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“Off your game today, Hollander. Head a little full tonight?”
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane spits out at him.
Ilya grins, knocking him with his shoulder and giving him a wink before skating into formation for a face off.
Shane grinds at his mouth guard and takes a deep breath as he watches the Raiders come out victorious from the faceoff, and he skates after the puck, his brain teeming with what feels like cotton as he tries to concentrate. His mind is elsewhere in his body, doing all it can to try and pull focus to something that desperately needs attention that he isn’t allowed to give.
His emotions feel heightened, his muscles tense. There’s a stiffness in his neck that he can’t seem to shake, making his field of view shit. It’s been a long fucking game, and the third period has barely started. It’s thoroughly embarrassing to himself that the sweat on his face is not only from exertion.
Only made more embarrassing by the fact that his team is going to lose. And Shane can’t do a thing about it.
Shane tracks Ilya with his eyes as they complete their shifts. Ilya stares down the line to him, panting as he leans against the inside of the barrier. He lifts his water bottle, deliberately squeezes a stream of it onto the ice before flipping around the bottle and squirting the water into his mouth, accompanied by a clear wink in Shane’s direction.
Shane shakes his head to focus, but he can feel Ilya’s eyes on him. He feels like he might explode, and it’s all that fucker’s fault.
—
He’s pacing, and he can’t stop. He has to keep moving, or he thinks his concentration might slip. Even though he’s expecting the knock, it startles him and sends his heart racing.
“You look red.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane growls, hauling Ilya into his apartment by the front of his shirt in his fist. Once the door is shut behind him, his fingers release Ilya and tug at his own hair as he continues treading in a circle. “This was fucking cruel.”
“So you did it?” Ilya asks, an amused grin on his face.
Shane takes a deep breath, staring at the man across from him. “You told me to.”
Ilya shrugs. “But you did not have to listen.”
A small pout tilts down the corners of his mouth. “Of course I listened.”
“Mmm,” Ilya saunters forward, cupping Shane’s cheek and tracing his thumb over his lips. “Because you are such a good boy, yes?”
“Yes,” he replies, unable to keep the sass out of his voice.
Ilya shakes his head slightly and tuts his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Don’t talk to me like that. Not good boy behavior.”
“Maybe I’m feeling a bit on edge,” he replies tellingly through gritting teeth.
“Oh, and why is that, Shane?” Ilya asks, his voice dripping enough with facetious innocence that Shane may give in to strangling him if he wasn’t terrified all of his hard work would be for naught the second he let his guard down.
“You fucking know why.”
“Mmm, I don’t like your tone from up here,” Ilya says, sliding his hand from his cheek to his hair and yanking hard enough to pull a moan from Shane. Ilya tilts his head, his eyes roaming over Shane’s scrunched expression. “Maybe it will sound better on your knees, yes?”
“Please,” he begs, a slight whimper slipping in along with it. “I can’t wait much longer.”
“Then do what I say and maybe you’ll get what you want faster. Hm?”
Shane whines, dropping to his knees in the entryway of his apartment, pressing a hand above the base of his cock over his joggers.
“Hands off. I did not say you could touch.”
“Sir, I—”
“Do not argue with me. Hands off, or I tie them up and you lose them all night.”
Shane takes a shuddering breath and pulls his hands behind his back, jamming his eyes closed as his thighs shuffle restlessly.
“You seem uncomfortable. Is something wrong?” Ilya asks, seeping with condescension as he takes Shane’s chin in hand.
“It’s been twelve hours, sir,” he says, attempting to steady his voice.
“Twelve hours is very long time. Why are you waiting?”
“Because you ordered me to,” Shane snaps, bitterness creeping in.
“And you like it,” Ilya sneers down at him, tilting Shane’s head around by his chin, shifting him this way and that as he takes in the facets of his face. “Don’t you.”
“I need to go. Please,” he whines, his voice wavering between frustration and desperation.
“If you needed to, you would have already,” Ilya says dismissively.
He hates the way he phrases it, but he’s right. Shane is very good at following the instructions that Ilya gives him, and he takes a great amount of pride in achieving any objectives set before him–even hellish ones like the task he has waded through today. He would be lying through his teeth if he said it didn’t thrill him to put himself through turmoil just to obtain a suitable amount of praise from Ilya.
Ilya puts on that expression he does–the one that looks like he’s potting something nefarious. “I think I could use some water. Get me a glass of water, please.”
Shane sighs. “Rozanov…”
“What? Are you suddenly not able to stand?”
Shane groans, shoving himself off the floor and steeling himself as he walks toward the kitchen and pulls a glass from the cupboard as Ilya moseys along behind. He aligns the glass with the spout on the fridge as Ilya presses along his back.
“All the way to the top,” he whispers into his ear.
Shane takes a deep breath and begins filling the cup, doing all he can to glance off to the side and drown out the sound of the running water with his own thoughts. He successfully fills it near to the brim, and Ilya takes a step back. Shane turns and hands off the glass to him carefully.
