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Shane awakens to bright, morning sunlight streaming across his face, groaning softly as whatever dream he was having quickly fades from his memory. He keeps his eyes closed as Ilya stirs beside him, feeling soft lips press against his bare shoulder, a hand lazily roaming across the planes of his chest. The blanket is nowhere to be found; no doubt stolen and kicked off the bed at some point. Ilya is always convinced that their tightly pressed bodies will provide enough of a furnace to keep them warm through the cold Canadian nights. He's usually right.
Ilya's hand trails lower, and Shane knows this game. He's not hard—his already forgotten dreams were clearly of the more innocent variety—but he'll soon get there. It's almost a routine at this point, waking together and letting Ilya sleepily jerk him off, rutting against his hip, his stale morning breath puffing heavily across Shane's cheek.
Except Ilya doesn't slide a hand into his briefs. Instead, he pauses as he reaches the base of Shane's stomach, his fingers trailing across the aching bruise stretching from hip to hip.
It's been two days since Ilya trapped him under a 95lb barbell in their gym and edged him to within an inch of his life, and Shane can't wait to see how the bruise is blossoming across his skin. It had been a sickly shade of greenish yellow yesterday, and he's hoping it's bloomed into more of a rich purple. The thought makes his soft dick throb—Ilya marking him, claiming him, owning him. Proof of Shane's unwavering dedication to his partner painted across his skin.
"Pretty." Ilya's voice is husky with sleep as he presses down more firmly, making Shane wince and squint his eyes open, glaring softly up at him. His boyfriend's sleep-tousled golden curls are outlined by the sun, and Shane can't even pretend to be mad. "Look at it, moya lyubov'."
Shane sighs, forcing his tight muscles to engage, cranking his elbows under himself as he sits up into a crunch and blinks down the length of his body. It's exactly as he'd hoped, and he can't help but gasp softly at the drama of it—a deep plum colour spreading across his skin, the contrast stark and vibrant as though he's been whipped. "It's perfect," he murmurs, clenching his abs and feeling the ache deep in his core. He leans over to press a kiss to Ilya's forehead, his cock stirring hopefully under his blue briefs. "Are you going to fuck me about it?"
"Mm, something like that," Ilya murmurs cryptically, dropping his lips softly against Shane's pec before rolling away, leaning over the side of the bed to grab something from the floor. He keeps it behind his back as he returns to Shane, meeting his eyes with a cheeky smile. "Do you want to know what I picked?"
Based on context clues, Shane assumes Ilya is talking about his prize for winning the edging competition which he: set up, had complete control over, and was always going to win. He smiles fondly, nodding as he reaches out to run a hand over Ilya's bicep, encouraging him to bring out whatever it is he has stashed.
As he waits patiently for Ilya to show him, he lets his mind wander on the possibilities. Is it something tried and true—something they both love but haven't played with in a while—or is it something completely new? He's stopped deluding himself into thinking that they've tried everything, because Ilya can always find a new way to surprise him—some freak shit that Shane's never even heard of which subsequently becomes his new favourite thing.
And once again, Shane is surprised. The pouch Ilya sheepishly pulls from behind his back is unassuming—a small thing, black velvet, a drawstring at the top. It's not until Ilya extracts its contents that Shane realises quite what he's getting himself in for.
He's seen chastity cages before, in porn. They all look a little different, but this one feels very classic. The shiny, golden metal reflects the bright morning sun into Shane's eyes as he takes in the circled bars which make up its alarmingly short length. It looks like a tightly coiled spring, slightly curved downwards, with a few bars meeting at the tip. There's a little golden padlock sitting neatly on top containing a tiny gold key in the shape of a heart, from which a long, delicate necklace chain dangles, tickling against the skin of his stomach. Shane feels his cock start to fill out as he examines it, sucking on his lower lip in embarrassment as Ilya turns it over in his hands.
Ilya loves Shane's cock. He doesn't go a day without touching it or leering at it or swallowing it down his throat—often all three—so it is a bit of a shock to Shane, the thought that he wants to lock it away.
"Why?" Shane breathes softly, his gaze flickering between the cage and Ilya's eyes, but his boyfriend isn't giving anything away, his face set in stone as he watches Shane take it all in.
"I have plans," Ilya shrugs, sitting up next to Shane and crossing his legs. He twists the key until the padlock pops open with a soft clunk and loops the chain around his neck. It's longer than his cross necklace, sitting low on his sternum, right between his pecs. They look good together. A matching pair, almost. Like Ilya could wear the key all the time and no one would notice—it wouldn't look out of place.
The thought sends a chill through Shane's core. He likes his cock, too. He doesn't want it locked up forever.
