Chapter Text
“H—how does it feel?” Shane asks. His voice is scraped raw like he’s been the one getting fucked. He’s not even sure who he’s asking, really. Rose, maybe.
Or maybe Shane is asking Ilya, as he fucks into her. It’s hard, the way Ilya does it. His hips are slamming against hers; it sounds gross, obscene, a wet slapping of hips mixed with groans and the Russian words Ilya keeps saying. His hands are planted wide on her hips: they’re huge, broad hockey-player hands on Rose’s slender hips.
And Shane, too. Shane is making noises. They’re little exhales of breath, almost whimper-like, if he thinks about it too much. It’s just—he can’t seem to fucking think, to control himself, when Ilya is fucking into Rose like that: his head tipped back, a sheen of sweat across his face, the tendons of his throat exposed.
He looks like a fucking man, Shane thinks, wildly. Like how a fucking man should look, big and powerful and relentless as he fucks her.
Ilya’s head turns towards Shane. Their eyes meet. Only then does Shane remember what he asked. How does it feel?
“You wanna know?” Ilya says. His voice is deep, thick with his Russian accent, with arousal. It makes Shane grip onto the arms of the armchair, squeeze the velvety fabric under his fingertips, rock his hips forwards into nothing like he can reach them.
“Fuck, fuck yes,” Shane says, and he’s straining upwards into nothing and it’s obscene the noise that Rozanov’s hips make. It’s—it’s wet and loud and Shane can’t—
Rozanov’s mouth is half-open as he watches Shane. His pace slows; he groans, slow and loud, and tips his head back.
Why are you looking at me? Shane thinks in the haze of his dizzy desperation. That’s not cucking etiquette, asshole.
But Ilya is looking anyway. He grins, wide, arrogant, smirking. “It’s wet,” he says. “Tight. So fucking tight, Hollander. You hear it?”
With that, Ilya’s hips slam forwards. Shane gasps like he’s there too, like he can feel the weight of Rozanov's hips against his own, wet and hot and tight. He whimpers, squirms against the armchair like he’s tied to it. He wishes he was tied to it; he wishes he could strain against the ties and pretend he didn’t put himself here willingly. Like he hadn’t said to Rose: maybe something new would help.
Like she can hear his thoughts, Rose’s head turns. She watches him, says: “Stay there, Shane.”
Ilya’s gaze returns to Shane. He looks curious. Fuck off, Shane thinks. This is between the cuck and the cuckolded. It’s a dynamic you wouldn’t understand.
He’s not sure Rose really understands the dynamic either. Maybe it’s just Shane. Because Shane knows about this: he knows the powerless submission to her. He knows the way it feels to see this happen, to say yes, Rose, like they’re into BDSM shit.
Which they’re not. It’s their next thing to try if the cuckolding shit doesn’t work. At least, it’s next on Shane’s list. He hasn’t asked Rose yet.
Because how else can he start to get it up for her?
Rose groans. She’s close. Ilya turns to Shane, looks into his eyes as if to say: see. I can make her come. Ilya doesn’t know that it’s Shane who has the problems coming, he supposes.
Shane’s legs move apart. He wants to touch himself; he doesn’t. He’s not allowed. He’s only allowed to watch, to hear the slam of hips, the groans, the whimpers from his own mouth.
“Please,” he says, his voice half-gone like he’s the one getting fucked. Ilya grins, and then Rose is coming. And then Ilya comes with a groan deep inside her into the condom. Shane is shivering, his cock pulsing with blood, his legs trembling.
“Well,” Shane says after. “That was successful.”
Ilya looks down at where Shane’s boner has refused to go down. It’s now sticking obscenely up in his sweatpants. He looks back up at Shane, smirks.
“That was successful,” Shane repeats. “We did what we planned.”
“Yes,” Rose says, coming out of the bathroom. “Is there anything you want to change, Shane? If we do this again?”
“Oh,” Shane says. “I have—I have a couple of things.” He looks down at the notepad he wrote in whilst Rose was in the bathroom. “Handcuffs, maybe.”
“For who?”
“Me.”
“Okay,” Rose says. She strokes a hand through Shane’s hair. Ilya is watching with that curious look in his eyes again. “Anything else?”
“Well—maybe I could, uh, get involved, next time?”
“Like what?” Ilya says, taking a step forwards.
“Like—well,” Shane says, looking down again at the paper. “If you come in her without a condom, for example,” he says. “I could lick it out of her afterwards.”
