Truth By His Hand

by Casey Cameron

  I saw his eyes widen just a tiny bit, and I felt a little thrill at knowing I’d affected him. I couldn’t help a small grin, and his eyes narrowed in obvious amusement.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I have every intention of choking you with mine.”

  Score one for Ellison. My cock throbbed in my jeans—thankfully not my tightest this time, but if he kept talking, it was going to start getting crowded in there anyway.

  He kept talking. “Rimming?”

  “Giving or receiving?” Before he could answer, I smirked at him. “Never mind, the answer is yes.”

  “Can I come on your face?” His voice was almost entirely without inflection. Why was I getting the impression this was some kind of subtle power play?

  Probably because it was.

  “You can come on anything you want,” I said, trying to match his indifference.

  “In your mouth?”

  “Please do.”

  “What if I slapped you in the face after I did?”

  My brain ground to a halt so quickly I could practically smell the smoke. That shouldn’t have done anything—what’s sexy about a slap in the face? But…it kinda did. The casual way he said it, the thought of a sharp sting of a slap with my mouth full of cum…yeah, it was definitely doing something. “I…yeah, okay. That’s fine,” I rasped, grabbing for my drink again.

  “What about other forms of impact play? Bare-handed spanking, floggers, crops, belts?”

  “A little, sure. But I’m not really that excited about pain.”

  The rapid-fire questioning stopped, and Ellison just watched me again as he leaned back slightly in his seat. Was this one of his limits? Was letting him hurt me another of those non-negotiable things?

  “At all?” he asked, taking another sip of his drink. “Any type of pain?”

  “Any serious pain.” I frowned; any second now, he was going to ask me to define “serious.” “I mean, I can definitely appreciate a smack on the ass in the heat of the moment or whatever. But that’s not so much about pain as it is about sensation, you know? Like…a moment of distraction, a little bit of a shock. Once things start actually hurting-hurting, I don’t think I’d like it anymore.”

  “You don’t think? So you haven’t tested those limits at all?”

  “Not…really, no.” He raised an eyebrow at me, and I sighed. “Not at all, okay? Maybe I’m wrong and I’m secretly a total slut for pain, but it seems pretty damn unlikely.”

  Ellison’s nod was careful and understanding. “If you don’t want to explore that limit, I won’t push you. But I think you might find that your tolerance and your response to pain are significantly different when you have a lot of endorphins in your system.”

  I blew out a slow breath as I mulled it over, jabbing at the ice in my drink with my straw. “I’m curious,” I finally admitted, “but I don’t want to do too much. I don’t want to be feeling it tomorrow.”

  “For most people, feeling it the next day is kind of the point.”

  “Well, good for them,” I snapped, the amused glint in his eyes starting to get on my nerves. “It’s not for me.”

  He held up his hands in supplication. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “You didn’t offend me, you just…” I sighed, pinching at the bridge of my nose. “Everything that comes out of your mouth makes me more and more aware that I know fuck all about this, and it’s hard not to feel like you’re secretly laughing at me.”

  “I’m not,” he said, his voice firm and assured. I was pretty sure I believed him. “I’m only trying to learn as much as I can about your limits and your experiences, so I can make this as good an experience for you as I can. If there are limits you want to push, I want to help you push them.”

  “I think we’ve already established that I don’t know enough about my limits to know what I want to push.” God, I hoped it didn’t sound like I was trying to talk him out of this. I was afraid I was doing a pretty good job of it.

  “Would you like me to just ask you more questions?” I nodded mutely, and he smiled, threading his fingers together in front of him. “How do you feel about humiliation?”

  “Same way I feel about pain, I guess. I don’t really see what’s fun about it, but I could try.”

  “How would you feel if I called you a dirty little slut? If I told you what a filthy whore you were while I fucked your mouth?”

