Chapter 8 #2
He leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his own eyes. His face, in the dim light, looked completely relaxed, peaceful even, as if he truly were napping.
But under the blanket, his arm was a piston, tireless and unyielding.
He found a rhythm, slow and deep, long strokes that pulled from the root to the tip. At the top of each stroke, he twisted his hand slightly, wringing every last drop of pleasure and torment from me.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted iron, a coppery tang on my tongue. I focused on my breathing, trying to make it shallow, silent. In. Out. In. Out. I had to stay quiet. If a moan escaped, if a ragged pant came, someone would hear. The profound silence of the bus was not a comfort; it was a trap.
"You like the risk," Jax whispered, his eyes still closed, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate directly into my core. He spoke into the darkness between us, as if sharing a secret only we could hear. "I can feel your heart beating. It's racing."
His thumb moved, rubbing over the slit of my cock, smearing the fluid around, intensifying the sensation.
"You're wondering if Miller is going to wake up," he continued, a cruel edge to his tone. "You're wondering if Coach is going to walk down the aisle and see the blanket moving."
He pumped faster, the rhythm picking up.
"Imagine if they saw. Imagine if I pulled the blanket off right now."
My hips bucked involuntarily, a sudden, desperate movement against his hand. "No," I whimpered, the sound barely audible, a strangled whisper.
"No? You sure? You're getting harder."
He was right. My cock was raging, thick and throbbing.
The fear, sharp and cold, mixed with the shame and the raw, undeniable pleasure, creating a toxic, addictive cocktail that surged through my veins.
I was trapped in a sixty-foot metal box, surrounded by forty men, getting expertly fucked by the Captain, and I couldn't do a damn thing but take it.
Suddenly, footsteps.
My entire body went rigid, every muscle locking. Someone was walking down the aisle. Heavy, shuffling steps, slow and deliberate.
Jax didn't stop. He didn't even slow the relentless rhythm of his hand. He kept pumping, his grip steady, his face a perfect mask of feigned, deep sleep.
The footsteps drew closer.
I squeezed my eyes shut tight, pressing my eyelids together until white spots danced behind them. Please don't stop. Please stop. Please don't see.
The steps paused. Right next to our row.
I held my breath, my lungs burning, a desperate, silent scream building in my chest.
"Carter?"
It was Johnson, a rookie winger, his voice a soft, uncertain whisper.
Jax opened one eye. Slowly. A flicker of irritation tightened the corner of his mouth, a subtle grimace that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"What?" he grumbled, his voice thick with a convincing pretense of sleep-addled annoyance.
"Sorry, Cap," Johnson whispered again. "Just... is the bathroom open? The light isn't on."
"How the fuck should I know?" Jax snapped, his voice rougher now, genuinely annoyed. "Go check."
"Right. Sorry."
Johnson shuffled past us, the sound of his footsteps receding towards the back of the bus.
Under the blanket, Jax’s hand squeezed my cock so hard I almost screamed. He crushed it, holding the erection captive, burning, throbbing, while he spoke to the rookie. The pressure was excruciating, a silent, brutal punishment.
As soon as Johnson was in the bathroom and the faint click of the latch echoed, Jax released the pressure. The sudden relief was almost as painful as the squeeze.
He smirked like a guy who’d just decided how hard he was going to wreck me.
"That was close," he whispered. "Bet that got your blood up."
He went back to stroking, but the rhythm had changed. It was faster now, more aggressive, a frantic, almost violent pace. The interruption had clearly spiked his own adrenaline.
"Finish," he ordered, his voice a low growl.
"Jax, I can't... it's too risky..." My voice was a choked plea.
"I said finish. Silent. If you make a noise, I'll pull your pants down right here."
The threat, stark and immediate, sent a final, shattering wave through me.
The pressure stacked in my balls, a brutal ache screaming for release. I clenched everything, tried to ride the edge, but his hand kept pumping, merciless, unstoppable. He owned my body—knew the exact spot to grind, the perfect squeeze to break me, the twist that demolished my control.