Ilya studies him. “Right,” he says. His eyes narrow. Shane had always thought that there wasn’t much going on inside Ilya Rozanov’s head, but he seems to be thinking fairly deeply about something or other.
“Just an example.” Shane says. He can feel himself pouting.
Whilst Rose showers, they move downstairs to the kitchen. Ilya sits on the couch with his legs spread wide, while Shane reluctantly approaches the coffee machine: it’s a huge, shiny thing that he bought as his treat for winning the Stanley Cup. Coffee had been his new project, much like cuckolding. But, as of yet, cuckolding has proved much easier.
He presses a few buttons in the hopes that one might work, Ilya watching from the couch. His gaze still has that same unblinking intensity it had during sex: but Ilya always looks unreasonably intense to Shane. It’s uncomfortable. Maybe it’s something to do with the set of his eyes or the size of his browbone. Shane presses fine on the section he thinks is the coffee grinder and a mechanical screeching begins. Wonderful. They won’t have to talk.
But no, when it’s finished, the coffee smell filtering through the kitchen, Ilya speaks. He’s still unreasonably intense in his stare as he says: “You liked it? Cucking?”
“Yes,” Shane says slowly. Is this a trap? He tamps down the espresso with a full-bodied but completely reasonable force. “Actually, the correct term is cuckolding,” he adds, and frowns at the buttons for the various sizes of espresso.
“Ah,” Ilya says. Shane can hear the smirk in his voice. “I like to be watched, I think. So it works well.”
“Obviously,” Shane says, and taps the espresso thing on the counter like he knows what he’s doing. He wants to slide a hand down and squeeze himself, get a bit of relief from where he’s still achingly hard. But no.
“What do you mean by that?” Ilya says.
“I mean you like to have everything be a performance. You’re obsessed with flashy goals and all that shit. And all those sports cars, and the women, and the clubs—”
“Okay,” Ilya says. “I get it.” He’s pouting, when Shane looks over. It’s cute; Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen an expression like that on Ilya’s face before. He’d say it looks unnatural, but actually—it sort of looks fitting, like when you look close enough at a bear and realise it’s sort of adorable.
And then the way that Ilya had groaned as he came into Rose pops back into Shane’s mind. He clears his throat, blood rushing to his cheeks, and accidentally blasts a screeching gust of hot steam at himself. By the time he hands a cup to Ilya, Ilya is grinning wryly at him. “What’s this supposed to be?” Ilya says, frowning down at the latte art.
“A swan.” Shane sits down with his own cup next to Ilya (why is he still here?) and wonders where the hell Rose is.
It’s silent, for a moment. And then: “So you like the way I fuck?” Ilya says.
“I—um. It’s not my style, really. But I, uh—like to watch it.”
“You like it slower?” Ilya turns sideways, a devious grin on his face. He’s more like an evil gremlin, not a cute bear, Shane thinks. And then Ilya’s hand is inching sideways. It finds Shane’s leg. Shane inhales sharply; Ilya squeezes the muscle there and Shane—fuck—
“You have lots of muscle, hmm?” Ilya says. His voice is stupidly casual. “You can surely fuck her hard. Why d’you need me to do it?”
Shane swallows tightly. “It’s not for her, asshole. It’s for me.”
“Yes. Relationship problems, no? But it all seemed good today.”
Shane clears his throat and takes a sip of the too-hot coffee. It burns his throat as it goes down and makes his tongue sandpapery. It doesn’t taste bad, though. He seems to be better at coffee than cuckolding. “Yeah,” he says. “So I wasn’t getting hard, actually. That was the problem in the relationship.”
“Ah. Okay. You like watching me fuck her hard, then? Like this?” Ilya makes a vulgar gesture with his hands like they’re on Rose’s hips, his coffee cup tucked between his legs. It’s dangerously close to spilling. “Or,” Ilya continues, “you want to get closer?”
Shane looks down at his coffee. “Don’t you mind?” he says, pertinently ignoring Ilya’s gesturing. “I mean—won’t it be weird for you to be that close to me?”
Ilya laughs, then. It’s low and relaxed, like nothing takes any effort for him. Everything seems like a game to him: fucking, fingering, watching Shane. All of it is fun, simple. “I like both,” he says. “A man with muscles like this being involved—” he squeezes Shane’s thigh again. Shane shuts his eyes, takes a deep, long breath. “It’ll only make it better,” Ilya says.
