Hypnovember 2022
Left hand
by sentientscribble
Tags:
#cw:ageplay
#cw:sexual_assault
#short_story_collection
#ace
#amnesia
#body_control
#cw:death
#cw:pandemic
#dom:car_code_reader
#dom:f
#dom:god
#fae
#fairy_tale
#fantasy
#forced_toppification
#fungus
#horror
#hypnosis
#intelligence_loss
#magic
#masturbation
#mind_control
#mind_reading
#petplay
#pov:bottom
#public_play
#real_world_kink
#sub:f
#sub:m
#switching
#training
#transformation
#werefox?
#werewolf
#wet_dreams
#wishes
#zombies
"But when you give to someone in need, don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing." Well, Haley has some needs. If you know what I mean.
#body_control #dom:f #dom:god #forced_toppification #masturbation #public_play #real_world_kink #switching
I looked down at the table. On the TIP line of the receipt, I’d written a big zero. Next to it, there was a ten dollar bill.
My head was still foggy, even after about a gallon of diner coffee. But I was pretty sure I hadn’t left that ten. I wouldn’t have. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be proud of this, but I never tip. Still, there it was. Fine, fuck it, waitress was cute. Let her have some money.
I got back on the road.
The events of the night before filtered slowly back into my mind. There was... that big star over the parking lot. A huge shooting star, bright orange, flaming like a comet in an old painting, and I’d made some kind of wish, and.
Oh.
But when you give to someone in need, don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.
I’d thought about getting wasted in my motel room, and thought about doing unspeakable things to the guy next door. And then I’d remembered I was sober, and someone’s girlfriend — and when that guy came and knocked on my door, I was somehow weirdly relieved that he was inviting me to church.
The Pentecostals know how to throw a party. We poured out at midnight, even my sober ass drunk on the Good Word, and we looked up at that star. And I don’t know what anyone else wished for, but I was still stuck on that sermon.
Let not my left hand know what my right hand is doing.
Fucking weird. Whatever. Wishing on stars isn’t real. Not real enough to make me a good tipper anyway.
I turned my attention back to the present. My right hand was on the steering wheel. My left hand, to my surprise, was in my pants.
It wasn’t just casual surprise. It seemed unlike me — weirder than tipping, honestly. Look, I won’t say I never fooled around like that on a long drive. When you’re half asleep and hours from rest, you’ll try anything once. But for me it was just the once.
Honestly, I didn’t care much for masturbation at all. It wasn’t a moral thing. I just… my mind wandered. I’d start thinking about things I didn’t want to be thinking about. Scary things. Things I’d spent my whole life resisting. No thank you. Give me something else to focus on — a nice hard cock inside me or a mouth to kiss. None of this all-alone-with-my-hand-and-my-darkest-thoughts shit.
Today, though. Today I couldn’t stop. No matter how hard I focused on the road, my left hand kept straying. Up under my shirt to cup my breast and tug at my nipple. Back down into my pants to rest against the growing wet spot on my underwear.
By the time I found a rest stop, I had two fingers inside my cunt.
I parked around back, where it was all truckers and mostly ones trying to sleep, hoping if I humiliated myself it would be in front of a smaller audience. But, fuck, the next truck over had a guy in the cab, and he waved when I looked over.
Okay. I can do this. I pulled my fingers out, soaking wet, and tried to keep my absolute focus on my left hand as a I reached out with my right for a napkin from the console. But all it took was a split second of distraction, fumbling with the latch on the console, and my left hand had a mind of its own again. By the time I had a napkin, my fingers were already inside my mouth and I was licking the thick juice from them.
I yanked my fingers free, wiped them clean, and kept a tight hold on them until I finally heard the door slam next to me and the driver walk away.
I needed help. I dialed my boyfriend’s number. My fucking left hand cooperated on that one. I tried not to think about what that meant.
All I told him was “I need you to come get me.”
“Are you drinking again?” His voice wasn’t even angry, just resigned.
“No.”
“Something else?”
“I’m not on anything. I… don’t think I can explain. I just need you.”
I discovered that if I kept my total, undivided focus on my left hand, and my right hand tightly gripped around it, I could keep it under control. So that’s how he found me — leaning against the side of my truck, head bowed, hands clenched. I hoped I looked like I was praying, rather than having a nervous breakdown.
