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Shane’s pussy drips when Ilya walks into the room, thighs spreading themselves wide open without his volition. Ilya’s lips curl into a lazy smile, eyes roving over Shane.
Shane makes quite the picture—kneeling in the locker room wearing nothing but his ruined boxers, hands crossed behind his back. There’s no one here yet, but they’re going to start flooding in soon.
“Ready?” Ilya asks, pulling the puck out of his pocket. Shane whimpers, nodding through his gag. Drool slides down his chin, dripping down his neck and onto his chest—but it’s nothing compared to the absolute mess between his thighs. His boxers are ruined, and he can barely hold his balance from how fucking wet he is.
“We need to win this game,” Ilya says, walking to Shane in slow, measured steps. “You understand, yes?”
Shane nods again, breath hitching as Ilya gets closer and closer, the puck like a damn siren in his hands. Shane can’t stop staring at it, knowing where it’s going to end up.
Ilya comes to a stop a few inches before Shane, smirking down at him. Satisfaction rolls out of Ilya in waves, smug and heady, knowing he’s got Shane fucking Hollander on his knees for him, in the middle of the locker room where everyone can see.
“Up,” Ilya says, patting his thighs. Humiliation burns hot in Shane’s cheeks, but he goes, rising up on his haunches. Ilya makes a pleased little sound, twining his fingers in Shane’s hair. “Such a good pup,” Ilya croons, eyes alight with lust. Shane whimpers, clit twitching. “You ready, baby?”
Shane makes a garbled noise in his throat, pushing into Ilya’s touch. Ilya undoes the straps of the gag, and Shane coughs as it comes out, drool and spit everywhere. “Such a mess,” Ilya wrinkles his nose, but his voice is heavy with desire. He swipes a finger through the wetness on Shane’s chin and puts it in Shane’s mouth, eyes dark. Shane swallows a moan and sucks and swirls his tongue around that finger, hips rolling in circles as he tries to hump the open air, hornier than anyone has ever been. God, he wants to come, he wants Ilya’s fingers in his cunt, he wants—
Ilya clicks his tongue, the hand in Shane’s hair pulling sharply. Shane whines, but settles down—still. “Don’t get impatient now,” Ilya scolds, and brings the puck up to Shane’s lips. Shane swallows, fists clenched behind him. Ilya flicks his hand lazily, and Shane tracks the puck like a man hypnotised. “Get it wet.”
Shane’s tongue is lolling out before Ilya finishes his sentence, licking and slobbering all over the puck. Ilya watches with a pleased look on his face, and Shane sucks on the puck like he’d suck Ilya’s dick—wet and messy and loud. He’s being so loud. God, he’s so hot all over, aching with the need to come, with the need to be filled.
“Good boy,” Ilya says, and Shane laps up the praise like a dog starved. “Still.”
Shane whines but stills, all of him high-strung. It takes every bit of restraint in him to not shuffle forward and start grinding against Ilya’s leg, just for some damn relief, but he stills. Waits for Ilya to tell him to what to do.
“So sweet,” Ilya pats his cheek, pulling the puck away. Shane’s eyes roll back into his head, the humiliation and the praise a heady cocktail. “Up, now, come on.”
He grabs Shane by the back of his neck, pulling him up to his feet. Shane’s knees buckle but Ilya’s grip holds him up, and Shane goes where Ilya directs him, too out of it to do anything more than shut his eyes closed and whimper with the heat blazing between his thighs. Ilya lays him out on the bench, thighs falling open, and settles in between them.
“Shane. Shane,” Ilya taps his cheek again, harder this time. Not quite a slap. “Shane?”
“Ngh,” Shane moans, mustering up enough energy to snap his fingers twice to keep Ilya going. “M’good. S’good. Please.”
“Okay,” Ilya says, and slides his hands down, down until he’s grasping Shane’s tits with rough palms and squeezing. Shane moans, pussy clenching, whimpering when Ilya pinches his nipples. “Such a fucking slut,” Ilya says, delighted. “Are you wet, hm?”
So wet. He’s never been this wet in his life.
“Of course you are,” Ilya says, barely pausing to let Shane reply, not that Shane could. “My pretty little slut. You want your reward, baby?”