"Take these off," Ilya instructs, snapping the waistband of Shane's briefs right onto the smarting bruise, drawing a surprised, horny gasp from his slack lips. Asshole. He doesn't ask if Shane wants the cage. He doesn't ask if it's okay. He doesn't have to—it's his prize; it's his special day.
Ilya knows Shane will use one of his safewords if he needs to, if it gets too much. He doesn't need to ask for consent—it's a given. They work better that way, assuming consent and respecting when it's rescinded, rather than always having to ask. Ilya does know how the staff likes to be treated after all these years, and Shane wouldn't have tried half the things he loves now without being gently peer pressured into them first. There's a strong chance that this is another item on that list.
Shane closes his eyes as he shoves his briefs down his legs, kicking them off the end of the bed. He knows his cock is already at half-mast, and he also knows it won't be for long. He hopes, maybe fruitlessly, that Ilya will jerk him off. That he might let him have one orgasm before locking Shane away for who-knows-how-long.
"Mmm, this will not do," Ilya rumbles, the sound of his voice quickly followed by a sharp pain radiating out from the head of Shane's cock, his hardened flesh bobbing side to side.
His eyes snap open just in time to watch Ilya flick him again, curling his middle finger against his thumb and letting it snap outwards, his blunt nail hitting harshly against the head of Shane's dick. "Ow, what the fuck," Shane groans, grasping onto Ilya's wrist and holding him tight, far enough away that he can't do it a third time.
The look Ilya gives him is thunderous, and unfortunately that only makes Shane's dick harder. "Are you going to calm down on your own?" Ilya asks darkly, wrenching his wrist from Shane's grip, though he doesn't move to flick him again. "I don't have all day to wait."
"I will, I can, I'm sorry," Shane begs, embarrassment sitting hot on his chest. His mouth feels horrible as he talks—clammy and sticky. He just needs to do his seven minute morning routine, and he'll be fine. "Can I brush my teeth?" he asks, meeting Ilya's eyes pleadingly. "I won't touch myself."
A look crosses Ilya's face, too brief for Shane to accurately assess. He's quiet for a moment, and then he nods once. "Leave the door open," he says, "and don't piss."
Fuck. If Shane is supposed to be getting less excited, the idea that Ilya has some form of piss play planned certainly isn't helping the situation. He scrambles out of bed with a mumbled "Thank you," feeling his bladder twinge already as he darts into the ensuite. He takes a moment to lean heavily against the counter, his head hanging between his arms as he sucks in a few deep, steadying breaths. His boyfriend is definitely still watching him from the bed—Shane can feel Ilya's eyes burning twin holes into his back dimples.
The tube of toothpaste almost falls from Shane's trembling hands, and he grips it tightly in his palm to ground himself, breathing deeply through his nose. It's nearly empty, and Shane has to work his fingers along the length to force out the last couple of oozing blobs before throwing it in the trash. As he starts to brush his teeth, he finally relaxes slightly, letting minty freshness overtake the night's musk. He can feel himself mellowing out as he slips into the routine of it, pointedly not thinking about Ilya in the room next door as he grabs a fresh tube of toothpaste from the cabinet and sets it out on the counter.
Looking in the full-length mirror behind the sink is a mistake he only makes once. The bruise looks even more intense under the stark white lights, and he has to take a shuddering breath as he rinses off his toothbrush, shaking his head firmly.
The rest of his morning routine goes smoothly, with the exception of taking a piss, and Shane feels much closer to normal as he washes his hands and dries them on a soft, fluffy hand towel.
When he returns to the bedroom, Ilya is leaning against the headboard, bathed in golden sunlight as he casually strokes his hard dick, the cage still grasped in his other hand. Shane stutters to a stop in the doorway, squeezing his eyes closed, though that does nothing to stop the slick sound of Ilya's hand filtering into his ears. "Ilya," he says tersely, his lips pursing as he sucks in a deep breath through his nose, "I just calmed down."
"Mm, you are very good," Ilya murmurs, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "Come here."
Shane makes quick work of getting to the bed, lying flat on his back next to Ilya, and screwing his eyes shut. "Do it quick," he says through gritted teeth, already feeling his cock start to swell again. Ilya is so unbelievably hot, and he clearly has many filthy plans for Shane today—it's not fair or reasonable to expect Shane to keep his cool for longer than thirty seconds.
Ilya's hand is warm and slick as it picks up Shane's cock, and Shane throws a crooked arm across his eyes, pressing his face hard against his inner elbow.
By comparison, the metal is cold, but not nearly cold enough to shock Shane's body out of its simmering arousal. A solitary metal loop slides down to the base of his dick. Shane has never really considered how it works, but the realisation comes pretty quickly as Ilya's slippery hand grabs one of his balls, forcing it through the tight ring.
