Page 19 of Puck Tease
"Can I..." I started, my voice still hoarse. I looked at him, a fragile, desperate hope fluttering in my chest, a bird trapped in a cage. "Can I finish?"
Jax smiled. It was the same slow, predatory smile he’d given me when he found me with the jersey, the subtle curve of his lips conveying absolute power, the cold glint in his eyes reflecting utter possession. It was the smile of a man who owned not just the room, but everything in it.
"Rule Number Three, Tom."
He stood up straight, his shadow falling over me.
"See you at dinner."
He turned and walked out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hall. I heard the front door open, the faint squeak of hinges, then the solid thud as it closed. The click of the lock resonated through the apartment, sealing me in.
Silence rushed back into the room, a vast, oppressive weight.
I lay on the bed, my body a ruin. Every muscle ached, every nerve ending screamed. I was fuller, more distended, more painfully aroused than I had ever been in my life. I curled onto my side, clutching my throbbing cock, the clear, sticky pre-cum cold against my palm. Tears, hot and silent, leaked from my eyes, soaking into the pillow. The blue silk tie was still loosely wrapped around one wrist, a soft, brutal reminder of my bondage.
A cold, hard knot formed in my chest, tightening with each ragged breath. It was a suffocating pressure, a burning resentment that promised to consume me. My jaw clenched, my teeth grinding together. I hated him. I hated him so much my chest burned with the intensity of it, a searing, all-encompassing rage.
And I knew, with a sickening certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I would do it all again tomorrow if he asked.
5 – PUBLIC RISK
Wednesday was leg day. Or at least, the calendar on the fridge declared it.
At 8:00 AM, I stood in the kitchen, my gaze fixed on the coffee maker, its chrome surface reflecting my haggard face like a distorted oracle. Each breath felt like an argument against the day's schedule, an internal plea to abandon the squat rack. My body was a battlefield. My glutes, rigid and unyielding, protested even the thought of movement. A dull, insistent ache pulsed in my lower back, a lingering testament to yesterday's hour-long arch over the mattress. And my balls…
They hung heavy, a leaden weight, pulling low in my crotch.
Forty-eight hours. The number clung to me like a shroud. Forty-eight hours since Jax had cornered me with that jersey, since he'd begun this slow, deliberate torture. In that span, he’d dragged me to the precipice of orgasm nearly two dozen times, each instance leaving me trembling, slick with sweat, and utterly bereft of release.
The pressure was a constant, low thrum, a vibrating wire stretched taut through my nervous system. It set my teeth on edge, kept my hands restless, and made my skin prickle, feeling too thin, too tight for the flesh beneath.
“You’re blocking the pot.”
Jax’s voice, a sudden, sharp intrusion, sliced through the hazy film over my thoughts.
I flinched, a jolt running through me that nearly sent a ceramic mug clattering to the floor. He materialized behind me, silent as a shadow. When he wasn’t stomping around in his boots, he moved with an unnerving, almost predatory quiet.
He was dressed for class: worn jeans that hugged his thighs, a tight gray henley stretched across his chest, and a backward ballcap that shadowed his brow. His skin looked smooth, his eyes clear and unlined, reflecting a night of undisturbed sleep. A faint line creased between his eyebrows, and his mouth was set in a firm, almost disapproving line.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, shuffling sideways, my feet dragging.
Jax poured a stream of black coffee into a mug, the rich, bitter scent filling the small space. He leaned a hip against the counter, took a slow sip, and peered at me over the ceramic rim, his gaze dissecting.
“You look like shit,” he observed, the words flat.
My shoulders hunched. “Didn’t sleep well.”
A faint curve touched his lips, a knowing, almost mocking twist. “Wonder why.” He lowered the mug. “Blue balls keeping you up?”
My jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in my cheek. “Something like that.”
“Good. Suffering builds character.” He set his mug down with a soft click. “What’s the schedule today?”
“Class until noon,” I recited, my voice flat, my gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor. “Then the library. Mid-term in Macro on Friday. I need to study.”
“Library,” Jax repeated, the word a slow, deliberate roll on his tongue. His eyes narrowed slightly, a thoughtful, calculatingglint in their depths. “Quiet place. Lots of students. Serious atmosphere.”
“Yeah.” My voice was barely audible.
