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Shane needs something from him, something more than even their usual routine of dominance and submission.
Ilya can feel it coming off of him in waves when Shane walks through the door. Oh, Shane does everything just like he usually does, strips his clothes off and gets on his knees and kisses Ilya’s feet, his sweet ritual of self-humiliation, his gift of himself. But he’s awkward, anxious, maybe even hesitant. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch Ilya, to be here. Even though this is exactly where he most belongs.
Shane never looks that way when he’s submitting. Usually he’s sinking under just being in Ilya’s presence, with the long luxurious weeks and weeks of summer ahead. Usually he’s content, relaxing into himself, as soon as he sets foot in the cottage. Or rather, as soon as he gets to his knees in the cottage.
Ilya crouches down in front of him, not quite at his level but closer. He puts two fingers under Shane’s chin and tilts it upward so Ilya can see his face. His trembling lower lip, his squeezed-shut eyes. He looks scared. This is more than Shane being upset about the lost game, which ended a very respectable playoff run. He’s genuinely distraught about something.
“What’s wrong?” Ilya asks. “And do not say nothing, I am getting sick of punishing you for lying about that.”
“Sorry,” Shane says, and his voice is tiny. “I just… I’m scared I’m gonna fuck this up too.”
There are so many things wrong with that statement that Ilya doesn’t even know where to start. He briefly considers breaking their dynamic, as they occasionally do: having Shane get up, put his clothes on, and talk to him about whatever is going wrong in his head face-to-face. But he doesn’t think that’s what Shane needs. Not right now.
Instead, he turns his gentle fingers on Shane’s face into a firm grip on his chin, probably hard enough to hurt. “Is no way you can fuck this up,” Ilya says, his voice low and commanding and entirely confident in a way that could not be further from how he feels. “If a rule gets broken, is okay. I will punish you and then will be like it never happened. You know this.” They’ve talked about it before, how much it helps Shane to have that structure, to be able to forgive himself when he doesn’t follow his own (incredibly high) expectations of himself.
“Can you? Now, Master? Please?” Shane sounds desperate. And devastated.
“Can I do what?” Ilya asks, and then realizes what he means. “You want me to punish you?”
“Please.” Shane’s eyes are still lowered, where Ilya can’t really see them, but tears are beginning to fall down his cheeks.
Ilya speaks gently now, but keeps the note of command in his voice. It’s breaking his heart to see Shane like this. Usually he’s able to protect Shane from these fears, these feelings, and somehow, now, he’s failing. “What did you do wrong? As far as I can tell you are being very good for me.”
Shane is trying to shake his head, but Ilya’s grip on his chin is too firm.
“You will tell me.”
Shane shifts in his grasp, which isn't like him. Ilya looks down. Shane is twisting his hands in his lap, and scratching at his wrists with his blunt fingernails. Hard.
It’s been so long since Shane has done this that Ilya almost forgot how terrifying it was, watching Shane, almost insensate, unreachable, intent on hurting himself. It used to happen occasionally, Shane scratching himself or hitting his head with his palm when he was overwhelmed with negative emotion. Shane stopped doing it that second summer at the cottage, when he asked Ilya to take control of him, when they set their rules. When Ilya said, and Shane agreed, that Shane’s body belonged to him. He hasn't even seemed to need to.
Luckily, it means that now, instead of watching, paralyzed with fear for Shane, he can do this. He grabs Shane’s wrists in his hands and pulls them towards Ilya’s chest, forcing Shane to tip forward and rest some of his weight on Ilya.
“Never,” Ilya says, his voice fierce, “Never hurt yourself. Only I am allowed to hurt you. Understand?”
Shane, eyes still squeezed shut, nods.
“Say it.”
“Only you’re allowed to hurt me, Master. I’m sorry.”
“Good boy.” Only then does he release Shane’s wrists.
Shane shakes his head. His hands ball into fists, like he’s having to restrain the urge to start scratching himself again. Like he thinks he deserves some kind of punishment for Ilya telling him he’s good.
“Shane, I am very serious. I will punish you if I decide you need to be punished, I will hurt you if you have done anything that deserves being hurt, and either way I will take care of you. But you will not hurt yourself, and I will know why you are asking for this.” He wants to touch Shane everywhere. Every inch of his bare skin. Wants to envelop him in care. But Shane would only try to push him away again. He settles for standing up and pulling Shane in close so that his head is nuzzled against Ilya’s hip. He knows how comforting they both find this position. “You belong to me, yes?” Shane nods fiercely.
