Page 20 of Puck Tease
“I have a gap between classes,” he said. The casual tone did nothing to ease the prickle of unease that crawled up my spine. “Think I’ll join you.”
My head snapped up, the sudden movement a reflex. “What?”
“Need to review some game tape. Library has good Wi-Fi.”
“Jax, you never go to the library. You do tape in the lounge.” The protest spilled out before I could censor it.
His lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Change of scenery.” He pushed off the counter, taking a step toward me. The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, pressing in, charged with an invisible current. My pulse quickened, a nervous flutter in my throat. “But if we’re going out in public…” His voice dropped, a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. “…we need to make sure you behave.”
“I behave,” I argued, my voice tight with indignation. My fists clenched at my sides. “I haven’t touched myself. I haven’t done anything.”
“I know.” He closed the distance, his presence eclipsing the light from the window. My eyes darted around the room, unable to meet his gaze. “But you’re tense. You’re fidgety.” His finger shot out, hard and unexpected, poking my chest. The sharp jab made me gasp. “You need something to center you. Something to remind you who you belong to when you’re staring at supply and demand curves.”
His hand dipped into the pocket of his jeans.
He pulled out a small, black velvet bag, no bigger than my palm.
He tossed it.
My hand shot out, catching it reflexively. It was heavy, far heavier than its size suggested. The weight settled in my palm with a cold, almost metallic density, an ominous thrum against my skin.
“Open it,” he ordered, his voice a low command.
My fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled with the drawstring. I pulled it open, the fabric rustling softly, and tipped the contents into my hand.
It was a butt plug.
But not just any plug. This was black silicone, smooth and seamless, its flared base polished to an obsidian sheen. It felt thick, substantial, heavier than any I’d seen, the weight concentrated in its core. And on the bottom of the base, a small, metallic charging port glinted in the kitchen light.
“Vibrating,” Jax explained, his eyes fixed on my face, watching the color drain from my cheeks. “Bluetooth enabled. App controlled.”
My gaze remained glued to the device in my palm, my breath catching in my throat. “No.” The word was a choked whisper.
“No?” Jax’s left eyebrow arched, a slow, deliberate ascent. His hand slid into his other pocket, emerging with his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. “Should I send the video to the group chat right now? ‘Cause I can do it before my coffee gets cold.”
“Jax, I have to walk across campus,” I hissed, my voice cracking. “I have to sit in a wooden chair for three hours. I can’t wear this.”
“Sure you can.” He stepped closer, crowding me against the counter, the hard edge digging into my lower back. His scent – coffee and something musky, distinctly Jax – filled my nostrils. “You’re a big guy. You can take it.”
“Go to the bathroom,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl. “Lube it up. Put it in. And don’t you dare come out until it’s buried to the hilt.”
“And if I don’t?” The question was stupid, I knew it, but I couldn’t stop the words from escaping.
“You know the alternative, Tom. Stop asking stupid questions.” He glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist. “You have five minutes before we leave. If you’re not plugged and ready, I upload the video.”
My hand clenched around the velvet bag, the plug cold and hard beneath the fabric. I looked at him—the relaxed set of his shoulders, the confident tilt of his head, the unwavering certainty in his eyes. He knew. He knew the video was my weakness, my deepest fear. He knew I would do anything to keep it private. And a sickening thrum in my gut told me he also knew, deep down, a part of me, a desperate, pathetic part, wanted to know what it felt like.
“Fine,” I spat, the word tasting like ash.
“Good boy.”
I spun on my heel, marching toward the bathroom. My hands shook so violently the doorknob rattled as I locked it. I didn't glance at my reflection. I knew what I’d see: a desperate, pathetic junkie, a hunger-driven animal, preparing for his fix. My gaze fell to my reflection in the mirror, but I couldn't meet my own eyes. I saw the grimace, the shadowed fear, the weakness.
My jeans dropped to my ankles, followed by my boxers. I bent over the cold porcelain sink. There was no proper lubricant, only a dusty bottle of lotion in the cabinet beneath. It would have to suffice.
I squeezed a dollop onto the black silicone. It was cold, slick, and unnervingly substantial in my grip.
I pushed.