"Oh, fuck," Shane whispers, his hips bucking involuntarily into the sensation as Ilya shoves his other testicle through, squeezing them tightly and tugging hard once they're on the other side, pressing the metal ring as close to Shane's skin as possible.
"You are almost as hard as you were before," Ilya teases, as Shane feels the constricting golden rings start to encircle his dick, forcing their way down his length until his cockhead sits snug against the bars at the tip. There's still probably an inch of his cock exposed, and he can't hold in his guttural moan when Ilya simply pushes the cage inwards, crushing Shane's dick impossibly inside.
Shane feels the arm over his eyes being shoved away from his face and he blinks up at Ilya through a haze of unshed tears. "Ilya," he murmurs, sucking on his bottom lip as an involuntary twitch shoots through his thigh, making his leg jerk wildly.
Ilya—the asshole—just wants to force Shane to watch the smirk spread across his face as he slides the padlock into place, securing it with a firm click.
The sensation is intense—like nothing Shane has ever felt before. He needs Ilya desperately, carnally. He wants to please him. He wants to get to his knees and swallow him down his throat, to give him everything he ever wanted. Locking his dick away has somehow unlocked something in his brain, making him feel more submissive than he ever has in his life.
Looking down at himself, he really wants to touch the cage, to feel it under his fingers, but he knows Ilya would just slap his hands away. "Let me—?" Shane asks, reaching out for Ilya's straining cock instead, but Ilya shakes his head firmly, moving just out of reach.
"Stay," Ilya demands. He flops dramatically onto his back beside Shane, taking his dick back in hand with a showy groan.
It's not fair. He's so close to him. Shane's fingers twitch against his thighs, aching to touch—Ilya, himself, anything. His boyfriend jerks off with bravado, letting moans, soft murmurings in Russian, and the occasional breathy "Shane," slip from his lips. He holds eye contact the entire time, which is difficult enough for Shane at the best of times, and even more so now, with his cock growing dangerously inside the bars, pushing out against the metal in a way that makes him feel lightheaded.
"Ilya, please," Shane finds himself begging, watching through half-lidded eyes as Ilya's jaw falls slack, his head tilting back to expose the long line of his neck. He's close, Shane can tell, and he rolls onto his side, hoping desperately that Ilya might grab his head, push him down his length, and finish inside Shane's throat.
Gravity pulls on the cage, and Shane squeaks out a desperate, pained sound as he suddenly realises the new weight of his cock—how incredibly heavy it feels; how the metal is going to be weighing down and tugging on his neglected dick all day. A reminder. In every moment.
That does it for Ilya, apparently, and he comes with a soft cry, painting his mole-covered stomach in ropes of come like he's completing a connect the dots picture in a children's colouring book.
Shane wants nothing more than to lick him clean, and he says as much, his hand hovering over Ilya's thigh, silently begging for permission to touch.
"No," Ilya says simply, reaching towards the nightstand for a Kleenex.
A dismayed noise tears from Shane's throat as he watches his boyfriend waste a load of perfectly good come into a tissue, pitching it towards the garbage bin and missing spectacularly, the sodden ball rolling across the carpet.
"Time to get up," Ilya murmurs, ignoring the fact that Shane is trembling with potential energy, achingly hard inside the metal prison around his cock. He slaps Shane lightly on the chest as he rolls out of bed, heading into the bathroom with a skip in his step, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Shane can't do anything but roll onto his back, breathing slowly as his heavy cock settles over his tight, aching balls. It hurts to move. It hurts to think about moving. He wonders if he can come like this, without allowing his cock to get fully hard, and he wonders if Ilya is planning as much. He's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice Ilya re-enter the room until he's standing over him, already dressed in a loose t-shirt and light grey sweatpants.
"You cannot lie in bed all day, lazy," Ilya admonishes firmly, taking one of Shane's hands and pulling him up into a sitting position, which crunches his bruised abs and tugs on his sensitive cock.
Shane doesn't know how he manages. He lets Ilya drag him to his feet, and his knees are shaking so uncontrollably that he almost crumples to the ground, saved only by Ilya's strong arms in the nick of time. The constant pressure around his cock is so new and strange and overwhelming. It feels good and it's also the worst thing that's ever happened to him. He's huffing wet breaths across Ilya's neck as he tries to get his legs to cooperate, but he feels like a cat forced into a vest—one of the ones that freeze up and fall over sideways. It's like he's completely forgotten how to use his body.
Ilya's hand pets gently through his hair as they stand there, and he presses micro kisses to Shane's cheek and the side of his head. "It is too much?" he asks quietly, and there's a tiny shred of regret in his voice.
