Truth By His Hand

by Casey Cameron

  “Are you sure you’re not going to regret it?”

  I scrambled desperately for his meaning, all thoughts having fled my head in the rush of fear. But whatever he was talking about, I couldn’t imagine regretting anything he might do to me. “No, sir.”

  I cried out again as he flicked the end of the strap against one of the nipple clamps. “I love your confidence,” he said with a dangerous grin, all teeth. “You’d better hope it’s not misplaced.”

  The fear boiling inside me as he moved to my side was a hard thing to define—not fear of him, but fear of what he could do to me. I trusted Ellison, but all the trust in the world couldn’t stop me from shaking.

  He laid a couple of light swats on my thighs—more sound than sensation, but I jumped anyway. The chain shifted as I shuddered, and the pain where the clamps bit into me was so much more intense than what the strap offered. But then he struck me harder, the leather cracking against my skin and leaving hot trails in its wake. I could already feel where the skin was reddening, where this would leave marks I could treasure in secret for days.

  “Still want more?” He twirled the strap in his hand, eyeing me carefully.

  “Yes—god. Please, sir.”

  He brushed the chain off my belly with the back of his hand and gave my cock—my traitorous, leaking cock—a quick stroke, then raised the strap, eyes sharply focused like he was aiming.

  I sucked in a breath so deep I nearly choked on it, my body arching off the bed in a tight bow. I hovered there, shaking and gasping, while he cocked his head at me, hand still raised.

  “What, you don’t want me to hit your cock?”

  I could only gasp in response, my breath coming quick through my teeth as my body shuddered in place.

  “But you would let me, wouldn’t you?” His voice was mild; it was a question that didn’t need an answer. “Lie flat, River.”

  My eyes squeezed shut as I slowly, laboriously, forced my muscles to loosen enough to lie down again. I tried to remember how to breathe, and didn’t have much luck with it.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I did, and saw him raise the strap again—overhead, like he was winding up for a serious blow. I—I knew he wouldn’t. It was too dangerous, too intensely painful. He wouldn’t. But his hand was still raised, his eyes glittering with wicked intent.

  Suddenly his other hand flashed out, and my cock flared with stinging pain as he slapped me there, open-handed and merciless. I yelled out in pain; he did it again, and then a third time, each hit drawing another shout out of me.

  I shuddered with heaving breaths, half-coughing from the force of it, but no tears.

  What was it going to take?

  He ordered me up onto my hands and knees, gravity making the chain tug at my nipples with every breath, every shiver and twitch. The strap hit me across the ass even harder than before, and I couldn’t quite process it—whether it was true pain or just sensation, whether I liked it or not—and Ellison didn’t give me time to work it out, just laid stripe after stripe of hot pain across the top of the last. Between flurries of blows, he would idly tug on the chain, making the clamps burn and ache, never giving me a moment to rest.

  After a while, noises started to come out of me as the fire consumed me, these sort of half-sobs half-laughs that exploded out every time a blow landed—my body scrambling for a release valve, some way to express what was happening to me. The awkward, stuttering sounds turned into a sort of deranged, panicked laughter.

  “Is this funny?” he asked, his voice light.

  “No,” I choked out between hysterical bursts of sound. “It’s—pain reaction. Can’t help it.”

  This was all wrong. What if I couldn’t do it?

  “You’re going to have marks from this. Bad ones,” he said, his voice thick with pleasure and a kind of awe that sent another shiver of fear through me. I was putting myself in the hands of a genuine sadist here, and maybe I hadn’t fully considered the implications of that. “You’re going to have trouble sitting down if I keep going.”

  Crack. Another blow landed; another awkward sound exploded from my throat.

  “Still sure you want to cry for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, but the “yes” came out more like “yeh-heh-heh-hes” as my chest shuddered and I struggled to draw breath.

  I screamed into the pillow as he hit me again and again, biting down into the fabric so hard my jaw popped.

