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Ilya Rozanov had hated reading ever since school. All that suffering from long-dead old men—obsessed, addicted, in love, disappointed—bored him to death and filled him with some kind of doomed feeling. He never read War and Peace, never Scarlet Sails, never Pushkin, never Dostoevsky, or whoever-the-fuck-else.
He stubbornly stuck to his guns, refusing boring printed shit, and got F's. At first it upset his mom, so for her sake he tried to force down one or two books a year, but then there was no one left to disappoint.
When big-league hockey came along, he discovered fun reading. Loud headlines, yellow journalism, news sometimes made him laugh so hard his teammates started worrying. Ilya even made his own top list of trashiest tabloids.
Once he spotted this simple but totally fucked-up headline: Ilya Rozanov—PUTIN’S SECRET SON? Insider Info from the Kremlin! He cracked up—and didn’t hold back from laughing his ass off for absolutely no reason, bored shitless in his hotel room ever since. Thank fuck for dictionaries and translators, because reading it himself was impossible.
Yeah, weird. Yeah, not high literature, but Ilya had fun.
He didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought he should read. Ilya felt happy when he found little sources of joy for himself, even stupid ones. And if something really hooked him, that was pure bliss.
Funny thing—he still hated reading. But watching Shane Hollander’s face while he sucked Ilya’s cock, Ilya read. And he read with pleasure. Because what his eyes saw was genuinely, really fucking interesting.
Most often Ilya read astronomy books. Not your Stephen Hawking or Copernicus shit. Ilya turned on the light so he could see the freckles better and read the constellations on them. He mapped constellations. His own stars.
Less often—but more greedily—he read human anatomy atlases. Less often because those books had to be read in private. Unlike the astronomical freckles.
Running his fingers along Hollander’s ribs, squeezing his thighs, chest, or throat with his hands, Ilya turned into such a fucking insane anatomist he could’ve written a dissertation. Title: How Much I Fucking Like Shane Hollander’s Body.
Of course, that wasn’t all Ilya Rozanov loved to read. He’d never admit it to anyone, but his favorite reading was toilet-stall porn novels.
Shy-guy Hollander came and cursed so filthy it made Ilya’s cock smoke. “Shy-guy”—yeah, Ilya was exaggerating there. With Ilya, the Montreal Metros captain was anything but shy.
Ilya would steal glances at how Shane Hollander interacted with the rest of the world, and not without satisfaction he observed the chasm between the Shane who existed only for him and the one who existed for everyone else.
Hollander leaked so much any girl would be jealous. On those pages Ilya drooled like a goddamn Saint Bernard.
Hollander sucked like a man possessed. Hollander sucked like he was in an 18+ slasher flick and his life depended on the blowjob.
“What do you feel, Hollander? Tell me how much you like it.” It suddenly became hard for Ilya to hold back. He lifts Hollander by the chin, pulling those hungry lips off his cock.
Looking down, Ilya catches Shane’s lips pressed into a thin, upset line and smirks.
“Tell me—then you can keep going.”
Hollander jerks his chin free from the grip and thoughtfully bites his lip, like he’s sizing up what kind of kid he’d be dealing with if he refused. When he licks his lips right after, gathering the spit from his frantic blowjob, Ilya reads the Canadian’s face—picking the dirtiest words. And between the lines—figuring out which ones Ilya will definitely understand.
The overhead light in this room is especially good. And it seems aimed at the bed on purpose.
Ilya quickly props himself higher on the bed and leans his head back against the soft headboard. He is ready to listen.
Shane fucking Hollander, like it’s some kind of introduction, kisses the frenulum and sits up on his knees. Opens his mouth. Goodbye, sanity.
“I like the way your cock smells. When I suck it, I have to hold back so I don’t bite it. It’s the best thing that’s ever been in my mouth.”
Such confessions embarrassed him sooo fucking much—and Shane understood it only after he said them. Especially with a crucifix staring. But it’s the pure truth.
“I like when your cock is deep in my throat—” Shane points at his throat and makes a thrusting gesture. “I feel it stroking me from the inside—” and in time with the words, he drags his fingertips down his throat. “I always think they are made for each other. My mouth and your cock.”
Ilya swallows. Shane grins smugly and leans down to his crotch to ostentatiously sniff his cock.
“Ohhh, Hollander… Fuck!”
