to me. And…I still liked it. I wanted it to end, but I still wanted more. Or…I wanted whatever you wanted to give me.”

  His face seemed to relax a little; had he been nervous?

  “The sobbing was physical release, I suppose,” I said, pondering the many twists of my own mind. “Catharsis. I don’t know, it just felt good to do it somehow.”

  “That makes sense,” he said, stroking my face with an achingly tender look in his eyes. “It felt good to do that to you.”

  “You, um…mentioned once before wanting to hurt me until I cried.” I bit my lip, pulling the towel a little tighter around me. It was ridiculous to feel shy, of course—you’d think at this point I would have been over feeling embarrassed about the things I wanted him to do to me. Then again, “getting over stuff” had never exactly been one of my strengths. “I didn’t, well…at the time I didn’t think it would be something I’d ever be into, but I think maybe that’s…I think I might like that.”

  He regarded me curiously. “What is it you want? The pain, or the crying?”

  “Both?” I laughed weakly. “Pain still scares me, but not as much as it used to. But I guess it’s…more the crying.”

  “And why do you want to do that?”

  “More catharsis. The things you do to me, sometimes they make me just feel so much I think I might explode, and crying would let that all out, in a way. A release valve for all the pressure. And it’s a very vulnerable thing to cry in front of someone. I like being vulnerable for you. I like…giving you parts of myself that other people don’t get to see.” The words as they came out were far too intimate, too revealing, and I sucked in another breath, looking firmly at the stitching around the edge of the towel I was draped in. “And I like that it’s something for you. Because of you. Something you taught me to like, that I wouldn’t have ever done before I met you.” I chanced a look at him, and what I saw written across his face took my breath away. His expression was so soft, so open. I wanted to memorize it, to scribe it into my eyelids to treasure every time he went hard-edged again.

  Ellison slid his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me down to him, eye to eye, his breath a soft caress against my lips. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.” He kissed me, slow and sweet, the careful pressure and sweep of his tongue speaking his secrets to me.

  How could a simple kiss make me feel so treasured?

  We went to his bed and I curled up around him, stuck to his side as always while he trailed his fingers down my back. Lately these times in the afterglow had been times for us to talk. He’d been opening up a little more, in tiny f
lickers that I sometimes nearly missed for how small and brief they were. And of course, I’d been completely spilling my guts, because that was just how things worked with us. He’d ask for an inch, I’d give a mile. I’d ask for an inch and he’d give exactly one inch, not a hair’s breadth more.

  But this time we just lay quietly, touching in all these little, inconsequential ways. Thigh to thigh, foot to calf, hand to that little faint curve at his waist. Maybe we’d used up our allowance of talking for the day. I didn’t mind; I was kind of all out of feelings anyway.

  It was so nice here in the silence, all warm and loose from the shower and from his hands scrubbing me down. I was nestled perfectly into his spaces, safe and tucked in like a child into bed. I let myself drift for a while, listening for the faint thump-thump of his heartbeat until even that faded.

  Suddenly my entire body jerked, my eyes flying open with a gasp. I glanced over at his clock, and it was…later than it should have been.

  Jesus, I’d actually fallen asleep. Sure, it was for like 20 minutes, but still. I’d fallen asleep.

  I looked up at Ellison. His sleeping face was one of my guilty pleasures, and the number one reason for me not feeling rested in the mornings. There was something I adored about the slackness of it, the way all the hard edges faded and left nothing but him. The man that he was when we weren’t doing all the things we did together.

  But this time he wasn’t asleep. He looked like he hadn’t even noticed my tremor, which was surprising—I would have expected an immediate “what are you feeling” discussion from him. But his eyes were open and staring at the ceiling, his mouth pressed into a frown.

  “What’s on your mind?” I said, settling close against him again.

  He was silent for a long time, and I thought I felt his heart speeding up. Maybe it was my imagination.

  “I’m not sure this is good for you,” he finally said. His voice was so gentle it shouldn’t have been able to pierce me like it did.

  I scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve never subbed for anyone but me,” he said, like that was some kind of fucking explanation.