I arched hard, cheek smashed to the icy glass, teeth clenched so tight my jaw shook, trying to swallow the roar clawing up my throat.
“Come on,” he snarled, lips brushing my ear, voice pure gravel and sin. “Flood those fucking jeans for me.”
I broke.
Cock jerking, thick pulses slammed through me, hot ropes soaking cotton in endless waves while my whole body seized, hips bucking helplessly against his grip, every spurt dragged out of me like he owned the orgasm itself.
It was a silent, violent explosion. My hips bucked, spasming uncontrollably against his hand. I came hard, hot jets of semen shooting out, coating his hand, soaking instantly into the fabric of my jeans, making a warm, sticky mess.
I shook, my mouth open in a silent, desperate scream of release, my body trembling from the force of it.
Jax didn't stop immediately. He milked me, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes. He squeezed every last drop out, keeping his hand moving until I was hypersensitive, twitching, and utterly spent.
Then, he stopped.
He withdrew his hand from my pants.
I slumped in the seat, boneless, every muscle drained. My breathing was ragged, loud in my own ears, a gasping sound that I prayed was quiet enough for the sleeping bus. I felt sticky, wet, and deeply, irrevocably ruined.
Jax pulled his hand out from under the blanket.
In the dim, blueish glow of the safety strip running along the floor, his hand glistened. It was coated in my fluids, wet and shining.
He looked at it. Then, his gaze lifted, locking onto mine.
He didn't reach for a tissue. He didn't wipe it on the seat or his own jeans.
Slowly, deliberately, he brought his hand to his mouth.
He licked his palm.
He cleaned himself off, slowly, methodically, his eyes never leaving mine. He tasted me. He swallowed me. Each movement was a calculated act of consumption, a final, intimate degradation.
"Salty," he whispered, his eyes still fixed on me. "You need to drink more water."
He wiped the last of it on his own jeans, a casual, dismissive gesture.
Then, he did something that broke me more completely than the act itself.
He reached under the blanket again. With precise, careful movements, he zipped me up. He buttoned my jeans. He tucked my shirt in. He adjusted my clothes, smoothing them down, as if dressing a child, or a doll, leaving me perfectly neat, perfectly contained, perfectly defiled.
"Clean it up later," he said, his voice flat. "Sit in it for now. Let it remind you."
He shifted his body, lifting the armrest between us with a soft click.
He pulled me against him.
"Come here."
I slid across the seat, my body responding without conscious thought. He wrapped his massive arm around my shoulders, a heavy, possessive weight. He pulled my head down, pressing it against his chest.
The blanket settled over us both, a shroud.
I lay there, my ear pressed against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, a deep, resonant rhythm. I smelled his scent—cedar and iron—now mixed inextricably with the faint, metallic tang of my own sex, a smell that clung to me, to us.
"Sleep," he ordered, the word a soft command against my hair.
His hand came up, tracing slow, rhythmic circles on my scalp, stroking my hair. It was a gentle, soothing motion, a tender, possessive petting.
"We have practice at noon. You need rest."
I closed my eyes. The sharp edges of terror began to blur, receding into a heavy, narcotic sense of safety. My muscles, previously locked in tension, slowly uncoiled. My breathing deepened, evening out. The overwhelming warmth of his body seeped into my cold bones, a comforting weight.
It was twisted, I knew. A voice, small and distant in my mind, tried to scream the words: *He just sexually assaulted you. He blackmailed you. He used you.* But the words felt hollow, like echoes in a vast, empty space.
As his hand stroked my hair, and his heat enveloped me, the concept of "victim" felt alien, separate from the profound, physical comfort that now held me.
My body, sticky and aching, sank deeper into his embrace.
I felt like I was exactly where I belonged, the world outside a distant, irrelevant hum.
"Good boy," he whispered into the top of my head, a soft, satisfied murmur.
