Chapter 2 #2
"We need to set some ground rules," he said, his voice low and even. "If this arrangement is going to work."
"Rules?" My breath fogged the glass further.
"Yeah. The terms of your surrender. Because that's what this is, Tom. You surrendered. You gave up your dignity to keep your secret. Now you live by my code."
He reached around. His hand brushed my inner thigh, a teasing caress, before gripping my cock.
He didn't stroke it. He simply held it. He squeezed the base, cutting off the blood flow slightly, making the head swell, throb.
"Rule Number One," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly rumble near my ear. "Availability. You belong to the team schedule now. When I’m home, you’re on the clock.
I don't care if you're studying. I don't care if you're sleeping.
I don't care if you're sick. If I need to get off, you are there. "
He squeezed harder. I gasped, my hips bucking involuntarily against his hand, a desperate, animalistic motion.
"Are we clear?"
"Yes," I choked out.
"Rule Number Two," he continued. "Submission. Outside this apartment, we're roommates. You act normal. But inside this door? You don't ask questions. You don't argue. You don't give me attitude. You take what I give you, and you say 'thank you.'"
He trailed his other hand down my spine, tracing the individual vertebrae, leaving a path of gooseflesh.
"And Rule Number Three," he whispered, his breath warm on my neck, a soft bite at the air near my ear. "Control."
He let go of my cock.
A small sound, a suppressed whine, almost escaped my lips at the sudden loss of contact, the abrupt absence of pressure.
"You don't touch yourself," he said. "Not a single stroke. Not in the shower. Not in bed. Not when you think I'm asleep."
My eyes widened in the reflection, the faint outline of my face showing the shock. "Jax... that's... I can't..."
"You can, and you will," he said. His voice was flat, absolute.
"Your orgasm belongs to me now. It's currency.
You only spend it when I authorize it. If I catch you jerking off—if I even suspect you've relieved yourself without my permission—I send the video to the entire roster.
Tyler, Mills, Coach... everyone sees you moaning my name. "
He paused, letting the words settle, their weight pressing down.
"Do you understand the terms?"
I closed my eyes. The thought of such complete denial, of such absolute control, should have sent a cold terror through me.
It did. A shiver ran down my spine, but it was quickly replaced by a hot, insistent throb between my legs.
The terror and the arousal twisted together, an intoxicating, sickening blend.
"I understand," I whispered, the words barely audible.
"I can't hear you."
"I understand, Jax."
“You will address me as, Captain. Say, ‘I understand, Captain’.”
I swallowed, the last shred of my pride scraped raw, burned away. "I understand, Captain."
"Good."
He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
"Now, finish the job."
He looked down at himself. He was still rock hard, glistening with moisture. A clear bead of pre-cum had gathered at the slit of his cock, clinging there.
"Hand," he ordered.
I reached out. My hand trembled, a slight tremor running through my arm. My fingers closed around him.
He was thick. Dense. The heat radiating off his cock was startling, an intense warmth against my palm. It felt heavy in my hand, a living thing, pulsing with blood.
"Dry," he said. "Don't use spit. I want to feel the friction."
I started to move my hand.
Up. Down.
The skin was taut, smooth as silk over steel. I tightened my grip, compressing the flesh, feeling the ridges of veins beneath my fingers.
Jax hissed a breath through his teeth. His head fell back against the wall, exposing the thick column of his throat, the sharp line of his jaw.
"Yeah," he groaned, a low, guttural sound. "Like that. Don't be gentle. I'm not a fucking flower. Grip it."
I squeezed harder. I found a rhythm. Up, twisting slightly at the head, dragging down to the root. My arm began to burn, the muscles in my bicep flexing with the effort.
Jax watched me. His eyes were hooded, heavy-lidded, but sharp, unblinking. He wasn't lost in the sensation; he was observing it. He was studying my face. He was watching the way my lip caught between my teeth, the way my eyes tracked the movement of my hand on his cock.
"You like this, don't you?" he asked. His voice was strained, tight, a raw edge to it.
"Yes," I admitted, a whisper.
"You like holding it. You like knowing it's bigger than yours."