“Say it. You are mine?”
“I’m yours, Master, please—“
“Then I get to decide. Tell me what you think you did that was so bad.”
“Not something I did,” Shane says, in a tiny voice. “Something I am.”
“What you are?” Ilya wishes he could make Shane look at him, but Shane hates making direct eye contact, so Ilya almost never makes him do it, and only when he's really trying to make Shane uncomfortable. “What are you that is bad, moy lyubimyy? Being only the second best hockey player in the world?”
There’s no reaction to the familiar joke. That scares Ilya.
He tries again. Sincere this time. “Being so sweet and good for me? So gorgeous I cannot look at you without getting hard? So generous to give me all of yourself like this? So kind you make me a better person, every day? Being the love of my life? What do you have to apologize for?”
Shane doesn’t answer that either. Ilya makes himself take a breath. He feels lost, but he knows Shane needs him to seem steady, even if he doesn’t feel that way.
“If you think you are going to bait me into hurting you by not answering questions, you are wrong,” Ilya says, not unkindly. “You will talk when you are ready to. Until then, we will stay right here.” He keeps his grip on the back of Shane’s head, soothingly rubs a thumb over the sensitive base of his skull. Shane relaxes into the touch so minutely that Ilya can barely tell it’s happening at all. Maybe he’s only telling himself that his touch is settling Shane a little. Maybe Ilya isn’t helping at all.
They stay there for a long time. Until Shane’s knees must be getting sore. Until Ilya’s heart is pounding in his throat. He’s so fucking worried. All he wants is to take care of Shane, and he doesn’t know how. He could push more, he could make Shane talk, he could tell Shane it’s an order or slap it out of him, but that doesn’t feel right. Not when Shane is so fragile. He could force Shane up, make him have this conversation as equals, but the only thing Shane has asked for is more dominance, not less.
All Ilya can do is be patient and try to trust that his steadiness will be what Shane needs.
When Shane does speak, it’s like an egg cracking, the hard brittle shell of him opening to let out a mess of quivering softness. But the words are all wrong. So wrong. “I’m just. I’m someone people just don’t like,” he says, so small. “I really try, you know. But people don’t like me.”
“That’s not—“
Shane interrupts him, which almost never happens. His polite boy. “People put up with me because I’m good at hockey. That’s it.”
“Did someone say this to you?” Ilya fights to keep the rage out of his voice. He knows perfectly well that Shane struggles socially at times, that other people aren’t always understanding of his quirks (which is incomprehensible to Ilya, who finds everything about his Shane endlessly charming). But the idea that someone would say it right to Shane’s face, would deliberately make him feel ashamed like that, makes Ilya furious. He wants to know who made his Shane feel this way. He wants to kill them.
Shane shrugs a little. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You probably don’t want to hear this. We were supposed to be having a nice night.”
“I want.” Ilya squeezes the nape of Shane’s neck a little. “All of it, milyy. Now.”
There’s just enough command in his voice that Shane starts talking. “It was just. It’s always in the air, you know? I can always tell people are thinking it. And today was… hard. I guess I lost a sponsorship deal or something, they couldn’t get the ad shoot right because I was too, like, awkward in front of the camera. My mom was pissed.”
“At you?” Ilya asks, gently. He knows that things with Yuna are... complicated.
Shane shrugs. Like he’s not sure, like it doesn’t matter. “She kept saying, you know, you’re the best, and we’re so proud of you, but because of who you are, you have to be better than the best. If they knew I was gay, too, even the best wouldn’t be enough. She didn’t say that part but I know it's true.”
Ilya loves Yuna, who has always believed so much in Shane. Sometimes he hates her, too, for a lifetime of believing that Shane could be perfect. He knows it comes from love. And he also knows that it has helped to carve these cracks in Shane that can so easily fill with self-loathing.
“Then a hockey podcast was playing in the car, and I didn’t want to ask them to turn it off, but they were talking about how tonight was going to go. High hockey IQ, low social IQ. He might lead in points scored but it doesn’t seem like he knows how to lead in the room, and that could bring the Metros down tonight. Nothing I haven’t heard before. But.”
But it still hurt, because Shane is anything but the robot others seem to perceive him as. If anything, he’s exquisitely sensitive to feelings. He might not always read others right, but he always wants to. Ilya has never met anyone as sincerely thoughtful, as genuinely caring, as Shane is.
