Page 37 of Puck Tease
"Look at me," he said.
My gaze snapped to his. He watched me with intense, unwavering focus, his face unreadable in the dark. He made no move to touch himself, his own arousal a silent, coiled tension beneath his clothes. He was getting off on the spectacle, on watching me unravel.
"Tell me who you belong to," he said, his voice a low growl.
"You," I gasped, the word torn from my throat. "I belong to you."
"Who am I?"
"Jax. Captain."
"That's right."
I pumped faster, my hand a blur. I couldn't help it. The pressure built, a roaring freight train in my veins, demanding release. "Jax, please, I'm close."
"Come for me," he whispered, his voice dark and thrilling. "Come on your own stomach. Show me how much you needed it."
My body convulsed.
I cried out, arching my back off the mattress, a guttural sound that tore through the quiet room. I came hard, a messy,brain-melting explosion. Gobs of cum shot up, hitting my chest, my chin, puddling on my stomach. The release was immense, wracking my body, wringing out every drop of tension from the last week of denial. It went on and on, my body shaking, twitching.
When it finally subsided, I collapsed, panting, slick and ruined, my muscles trembling.
Jax remained straddling me. He reached out, his finger tracing a line through the warm, sticky mess on my stomach. "Good boy," he murmured.
He climbed off me, his weight lifting from my thighs. He stood up and stripped off his clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. He got into bed and pulled the covers up, settling in.
"Clean that up in the morning," he said, nodding toward my stomach. "I'm tired."
He rolled over, turning his back to me.
I lay there for a long time in the dark, the mingled scents of sex and sweat thick in the air. My pants were still around my ankles. The fluid on my chest cooled and stiffened as it dried. Shame should have burned. The feeling of being used should have chafed my skin. But as I listened to Jax’s breathing even out into the steady rhythm of sleep, a strange, profound stillness settled over me. A twisted sense of peace. I was his. And tonight, he had kept me.
8 – THE NIGHT BUS
The air in the bus hung heavy with the ghosts of exertion and the sharp stink of diesel. It also reeked of sweat and old Gatorade, the leftover stench from the game remained.
The dashboard clock glowed 2:00 AM. We were a sixty-foot steel capsule, vibrating faintly, hurtling through the pitch-black void that was I-94 in the Midwest. Outside the tinted windows, the world bled into passing blurs of shadow, punctuated by the occasional flash of distant headlights, brief, spectral intrusions before the darkness swallowed them again. Inside, the air, thick and re-breathed, carried a bone-deep chill that seeped through the thin fabric of my tracksuit.
We had gutted out a win, 4-2 against Wisconsin. It had been a brutal, grinding match, a constant clash of bodies that left a dull ache deep in the muscle, the kind that promised blooming bruises in two days’ time. For the first hour after boarding, the bus had throbbed with the raw energy of victory. Shouts ricocheted off the low ceiling, chirps of triumph, the thumping bass of bad rap music vibrating from portable speakers tucked between seats.
But that was hours ago. Now, the surge of adrenaline had bled away, leaving only a profound, heavy quiet.
The bus felt like a coffin on wheels. The overhead lights were dead, leaving only the faint, blueish safety strip that snaked along the floor, casting long, distorted shadows. Forty grown men were slumped, sprawled, and twisted in various postures of exhaustion, limbs akimbo, heads lolling against windows. The only sounds were the low, hypnotic hum of the tires devouring asphalt, the intermittent rattle of an AC vent, and the rhythmic, guttural snore of the equipment manager in the front row, a steady, primal beat against the mechanical drone.
I sat in row 12, pressed against the window. My eyes were open, wide and unblinking. Sleep felt like a distant, impossible luxury.
My noise-canceling headphones pressed firmly against my ears, but no music played. Their sole purpose was to muffle the frantic thrum of my own heart, a drumbeat that felt impossibly loud in the silence. I stared out at the impenetrable blackness, watching my reflection hover in the glass—a pale, drawn face, eyes shadowed, jaw clenched tight. Every muscle in my body felt coiled, ready to spring, but with nowhere to go.
The seat beside me remained empty.
On any other away trip, Miller or one of the sophomore defensemen would have claimed it. But tonight, as we’d boarded the bus, Jax had stood sentinel at the front, a massive, unmoving presence. His gaze had cut through the milling bodies, snagging mine. He’d barely moved, just a slight, almost imperceptible jerk of his chin towards row 12, and the single, clipped word: "Window."
Then, with an economy of motion that belied its weight, he’d heaved his massive gear bag onto the aisle seat next to me, effectively barricading it.
"Saving it," he’d stated, his voice flat, to anyone who dared inquire.
But he hadn’t taken the seat himself. For the first two hours, he’d remained up front with the coaches, his deep voice a low murmur as they discussed stats or whatever arcane duties fell to the captain. He’d left me there, walled in by his bag, suspended in the dark, waiting for a presence I knew was coming.
