Chapter Text
Mistress M glares above them both like a haunted phantom, neon bulbs behind the lettering buzzing with a faint static, the T flickering on and off. Against the darkening backdrop of the night sky, the newest adult ‘toy’ store in the city of Westmount shines out like a sore thumb, glitzy and overbearing, an aching display of ’look at me’ amongst other, drab storefronts.
Shane’d be lying if he told himself that he didn’t know the store was here. Not because he’s a customer, but rather the lack of knowledge that the store was built led others to believe you were a nun, senior citizen, or a fresh-faced baby. (Well, not so much ‘built’ rather than remodelled, occupying the empty shop-front that had been sitting there for months.)
No one knows who the elusive ‘Mistress M’ is, but Shane presumes it’s a cheap pseudonym for some cranky old man, offering his gift of accessible, affordable kinky sex to the world. Not that people have been complaining. If word of mouth is anything to go by, most of Shane’s co-workers have found themselves wandering the shelves, boasting loudly about their finds.
“Don’t chicken out now, we’ve come all this way,” Hayden nudges him in the side, nodding to the blacked-out display windows, as if Shane didn’t know that they’d purposefully walked an extra half-mile from their managers housewarming party to come here, all so Shane could get laid.
Actually, backtrack a little. Shane had made the mistake of sharing with some of his friends that in his twenty-three years of existence, he’s only been with a couple girls. Once, back when he was a fumbling teenager (a relationship that ended before it really began), and again when he was a little older, some ex-girlfriend of one of his mates, really only using him as a rebound. Naturally, a group of testosterone filled, young adults encouraged him to ask for the number of his latest brand partnership—Rose Landry.
She’s a well known dual actress and model in the American fashion industry, and was flown over to Montreal for a few months to shoot her upcoming film. Something about some handcuffing, cop-criminal flick Shane couldn’t care less to watch.
Nonetheless, when she had shown up to set for their photoshoot for Canada Dry (not Shane’s first rodeo with the brand), he had awkwardly asked for her number. Surprisingly, she’d agreed, promising they could go on actual dates before getting into the bedroom stuff. She’d said it so bluntly that Shane felt a little bad, like that was the only thing she had come to expect from men. So he nodded and told her he wasn’t looking for that anyway, and now, their first date was supposed to be tonight.
Of course, upon hearing the news, Hayden had dragged Shane over here, uncaring that his plan was to not have sex with her. (To be frank, he didn’t want the dinner date either, but who was he to admit that?) Now, they stand, bathed in purple neon, Hayden pushing Shane to the door. He’s a supportive friend at the best of times, and a pushover at the worst. He himself also has never been in Mistress M, happily settled with his partner and whatever number he is at of kids now. But he winks and practically shoves Shane through the door, a bell tinkling overhead as he stumbles into the establishment.
“I still don’t see the point of me coming in here,” Shane protests, turning back to face Hayden, who stands smirking on the path. “We’re just getting dinner.”
Hayden rolls his eyes. “Sure, you’re just getting dinner. Now go on. I’m not waiting out here all night for your ass to find something. You don’t have to make it kinky just—get something fun.”
A huff, and Shane knows he’s alone in this. Hayden will expect him to bring something out, and he can only give himself the small gratitude that Hayden decided not to follow him in—something about staying loyal to his girl, and them having enough toys already.
Inside the shop is similar to the vibrant exterior. Gaudy and in-your-face. Purple and blue LEDs lining the walls, twisting around the black shelves. There’s a tattered maroon carpet under his feet, not matching with the theme in the slightest, clearly not renovated with the rest of the place when the new owner shot all this shit in.
Shane keeps his hands shoved in his pockets as he winds his way through a display of strap ons, colourful, with the mannequins who don them splattered in neon paint, then a corner dedicated entirely to belts, whips, and even chains, most of them looking more like medieval torture devices than something he would ever consider taking to bed.
Nearing the counter, he spots the thing he’s semi-unbashful about purchasing, grabbing the box and setting them on the counter, already fisting around in his pockets for his wallet.
“What kind of guy comes into a sex-shop to buy medium-sized condoms? You can get them for cheaper at the pharmacy. It is just down the street.”