He thought Shane was stronger. He had more faith in him. Shane sucks in a determined breath—he's going to prove to Ilya that he can do it, that he's not going to let something small and stupid like a little metal cage defeat him.
It takes every ounce of strength Shane has to stand up from Ilya's hold, using his firm shoulders as leverage. His legs are still shaky but they manage to keep him upright, and he looks his boyfriend dead in the eye. "It's not too much," he says firmly, trying his best to ignore the permanent downward tug on his cock. "I can do it."
"There's my good boy," Ilya's face splits into a wide grin, and he pats Shane's cheek twice. "No clothes for you. They will make you overstimulated, yes?"
It's clear that there's only one answer to that. "Yes, sir," Shane whispers, nakedly following Ilya to the kitchen on trembling Bambi legs, grateful when he can finally collapse into one of the seats at the kitchen island. The cold vinyl sends a sharp chill up his spine, and it's just enough of a shock to soften his aching dick a little, relieving a tiny bit of pressure as Ilya wordlessly slides him a large glass of water before turning to start on breakfast.
If one were to observe them right now, they'd be forgiven for mistaking them as a normal, domestic queer couple going about their morning routine. It would be easy to miss the charged glances every time Shane takes a sip of his water, to brush off Shane writhing in his seat as him just getting comfortable, to ignore how Ilya is already getting hard again under his sweats.
Nothing else happens for a while. They eat breakfast together; they watch TV on the couch; Ilya deals with some emails on his laptop while Shane noodles about on his phone. All-in-all they have a very normal weekend morning, with the tiny exception that Shane is painfully hard the entire time. And Ilya knows it.
When it's clear that Ilya isn't rushing into more sex, Shane does his best to breathe through the constant ache, to hopefully relieve some of the mind-numbing pressure. Unfortunately for him, the constant reminder of Ilya's dominance, of his own submission, is far stronger than any measly thoughts that might help him get soft.
So he sits. Aching. Waiting. Unable to touch, but at least looking isn't off-limits. He observes every little part of the golden cage, counts how many rings are trapping his cock, lets his eyes flick between the padlock and the little heart-shaped key sitting teasingly over Ilya's shirt. He hates to admit that it looks good on him.
As he waits, he has a realisation—this isn't about him. Ilya basically only ever uses his cock to make Shane feel good, and Shane's dick is a selfish thing, rarely used to give Ilya pleasure in return. This is a chance for Ilya to use his cock how he wants to, without having to worry if Shane is enjoying it. It makes total sense to lock him away, to prove to Shane how useless his pathetic dick is to Ilya.
When midday rolls around, Ilya leads Shane back to the bedroom with little fanfare, pushing him down on the bed with a devilish grin. His eyes scan hungrily over Shane's naked body as he watches him from the end of the bed, stripping out of his clothes and throwing them into a pile on the floor.
"What do you want, baby?" Ilya asks teasingly, rubbing a warm hand over Shane's bare ankle, sending sparks of touch-starved pleasure up his leg, settling at the base of his cock. "Do you want me to touch your dick?"
Shane whimpers softly, folding his arms above his head to keep them out of the way, stretching out his torso as his back involuntarily arches off the bed. "More than anything," he whispers, feeling his cock swell painfully against the bars in anticipation. "Please, Ilya."
Instead of joining him, Ilya drops to his knees with a smirk, rummaging around underneath the bed. He murmurs to himself in unintelligible Russian as he searches for something, before exclaiming a pleased-sounding, "Ah-hah!"
When he finally crawls up the bed to settle between Shane's spread knees, he has a mid-sized, flesh-coloured dildo and a bottle of lube in his hands.
Shane sucks on his lips. He knows Ilya doesn't care, but the thought makes him squeamish. "I haven't done any prep," he says quietly, involuntarily closing his legs around Ilya's hips.
Ilya's eyes flash with something dark, and he drizzles lube along the length of the dildo. "It is a good thing I am not fucking you, then," he replies, pressing the base of the toy to the metal bars of Shane's cage and sliding his huge hand filthily along its length.
"Oh, fuck," Shane gasps, his eyes wide as he looks down the length of his body, letting himself sink into the illusion. He can't feel anything, just the ever-present pressure of the cage, but Ilya strokes his hand along the dildo just like he would Shane's cock, sending confused, needy, desperate pleasure signals to his brain.
"This is nice, hm?" Ilya murmurs, somehow sounding kind and smug at the same time, and Shane bucks his hips, watching his fake dick slide through Ilya's slippery hand.
He's never been so turned on by being understimulated, and it's all Shane can do to nod pathetically, feeling tears well in his eyes as Ilya's hand works tirelessly—twisting his wrist and moving faster on the upstroke and rubbing his thumb over the slit, exactly how Shane likes it.
