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It starts simply enough. Ilya has him pinned to the bed, his mouth on Shane's neck the way he likes, his hands loose on Shane's wrists. They aren't naked, not yet, but that's just a matter of time; right now, Shane is enjoying the frustration of his cock held back by his pants, the pull of his shirt twisted tight at his waist. Ilya releases one of Shane's wrists to grope at his fly, sliding the zipper down, setting him free, and because it's too soon, too easy, too good, Shane moans "oh no" just softly, the barest whisper of breath, already arching up into Ilya's hand.
But Ilya lets him go, pushing himself up on one corded, muscled arm so he can see Shane's face. "What's wrong?"
Wrong? Shane blinks, his hips still moving, chasing contact. "Huh?"
"You said no," Ilya says.
"What?" Shane blinks again, trying to remember anything beyond the quiver in his cock. "I said no?"
Ilya nods, his eyes serious. "Just now. When I touched your cock."
"Oh!" Shane realizes. "No. I mean, yeah, I did, but I didn't mean no."
Ilya's eyebrows furrow. "You didn't mean it. This is an English thing?"
"No," Shane says. "No, it's just . . . I liked what was happening, and then it got too . . . I don't know. Like I wanted it to happen and I wanted to make it last longer at the same time."
Ilya scrutinizes him. "You want to say no, and for me to know you mean yes," he says finally.
The words send a shiver down Shane's spine. He wouldn't have said it that way, but hearing it, yes, it makes sense. "Yes," he admits.
Ilya smirks. "Okay," he says. "But we must have another word then. If 'no' does not mean no, what do we say if we really want to stop?"
Shane picks the first word that comes to mind. "Chirp."
Ilya smiles. "Okay. So, while we are doing this—" he runs a hand over Shane's body, cupping his hand over Shane's softening cock, which begins to leap back to life the second he touches it. "—I do not stop unless you say 'chirp.'"
"Okay," Shane breathes.
Ilya presses his mouth against Shane's neck again, his breath hot on Shane's skin. "'No,' 'stop,' 'don't'—these words mean nothing to me. Only chirp.'"
Shane nods. "Only chirp.'"
"Mmm," Ilya growls against his neck.
For some reason, Shane expects things to go faster, get rougher, now that they've talked, but Ilya seems to have taken the conversation as an opportunity to slow way down, to toy with Shane. He mouths the sensitive skin under Shane's jaw, his fingertips brushing lightly over Shane's erection through the cloth of his briefs. Shane can't help but squirm under the attention, longing to stay right where he is, one arm still pinned above his head, and desperate for Ilya to touch him at the same time.
"Fuck," he mutters as Ilya traces one single finger over the head of his cock. There's a dark spot already on his gray briefs. "You fucking tease."
"You like it," Ilya murmurs, lifting his head. The kiss is intense, Ilya's tongue sweeping into his mouth, pinning him in place, but the hand on his cock is still faint, barely there, torturous. "Maybe I do this to you all night, until you beg to come."
"I'll beg right now," Shane pants, thrusting his dick up at Ilya's hand, which lifts easily away.
"Ah ah." Ilya kisses him again. "You have to let me."
"Ilya, please," he says, and he knows he's whining, he knows it, but he can't help himself. He's so hard, and Ilya's so hard, he can feel Ilya's cock pressing into his hip. If he hadn't said anything, they might be fucking by now.
"Shh," Ilya purrs, hooking one finger in the waistband of Shane's boxers and pulling the elastic up and over Shane's cock, so his erection juts up proudly, leaking, bobbing out of the fabric bunched at Shane's hips.
Shane sighs, finally free. But he's wrong, because Ilya stops touching his dick altogether, trailing his fingers up Shane's belly to the buttons on his shirt.
"No," Shane groans before he realizes what he's doing. His eyes flick to Ilya, who pauses for a moment, his eyes on Shane, then smiles and keeps going, talented hands dancing from one button to the next, slipping them through the buttonholes, until Shane's shirt is open top to bottom, exposing him. Ilya's light fingertips run over Shane's belly, his ribs, the erect tips of his nipples, making him groan again. "Don't, Ilya," Shane says, as Ilya rubs a nipple between his fingers. "Don't tease me."
In response, Ilya closes his mouth over the other nipple, sucking it, flicking it with his tongue, testing it lightly with his teeth.
"Oh, fuck you," Shane mutters, unable to stop arching his back into the sensation, his cock leaping in response. Desire surges through Shane. He hadn't thought it would be such a big deal, saying no, but it makes whatever happens afterwards forbidden, dangerous. "Fuck you."
"You don't like it?" Ilya asks, planting a wet kiss on Shane's sternum.
"No," Shane says. It's true and untrue all at once. He desperately wants Ilya to stop teasing him, to get to fucking him, and also he never wants this to stop, ever.
