Truth By His Hand

by Casey Cameron

  I didn’t have enough functioning brain cells after that kiss to give more than a few words in answer. “I love saying it.”

  Ellison made me pull my pants down to my knees and bend over. He gifted me a few light swats with his hand to the not-quite-healed bruises on my ass. I tried to relax into it, dancing just on the edge of subspace, but something kept buzzing annoyingly in the back of my head—something I couldn’t quite pinpoint, somewhere between doubt and fear. Closing my eyes, I tried to focus only on the impact of his hand and the renewed throbbing of my marked skin under it.

  He began to work the plug into me, slowly and with about a quart of lube, because for some reason I’d gone all tight and tense. I tried my best to relax my muscles, but it was hard not to focus on the intrusion when he was constantly asking for feedback in a clinical tone that reminded me of a doctor poking at all my soft spots and asking, “Does it hurt when I do this?”

  After what felt like a week, the widest part finally slipped past my rim and it was in. Ellison rewarded me with a couple more smacks on the ass that jarred the plug into my prostate, giving me a exhilarating taste of what was to come. He told me to stand and do my pants back up, then he picked up the remote and pushed a button. The plug started buzzing inside me, a too-regular, mechanical sensation that felt subtly wrong but made my knees go a little wobbly anyway.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, catching myself with my hand on his bed frame. “That’s…fuck.”

  Ellison chuckled, low and a little cruel, and switched it back off before tucking the remote into his pocket. “Do try to keep yourself under control, River. We’re going out to dinner.”

  Every step I took as I followed him to his car shifted the plug inside me, making me far too aware of it and of the dangerous potential lying dormant inside it. Sitting down was a little better, but I couldn’t forget about it entirely because Ellison buzzed me a couple more times in the car. On the plus side, I definitely caught him adjusting himself at a stoplight after a particularly moan-y response from me. It was insanely gratifying to know that even with all his experience and knowledge and “national expert” status, someone like me gasping his name or a simple obscenity could still make him hard.

  Our table was fairly secluded, which made my chest tighten. It was great news that I didn’t have to worry much about being observed, but that just left the strange, heady mix of excitement and fear at the sure knowledge he was going to do terrible, delightful things to me here.

  Ellison turned the plug on while he inspected the menu, and I immediately grabbed the edge of the table, white-knuckled and gasping. My whole body tingled with that strange, slippery almost-pleasure that could drive a person crazy if it went on too long—so close to true ecstasy to be maddening. I knew if it went on long enough, if I allowed myself to relax and just experience it, it would shift and grow into something more real, but that thought terrified me. Thanks to Ellison, I knew a vibrator on my cock could make me come; I was pretty sure a vibrator on my prostate was going to have just about the same effect, only louder.

  “Quiet,” he said, not glancing up from the menu. “I’m trying to decide what we’re getting.”

  I groaned, but managed to keep it quiet enough that he didn’t comment again as I shifted in my seat. The only position I could find that took some of the pressure off also pressed the end of the plug against the wooden seat, making a shockingly loud buzzing sound. Fine, prostate it was.

  When Ellison had finished looking at the menu, he set it aside and slipped his hand under the table, his eyes locked on my face. My heart clenched as I imagined the remote sitting tucked into his hand, his finger hovering on the button as he considered how he might torment me, how he would manipulate me for his pleasure.

  It should have felt better.

  As it was, the tightness in my chest wasn’t releasing, and that was keeping the rest of me rooted in the here and now—the buzzing against my prostate was too intense, faintly irritating instead of pleasurable, and I knew it would start feeling good if I could just relax, but the tension was only building, pulling me tighter and making my jaw clench.

  “Can you turn it off for a minute?”

  Ellison cocked his head, his eyebrows raised curiously, but the plug didn’t turn off. My heart thumped harder in my chest; I remembered his words: this is the last decision you will be making tonight.

