Page 13 of Puck Tease
"Strip," he said.
My fingers, clumsy and thick, fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. Each movement felt sluggish, uncoordinated. I wrestled the fabric over my head, then shucked my sweatpants and boxers in a single, desperate motion. I stood naked in the center of the room. The air was cool, but my skin burned.
Jax walked over to his bed. He sat on the edge, leaning back on his hands, watching me.
"Turn around," he said.
I turned.
"Hands on the bed. Feet on the floor. Ass up."
The words sliced through the air, precise and devoid of warmth, stripping away any illusion of tenderness, leaving only the stark mechanics of the order. My feet carried me to the bed’s edge. My palms pressed flat against the navy duvet, the fabric cool beneath my skin. I bent at the waist, spreading my feet wide for balance, my ass pushing high. A gasp escaped me as the cool air kissed my exposed hole, a sudden, mortifying chill. My cheeks burned with shame, the posture a raw, public display of submission.
I heard Jax move. The rustle of fabric. The snap of elastic.
Then I felt him behind me.
The heat radiating off his body was immense. He stepped into the space between my spread legs. His thighs brushed against mine—solid, hairy, and hot. He didn't touch me with his hands. He just leaned forward, his chest pressing against my back. His weight was heavy, crushing me down into the mattress.
"You know why you're here, right?" he whispered in my ear.
"Yes," I choked out.
"Tell me."
"To... to help you."
"Wrong," he growled. He bit my shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. "You're here because I need to fuck something, and you're the only thing in this apartment I own."
Own.
The word vibrated through my spine, a deep, resonant thrum.
He reached around with one hand and grabbed my cock. He didn't stroke it. He pulled it down, out of the way, gripping it tightly against my thigh.
"Don't get used to this," he muttered, his breath hot against my ear. "I'm not doing this to make you feel good. I'm doing this to clear my head."
He spat into his other palm. A thick, wet sound. He reached between my legs and slapped the spit onto my hole. My body recoiled, a shiver running through me. The spit felt cold, viscous, a crude, dismissive lubrication. No gentle fingers, no careful stretching, just a rough, perfunctory smear around the rim of my tight opening.
"Relax," he ordered.
"Jax, please, it's been years, I'm not—"
"I said relax."
He lined himself up. I could feel the head of his cock—broad, blunt, and terrifyingly hard—pressing against my tight ring. He grabbed my hips. His fingers dug into the flesh, bruising deep.
He shoved.
"Ah!" I screamed into the mattress, the sound muffled by the fabric.
He broke the barrier in one violent motion. It felt like being split open with a wedge of hot iron. He was too big. Too dry. The stretch was blinding, searing pain that wrapped around my nervous system and squeezed. He didn't stop. He drove his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. My arms gave out. My elbows hit the mattress, my face burying in the duvet. I gasped for air, tears pricking my eyes.
"Fuck," Jax groaned above me. "You're tight."
He held himself there, deep inside me, motionless. I could feel his pulse throbbing against my internal walls. I could feel the sheer density of him, filling a space that hadn't been touched since high school.
"Breathe," he commanded.