Shane starts to feel phantom twitches in his cock—the brush of a hand, the catch of a nail. Tiny sparks of pleasure that mirror what Ilya is pretending to do to him. His arms flex above his head, tensing as his body tries to figure out what to do with all of this unreleased pressure.
His cock is so hard he feels like it's about to bust out of the cage.
"Ilya," he moans, rolling his hips into the motion, feeling a solitary tear slip down the side of his face. "Fuck, I need—" he doesn't even know what he's asking for. Something, anything.
"I've got you, baby," Ilya murmurs, and for a wild moment, Shane thinks he's going to get a real touch, but Ilya just doubles his efforts on the dildo, jerking it hard and fast, slamming the base hard against Shane's trapped cock.
It shouldn't work, but Shane feels himself go woozy as somehow more blood rushes south, his cock pulsing desperately against the bars. "Fuck, I think I'm gonna—" he gasps, his eyes locked on Ilya's hand jerking him off.
Shane is a mess of trembles and whimpers, his cock harder than it's ever been, and suddenly Ilya drops the dildo to the bed, pulling his hands away from Shane's quivering body.
"No, fuck," Shane chokes, his body crunching all the way up into a hunched-over sitting position as he tries to chase the imagined sensation, dragged cruelly away from him at the last second. His body convulses, and he drops his arms to fist his hands in the sheets.
He doesn't feel like he's coming, but his body is going through the motions. His cock is like the toothpaste tube, crushed and manipulated until it forcefully squeezes out one tiny dribble of semen.
Ilya laughs delightedly, reaching out a finger to collect the pathetic amount of come before it drips from the bars of the cage onto the bed. He lifts his hand, painting the mess across Shane's panting mouth with a breathy, "Don't lick your lips."
Shane's cock is still hard, and he's still unbelievably horny—it's like he didn't even come at all.
"You are so good," Ilya groans, pushing Shane flat on the bed and rocking over him, pressing their lips together and licking the taste of Shane's come into his mouth. He's shaking, his shoulder shifting as he frantically jerks his cock, coming with a cry into Shane's slack mouth.
His come splatters messily over Shane's stomach, and over the cage—sticky warmth dripping between the bars to soak into the skin of Shane's aching, unsatisfied cock.
"What the fuck was that?" Shane asks when Ilya collapses boneless beside him. "I came but I… didn't?" He feels his face flush as he quietly admits, "I'm still really horny."
"Perfect," Ilya murmurs, leaning over to press a kiss to Shane's shoulder, "you are doing perfect."
That doesn't explain anything, but it does send a pleased, submissive shudder through Shane. If this is what Ilya wants from him, he can have it. As long as he's performing well for his boyfriend, in this game he doesn't fully understand, that's enough.
Ilya doesn't let him shower, because, "You will come when water touches your cock," but he does at least wipe Shane's stomach down with a clean cloth. He avoids touching or cleaning the cage, telling Shane that it's "For your own good."
They go back to milling around the house. At least, Ilya does. He plies Shane with more water and ignores Shane's desperate pleas for release. The more Shane drinks, the more his needy bladder starts to combine with his insatiable, unfulfilled lust, overwhelming him until he can't see straight.
By three pm, Shane is so horny he doesn't know what to do with himself. He's following Ilya around like a lost puppy, touching his boyfriend's body hopefully at every chance he gets. His voice is hoarse as he begs, pleads, for anything—a touch, release, whatever Ilya will give him.
"Ilya, I need to go so bad," he chokes out, cornering his boyfriend in the kitchen and falling to his knees, wrapping his arms around Ilya's thighs as he rubs his face pathetically into the musky crotch of Ilya's sweatpants. "I need to piss. I need to come. I need something, please."
Ilya's hand curls into his hair, pulling him harshly away from his cock, which only makes Shane's dick pulse desperately in its cage. "Be good," he says firmly, stepping out of Shane's hold and letting him crumple to the floor, naked and sobbing. "This is my prize, remember."
By four pm, it's too much. They're on the couch, and Shane has his thighs pressed so hard together that they're shaking. He can't focus on the TV. He can't think about anything except for how tight his bladder is. How he's one wrong breath away from pissing all over himself.
"Come here," Ilya murmurs, patting his sweatpant-covered thigh.
Shane's not sure he can move. He sucks in tiny sips of breath as he slowly—so fucking slowly—rolls over to straddle Ilya's lap. His eyes meet Ilya's once he's there, proud and determined. "Please, sir," he whispers breathily, and Ilya jerks up against him, jostling his volatile bladder. "Please," Shane repeats, more desperate, squeezing down hard on Ilya's firm shoulders. His arms are shaking as he whispers, "I can't hold it, sir."