  I wanted to cry. It would feel so fucking good to just cry and end this. So why wouldn’t my body do it?

  My safeword sat at the tip of my tongue. Five more—I would hold out for five more blows. I could do that much, couldn’t I?

  But after two, he stopped, turned me over, and took me by the chin, peering curiously at my face. “No tears.”

  “No.” A cold fist clutched at my heart. Was that why he’d stopped? Was he disappointed in my failure?

  Then I noticed that his skin was shining with sweat, his face flushed with exertion. This was taking so long he was actually worn out from it. I wondered if maybe that was even worse.

  Ellison never stopped touching me—never stopped hurting me—but it turned into something a little slower, a little more manageable. He dragged his fingers slowly over my skin, punctuating it with tugs at the chain and little pinches all over my chest and stomach. The adrenaline never died down, not entirely—he kept up with enough steadiness that it couldn’t quite happen—but I started to float in a more relaxed state, lulled into peace by the heat of his hands. I began to welcome the tiny pricks of pain he gave me, gentler and almost tender, especially with the way his eyes looked, a little soft with wonder and a little cruel.

  But when he straightened up and picked the strap up again, the terror and adrenaline were back. My eyes shot wide open in an instant.

  “I think I might work on this side some more. You’ve got some pretty marks coming up on your thighs here. Do you want to see how dark I can make them?”

  I shook my head before I realized what I was doing. I stopped and nodded instead, gasping out a “yes” that didn’t sound steady or even entirely believable, but it was all I could give.

  He didn’t punish me for forgetting the “sir;” he just straightened out my legs with smooth, sure hands, and dragged the strap up and down the length of them, taking a couple of gentle practice swats at the blood-flushed skin. This was the kind of pain I knew, the familiar stings he’d given me in the past—it was so cruel of him to offer it to me when he was about to give me something terrible.

  I gasped in terror as he raised the strap, my back arching and my knees shooting up, as if I could protect myself from him. I knew I couldn’t.

  He regarded me curiously, lowering the strap again. My breath was coming quick and shallow enough to make spots flare in front of my eyes. I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control the shuddering of my body. I saw the strap rise again; I winced, but I tried to straighten out my bunched muscles. Tried to give him access to my body.

  Ellison’s voice went a little softer as he said, “Do you want to go on?”

  “I don’t—“ This wasn’t what I wanted, either. This wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be asking me.

  “River, you know we can stop. Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know!” The tension in me fled, and words started bubbling out of me, unwanted and unbidden. “I don’t know. I—I don’t—I don’t know. Please, I don’t—“

  My words dissolved into sobs, great heaving ones that shook my whole chest, different from before—deep and heavy and profound. “I don’t know,” I sobbed, stinging tears rising to my eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so—”

  Oh god, I was crying. Really crying.

  Ellison dropped the strap and leaned forward to cup my cheek. “Look at you,” he said, soft and warm like a blanket. “Look.” He swiped his thumb across my cheek and pulled it away, glistening and wet. He brought the finger to his mouth and licked the drops away. “You’re crying, just like you wanted to.”r />
  “I know.” But it wasn’t right, it wasn’t what we’d meant. This wasn’t crying because of pain, it was…I’d wanted it to be him. “I know, I’m sorry.” It just made me cry harder, so loud it nearly hurt my ears, ugly tears streaming down my burning face.

  “You don’t have to apologize. You did it.” Ellison leaned in and kissed my lips, my cheeks, my eyelids. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

  What did he have to be proud of?

  The clamps came off, sending another wave of throbbing pain through me that pushed more sobs from my throat. I curled in when I was free, finally completely overcome by my tears. He circled my balled-up body with his arms, stroking my back and kissing my head and telling me how proud he was even though he had no right to be.

  This was a technicality. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

  I cried for a long, long time there in his arms, and the whole while he told me that it was okay, I’d done well, I’d made him proud. Eventually the sobs slowed and softened, the tears drying up in my swollen eyes. Everything had poured out of me, leaving me scrubbed-out and empty, a shell for him to fill with his words and his kisses and his truth.

