Page 11 of Glass

I sit back up. Settled astride him. The knot holds.

I trail one hand across his chest. The paddle bruise on his left pec is dark red at the center and violet at the edges, the clearest mark I've left on him all night. I trace the outline of it with two fingertips. Not tender. Just admiring my work.

He shudders under my hand. His cock throbs inside me — a thick, slow pulse that moves through my walls like a wave, and my breath catches on it, and I let it catch, because there's no one watching now and no one to perform for, and it feels good. It feels genuinely, genuinely good.

I'd take this one again.

The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I don't stop it — I just let it sit there, let me look at it, let me feel the weight of it. I don't do that. I don't take anyone again. But this one took everything I gave him and held it, and the way he looked at me while I was riding him — not through me, not past me, at me — is something I don't see. That's not a reason to break a rule. But it's a reason the rule feels less like a wall and more like a door I could open if I chose to.

I close the door. For now.

I trace the bruise again. Watch him shiver. Feel his cock pulse inside me, steady, and my walls pulse back, and we sit there in the locked rhythm of it, and I'm in no hurry.

The knot will hold for at least another twenty minutes. He's earned what comes after.

Teddy

The knot is still locked and the world is very soft.

That's the first clear thought I have. Not knot, not locked, just a hazy sense that everything is warm, close, quiet, and I probably shouldn't move. I'm not going to move. I don't think I could if I tried. He's still on top of me, fully seated on my cock, his weight pressing me into the padded bench. I'm caught between an orgasm I didn't have and one I'm having in slow motion, because he's doing something to me I can't name.

He's doing something with his hand on my chest. I can feel it moving, maybe tracing the bruise on my pec that he left with the paddle hours ago, outlining it with his fingertips. Gentle. Barely touching. Just there. Like he's checking if it's real.

I want to thank him again. I want to tell him thank you so many times it becomes another kind of religion. I open my mouth and all that comes out is breath.

I try again.

"Thank you."

He's above me. His head tips just a little. He makes a small sound that isn't quite a laugh, warmer and quieter, like he's surprised by himself.

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

No. No, that's not, I mean.

"No. I, I mean, I mean."

My mouth moves before my brain can catch up. I hear myself trying to get the words in the right order and failing. Everything feels soft, off, too close to the surface. What I want to say is buried under the thank you, slipping out before I can stop it.

"I don't, I know it's a, this is a thing you do. I know."

I hear myself. I hate this. I hate how it sounds. I keep going.

"I just, nobody looks at me. I'm, everybody sees me, because I'm, this size, but nobody, nobody looks at me. You looked at me."

The words embarrass me. My eyes start to sting again, which feels ridiculous, because I'm an adult, knotted on a bench in a sex club, telling a stranger that nobody looks at me like I'm a teenager.

I try to backtrack.

"Sorry, sorry, that sounded, I don't."

He doesn't answer.

He goes very still on top of me.

This stillness is different from before, when he was relaxed and tracing my bruises. Now it's the stillness of someone who's stopped moving their hand. His fingertips rest on my chest, no longer tracing, just staying right in the middle of the bruise, not moving at all.

I feel him breathe. His breath catches for a moment, then resumes. He shifts a little, settling himself without meaning to, and I feel him clench around my locked knot for a brief moment we both notice. A small shiver runs across his shoulders.