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A wife and three kids upstairs. A minivan in the garage. Wedding photos nailed in wooden frames on the wall, crayon drawings tacked under magnets on the fridge— but it doesn't matter. Shane's dropping to his knees saying Yes, Captain anyway: the hush of the living room at midnight ringing in his ears.
In the locker room and on the ice, it's a different kind of command. Loud, and unashamed. All moving as one: a fraction of the muscle that keeps the heart of the city pumping devotion like blood through the street's veins. Within those walls, it's expected to be young and desperate for it— clinging onto every moment with a grip strong enough to choke Death itself.
After the first time, Shane promised himself it wouldn't happen again. He didn't seek it out. The cock shoved down his throat was just disciplinary action: and he was too eagerly displaying his interest before it was even presented as an option. It was all his fault, and he paid the price for it.
Shut up and take it, Shane was told.
But while he was gagging, the bellows of his lungs stoked a coarse heat through the coal in the pit of his stomach. Something hungry— something famished.
Fed only once before, every other pang torn to shreds before it could crawl its way out of him. That time, it was a provocation he couldn't ignore. Then, when the door to his hotel room shut, Shane felt something settling far under his skin. A constant itch that bled when scratched.
But the second time his face was fucked in this house, his eyes rolled back as he came in his sweatpants: his pelvis uselessly rutting against nothing while his hands were anchored on solid hips.
Such a slut for my cock, Shane was told, come hitting his face in thick ropes. Shouldn't let a pretty thing like you go to waste.
He knew from that moment on that he couldn't say no— that he didn't want to say no. The burning spread from Shane's stomach to his chest, up his throat, and settled into hazy fumes that fogged his mind. The sick knowledge of just how lucky he is to get to have this: something that he had pushed down for so long that he had forgotten it was there.
The second they get home from a game he's thinking about it; the heat and sweat pressing into his skin, musk enveloping his senses. The second the minivan takes off from the driveway, four figures strapped into its seats, he's thinking about it; hot and heavy in his palm, filling his mouth with something that silicone could never give him.
Shane hates it.
How it makes him come harder than he ever has before. How it occupies his every waking thought. How badly he wants it— needs it.
It was a mistake to buy the dildo and hide it in his room. He knew this, but he still did it. One day when he came home, he was greeted by its visage held up in a sturdy hand with a sly grin. It was asked of him, so Shane fucked himself with it: being watched from afar. His vision blurred at the edges as he came— his other hand feverishly pumping up and down his shaft, release coloring his stomach a translucent white.
Keep going, Shane was told. I'm waiting.
So he did.
It was agony as he pushed it deeper, his wrist turning in just the right way so he grazed his prostate every time. The lube dried up, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Somehow, his dick twitched to life again, straining painfully against his stomach: and he ruined his bedsheets twice more that evening.
The next night that they had the house to themselves, Shane was on his hands and knees: opening himself with his fingers while a cock rubbed onto the cleft of his ass. He should have been embarrassed by the amount of precome he was dripping just from his fingers slowly getting deeper and the friction against his skin, but he wasn't. There was only one thought inside of his head: how he was about to have the real thing inside of him.
Knots in his stomach untangled themselves when he heard the condom wrapper ripping open.
Can't be too careful with a whore like you, Shane was told. Spreading your legs for anyone who even so much as looks in your direction.
The whine that escaped him when the cock slid inside of him was obscene, something solidifying in the back of his mind as he was split straight down the middle. Hands gripped Shane's sides, sharp nails digging into him while he was rammed from behind, panting like a dog in heat. Every time his hips staggered backwards it felt like the wind was knocked out of him with each small ah ah ah. The headboard slammed against the wall: the linens beneath him stained with the memory of a woman he could barely look in the eyes anymore.
It didn't surprise Shane to hear her name clearly moaned more than once.
His entire body started to spiral into itself when his orgasm rushed through, shivers running down his legs and up his torso as his toes curled wildly— his cock untouched underneath him. His come shot so far up that it nearly painted his downturned chin.
It was certainly not the last time that Shane was tasked with laundering the sheets of that marital bed.
And now, his shins on the carpet, mouth opening wide: he can hear every voice in his head telling him that this is what he deserves. What he gets for sheltering these feelings inside of him. How his depravity has led to him being bent over the kitchen island, or pressed up against the shower tiles.
He did this to himself. He asked for it: begged for it.
That's it, Shane is told. Good boy.