3. Vaughn #2
I'm naked from the waist down. My cock is hard and flushed against my stomach, wet at the tip.
There are wet streaks of slick down my inner thighs, shiny in the low light.
The dark button-down frames all of it — sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar still done up at my throat, and my cock jutting out beneath the crisp hem like something indecent pinned under glass.
Teddy makes a sound I haven't heard yet tonight.
A low, hungry sound, and it comes from deep in his chest, from the alpha place, and his cock gives a thick pulse that pushes out another bead of pre-come.
The restraints creak. His arms pull, and the muscles in his shoulders bunch and flex, and for a half second I see what it would look like if he weren't strapped down. What it would look like if he stood up.
"Oh," he says. Just that. Just oh.
I meet his eyes behind the mask.
"Yes, honey," I say. "Oh."
I climb onto the bench.
I straddle his hips, above where the strap holds him down.
The bench is wide enough, and he is laid out for exactly this.
I reach behind me, take his cock in my hand.
He's so hard the skin is tight and the veins stand out against my palm, and he's slick with pre-come and my spit, hot, and when I wrap my fingers around him his hips jerk involuntarily — the strap catches them, holds, and a punched-out groan escapes him.
I guide him to my entrance. I'm soaked — not just wet, open, the muscle soft and yielding, my slick smearing against the head of his cock as I position him there.
I lower myself onto him.
The stretch is intense. He's thick — thicker than I expected, even after having him in my mouth — and my body resists and then gives, inch by inch, a slow hot slide that makes my breath catch and my thighs shake.
I watch his face the whole way. His mouth is slack behind the mask, his chest straining against the strap with every breath, and his eyes are locked on where our bodies meet — watching himself disappear into me, and the expression on his face is one I'll remember: wonder, and hunger, and something that looks like it hurts.
I sink another inch. Another. He bumps against the spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and I have to stop, just for a second, and breathe.
My cock is jerking against my stomach, leaking, and my hole is clenching and unclenching around him in waves I can't control.
I grind down the last inch with a small, controlled exhale, and then I'm fully seated on him — full, stretched, his cock buried to the root, and the base of it is already thickening, just slightly, a promise of the knot to come.
My own cock slaps against my stomach, wet at the tip.
Teddy is shaking under me. Not trembling. Shaking. His whole body, every muscle, the bench rattling softly with it.
"Don't come. Don't come, Teddy, don't come."
"Sir — sir, I —"
"Breathe. You don't come until I tell you."
I start to move.
Slow. Lift up, sink down. The slide of him through me is exactly as good as I wanted — better, actually, because he's thick enough that I feel every inch of the withdrawal, feel the rim of my hole stretch and catch around the head, feel my walls pulse around him as I sink back down.
Most first-timers are too eager, all wrong angles, bucking up into you before you've found the depth.
He's letting me guide it, and the result is perfect, and I think for a moment — just a moment — that I might be the one who loses control here.
My hand plants on his chest, right on the paddle bruise.
I feel him jerk under my palm when my thumb finds the deep part of the bruise.
I press it. His cock swells inside me, a thick pulse, and my walls clench around him involuntarily, and I hear myself make a sound — small, sharp, not planned — and I swallow it.
I ride him.
Lift, drop, lift, drop, finding a rhythm.
My hips working on him. My own cock bouncing with each downstroke, slapping against my stomach and his, leaving wet streaks.
I'm watching his face. He's watching mine.
His eyes are wet and open and present in a way that catches me — not just submissive, not just desperate, but there, with me, tracking every shift in my expression, reading me the way I've been reading him all night.
Something about that lands in my chest and stays.
Every few strokes I stop. Still myself on him.
Look down. Check. His cock inside me is a steady, thick pulse, and I can feel him fighting it — the way his stomach clenches, the way his thighs shake under my weight, the way his breath goes ragged and then held.
He's close. Always close. I ride him again.
My hands go to his inner thighs, gripping the soft skin on both sides, pulling him open wider, and my fingers dig in hard enough that I feel the skin dimple under my palms. He'll have my handprints there tomorrow.
I know this and I do it on purpose, because marking him is starting to feel like the only honest thing I can do with my hands.
"Good," I say. "Good boy. Again."
I ride him again. Harder. I'm finding my own rhythm now, my own orgasm building, and it's not clean and steady the way I expected — it's messy, pulling at me from multiple places at once, the stretch of him and the pressure on my prostate and the slick running down between us and the sound he's making, and I let myself close my eyes for three full strokes, just feeling it, just the physical fact of being fucked open on a cock I picked, and it's so good my thighs are shaking.
"Please," Teddy gasps. "Please — please — I can't, I can't —"
"You can. You will."
"Please — oh god — please — I need — I need —"
He's stopped asking to come. He's not even asking for anything specific anymore — he's just needing, out loud, the words breaking apart before they form sentences.
His voice is wrecked, scraped raw, and his scent is so thick I can taste it — dark, sweet, almost burnt — and his body is pulling against every restraint at once, the cuffs and straps groaning, the bench shaking under us, and I can feel the strength in him, the full force of it, all of it held back, all of it leashed, and the thought of what it would feel like if he let go hits me like a flash of heat and I almost come right there.
I rein it in. Not yet.
"I'm going to come, Teddy. I'm going to come, and the knot will lock us together, and you're still not going to come. Do you understand me?"
He's past words. He nods. His mouth works. Tears are running freely into his hair.
"Good boy."