Page 3 of Glass

"No. No, I've—I mean, I've done—stuff, sex stuff, but not—not this. Not where someone else is—I've always been—yeah."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

I let him breathe. Let him watch my mouth, since it's all he can see behind the mask. I tip it up at the corner the way I know works on nervous first-timers, and he watches it work on him in real time. Pupils dilate. Breath changes. The warm-bread scent deepens, and under it something richer now, something that wants.

"Limits," I say.

"Limits?"

"Anything you already know you can't do. Anything medical. Anything you've already decided isn't for you."

"I—I don't know. I don't—I haven't, like, I don't know what my limits are, I don't—I haven't tried anything to find out—"

"Fine. Anything you already know?"

"Nothing that would—nothing that would send me to the ER, I guess?" He laughs weakly. "That's a joke. Kind of."

"Nothing that sends you to the ER." I keep my voice pleasant. "I can work with that."

His whole body twitches.

"The safe signal tonight is a hand tap. Three quick taps on any part of me you can reach. If you can't reach me, the word is red. Say it loud. The betas will hear you. Repeat it back to me."

"Three taps. Red."

"Good boy."

He makes a sound.

It's small. He probably doesn't know he made it. His throat moves, his mouth opens, and the tiniest exhale escapes, broken at the edge—a sound that belongs on its knees. His scent surges and my cock jumps hard enough that I feel it in my stomach. There you are, I think. We're going to have fun with this one. I don't let any of it show. My slick is running now, a slow steady drip I can feel with every shift of my thighs, and my hole is clenching on nothing, hot and empty, hungry in a way I haven't been in months. I have him.

I hold out my hand.

"Come with me."

He looks at it like I've offered him a gun. Then he puts his hand in mine, very carefully, like he's afraid of breaking my fingers. I curl mine around his and feel the shake in him. Close my grip tighter until the shake evens out. His pulse is hammering in his palm. I can count it.

"Good," I say, low. "Just like that."

I turn. He follows. The crowd parts for me and stares at him as I walk him off the main floor and down the dim corridor to the alcoves.

The equipment room nearest the back is empty. I've used it a hundred times. I know which cuffs are on which hook, which bench is padded and which isn't, where the lube is, where the cloths are, which of the crops on the wall rack has the good weight and which is for amateurs. I pull back the curtain. Lead him in. Let the curtain fall behind us. The bass of the main floor muffles down to a steady low thud against the walls.

I turn to face him. He's staring at the wall rack, breathing hard. I look up at him and take a moment, because I don't need to rush, because he's mine for the night and he already knows it. He's shifted his weight three times since I stopped walking. And his cock is hard—I can see it now, a thick line pressing against the denim, long enough that I can trace the shape of it through the fabric. My mouth waters. I have plans for that cock before the night's over.

My own cock is aching, curved hard against my hip, wet at the tip where I've been leaking into my underwear. My slick has soaked through the cotton and I can smell myself now, sharp and sweet under the heavier musk of the room. I'm going to fuck this kid through the floor before sunrise and enjoy every minute of it.

I keep my voice easy, comfortable, warm.

"Strip. Slowly. Look at me while you do it."

"I—"

"Slowly, Teddy."

His hands go to the hem of his shirt. He grips it, and I see his knuckles whiten. He hesitates. Then he starts to pull.