“And then we had the game and I wasn’t better than the best, I wasn’t even good.”
This is not true. Shane wasn’t playing up to his usual standard, Ilya would go that far. He was still better than most players on the best day of their career.
“We lost and I know I could have done better. Guys were upset, I know it didn’t mean anything, but I heard someone say. You know.”
“Tell me,” Ilya says, patient, gentle. He almost doesn’t want to. Almost can’t tolerate standing hear and listening to this. The only thing worse than having to hear it would be letting Shane bear it alone.
“Why do we put up with him if he can’t even score. He didn’t know I was listening, he… it’s fine, it’s just… and then everybody was going out to drown their sorrows or whatever and I do try, you know? I try to go out with everybody and seem normal and have fun even though the bar is so loud and crowded I can't hear what anyone's saying and I hate the taste of beer and they’re always trying to throw girls at me and I’m terrified all the time that someone’s going to guess that I'm..." Sometimes, when Shane is upset like this, he still can't say the word gay. And he doesn't. "I want to be a good teammate, a good friend. I do. But today I just couldn’t and somebody said something about how it would be more fun without me anyway and everyone laughed, even I laughed, but.”
Ilya thinks about interrupting him. Hearing Shane talk about himself this way hurts, actually physically hurts. The impulse to silence him, to gather him in Ilya’s arms, to demand Shane let Ilya comfort him, is almost overwhelming. But he knows Shane needs to be heard, first.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut. His head is bowed low, and not in submission. In shame. Like there’s something wrong with him.
“I win three cups for this team, and they still don’t want me around, and if they knew I was gay, let alone knew about you, let alone knew about this, they’d hate me. I’m so fucking weird that total strangers talk about it on their stupid podcasts and even more strangers listen and it's the only thing they think about me other than that I'm a good player. My own parents don’t know what to do with me if I’m not the best, because off the ice I’m not someone people like. So when I fuck up, like I did today, what good am I? What do I have left?”
Finally, finally, Shane runs out of words.
“You’ve got me,” Ilya says. He keeps his voice low, steady. Even though a part of him would like to cry too. A part of him would like to wrap his arms around Shane and never let him go. A part of him is a snarling beast that wants to destroy every single person who has ever made Shane feel this way, who has ever allowed him to feel this way. Including his own younger self. He wishes he could travel back in time and wring his own neck for not having started telling Shane how precious he was the day they met. “Moy rodnoy, you will always have me. You know this.”
Shane nods, just minutely, but it’s a breath of relief to Ilya.
“You are mine, and I will never let you go. I will want you forever. You believe me?”
Shane nods again, harder this time.
“Good. Open your eyes.”
Shane does as he’s told. He always does. He doesn’t look at Ilya.
“I am not going to punish you for being yourself, or for being treated cruelly by others. And I am not going to let you hurt yourself for either of those things.”
Shane’s eyes flicker up towards Ilya’s face. They are enormous with tears. He starts to mouth the word please but he must see the look on Ilya’s face because he stops and just looks at Ilya with those big, desperate eyes.
“But I will make sure you get what you need. Explain to me why you wanted punishment when you did not break any rules. I don’t mean what you think you did bad. I mean why punishing would help.”
There could be many things going on in Shane’s mind right now, and, as familiar as Ilya now is with all of the twists and turns of Shane’s thoughts, he can’t actually read Shane’s mind. The request for punishment could be acting out the urge to self-injury, in which case Ilya will have to say no. It could be a need for sensation, to feel something different than the shame others have handed him. He could simply be trying to connect with Ilya, and sometimes it’s easier to ask to be hurt than to ask to be cared for.
“I just…” Shane looks for words for a moment. “I just want to be, I guess, put in my place.”
That isn’t particularly descriptive, but Ilya thinks he can read between the lines. He checks his guess. “You need to feel like you know where you stand. And that I want you there, no matter what.”
Shane nods again. A few more tears fall.
“I can do this,” Ilya says. “Will be easy. There are many good places for you."
He thinks he can read relief in the quiet lines of Shane's body.
"Come here. I will show you.”
He settles Shane on his knees in the living room and gives himself a moment to think. He hadn’t planned an elaborate scene for tonight, he’d mostly been thinking he’d let Shane suck his dick, slap him a few times, call him a slut, and then when he was blissed out and lost in being Ilya’s they’d make out and cuddle and just be. They had all summer to get creative, tonight was going to be simple.