  Oh fuck, my body was giving me some seriously confusing messages right now. “I…don’t think I’d feel one way or the other,” I said, trying to adjust my insistently throbbing erection. “About the names. They don’t do anything for me, but I’m not offended by them or anything. But I…have some pretty strong feelings about you fucking my mouth.”

  “Oh?” A lazy smile spread across his face, and he leaned in a little closer. “Tell me about them.”

  I swallowed, my fingers tightening on my glass. This guy’s ideas of dirty talk were vastly different from anything I’d done before—I was used to a lot of crude innuendo and subtle insinuation, and Ellison never let me get away with that. It was always “why” and “what” and “tell me,” and I longed for the simplicity of a vague double entendre and a well-timed flick of the tongue.

  “I…would really like you to do it,” I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I’d like to—to feel your cock in my mouth and your hands in my hair. I like it a little rough.”

  Ellison looked pleased. “What is it about having your face fucked that appeals to you? Is it the sensation of being penetrated, the helplessness?”

  “It’s—” I shifted in my seat as precum dampened the fabric against my skin. “It’s the feeling of being used, I guess. Of being a tool for your pleasure. Almost like…you’re just using my body to jerk off.”

  I saw him shift minutely in his seat—was he adjusting himself, or was I just imagining it? I felt a little thrill at the idea that this was finally starting to affect him like it was me.

  “Do you want to be used, River?”

  “Yes,” I sighed, feeling something in me break just a little. I sagged slightly, my cheeks burning hot. “Yes, I do.”

  “And what if I used you like that—took my pleasure from you—fucked your mouth until I came down your throat, and then sent you home hard and unfulfilled?”

  “God—” My voice broke, my breath coming short and my chest aching.

  “Would you like that?”

  “No,” I gasped, my voice sounding almost frantic to my ears. “I would hate it.”

  Ellison leaned in closer, watching me, and I felt a sharp spike of fear, of worry that I’d just given him too much. If I told him my weaknesses, would he use them against me?

  “Why would you hate it? I would be using you, just the way you wanted.”

  “Yes, but…” I drew in a deep breath to steady myself. “But I’m a very tactile person. If you just used me like that and then didn’t touch me, I would feel awful. Unwanted.”

  “I would be touching you when I fucked your face, though.”

  “Don’t be pedantic,” I snapped. “You know what I mean.”

  He was completely unfazed. “So you want physical pleasure after you’re used. You want touch as reassurance.”

  “Exactly, yes.” I felt like my nerves were lighting up in response to his words, the hairs on my arms standing on and end prickling with nervous energy. I longed for the things his words were promising, but he was across the table from me and may as well have been across the country. My fingers twitched with a repressed urge to reach out and touch him.

  If we were lovers, I could have held his hand.

  “So, if I made you kneel and swallow my cock,” he said conversationally, “and then I bent you over and fucked you in the ass, would that be reassuring enough?”

  My cock pulsed in my jeans, leaking more precum. “If—um, if I got to come, it would be.”

  “Can you come just from being fucked, or do you need a hand on your cock?”

  I didn’t unders
tand how he could be so cool and unaffected as he said these things. His voice was smooth and unwavering, full of as much passion as if he were talking about the weather.

  But no, I realized as I watched him that he wasn’t entirely unaffected. I could see the intensity of his gaze, the dark pupils wide in his ice-blue eyes. His smile was careful but wide, the corners twitching as he watched me squirm. He was getting something out of this, even if he wasn’t showing it as much as I was.

  “Sometimes I can,” I said, a little of the confidence returning to my voice, “but I usually need a hand.”

  “And would it make a difference whether it was my hand or yours?”

  “As far as me feeling reassured?” He inclined his head in a subtle nod. “No, it doesn’t make a difference. But the idea of your hand doing it is definitely hotter.”

  Ellison’s smile widened slightly, and the shift of it felt a little like victory. Finally it was starting to feel like we were on the same page.

  “You like the idea of my hand on your cock, then?”