Shane looks up at the sound of the voice, words a little harsh and clearly accented, meeting the eyes of the employee, who’s giving him a deadpan stare. His outfit is all black, a white nametag clipped onto his shirt.
ILYA it reads, and even those four letters appear to be judging him, black font popping out to claw marks of shame down through his body.
This is fine. Just some condoms, he pointlessly tells his brain, pushing the money over the counter, bills crinkling together. The employee looks unimpressed. Shane is starting to think that’s just his resting face.
Ilya blinks. “Well? Not even going to look at better quality ones? Flavoured ones? Or browse the shop? Lots of things to buy but this?” he holds Shane’s condoms aloft, “is boring.”
Fuck you, Shane thinks. Honestly, who is this guy to judge him? They don’t even know each other. He attempts to laugh lightly, play the whole interaction off as a joke, because that’s the whole gimmick, right? Shop worker teases you about your terrible choices in order for you to buy more products you never needed in the first place.
Apparently, Shane’s mouth doesn’t get this whirlwind of a thought, spewing out justifications before he even needs to think. It’s the way it always has been, too deeply engraved to break out of the habit now. Shane lowers his eyes again, glancing back to the door for a second.
“Uh, no. Just those are fine. This was, uh, kind of a joke anyway.” He pauses. “A dare, sort of,” he tacks on, like his subconscious doesn’t believe the stoic man in front of him knows what a joke is.
The employee barks a laugh, tossing his head back like this is the funniest interaction he’s had all day. (Which, if he’s dealing with the type of guys Shane presumes come in here, he can see why that would be true.)
“What? You think coming into a sex-store to buy condoms is enough to complete a dare?”
Shifting on his feet, Shane remains silent. It’s one of those ever-unpleasant situations where he can never quite tell if he is being laughed at or is expected to laugh with, a confusing loop of pressing social pressure that squeezes him until collapse, brains and bits splattered on the nasty maroon carpet, fading over time to blend in with the decor. Perhaps they will paint him neon too.
The man behind the counter appears stuck, face frozen as he gawps at Shane. Not open-mouthed type shock, rather a thin-lined annoyance, muscles in his jaw twitching. If the feelings hadn’t registered in his head before, Shane would very much like to state that he regrets ever opening his mouth, and vows to never do so again, lest he spill more of his sad sex-life secrets and wind up awkwardly shifting in front of a man he hopes to never see again, if only to preserve his withering dignity.
“I don’t know why I am surprised. You are boring. Of course this is what you buy,” the man with Shane’s unwanted condoms breaks the silence, and maybe it wasn’t as long as he had been stretching it out to be. A mere second, possibly two. “Here you go,” and Shane is being handed his condoms, shoved in a non-descript black plastic bag.
His hand jerks up, outstretched over the counter to wrap around and pull in the bag, letting it hang limply by his side as he threads his hand through the handle.
“My friend is convinced I need to get laid. So,” he lifts up the bag slightly. Shit, his justifying skills are not needed right now. Just walk out the door Shane.
“Ah. Do you?”
“Do I what?”
His confusion is palpable.
“Want to get laid?”
“I mean…” he shrugs, feeling a tad foolish. He shakes his head in a so-so gesture, hoping the man interprets his body language as ‘yes, I do want to get laid, I just don’t wish to share my sex life with strangers’, rather than the ‘I would honestly rather barf then go on this date I have planned in less than two hours’ that it so painfully is.
Ilya seems to have no issues with Shane’s depressing lack of proper small talk, swinging around to hop over the counter like a madman, feet landing on the carpet a foot away from where Shane stands. He backs off a little, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What is your name?”
“Shane Hollander.” Finally, a question he’s actually equipped to answer. He’d feel relieved if it weren’t so out of place.
“Ilya Rozanov,” the man taps his name badge once, full-naming himself right back at Shane.
“Come with me, Hollander.” The man forgoes first names (Shane has decided to extend him the kindness of using his last name too, even if only in his head.) and begins his march across the store, not looking back as Shane has no choice but to follow, passing display after neon display until they reach the shelf near the middle, lined with massive phallic vibrators, coming in as more colours than Shane thinks he could name.
