Page 11 of Puck Tease
"Wash your hands," he said. His voice was back to normal. Calm. Bored. "Then get out. I have to get ready."
"Ready?" I blinked, dazed, my mind still thick with the aftermath. "For what?"
"Date," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Pickup from the bar. Some blonde from the volleyball team. She's been texting me all week."
My stomach dropped, a cold, hollow sensation. "A date?"
"Yeah. I need to get laid."
I looked at him, my mouth slightly agape, the words catching in my throat. "But... we just..."
"You just jerked me off," he corrected, his voice flat. "That wasn't sex. That was maintenance. That was you paying rent."
He walked to the door. His hand closed around the knob, then he stopped. He looked back at me, standing naked, glistening with his cum, my body vibrating with unreleased tension, my chest heavy with a hollow ache.
"Don't wait up," he said. "And Tom?"
"Yeah?" My voice was barely a whisper.
"Rule Number Three. Don't touch yourself while I'm gone. I'll check the sheets when I get back. If I smell even a drop of your cum, the video goes live."
He opened the door and walked out, pulling it shut with a soft click.
I stood in the bathroom, staring at the empty doorway. The steam was fading, leaving the room cold, the white tiles losingtheir humid sheen. My hand felt sticky with his seed. My heart raced so fast it hurt, a frantic drum against my ribs.
I was trapped. His property. A convenience.
My gaze fell to the mess on my chest, smelling the bleach-and-musk scent of him. A terrifying truth settled over me, heavy and suffocating.
I wasn't going to leave. I was going to wait right here, listening for his footsteps, until he came back and did it again.
3 – THE WARM UP
Seventy-two hours.
My palm still felt the phantom slickness of Jax’s cum, a ghost sensation on my skin, as the front door’s finality echoed in the apartment’s sudden emptiness. Seventy-two hours of the apartment holding its breath, the air thick with unspoken commands. Each creak of the floorboards under my weight felt like a transgression. My groin had become a taut string, vibrating with a dull throb that had sharpened into a blinding pressure. It shot down my inner thighs, a white-hot current, with every shift of my weight, every hesitant step across the living room carpet.
Rule Number Three:You don’t cum unless I say so.
The words had felt like a feint, a lash of verbal dominance meant only to sting in the moment. But Friday night, the front door had opened and shut without a greeting. Jax moved through the apartment, a shadow of stale beer and a foreign, cloying perfume clinging to him. He hadn’t spoken. His footsteps paused outside my bedroom, a breath held. His nostrils flared, a bloodhound searching for a trace. Then the floorboards groaned under his weight as he continued to his own room, the silence stretching taut behind him. The weekend hadpassed in a blur of empty space between us, his touch a memory that faded with each passing hour. The air itself felt thin, my skin a raw nerve. An invisible hunger gnawed at me, a hollow ache that tightened in my belly and spread through my limbs.
Monday night. Eight-fifteen. The apartment swallowed the last vestiges of daylight, leaving behind a deep indigo gloom. Streetlights painted stark lines across the blinds, and the television hummed a forgotten blue glow into the shadows. I sat on the couch, a textbook splayed open on my thighs, my gaze fixed on the same block of text for twenty minutes, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. My skin felt stretched taut over bone, a drumhead about to burst. The whisper of boxer briefs against my cock became a relentless sandpaper rasp, each movement a fresh agony. Every nerve ending screamed for attention: the coarse weave of the couch digging into my thighs, the refrigerator’s distant, mechanical hum, the insistent thrum of my own blood rushing in my ears. My muscles had coiled, ready to spring, yet held rigid by an invisible leash.
A bitter taste coated my tongue. I was a scholarship student, my brain a honed instrument. My body, a defensive lineman’s frame, could deadlift five hundred pounds, a testament to its brutal power. Yet, here I sat, dwarfed by the dark, a tremor running through my limbs, every fiber of me humming with a desperate, singular need. I waited for the turn of a key, for Jax to walk through that door, to weigh me, to decide if I held any use.
The lock tumbled.
My head snapped up. The textbook slid off my lap, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
The door pushed open.
A gust of cold, damp wind swept through the entryway, carrying the sharp scent of ozone and exertion. Jax stepped in, trailing the raw, unpredictable energy of a brewing storm. His face was a mask of strained muscle, his jaw a sharp, unyieldingline, a small tic feathering near his ear. Sweat-matted strands of hair escaped from beneath his backwards baseball cap, clinging to his temples. He wore his team track pants, the fabric stretched taut across his thighs, and a gray hoodie, the collar dark with sweat.
He didn't look at me.
He dropped his duffel bag in the entryway. It hit the floor with a wet, heavy sound that made me flinch. He kicked his shoes off, sending them skittering across the hardwood, and stalked toward the kitchen.
I remained pinned to the couch, a statue carved from apprehension. Rule Number Two:No questions.Simply absorb the atmosphere, bracing for impact of whatever noxious mood he carried through the threshold.
