Page 25 of Puck Tease
“Hold on,” he warned, his eyes still holding mine.
He pulled.
The suction broke with a wet, distinct pop, a sound that echoed in the confined space. The relief was blinding, a rush of sensation that made me sag against the seat.
But then, before I could even process the freedom, he pushed it right back in.
“Ah!” I screamed, a raw, uncontrolled cry, my hands fumbling for the dashboard, gripping it hard, my knuckles white.
“Keep it in,” he said, ignoring my cry. “We’re going to the drive-thru. I’m hungry.”
He sat back in the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, shaking the truck.
I sat there, pants around my ankles, the plug re-seated deep inside my abused, screaming hole, staring at him.
“You’re sick,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
Jax put the truck in gear. His hand settled on my knee, squeezing hard, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes on the road. “And you love it.”
He drove out of the lot, pulling onto the main campus road. I pulled my pants up, wincing as the denim rubbed against my raw, chafed skin.
I sat in silence, feeling the heavy, insistent weight of the plug, feeling the phantom-buzzing in my nerves, a ghost vibration that lingered even without the actual device.
He was right.
I hated it. I was terrified. A cold knot of fear clenched in my stomach.
But as we drove through campus, the plug stretching me open, a constant throb in my core, and his hand warm and firm on my leg… a strange, exhilarating tremor ran through me. I had never felt more alive.
6 – LOCKER ROOM ACCESS
Thursday night. 10:45 PM.
The campus stretched out, a silent, concrete expanse under the sodium vapor lights. The plaza, usually a churning river of students, lay empty between the dorm towers and the athletic complex, the amber glow painting long, distorted shadows that danced with the cold wind. The wind cut through the thin cotton of my hoodie, raising goosebumps on my arms, yet a sheen of sweat slicked my palms, and a cold bead traced a path down my temple.
My phone vibrated against my thigh, a single, insistent tremor.
I didn't reach for it. My fingers remained laced together in my pocket, knuckles white. The words were already burned into my mind, the urgent command echoing in the silence: *Jax: Back door is propped. Don't let the janitor see you.*
I kept my head down, chin tucked into the collar of my hoodie, and lengthened my stride. My sneakers squeaked against the pavement, the sound unnervingly loud, a starkpunctuation in the vast quiet. Each squeak seemed to ricochet off the silent buildings, announcing my presence.
I shouldn't have been here. The Munn Ice Arena was a fortress after hours, its doors locked, its lights dimmed. Practice had ended three hours ago. The team had scattered, their bags slung over shoulders. The coaches had driven away, their cars crunching on the gravel lot.
But Jax hadn't gone.
He had stayed behind. "Extra conditioning," he’d typed into the group chat, a lie that tasted like ash in my mouth. He wasn't conditioning his legs. He was conditioning me, meticulously, brutally.
I reached the service entrance, a nondescript metal door tucked away behind the arena's hulking concrete mass. The air here was thick with the reek of rotting cardboard and stale soda, emanating from the overflowing dumpsters that formed a grimy shield. My eyes flickered up. A security camera, a single red eye, blinked above the door, a slow, hypnotic pulse. I pulled my hood lower, the fabric scraping against my ears, obscuring the angles of my face.
I gripped the handle. It turned with a soft click, the heavy slab of metal swinging inward into the deeper dark of the building. A gust of cold air, metallic and damp, spilled out.
I stepped inside.
The smell hit me first, a sharp, distinct aroma that immediately clawed at my senses: the frigid tang of refrigerant, the earthy scent of rubber mats, the cold, wet concrete. It was colder inside than out, a bone-deep chill that clung to the air. The silence was a physical weight, broken only by the distant, low thrum of the massive compressors, the unseen heartbeat of the ice-making machinery.
My footsteps were swallowed by the thick rubber flooring, designed to cushion the lethal edges of skate blades. I moved down the hallway, a shadow among shadows. The equipment room, its racks of helmets and pads invisible in the gloom, loomed on my right. The trainer’s office, a sliver of light under its door, hinted at a lone occupant, but I knew it was empty. The visitors' locker room, a place of transient defeat, was a dark maw.