Shane nods, eyes still closed, hitching his hips up. “Please,” he croaks. “Sir, please.”
“Such good manners,” Ilya laughs delightedly, and then finally, finally, his hands find Shane’s cunt. Shane moans loudly as Ilya’s fingers plunge in, barely finding any resistance.
“Jesus Christ,” Ilya says, wondrous, pumping his fingers in and out, curling his fingers and hitting that damn spot that makes Shane fucking quake with want. “You’re so wet, baby. Have you been like this all this time?”
“Y-Yes,” Shane whines, choking when Ilya flicks his clit. His thighs are burning, with the effort of keeping his orgasm at bay. “Please, Sir.”
“Alright baby, hush,” Ilya slaps the underside of his thigh, tapping the wet puck against Shane’s entrance. Shane trembles, and he waits, waits, and then—
Screams as Ilya pushes the puck into him with one smooth, relentless slide. Ilya shushes him, toying with the puck, dragging it against Shane’s overstimulated walls. Shane whimpers as he comes, squirting all over Ilya. “Desperate, hm?” Ilya croons, delighted, fingering him with the puck over and over until he comes again, fingers scrabbling against the wood as he loses all sense of himself. “One more, baby,” Ilya whispers, kissing his clit as he works Shane towards the edge again, pussy clenching.
God, it’s so big and so heavy, and Shane’s taken it before, but it’s just so much every time. “S—Sir,” Shane wheezes, eyes fluttering open. “Big, it’s—”
“It’ll fit,” Ilya says gently, rubbing Shane’s clit with firm fingers, barely letting up for a second. “It always fits, doesn’t it? Perfect little pussy. So fucking good for me.”
“Ilya,” Shane chokes, and gets a harsh slap on his thigh for it. “Sir,” he babbles. “Sir, please—”
Ilya kisses his clit, slipping another finger beside the puck, and Shane’s back arches off the bench as he comes again, howling.
God, how many times is that? Three? Four?
“One more,” Ilya croons, biting Shane’s hip. “One more and we’re done, hm? You think you can?”
“Ngh,” Shane twitches, aftershocks rolling through him like a wave.
“That’s a yes,” Ilya licks at his clit again, pleased, and Shane slumps back onto the bench, sobbing as he comes again. And again. And again.
“My good luck charm,” Ilya says, hours or days later. All smug, pressing a kiss to the crease of his hip when Shane sobs he can’t do one more. “Keeping the puck warm so we can win, yes?”
“Y—Yes,” Shane gasps, wrecked entirely. He’ll never be whole again, not after this.
“Good boy,” Ilya says, patting his pussy once, twice. Shane’s clit twitches, valiantly doing its best to get him to come again. Shane whines.
Ilya kisses him then, finally. Lips crash against his, and Shane cries into Ilya’s mouth, overwhelmed and full, the puck warm inside him.
Ilya kisses and kisses him, draping himself all over Shane, waiting till Shane’s body stops shaking. Whispers how good he’s being, letting Ilya take care of him. Praises him and touches him and drives Shane fucking mad.
Shane’s just starting to come back to himself, when —
“Game starts in thirty minutes,” Ilya says, pulling away just enough so Shane can look him in the eye. “We need the puck, sweetheart.”
“Oh, god,” Shane moans, realisation bowling him over.
They need the puck. That’s inside him.
Ilya grins, dipping down to kiss him again. “Ready?”
“Now?” Shane whispers, heart racing, even though he knows, even though he was the one that decided it was going to play out like this.
Ilya’s eyes glint. “Now,” he confirms, sliding down Shane’s body, spreading Shane’s thighs open once again. Holy shit.
Shane moans, wrecked, and Ilya goes down on him again, laughing the whole time.
They win the game. Of course they do. When the reporters ask Ilya about it, he just winks. “We had a good puck tonight,” he says, Shane standing shoulder to shoulder with him, pussy still throbbing. “Isn’t that right, Shane?”
”Right,” Shane smiles politely at the reporter, squeezing Ilya’s waist in warning. Ilya just grins at the camera.
And when they get home, Shane ties Ilya to the bed and takes him apart until he can’t remember his name anymore.