Chapter 4 #2
I blinked, my mind slow, struggling to process the abrupt shift. "The... tie?"
"From my closet. The blue silk one. The one I wore to the banquet last year. Bring it." His voice held no room for questions.
He turned and walked away, his stride even, measured. He didn't glance back to see if I followed, his certainty absolute.
I stumbled toward his closet. It smelled like him—a clean, sharp scent of cedar and freshly laundered fabric, overlaid with something indefinably male.
My fingers fumbled through the hangers, finding the blue silk tie.
It was smooth, cool against my skin, the expensive fabric sliding through my touch.
When I walked into his bedroom, Jax was standing by the bed. He had already pushed the mattress slightly askew, exposing the cold, gleaming metal bars of the headboard. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.
"Lie down," he said. "On your back."
My legs felt like lead, but I obeyed, lowering myself onto the mattress protector. Its rough texture rasped against my bare back. I looked up at him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"Hands above your head. Grab the headboard."
I stretched my arms overhead, my fingers closing around the cold, unforgiving metal bars.
Jax took the tie from my hand. He wrapped the smooth silk around my left wrist, the fabric cool and soft against my skin, then looped it around the metal bar in a figure-eight pattern.
He repeated the process with my right wrist, securing both hands.
He tied the knots tight, pulling the silk until it bit into my skin, not enough to cut off circulation, but enough to ensure I couldn’t pull free.
I was trussed up, splayed open, a sacrifice on the altar of his desire. My chest heaved, my ribs expanding against the stretched skin of my torso. My cock, a desperate, throbbing column of flesh, bobbed against my stomach.
Jax stood over me for a long moment, his eyes dragging down my tied wrists, bare chest, the hard-on standing like a flagpole. His mouth hooked into that slow, filthy smirk that said he was already balls-deep in my head.
"We’re going to play a game," he said, his voice a low, silken promise. "It’s called 'How much can you take?'"
He climbed onto the bed, his weight settling on the mattress. He crawled over me, his knees pressing down on either side of my hips, pinning me in place. His presence was overwhelming, a suffocating weight.
He didn't use lube. He simply looked down at my cock, already glistening with its own fluid, the pre-cum beaded at the tip. "Natural lube," he noted, his voice a low murmur. "Let's see if it lasts."
He wrapped his fingers around the base of my cock. His grip was firm, unyielding, a vise of flesh and bone. His palm, calloused and rough from years of gripping a hockey stick, scraped against the velvet-smooth skin.
He started to stroke.
"Oh god," I groaned, my head tossing back into the pillow, a sound torn from the deepest part of my throat.
It was too much. The friction, after four days of desperate denial, was a white-hot fire, searing through my nerves.
The sensation of his hand—Jax’s hand—dragging over my over-sensitized skin was blinding, a flash of pure, mind-numbing pleasure that threatened to consume me whole.
The world narrowed to the feel of his touch, the rhythmic push and pull.
"Quiet," he said, his voice a low command, cutting through the rising tide of sensation. "Focus on the sensation."
He pumped me. One. Two. Three.
I was already climbing, scrambling up the sheer face of ecstasy. The pressure built instantly, a tidal wave crashing over me, roaring in my ears, threatening to drag me under. My vision blurred, spots dancing behind my eyelids.
"Jax, I'm gonna—"
He stopped.
He squeezed the base of my cock, hard, a brutal clamp. His thumb pressed down on the head, sealing the urethra, physically blocking the release.
"No," he said calmly, his voice a flat, emotionless line.
The pleasure, so intense a moment before, twisted into a sharp, jagged ache.
A strangled gasp ripped from my throat. I strained against the ties, the blue silk biting into my wrists, the knots digging deep.
My hips bucked and writhed, a desperate, primal effort to chase his hand, to force the orgasm out against his unyielding grip.
He held me there, suspended, right on the cliff, freezing me in that agonizing split second before relief. The air in my lungs felt trapped, my body locked in a scream that wouldn't come.
He waited. He watched my face contort, my jaw clenched, my eyes squeezed shut. He watched the veins in my neck bulge, thick cords straining against my skin.
Finally, the wave receded, leaving me stranded and gasping. The blinding urgency faded to a dull, throbbing roar. I lay there, panting, my chest heaving, the mattress protector sticking to my sweat-slicked back.
"That was one," he said, his voice casual, as if commenting on the weather.
"Jax, please," I begged, the words ragged. "Just let me finish. It hurts."
"It’s supposed to hurt," he said, staring down at me with those cold, glacier eyes. "That’s how you learn control. You don't get to come just because it feels good. You come when I decide you've earned it."