  I could use my safeword. I knew I could always use my safeword, but in a strange way, that frightened me even more than going on. How could I possibly let him push me to that, let him break me like that, when we were in a public place and he couldn’t put me back together again?

  He must have seen the fear in my expression, because the plug went still and I sagged with relief. I was still far too aware that there was something in me, a solid token of violation that I couldn’t escape, but at least I could gather my thoughts again.

  “Is everything okay?” The concern in Ellison’s face made me wince.

  “No, I—yes. Just—I’m sorry.” I made a frustrated noise and shook my head. “It’s, um…I think it’s too much when I can’t see what you’re doing. I don’t…know what’s coming. Sorry, I know that’s sort of the point.”

  “Would it help if I held the remote where you could see?” He set his hand on the table, the rectangle of black plastic tucked discreetly in his palm. I took a long, considering look, chewing on my lip.

  “Maybe it would. We could try it.”

  A server came by to take our order, and Ellison deftly covered the remote with his hand as he ordered for the both of us. I hardly heard him talking until he pointedly said my name—I was too caught up in the stretch and throb of my body around the plug, and the cold sliver of annoyance piercing my thoughts.

  “River. How do you like your steak done?”

  Another choice—I couldn’t help but frown. Not that I wanted to eat bloody meat and enjoy all the risk of food-borne illness that accompanied it, but it felt suspiciously like him going easy on me. “Well-done,” I said, frustration gnawing at my insides.

  After the server left, Ellison regarded me carefully. “You know we can stop any time you want.”

  “I thought I wasn’t going to be making any more decisions tonight,” I snapped back.

  Ellison didn’t flinch. He never fucking flinched. “You have the power to change the parameters of a scene at any time. And so do I.”

  I groaned, dragging my hands over my face. “I’m sorry, that was shitty of me. I just…” Just what? I had no idea how to finish that sentence.

  I just want to be what you’re actually looking for.

  Back when we met, he’d told me he didn’t want a reluctant sub. And here I was, giving him exactly that. Every date we had, every scene we did, he was accommodating my quirks, my hesitations, my goddamn daddy issues. Our whole relationship was a long series of workarounds and compromises, ways for him to get some semblance of what he wanted without going over my ridiculous lines.

  For fuck’s sake, who couldn’t handle a blindfold? Or a pair of fuzzy novelty handcuffs? These were things that even the most vanilla of vanilla couples tried once in a while—I would’ve bet solid money that even Tea had worn a scarf over their eyes at least once in their life.

  Ellison sat across the table from me, ever patient, ever understanding, his blue eyes cool and assessing. I sighed. “I think I’m just cranky because I haven’t eaten. Low blood sugar or something. Can we just…pretend I haven’t been a total brat and have the fun evening we planned?”

  A slow smile spread across Ellison’s face. “I don’t know about that. I think I have some ideas of how to deal with a brat.”

  He raised his hand, the remote control ominously black in his graceful hand. I swallowed as he moved his thumb over the button, watching me. I closed my eyes. Opened them again. Nodded.

  I jolted in my seat as the plug turned back on and Ellison’s grin widened. “I think you need to sit right there and think about what you’ve done.”

 
Well, that was just about the last thing I wanted to do right now. I took a slow breath, trying to focus on the vibrations, the shivery buzz of them that I felt in my balls and at the base of my spine. I tried to shift again, tried to press the plug where it needed to go—if I could just get it in the right spot, it would start to feel good. I could let the sensation wash over me as I imagined Ellison’s cock in the plug’s place, hot and thick inside me.

  It wasn’t working.

  I realized my eyes were fixed on Ellison’s hand, my heart racing and my neck cold and clammy. Why the hell was I so scared? I could see his hand, and I knew he would telegraph anything he was going to do. And at this point, the only thing he could do to me was turn it off, so what could there possibly be to be scared of?

  Stop being weird, River. The eternal mantra.