I fell asleep to the hypnotic drone of the tires and the steady, powerful beat of his heart, sticky and claimed, as the bus carried us home through the unrelenting dark.
???
The bus pulled into the arena parking lot at 4:30 AM.
The complex lights, brilliant sodium-vapor lamps, glared down, blinding after hours spent in the dark. The bus hissed to a halt, the air brakes sighing, a long, drawn-out exhalation.
"Wake up," Jax said, his voice a low, firm prod. He shook my shoulder gently.
I jerked awake, my body stiff. My neck ached from being twisted. My jeans were cold and damp against my skin where the fluid had dried, a constant, sickening reminder.
Around us, the team groaned, stretched, and fumbled for bags. The illusion of our private cave crumbled, replaced by the mundane reality of fluorescent light and groggy teammates.
Jax stood up, unfolding his massive frame with a fluid ease. He reached into the overhead bin, retrieved his bag. He looked impossibly fresh, alert, his eyes sharp and clear. The predator who had fed.
I pushed myself up, my limbs heavy. My skin felt clammy, a lingering film of sweat and dried semen. I wanted a shower, a scalding deluge to wash away the night.
"Wait for me by the truck," Jax said, his voice quiet, for my ears only. "I have to talk to Coach."
I nodded, my throat tight. I grabbed my backpack and shuffled down the aisle, my movements stiff and clumsy.
I stepped off the bus, the cold morning air hitting my face like a slap.
I walked towards Jax’s truck, parked under a sodium light at the far end of the lot, a lonely beacon in the pre-dawn gloom. I leaned against the passenger door, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat that still radiated from my body, waiting.
Five minutes later, Jax appeared from the arena entrance. He walked with Tyler, their shoulders brushing. They were laughing, a low, easy sound that cut through the silence.
Jax reached the truck. He clapped Tyler on the back, a resonant thud. "See you at noon, man."
"Later, Cap." Tyler glanced at me, his brow furrowing slightly. "Rough ride, Tom? You look like you got hit by a truck."
I flinched, a sharp, involuntary movement. "Just... couldn't sleep." My voice was a tight, mumbled excuse.
Jax smirked, a quick, almost imperceptible curl of his lips. "He gets car sick."
He unlocked the truck. The doors clicked open, and we climbed in.
As soon as the doors closed, the silence returned, thick and suffocating.
Jax started the engine, the truck rumbling to life. He turned to me, his eyes dark, unblinking.
"Take your pants off."
"What? Now?" My voice was a choked whisper.
"Yeah. I don't want cum on my upholstery."
I sighed, the sound heavy, defeated. I unbuckled my belt. My fingers trembled as I shimmied out of my jeans and boxers, the fabric sticking to my skin. I balled them up, a sticky, heavy bundle, and threw them onto the back seat.
I sat there, naked from the waist down, shivering slightly on the cool leather seat, exposed and vulnerable.
Jax put the truck in gear. He reached over, his hand resting on my bare thigh. He squeezed, his fingers pressing into my skin.
"You did good tonight," he said, his eyes on the road ahead.
"I almost died." The words were a bitter protest.
"But you didn't. You trusted me."
He drove out of the lot, the truck picking up speed on the empty streets. His thumb began to rub slow, possessive circles on my skin.
"Next time," he said, his voice low, almost conversational, "I think we try the back of the plane."
My heart skipped a beat, a sickening lurch in my chest. A cold wave of terror washed over me, immediately followed by a rush of heat, a strange, undeniable thrill that made my breath catch.
"Jax..." The protest was weak, a mere whisper.
"Hush," he said softly, his thumb continuing its hypnotic circles. "Just rest. I've got you."
And as we drove through the empty, pre-dawn streets, naked and exposed in the cab of his truck, his hand a warm, heavy weight on my thigh, I knew he was right. I was his. Completely. My body, still aching, still sticky, finally slumped against the seat, a deep, terrifying submission.