Chapter 5 #2
By the time we reached the quad, sweat beaded on my forehead, tracing cold paths down my temples.
The crisp autumn air, usually a welcome relief, did nothing to combat the internal heat radiating from my core.
My skin felt flushed, hyper-aware, every nerve ending screaming.
I, a six-foot-three linebacker, felt like a marked man, carrying a secret inside him that could shatter his life with a single misstep.
My eyes darted, scanning faces, convinced that every casual glance held a hidden knowledge.
Jax walked beside me, whistling a tuneless melody, his hands shoved casually in his pockets.
He exuded an effortless ease, a picture of untroubled confidence.
He nodded at a few guys from the team as we passed, his smile easy and genuine, even stopping to sign a t-shirt for a giggling freshman girl.
He played the role of the benevolent Campus God, radiating approachability, completely at peace.
Meanwhile, I walked beside him, my glutes locked in a desperate clench, a silent prayer echoing in my head: Don’t slip. Don’t slip.
We entered the library. The sudden, profound silence hit me like a physical blow, a pressure against my eardrums.
It was the main reading room—a cavernous space with high ceilings, rows of long, polished wooden tables, and the comforting, musty scent of old paper and dust. It was dead silent, save for the faint scratching of pens against paper and the rustle of turning pages.
A hundred students sat, heads bowed, immersed in their studies.
“Table by the window,” Jax whispered, his voice a low murmur that somehow cut through the silence.
He pointed to a spot in the far corner, tucked away from the main thoroughfare, yet still starkly visible under the broad daylight streaming through the tall panes.
We walked over. I lowered myself into the hard wooden chair with excruciating care, each movement slow and deliberate.
The chair was unforgiving. As my weight settled, the plug was forced upward, pressing deep into my gut, a blunt fist against my prostate. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, stifling a groan, adjusting my hips, trying to find an angle that didn’t feel like I was being impaled.
Jax sat directly across from me.
He dropped his backpack with a soft thud. He pulled out his iPad, a thick textbook, and a crisp notebook, arranging them neatly on the table. His expression was serious, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked like the epitome of academic dedication.
“Get to work,” he mouthed, his eyes already on his screen.
I pulled out my laptop, my fingers fumbling with the lid.
I opened the Macroeconomics PDF. Supply curves.
Elasticity. Market equilibrium. The words swam on the screen, blurring into an incomprehensible jumble.
I couldn’t focus. All I could feel was the foreign object stretching me open, a constant, dull throb that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat.
My attention was split, one part attempting to decipher economic theory, the other consumed by the internal invasion.
Ten minutes crawled by.
A faint hope began to stir. I was starting to settle, the sharp edges of the discomfort dulling into a heavy, constant ache. I typed a few hesitant notes. Maybe, just maybe, I could get through this.
Then, my phone buzzed on the table.
My gaze snapped to it. A text from Jax.
Jax: You look tense.
I looked up. Jax wasn't looking at me. His head was bowed, his eyes on his phone, which he held subtly beneath the table, hidden from casual view.
I ignored it, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I tried to resume typing.
Buzz.
Jax: Need to loosen you up.
A frown creased my brow. I looked at him again. His head tilted up, his eyes met mine, and a slow, deliberate wink passed between us.
Then he tapped his screen.
BZZZZZT.
My entire body jolted, a violent tremor shaking me. My knees slammed into the underside of the table with a loud, resounding thud.
The profound silence of the library interrupted. Three heads at the next table snapped up, their expressions annoyed, their gazes sharp with irritation.
I froze, rigid in my chair, my muscles locked.
The plug. It was vibrating.
It wasn't a gentle purr. It was a low, angry buzz that resonated deep inside my rectum, a wild, insistent thrumming. It vibrated directly against my prostate, sending a shockwave of sensation, hot and electric, straight to my dick.
His thumb jabbed the screen on his phone, flipping the vibrator's patterns like he owned every twitch in my body.