  “There we go,” he whispered, kissing my head. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

  “I know,” I muttered sullenly into his chest. “I know I’m always safe with you.”

  His lips curled against my scalp as he pulled me tighter. He rolled me onto my back again and stroked my body, achingly tender, chasing the hurt away from all the places he’d burned it into me.

  I realized with a curious sort of horror that I was getting hard again—that I’d never completely gone soft, even through the pain and the terror and the crushing doubt. He noticed as well, and he began to stroke my cock with merciful gentleness while he murmured sweet, encouraging lies in my ear.

  When I came, it was soft as a sigh, spilling in long, slow pulses into the hand that could bring me endless pain and pleasure as I drowned in his kisses.

  I spent a long while clinging to him like a monkey, touch-starved and skin-hungry, and he let me float back down at my own pace while he petted me and kissed me and made pleased sounds every time I squeezed him back.

  It couldn’t last forever, though; eventually Ellison had to be himself again. “How are you feeling?”

  My fingers wandered carefully over his slim chest as I considered it, chewing on my lip. “Good, I think. A little drained, but kind of wired at the same time.”

  “That’s the adrenaline talking,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Did you get what you wanted out of it?”

  My first instinct was to say I hadn’t. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d disappointed him somehow, that I’d made the whole thing awkward and unsatisfying for everyone involved.

  But then I tried to remember what I’d wanted out of it, all those eons ago—okay, so it had only been two days, but whatever. Time was a funny thing in subspace.

  I’d wanted a release—a buildup of pressure that burst out and left me free of the cacophony of my own thoughts and anxieties. I’d wanted peace—a meditation, of a sort—and here I was, blank and clean.

  And I’d wanted intimacy. Even if it had been for the wrong reasons, I’d cried in front of him. He’d seen me all red-faced and snotty and awkwardly loud, and he was still here—he still liked me. He’d still held me and told me how good I was and how proud he was of me. Even if it wasn’t true, it still meant something that he cared enough to say it.

  So yeah, I guess I’d gotten what I wanted.

  “I suppose I did,” I said softly, nestled into the crook of his arm. “Did you?”

  He chuckled low in his chest and kissed the top of my head, unbearably tender. “Yes. You were magnificent.”

  I drew in a shuddering breath, squeezing him tighter. I still wasn’t sure I believed it, but it felt good to hear.

  My stomach growled, and I gave a soft groan. Seemed like I was empty in more ways than one—I’d been too nervous to eat anything before I came over here.

  “Hungry?” Ellison asked.

  “Nah, I’m fine,” I lied. Food was great and all, but getting up to eat would require giving up the warmth of his skin on mine.

  “What did you eat for dinner?” Ugh, why did he have to be so persistent?

  “Uh…I kinda didn’t.”

  “Still feeling wired?”

  “A little?”

  “Good.” He patted me briskly on the shoulder. “We’re going out for hash browns.”

  At that point, Ellison couldn’t have surprised me more if he’d jumped up and started singing show tunes at the foot of the bed. The man was a lot of things, but spontaneous had never been one of them. Had I had some kind of psychotic break back there when he was hitting me?

  “Would you, uh, like me to do anything for you first?” I nodded toward his neglected cock, suddenly feeling faintly guilty that he hadn’t gotten to come.

  Ellison laughed, a low rolling sound that went right down to my bones. “Don’t worry—if I wanted anything else from you, I’d take it.”

  Oh hell, that made me go all shivery again.

  He didn’t let me wallow in it, though. We dressed quickly and got into his car, and he drove me to a cheap-looking diner just off the freeway, sandwiched between an adult bookstore and a liquor store. It was all done up in black and white tile and red neon, an eyesore among eyesores, but I felt my stomach rumbling again when I saw it, the promise of a cornucopia of fat and salt dancing before my eyes.