Shane clearly needs more than that.
Ilya rifles through the extremely long mental list he keeps of mean things to do to Shane. There’s the option of pain, of course. Not as punishment, but as catharsis. He could tie Shane up and literally put him in his place. He could shower Shane in words of praise and force him to repeat every one of them back. He could make Shane get in his lap and let Ilya hold him, whether he feels like he deserves it or not.
But he thinks he knows the right thing to do. He hopes.
He’d been planning on trying something along these general lines this summer anyway. It’ll just have a different tinge to it now. He’ll go harder than he had originally planned, and he’ll be sweeter at the end. He maps the scene out in his head. He’ll start with the hardest position, and they’ll get progressively easier. Shane will still wear out faster and faster and fail faster and faster. By the end he’ll be sore and desperate, and maybe open up enough for him to believe it when Ilya tells him how cherished he is.
“On your knees. Arms out in front of you, palms turned up.”
Shane obeys. In perfect position, like an artist’s model posed to display the ideal of what a body could be. Every muscle precisely placed and completely still, for Ilya to admire, for Ilya to use however he sees fit.
The fact that someone like Shane could ever doubt, even for a moment, how perfect he is is not just infuriating. It’s ludicrous. Looking at him right now, Ilya sees nothing but perfection.
“Stay there. I will be right back.”
Ilya goes to the kitchen. He finds a plastic cup, one of the ones Shane likes to drink his stupid smoothies out of, and fills it with ice and water.
Shane, of course, has not moved a muscle.
Ilya puts the cup down on one of Shane’s perfectly flat outstretched palms. “You are going to be a good table for me and hold my drink for as long as you can.”
He watches Shane’s expression carefully, watches as a little of the tension around his mouth and eyes eases at receiving a clear order. Then he says, in a very clear, very calm voice:
“I’m going to keep you here until you drop the cup. This is going to end with you failing.”
Shane inhales a sharp breath. He does not move.
“There is no way to do this right,” Ilya says. “You’re going to—what is it you keep saying?—fuck up. When you do, is okay. Is supposed to happen, you are not being bad, just failing. I will find another use for you when you do. You understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
The first time Shane has really spoken without having to be directly ordered to. The tiniest relief for Ilya. “I know you will do so well for me. My good boy.”
Shane makes a little noise like he’s going to protest, but he doesn’t let it out, so Ilya decides he won’t push back this time.
Ilya settles into his favorite armchair, sits back, and takes a sip of the water. Then he settles the cup back onto Shane’s hand. Shane stifles a flinch. The ice must be painfully cold on his sensitive hands. And the weight of the full cup landing on his hands again makes it harder to hold the pose.
Ilya takes another sip. Watches as Shane doesn’t flex his fingers or move at all as the weight is lifted, nothing that might offer him any relief. He lowers the glass slowly, so Shane will know it’s coming, will have plenty of time to anticipate the discomfort and the struggle Ilya is asking him to endure. Shane is very strong, but this position is shockingly hard to hold, especially with the weight of the glass, especially with Ilya constantly shifting it, especially with the shock of cold from the ice. Within minutes, Shane’s hands are trembling, and he’s flinching minutely every time Ilya lowers the cup back onto his hands. His fingers shift slightly as he tries to keep his hand perfectly in position. He won’t have to move much for the cup to fall, it’s so precariously perched on his hand. To keep it balanced, he has to stay exactly where Ilya ordered him to be.
Ilya watches as Shane’s jaw tenses, as he tries desperately to regain control of his shaking muscles. He raises the glass, takes a sip, puts it down hard onto Shane’s hand. Almost slamming it. Shane cries out and then bites his lip.
“Is okay. Noise is allowed,” Ilya says. From that point on, Shane whimpers continuously. Ilya is well aware that the position must have gone from challenging to uncomfortable to painful as time has gone on. The muscles of Shane’s arms will be cramping, and his hands going numb from the ice. His fingers are turning red from the cold, wet from the condensation on the glass, making them slippery and the glass even more unsteady.
He holds on for a long time. Ilya would say a surprisingly long time, but of course it isn’t. Of course his Shane is good for him.
Ilya has to cheat to get him to fail. He puts the glass down right on Shane's numb fingers, where it would overbalance no matter how perfectly Shane stayed in position unless he somehow compensated at exactly the right moment. But he doesn’t, because his hand is numb and he doesn’t feel it, and it slips.