Shane sits back up. Today he doesn’t just want to blow Rozanov—he wants to make his rival dream about the next blowjob. Not just Shane who has to think about another man for months!
“I like how hard your cock gets right before you come. I like feeling it in my mouth… and not just my mouth. Right then I feel like… a pig being spit-roasted—” Shane rattles it off fast and blushes hard at the image, but it is true. “I like feeling your pubes against my nose…”
Shane leans down again and buries his whole face in Ilya’s bush. He rubs lightly so he won’t push Ilya over the edge before he finishes talking.
“When you fuck my throat deep—that’s good too. Just from that I can come. And I like the sounds your cock makes… when I fuck it with my mouth…”
Shane’s confidence seems to be running out; the last “truth” comes out rushed. Right over Ilya’s pubes.
“It’s like it moans, and I know you like hearing it, Rozanov!” Shane flicks his eyes up at Ilya and frowns comically, like he’s caught Rozanov doing something shameful.
Ilya didn’t catch everything. Fucking English.
Ilya sits there in complete fucking shock, his own cock in his hand, ready to blow any second. Staring blankly ahead like he’s waiting for a command. But Shane knows: Ilya is greedy for dirty talk in bed and right now he’s probably trying to decode every word Shane said.
But Shane Hollander is greedy in bed too. For their time. So he immediately latches onto the head and makes a loud slurping sound, sucking it in and savoring.
“Блядь!”
Rozanov curses in Russian, apparently, and Shane exhales victoriously. He himself is fucking desperate to come. Telling the story has just doubled the anticipation of Rozanov’s hard cock surging through his body.
Even the little that Ilya understood makes him jump off the bed and pounce on Hollander with an animal growl. Yeah, in those moments Ilya didn’t feel human.
Ilya flips Shane onto his side, buries his face in his crotch, wraps his arms around his thighs, and inhales deeply from the sparse hair. Hollander moans so loud Ilya’s cock throbs at the base.
“Like that, Hollander? Mmm, bad, bad boy! Who corrupted you, Hollander? Your dirty mouth is so…” Ilya rubs his nose against Shane’s pubes like a starving man, sniffs loudly so Shane can hear, growls, and covers the whole groin with ragged hickeys. The rest of the sentence gets lost in Shane’s delicious-smelling bush.
Hollander moans at every hickey—right now his groin is one big erogenous zone—and rubs his head against the sheets, trying to distract from coming too fast. He really wants Ilya to come first today, at least once.
The cock right in front of Rozanov’s face is leaking like a busted fucking street standpipe. A ridiculously embarrassing comparison pops into his head, but that’s exactly how Ilya feels right now—a kid latched onto a powerful stream of cold water on a fucking scorching day.
Greedily sucking the smooth Canadian cock, Ilya suddenly realizes he’s sick—because no fucking meteor hitting outside could make him pull away from this dick. Meanwhile Hollander wraps his lips around Ilya’s shaft, licks, sucks, and fucks the slit with his tongue. Ilya moans without letting go of Shane’s cock, but doesn’t try to fuck his mouth back. And Hollander clocks that trick.
Shane goes harder on Rozanov’s cock. He starts fucking his own mouth like a record-breaking cocksucker has possessed him. Inner headline in Rozanov’s mind: Shane Hollander Aims to Set New Super-Speed Blowjob Record! Ilya smirks (around the dick), trying to distract himself with dumb thoughts.
Today Ilya Rozanov wants to let this insanely cute Canadian win the premature-ejaculation race. And he doesn’t fucking care.
Shane pulls out all the stops. Deep-throat technique, filthy tricks with slurps and pops, even his sneaky fingers. Surprisingly soft pads with perfectly filed nails press under Ilya’s balls, massage from sack to hole, and fantastically recreate on his hairy pucker everything that feels good to Shane himself.
Сука блядь! Ilya mentally curses in Russian, already ready to blast like a fucking fire hose into that fuckable mouth. But Shane comes first.
Shane’s fingers stop petting Ilya’s ass. Hands grab his thighs like a lifeline, the cock in Ilya’s mouth goes rock-hard, and cum starts gushing like the fucking Amazon. Rozanov loves fucking torturing himself with comparisons like that—because Shane comes spectacularly fucking.
Warm Canadian cum pours into Ilya’s mouth from the fanatically pulsing cock. Ilya collects it greedily but doesn’t swallow. He just waits, latched on, until Hollander finishes erupting.