And fucking hell does Shane gulp.
“What did you think?” Rose asks later, when it’s just Shane and her in the bedroom. It smells like her perfume—sweet and floral, a little vanilla, maybe. But if Shane tries hard enough, he can just about smell Ilya’s cologne too, the musky depth of it, and maybe—maybe also the smell of sex and sweat, of bodies. Maybe—if he tries hard enough. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it.
“I liked it,” he says. “Thank you for trying it.”
“You’re welcome. I like it when you enjoy sex. It’s refreshing to see.”
Shane smiles despite all the flagging boners, the failed orgasms, the awkward smiles of the past three years. He’s glad that they opened up the relationship. “How was it for you?”
“Good,” she says. “Really good. He fucks like a machine, you know?”
“Yeah, I—yeah,” Shane says, breathless. He swallows tightly. His boner has gone down, mostly, but still—he could—he could try to cum, maybe. “You should—” he starts. “You should say more about it. I feel like maybe I could—”
Rose looks down, nods. She’s so patient, Shane thinks, as she lies back on the bed and beckons Shane to lie between her thighs. Her underwear is thin and lacey, and maybe it—maybe it even has some of Ilya left on it, from when he’d pushed it aside, pushed in his tongue, his fingers.
“Fuck,” Shane whispers, and pushes his nose into the fabric. It smells like her, like usual, which he likes. Of course. But maybe—maybe there’s also a different musk to it, the musk of a cock, of Ilya. Of Ilya, who likes both. That means he’s bisexual, right? And that means he likes women and men. Shane squirms and pushes his nose further forwards.
He pushes the fabric aside, pushes his nose in, nuzzles. And it’s—it’s still fucking wet, fucking dripping. No wonder it sounded like that.
“You know,” Rose says, trailing a finger up Shane’s arm. “His cock was fucking huge.”
“Yeah?” It comes out like a whine, pushed into the wet heat of her cunt. He licks a broad stripe up it, and maybe—maybe he can just taste—
“It felt fucking huge inside of me. And his hands—”
“Yeah—yeah.” Shane’s hips press down, once, into the mattress beneath him. It drags over his cock, so light, but so, so fucking much. He breathes in again.
“His hands on my hips. God. His strength, fucking into me. Like—I felt like he was so deep inside. Like he was in my womb.”
“Yeah—” And again, Shane grinds downwards, gasps, licks into her. He imagines Ilya’s cock, wide and big and deep where it pushes inside, pulls out with a slow drag, slams back in. He imagines Ilya’s eyes as he pushes in. He imagines himself, not watching from a chair, but sitting against the headboard, watching Ilya’s face as he fucks into her, hearing the groan as he comes.
And again, Shane’s hips grind downwards. He licks further in, sucks on her clit, licks a stripe through the wet taste like Ilya is still there on his tongue.
And— “Fuck, fuck,” he’s gasping, and Rose is gasping too, and he’s coming in his sweatpants with a gasping groan, his eyes squeezed shut like he can feel Ilya’s dick spearing him open.
He sits up slowly, his chest rising and falling in a quick, sharp beat. “Well,” Rose says, smiling. “I think that was a success.”
The next time Ilya comes over it’s a few days later. It’s midday exactly on their day off, optimally timed for both recovery and sleep. Shane places his notebook next to him, the handcuffs next to that, and pen with three spares in case of emergencies. Oh, and a spare pack of condoms for Ilya.
As he waits in the armchair, he’s already half-hard, sort of squirming and glancing at the bed like Ilya is already there. Rose greets Ilya at the door and brings him upstairs, which Shane hears loud and clear because Ilya has comically loud footsteps, a sort of marching thump that contrasts Rose’s gentle footsteps.
“Shane,” Ilya says when he pushes open the bedroom door. He’s wearing a sleeveless top which accentuates the muscle of his arms and shoulders. They look bulging, tanned against the white fabric. Definitely intentional on Ilya’s part; but anyway, why would Shane care? He knows that Ilya has huge muscles. It’s not new, nor will it make a difference to the sex. Except, maybe—maybe it will. Those arms definitely look amazing holding Rose’s hips…
Ilya steps forwards to take the handcuffs into his hand. He looks at them carefully, then at Shane, then at the armchair. He’s got a focussed frown on his face which Shane has never seen before. He didn’t realise Ilya was capable of so many expressions.
