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It's Ilya plowing into Shane from behind with one hand in-between his shoulder blades, making his chest flush with the mattress, back arched perfectly, and his ass perched up in the air while on his knees.
Ilya slowly moves his fingers down his spine, finally resting on Shane’s lower back for a moment. He moves it to grip onto Shane’s opposite hip, left hand gripping his right hip, while his other rests on his right ass cheek. Ilya looks down to see himself sinking in and out, in and out of Shane’s slick hole. He bites his lip, eyes threatening to roll back into his skull at the sight.
“Gospodi,” Ilya groans. His hand grips Shane’s waist harder. “So good around me, malysh.”
Beneath him, Shane has the right side of his face practically through the mattress, mouth open and fucking drooling beneath him with spit all over his chin and cherry colored lips. He fucks back onto Ilya in tiny increments, his body on autopilot. His cock hangs hard and heavy between his thighs — swinging with every thrust Ilya gives him. He’s fucking leaking onto the sheets beneath him. The tip of his dick is mere centimeters from the bed, frustrating him because if he could just spread his legs a little bit —
Ilya moves and places his other hand to Shane’s waist, both thumbs settling into the dimples at the bottom of his spine and pulling him onto his cock. Ilya moans. “Wet like a girl, yes? Feel like one too. My best girl, solnyshko.” Shane gives a pathetic whine at that. Because it’s true, he is. Always has been. Ilya loves how wet he gets, always points it out, noticing how he leaks and leaks and drips for him. He pushes back as far as he can onto Ilya at the thought, wanting all of him inside of him even though Ilya’s already balls deep.
Ilya stops his movements, Shane borderline crying at the pause. He whips his head to look over his shoulder and sees that Ilya has grabbed his phone from their bedside table.
“Fuck.” Shane whines and drops his head onto his forearms.
Ilya chuckles and slowly starts thrusting again. Shane lets out a squeak that turns into an endless stream of whimpers.
“Look at you. You have no idea how good you look on camera, moya lyubov'.” Ilya keeps his slow, deep pace. Shane wiggles, wanting Ilya to move faster, wants it, fucking needs it.
“Don’t say that. Can’t say that to me.” Shane whines, it turns into a moan at the last word. Ilya ignores him, takes his phone in one hand, the other making its way into Shane’s hair — gripping. Not tugging, just holding him there.
Shane moans at the tight pressure on his scalp. His eyes roll back into his head, his back still arched to high heaven, ass perched just like how Ilya likes it. He plants his hands on the mattress, baring his throat, making his spine bend in a way that always makes Ilya lose his shit.
Ilya starts thrusting faster, the hand in Shane’s hair gripping tighter. “Love you like this. Love watching me fuck into you… Watching the way your fucking spine bends for me, Shanyúsha.” Shane lets out ah, ah, ah noises at Ilya’s words, clenching down onto him.
Ilya pans his phone to Shane’s ass, focusing on the way it jiggles with each thrust into him, seeing the shine of his hole and Ilya’s dick appearing, disappearing, reappearing and disappearing over and over.
“Love the way you split me open — mmm, feels so good. Always so good.” Shane gasps out. Ilya lets go of his hair and smacks Shane’s ass once, twice, three times in succession, switching cheeks. Shane’s body trembles.
Ilya stops again, quickly setting his phone back on the side table, propped up against the stack of random hockey books Shane swears he lives by. He pulls out of Shane quickly, flips him onto his back, and slides in again. In five seconds flat. Shane’s so fucked out barely recognizing the position change. It takes him a second to register, whining when he makes eye contact with Ilya.
“Vot ty gde.” Ilya murmurs. He grips Shane’s jaw and pulls in a downward motion. Shane understands and opens his mouth, tongue out. Ilya moves so his face is mere inches from Shane, chests barely touching, Shane’s cock, once again, mere centimeters from friction.
There you are.
