Chapter 5
Wednesday was leg day. Or at least, the calendar on the fridge declared it.
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, calculating glint in their depths. “Quiet place. Lots of students. Serious atmosphere.”
“Yeah.” My voice was barely audible.
“I have a gap between classes,” he said. The casual tone did nothing to ease the prickle of unease that crawled up my spine. “Think I’ll join you.”
My head snapped up, the sudden movement a reflex. “What?”
“Need to review some game tape. Library has good Wi-Fi.”
“Jax, you never go to the library. You do tape in the lounge.” The protest spilled out before I could censor it.
His lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smirk.
“Change of scenery.” He pushed off the counter, taking a step toward me.
The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, pressing in, charged with an invisible current.
My pulse quickened, a nervous flutter in my throat.
“But if we’re going out in public…” His voice dropped, a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. “…we need to make sure you behave.”
“I behave,” I argued, my voice tight with indignation. My fists clenched at my sides. “I haven’t touched myself. I haven’t done anything.”
“I know.” He closed the distance, his presence eclipsing the light from the window.
My eyes darted around the room, unable to meet his gaze.
“But you’re tense. You’re fidgety.” His finger shot out, hard and unexpected, poking my chest. The sharp jab made me gasp.
“You need something to center you. Something to remind you who you belong to when you’re staring at supply and demand curves. ”
His hand dipped into the pocket of his jeans.
He pulled out a small, black velvet bag, no bigger than my palm.
He tossed it.
My hand shot out, catching it reflexively. It was heavy, far heavier than its size suggested. The weight settled in my palm with a cold, almost metallic density, an ominous thrum against my skin.
“Open it,” he ordered, his voice a low command.
My fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled with the drawstring. I pulled it open, the fabric rustling softly, and tipped the contents into my hand.
It was a butt plug.
But not just any plug. This was black silicone, smooth and seamless, its flared base polished to an obsidian sheen.
It felt thick, substantial, heavier than any I’d seen, the weight concentrated in its core.
And on the bottom of the base, a small, metallic charging port glinted in the kitchen light.
“Vibrating,” Jax explained, his eyes fixed on my face, watching the color drain from my cheeks. “Bluetooth enabled. App controlled.”
My gaze remained glued to the device in my palm, my breath catching in my throat. “No.” The word was a choked whisper.
“No?” Jax’s left eyebrow arched, a slow, deliberate ascent. His hand slid into his other pocket, emerging with his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. “Should I send the video to the group chat right now? ‘Cause I can do it before my coffee gets cold.”
“Jax, I have to walk across campus,” I hissed, my voice cracking. “I have to sit in a wooden chair for three hours. I can’t wear this.”
“Sure you can.” He stepped closer, crowding me against the counter, the hard edge digging into my lower back. His scent – coffee and something musky, distinctly Jax – filled my nostrils. “You’re a big guy. You can take it.”
“Go to the bathroom,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl. “Lube it up. Put it in. And don’t you dare come out until it’s buried to the hilt.”
“And if I don’t?” The question was stupid, I knew it, but I couldn’t stop the words from escaping.
“You know the alternative, Tom. Stop asking stupid questions.” He glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist. “You have five minutes before we leave. If you’re not plugged and ready, I upload the video.”
My hand clenched around the velvet bag, the plug cold and hard beneath the fabric.
I looked at him—the relaxed set of his shoulders, the confident tilt of his head, the unwavering certainty in his eyes.
He knew. He knew the video was my weakness, my deepest fear.
He knew I would do anything to keep it private.
And a sickening thrum in my gut told me he also knew, deep down, a part of me, a desperate, pathetic part, wanted to know what it felt like.
“Fine,” I spat, the word tasting like ash.
“Good boy.”
I spun on my heel, marching toward the bathroom.
My hands shook so violently the doorknob rattled as I locked it.
I didn't glance at my reflection. I knew what I’d see: a desperate, pathetic junkie, a hunger-driven animal, preparing for his fix.
My gaze fell to my reflection in the mirror, but I couldn't meet my own eyes.
I saw the grimace, the shadowed fear, the weakness.
My jeans dropped to my ankles, followed by my boxers. I bent over the cold porcelain sink. There was no proper lubricant, only a dusty bottle of lotion in the cabinet beneath. It would have to suffice.
I squeezed a dollop onto the black silicone. It was cold, slick, and unnervingly substantial in my grip.
I pushed.
A choked, guttural “Fuck,” ripped from my throat, my teeth grinding together.
It was big. The stretch was immediate, a demanding invasion. My muscles strained, forced open, intruding into a space that had always been mine, inviolable. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the sink, my back arching, working the thick silicone inward inch by agonizing inch.
The widest part of the bulb passed the ring of muscle with a wet, distinct pop.
A sharp gasp tore from me, my knees buckling slightly, threatening to give way.
The fullness was overwhelming, a heavy, alien presence that settled deep in my gut, pressing insistently against my prostate. It felt like I was being impaled, like a fist was shoved inside me.
I straightened slowly, my muscles protesting.
The sensation shifted, the weight now dragging down, a constant, heavy presence. Every small, involuntary movement of my glutes rubbed against the smooth, unyielding silicone.
I pulled my boxers up, the fabric chafing. Then my jeans.
The denim was tight, the plug pressing against the seam, pushing it deeper, further inside me.
I took a few tentative steps. My gait was stiff, an awkward waddle. Each movement felt amplified, broadcast. My eyes darted to the door, a sudden paranoia making my skin crawl, convinced that anyone looking would know.
I unlocked the door, the click echoing in the sudden silence of the apartment, and shuffled back into the kitchen.
Jax waited, leaning against the counter, his mug now empty. His gaze swept over my walk—the slight stiffness in my knees, the careful, almost hesitant placement of my feet.
A slow, cruel grin spread across his face.
“Ready?” he asked, the word dripping with mock innocence.
“I hate you,” I whispered, the words thin and sharp.
“Grab your bag,” he said, reaching for his keys, the metal jangling softly. “Let’s go learn something.”
???
The walk to the library was a mile-long gauntlet of psychological warfare.
Every step was a stark, physical reminder.
Left foot, a slow, grinding rub. Right foot, a deep, invasive stretch.
The weighted core of the plug shifted with my gait, rocking inside me, a constant, inescapable presence.
It forced a slower pace, a careful, stiff-legged shuffle, making me clench my ass muscles with every step to keep it secure.
The constant clenching only intensified the friction, a dull, insistent burn.