First the pulsating throb that pulsed deep inside me, making my hole clench and release in desperate rhythm, sweat breaking out across my back.
Then the escalating build, intensity ratcheting up notch by notch until my cock leaked steady precum and my thighs shook.
But the wave pattern—fuck, that rolling surge crashing through me in endless loops—nearly ruined my control, body arching off the seat, breath ragged, every nerve screaming.
My hands clamped onto the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white, digging into the polished wood. My eyes, wide with panic, were fixed on Jax.
He wasn’t looking at me. He was still looking at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen, a small, cruel smile playing on his lips.
The vibration stopped.
Air rushed back into my burning lungs. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum.
Buzz. (The phone).
Jax: Testing the connection. Works good.
My fingers, shaking so badly I could barely aim, typed out a reply.
Me: Turn it off. People will hear.
Jax: It’s whisper quiet. Unless you make a noise.
He tapped the screen again.
BZZZZZZZZT.
It started again. A steady, rhythmic pulse. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It was maddening. It hit that nerve—that bundle of nerves I hadn’t known existed until Jax started ruining me—and lit it on fire. A searing heat spread through my pelvis, demanding my complete attention. My vision narrowed, blurring the words on the screen.
I squeezed my thighs together under the table, pressing them tight, trying to dampen the sensation, to regain some semblance of control. I forced my eyes back to the screen, willing myself to look normal, to breathe evenly.
But I was melting.
The vibration made my cock twitch, a restless, insistent jump against the zipper of my jeans. A warm dampness spread in my boxers, the slick, viscous fluid of pre-cum soaking into the fabric, making everything feel messy and out of my control.
Jax watched. His gaze was a physical weight. He watched the muscle jump in my jaw. He watched the bead of sweat form on my temple and slowly track a path down my skin. He watched my eyes glaze over, unfocused and distant.
He tapped his screen.
The pattern changed again.
Instead of a steady, insistent buzz, it became erratic, unpredictable.
Short. Short. Looooong. Short. Each long vibration dragged a silent, involuntary gasp from my throat, a deep tremor that shook my chest. I had to bite down hard on my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth, to keep from crying out.
A girl walked past our table, a stack of heavy textbooks cradled in her arms.
The plug buzzed hard, a deep, throbbing thrum.
I flinched, my back arching off the chair, a sharp, uncontrolled spasm.
The girl stopped, her head tilting. She looked at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you okay?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
I stared at her, my face burning, the heat spreading from my neck to my hairline. My tongue felt thick and useless in my mouth. I couldn't speak. I could only nod, frantically, my head bobbing like a puppet.
She gave me a long, strange look, a mixture of concern and bewilderment, and then continued on her way.
I looked at Jax. His hand was clamped over his mouth, his shoulders shaking slightly, clearly trying to stifle a laugh.
Me: You’re a psychopath.
Jax: And you’re a slut. Look at you. Red-faced in the library. Bet you’re hard right now.
Me: Stop. Please.
Jax: Beg me.
I stared at the glowing text, the words burning into my retinas.
The vibration ramped up again, intensifying.
It went from a low hum to a high-pitched, relentless whine inside me.
It drilled into my prostate, a focused, unbearable pressure, demanding a reaction, demanding release.
My body began to tremble, a fine tremor that started in my knees and spread upward.
I was going to cum. Right here. Hands-free. In the middle of the library. In my jeans. My vision blurred. I couldn't hold it. The pressure was building, a suffocating tightness in my balls that screamed, *screamed* for release. My internal muscles convulsed, a frantic, desperate clenching.
Me: Jax please. Begging you. Turn it off.
He looked up, his eyes locking with mine across the table, a predatory glint in their depths.
He tapped the screen.
The vibration stopped.
The relief was instant, a sudden, crushing wave that washed over me, leaving me weak and breathless.
I slumped forward, my forehead resting heavily on my crossed arms on the table, gulping air, each breath a painful rasp.
My entire body trembled, a residual shiver running through me.
