15. TruthHang
15
TRUTH OR HANG
RIOT
I hate his red skin. To the point that I almost want to let him down just to get rid of the flush to his cheeks. Something about how Ghost wears the colour isn’t as harsh as everyone else, and instead of seeing it as a weakness, I’m admiring it as a form of my influence. His cheeks are pink and his lips are slick with spit, but it balances nicely with the vibrant, angry blue of his eyes and the sweaty blond hair brushing his forehead. It’s a nice combination that speaks to his level of stirred thoughts; part of him likes this, but most of him hates it because I’m the puppeteer.
I’ll take both as a win.
Leaning back a little more just to feel the clamp of his legs around me, I inhale his hypocritical thoughts and meet his eyes. “True or false? You don’t want to break the curse on your family now that Remi is safe because you like the thrill of not knowing if you’ll kill yourself or not.”
“False.”
I lean back as far as I can go, strangling him by doing nothing more than shifting my body weight and dragging him with me. The rope digs in under his chin, making his blue eyes bug out. “Don’t lie to me, Sauder.”
His mouth gapes open like a fish out of water. Funny, because the last time his mouth gaped open like this, he was drowning in the pond under the weight of my body. When his forehead turns red and his arms start to slacken, I let up, leaning forward.
“True. Maybe. I don’t know.” He sucks in air and coughs in my face.
Good enough. I let his legs down, and he sighs in relief when his toes can balance on the counter again. “True or false? You think you’re perfect.”
“True.”
“Which parts of you are perfect?”
He hesitates, unsure about lying to me again so soon. He doesn’t know what else I’ll do, and my threat to make his body admit the truth is weighing heavily on his choices. That part will come soon enough.
“The parts I let the world see.”
I smile at that. Aren’t we the same that way? Perfectly prettied up for whoever looks at us, ugly as fuck behind our well-placed masks.
“True or false? You like the idea of being taken against your will because you’ve never known someone strong enough to do it.”
He swallows hard, his throat echoing to join the lulling music. “False.” When I tilt my head at him, he curses under his breath. “False.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I reach forward, watching him try to tip-toe away from me. He doesn’t get far enough before the noose cuts in, making him stop. I pop the button of his pants open and look straight into his eyes as a threat that I won’t stop here if he doesn’t admit the truth.
“Fuck! Not taken against my will,” he seethes at me. “But maybe like… someone who can handle my roughness.”
I undo the zipper.
“The fuck?! That was the truth.” His knee comes up, but I back away before it connects with my thigh. “Someone who can handle my level of rough and pushes it even harder. Who doesn’t stop when I say no.”
There. That’s better. Taken against his will, just like I said. I grin at him, offering myself up on a silver platter if he wants to be bold enough to fucking beg for it. “Wasn’t too long ago you threatened to rape me if my brother raped yours again, right?”
“Maybe I’ll make good on that promise.”
“Love to see you try, sweetheart.”
“Stop fucking calling me that!” He kicks out, knocking a display case off the counter. Pamphlets for music lessons and brochures for Moros’ townwide music festival scatter across the floor. “I’m not your fucking sweetheart.”
He is, so I smile at him. My charming one. He falters for a second, almost falling for it, but he fortifies his illusion, seals his cracks, and continues to glare at me with all the rage he wants to expel but doesn’t have the power to right now. Because I took his power away, and I’ll continue taking it away until he learns to fight differently. Until he learns that his power comes from somewhere else.
“True or false?” I push on his chest, making him swing a bit. When he drifts back to me, I fist his shirt in my hand and bring us nose to nose. “Your pride is the only thing preventing you from admitting you want me.”
He laughs in my face, and there he is, my fucking sweetheart. I love when he laughs because it means he’s at his most deranged. When he laughs, he’s there, on that precipice of sanity and insanity, eager to tip the scales and let himself loose upon me.
“The only thing I want from you,” he coughs, “is for you to keep fucking trying so I can keep fucking winning. You think you’re in control here?”
“Mhm.” I grin at him.
He matches my grin, and then, faster than I can react, he brings his leg up and kicks. I fly off the counter, my back slamming against the wall behind the desk, toppling Remi’s stool. The wind knocks out of me, and, crumpled on the floor, unable to breathe, it’s my turn to laugh.
“Fucking finally!” I roar, adrenaline surging. “Took you long enough to drop the pretense and start acting like you. Like Ghost. Like Soren fucking Sauder.” I press my palms to the floor and stand up. “The crazed Ghost of Moros who shines so fucking bright in the dark.”
He’s trembling, though I don’t know what with. Energy. Vitality. Pride because he’s finally getting recognition for who he is. No one is telling him to grin and bear it. No one is warning him that he’ll have to put up with some shit before he gets his reward. He’s not listening to Director’s rules or bowing down to play a part in a gang. He’s hanging from the beam of his brother’s music shop, being praised for how fucking unhinged he is. Because he likes it. He enjoys the thrill of being trussed up and weak because it tests his mental prowess. He wants to outwit me, and that’s the game we’re both too stubborn to lose.