  The lighting inside was harsh and fluorescent, lighting up all the lines and hollows of Ellison’s face in stark relief, and I burned with sudden self-consciousness—if this light could make even him look less than stellar, what must it be doing to me? But Ellison still looked at me with a soft smile, like he was enjoying seeing me. I tried to push the self-doubt to the back of my head, but it was like one of those cartoons where someone is cramming an entire houseful of stuff in one closet, the bulging door just waiting for the perfect moment to burst open and crush me.

  Hash browns. They’d make everything all better. Well, apart from the ache in my ass as I sat down in the hard plastic booth—that part I might need ibuprofen for.

  “You need to get them with gravy,” he said decisively as I opened the menu.

  I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds disgusting.”

  “It’s part of the experience,” he insisted. “You can’t come here and get gravy-less hash browns. I won’t allow it.”

  “Oh, you won’t allow it?” I said with a smirk. “What are you going to do, slap me for insubordination if I don’t slather my hash browns in gravy? I think that might get us kicked out.”

  “I can discipline you later if it comes to that,” he said, but the playful curve of his smile belied his severe words. “It wouldn’t be the most unconventional thing I’ve ever dished out a punishment for.”

  “I’m not sure I can bring myself to order that.” I shook my head, but my heart did a little leap-thump in my chest at the word “punishment” coming from his lips. Even joking, he inspired incredible reactions in me.

  “I’ll order it for you, then,” he said with a shrug. I looked up at him, scowling, but he was giving me a cool, placid look that betrayed nothing.

  “Is this another dominance thing?”

  “Yes.” His gaze was steady and unflinching. “Do you have a problem with it?”

  I scowled at my menu, trying to untangle the knot of feelings roiling inside me. I didn’t like the idea of being ordered for like a child, but still…there was something salaciously appealing about it. I thrilled at the notion that he knew what was best for me, that he was taking care of me, taking responsibility for my enjoyment—that was the same thing I entrusted him with every time I knelt for him, and I enjoyed it then. So maybe I would enjoy this, too.

  I slowly and deliberately folded my menu and set it aside. “Okay. Do I get any say at all in what you order for me?”

  “You can alway
s stop what we’re doing at any time if you’re not enjoying it. But I would prefer if I make the choice myself.”

  Well, so much for free will—it turned out I liked the sound of that a whole lot more than I’d ever expected.

  When the server came by, Ellison ordered two plates of gravy-smothered hash browns, and stuck with water for both of us to drink. I frowned as she went away. “I would have ordered coffee, for future reference.” Breakfast foods without coffee? Abomination.

  “I know,” he said with a slight upturn of his lips. “But I don’t want you lying awake all night.”

  I swallowed, looking away from his eyes in case they made me spontaneously combust. “I’m not sure that’ll actually help after everything we did tonight. I think my ass alone might keep me awake, not to mention the adrenaline.”

  “You’re going to crash soon,” he said matter-of-factly. “Food will help with the blood sugar drop, but you’re going to need some rest—both for your mental health and to help your body to heal.”

  “Ugh, yeah,” I said, squirming in my seat again. I kept having to shift my weight from one butt cheek to the other so each one could have a rest. Why did these booths have to be so damn hard? “I’m..definitely going to be feeling this for a while.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Pretty good, actually.” My face flushed hot with the admission. “Maybe it’s not the most pleasant feeling in the world, but I like the reminder of what you did to me. I like knowing your marks are going to be on me.” I bowed my head, words coming out a little slurred. “I like knowing I’m yours.”

  He made a low, filthy sound of approval. “I like that too. I like seeing the way you’re moving right now, knowing why you’re so uncomfortable, and knowing I was the one who made you that way.”

  “God,” I whispered, dragging my hands down my face. “This is…a lot.”

  “It is,” he agreed, his voice softening. “Thank you, River. For everything you’re giving me.”