Page 7 of Glass

He goes to the wall rack. Comes back with cuffs—leather, padded, the real thing. Kneels behind me for one second to fasten them, and I feel him back there, close, his breath on my shoulder blade. The buckles cinch and click. My wrists are locked behind me and I can't move my hands.

I wouldn't move them if I could. But I feel my shoulders pull against the cuffs anyway—not to escape, just to test, just to feel the leather hold, just to feel the limit—and something in my chest goes tight and satisfied when it doesn't give.

"Stand up."

I try. My knees aren't working. He puts one hand under my elbow—small, strong, a grip that shouldn't be enough to lift me and somehow is—and I stand.

He leads me through a second curtain at the back of the alcove, into the next room.

I see the bench.

I stop breathing.

It's a restraint bench. Padded. Leather straps at multiple points. Tall at one end, lower at the other, adjustable. I have only ever seen a thing like this in a video I watched once and closed so fast I dropped my phone. There is a rack of tools along the wall. A paddle. Something with a handle. Cuffs hanging on hooks. The light is dim and warm and the room smells like leather and disinfectant and the ghost of sex.

He walks me up to the bench.

He doesn't say anything. I don't ask.

I don't know his name. I don't know my own name right now, if I'm being honest. I would just thank him if I could find out how to speak. But underneath the gratitude, underneath the kneeling and the leaking and the wanting, there's something else. Something that's been building since the first time he put his hand on my chest. Something that knows how strong I am and how good this feels and what it would feel like to flip the whole thing on its head. It's not ready yet. It's not even close to ready. But it's there, and it's awake, and it's watching him through my eyes.

Vaughn

"On the bench, sweetheart. Face up. Head at this end."

Teddy glances at the bench, then at me. His breathing is quick. His cock still aches against his stomach where I left it, flushed dark, leaking a slow thread that's pooled in the groove of his hip. He's been obedient for the last forty minutes, and genuinely into it, not just putting on a show.

He stays still. His wrists are still cuffed behind his back. Right. He needs his hands to get on the bench.

"Here."

I unclip his wrists. The cuffs stay on, but I release the link between them and help him up. Sit. Lie back. I have to guide his head into place — he's a lot of body to move, even when he's helping, and he works with me the whole time, adjusting his weight when I need him to, settling when I press his shoulders down. I like that. A compliant alpha his size isn't something I see every night. It feels like a gift someone left on my doorstep.

I start securing him. Ankles first, spreading them wide into the stirrup rests. Then thigh straps, a few inches above his knees. I tighten them slowly, watching his face as I do.

"Tell me if anything goes numb. I'll loosen it."

"Yes, sir."

Something warm unfurls low in my gut when he says it. I like being called sir, especially since he chose it himself — no prompting, no instruction. His scent spikes when he says it, fresh bread going dark and yeasty, and his cock gives a thick visible bob against his stomach.

I move the cuffs to the bench's shoulder-level anchors, stretching his arms out and locking them in place. It's not painful, just secure. I fasten a thick strap across his hips, tight and deliberate, so he can't thrust up. The last strap goes across his chest, under his pecs. It's mostly for me to grip, but it also keeps him from twisting.

I step back and look at him.

Six-foot-five of bound alpha, his cock straining against his stomach, the head flushed deep red and wet. Red marks from my fingers around his neck. His breath is ragged, eyes wet behind the mask. Arms stretched, legs spread, his hole visible from where I stand — pink, clenching at nothing, and I watch it clench once, twice, like his body knows what's coming and is asking for it. My cock gets harder in my slacks. My slick has soaked through my underwear, warm and slippery against my inner thighs, and I press my legs together for a second just to feel it. Yeah, this is going to be fun.

I put my hand flat on his sternum. Press. He exhales like I've granted him something.

"You're doing beautifully, sweetheart."

"Thank you."

Every time he says it I have to reset. It's fine. It's a tic. He'll run out of thank yous eventually, they all do. But this one says it like I've given him water in a desert, and something about the weight of that lands differently than the others. I move on.

I walk to the wall rack.

My favorite paddle. Leather, rectangular, weighted at the end, old enough that the grip fits my palm perfectly. The crop next to it has just the right flex. The flogger can stay where it is — he's not ready for that yet. I take the paddle and the crop and return to him.