His cock gets hard.
I knew it would.
“You’re the fucking curse, Soren.”
“Ghost.”
I shake my head. “Not right now.” This time, I move fast. With his pants already undone, I rip them down his legs, seeing his stab wound. When he tries to kick out again, I take the slack of his pants between his ankles and press my hand downward, choking him as his body is dragged down. “True or false? Your cock is hard right now because I recognize the parts of you that don’t get recognized enough.”
He fights it for all of ten seconds before he nods, completely unable to breathe. I let up, letting him press his toes to the counter again. He coughs, hacking out laughs that go straight to my dick.
“True or false? You hated not being able to feel my dick in your hand when I paralyzed you in your grave.”
He’s mostly delusional with dark power now, embellishing the game. “True,” he says, laughing harshly. “But not because I wanted to jerk you off. I crave a level playing field. I wanted to rip your cock off and shove it up your own ass.”
“I told you not to lie to me.” I pull down on his legs and wait.
“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth.”
“Not the whole truth.”
He glares, but his smile somehow stays on his face, his eyes flaring with the challenge of the game. “I wanted the satisfaction of saying I made you come before I ripped it off and shoved it up your ass,” he amends.
“Better.” I let his legs go and step back before he can kick me. I walk around to where I tied the rope off, letting him have some slack. He finally removes his fingers from behind the rope, flexing and stretching them as I give him enough length to sit his ass on the counter. His legs give out, and he practically falls to his ass, his feet dangling over the edge. When he reaches to loosen the noose and remove it from his neck, I yank, firming it back up. “Leave it. I dare you.”
His hands pause and he stops trying to free himself. I secure the rope just tight enough to restrain him. He’s no longer choking, but he’s not free either. He can’t bend forward and lift his pants, and he can’t hop off the counter without strangling himself.
I walk back around, face to face with him now. “You listened.”
“I like a dare,” he taunts. “What’s next? My dick is hard, your dick is hard, you’re insane and twisted, and I’m even more insane. Gonna rape me?”
“Would it really be rape if you’re begging for it like this?”
He snarls at me, but it’s all for show. “Never been begged before, have you?”
I have, but not by anyone who actually wants me to unleash on them. I always have to tamp myself down, be safe, play it smart, and tone down my baser needs. Ghost craves a rough fuck and someone who can match him… I crave a power exchange that has no boundaries and no clear successor. I want to let loose, and when he realizes my level of degeneracy, I want him to let himself loose just as hard. I want to trust him enough to be who I think I am around him.
“Restricted blood flow, right?”
He narrows his eyes at me, unsure where I’m going with this.
Grabbing a pair of headphones off the opposite wall, I loosen the noose enough to slip them under the rope. The head part leaves the rope off his throat, and when I tighten it again, it presses the ear parts against his pulse points.
“Oh,” he mumbles, almost in disbelief.
“You let me do it.”
He looks at me, unsure what to do with his hands. He’s not reaching for the noose anymore, and he’s not fighting me off because he likes the prospect of where this might go. But he’s still Soren, and he won’t submit to this without a little resistance. “It’s funny that you think you’re winning. That you can make me admit a bunch of things, get my cock hard with a few words, cut off my blood flow, and pretend that it’s all about you. It’s not.”
“No?” I brace my arms on the counter, on either side of his thighs. “What’s it about? What’s making you hard?”
His hands come up, almost like he’s going to touch me. When he rips a dagger from inside his jacket and presses it to my neck, my cock jerks and his eyes smile. “I have a fucking rope around my neck and I’m still more powerful than you. You want me to beg?” He huffs a laugh. “How about I threaten?” He looks down, a clear signal. “Or do you only want this while I’m paralyzed?”
I smirk at him, the bob of my throat pressing against his blade as I swallow.
“Your brother throat-fucked mine. Time I repay that favour, sweetheart .”
His other hand lands on the back of my head. Forcefully, he fists my hair and pushes my face down until it hits the bulge in his teal boxer-briefs. I inhale the scent of him, revel in how hard he is, close my eyes at the feel of his cock against my lips, and exhale eager anticipation at the knife against the side of my neck.
Fuck yeah. Here he is, and I’m the one who goaded him out of his box.
“Now,” he demands.
Hiding my grin, I pull back just enough to yank his boxers down. His cock slaps my chin as it bounces free, but he doesn’t give me time to concoct a plan. He presses the knife in harder, lifts his hips, and rams his cock against my lips until they open. He fills my mouth before I suck in a breath, the dry stretch of my lips painful, but not as painful as his cock hitting the back of my throat. I gag around him, every muscle in my torso tensing with a dry heave. When he pulls out, saliva stretches from my lips to his tip as I suck in breaths. I try to push up, using my hands for strength, but Soren slices my neck and pushes on my head simultaneously, forcing himself to the back of my throat again.