My hole felt raw, over-stimulated, vibrating with phantom sensations.
“You okay over there?” Jax asked aloud, his voice laced with feigned concern, loud enough for the benefit of the room.
I lifted my head, my eyes narrowed into a furious glare. “I need some water.” My voice was hoarse.
“Go get some,” he said, a casual wave of his hand. “Take a walk.”
“I can’t walk,” I hissed, the words barely escaping my throat.
“Sure you can. Walk it off.”
He tapped his phone again.
Bzzzt. Just a short pulse. A sharp, undeniable warning.
I pushed myself up, my legs feeling like jelly, unsteady beneath me. The plug felt heavier now, settled deeper, a more permanent part of me.
I shuffled toward the water fountain, a mere twenty feet away.
Every step was torture. I felt open, exposed, as if the invisible device inside me was projecting my humiliation for all to see. My movements were stiff, unnatural, and I imagined every student’s gaze following me, dissecting my careful gait.
I drank, the cold water doing nothing to quench the internal heat.
When I came back, Jax was packing up his bag, his movements efficient and unhurried.
“Boring,” he announced, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I’m done studying.”
“Let’s go,” he said, already moving toward the exit.
“Where?” I asked, stuffing my laptop into my bag, my hands still shaking.
“Truck,” he said, without looking back. “I want to see what a mess you made in your pants.”
We walked out of the library. The fresh, cool air hit my face, a stark contrast to the burning shame that clung to me like a second skin, a heavy weight on my shoulders. I kept my gaze fixed on the ground, unable to meet the eyes of anyone we passed.
We reached his truck. He unlocked it with a click.
I climbed into the passenger seat, my movements stiff and awkward. I barely got the door closed before Jax was leaning over the center console, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the parking lot.
“Pants down,” he commanded, his voice low and firm.
“Jax, we’re in the parking lot.” My voice was a desperate plea.
“Windows are tinted,” he countered, his gaze unwavering. “Pants. Down.”
With trembling hands, I shoved my jeans and boxers down to my knees.
Jax looked.
My thighs were trembling violently, a visible tremor shaking my entire body. My cock, purple with engorged blood, stood rock hard, sticking straight up, a testament to the internal torment. My boxers were soaked through, the denim dark with the wet stain of pre-cum.
“Look at that,” Jax murmured, his voice a low, satisfied growl. “Leaking like a faucet.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing over my erection. I bucked, a keen, involuntary sound escaping my throat.
“Did you cum?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine.
“No,” I gasped, the word ripped from me. “Close. So close.”
“Good.”
He reached behind me, his fingers finding the base of the plug.
“Hold on,” he warned, his eyes still holding mine.
He pulled.
The suction broke with a wet, distinct pop, a sound that echoed in the confined space. The relief was blinding, a rush of sensation that made me sag against the seat.
But then, before I could even process the freedom, he pushed it right back in.
“Ah!” I screamed, a raw, uncontrolled cry, my hands fumbling for the dashboard, gripping it hard, my knuckles white.
“Keep it in,” he said, ignoring my cry. “We’re going to the drive-thru. I’m hungry.”
He sat back in the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, shaking the truck.
I sat there, pants around my ankles, the plug re-seated deep inside my abused, screaming hole, staring at him.
“You’re sick,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
Jax put the truck in gear. His hand settled on my knee, squeezing hard, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes on the road. “And you love it.”
He drove out of the lot, pulling onto the main campus road. I pulled my pants up, wincing as the denim rubbed against my raw, chafed skin.
I sat in silence, feeling the heavy, insistent weight of the plug, feeling the phantom-buzzing in my nerves, a ghost vibration that lingered even without the actual device.
He was right.
I hated it. I was terrified. A cold knot of fear clenched in my stomach.
But as we drove through campus, the plug stretching me open, a constant throb in my core, and his hand warm and firm on my leg… a strange, exhilarating tremor ran through me. I had never felt more alive.