“I like the handcuffs,” Ilya says. “Very much. Very, very much. But, uh—where do I tie you to?”
“Oh.” Shane glances down at the armchair, and—right, nowhere to attach a handcuff. He swallows tightly, looks at the bed. “Could I, uh—on the bed? If that’s okay with—?”
“Yeah,” Rose says. “Of course, Shane.”
Ilya smirks and approaches Shane. “That’s definitely okay with me,” he says, and stands above Shane with a gleeful smirk on his face, his eyes wandering over Shane’s body. Shane sort of likes it, really, having a view of Ilya’s bulging chest. But still—he stands so that they’re almost touching, and offers a hand to Ilya.
Ilya, with gentle hands, clasps the handcuff around Shane’s wrist and shuts it with a click.
“Excited?” he murmurs, his fingertips brushing over the cuff to make sure it’s in place.
“Yeah,” Shane says. He’s almost close enough to feel Ilya’s breath against his lips, or to lean forwards and press their bodies together. It’d feel strange to do that, right? Sort of against the rules of nature, or something. Because two buff, strong, tall guys—that’s not natural, right? Though maybe it’d be interesting to feel it. It’d feel more like Shane was pressing up against something sturdy, something strong, something different to Rose’s slender build. Maybe it’d feel like a fight, even; Shane would have to fully submit to make sure it wouldn’t be misinterpreted. He wants to lay back and enjoy, to let somebody else take control. Not a fight.
And the cuffs, too—they’re metal, unforgiving against his skin if he was to try and escape. The metal is cold and unforgiving; he’s glad he went to extra effort to avoid the pink fluffy ones. Like this, the metal contrasts the warmth of Ilya’s hands against his skin.
“Ready?” Ilya asks.
“Yeah.” So Ilya leads Shane to the bed; Shane shuffles onto it, across the cool sheets and towards the slats of the headboard. Ilya follows; he reaches out and clips the other end of the cuffs to one of the slats. When his gaze returns to Shane, it’s careful (another expression Shane didn’t know Ilya could make), running over Shane’s face and down the cuff.
“It feels okay?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, his breath caught in his throat like he can’t breathe properly. There’s something about the slide of the cuff across his skin, the weight of Ilya’s gaze—and of course his wonderful girlfriend across the room. He just—he’s hard, he can’t breathe, he just needs—
“Come on,” he says, and tugs at Ilya’s arm to encourage him.
Ilya frowns, steady and sort of teacher-like. “I decide,” he murmurs, and moves off the bed and towards Rose. He glances back at Shane. “You wait, and watch. You can’t move.”
Shane’s muscles all tense like he’s on the verge of orgasm. His throat, too, is tight as he watches Rose smile at Ilya, friendly and patient as she always is; Ilya slides a hand up her side, cups her mouth, turns their bodies so that he can see Shane. Like that, watching Shane, he kisses Rose slow and sultry, their bodies pressed together.
God—that must feel—that must make Rose dizzy, being kissed like that, with Ilya’s tongue pressing in, with the gasps and the flowing movement—Shane tugs at the handcuffs. A jolt of energy thrums through his body. He’s stuck, completely and utterly. Powerless, vulnerable, Ilya’s eyes upon him.
They move towards the bed as time blurs around Shane. He can’t seem to think—it’s been a while, right, that they’ve been kissing? It feels like it. Or maybe it’s been no time at all. Maybe desperation has seized Shane’s mind and made it feel like Ilya has been kissing her for a century while Shane has been squirming, whimpering, tugging against the handcuffs.
Ilya pulls off Rose's top, her bra, her jeans, and pulls off his own clothes until the curve of his abdomen is revealed. His shoulders bulge with muscle, his chest too; but his abdomen curves down into a surprisingly slender waist, where all the muscles seem to gather into a point. He pulls off his sweatpants, and—yeah, the curve of his ass, the width of his thighs—Shane strains against the handcuffs, pulls his own legs apart.
Rose climbs onto the bed and lays with her head just beneath Shane’s body. Ilya follows her, crawling like he’s crawling towards Shane; he tips downwards, Rose’s hand sliding into his hair. Like Shane had done just a couple of days ago, he pushes his nose against her, licks a stripe up her cunt, again, again, sucks on her clit, groans into her. She sighs, her body moving softly against the sheets. And no—that’s not right: Shane wants her to be moaning, whining, squirming like he is, trying to push into the touch. Doesn't she know that she's got six-foot something of huge, heavy muscle and a huge fucking cock in front of her? If that was Shane, in a different universe, of course—he wouldn't just be sighing. It's almost irritating, really. He wants her to fucking moan.