Shane comes undone moaning around Rozanov’s cock. Ilya even feels with his cock his throat tighten and vibrate around him right then. Then Ilya comes too.
The first spurts hit Shane’s mouth, but Ilya—knowing he doesn’t always like swallowing—pulls out to shoot on his face. But Shane dives right back in and sucks the whole cock down, gulping Ilya’s cum hungrily.
Ilya has to hold back his own moans. And fuck, that is the hardest part.
Ilya loves moaning—raw, rough. It gives Hollander fucking goosebumps—Ilya knows that.
But right now Ilya holds it in and collects every last drop of cum the modest guy Shane Hollander has saved up since they last met. Mr. I-Don’t-Jerk-Off-Waiting-For-Our-Meetings denies it, of course, but Ilya already knows his body too well and reads those shiny eyes too fucking perfectly to buy the bullshit.
Without letting the cum out of his mouth, Ilya flips Shane onto his stomach, spreads those juicy cheeks, and spits it right onto the almost hairless hole.
“Rozanov! Why!”
Ilya doesn’t really look for logic in shit like this—unlike Shane. He just covers the slick hole with his calloused fingers and licks his lips. Pressing on the tight ring and circling it, Ilya starts drifting. It feels so fucking good.
“Liked it, Hollander?.. Did I feed you good?.. Tell me, was it tasty?..”
Ilya sniffs loudly and tries to catch his breath, but the horny ramble spills from his lips anyway, not letting him steady. He has already forgotten they just came. No breaks today, fuck that!
“Tell me what it tastes like?.. Did you like swallowing? Bad, bad boy… Do you want me to feed you more?.. Dessert Russian-Hockey-Player, the one you fucking like so fucking much!”
“You’re a fucking idiot if you think—Ah!” Shane breaks. Suddenly he doesn’t give a fuck what that filthy Russian-accented mouth is saying. He arches and impales himself on Ilya’s fingers the second they find that fucking magic button that turns on “come three times in a row” mode.
“Yesss, right there, yeah? I know!” Ilya leans down and kisses Shane’s shoulder blade. Lips meet soft, warm skin that’s radiating heat because of him. A pleasant tingle spreads in his chest and Ilya kisses again. And again.
Ilya trails a series of light bites and kisses down to Shane’s lower back. All the while his fingers inside pat the prostate nub—making Shane moan into the pillow.
“On your knees. And get that fucking pillow out of the way!”
Shane obeys. With Rozanov’s fingers still in his ass, he jumps up too fast, gets into doggy, and doesn’t even scold himself for it. Shane Hollander knows: the next insanely mind-blowing fuck will be a long fucking wait.
Ilya shifts too. Without pulling his fingers out of that tight ass, he settles comfortably by Shane’s left hip, ready to fuck his ears too.
After the first “classic” orgasm, this ass will be primed to come again and again. Ilya is childishly happy—like this whole ass was his secret treehouse only he knows about!
“It’s already in you, Hollander. My cum. You ate it like a hungry puppy. And your ass… it’s getting some too.”
“You’re losing it. That’s insane to say…”
Shane regrets giving that filthy mouth free rein. Or maybe not.
“Too dirty.”
“No—” Ilya bites Shane’s ass cheek. Warm, meaty, like some Brazilian’s, the cheek twitches away, and Ilya yanks it back, kissing the bite. “You’re dirty. And you make me dirty, Shane Hollander.”
Rozanov’s fingers own Shane’s hole. It is warm and insanely wet, like the hungry Canadian ass has sucked up every last fucking drop of cum. The smell floating over heated skin invades Ilya’s nostrils and a moan escapes uncontrollably: “Too dirty…”
Rozanov’s fingers—now basically another hard-on—feel what his cock can’t always feel: the fleshy prostate knot. His cock can’t feel it easily—only if he fucks himself into a weird position and focuses like hell. But Shane’s prostate feels Ilya’s cock just fine. During hard pounding.
“Does anyone know how good you suck, Hollander?” Ilya asks before realizing what he’s said.
“N-nh…”
“No?” Ilya hopes.
“Nh-shut up! Or I’ll stuff your mouth with my cock.”
“No one should know how good you suck, Hollander.”
In fact, Ilya is contradicting himself. Usually, he tells Hollander not to wait for their meetings and to fuck someone else instead.
“Let it be our secret…” Ilya says, his voice dropping to a whisper, as though it were a prayer.
