2. Teddy #2
He doesn't take the slacks off. He doesn't take anything off.
His shirt is still buttoned to the collar, slacks still on his hips, belt still looped.
Only the buckle and the fly are open, like he's just using a restroom, nothing more.
He opens his pants just enough to pull himself out, and his cock is right there in front of my face, framed by the dark fabric on either side of the open zipper, lit by the warm low bulb behind him.
It's hard, flushed, a little wet at the tip.
His hand goes into my hair. Gathers it. Pulls my face towards him. My mouth opens. His cock slides over my lips onto my tongue and my whole body lights up.
He tastes like skin and clean salt and something under that, the something that I now know is omega slick. His cock is warm and hard and heavy on my tongue. My jaw unlocks. Mouth waters. Stomach flips. Another slow thread of pre-come crawls down my shaft and I'm so hard it hurts.
I've never done this before. I'm bad at it.
I gag in the first three seconds. I drool. I pull back to cough and try to apologize around his cock and the apology is garbled and he laughs—a quiet surprised laugh—and I'm so embarrassed and so pleased I could die.
"Slower," he says. His voice is the same as it was at the bar, only lower. "Swallow. Breathe through your nose. Good boy. Just like that."
Good boy.
I take more of him. He watches me. The hand in my hair guides me—not shoving, just suggesting, letting me find the rhythm.
My lips stretch around him. My tongue finds the underside and runs along the ridge there.
He exhales, a small audible sound, the first one he's made that wasn't completely intentional, and I catch it.
I'm doing something to him. I'm doing something to this man who has been doing everything to me.
My whole body surges—an alpha surge, deep in my chest, something that wants to grab his hips and hold him still and take what I want—and I redirect it.
Let it pour into my mouth instead, into the way I suck, into the flat of my tongue pressing up against the underside of him, and his hips stutter forward a half inch.
I could make him come. The thought detonates in my skull. I could make this man come with my mouth and I want that so badly my teeth ache, and I'm so hard I have to clench my thighs together to keep from spilling untouched onto the floor like a dog.
I want his balls in my mouth. I've never thought the sentence I want his balls in my mouth in my life. I don't say it. I don't know if I'm allowed to ask.
I taste his slick.
It's at the base of his cock, where it joins his body under the opened slacks.
There's a streak of it, a wet warmth on my tongue when his cock slides deep, and it hits me like a punch—my gums ache, my jaw floods with heat, my cock throbs so hard I see white at the edges of my vision.
I moan around him, loud, helpless, and the vibration must do something because his fingers tighten in my hair and his hips roll forward an involuntary inch.
He makes a quiet oh under his breath that I will think about for the rest of my life.
Pre-come is smeared all over my stomach now, a steady leak I can't control, and I want to get lower, get under him, lick the source, bury my face between his thighs and drink until he pushes me away.
I try to ask with my eyes. Mouth full. Drool running down my chin. Cheeks wet. He pulls out.
"Not yet."
No.
"Later. You'll earn it."
A fresh pulse of pre-come drips onto my thigh. I nod. Okay. I'll earn it. I will earn it so hard.
He slides back in. I do better. I relax my throat a little.
I get half of him down before I gag again, and he strokes my cheek once, saying good boy, good boy, and keeps going.
The other hand comes down off his hip and settles loosely around the back of my neck.
Not gripping, just resting. The weight of his palm on the top of my spine is the most grounded I've ever felt in my body.
I could die like this. I would be fine dying like this.
He pulls out.
Grips my jaw. Holds me still. Looks down at me. I look up at him, mouth open, wet, ruined.
"I'm going to hit you, Teddy. Open-handed, across your face. Tell me no now."
I answer before I think. "I don't—I don't want to say no."
"Good boy."
The slap lands. It's not hard. It's measured, palm-flat, the sound louder than the sting.
There's a sharp crack that bounces off the concrete walls, and my whole body jolts.
My cock jerks, a thick visible bob, and I make a sound that's half sob and half laugh, and I don't know which direction it's coming from.
The sting blooms across my cheek and sinks down into my jaw and my throat and my chest and meets the thing I've been holding down all night—the rough, territorial, alpha thing—and instead of fighting it, I let the slap push it deeper.
Let it press the animal flat. Let it hold.
He waits. Watches me.
"Again?"
"Yes, please."
The second slap lands on the same side. My face burns.
My eyes water, not from pain, but from being allowed.
From being on my knees, getting slapped by a stranger whose face I haven't seen, and finding out I like it.
Finding out he knew I would. And being grateful.
So grateful. My scent must be a wreck—I can smell myself now, the alpha musk I usually keep under control gone thick and dark and desperate, mixing with his slick until I can't tell where he ends and I begin.
Fingers in my hair again. Fist. Yank my head back so my throat is long and open and he can see the pulse in it.
The other hand wraps around my neck.
He doesn't squeeze. He just holds it. The weight of his palm on my throat, the heat of it. My pulse slams against his palm—I can feel it, and I can feel him feeling it. Everything in me goes still and warm and quiet, and the word for whatever I am now is his.
"Thank you," I whisper. I don't know why. I just have to.
He smiles. I see it—small, private, almost surprised—and it's gone before I'm sure I saw it.
"You're going to be very dangerous for someone, Teddy."
I don't know what this means. My cock is leaking a steady trickle of pre-come onto my thigh.
A part of me wants to tell him that I'm already dangerous for him, that I could lift him off this bench with one arm, that I could put him on his back and pin his wrists and watch his composure shatter, that the only thing stopping me is that he said good boy and I would rather die than make him stop saying it.
I don't say any of that. I kneel. I drip. I wait.
He lets go of my throat. Steps back. Tucks himself into his slacks. Zips. Buttons. I watch this happen and I don't understand for a full three seconds, and then I understand, and the understanding lands in my stomach like a stone.
He's not going to come. Was never going to come. He denied himself to deny me.
My eyes burn again. Not because I'm hurt, but because he's pacing this. He's pacing me. He knows exactly what he's doing, and he's doing it to both of us on purpose.
"Hands behind your back."
I do it. My wrists cross behind me. Still on my knees.
Naked. Throat warm from his hand. Face warm from being slapped.
Mouth still tasting his slick. My cock harder than it's ever been, flushed dark, leaking steadily, and my alpha scent thick enough in the air that I can taste it in the back of my own throat.
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.