  “Of course I do,” I said, impatience bubbling up in me. I couldn’t imagine what could possibly be gained by dragging this conversation out so long. “So do you want to go somewhere and do more than just talk about it?”

  “No.”

  I whined. I actually fucking whined—out loud, and in public. Horrified, I clapped my hand over my mouth before any more sounds could come out and gave him a look that was meant to be an angry glare, but probably came off more petulant and confused.

  Ellison chuckled softly. “I love this part.”

  “What part?” The part where he worked me up and then shot me down in public? Because I wasn’t a fan at all.

  He leaned in just a little bit closer, his eyes fixed on me and his grin unflappable. “The part where you’re sitting there, hard and leaking in your pants, thinking about all the filthy things you want me to do to you.”

  “Jesus,” I groaned.

  His smile was so much more infuriating because he wasn’t even right. My mind was, at the moment, mercifully blank—it was my body that wouldn’t shut up. My cock throbbed and dripped, aching to be touched, and the look in his eyes kept sending shivery pulses of pleasure through my chest. My breath was quick and shallow, but it wasn’t because of luridly detailed mental pictures—it was because of a deep, indefinable yearning that wouldn’t shut the hell up.

  I had no idea what he might have in store for me, but I really, really wanted to find out.

  Ellison didn’t say anything; he just watched me with unblinking eyes. The look started dancing at the edge of too long, and my eyes flickered away from his, across the curve of his mouth, the ridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, but when I came back to his eyes they hadn’t moved. They were still drilling into me, clear and cool and unrelenting.

  This look was too deep, too intimate. This wasn’t something near-total strangers did—the only people who would stare this long into each others’ eyes were brand-new lovers not yet out of the honeymoon phase of their relationship. I didn’t want him to look at me with such intensity. If he stared at me like that, he would see all my flaws—the couple of acne scars that had never faded, the flat mole at my jawline that I’d forgotten to check for hairs before we came out, the inevitable patch or two of barely-there stubble I’d missed while shaving, the way the left side of my lower lip didn’t quite match the right. What if I had something stuck in my teeth? I kept my lips clamped tightly shut, not ready to be that exposed—not yet, not with him.

  I looked down at my hands, gripping the damp glass with twitching fingers. When I looked up again, he was still watching me.

  “Why do you keep looking away?” Ellison murmured.

  “Because being stared at is really uncomfortable.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it is. Nobody likes being stared at—that’s a normal human thing. You know how humans work, right?”

  “I see,” he said, but he didn’t stop staring.

  Fine, I’d just stare right back. I met his eyes, my jaw set stubbornly, trying to distract myself from the weight of his eyes by focusing on the blue of them. What blue was that? Cerulean? Mariah would know—I did all my color work on the computer, so I never had to pay attention to names.

  Did Ellison like what he saw?

  The question popped into my head out of nowhere, and my mind turned it over as I examined his face. The subtle curve of his smile gave very little away, only faint amusement, but there were only two reasons he would keep on doing this: either he liked the way I looked, or he liked watching me squirm.

  Let’s be real here—it was probably both.

  As he kept up his relentless assault, I realized something was happening to me. I was starting to feel less like I wanted to shift and wriggle out from under his gaze, and more…comfortable with it. I didn’t precisely like it, but it sort of started to settle into me. Like this was something I could do—just being here for him to look at.

  And as I let it happen, let him dissect me with his eyes, something else started to happen: my erection, which had faded in the face of his denial and strange behavior, came back in full force. I started to want him to look at me. But not just look—I wanted him to touch me, to prove to me that all this awkwardness and discomfort was because he wanted me.

  I started squirming again, and I had to look away, halfway covering my face with one hand and groaning softly into it. I shifted my hips, trying to press my cock against the fabric and gain a little friction, a little relief. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. I felt hot all over; hot and desperate and completely, utterly wanting him.

  “What are you thinking right now?”