He waited a full minute. The silence stretched, broken only by my ragged breathing. He let my body cool, let the frantic energy subside just enough that I could draw a shaky breath.
Then he started again.
He used a different grip this time. Twist. Pull. Twist. Pull. His fingers worked my shaft with an almost surgical precision, his thumb rubbing over the frenulum, that maddeningly sensitive spot, with a relentless, consistent pressure.
He watched my face, his gaze unwavering. He watched my eyes roll back into my head, lost in the torment. He watched the sweat bead on my forehead, forming tiny rivulets that traced paths into my hairline.
I held out longer this time. Maybe thirty seconds. My body trembled, every muscle locked in a desperate battle.
"I’m so close," I warned, my voice trembling, a high-pitched whine. "Jax, I’m fucking close!"
He didn't stop. He sped up, his strokes quickening, pushing me harder, faster.
"Come on," he taunted, his voice a low growl. "Try to hold it. Try to keep it in. Don't be a two-pump chump, Tom."
I couldn't. My back arched, a scream building in my throat, clawing its way up. My toes curled, my body convulsed.
He stopped. Squeezed. Denied.
"Fuck!" I roared, the sound ripped from my gut, my body thrashing against the unyielding restraints. "You asshole!"
"Two," he counted, his voice calm, dismissive, as if he hadn't just wrecked my world.
He did it for an hour.
His hand tightened around my cock, stroking slow and measured, thumb pressing hard against the underside until my balls drew up tight, pulse hammering in my ears.
I arched off the bed, thighs shaking, precum leaking in steady beads down his knuckles—then he stopped, grip loosening just enough to let the edge slip away, leaving my dick throbbing uselessly in the air.
Sweat dripped from my forehead, stinging my eyes as I gasped, hips bucking into nothing, begging without words.
He started again, faster this time, fist slick with my own mess, twisting at the head until stars exploded behind my eyelids and my breath came in ragged grunts.
Close—fuck, so close—the heat coiling low in my gut like a spring ready to snap.
But he pulled back again, chuckling low as I whined, body convulsing in empty spasms, chest heaving under the crush of denied release.
My mind fracturing into flashes of his smirk, his heat, the endless loop of almost, almost, never quite.
Sweat poured off me in sheets, soaking the mattress protector until it clung to my back like a clammy second skin, peeling away with a wet smack every time I twisted.
My cock burned raw, the skin flushed an angry crimson from endless friction, veins bulging as it throbbed with its own furious pulse, slapping hard against my stomach with each desperate twitch.
The blue silk ties had chewed my wrists to red welts, the chafed skin stinging like fire, raw edges pulsing with every futile tug, the burn shooting straight to my groin where the ache built hotter, sharper, begging for release.
I lost track of the count. Five? Eight? Twelve? The numbers blurred, meaningless. My mind felt like a broken record, skipping and repeating, unable to hold a coherent thought.
I was sobbing. Not the wet, noisy kind of crying, but dry, ragged, guttural sobs of unfiltered, teeth-grinding frustration, each breath catching in my throat, tasting of ash and defeat.
"Jax," I whispered, my voice a raw croak, barely audible. "Please. I can’t take anymore. My balls hurt. Please, Captain." The title, usually a sign of respect, was now a desperate plea, a last resort.
He looked at me. I was a wreck. Splayed out beneath him, my limbs trembling, my body broken, begging for a release only he could grant. My eyes were swollen, my face streaked with sweat and tears.
He leaned down, his breath warm against my forehead. He brushed a damp strand of hair off my brow. For a second, a flicker of insane hope ignited in my chest. I thought he was going to kiss me. I thought he was going to show mercy.
He checked the clock on the nightstand. "3:30," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I have to get to the gym."
He let go of my cock. The sudden absence of his hand was a shock, a cold emptiness where intense pressure had been.
He stood up off the bed.
"No," I whimpered, the sound pathetic, a broken animal’s cry. "No, no, don't leave. Don't leave me like this." My voice was barely a whisper.
He walked over to his dresser, his movements fluid and unhurried. He pulled a fresh t-shirt over his head, the fabric rustling softly. He grabbed his gym bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
"Jax!" I pulled at the ties, the silk rasping against my raw wrists. "You can't just leave!"
He walked back to the bed. He leaned down, his face close to mine.
"You did good," he said, his voice calm, almost approving. "Better control."
He reached up and untied the knot on the headboard. The silk loosened. My hands fell to the mattress like dead weights, blood rushing back into my fingers with a painful, pins-and-needles tingling sensation.
I couldn't move them. I just lay there, staring up at him, my eyes wide and pleading.
"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.