Page 8 of Glass

Teddy watches me come back, and his whole body stiffens when he sees the paddle. His eyes widen. He makes a small sound — just oh — and a fresh bead of pre-come wells up at the tip and rolls down the shaft.

I tap the paddle once, lightly, against my own thigh. Testing the weight.

"Breathe for me."

He breathes.

The first strike lands on the front of his right thigh. The sound of leather on skin cracks through the room. Teddy's whole body jolts against the restraints and he cries out, his voice high and startled, and his cock jerks hard enough to slap wet against his stomach.

I watch the red appear. It takes three seconds, and when it does, it's perfect — a clear, palm-sized flush across his thigh. The muscle underneath jumps, once, and goes still.

"Good," I say, and bring the paddle down on his left thigh to match.

I paddle his thighs, both sides, making the color even. I give a lighter tap on his stomach, just one, to hear how his breath changes when I move up his body — it does, going shallow and quick, his abs clenching under the leather. Then a single hard stroke across his left pec. Teddy sobs at that one. The mark starts to show, dark and clear, almost right away, and I pause to look at it. Beautiful. I want to put my mouth on it. I don't.

Back to the thighs. Harder now. Teddy is crying openly by the fourth hard stroke, tears running into his hair, and his cock is leaking a steady trail of pre-come onto his stomach that mixes with the sweat there. Every time I hit him he thanks me.

"Thank — thank you — thank —"

I stop. Lean down. Put my hand on his face. Wet cheek against my palm, and he turns into it, pressing his face into my hand like a dog leaning into a touch, and something in my chest pulls tight in a way I'm not expecting.

"Shhh. You don't have to thank me every time, honey."

"I —"

"If you want to, you can. I'm only telling you it isn't required."

He nods. His eyes lock onto mine, as if he's afraid I'll vanish if he looks away. There's a wetness there — not pain, but something else. Something overwhelmed and grateful. Open. Not just open. Offered. Like he's pulled something out of his own chest and is holding it up with both hands to see if I want it.

That's not what I expected.

I straighten and switch to the crop.

I lay a few quick snaps on the inside of his right thigh, and his hips buck against the strap that holds them down. The muscles in his stomach stand out, every line of them sharp, and his thighs are shaking — a fine, constant tremor that I can see even from where I'm standing. I do the same pattern on his left thigh, then on the soft skin where his hip meets his groin. Each snap leaves a thin red line.

His cock is straining with a rhythm that I recognize. I've watched a lot of cocks. This one is about to come untouched.

That's early.

Most alphas — most first-timers, especially — need direct stimulation to come. Teddy is going to come from being hit, and he's going to do it in about thirty seconds if I let him.

I don't let him.

I bring the paddle down with a heavier stroke on the already-bruised thigh, and the pain pulls him back from the edge. His whole body goes rigid, then sags, and his cock loses a little of its edge — still hard, still leaking, but the building pulse has receded. He sobs.

"Not yet, sweetheart."

"I — I was — I'm sorry —"

"Don't apologize. I paced it wrong. You're ahead of me."

I say it easily, like it's no big deal. First-timer luck. He'll slow down. They all slow down.

"Please — please, sir, please, I need —"

"I know what you need. You don't get it yet."

I wait. I watch him breathe. I let the edge recede enough that I can use my mouth without him going over the instant I touch him. His cock is still hard — at peak it won't go down fully — but the desperate, twitching pressure eases, and his breathing goes from ragged to just fast.