"Mmm," Ilya says, and closes his mouth on Shane's other nipple, aware as always to how important symmetry and fairness is to Shane. Shane drops one hand into Ilya's hair, the curls looping around his fingers like tentacles, warm and alive. Ilya's tongue dances across Shane's sensitive flesh in response, and Shane moans and then, suddenly, Ilya pushes himself up with both hands and lowers himself between Shane's thighs and then Shane's cock is in his mouth, hot and sucking, that magic tongue flickering over the head, and Shane is gasping, his hands flailing, his whole body convulsing and he hears himself—
"no, Ilya, fuck, oh my God, I'm gonna cum, wait, wait, stop, Ilya no, no!"
—and just before he's over the edge, Ilya pulls away and Shane thrusts up into the air, his voice cracking with disappointment, cum running down his trembling cock, anticlimactic and dissatisfying.
Shane pants, trying to get air back in his lungs. Is this what he asked for? He's not sure. Maybe he and Ilya should talk before—
But Ilya apparently isn't interested in talking; he grabs Shane's thighs and drags him to the end of the mattress, stripping off his pants and underwear in one smooth motion. Then he kneels at the end of the bed, and spreads Shane's thighs and leans back in, his warm tongue lapping at Shane's balls, at his still-hard cock, at the cum cooling in the crease of Shane's thigh.
"No, wait," Shane says, propping himself on his elbows, but Ilya doesn't stop, sucking the head of Shane's cock into his perfect mouth like he's kissing it, making out with it, swallowing it whole. "oh God," Shane murmurs, his head tipping back because he can feel it, the second orgasm, swelling in his dick already, but they should talk, they should . . .
Ilya replaces his mouth with one hand so he can get to Shane's balls, suck them into his mouth one at a time, lick them, lave them with his tongue, caress the sensitive skin underneath with his free hand. It's somehow both comforting and arousing, Ilya's mouth surrounding him down there, and Shane sags back onto the mattress. Then Ilya kneels up, Shane's legs hooked over his shoulders, raising Shane's hips just enough that Ilya's hand can stroke in the cleft of his ass and find his hole.
"No," Shane moans, as he feels Ilya's finger brush the sensitive flesh, even as he widens his thighs. "Don't do it. Please. Don't."
Ilya does anyway, stroking over the opening, tickling it, rubbing it, slipping his finger in, just the tip, barely, then removing it, never giving Shane the complete satisfaction.
"Oh, fuck," Shane mutters. He's humping nothing, the air, caught between trying to get Ilya to move the hand firm around the base of his cock and impale himself on the finger taunting his hole, able to accomplish neither. "Fuck you, you fucking asshole."
Ilya presses his finger, flat and firm against Shane's asshole. "No, you, I think," he murmurs against Shane's cock.
Shane shudders at the vibration of his voice, and then Ilya lifts his head and slides Shane's cock back into his mouth. It's not the complete onslaught of before, just the hot, wet, tight cavern of lips and teeth, and he doesn't move at all, except for his finger still gliding over Shane's hole, urging Shane's hips up and down, and that's when Shane realizes: Ilya wants him to fuck his mouth.
"No." Shane rolls his head back and forth on the bedding. "No, I won't." But even as he says it, his abs, his glutes are firing, pushing his cock between Ilya's perfect lips, dragging it out through their suction. "Fuck you," he groans, doing it again. "You can't . . . make me . . . fuck . . ."
It's a strange angle, his thighs braced over Ilya's shoulders, his ass a few inches above the mattress, his hands flat on the bed to give himself leverage, and it's also hot, watching himself slide in and out of Ilya's mouth, feeling that fucking finger against his hole every time he lets his hips drop. He can't help but do it again and again, moaning when Ilya sucks on him, when Ilya's tongue swipes at the head of his cock.
It only takes a minute before Shane is pistoning his hips up and down, his whole field of vision Ilya's lips, red, spit sliding from one corner of his mouth, his cheeks hollow with suction, and Ilya's beautiful eyes, liquid, gazing at Shane through the sheen of tears.
"Don't," Shane begs him, even as he fucks up into Ilya's mouth. "Don't make me cum. Please."
Ilya's tongue ripples against the underside of Shane's cock. Ilya's finger slips barely inside him. Shane, sweat-sheened, frantic, doesn't know what he's doing except that he can't stop, he can't stop his hips plunging up and down, arching his back, his voice a high litany of "no, Ilya, no, don't. No no no."
His orgasm bursts out of him at the apex of a thrust, stunning him, his hips frozen up off the bed like a still life while Ilya sucks him in, keeping Shane in his mouth until he is completely drained. "fuck fuck fuck," Shane pants, when Ilya finally releases him, collapsing back onto the mattress like he doesn't have a bone in his body. Shane loses both hands in his own hair, trying to catch his breath, keep his heart from galloping out of this throat.