I didn't answer. I just pumped faster, driven by the heat in my hand, the tension in the room.
"Look at it," he commanded. "Look at what owns you."
I looked down. My hand moving on him, a blur of motion. The contrast of my pale knuckles against his tan skin. The veins throbbing along the shaft, a dark river beneath the surface. It was hypnotic.
Jax’s hips began to snap forward, meeting my thrusts. The movement was jerky, aggressive, a deep-seated demand.
"Faster," he grunted. "Come on. Work for it."
My arm burned, a deep ache spreading through my shoulder. I pumped him like I was trying to start a fire with my bare hands.
He was close. I could feel the tension ratcheting up in his body. His thighs clenched, quads jumping under the wet skin. He reached out and grabbed my throat with his free hand.
He squeezed. Not enough to crush, but enough to hold me in place, to remind me of the invisible leash, to remind me who was in charge.
"Look at me," he snarled, his eyes blazing.
I looked up. His face was a mask of fierce concentration and absolute dominance.
"You're going to thank me," he said.
"What?"
"Thank me. For using you. For not destroying your life. Say it."
He bucked his hips, driving into my hand, a powerful surge.
"Thank you," I gasped, the words ragged.
"Thank you for what?"
"Thank you for... for using me."
"Who am I?"
"The Captain."
"Say it all."
"Thank you for using me, Captain."
Jax groaned, a guttural sound that ripped from his chest, primal and raw. His grip on my throat tightened, a final squeeze. His eyes rolled back into his head.
"Fuck!"
He came.
It was violent, explosive. He bucked hard, pulling my hand down with him in the climax.
Thick, white ropes of semen shot out, hot and heavy. They coated my hand, splashed onto my bare chest, landed in wet, heavy drops on the tile floor.
He shuddered, emptying himself onto me, his body wracked with tremors.
I kept stroking, milking him through the pulses, until he grabbed my wrist and stopped me.
"Enough."
He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, recovering. He let go of my throat. He looked down at the sticky mess he’d made, a casual glance.
My hand was completely coated in him. My chest had streaks of white across the muscle. The floor was spattered, each drop stark against the white tile.
I looked down at my own cock. It was raging, an angry red. It dripped pre-cum, aching with a blue-balled pressure that felt like a bruise.
Jax followed my gaze. He saw my erection. He saw the naked need in my eyes.
A slow smirk spread across his lips.
He walked over to the towel rack and grabbed a white hand towel. He wiped himself off, cleaning his cock and his thighs with efficient, uncaring motions.
He didn't offer me the towel.
He tossed the soiled cloth onto the floor, right on top of the jersey I had just licked clean.
"Wash your hands," he said. His voice was back to normal. Calm. Bored. "Then get out. I have to get ready."
"Ready?" I blinked, dazed, my mind still thick with the aftermath. "For what?"
"Date," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Pickup from the bar. Some blonde from the volleyball team. She's been texting me all week."
My stomach dropped, a cold, hollow sensation. "A date?"
"Yeah. I need to get laid."
I looked at him, my mouth slightly agape, the words catching in my throat. "But... we just..."
"You just jerked me off," he corrected, his voice flat. "That wasn't sex. That was maintenance. That was you paying rent."
He walked to the door. His hand closed around the knob, then he stopped. He looked back at me, standing naked, glistening with his cum, my body vibrating with unreleased tension, my chest heavy with a hollow ache.
"Don't wait up," he said. "And Tom?"
"Yeah?" My voice was barely a whisper.
"Rule Number Three. Don't touch yourself while I'm gone. I'll check the sheets when I get back. If I smell even a drop of your cum, the video goes live."
He opened the door and walked out, pulling it shut with a soft click.
I stood in the bathroom, staring at the empty doorway. The steam was fading, leaving the room cold, the white tiles losing their humid sheen. My hand felt sticky with his seed. My heart raced so fast it hurt, a frantic drum against my ribs.
I was trapped. His property. A convenience.
My gaze fell to the mess on my chest, smelling the bleach-and-musk scent of him. A terrifying truth settled over me, heavy and suffocating.
I wasn't going to leave. I was going to wait right here, listening for his footsteps, until he came back and did it again.