“Thank you,” Ilya says. Then he makes his way to the sink, looks Shane in the eyes, and leisurely pours the entire glass in a slow trickle into the basin.
Shane can feel his eyes widening, his breath quickening, his body pulsing as the cup empties. Ilya sets the cup into the sink and rests his hands on Shane’s hips.
“That’s much better. I feel very refreshed. Thank you.”
Shane can feel the need tensing every muscle in his body, tears brimming his eyes.
“Bathroom,” Ilya says softly, pinching Shane’s chin, and Shane lets out a heavy breath. “Take off everything but underwear. Wait for me there.”
Shade nods vigorously, rushing to leave.
“Hollander,” Ilya calls again, and when Shane whirls around at the mere mention of his name, Ilya smiles wide. “Good boy. Go.”
A shy grin crawls across Shane’s face, ducking his head and heading upstairs. He sheds his clothes obediently and sits on the edge of the bathtub. He shuts his eyes and presses his thighs together, cupping his cock as he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’s aware that just because Ilya told him to go to the bathroom, it didn’t mean Ilya would be here to meet him anytime soon. He likes to make Shane wait, and Shane likes the challenge.
But this is a newer one, and he’s never gone for this long before. It’s uncharted territory, but that’s what they like. The experimentation, learning the ropes, pushing the limits. Ilya loves to push him. Shane loves to embody an immovable object, before getting shoved to the ground anyway.
But to Shane’s surprise, he hears footsteps, and then an underwear-clad Russian smokeshow leans against the doorframe, smirking at him. He jerks his head. “Get in the tub.”
He nestles himself in, curling up and wrapping his arms around his legs, anxiously watching Ilya as he approaches slowly. He swings a leg into the tub, followed by the other, and takes a seat on the corner opposite Shane. He leans forward and folds his hands together, observing Shane where he shudders with the fullness of his bladder and the anticipation of relief.
“Having a good time?”
Shane takes his lip between his teeth. “The best,” he says sarcastically, wincing briefly at a particularly strong pulse of pain.
“You like hurting for me.”
Shane inhales deeply, meeting his intense gaze.
“You do. You like to hurt for me. Suffer for me. Torture yourself for me.”
“Yes,” Shane says breathlessly.
“And you want to make a mess of yourself for me. Humiliate yourself. Because you know it makes me hard.”
“Please,” Shane whines, crossing over into a sob as he squeezes his thighs.
“Spread your legs.”
He groans and lets his thighs fall open, exposing his white boxer briefs and the line of his half-hard cock within them. With his legs parted, it’s twice as hard to keep himself contained, and helpless whimpers fall from him like a puppy knocking his head against the door to be let outside.
“Look at you,” Ilya marvels, shifting his foot forward and moving it between Shane’s legs. The ball of his foot rests just above the base of his cock, and then he presses lightly. Shane chokes out a noise, and he feels a rush trickle from the tip of his cock. Ilya gasps shortly in amusement, removing the pressure as a small dark patch blooms on his boxers from the leak. “That is the limit, ah?”
“‘M sorry,” Shane rasps, slamming his eyes closed in disappointment, but there was nothing he could do. It just came out. He couldn’t stop it.
“It’s okay. Just hold what you can,” he advises, reestablishing a brief pulse of pressure against his bladder. Shane gasps, another half-second spurt escapes him, and his teeth clench.
“Please, sir. Please, I’m fucking…just please.”
“You beg very pretty, Shane Hollander.”
When he looks up at Ilya again, there are tears swimming in his eyes.
He smiles at Shane, as if he’s gotten what he wants.
“Okay,” Ilya says, pulling his own, very hard, cock from his boxers and wrapping a hand around it. “Let go. Now.”
Shane lets out a sob, and it floods out immediately. It’s hot and soothing as it spreads over his skin. He can feel it rapidly soaking the fabric of his underwear, around his hips to his ass, until the entire garment is soiled and his crotch is sopping wet. A hand clutches the hair on his head and hauls him forward.
“You make me come before you finish.”
His head is shoved down on Ilya’s cock, and it barely phases him. The pleasure coursing through his entire body at the release overwhelms the sensation of the cock slamming against the back of his throat, sliding deep into it, his nose crashing against Ilya’s abdomen. He doesn’t need brain power or oxygen for his cock to keep doing exactly what it knows to do, flowing freely from the tip as Ilya fucks his mouth, depriving him of air. Piss trickles out of the tight legs of his boxers, down his thighs, warm and quickly cooling against his skin. Ilya rams his cock as deep as either of their bodies allow, until he’s grunting and thrusting and spilling directly down his throat. As Shane moans around his dick, he feels his cock squeeze out its final burst of piss, expelling it like a victory as Ilya pulls him off his length and Shane coughs and gasps to fill his lungs again.
Panting, he collapses against the back of the tub, a shallow puddle beneath his ass, his underwear too sodden to absorb anything more.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya exhales, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his palm, leaning back against the wall. “You are dirty, naughty fucking boy. Fuck. I want to take you apart piece by piece.”
“I think you just did,” he counters breathily.