Rozanov’s fingers dance over the shelf as he pretends to ponder, glint in his eyes and the curve of his mouth giving away the fact that he knows exactly what he wants. Shane lets him indulge in the act, eyes flitting over his form. His shirt is just a little tight—no doubt intentional—showing off his chest and tapering down his waist. His dark jeans are loose enough to leave a little to the imagination, but his sneakers look too clean to fit the vibe of the store. Westmount is a fairly well-off city, sure, seeing this brand isn’t out of place. But it clashes with the way Rozanov acts. He’s too invested in strangers' lives, ready to spark potential arguments, tease, and smirk his way through casual conversation. Most people just nod and keep their head down, not uttering a word if everything is as it should be.
Perhaps an over-the-top shop in a dreary street is exactly the type of place a guy like Rozanov would work. Brash and standing out.
Unceremoniously, a navy blue box is thrust at him, Rozanov’s face pulling into that side-smirk that seems to alternate with his resting, flat stare.
Tentatively, Shane reaches his free hand for the box, looking between it and the man. Through the absurdity of it all, the wrongness, Shane can’t help but think of doing anything else.
“A large-sized dildo. To make up for your medium-sized cock.” Rozanov pats his shoulder before he starts walking again, heading back off to the counter. Shane splutters, pulling himself together so he can speed after Rozanov.
“I don’t—I’m not buying this,” he states. But Rozanov is already ringing up his purchase through the till. “I don’t need—”
“Do you have one of your own?” he nods to the box. Shane shakes his head.
Rozanov slides the card reader around. “$74.99. If you want partner to stick around, I would get bigger dick.”
Humiliation floods Shane’s senses. The guy is fucking with him. Clearly smug in his own act of teasing. Yet, Shane can’t help but give in to it. There’s a glint in the man’s eye that spurs him on. Makes him want to snap back.
He scans his card.
Rozanov takes his time sliding back over the box, fingers lingering even as Shane pulls it back, dumping it in the bag along with his condoms. He nods at the employee, praying he never has to have an interaction like this again (but, if this was recurring, Shane doesn’t think he majorly mind it being with this man.) and speeding out past the erotic displays, bell chiming as he pushing open the door, stepping out on the other side.
Cool air hits his face, and it’s only then does he realise he’d been flushing, cheeks undoubtedly tinged pink.
“Took you long enough,” Hayden moves forward from the lightpost he’d been leaning against, tucking his phone into his pocket. In reality, it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. “So, what did you buy?”
He attempts to peer into the bag with the same enthusiasm a young child would have when discovering they were to be getting a puppy for Christmas. Shane carefully angles it away, a secret he is not letting get out, one only to be kept between him and the Russian employee, one he will be taking to his grave.
“It’s private man, back off,” he laughs lightly, to which Hayden just rolls his eyes, knocking Shane in the shoulder.
“Yeah, sure. You seem like a real vanilla guy, Shane, but now that I look at you, I think you’re into more than you’re letting on,” he plays up the act of scrutinising Shane, staring at him as they walk.
Shane shakes his head. “It’s only the first date,” he deflects.
“Well, whatever's in there, I’m sure she’ll be a very lucky girl.”
Shane feels his heart sink, just a little.
The ceiling fan whirrs above him, blurry as it spins faster. Shane can almost imagine he’s spinning with it, going around and around in circles until his brain turns to mush, and he’s given the mercy to not have to fret.
He’d shoved the black bag into the back of his closet when he had gotten back to his apartment, keeping it out of sight. The knowledge that it’s there still plagues the forefront of his mind, an unsilenceable whisper, taunting him.
He hasn’t gotten ready for his date. He’s supposed to be at the restaurant in an hour. Vaguely, he wonders if it’s an asshole move to text Rose that he can’t make it. She’d seemed nice enough when they were doing the photoshoot, surprisingly funny. Making jokes about her belittlement in roles she was given, even if she was the lead. Always having to be saved by some bigger, stronger man.
Like a saving grace from the universe itself, his phone buzzes from the table. It’s Rose, the contact name popping up on his lockscreen, the blue light of his phone illuminating the room. He stumbles forward to pluck it up, clicking on the message.
7:08PM
Hey! Super sorry, but I can’t make tonight…my managers got me on a second round of PR shoots early tomorrow morning
We can try later next week?