Shane doesn’t hear those words as clearly as he’d heard the “advice.”
Ilya kisses Shane’s ass cheek again, lips lingering like sealing an oath, fucks him with fingers a couple more times, then pulls out.
Rolling on the condom, Ilya can think of nothing but how deep he’ll push the leftover cum into Shane Hollander’s ass.
When Ilya lifts his head, his breath catches like he’d been punched in the gut. Hollander lies there, legs spread like a total slut, waiting for him. The finger-fucked hole glistens, slick with his own cum.
Ilya exhales. Hollander licks his lips and looks at Ilya with a silent question. The kind Ilya loves reading in his eyes.
Ilya lunges. He covers him body-to-body and finds that fucking incredible ring with his cock. Sucking on Shane’s neck like a vampire, he pushes in. Slooowly—like Hollander likes.
Shane arches, eyes closing, pushing back. He moans ecstatically, giving himself to Ilya’s lips and cock—and still can’t believe it. How fucking good it feels—every time, like the first…
Sliding his hands under Shane, Ilya slides his fingers over the sweaty lower back with pleasure and pulls Shane’s ass back to meet his hips—burying to the hilt.
“I’m in you…” Ilya breathes into Shane’s ear and crashes their mouths together. Shane wraps his legs tighter around Ilya in white socks, deepening the kiss.
The kiss is wet, loud, deep—no way you could do that around a corner without getting hard instantly. But in his dirty bedtime fantasies Ilya definitely dreams about it.
Waiting for their meetups has always been torture for Ilya. He would fuck Hollander in stinking locker rooms, tight storage closets—anything—but could only admit it to himself. It seemed that if he said something like that out loud, it would sound like obsession or… confession, or whatever. Plus Ilya doesn’t know the English for storage closet.
Moving in short, shallow thrusts at the base, Ilya catches himself thinking he wants to take English lessons. Suddenly it sucked that he couldn’t always say what he meant to Hollander clearly…
“Roz—… Ah!” Shane arches sensually, fingers tangling in Ilya’s golden-brown curls, and Rozanov snaps back: What the fuck am I doing?
Hollander’s neat, smooth cock has already hardened again, half-mast. Prostate fluid has beaded over the dark bush—Ilya has learned over the years exactly where to hit.
Pulling out of Hollander’s body, Rozanov nudges him and Shane obediently rolls onto his stomach.
“I want you to come on yourself, sweet. Do it for me, and I’ll make you come sooo many fucking times.”
The look Shane shoots over his shoulder screams one thing. And when he opens his lips, begging for a kiss, stretches up on his arms, twisting like some insanely fucking flexible yogi, Ilya has to sternly remind himself: Keep it together.
It has happened many times before—Shane would leave with a wrecked ass after their meets, even if satisfied. But Ilya doesn’t really like the idea of leaving that ass in pain. He doesn’t always manage to be gentle enough.
Ilya covers Shane’s lips with his own. Holding his chin, he nips and savors the bottom lip. Hollander likes it. Even in this fucked-up Egyptian sphinx pose.
Hollander rides the high of their tongues sliding together, fully surrendering to the sensation. Ilya pulls back for a second, sticks out his tongue, and Shane mirrors him. Rozanov wraps his lips around Shane’s tongue, sucks it in and out, and fucking loses it at how Shane rolls his eyes back.
Hollander impales himself. He arches his back (Ilya fucking loves that flexibility!), finds Rozanov’s shaft with his hole and swallows it greedily.
Yeah, that’s when Rozanov’s self-control goes to fucking hell.
A barrage of sharp slaps echoes like machine-gun fire. Steady full-length thrusts with passionate Hollander moans send Ilya into insane fucking bliss. Same for Shane.
“Ah! Mmm!”
“My cock makes you… such a… slut, Holl-ander!”
Shane can’t listen to that filthy nonsense again and mentally buries his head under a pillow. His cock—rock-hard—rubs perfectly against the sheets—fucking perfectly. Lucky this time—the bedding is soft enough. Last time he’d fucked up his knees on stiff sheets.
“Come on, Rozanov! Fuck me like you know how… Make me cry!”
Shane doesn't even know why he said it.
Rozanov loses it and snaps into a frantic rhythm—and both start gasping. Shane’s ass feels fucking heavenly. Ilya would even say: divine.
