Page 12 of Glass

The silence goes on a beat too long. I can't stand it. I can't help myself.

"Did I, I'm sorry, I can stop talking."

"Don't apologize."

His reply is short. It's different from everything else he's said to me tonight, though I can't say exactly how. I just know it is.

Another long silence. My cock gives a fresh involuntary pulse inside him. He clenches on it again, not on purpose. I can tell the difference now. And he makes a sound, very small, through his nose.

Then, in a quieter voice, after what feels like a long pause, maybe a minute, maybe less, maybe more:

"I know what you meant."

That's all he says.

I want to ask him what he means, but I don't. I'm afraid to. Something happened that shouldn't have, some kind of boundary I didn't see, and I'm too shaken to figure out what it was. I just lie there, knotted and warm, watching his face behind the mask without saying anything.

His fingertips on my bruise haven't moved. They haven't moved since I spoke.

The knot holds.

The knot recedes.

I first notice the pressure easing as the swollen base inside him slowly deflates, letting go bit by bit. Then comes the moment when I know he can lift off without hurting either of us. He does, carefully and slowly. When he slides off my cock, I make a sound I'm not proud of. A small, broken no. He doesn't acknowledge it. I couldn't follow him even if I wanted to; I'm still strapped to the bench.

He climbs off. Stands. Walks to the small attached bathroom at the back of the room. I hear water. He's cleaning up. Efficient, professional, fast. I knew he would be.

He comes back.

I watch him. He's naked from the waist down under the dark button-down, and up close, with all my attention on him, I see a body I don't think I was allowed to look at before. He's lean, smaller than me in every way, pale in the warm, low light. There are faint lines at his hips that hint at office life. He looks like someone who eats well but doesn't sleep enough. Someone who doesn't think about his body first.

I'm looking at him with my whole body and my whole mouth and a part of my brain that's reserved for things like looking at him, specifically.

He doesn't look at me while he crosses to the wall rack.

He picks up the crop.

My cock, which has been dripping steadily for the last half hour, stiffens. Something slower and deeper than a jump, a full-body pull toward the shape of him standing there with the crop in his hand.

"One more," he says.

"Okay. Okay."

He comes back. Stands between my spread legs. Lays the flat of the crop against my hip. The tip of it rests just at the crease of my thigh.

"One more stroke. Then I'm going to let you come. Yes?"

"Yes. Yes, please, yes."

He smiles behind the mask. I can see the corner of his mouth. It's the warmest he's been with me all night, less a full smile, more a softening of his lips, and there's something about it that feels different. Softer at the edges, less controlled. Like he's smiling about something that isn't exactly me.

I hold onto it. I hold onto a lot of things without knowing what they are.

He raises the crop.

The stroke lands on the inside of my thigh.

It's not a cruel one. It's the same instrument with the same pressure he's been using all night. I've taken dozens of these by now. I know this one.