Page 15 of Puck Tease
"Jax, please," I whispered, my voice raw. "I'm so close. Please let me..."
He looked at my cock, hard and leaking against the navy sheets. He looked at my face, a desperate plea etched into my features. The faint curve vanished. His jaw tightened, the faint light catching the hard planes of his face, leaving his eyes flat, impenetrable.
"Rule Number Three," he said.
He turned and walked toward the bathroom.
"Clean yourself up," he threw over his shoulder, his voice flat. "And strip the bed. I'm not sleeping in that mess."
He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.
I lay there for a moment, the smell of sex and musk heavy in the air. My body was vibrating. My hole was throbbing, warm and full of him. My cock was painfully hard. I reached down. My hand hovered over my erection, my fingers twitching, a centimeter from the slick, engorged head. A tremor ran through my arm. I clenched my hand into a fist and pulled it away.
I rolled off the bed, my legs shaking so hard I almost fell. I felt the slide of his cum inside me, a heavy, secret weight. I gathered the sheets, bunching them up. The sting in my ass, the raw ache in my muscles, the tight, frustrated burn in my cock—each sensation a physical testament to his control, to his deliberate withholding. As I shuffled toward the laundryhamper, the sharp, musky scent of him still clinging to my skin, a cold, undeniable wave washed over me, chilling me to the bone.
The emptiness inside me, despite being filled, gnawed with a fresh, aching hunger. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. I craved the pain, the denial, the sheer force of him, like a parched man craves water.
4 – THE EDGE
Tuesday morning arrived, not with the sharp edge of a hangover, but with its hollow aftermath, all the brutal consequences without the softening haze of alcohol.
I woke on the bare mattress, the stripped bed a stark testament to the previous night’s hurried violence. New sheets lay folded on the dresser, ignored. The mattress protector, a thin, textured membrane, was cold and rough against my skin. My lower spine pulsed with a dull, persistent ache, a deep throb that resonated through my entire frame. My ass felt raw, distended, as if something wide and unyielding had been forced through me. Every internal muscle screamed in protest.
The room was still, silent. A fine layer of dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight cutting through a gap in the blinds, the only movement in the quiet air.
Jax was gone. His 6:00 AM skate had pulled him from the apartment hours ago. The only evidence of his presence was the deep impression in the pillow beside mine, a crater still holding the faint, sharp scent of his body wash—something expensive and clean, clinging to the air like a phantom limb.
I pushed myself up, a guttural groan ripping from my throat as my abdominal muscles clenched, protesting the movement.My body felt stretched, pulled taut, like a rubber band wound too tight. A phantom fullness pulsed deep within me, a ghost sensation of weight and distension that made sitting awkward, the simple act of shifting sending a jolt of memory through my nerves. I saw him again, heavy and crushing, pinning me into the mattress, his breath hot against my ear as he emptied his head into my body.
And my cock still stood, a rigid, throbbing monument to four days of denial. It was a problem, an undeniable, unrelenting problem. The head of it pressed against the denim of my boxers, a constant, abrasive reminder.
Four days. One hundred and eighty-six thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven seconds since I’d last been allowed to come. My balls hung heavy, taut sacks of aching pressure that radiated up into my gut, a dull, constant throb that felt like a bruise forming deep inside my abdomen. My cock, hypersensitive, chafed against the fabric of my boxers with every careful step I took toward the bathroom, each brush of cotton a fresh agony.
I stepped into the shower, letting the water hammer against my chest for twenty minutes. Steam clouded the small enclosure, blurring the lines of the white tiles. I stared at them, unseeing, the roaring water unable to drown out the single, relentless thought that hammered in my skull: Rule Number Three.
You don’t cum unless I say so.
My hand, slick with water, hovered over my erection. It stood thick and rigid, a testament to raw need. Relief was a mere thirty seconds away. I could stroke it, fast and dirty, wash the evidence down the drain, and the secret would be mine, buried beneath the cascade of water.
But the thought of Jax finding out was a cold, tightening vice around my throat. *I’ll check the sheets.* His words, spokenwith a quiet menace, echoed in my ears. Or worse, he’d just *know*. Jax operated on a frequency I didn’t understand, seeing things before they happened, reading the subtle shifts in the air, the tells in my eyes. If I touched myself, if I dared to steal that brief, desperate pleasure, I risked everything. The video, the team, my entire life.
My hand fell, heavy and useless, to my side. I turned off the water, the sudden silence of the bathroom a stark contrast to the thrumming tension in my body.
I went to class. Macroeconomics. I sat through it, the air in the lecture hall thick and stagnant, my shirt clinging to my back with sweat. The professor’s voice droned, a meaningless hum, about supply curves and market equilibrium. The words drifted past my ears, unable to penetrate the thick fog of my own internal demand curve, currently spiking with a painful, desperate intensity in my pants. Every nerve ending screamed with the need for release. All I could feel, all I could think about, was Jax.
I saw the coldness in his eyes again, the flat, emotionless stare when he’d ordered me to clean the bed. The way he’d pivoted on his heel and walked out, his back a rigid line, without a single backward glance. That memory should have ignited a furious heat in my chest, a burning hatred. It should have pushed me away. Instead, it twisted my gut into a knot of frantic yearning, a hollow ache that craved his attention, even his cruelty.
I returned to the apartment at 2:00 PM.
The door closed behind me with a soft click, plunging the space into a deep quiet. But the air itself felt different, heavy and crackling, like a storm brewing just beyond the horizon. A subtle shift in the light, a faint scent of his cologne, a barely perceptible change in the apartment’s internal hum – he was home.
I walked into the living room. Jax was there, sprawled on the couch, feet propped carelessly on the coffee table. A game controller rested in his hands, his thumbs moving with a lazy, practiced precision across the joysticks. He wore only gray sweatpants, the soft fabric dipping low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his pelvic bones. His skin, tanned from endless hours on the ice, gleamed in the afternoon light filtering through the blinds, the definition of his abdominal muscles stark and unforgiving.
He didn't acknowledge my presence. His eyes remained fixed on the TV screen, the subtle movements of his thumbs the only sign of his engagement.
"Hey," I managed, the word thin and reedy in the sudden quiet of the room. It felt swallowed by the air before it even reached him.
"You’re late," he said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. He didn't pause the game. His character on the screen continued its relentless march. "I’ve been home for twenty minutes."