He slows his thrusts to a slow grind. He sucks all the saliva in his mouth and opens his lips, slowly letting a string of spit fall onto Shane’s tongue. Shane’s eyelids flutter and his eyes roll back into his skull as soon as his mouth fills with Ilya’s spit.
Ilya grips his jaw tighter. “Swallow.”
Shane’s eyes open, widening quickly then eyelids dropping heavily. He swallows like he’s told.
“Khoroshiy mal'chik.”
Three Weeks Later
When Ilya leaves for the weekend for Boston, Shane’s mind is already made up. He hasn’t stopped thinking about that night since it happened and he hasn’t had “a decent enough reason” to do this. Jerking off isn’t enough anymore. It really isn’t. Ever since the six foot three Russian came into his life . . . you get the picture.
Shane throws himself on the bed, showered, teeth brushed, and ready to have a relaxing night trying not to crawl out of his skin because again… jerking off isn’t enough. He doesn’t understand how he lived his life so long with only mediocre handjobs and blowjobs that went south fast, and his lonely little fist. Sure, he will jerk off, but other things need to be happening.
He makes quick work of grabbing the half empty bottle of lube and his pale pink flared base seven inch dildo, then grabbing his phone to connect it to the flat screen TV in the bedroom. His hands are shaking and his stomach somersaults; he’s trembling with excitement.
His dark bedroom is room is lit up by two side table lamps and the TV screen which is currently paused on a pov shot of Shane being fucked from behind. He whimpers at the image, his cock twitching at his thighs.
Shane scrambles to his knees, fumbles with the lube bottle and squirts what’s probably a little too much onto his fingers. He reaches behind himself and quickly, but carefully, tries to prep himself as best as he can, his other hand lazily stroking his half-hard dick.
He stares at the TV screen, whines, and fucks his one, then two fingers fast and lazily into his hole. He goes on for a few more minutes until he feels his hole go loose around his three fingers. He lubes up the dildo and moves to hover over it, grabbing the remote with his oiled up hand and presses play. Immediately, groans and moans are floating through the room.
He sinks so slowly onto the toy, watching as Ilya fucks him on the screen so slowly. He fucking whimpers when his cheeks touch the faux balls on the toy, his mouth dropping open in a silent scream. He pauses, hole clenching and unclenching around the toy, getting used to the feeling of something filling him up so nicely.
When the slight burning sensation starts to subside, he slowly lifts up off the bed and drops back down. Ilya’s grunts can be heard from the TV, heavy breathing as his thrusts pick up.
“ — no idea how good you look on camera, moya lyubov'.” is what Shane registers from screen Ilya in his ears. He bites his bottom lip slightly, slowing his movements and looking.
And one thing Ilya doesn’t do? Lie.
Because screen Ilya has the camera framed to get Shane’s body in the entire frame and Shane’s dick twitches and his knees buckle, making him catch himself by planting his hands on the bed in front of him. He sort of blacks out for a second because the footage of him getting his brains fucked out from behind while Ilya spews the most pornographic things to him fucks him up just a little bit.
He didn’t realize that the toy had stayed inside him when he fell forward until he feels himself clenching down hard onto it. He gives a small whine and looks back at the TV again, mirroring himself on the TV: face down, ass up.
Except not exactly because on the TV, Ilya has Shane pulled up by his hair, back to chest, neck bared, while Ilya holds the camera out in front of Shane facing them, as if he’s taking a selfie of them two.
Screen Shane’s eyes are looking down at the camera because of the angle his head is held at by screen Ilya’s hand, his mouth slightly open. Whereas screen Ilya is looking fucking directly at the camera with his mouth speaking words into Shane’s ear that can be picked up by the phone, as well as the lewd, wet slapping of skin-on-skin.
“Will you watch and see how cockdrunk you get? How you will do anything to be filled just like a good boy, yes?”
Shane reaches a hand behind himself and starts fucking himself with the toy, legs spread, cock hanging heavily and leaking onto the bed, his other hand crumpled into the sheets. The left side of his face is flush with the mattress, just like how it was earlier in the video. He starts rocking back into his own thrusts with the toy, moaning highly, whining, whimpering.