The relief flooding Shane’s chest should feel good. A soothing wave of calm to battle the raging nerves. Instead, it’s like he’s been stabbed, a thick shard of glass thrust and twisted into his heart, leaking out the truth.
Quickly, he presses a rag to his metaphorical wound, each letter on the keyboard adding to his guilt.
7:11PM
That sucks
We can rearrange though, that’s fine.
Next Friday?
7:12PM
Rose Landry
Friday works, I’ll text you the location.
Sorry again!
7:12PM
Don’t worry about it
Swallowing hard, Shane clicks his phone off, pocketing it and standing up. Friday. He has until next Friday to get his shit together and go on a date with a girl he enjoys spending time with.
So why the hell does he not want to?
Later that night, when his bedroom is bathed in darkness, blinds drawn shut, countless pillows from his bed stacked on the floor, Shane beckons sleep. But his muleta must have holes, (or perhaps, darkness is blind to his calls) because his eyes close, and he’s left staring at the insides of his eyelids.
He’s all too aware of the dildo sitting in the back of his closet, waiting, begging for his attention. It scares him a little, how much of his mind it has taken over.
Because when that stupid, presumptuous idiot of an employee handed him the toy, Shane’s first thought was not about using it with his partner during bed. Instead, his perverted mind flashed the image of him, rocking his hips down on the purple silicone dick, sinking it slowly between his cheeks as he—
Shane’s standing in front of his closet, the door the only thing separating him from throwing himself so far off the deep-end he faces instant death. His shirt is rumpled, his dark blue sweatpants loose on his hips. He watches, almost outside of his body as his hand twists the knob.
The dark space is suffocatingly small, but he retrieves the plastic bag without issue, sitting on the edge of his bed to riffle through it. Medium-sized condoms, his dildo…and a small bottle of lube the employee must’ve slipped in there. Shane doubts it was a quirky addition to his toy, more a teasing jab at him. He chucks the condoms into the bottom drawer of his bedside table, leaving the lube alone as he gets to what he was really thinking about.
Quenching the voices in his mind, he opens the black box. There, nestled within, lies the toy. Purple, smooth silicone, slightly transparent. It’s bigger than his own cock, wider too. He turns it over in his hands, touching it for as long as he can bear before it goes back in the box, closed up and placed in the bag. Pushed under his bed, out of the way.
For now, at least.
The thought of anyone putting that inside themselves was enough to kill off the terrible thoughts plaguing his head.
The thought of himself putting it inside of him was enough for Shane to roll over on his bed, and decide to make use of the complementary lube.
He acts before he has the time to think any further, shucking his pants down. Slipping his hand down into his underwear. Everyone touches themselves, he reasons. It’s not like he hasn’t.
He gropes his balls softly, rolling them between the palm of his hand, working himself up. His hips rock up, and he’s half-hard soon enough, wires of arousal wrapping around his gut. He purposefully avoids touching his dick, pulling his hand away to take his shirt off, then his boxer briefs.
Slowly, he reaches for the lube on the other side of the bed. Using his teeth, he breaks the seal, spitting the plastic wrapping out and popping open the cap. It’s clear, and (thankfully) flavourless, cold as he squeezes it onto his fingers.
Shane moves onto his stomach so he can bury his head into the pillows, not having to watch his act of shame and twisted desire. The anticipation of it has gotten him to full mast, hard against his mattress as he lets his fingers trail down his back.
The coolness of the lube is stark against his warm skin, and he rubs his fingers together to warm it slightly, curling around his thighs. A finger broaches his puckered rim, lightly pressing against the muscle there.
This also isn’t his first time fingering himself. Always in the dark of his room, alone, so far removed from himself, convincing his brain that, yes, this was fine, it was normal, because it wasn’t like he was doing this with anyone else, right?
Shane gasps as his finger slides past his entrance, slipping just to the first knuckle. The smallest prick of pressure, a slight wiggle of his finger. He hones in on the sensation, letting it fill and consume him. Nothing else can matter. Nothing else has to.