Shane sobs as he hears it hit the ground. But he doesn’t move, keeps his shaking arms where Ilya told him to.
Before he can start apologizing, Ilya gives him another order. “Elbows and knees, now. Spread your legs.”
It’s a visible relief to drop into the position, to be able to press his trembling arms onto the ground rather than holding them straight up. Maybe, too, to know where he is supposed to be.
Ilya reaches down and picks an ice cube off the floor. He thinks about teasing Shane with it, but decides it’s better if it’s a surprise.
In one smooth motion, he pushes the ice into Shane’s hole.
Shane squeals. It’s a noise Ilya has never heard him make before, high-pitched and shocked and pathetic. Ilya grins. He pushes another ice cube into Shane. Ilya watches, fascinated, as water starts to drip back out, the warmth of Shane’s body melting the ice quickly. “You see?” Ilya says, this time putting the tip of his finger into Shane along with the ice. “You fuck up being a table, is okay. You can still be useful, help me clean up mess.”
The noise Shane lets out at that is wonderful. A strangled moan of pain and exhaustion and relief.
It’s working. Shane is going where Ilya needs him to go. Thank God, it’s working.
Once Ilya has pushed the last of the ice inside Shane, gotten him squirming and whimpering and wet, he fondly pats Shane’s ass, running his fingers through the trail of water. “You want another chance to be good?”
“Please, Master.”
“Up. Come on.” He poses Shane where he wants him: in a squat, knees spread wide, hands behind his head, elbows out, mouth open. Under the best circumstances, even someone as strong as Shane could probably only hold this position for a few minutes. And these are not the best circumstances. His arms are still shaking from the last stress position, there’s still cold water dripping down the back of his legs creating constant uncomfortable stimulation, there’s still ice melting inside him. “I need a smoke.”
Ilya picks the ashtray up from the coffee table and places it in Shane’s mouth.
“Bite down. Hold it for me.”
The ashtray is shallow, made of plastic. Shane can keep a grip on it with his teeth, but not easily. And although he’s only biting the side of it, no doubt he’s breathing in some of the taste of old cigarette smoke. Which he also hates. If it slips too far one way, the ashtray will fall. The other, and Shane will end up choking on ash.
"Same as last time," Ilya says. "You will stay here until you fail. Then I will use you another way. Understand?"
Shane can't nod without risking upsetting spilling the ash, but his eyes flick towards Ilya's face and then down in a way that clearly signals not just his understanding but his want.
Ilya lights a cigarette and starts smoking. He really savors it, as slowly as he can. He’ll have a second one if Shane outlasts him, but he doesn’t expect to need to. Shane’s legs start shaking immediately. He’s breathing hard, almost panting, around the intrusion in his mouth.
Although the point is to help ground Shane, Ilya would be lying if he said he weren’t getting into the scene. He gets to watch Shane put himself through so much discomfort on Ilya’s orders, watching his beautiful body shake and spasm at Ilya’s command, even though Ilya has told him he’s going to fail. There’s no reward in it for him, no way to succeed, no way to win, but he’ll still obey Ilya until his body physically cannot. And he gets to watch how submitting to Ilya makes Shane feel safe, and that will never fail to excite him.
He’s about halfway through his cigarette when Shane falls. His legs just give out underneath him, and he collapses onto the ground. He doesn't let go of the ashtray, but a little ash spills out of it and onto the ground. Ilya reaches down and takes the ashtray out of his mouth, tossing it back onto the table. Then he pulls Shane back up into a normal, comfortable kneel. He’s still trembling, but he can stay upright.
“Is okay,” Ilya says again, soothing. “If you cannot hold the ashtray, you can be the ashtray.” And he stubs the cigarette out on Shane’s shoulder.
The sound Shane makes isn’t even one of pain. He sobs out a thank you as the cigarette burns him, leaving a raw, red mark on his skin. Ilya only holds it there for a second, enough to hurt, to burn the sensitive top layer of skin, but not enough to blister and thus probably not enough to scar. They’ve done this before, Shane begging Ilya to burn him, mark him. Ilya thinks about it too. Thinks about it all the time.
They haven’t done that yet, but someday. Someday he’ll leave a claim on Shane’s body that will last forever.
For now, he can take care of him.
“See? Many uses for you. Hands and knees.”
Shane knows what’s expected of him.