  I groaned again, my hand sliding up to tug on my hair out of sheer frustration. “I really wish you would touch me,” I admitted, the words tumbling out in a quiet rush of air that left my lungs empty and burning.

  How many things could that voice make me do?

  Ellison raised one hand, slow and measured, and reached across the table to rest his fingertips on my forearm. The effect was instant, the heat in my body dissipating in a cool wave that spread out from that point of contact. I had to focus to keep from sagging down in my seat from the overwhelming relief.

  “Like this?”

  “That’s…a start,” I said, allowing myself a tiny sigh. At this point, I may as well stop caring about him knowing how much of an effect he was having on me. He damn well knew.

  He chuckled softly and began to move his fingers, tracing slow lines up and down my forearm that made the hairs stand up and prickle maddeningly. I didn’t usually like being touched like this—the lighter the touch, the more likely it was to just tickle instead of feeling any sort of good—but at this point I was just so unbelievably grateful that he was touching me at all that I would’ve taken anything. Even that slap in the face.

  I thought of it again, the sting and the burn that would linger afterward, and an indefinable craving flickered in my chest. It wasn’t that I wanted the pain, not exactly, but I wanted to know what it was like. I wanted him to show me.

  As if he’d read my mind, Ellison slid his hand all the way up my arm and to my cheek, tracing the ridge of my cheekbone with his thumb before resting his warm palm against my skin. I leaned into it before I realized I was doing it, pressing his skin tighter against mine. It felt so good I couldn’t even find it in me to be ashamed.

  “Hmm. You like that, do you?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice nearly a gasp.

  Ellison’s thumb stroked my skin again, a little firmer this time. It was a reward, I realized, and I treasured it. The more I opened myself to him, the more he gave me.

  Suddenly I realized that I was gasping with pleasure in a crowded restaurant while a man stroked my cheek, and I clamped my mouth shut, my face burning. I flicked my eyes to the side, scanning what few tables I could see from our mostly-secluded booth. As far as I could tell, the other diners were engrossed in their own conversati
ons—nobody seemed to be staring.

  “Something bothering you?” Ellison said mildly, his touch unrelenting.

  “People could see.” It was a feeble protest, like I didn’t quite believe it myself.

  “And what would they see, if they did?”

  “They would see me…practically coming in my pants just from a touch on my cheek. It’s—it’s not…appropriate.”

  Yet I still pressed my face into his hand.

  “I disagree,” Ellison said, leaning in slightly as he stroked me. “If anyone were to look over here, what they would see is two people caught up in each other. A man stroking his lover’s cheek. And then they would look away, embarrassed to have witnessed what they thought was a moment of true tenderness.” He shifted his hand enough to drag his thumb across my lower lip, pressing in the middle to pull it down, and I sucked in a breath through my teeth. “They would have no idea, River, what we’re really here for. They would never know the filthy, degrading things I’m going to do to you tonight.”

  “Fuck,” I groaned. The wet spot in my jeans was spreading wide enough to be uncomfortable against my skin, every word out of Ellison’s mouth and every touch of his hand making precum leak out of me as my cock throbbed.

  “You like that idea, do you?”

  “Obviously.” I was pretty damn proud of myself for not rolling my eyes—it took monumental effort. “But I’m really starting to wonder when we’re going to get on to that part.”

  “We can’t go anywhere yet,” he said, nodding downward. “You haven’t finished your drink.” He took his hand off my cheek and leaned back, finally breaking the spell that kept me pinned in place and gasping for his touch.

  I grabbed my glass and started sucking down my drink like my life depended on it. The sweetness of it was cloying in such large gulps, but I soldiered bravely on.

  “Stop,” Ellison said. Amusement was threaded through his voice, but the command halted me all the same. “You’re going to give yourself a brain freeze.”

  “I can’t even tell you how many fucks I don’t give right now.”

  “I want you to pace yourself. If you drain that glass before I pay the bill, I won’t allow you to come tonight.”