3. Vaughn
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.
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.
Then I take him in my mouth.
Slow. Deliberate. I get halfway down his shaft and hold there, my hand on his balls, squeezing lightly.
I hum — a small vibration around him — and his whole body tries to thrust and can't. The strap across his hips is doing its job.
The muscles in his stomach are standing out like cables, and his jaw is open, and the sound he makes is not a sound a person makes on purpose.
It's pulled out of him, raw, from somewhere deep, and his scent floods the room — dark alpha musk, almost burnt sugar, so thick I can taste it on the back of my tongue.
I pull off.
Slap. Denial.
Teddy sobs openly now, his cock purple at the head, a steady leak of pre-come pooling on his stomach.
He's trying to angle his hips for relief and can't, the strap holding him flat, and his wrists pull against the cuffs — not struggling, just pulling, testing, and I see the leather strain and hear the bench creak under the force of it.
He's strong. God, he's strong, and he's holding it, and the fact that he's holding it is more impressive than anything he's done tonight.
"Please don't stop," he gasps, and I catch the wording — he's not asking to come, he's asking me to keep going. "Please — whatever you want — please —"
I stand up fully.
I wipe my mouth on the back of my wrist. My own cock is aching, curved hard against my hip, and I've been hard for so long it's moved past urgency into a deep, heavy throb that sits in my pelvis like a second heartbeat.
My slick has soaked through my underwear and is running down my inner thighs, slippery against the fabric, and I can smell myself now — sharp and sweet and unmistakable, omega in heat, mixing with his alpha musk until the room is thick with it.
I've been testing him for maybe an hour now, and I'm done with testing. I want him inside me.
I step back from the bench.
Teddy watches me. His eyes are wrecked, wet, and they track me with a focus that's almost predatory.
Not quite — he's still down, still held — but there's something in them that wasn't there an hour ago.
Something that's been feeding on the denial and the pain and the praise and getting stronger, not weaker.
I see it and I don't know what to do with it, so I put it away and keep moving.
I unbutton my slacks without hurrying. I don't look at him while I do it, but I'm very aware of his eyes on me — I can feel them, actually, like heat on my skin.
I undo the button and zipper and slide the slacks down my thighs.
Step out of them. Fold them over the end of the bench.
My underwear comes off next, and then my socks.
Shirt stays.
I leave it buttoned. I untuck it and roll the cuffs to the elbow, neat folds. The hem ends just below my hip.