His inner walls are tight from lack of regular use, clenching even around his finger, as it slips deeper, lube spurring it on. One fully sunk inside of him, Shane crooks it, whole body tremouring as he bites into the pillow. It’s clear he hasn’t done this in a while. Hardly had time to compete in acts such as this, not when he’s chock full of work. Advertisement after endorsement, after photoshoot. Over and over.
Bright flashes of the camera, his second finger circling round his rim. Click, as he poses for another brand he knows next to nothing about, a gasp as it sinks in, stretching his hole to make room for the thickness. Move here, turn this way, pose like this, no no, smile with your mouth closed Hollander.
Shane’s mouth opens as he arches his back, tipping his head up to the ceiling as he tries to swallow his moan, only resulting in it slipping out as a desperate whimper.
Say this, shout this, enunciate your words.
The pillows mold to Shane’s head as he presses his face down again, quieting himself as he manages to push in a second finger, wiggling them both inside of him. His insides are hot and tight, smooth to the touch. He presses into his walls on either side, scissoring his fingers apart at a careful speed.
It’s not enough. He’s so close to the edge yet he can’t get there, he never can. Spreading his legs a little wider, Shane adjusts the angle, getting his fingers to slide in deeper, pushing up for a second to jolt past his prostate. A zing goes down his spine, the heat of his arousal blossoming. He bucks his hips up, keeping them suspended in the air so he can use his free hand to grab his cock, squeezing around the head, looking down to see precum dribble out.
Gasping, he grabs the lube again, not caring about the cold sting as he pumps his cock, doing his best to keep it slow, adding pressure near the base, holding off from coming just yet.
A third finger is teasing his rim, needing to join the other two stretching him out inside. His breathing is harsh, trying desperately to keep himself together, have some modicum of decency.
Traitorously, his brain imagines that purple dildo replacing his fingers. It’d stretch him wider than he’s ever dared to go, unashamedly filling and taking up the space within him, hitting his prostate every time. He can see it in full clarity—slipping in and out of his cheeks with lewd, wet slaps, pace set to long and deep. But it’d slowly crawl to brutal as he’d get fucked harder—rocking the bed in his attempts to take it all.
Three fingers fill him now, and he moves each slowly, letting the burn of the stretch sink into his bones.
“Ah, fuck,” he groans, pleasure overriding him, hips rocking back in small increments onto his fingers, swallowing them deeper and deeper every time, getting the tips to scrape his prostate.
The vision of the purple dildo is still swimming behind his eyelids, refusing to change. Now though, there’s a hand pumping the fake-cock in and out of him, long fingers, holding a box of condoms aloft—
It’s Rozanov. Fucking Rozanov, some guy from a store, someone he doesn’t even know, is fucking him with a fake purple cock.
Shane’s fingers pump faster, lube squelching as it’s brought in and out of his hole, matching the same pace at which he jerks his cock. Body moving in a back and forth tandem, arching back and twisting just slightly.
His breath is coming out in short pants, matching each wave of arousal that pulses through him, hurting towards the finish line. He sees Rozanov again, bending over him, leaning close to his ear.
“Hollander,” he whispers.
It’s all Shane needs to send him over, movements in his ass stopping as he comes over himself, spilling hot down his hand and across his torso, dripping down onto the bedsheets underneath him.
He pulls his fingers out with a pop, cold air hitting his hole. Turning so he’s lying on his back, Shane exhales slowly, processing whatever the fuck that was. The times he’s done this before, it was always just to himself, maybe a vague, hazy image of someone drifting past. Why, now, has that changed? It’s not feelings. It can’t be. He met that guy for all of ten minutes and he was an ass.
Perhaps his brain is simply latching on to the last person he really talked to. It’s never happened before but it kind of makes sense that he would. In some twisted way.
Huffing, Shane tries his best to push it all down. He’ll never see that guy again. No need to be stressing over him. He climbs out of bed, no longer able to take the quickly drying come on him, moving into the bathroom to wipe himself off. He turns the shower on, stopping past the linen closet on his way back into his room, grabbing a fresh pair of sheets.
Tomorrow, he decides, he’ll take the stupid dildo back to the shop and get a refund. There’s no way that guy will be working closing and opening shifts, so he’ll be fine. Just a quick exchange, and he can forget this ever happened.
Somehow, Shane doubts Rozanov will leave his mind that quickly.