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Ilya can’t get Hollander’s admission out of his head. How he’d tensed in embarrassment, unaware of what he’s doing to Ilya.
“...a dildo.”
He’s alone now in his Boston apartment, horny and on edge, and he can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop imagining it. Hollander, face flushed, eyes glassy, fucking himself on a dildo.
“Chert,” Ilya whispers under his breath and gives in. Kicks off his sweatpants and boxers, sits on the couch and lets his head fall back. His dick is already more than half hard and it doesn’t take a lot to bring it to full hardness; just a few strokes and the mental image of Hollander fingering himself open.
He knows, without a doubt, that Hollander would do it on his bed. Maybe even put down a towel to make it easier to clean up. He’s boring like that, and Ilya – Ilya Rozanov, who likes fast cars and fucking as rough as he is on the ice – can’t help but to be charmed by that.
Ilya squeezes his cock harder and wishes he had some lube, but he’s too lazy and turned on to go all the way to his bedroom. So he spits in his hand and revels in the contrast of the scenes. Here he is, half naked on the couch, curtains open, shameless in his need. In his head, Hollander is on his bed, curtains pulled closed, eyes screwed shut like he can’t bear to look at himself.
He imagines that Hollander is on his back, knees pulled up to his chest, right hand reaching down and behind. He pulls Hollander’s sighs and whimpers from his memories, and groans low in his throat. He’s so turned on and he doesn’t even need to imagine Hollander’s eager mouth on his dick.
“What color?” he’d asked, just to be a dick and to hide what the admission had done to him. He didn’t need to ask, though. He would bet any one of his cars that it’s black. Ordered online, of course, Shane Hollander wouldn’t be caught dead going into a sex shop.
It would be black, because anything flesh colored would freak Hollander out with its realism, and anything more colorful would not even cross his mind.
And it wouldn’t be big. A sensible size for a sensible boy.
Ilya kind of wants to get one of those fantasy dildos, one of those horse cocks or alien tentacles, stuff Hollander full and watch him cry from pleasure. He grunts at that image of Hollander writhing and moaning as Ilya fucks him with a stupidly huge multicolored toy. Fuck.
Maybe one day. For now, Ilya’s mind tries to decide what position Hollander would use with the dildo. There’s no doubt in his mind that he preps on his back, but…
Would he stay where he is, knees pulled up, and whimper when he replaces his fingers with the toy?
Or would he get on his knees, face down on the bed, biting his fist with the other hand between his legs?
Would he ride it, chest heaving and thighs shaking as he fucks himself on the dildo, his pretty cock bouncing up and down with the movement?
Yes, that one, Ilya decides and loses himself in the fantasy. God, what a sight he would be, all sweaty and flushed, one hand steadying the dildo and the other roaming over his body restlessly. He imagines Hollander sucking on his fingers, running them, spitslick, over his pecs, his nipples. Imagines Hollander wrapping his hand around his hard dick and pulling it away immediately, as if burned, because he doesn’t want to come too quick.
Ilya strokes his own cock harder, orgasm building, brings his other hand to his balls and tugs gently. Bites back a groan as he imagines Hollander hitting his prostate and moaning, his rhythm faltering. Imagines Hollander falling forward on to his elbows, hand reaching behind himself, dark hair falling onto his forehead as he fucks himself in earnest.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Imagines Hollander moaning, cursing, whimpering as he fucks himself ever closer to his orgasm. Imagines his pretty mouth falling open in anticipation when he realizes that he will come just from this, that he will come just from the toy in his ass.
Imagines Hollander gasping out his name when he finally comes all over the sensible towel on his bed. Rozanov… all breathy and hot.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya grunts and comes over his fist and the bottom of his t-shirt. He pumps himself through the fading pulses of his orgasm and lets himself sink into the couch cushions as he imagines a fucked out Hollander collapse on the bed, the toy slipping from his ass.
Ilya is no stranger to sex in any of its forms. He’s watched his fair share of porn – more than, probably – and knows where to find the good stuff. He’s fucked women who knew exactly what they’re doing, all fluid sensuality and confident bedroom eyes. Even Sasha knew exactly how to get Ilya going, even though they were both young and inexperienced and objectively very shit.
But with all of that, this fairly vanilla fantasy of Hollander is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, except for the few times he’s been with him.
With a groan, he heaves himself up and goes to clean himself up in the bathroom. He’s not going to bother with a shower, rinsing off his hands and his dick in the sink instead, and throwing his soiled shirt in the laundry hamper.
Hollander would shower after, he thinks. Even if he just jerked off, he’d shower. The thought makes the corner of Ilya’s mouth twitch up, but then it’s replaced with another one.
Maybe, just maybe, the dildo has a suction cup. Maybe Hollander sticks it on the wall of his shower and fucks himself back on it, skin wet and the sound of the shower not quite loud enough to drown out the reverberated moans.
Well, there’s an idea.