"Oh, you need to go?" Ilya smiles smugly, "Why did you not say?" He threads a hand into Shane's hair and tugs harshly, tipping his head back to expose the long, bare column of his throat, which vibrates with a strained moan.
Shane takes a shuddery breath, offering a weak, "Fuck you," in response.
"You are so sexy like this," Ilya murmurs, his other hand pressing flat across the bruise on the base of Shane's stomach, amping up the pressure on his over-full bladder. He rolls his fingers in an imitation of a massage, and it's too much. It's too much.
"I can't—I'm gonna piss," Shane warns, feeling his stomach clenching, dropping his head forwards in Ilya's tight grip with a quiet sob as his bladder sloshes dangerously. "Please, stop—"
He's been holding too much for too long, and as Shane's core tenses and relaxes one final time, he feels the rush of relief, followed by the crushing ache of embarrassment, as his caged cock releases a strong torrent of piss down into Ilya's lap.
It instantly soaks into his boyfriend's sweatpants, turning the grey cotton dark and saturated, the wet fabric clinging filthily to the stark outline of Ilya's hard cock.
"I'm sorry," Shane sobs, unable to hold back once the floodgates have opened, watching his piss splash messily as it hits the bars at the end of the cage, sending splatters up across Ilya's shirt. It feels unbelievably good to finally let go, and it only makes his cock harder, more needy, his balls drawn up tight and aching beneath the cage.
Ilya's hand holds firm in his hair, and he rocks his hips up against Shane's squirming body, his soaked cock brushing up against Shane's cage, jostling his firm sac, sending a stab of pain up into Shane's core and making him crunch in on himself.
Each new spurt of piss darkens the fabric of Ilya's pants further, making them shiny for a brief moment before it gets wicked away. Shane can't tear his eyes away.
As Shane's stream finally dries up, Ilya makes a soft tut tut sound, his tongue clicking wetly behind his teeth. "How embarrassing," he drawls, and Shane can't help but nod, feeling his hair tug against Ilya's grip. "You made such a mess," he continues, pushing on Shane's head until he gets the memo, scrambling backwards and almost falling off the couch in his haste to get to his knees between Ilya's legs. "Clean it up."
He doesn't even get the chance to say Yes, sir before Ilya is dragging him in by the hair, tilting Shane's head so his mouth can slot along the length of his hard cock, sucking on him through the saturated fabric.
Shane's good at following directions, and does as he's told, licking and sucking around Ilya's cock eagerly, breathing in the musty, acrid scent of his own piss, ignoring how it makes his cock throb as the taste blooms bitter across his tongue.
He could stay here for days, kneeling at Ilya's feet and worshipping his dick, his face soaked in piss. He's so hard inside his cage that he's vaguely worried it might cause permanent damage, but he's almost reached a zen state about it, accepting the pain as his new normal in some wild attempt at self-preservation.
Shane lets Ilya thrust up against his face, and he curls his hands tight around his boyfriend's wet thighs, as if to prove he's not touching himself, even though he desperately wants to. He can feel piss dripping from the bars of the cage, dampening the hair on his thigh.
As Ilya uses his mouth, Shane wonders absently if he'll not-come again. He thinks Ilya would like that.
He's just getting into it, letting himself relax into sucking Ilya off through his pants, when Ilya tugs sharply on his hair, dragging a surprised gasp followed by a breathy moan from Shane's lips as the pain zaps straight to his dick. Ilya manhandles Shane like he's as light as a feather, lifting them both to their feet and spinning them around, pushing Shane to sit in the wet patch that Ilya just vacated.
Shane can't help but wince, feeling cold piss soak out of the couch cushions and into his crack, puddling under his thighs. He's used to scrubbing come out of the cushion covers, but this time, he's pretty sure the whole couch is a write-off.
Ilya whips his shirt over his head, exposing the twin gold necklaces shimmering against his chest. He leans forward between Shane's legs, a sparkle in his eye as he slides his full, pink lips around the head of the cage.
"Oh my god," Shane groans, his hands darting out to grab onto Ilya's shoulders, his nails immediately digging into the soft skin there as his boyfriend's dastardly little tongue slips between the bars—the first solid thing to directly touch his cock since he was caged. "Fuck, oh god, Ilya, shit," he babbles, an endless string of panicked expletives falling from his lips as his cock pulses against the bars.
When Ilya's lips slide further down, taking the whole damn cage into his hot, sloppy mouth, Shane can't help but jerk upwards, feeling the metal collide harshly against his boyfriend's teeth. He's already moaning out a garbled, "Fuck, sorry," as Ilya's forearm lands heavy on his lower stomach, holding him down tight across the dark purple bruise marring his skin. The pleasure-pain sparks wonderfully out through his core, and Shane drops his head back with a broken moan as tears spring to his eyes.