He drops into position perfectly, elegantly, presenting the long curve of his muscular back for Ilya to use as a footstool. Ilya places his feet right between Shane’s shoulderblades, where it will be hardest for him to bear the load.
"Until you fail," Ilya reminds him.
And then he waits.
Shane could probably hold this position for hours if not for Ilya’s feet on his back and the fact that Ilya has already been torturing him for the better part of an hour. But Ilya isn’t playing at using him as a footstool—he’s putting the full weight of his lower body on Shane.
He watches as Shane sets his muscles, holding himself firmly in place. It’s like he thinks that somehow, if he just applies enough willpower, he can succeed at what Ilya has been perfectly clear is going to be an impossible task.
This position isn’t as painful as the others. Just the dig of Ilya’s heels into his back. Shane almost relaxes into it, and he certainly seems to finally be settling into the subspace Ilya wants him in.
They stay there for a long time. It may not be painful, but it’s certainly not comfortable: arms and legs already sore from the previous stress positions now locked in place, hands and knees digging into the hard, bare floor. But Shane doesn’t complain, or try to get away. He takes what Ilya gives him.
Ilya can’t wait for the moment when Shane will finally let him gather him up in his arms and tell him how good he is. Hold him and kiss him and praise him and comfort him. But he loves taking care of Shane this way, too. He loves that Shane trusts him with this.
When Shane starts shaking again, Ilya digs his heels in hard to the tense muscles of Shane’s lower back.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” Shane manages, his jaw set. A flush is traveling all the way down his back, from the nape of his neck to the cleft of his ass.
“And you’re just going to take it?”
“Yes, Master,” Shane says, his voice finally becoming hazy.
“You know I’m going to keep you here until you fall. It’s just going to hurt between now and then. Why don’t you give up?”
When he doesn’t get an answer, he kicks Shane lightly in the side.
“Answer the question.”
Words are coming hard for Shane now, his mind syrupy and slow. It’s a relief to see him falling apart this way, into the floating place where Ilya knows he feels safe, feels owned, instead of panicking at Ilya’s feet.
Shane manages to say, each word a little labored, “Because I want to be good. For you, Master.”
“You are good,” Ilya says, and turns his feet so they’re flat on Shane’s back, using all his strength to push Shane flat onto the floor. He falls with a thump and a little cry of pain. Ilya keeps pressing, forcing all the breath out of Shane’s lungs. “You’re perfect.”
Shane whines, almost like he’s about to argue with Ilya again, but he quickly thinks better of it. As Ilya moves one of his feet downward, so it’s just nudging at Shane’s balls. Not enough to hurt, not yet, but the threat is there.
“Even when you fail, you are perfect. You are always good for me.”
Shane’s shoulders are shaking. Ilya doesn’t think it’s just the remnant of the stress positions.
“You don’t believe me?” Ilya asks, sharply.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, and Ilya doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for his failures during the scene or for contradicting Ilya or, and Ilya hopes this isn’t true, still for being himself.
He considers stepping on Shane’s balls until he repeats back the praise, but he doesn’t just want Shane to say it. He wants Shane to feel it, feel how good he is for Ilya in every inch of his body.
“Don’t move,” he says, and slides off the chair so he’s kneeling over Shane. He reaches down, spreads him wide, and licks a wide stripe over his hole.
Shane’s shocked moan of pleasure is as delightful as it was the very first time Ilya ever did this. It’s like he still can’t believe that Ilya would really put his mouth there. Much less that he would enjoy it.
And Ilya lets himself enjoy it. The taste of Shane’s skin is now so familiar. He’s as warm as ever, the ice long since melted but leaving a little wetness for Ilya to lap up. With his tongue, Ilya can feel every moment of Shane’s body opening up for him. Welcoming him in, the way he always does.
He doesn’t allow Shane a lot of prep. It’ll be better if it hurts when Ilya fucks him. Ilya likes it that way, and Shane needs to really feel it.
Ilya pulls away, just slightly. His breath ghosts over Shane’s skin, making him shiver with every word. “What should I do with you?”
“Whatever you want, Master.”
“No. You’re going to answer me. What should I do with you? You failed at being a table, you failed at being an ashtray, you failed at being a footstool. Tell me what I can use you for.” In case Shane needs a hint, Ilya puts his mouth back on Shane’s hole, licking his way just the slightest bit inside.
“You can fuck me,” Shane gasps.