The hand in control of the toy is in time with Ilya’s thrusts; he goes slow, Shane goes slow. Ilya goes fast, Shane does the same. Ilya grinds, Shane does too.
“Mmm— ah, ah, ah, yeah. Yeah, always good for you. Your good boy.” His words slur together slightly towards the end, Ilya removing his hand and splaying it over Shane’s throat, making his head fall back farther into Ilya’s shoulder.
The video gets sloppier and dirtier and messier, Shane’s hand cramping from the angle and the amount of time he’s been fucking himself with. He’s so fucked out just like how he is on the TV screen; pink cheeks, sweaty and frizzy hair, lips cherry red and covered in spit.
His eyes roll back into his head and fucking keens — lets out such a high pitched noise that he didn’t think it was him at first — when he changes the angle of the dildo because his wrist and arm are getting tired. He slowly opens his eyes to focus on the screen again, the heat in his tummy growing and growing. His cock leaks and leaks, like a fucking girl, a small puddle right underneath it, dark red and the tip a deep purple.
Every few thrusts, he’s letting out the smallest, most pathetic uh, uh, uh’s. The toy makes him feel so full when Ilya’s not around. He’s so close, so fucking close. The video is on its last few minutes.
Shane uses all of his brain power and focuses on those last few minutes, almost coming at the sight he sees on the screen. Ilya has, at some point, set the phone back on the side table, recording them. He's exactly as he is in this very moment: face down, ass up, left side of his face pressed into the damn mattress, hands on either side of his face strangling the sheets below him with his cock hanging so prettily between his spread legs.
He almost comes then and there. Almost.
Ilya has his left hand right in the middle of his lower back just above his ass. He slowly changes his position, so slowly leans forward onto Shane’s back, arms slightly bent and keeping him from completely resting on top of Shane. Shane arches his back even more if possible, his ass pressing back and up into Ilya’s hips, chasing his impending orgasm.
Ilya resumes his fervent thrusts and takes his left hand and so gently moves a few pieces of hair out of Shane’s beyond fucked out face and tucking them behind his ear. Shane has his eyes locked on the camera lens, body jolting with Ilya’s thrusts and letting out a pornographic whimper at every fuck in to his hole. Every goddamn thrust.
Ilya then moves his mouth to Shane’s ear and quietly, loud enough for the camera to pick up, says, “Be a good boy, kotenok, and come for me.”
Screen Shane and present Shane both moan so highly and loudly, eyes rolling back into their fucking skull and convulse simultaneously. Fucking back onto the toy and screen Ilya while every single one of their muscles twitch and spasm, rope after stripe after load of cum drips from their cocks. Shane lets out the most pathetic and pitiful whiny “Ilya” as he comes.
Shane drops his body onto the bed, completely wiped out. The last two minutes of the tape play out, his brain too soupy to process anything. His hips rut so slightly into the sheets from the aftershocks of his orgasm, clenching and unclenching on the toy that’s balls deep inside of him.
It doesn’t take much for him to reach his phone on the other side of the bed. His fingers wrap around his phone and he squints at the bright light coming from the screen. He opens his camera app and takes what he thinks is the most unserious, most unflattering, selfie of his backside. The camera frames half of his flush face from over his shoulder and the dildo is the sore subject of the picture. He snaps the photo before rolling halfway on his side and flipping the camera, the frame catching the mess all over his stomach, thighs, and bedsheets, his flagging cock, and the still on the TV screen. Both pictures are shaky, but clear enough to get the idea.
Shane smiles to himself and opens his and Ilya’s texts, sending the pictures one by one. A minute doesn’t even pass before his phone buzzes incessantly.
Ilya
Are you serious right now
Shane.
Shane.
Shanyúsha please
Not a good time
Fuck.
Shane
😇
Ilya
Keep it up and we will see how you feel in 2 days when i get home.
I will be the one smiling
not you)))
I think
yes probably
))