“Come on,” Shane blurts, the words falling out of his mouth, and Ilya looks up. His gaze is searching; whatever he sees on Shane’s face, it makes him pull Rose’s legs further apart and press in further. She gasps and grasps his hair tighter, holding her legs apart. Shane, too, pulls his legs apart like Ilya is between his own legs. He watches with a half-open mouth and panting breath as Rose shudders once, twice, and comes as Ilya continues to lick and suck.
And then, more: they’re turning over, Rose is folding herself against the sheets, almost between Shane’s legs, and Ilya is close, his face maybe two metres away, but it feels as if he’s pressed against Shane and Shane can feel every gasp of breath and every groan he releases.
Like that, Ilya fucks into Rose with sharp, heavy motions that push her up the bed. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Shane knows she’s gasping and saying things and pushing back; but he can’t—he can’t understand what she’s saying when Ilya's eyes are on Shane’s, when his mouth is half open and the bed is jolting with every thrust.
And now he switches to deep, sudden thrusts that make the headboard hit the wall behind the bed. Shane is jolted, the handcuff is moving against his wrist, his breath is caught in his throat. He pulls his legs apart, pulls down his fly to get his cock some relief—and Ilya’s eyes move downwards to Shane’s cock. For a moment, he studies it, and then he looks back up, smirks, says: “Take it out.”
“What?”
“Take it out.”
“Yeah,” comes Rose’s voice. “It’s okay. You can, Shane,” she says, and lets her head tip back down to rest on her braced forearms.
So Shane slides his jeans down, and then his boxers, and his cock is springing free. It’s a dark red—because Shane hasn’t come in too long, because he wanted to feel the desperation, because he can hardly stand the way that Ilya thrusts back in and groans, all the while staring down at Shane, at his eyes, at his cock, and back up again.
“Good,” Ilya says, breathless.
Shane’s mind is blank. What is he supposed to do? Touch himself? Just let Ilya look?
“What should I—” he starts.
Ilya’s motions stop, judder; he looks up at Shane. “You want to touch yourself?”
“I—” Shane lifts his hips; he feels his face contort into a sort of tragic desperation like he’s Hamlet or something. “I don’t—” he feels dizzy, like his brain has escaped his head and he needs someone to direct it back to the right place. “Can’t you just tell me,” he gasps out at last. There’s a bead of sweat on his forehead; Ilya thrusts forwards again, Rose gasps, Shane’s hips lift into nothing.
“Touch,” Ilya says, his voice almost rasping.
So Shane does: he grasps his cock, strokes up in a sudden, rushed motion. He looks up, waits for more.
“Again,” Ilya says. Shane does it. His other hand strains against the handcuff; Ilya’s thrusts increase in tempo into a quick, sharp beat. Shane is jolted, his hand shaking, his body tensed.
“Again,” Ilya says. “Once more.” Shane does it. His back arches like he’s close to coming from three strokes of his cock. And he is. He is close to coming; he can feel it deep down in his body, a sort of shivering anticipation and a tensing of muscles that sends bursts outwards. He reaches down again.
“Stop,” Ilya says. Shane gasps, pulls his hand away. He tips his head back against the headboard. “Good,” Ilya says. “Wait.”
And Shane does. He watches as Ilya’s hand reaches down to find her clit; he watches as Ilya’s thrusts slow down and speed up, as Rose starts to shiver and rock backwards. She comes; Ilya’s hands grasp onto her hips to stop himself thrusting and he asks her calmly if she wants to carry on.
And they do, and it’s worse, and it’s better. Ilya’s thrusts are uneven, almost clumsy; there’s a bead of sweat on Shane’s temple that he wants to brush away, but he can’t take his eyes away, he can’t move. It trails down his face, over his cheekbone. Ilya watches it.
“Touch,” he says again. Shane does. “And again,” Ilya says. Like that, the cycle repeats. Good. Touch. Again. Stop. Good.
The words flow over Shane like an rushing tide; they’re the only thing he hears, the only thing he cares about. Only the words, the way that Ilya is watching, the way that the bed jolts. Everything else is dulled, insignificant, until his orgasm is close again, making his body tense. He looks up.