"Stay still," Ilya warns. Then, "Look at me." He wants to kill Shane—that's what's happening here. He's going to literally break Shane's brain.
Shane looks at him. Because of course he does.
Ilya meets his eyes as he lifts the cage with his free hand, sticking out his long tongue to showily lick the bars clean of piss and precome and saliva. "This is mine, yes?" he asks, blowing a cool stream of air right against the head of Shane's cock.
Shane can barely see him through a blur of overwhelmed tears, but he's nodding and whimpering and folding instantly. His cock is Ilya's. He is Ilya's. Ilya can have whatever he wants. "Yes, yes," he moans, wishing Ilya's tongue was on him again, "please, Ilya, I need—"
"I know what you need," Ilya murmurs, sucking the head of the cage back between his lips. He doesn't use his tongue, this time, just breathes hot and wet around Shane's pulsing cockhead until he's begging, pleading, sobbing above him.
Shane's nails drag up Ilya's shoulders, and he thinks he might've drawn blood as he starts to shake uncontrollably, pleas falling desperately from his lips. "Ilya, please, I'm going to come, please let me come, I'm—please let me, I'm so close, Ilya, I need it, I need—I can't—" his voice cuts off in his throat as his whole body seizes up, and at the very last second, Ilya cruelly pulls away.
"No, no, no, please, touch me," Shane begs, tears streaming down his cheeks. He's balancing dangerously on the precipice, hovering there as five, ten, fifteen seconds pass with Ilya just watching his cock like a hawk. He feels like a ticking time bomb, except—he doesn't explode.
Ilya exhales one hot breath across the head of Shane's cock, and Shane feels come start to drain out of him. It doesn't shoot, it just drools, more like a lazy piss stream than an orgasm.
"Fuck, again?" Shane sobs, feeling his cock pulse hard as every muscle in his body contracts and convulses with all of the tension and none of the pleasure of an orgasm. He watches Ilya cup a hand under his dick, catching his spend with a Cheshire Cat grin, and he can't help but whimper.
Shane is shaking and crying, feeling blood pool under his nails as he grips Ilya's shoulders, robbed of his second orgasm of the day. He didn't know it could happen like this, that Ilya could drain him of his come without Shane feeling like he got off at all. Like he released Shane's pressure, but not his pleasure. He's rock hard inside the cage as his cock drips sluggishly, still impossibly turned on but so overwhelmed and uncomfortable, so unsatisfied, so sexually frustrated.
His breath hitches in his throat when Ilya lifts his hand, drizzling Shane's wasted come messily over the bars of the cage with a dominant smirk.
"Ilya, please, what the fuck?" Shane babbles, feeling desperately like he needs more, but so oversensitive that the bars pressing in on his aching cock are making him lightheaded. "Please, I need—" He can't finish the sentence. Out. Freedom. An end to this suffering.
"Come with me," Ilya says, taking Shane's hand and dragging him through the house. They're both tracking piss and come all over the carpet from the living room towards the bedroom, but Shane can't even bring himself to care. He's so turned on that he can barely walk, stumbling behind Ilya on quivering legs, spurred entirely by the hope that Ilya has finally taken mercy on him, that he'll get his release at last.
In the hallway before the bedroom, Shane's tight balls brush against his legs in just the wrong-right way, and he doubles over on himself, crashing to his knees. His breath leaves him in a whoosh, his whole body trembling. He hears Ilya's voice. A question. "Are you coming?" Is he? Shane doesn't know. He looks down at his pulsing cock with blurry eyes, and nothing is coming out, his balls still firm and deep purple against his thighs. He's never felt anything like it.
"I don't know," Shane sobs, his head falling loose on his neck, "I don't know."
Ilya crouches in front of him, cupping Shane's cheek in a gentle hand as he scans Shane's face with a mix of concern and lust in equal measure. "Come on," he whispers, helping Shane back to his feet and tugging him into a tight embrace, his hard dick slotting into the crease of Shane's bare thigh, his cold sweats pressing wet against Shane's legs as he pets a hand through his hair. "You are such a good boy, I love you so much," Ilya murmurs in his ear, pulling back to lick a filthy kiss into Shane's mouth. "You have been so good for me, I'm so proud of you."
Shane lets himself be led the rest of the way into the bedroom. He's mostly in a daze as Ilya encourages him up onto the bed, lies him out on his back and runs a loving hand down the entire length of his body, from shoulder to ankle. He doesn't know what he wants or needs anymore—he's definitely not satisfied, but he's so overstimulated that he's not sure if he even wants anything to touch him.
He watches Ilya crouch beside the bed, returning quickly with a Hitachi vibrator in hand and crawling up to settle himself between Shane's knees. No. He can't. Shane shakes his head against the pillow, keeping his eyes locked on the Hitachi as he does. "I can't," he verbalises, "Ilya, please, I can't."