I fucking hate to love it. While he takes what he thinks he’s owed, a wildness stirs within me. My blood drips down the side of my neck, soaking into my shirt while my drool soaks his cock and mixes with the taste of his precum. I’m not quiet, but neither is he. While I gag and choke, he groans and moans, and it’s the perfect prize. I knew it. I fucking knew he wanted me, and he might call this a threat, but I call it desperate begging. If he thinks he needs to stay in control and press a dagger to my pulse just to get what he wants, so be it. I’ll play the game until he comes back for more because this is only the fucking start. This is training, and he’s such a good little mutt.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice strained.
My knees bend and I take a breath around him, allowing spit to coat my lips. The feel of his full, hard cock in my mouth is more satisfying than all my fantasies portrayed. It’s an owning, and he’s the one claiming me. He’ll deny it, but I will remind him how fucking bad he wanted this every time he tries to dispute it.
I suck him all on my own, letting his hand on my head control the pace, fucking with his mind because he doesn’t know what to do when he isn’t fighting me on something. Tongue sweeping under the head of his cock, I listen to him gurgle out a moan above me, fist tightening in my hair. My body heats up, a mix of pain, pleasure, and an unhinged need to win this game. I’m so into it—into the feeling of being aggressively throat fucked; into the sensation of him so desperate—that I lift my hand, eager to rub myself through my pants.
I cry out in pain a second later.
“No,” Ghost snarls at me, lifting my head by my hair and forcing me to look at him. “You don’t get to touch yourself.”
Shifting my eyes to my left, I look at my fingers, wiggling them to make sure they still work. The dagger that was pressed to my throat now sticks out of the top of my hand, the tip buried in the counter. With my hand pinned to the surface and blood oozing out, I breathe harder, unsure if I’m pissed off, pleased, or a mix of both. All I know is that I’m impatient, unable to stand here and do nothing. I have to fucking move, to fight back, to make him eat his words. Because he’s going to come, and when he does, it will be because of me! Because I got him here, lured him in, trapped him, and goaded him until he took what he wanted. He’ll take all the credit, but we’ll both know it’s my credit to revel in.
I baited him; he bit.
He's not laughing anymore, but he’s even more depraved. He grabs my nape with both hands and forces me to bend back over. I swallow his cock and gag even harder than the first time. I have no control. His hands move my head at the pace he commands, every jerky thrust of his hips making the knife in my hand shift. Pain sings, but I don’t care. I want more. Because he’s close, his groans are anguished and full of dark pleasure. His body melds into a rhythm that suits his needs and his needs only. He doesn’t care about me. He just wants to use me, abuse me, and take pleasure in the rope around his neck, pressing perfectly against his pulse points.
Use me all you want, sweetheart. This is step one to making you crave me.
“Fuck. Fuck,” he seethes between clenched teeth. He pushes my head all the way down, suffocating me on his cock. I don’t even have enough control to properly gag this time. “Swallow. Right now. Make me feel it.”
With his cock halfway down my throat, I force a swallow, constricting my throat around him because I have no other choice.
“Ahhhhh, fuck,” he moans loudly, the musical lilt to his pleasure-drenched voice fitting in so perfectly with the sad lullaby playing through the speakers.
He curses me on his next breath, his cock throbbing in my throat. I’m losing feeling in my body, gaining pressure in my head, unable to breathe. I don’t even know if I swallow his cum or if he forces it down my throat by sheer will and power, but either way, I sense it sliding down my esophagus. I feel his legs tremble, his body shake, his abs tense. I hear him moan in formidable delectation, and I sense his shame under the surface. Stronger than that, I sense his power. Because he thinks he won.
He pulls back, cum still leaking from his cock. I get the first taste of it when it hits my tongue, able to breathe in through my nose and savour the flavour longer. I swallow again, choking him down, a little addicted to the taste, extremely addicted to the force emanating from him.
“Jesus,” he groans, pushing my head away. He rips the knife from my hand, making me flinch and grit my teeth. When he kicks me away, I hold the wound in my hand, lick my lips, and watch him become transfixed by the sight of his cum on my wet mouth.
He opens his mouth to comment on it, thinks better of it, and finally loosens the noose to free himself from my trap. He’s breathing hard, cheeks red for a new reason—a better reason that looks hotter than it did when he was being hung—and shakes his head at me.
“Still think you won?” he asks, climbing off the counter and rubbing at his neck.
Oh, I know I won. So, I grin at him.
He barks out a pathetic laugh. “Seriously? You’re that fucking deluded that me fucking your throat and spinning your trap on you counts as a win?” He swipes blood from his thigh, the stab wound open again.
Yeah, because he took what he wanted, and I didn’t even have to beg him to. I shrug. “You had a knife this whole time and never cut yourself down.” I straighten my jacket while his eyes widen and his cheeks get redder. “Counts as winning to me.” I pick up the violin he was holding before I hung him, setting it on the counter.
I leave him in the shop and whistle the whole way back to Vile House.