Page 10 of Glass

Slow. Lift up, sink down. The slide of him through me is exactly as good as I wanted — better, actually, because he's thick enough that I feel every inch of the withdrawal, feel the rim of my hole stretch and catch around the head, feel my walls pulse around him as I sink back down. Most first-timers are too eager, all wrong angles, bucking up into you before you've found the depth. He's letting me guide it, and the result is perfect, and I think for a moment — just a moment — that I might be the one who loses control here.

My hand plants on his chest, right on the paddle bruise. I feel him jerk under my palm when my thumb finds the deep part of the bruise. I press it. His cock swells inside me, a thick pulse, and my walls clench around him involuntarily, and I hear myself make a sound — small, sharp, not planned — and I swallow it.

I ride him.

Lift, drop, lift, drop, finding a rhythm. My hips working on him. My own cock bouncing with each downstroke, slapping against my stomach and his, leaving wet streaks. I'm watching his face. He's watching mine. His eyes are wet and open and present in a way that catches me — not just submissive, not just desperate, but there, with me, tracking every shift in my expression, reading me the way I've been reading him all night. Something about that lands in my chest and stays.

Every few strokes I stop. Still myself on him. Look down. Check. His cock inside me is a steady, thick pulse, and I can feel him fighting it — the way his stomach clenches, the way his thighs shake under my weight, the way his breath goes ragged and then held. He's close. Always close. I ride him again. My hands go to his inner thighs, gripping the soft skin on both sides, pulling him open wider, and my fingers dig in hard enough that I feel the skin dimple under my palms. He'll have my handprints there tomorrow. I know this and I do it on purpose, because marking him is starting to feel like the only honest thing I can do with my hands.

"Good," I say. "Good boy. Again."

I ride him again. Harder. I'm finding my own rhythm now, my own orgasm building, and it's not clean and steady the way I expected — it's messy, pulling at me from multiple places at once, the stretch of him and the pressure on my prostate and the slick running down between us and the sound he's making, and I let myself close my eyes for three full strokes, just feeling it, just the physical fact of being fucked open on a cock I picked, and it's so good my thighs are shaking.

"Please," Teddy gasps. "Please — please — I can't, I can't —"

"You can. You will."

"Please — oh god — please — I need — I need —"

He's stopped asking to come. He's not even asking for anything specific anymore — he's just needing, out loud, the words breaking apart before they form sentences. His voice is wrecked, scraped raw, and his scent is so thick I can taste it — dark, sweet, almost burnt — and his body is pulling against every restraint at once, the cuffs and straps groaning, the bench shaking under us, and I can feel the strength in him, the full force of it, all of it held back, all of it leashed, and the thought of what it would feel like if he let go hits me like a flash of heat and I almost come right there.

I rein it in. Not yet.

"I'm going to come, Teddy. I'm going to come, and the knot will lock us together, and you're still not going to come. Do you understand me?"

He's past words. He nods. His mouth works. Tears are running freely into his hair.

"Good boy."

I close my eyes. Lean forward, change the angle, and there it is — the right depth, the right pressure, his cock hitting the spot that makes my whole pelvis light up. I work my hips through it, chasing it, and my rhythm stutters — I can feel it go uneven, and I don't care, because it's building too fast to manage. I ride the peak. I come, hard, my hole clenching down on him in rhythmic waves, my cock spurting across his stomach and chest, thick ropes mixing with the bruises and the sweat, and the orgasm rolls through me in pulses that I can feel in my spine, in my teeth, in the soles of my feet. I make a sound — I don't know what it sounds like, and I don't care — and I hold myself down on him as I finish, shaking, my hands braced on his chest.

His cock swells.

The knot begins.

I feel it immediately — the base thickening inside me, stretching me wider, the specific catch of it against my rim as the swell grows. I've had it many times. I know what it's going to feel like. But knowing and feeling are different things, and right now, in the aftermath of the orgasm, with my walls still pulsing, the stretch hits me like a second wave — deep, pressing, filling, and I breathe through it, sinking down harder, grinding, helping it seat. My body opens around it, and then tightens, and then the lock catches.

Teddy makes a broken sound under me. His whole body is pulling against the restraints — really pulling, the leather creaking, the bench shifting on the floor — and he's still not coming, because I didn't tell him he could. I can feel it in him, the need, the pressure, the alpha instinct screaming at him to let go, and he's holding it, he's holding all of it, and the muscles in his arms and chest and thighs are standing out like he's carrying a weight, and he is. He's carrying the weight of not coming while his knot locks inside someone, and I don't know if I've ever seen anything like it.

The knot locks.

I feel the final pulse of it, the stretch reaching full, the lock setting, my walls clenching down around a base that can't withdraw, and I breathe out slow and let myself feel it. This part is always good. The rush is warm and deep and settling, and I let my weight come down on him, let my body go soft in the places it's been held tight for the last hour.

Teddy is sobbing.

His cock is pulsing inside me — deep, involuntary pulses, the knot dragging the orgasm out of him the way it's meant to. His body goes through it. I feel the rhythmic clench, the full muscular wave of climax rolling through his cock and his belly and his thighs. But nothing releases. He comes dry, the reflex firing on empty, every contraction pulling at nothing, and the sound he makes is worse than pain. His body trying to give him what it owes him and his training holding it back, the two of them tearing at each other while the knot holds and I breathe.

He's stuck.

I lean forward, slow, careful, because pulling would be bad for both of us now. I put my face close to his. The mask against the mask, almost touching. Not a kiss. I don't kiss anyway. I'm just close. Close enough to feel his breath on my throat, ragged and hot, and close enough to smell the tears on his face, salt and alpha musk and the last fading trace of fresh bread.

"Shhh," I say, low. "Shhh, sweetheart. You did so well."

He sobs harder.

"You did so well. You're doing so well."

I stay there a moment, my face close to his, breathing with him. The knot pulses steady inside me, and his cock pulses against it — a locked rhythm, his body and mine, stuck together. His breathing is ragged. Mine is even, but only because I'm making it even, and the effort of that is more than I expected.