The filthy squelches from the cum that has somehow ended up inside Shane today drench everything in special sauce, and Shane is ready to scream with joy. Cum feels better than any lube. Warmer… more intimate. Shane’s cock slides on the sheet while Rozanov pounds his ass, driving his own cum deeper, and the realization—cum inside me—hits his chest so hard he thinks his chest will fucking explode.
“Feel that?!.. I’m so deep in you!..”
Talking is fucking hard for Ilya. He doesn’t want to lose the rhythm—he can feel Shane is about to come. But Rozanov is Rozanov—he wants it all.
“Those sounds… because cum in you!”
Shane moans into the pillow—he hears them perfectly. Claws it, even bites it. Slobbers all over.
“Want… I pull off the condom and… come inside you?”
Shane looks back. He can’t believe his ears. And he can’t believe himself: how badly he wants it! Ilya stares at him with that crooked, captivating smirk. His wild eyes burn like a lighthouse in the dark (Shane usually reads hockey books, but looking at Rozanov brings poetic shit to mind). The insanely hard cock in his ass and Ilya’s heaving chest say time for thinking is running out…
Ilya’s face twists in a grimace. His head isn’t fucking working—he tries to string together English words into a sentence, but with orgasm closing in even simple phrases become impossible. So he slips into Russian. Блядь.
“If you… don’t like… getting my cum… in your mouth… Maybe you’ll like… in your ass?”
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov!” Shane thinks first, shuddering at the nasty “consequences” he’d once read about. But the body is a fucking weird thing. And Hollander is ready to agree.
“Yeah…” Shane moans so hesitantly, so quietly, Ilya doesn’t hear. Or maybe he does—and comes just from the consent.
“Бляяя—… дь!”
Rozanov slams especially hard, burying deep, and arches. As his cock explodes in pulses deep in Hollander’s ass, he moans at the peak, head thrown back. No—growls. Hollander loves these moments: when Rozanov’s moan turns into animal snarling…
Coming back to earth and opening his eyes, Ilya keeps fucking Shane with the full condom, even though he’s still shaking from orgasm. A few hard thrusts—and Shane comes. Under himself.
“Fuck! How…! A-ah!”
Clutching the sheets while his cock spurts onto his own stomach and the hotel bedding, Shane stretches out full-length, trying to slip off Ilya’s cock. But Ilya knows: right now he needs to fuck him a few more times. Hollander wants to cry.
Ilya grabs Shane’s chin hard, turning him toward him, and greedily watches his face while still slamming in.
From the post-orgasm pounding Hollander breaks into a scream. A single, delicious tear rolls down his cheek, squeezed out by squeezed-shut eyes. Rozanov can’t resist—he licks it off. The very essence of this fuck. Even after coming—fuck, it feels so fucking good for him!
It seems like each has gotten what he wanted.
Ilya gently collapses onto Shane. Still joined, evening out heartbeats, they lie like that for a while until each breath syncs with the other’s and calms.
Shane doesn’t give a fuck that he is lying in a puddle of his own cum. Shane doesn’t mind Ilya’s weight at all. Especially when Ilya kisses so tenderly behind his ear.
Rozanov is about to pull out but catches the chance for one epic fucking prank.
“Broke.”
“What?” Shane doesn’t hear. It feels so good his senses have rebooted. After sex like that—damn, he’d just hit the ice and fucking dominate—victory locked in!
“The condom broke,” Ilya sighs dramatically, propping up on his arms and pouting. “My cum’s inside now.”
“Really?”
And then Ilya fucking loses it. Shane Hollander isn’t scared one fucking bit. Isn’t disappointed. Isn’t mad. Isn’t horrified!
Shane fucking Hollander is thrilled.
His insanely fucking shiny eyes light up like he’d won the Stanley Cup. Like he’d won the Olympics or All-Star Game. Ilya Rozanov wasn’t well-read enough for more poetic similes… But fuck similes—he doesn’t give a fuck right now.
Ilya decides: next time he’ll definitely come inside Shane Hollander.
“Kidding,” Rozanov sighs for real now, slowly pulling out. “But next time I fuck you bare.”
Ilya kisses Shane’s sweaty temple. Shane slides his hands under the pillow and closes his eyes. Ilya rolls onto his back beside him.
“He definitely heard,” Shane thought ruefully.
“Well, fuck it!”
Hollander smiles. The clock on the nightstand says they still have two hours with Rozanov.
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