Page 21 of Puck Tease
A choked, guttural “Fuck,” ripped from my throat, my teeth grinding together.
It was big. The stretch was immediate, a demanding invasion. My muscles strained, forced open, intruding into a space that had always been mine, inviolable. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the sink, my back arching, working the thick silicone inward inch by agonizing inch.
The widest part of the bulb passed the ring of muscle with a wet, distinct pop.
A sharp gasp tore from me, my knees buckling slightly, threatening to give way.
The fullness was overwhelming, a heavy, alien presence that settled deep in my gut, pressing insistently against my prostate. It felt like I was being impaled, like a fist was shoved inside me.
I straightened slowly, my muscles protesting.
The sensation shifted, the weight now dragging down, a constant, heavy presence. Every small, involuntary movement of my glutes rubbed against the smooth, unyielding silicone.
I pulled my boxers up, the fabric chafing. Then my jeans.
The denim was tight, the plug pressing against the seam, pushing it deeper, further inside me.
I took a few tentative steps. My gait was stiff, an awkward waddle. Each movement felt amplified, broadcast. My eyes darted to the door, a sudden paranoia making my skin crawl, convinced that anyone looking would know.
I unlocked the door, the click echoing in the sudden silence of the apartment, and shuffled back into the kitchen.
Jax waited, leaning against the counter, his mug now empty. His gaze swept over my walk—the slight stiffness in my knees, the careful, almost hesitant placement of my feet.
A slow, cruel grin spread across his face.
“Ready?” he asked, the word dripping with mock innocence.
“I hate you,” I whispered, the words thin and sharp.
“Grab your bag,” he said, reaching for his keys, the metal jangling softly. “Let’s go learn something.”
???
The walk to the library was a mile-long gauntlet of psychological warfare.
Every step was a stark, physical reminder. Left foot, a slow, grinding rub. Right foot, a deep, invasive stretch. The weighted core of the plug shifted with my gait, rocking inside me, a constant, inescapable presence. It forced a slower pace, a careful, stiff-legged shuffle, making me clench my ass muscles with every step to keep it secure. The constant clenching only intensified the friction, a dull, insistent burn.
By the time we reached the quad, sweat beaded on my forehead, tracing cold paths down my temples. The crisp autumn air, usually a welcome relief, did nothing to combat the internal heat radiating from my core. My skin felt flushed, hyper-aware, every nerve ending screaming. I, a six-foot-three linebacker, felt like a marked man, carrying a secret inside him that could shatter his life with a single misstep. My eyes darted, scanning faces, convinced that every casual glance held a hidden knowledge.
Jax walked beside me, whistling a tuneless melody, his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He exuded an effortless ease, a picture of untroubled confidence. He nodded at a few guys from the team as we passed, his smile easy and genuine, even stopping to sign a t-shirt for a giggling freshman girl. He played the role of the benevolent Campus God, radiating approachability, completely at peace.
Meanwhile, I walked beside him, my glutes locked in a desperate clench, a silent prayer echoing in my head:Don’t slip. Don’t slip.
We entered the library. The sudden, profound silence hit me like a physical blow, a pressure against my eardrums.
It was the main reading room—a cavernous space with high ceilings, rows of long, polished wooden tables, and the comforting, musty scent of old paper and dust. It was dead silent, save for the faint scratching of pens against paper and the rustle of turning pages. A hundred students sat, heads bowed, immersed in their studies.
“Table by the window,” Jax whispered, his voice a low murmur that somehow cut through the silence.
He pointed to a spot in the far corner, tucked away from the main thoroughfare, yet still starkly visible under the broad daylight streaming through the tall panes.
We walked over. I lowered myself into the hard wooden chair with excruciating care, each movement slow and deliberate.
The chair was unforgiving. As my weight settled, the plug was forced upward, pressing deep into my gut, a blunt fist against my prostate. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, stifling a groan, adjusting my hips, trying to find an angle that didn’t feel like I was being impaled.
Jax sat directly across from me.
He dropped his backpack with a soft thud. He pulled out his iPad, a thick textbook, and a crisp notebook, arranging them neatly on the table. His expression was serious, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked like the epitome of academic dedication.