  I swallowed, trying to focus on Ellison’s face, on the look of pleasure I knew would be there as he watched me suffer by his hand. But…it wasn’t there. He wasn’t frowning or anything, but his smile had faded and his brow had that curious lift to it that meant he was probably about to ask me some ridiculous question he already knew the answer to. “What are you feeling right now?” or “Does this make you uncomfortable?” or “Why are you staring at my hand?”

  This wasn’t what I’d signed up for. This wasn’t what either of us had signed up for, and I was screwing the whole damn thing up.

  I couldn’t do this. Frantic, I scrambled out of the booth. “I can’t—I need this thing out.” I stood and whirled around, nearly crashing into the server returning with our appetizer. Jesus, I hoped she hadn’t heard anything. I scanned the restaurant for the bathrooms and set off for them, my head down and my shoulders hunched.

  The plug went still again as I heard Ellison’s maddeningly steady voice behind me. “Sorry, something’s come up. Can we get our food to go, please?”

  The bathroom felt too bright, the exhaust fan too loud, and I realized distantly that I might be having a panic attack as I fumbled to lock the stall door, my fingers shaking so much it took me three tries. I winced at the subtle wrongness of the widest part of the plug popping out of me, but the relief when it was gone was like a splash of cold water on a hot day, a sudden rush washing over me and soothing the knots in my chest and stomach. Or some of them, at least.

  I looked at the plug in my hand, all slick and shiny with lube, and grimaced. There was no way I was going out and washing this in a public bathroom where anyone could walk in. Don’t mind me, just cleaning my butt plug—they’re the gotta-have-it fashion accessory this fall, haven’t you heard? So stylish—and surprisingly comfortable! Jam one up your ass today!

  So I wrapped it in toilet paper and jammed it into the trash. Not like Ellison couldn’t afford another one.

  I washed my hands like I had a vendetta against skin, scrubbing under water so hot it made my fingers go pink. The almost-pain helped focus me a little, but all that did was let me notice the fact the face looking back from the mirror looked like hell. I was pale, my skin a little waxy, and it emphasized the dark circles that were starting to form under my eyes from the abundance of piss-poor sleep I’d been having since I’d started staying late at Ellison’s house two to four times a week. It would’ve been so much easier if I could just sleep in his bed, or if I could let him order me around at my apartment the way I liked him to.

  It turned out there were a whole lot of things that would be easier if I weren’t…well, me.

  I splashed some water on my face, and the heat helped restore a little color, at least. Once I’d dried off, I looked a little less like a walking corpse; I sighed as I gave myself a last look in the mirror. My tattoos and the black plugs in my earlobes stared back at me, faintly mocking. All this work I’d put in, all this pain, just to look like the strong, confident, indifferently stylish person I’d always wanted to be, and I was still the scared little kid I’d always been. Maybe it was time to take the gauges out and stop pretending I was still young and whimsical and capricious. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been any of those things.

  Walking back to the table was like marching to my execution. Ellison was signing the receipt, a small stack of takeout containers next to him. He glanced up at me curiously, and I looked away, sheepish and miserable.

  He didn’t ask where the plug was. I was pretty sure he knew.

  We didn’t talk all the way out to the car, and it only intensified the “about to go to the firing squad” feeling. The longer this built up, the worse it would be, but I sure as hell didn’t want to start talking.

  Ellison did, though. He always did. “What happened back there?” he asked, almost the instant we pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Nothing. It was just uncomfortable,” I said, staring out the window at the street lights passing us by.

  “It didn’t look like nothing.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I slunk down in my seat like a sullen teenager, my arms crossed over my chest.

  It only took a couple minutes to get to his house, and I hadn’t had nearly a long enough break before he pulled into the driveway and turned to me. His face was unreadable in the low light, and to be honest, I didn’t particularly want to read it right now.

  “River, I want to understand what’s going on with you. If I crossed a limit, I need to know how I did so I can avoid doing it again. You can’t hold back from me like this.”