“Honey,” he said. “Honey. Are you okay?” He sounded as scared as I was. He’d come and gotten me in all kinds of altered states, but not like this.
In my relief, I reached up to cup his face in my hands. My right hand cooperated. My left hand slapped his face, hard enough that my hand stung.
A light went on in his eyes, then a sly smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me that was what you needed?”
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. I was supposed to be safe. As long as I just refused to think about hurting people, I was supposed to be safe.
But now my left hand didn’t know any better.
It was already undoing the buttons of his shirt. When it got far enough down to reach a patch of chest hair, it grabbed and pulled. He were kissing me harder than he’d kissed me in a long time, and through the kiss I could feel him wince, then grin, then open his mouth in a silent moan as I pulled harder.
“Wait,” I said. “This isn’t. Stop.”
But my hand wasn’t stopping. It was accelerating. It had reached his nipple and was tugging it gently.
“Mm. Is that how you want this to go? Want to beg me to stop? Want to try to fight me off?” I could hear the grin in his voice.
He took both of my wrists, one in each big hand, and pinned them surprisingly gently against the side of the truck. I could feel my eyes widening.
“Is this okay?”
Maybe it was. Weirdly, I felt safe. As long as it was him doing the pinning, maybe it was okay. Maybe he’d keep my hands under control like this. I nodded.
“Say ‘red’ if you want me to stop for real.”
I nodded. Somehow, I didn’t say ‘red’.
He started kissing me again — but fiercely this time. I felt his teeth colliding with mine, like he were too turned on to bother kissing well, like he was angry at how much I turned him on. His stubble scraped against my face.
Then my fucking left hand fought its way free.
“Do you need to say ‘red’?”
I froze. Well, most of me froze. My left hand didn’t. It caught him by the arm, spun him around, and pinned him arm against the truck.
I’d wanted this for years. Even before he told me he was kinky. Even before I lied and said I never thought about that sort of thing. The day I met him I wanted to pin him up against something.
“We can do that too,” he said.
But I couldn’t. I fucking couldn’t. It wasn’t right. With all my force of will, I wrestled my hand back under my control and fixed my attention on it.
“Do you need to stop?” you said, tenderly.
I didn’t answer. I was aware of how pathetic I looked.
“Do you want to stop?”
Sadly, I shook my head. I didn’t. I really, really fucking didn’t.
“I really like what we’re doing,” he said. (The awful part of me that wants to do terrible things beamed with joy. So, secretly, shamefully, did the rest of me.) “Do you want to go somewhere else?”
I looked around. I was the last truck in the row, on the far side of the truck. Nobody could see.
No, no, I did not want to go somewhere else. And, well, I hadn’t planned on saying that. But by the time I’d finished looking around, my left hand had done it for me — unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way, then reached his belt buckle. I watched it as it undid his fly.
And now I didn’t say “no.” I wanted him too much to stop. With my right hand, my good hand, my safe hand, I wrapped my fingers around his warm, hard, familiar cock.
My left hand flew up to the center of his chest, pushed him back against the side of the truck. He struggled back gently; my hand pushed harder, and he moaned quietly and struggled back harder — and soon I had my full weight on him, keeping him off-balance enough to control him, though he weighed as much as me and were a full head taller.
“Please,” he said, and, caught off-guard, I said “what?” — not a sexy “what,” just a perplexed one — but my left hand knew. It dug its nails into his chest, just to either side of his sternum, and he moaned.
“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck fuck fuck. Yes. Please. Please.”
My left hand dug in harder — harder than I’d have thought was safe, harder than I’d have ever let myself hurt anyone even in anger.
“Oh god, yes.” He were thrusting hard into my right hand now, falling into the rhythm I’d known for years and years, the one that meant he’d be cumming soon.
And I swallowed, and took a deep breath, and said something I’d wanted to say to him for years.
“Cum for me, bitch.”
He groaned, and fought back hard against me, and as I slammed him back into the truck, he did.
He cleaned up, did up his pants. We leaned against the side of the truck together, smoking cigarettes.
“You, uh, need anything?”
I looked down. My left hand was still. Maybe the whole thing was over.
I told the truth anyway. I was too exhausted not to.
“I want to take you home and fuck you.”
“Not here?”
“Um. At home I can make you scream louder.”
My left hand, resting on my belt loop, was giving me a quiet thumbs-up. Maybe we could coexist after all.