“I love watching you struggle for me. So fucking beautiful,” he sighs, holding his softening cock in his hand and rolling his head on his neck, and Shane can immediately tell where this is going.
“Just not in my mouth,” he relays quietly.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “I know, Hollander. Is not on your super special approved diet. Yet, I can come directly down your throat and hear you beg for more of it, and that is somehow okay.”
“It’s different,” he argues back petulantly.
“Sure, Shane. Spread your fucking legs again. I want your feet out of the tub.”
Shane moans at the order, shifting until the heels of his feet are on the rim of the tub and his crotch is exposed and unimpeded. The white fabric is now fully tinged a very pale yellow, plastered to his skin, fully cooled and entirely uncomfortable, but he knows better than to complain.
Ilya’s hand slides to his balls, massaging them gently as he studies Shane, spread and wanton and growing harder by the second now that his immediate need has been executed. “Did you think, when you made it to big leagues in hockey, that you would become a little piss whore for your biggest rival? Or were you already dreaming about it the first time you saw me?”
“Yes,” Shane challenges, going against his better judgement and choosing obstinance. “I was thinking about it already.”
“Were you?” Ilya asks, his eyebrows raising, but with very little belief in his expression. “You saw me smoking that cigarette, and your first thought was falling to your knees and feeling my piss freeze on your face in Saskatchewan before going back to your team? Is that what you wanted? Seventeen and already wanting to be my bitch?”
“Maybe.”
“You did not even know people did that back then, you little liar. Who had to teach you?”
Shane huffs.
“Who had to teach you that the thing you wanted to be was a piss slut? Who told you that you would look so pretty with it spilling out of your mouth? Sliding down your throat? Who told you that was what you were good for? And be very careful what you say, Hollander.”
The urge to be stubborn burns in his chest, but he’s fully erect in his piss-soaked boxers, with Ilya across from him fondling his cock and balls as he prepares to wet him some more, and his resolve falters. “You, sir.”
“Mmm,” Ilya hums. “Let me see you touch your cock. Over the mess you made in your boxers.”
Shane inhales sharply at the first grind of his palm over his length, feeling the chilled, wet fabric press against the skin.
Ilya pushes himself onto his feet, staring down at Shane as he stands in front of him, taking his chin in his hand as Shane continues to stroke himself through his boxers. “What made you such a filthy boy, Hollander? What made you so needy for anything that comes out of a cock? Taking a load of my come to the face wasn’t enough? Hm? You were so desperate you needed my piss too?”
Ilya places a foot on Shane’s hand, pressing down harder as he jerks himself. Shane grunts, thrusting up into his hand, his balls growing tight already from the friction.
“Come on, Hollander. Make an even bigger mess for me. Give me all that cock has to offer.”
Shane lets out a gasp, and suddenly his cock is pulsing, spilling into his underwear as Ilya’s foot steps against the back of his hand, spurring him on. “Fuck,” Shane sputters, pleasure coursing through him for the second time as his cock expels into his boxers.
“Good boy, Shane. Such a good boy. You love it, don’t you? Being humiliated by me. Losing to me on the ice. Wetting yourself because I tell you to. Blowing your load with barely any work at all. You just like whenever I give you time of day. Is very cute.”
Shane breathes heavy against the tub, wincing as Ilya executes one last press against his hand before righting himself. He takes his own cock back in hand, tilting his head to the side, his eyes fluttering until a powerful stream shoots from his cock, splattering against Shane’s abdomen and over the destroyed crotch of his boxers. Ilya groans at the sensation, and Shane’s breath catches in his throat at the warmth pelting against him.
“Take it out for me,” Ilya groans, nudging Shane’s crotch with his foot as he aims his stream higher on his chest.
Shane hastens to obey, lowering his underwear and pulling his cock and balls out as instructed. Ilya’s piss streaks down his chest, curving at the base of his dick and dripping down his sensitive testicles, then into the drenched fabric beneath them.
“Christ, you looks so fucking sexy,” he says, gradually lowering his stream until it hits Shane’s softening cock. The back of Shane’s head smacks the porcelain tub as he gasps out a moan. “My fucking whore. Fuck. How did I fucking find you, huh?”
Shane whimpers as he feels Ilya’s stream weakening, until it stops completely, the last spurts hitting the column of his neck.
Ilya’s chest heaves as he squats down to Shane’s level, grabbing his chin. “You are too perfect. Even covered in piss and come. Is not fair.”
Shane gives a dismissive laugh, a heat rising in his cheeks.
“What else is next, Hollander? My kinky little whore. What will be enough?” He asks, slipping his thumb into Shane’s mouth. He doesn’t even think about where that finger just was, he just sucks it obediently. “You want me to clean my come out of your asshole with my piss? Would that finally satisfy you?”
An involuntary moan forms around Ilya’s thumb, and Shane’s eyes flutter closed at the prospect, embarrassed as he’s ever been to react to something Ilya has suggested, but aroused nonetheless.
“Fuck,” Ilya groans, petting his tongue gently. “Remind me to buy some of those special sheets.”