  I barked out a laugh, harsh and bitter. “You are the last person in the world who gets to lecture me about holding shit back. You never tell me about yourself.”

  “You know I’ll tell you anything—you only have to ask.” God, his voice was so fucking calm. Why did that always make me so mad?

  “Holding back isn’t just refusing to answer questions, Ellison.” I dragged my hand through my hair, tugging on it with a strangled noise of frustration. “Maybe constant interrogation is the way you communicate with everyone, but that’s not my style—not that I even have much of a chance to do it. I like it when the people I care about tell me things—not because I dragged it out of them, but because they want me to share in the things that are important to them.”

  “I do want you to share in those things.”

  My laugh was a little unhinged, teetering on the edge of hysteria. “Oh, really? You just want to share everything with me, don’t you? Ellison Fitch, nationally acclaimed sex researcher and author of ‘Knowing Our Kinks.’”

  Ellison jerked back like he’d been burned. I reveled in it, the bitter, angry little monster in me flush with victory.

  “Yeah. I found your books.” He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but I wasn’t done yet. “When were you going to tell me, huh? You’ve had more than enough opportunities. Or did you not want to pollute your data? Were you waiting until the experiment was done?”

  “What? No!”

  “So you’re telling me that your personal sex life doesn’t bleed through into your research and your writing? Think real hard about your answer, because I’ve read your work—and I happen to know a lot of people you’ve had sex with, and some of them love to overshare.”

  “Of course it does—how could it not?” He ran a hand through his hair, the curls fluffing up from their carefully-arranged coif. “I never go into detail unless I’ve explicitly discussed it with someone. Everything is anonymized—even the case studies, which I always get permission to write about. Is—is that what this is about? You think I’m planning to write about you?”

  “I don’t know what I think. How can I, when I—I’ve got nothing at all to go on? Nothing you’ll give me?” My voice was breaking, my eyes growing hot as all my frustration started welling up and turning into tears. “All I really know right now is—is I’m in love with you, and I can’t stop thinking I might be just an experiment to you.”

  The words vanished in an instant, swallowed by the car’s tasteful fabric and vinyl surfaces, but they echoed endlessly in my ears, weight building with every second that ticked silently
by. I hadn’t meant to say that—not exactly, not until it was coming out of my mouth—but there it was, building to a crushing crescendo.

  I loved him.

  And he was just sitting there.

  His voice went whisper-soft. “River, you’re not just an experiment. I swear. I care, I just…”

  Silence.

  This was my time to shine—to turn all his damn questions around on him, force him to examine himself and admit his feelings, let him know how it felt to be on the other end for once. But all the fight had drained out of me, leaving me bone-weary and lost. This was yet another thing I didn’t want to drag out of him. I wanted him to give it. I wanted him to want to give it.

  “It’s fine, you don’t have to say it back,” I said, reaching for the door handle. “I thought you should know. This isn’t just ‘play’ to me, and if it isn’t for you, then you need to stop holding me at arm’s length and talk to me. And if it is…I don’t know.”

  It was a weak ending. I wanted to give an ultimatum, but I didn’t trust myself to follow through. No matter how much it hurt, I couldn’t imagine cutting Ellison out of my life. He was like a scab I couldn’t stop picking at, and I had no idea what part of me I could slice off to make myself stop.

  “It’s not just play,” Ellison said. His tone was sincere, but he didn’t continue, didn’t offer me anything else but a vague reassurance.

  “Okay. Good, I guess.” I opened the car door with a sigh. “I need to get some sleep. Good night.”

  “Will I see you Thursday?” His voice sounded tight. Anxious. Like our standing Thursday date might have meant something to him. I sighed; we both knew the answer.

  “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

  Of course I’d be here. He had something I wanted, and even if he was only willing or able to dish it out in measured, trickling doses, I’d keep coming back like an addict for another hit.