"That was—" he says, but Ilya hooks a hand around one of his knees and rolls him over, his legs hanging off the bed, hinged at the hip, and before Shane can register what has happened, he feels Ilya's tongue, that fucking magic tongue, at his hole, pushing in and out, soothing the already-sensitive skin.
"No, please," Shane moans. He can't take any more. He can't do anymore.
In response, Ilya uses both hands to spread his ass wide and shove his tongue deeper.
"Oh my god, fuck you," Shane gasps even as he can feel himself pushing his ass back to get more. "Leave me alone! I can't! I can't do it again."
Ilya climbs up Shane's body, pressing his whole naked self against Shane's back, and leans down, his mouth next to Shane's ear. "Say it," Ilya says, his stiff cock bumping against Shane's asshole. "You know what to say to make me stop."
Shane squirms, relishing the weight, and the feeling of being out of control and in control all at once. He can stop this anytime, but until he does, Ilya owns him. "No," he says, soft, then again, defiant. "No."
Ilya kisses the patch of skin behind his ear, and then his weight is gone, but the slick head of his cock is not. It presses into Shane, wet with lubricant, just a little, then out again, in a bit further, then out, in, then out, just like his finger had, close but not close enough, more fucking torture from the master of the cock tease, Ilya Fucking Rozanov.
"Don't fuck me," Shane begs. "Please, don't. I can't take it."
As an answer, Ilya slides his cock all the way in, slow and deliberate, until his legs hit the backs of Shane's thighs, and just stays there for a moment, his hands curved around Shane's ass. "Do you like this?"
Shane shakes his head, frantic. "No."
Ilya stokes his warm hands down Shane's trembling back under the shirt he is somehow still wearing. "Do you want this?"
"No," Shane whispers. "No, I don't."
Ilya thrusts, and Shane cries out. It's so fucking good he feels like he's going blind, losing sight of everything that matters except Ilya. Always Ilya.
"Do you need this?" Ilya murmurs, rocking into him, gaining momentum.
"No," Shane whimpers. Improbably, he can feel his cock getting hard, urged back into life by Ilya's dick pounding his prostate and the soft friction of the duvet. "I don't need anything from you."
Ilya laughs and fucks him harder, until Shane is moaning at every thrust, sometimes only sounds, sometimes words of protest—no, stop, don't, please—all of them made more delicious by the Shane's knowledge that these words have no power right now, that he can't use them to hide from what's happening to him.
"I am going to fuck you so good, Hollander," Ilya growls, hauling Shane's hips closer, like he's not already hitting Shane's prostate with every deep stroke. "I'm going to make you cum on my cock."
"No," Shane whines. It's not possible. Not after everything already. He can't do it again. "No, Ilya."
"Yes, Shane," Ilya murmurs and pulls Shane back so that he's almost standing, rocked up onto his tiptoes each time Ilya pounds into him.
Shane's dizzy with lust, his whole body confused, his hands and feet tingling, his head down, lost in motion, when he realizes he's going to cum again. "Oh my god," he whines. "Ilya."
"Shane," Ilya says, his own voice ragged, which Shane would be glad to hear if he could hear anything over the rosary of denial he is spewing in time with each thrust.
"Don't, oh god, oh my god, I can't, I can't, Ilya." Shane clenches his hands in the sheets. "Fuck you! No. No, don't make me, don't, no—"
And then it's too late, all his denials for nothing, all his words lost, and he's convulsing on the bedspread, pinned down by Ilya's cock, Ilya's broad hands on his back, Ilya's shout of his own orgasm like a roar in Shane's ear.
Afterward, Shane cannot move. He lies face down on the mattress, helpless and still, his voice only a whimper as Ilya pulls out of him, his toes still dug into the carpet, his shirt still on, his ass still exposed. Ilya flops down next to him, strokes Shane's hair away from his face.
"We are done now, I think," he murmurs, kissing Shane's cheek. "Chirp chirp, yes?"
"Chirp," Shane mumbles. He thinks maybe he will stay here forever, planted on this mattress, his arms at his sides, his bare butt hanging off the end of the bed. He does not think he will ever be able to leave. "I can't move."
"Mmm. Come here." Ilya manhandles him until he's on his hands and wobbly knees on the mattress and can crawl the two feet it takes to collapse onto the pillows, then pulls Shane to his chest. Shane closes his eyes. He needs water, probably, or something with electrolytes, but all he wants to do is feel Ilya's warm skin under his cheek, Ilya's strong arms around him.
Ilya tips his chin up and kisses him, sweet, tender, calming. "You are okay?"
Shane sighs. When he opens his eyes, Ilya's on him are steady, a little concerned. "I'm so good," he says. "Just . . . worn out."
Ilya squeezes him close. "Sleep for a minute," he says.
Shane closes his eyes, nuzzles Ilya's chest, his whole body slumped into relaxation. Right before he loses consciousness, he hears Ilya's voice rumble under his ear.
"Next time, maybe, I will tie you up."
The End