Ilya pulls off just long enough to order Shane to keep talking before continuing to lick him open.
“You can use me as a fucktoy, a cocksleeve, just a hole to get off in. Anything you want.”
Ilya kisses the curve of Shane’s ass, right where it meets his thighs. Then digs his teeth, hard, into the flesh. “This is first smart thing you have said tonight,” Ilya says.
There's lube stowed away in a drawer (there's lube stowed away in every corner of the cottage) and Ilya perfunctorily coats himself in it. Then he braces himself above Shane and pushes in hard, almost nothing but his spit slicking the way. Shane’s long moan of pleasure and pain is almost enough to make Ilya come right away, but he wants this to last. He wants to drive Shane out of his anxious mind, wants to leave him with no doubt of how much Ilya treasures him.
Ilya drops his weight down onto Shane, fucking him into the floor, hard and fast. He kisses his way up Shane’s neck and bites his earlobe. Whispers right in his ear, “You feel so fucking good. You always do. So tight and hot for me. The very best fucktoy. My sweet little hole. You’re going to let me use you forever, yes?”
“Thank you, Master, yes, yes,” Shane is gasping into the floor. Ilya grabs his wrists and pins behind his back. He wants Shane to feel surrounded by Ilya. Helpless to do anything except take what Ilya gives him.
“I love having you like this. Nothing has ever made me feel as good as you do. You were made for me. Perfect for me. Yes?”
“Yes,” Shane says, and there’s no hesitation in it, no anxiety, none of that trembling shrinking fear that had scared Ilya so much when Shane walked in begging for punishment.
Ilya bites his neck, hard, almost animalistic. Hard enough to hurt. Shane cries out. It’s going to leave a bruise, but that’s okay. It’s summer, he can let Shane wear his marks at least for a little while. “I will always want you. I will always find a use for you. I will always love you.”
Shane is crying, he thinks. Or maybe just exhausted from the stress positions, shoulders shaking slightly.
“I love you,” Ilya repeats. Thrusts into Shane’s prone, trapped body even harder. He wonders if it hurts. “Come for me.”
Shane tenses for a moment. Confused, the way he always is when Ilya gives him permission to come, like he’s forgotten his own pleasure even exists.
“You make me feel so good. I want you to feel good too. You deserve it,” Ilya murmurs in Shane’s ear.
For a moment, Ilya thinks he’s going to have to figure out how to maneuver them so he can get a hand on Shane’s dick, but at those words Shane tenses under him and cries out thank you, thank you and pushes back against Ilya and comes. Ilya showers kisses onto the back of his neck, his shoulders, the side of his face.
“Please,” Shane says, his hole squeezing around Ilya.
“Shh,” Ilya hushes. “I know what you need. You need to be my cumdump too, yes?”
"Yes," Shane sighs.
A few more frantic thrusts and Ilya is coming too, filling Shane with the proof of how good and how wanted he is.
They stay like that, lying on the floor with all of Ilya’s weight on top of Shane, Ilya’s cock still inside him, grounding him, for a long moment. As Ilya pulls out and sits up, he says, “You made a mess on the floor. Clean it up.”
Shane doesn’t hesitate, licking his own come off the floor with neat, careful strokes of his tongue. He looks so gorgeous debasing himself.
“Beautiful boy,” Ilya praises. “Now come here.” He draws Shane into his arms, holding him close. He can see now that Shane had been crying, that his eyes are still damp with tears. But he doesn’t look scared anymore. He has that peaceful, floating look Ilya was expecting to see as soon as he arrived, the one Ilya wants to keep on Shane’s face every minute of every day.
“Tell me how you feel,” he says. Orders, not questions. It’s easier for Shane that way, when he’s like this.
“Grateful,” Shane says, burying his face in Ilya’s neck. “For you.”
Ilya rubs circles into his back with one hand, holding him around the waist with the other. “You have me always, moy lyubimyy. You know this.”
Shane nods. “Always, Master.”
Ilya kisses the top of his head. “I am grateful too. That you come to me for help. That you are mine. Always my good boy.”
Later, they will talk about it for real. About all of the other things Ilya treasures about Shane. How precious and adored he is, far beyond the sexual connection they share. About why the things he heard today wounded Shane so deeply, and about how untrue they are. Ilya will listen, and he will comfort Shane, and hold him close, and he’ll be okay.
But for now, Shane is safe in Ilya’s arms, accepting, at last, that it’s where he deserves to be.