Ilya's face is gleeful as he hovers over Shane's body, the key to the cage dangling tantalisingly around his neck. His voice is a delighted whisper when he reminds Shane, "You know the words to make me stop." He gives Shane a few seconds to process, grinning wider when he gets a sad nod in response.
There's half a second for Shane to take a breath between Ilya turning on the vibrator and pressing it to the tip of the cage.
Shane screams, there's no other word for it. A gut-wrenching scream torn from his throat as powerful vibrations rattle through the metal, down the length of his cock, circling the base of his balls. His body arches and drops of its own volition, simultaneously chasing the feeling and trying to escape from it as his brain stops functioning, as all rational thought leaves him.
Ilya holds firm, keeping the vibrations right where Shane needs them until he's sobbing, his body convulsing, his abs clenching. His boyfriend lets out a guttural moan, and Shane doesn't know what's happening until he forces his blurry eyes open, watches squirts of piss being forced from the end of his dick as his body tightens and releases. If he can't come anymore, if Ilya has ruined that for him, his body will find another way—shooting out anything it can to release the pressure built up inside.
"Fuck, fuck, Shane," Ilya gasps, shoving down his freshly sodden sweats and rocking forwards to press the base of his cock against the Hitachi, sharing the vibrations with Shane. Although, for him, it's easy, and within ten seconds he's coming, shooting thick spurts of white across Shane's purple bruise, almost like he's showing off that he can, while Shane sobs through the overstimulation.
Shane's face is soaked with tears, and he grabs at Ilya's face with both hands, drawing him in for a breathless kiss—closer to just panting into his mouth as his fatigued muscles tighten and release, still spurting piss against Ilya's balls. "It's good, f-for you?" he asks against Ilya's lips, the only question that really matters.
Ilya switches off the Hitachi and discards it to the side, and Shane is so thankful that he feels like he could come just from losing the overbearing stimulation. "It is so, so good, Shane," Ilya pants, trailing kisses over Shane's face, down his sweaty neck. "Best prize ever."
Shane swallows, the sound loud to his own ears. He needs to come for real, his body is thrumming with it, craving a real touch. "Please, Ilya," he begs, "l-let me out, let me come." His voice is thready and weak, pathetic. "I've been good, I've suffered enough, please, it hurts so bad, Ilya, I need it." The thought of going even two more minutes without a hand on his cock seems unbearable to Shane, his stomach soaked in Ilya's third orgasm of the day when he's been denied every one of his.
"I'm so proud of you," Ilya murmurs, crawling backwards down Shane's body. He leaves the key necklace around his neck as he leans in close to unlock the padlock. The sound of the bolt releasing makes Shane's cock throb hopefully, anticipation starting to buzz in his ears. Ilya kisses Shane's hip, then the bars of the cage as he unthreads the padlock. The pressure instantly starts to release, Shane's growing cock rapidly pushing the cage away from his body.
He watches eagerly as Ilya slides the cage off of him, and he's not surprised to see deep, purple indents circling his swelling cock, mirroring what his stomach looked like immediately after Ilya removed the barbell. Shane wonders briefly if that's where Ilya got the idea, and then swiftly stops wondering things as Ilya's huge, warm hand wraps around his length, sending a harsh spike of pleasure-pain straight through Shane's chest.
"Fuck," he chokes, his voice high and keening, rocking into the touch. There's so much moisture—piss and come and precome—that there's no need for lube. Shane doesn't need anything but Ilya's perfect hand curling around him, stroking him exactly how Shane likes it.
Shane's hands slide over Ilya's shoulders, feeling dried, crusted blood under his fingertips as he finds purchase there, holding his breath against the onslaught of sensations he's been denied for so long. It only takes a few pulls, Ilya's fingers dragging over the aching, painful ridges dented into Shane's skin, before he's dropping his jaw to yell as the most powerful orgasm of his life slams through his core. He sees stars, sparking bright and powerful at the edge of his vision, before everything goes white, before everything goes dark.
When he blinks his eyes back open, Ilya is curled against his sweaty chest, his body rising and falling with every heavy breath Shane takes. His boyfriend must sense the shift in his awareness and lifts his head, the expression on his face betraying how incredibly pleased with himself he is. He should be, holy shit. "Did you like my reward?" he asks, smug and self-satisfied.
Shane doesn't have an answer to that. He doesn't know what to say to express the insane rollercoaster of emotions he's been through today, so he just pulls Ilya's head back down to his chest, letting out an exhausted laugh.
"Asshole," he murmurs, running his fingers through Ilya's curly hair.
"For you? Always."