Ilya knows. He can see it. And he’s close too.
“I’m gonna—” Shane starts.
But Ilya doesn’t say stop, just says “Again,” in his breathless voice. Watching Shane, he thrusts forwards once, twice, his mouth open, his chest heaving. “Come,” he says to Shane, and Shane does.
It splatters over his chest; he imagines Ilya’s cum deep inside Rose, flooding through her, leaking out of her. But it won’t leak out of her. He wishes it would; he wishes he could learn down and lick into her and taste it on his tongue. He wishes Ilya would watch.
Why didn’t he try this before? Cuckolding must be the key to successful sex.
Shane looks up. Ilya's eyes stay fixed on Shane as he thrusts in once, twice, three times, as he lets out a groan and comes deep inside Rose. For a moment, the room is still. Shane wants to ask if anyone knows what's going on. Was Shane allowed to come? Surely that's against cuckolding rules? But also, it was—really good. So maybe he'll let it go this time.
“Fuck,” Rose says. “That was great.”
Ilya’s chest is still heaving. He looks at Shane. “You want to taste?”
“I—” Shane starts. “Yeah. Rose?”
“Course,” she says. She positions herself sort of lying in Rozanov’s lap, her legs spread just in front of Shane, so that he can lean down with his hand still tied.
He looks back up at Ilya. His eyes are wide, his face focussed like he’s on the ice.
“Please?” Shane says.
Ilya’s lips part. “Yes,” he murmurs. So Shane leans down. He starts at Rose’s clit, moving his tongue around it slowly. His heart is thrumming in his chest, the cuff pulled tight around his wrist. He needs it. He moves downwards; he finds Rose’s hole. He presses his tongue over it, flat and gentle. It tastes—-it tastes different. Shane thinks, hopes. He presses his tongue in deeper, his eyes shutting, his hand tugging against the cuff. Yes, yes—he can taste it. It’s different, somehow, a different sort of taste, and a bit further—yes, that must be the taste of Ilya’s cum. He licks in further, pushes his tongue deeper, presses his nose to her clit. There’s a creaking behind him, but he doesn’t care—
There’s a splintering crack.
Shane lifts his head. “Oh,” all three of them say. The slat where Shane’s handcuff was connected is now on the bed.
“I—” he looks up at Ilya. “Please,” he says. “Can I keep going?”
Ilya’s eyes widen. He moves up the bed, letting Rose rest against the sheets, and kneels behind Shane. “I’m holding your hands. You can’t move. You can’t touch. You understand?”
Shane’s heart does something funny in his chest. He’s hard again, fully. “Yes,” he whispers.
Ilya’s hands grasp his own. In one hand, he holds Shane’s wrists together in a firm grip. It’s different to the cuffs: it’s warm, tighter than the metal cuff, the pressure steadier. The other hand finds Shane’s hip just before it meets his ass. There, Ilya’s broad hands rests, holding Shane back like he might try and thrust down against the mattress. Which he might.
“Okay, Shane,” he says. “You can taste.”
So Shane leans back down. Ilya’s hand on his hip tightens; he shifts closer so that his body is half pressed against Shane’s. Yes, he thinks. Yes. Pressed between them. He pushes his tongue in deep, licks broad stripes, gasps against her. He whimpers when Ilya’s hand tightens, when he tries to press his hips down and is met by the force of Ilya’s hand holding him up.
“Please,” he says, coming up for air. “Please, let me.”
“No.”
“No, no.” Shane feels like he might cry. The force of it is building up inside his chest, almost painful, the most frustrating kind of desperate pleasure that makes him whine into Rose’s cunt. He thrusts forwards into nothing.
“You want it that bad?” Ilya says.
“Yes, yes, please.”
“You want my hand?”
“Yes,” Shane says, and licks deeper.
Ilya says something to Rose, then. Something about if they agreed it was okay before, maybe, about the lists they made. Whatever they decide, it ends in Ilya’s hand creeping down from his hip, sliding beneath him. It finds Shane’s aching cock. It presses flat against it, and that’s enough: Shane thrusts forwards, tears in his eyes, the taste of Ilya’s cum on his tongue. He comes with a shuddering whine.
“Good boy,” he hears behind him.
“Yes,” comes another voice, and a soft hand slides into his hair.
Soon after, Shane realises that he’s been half-consciously manoeuvred to lie between them. Ilya’s hand is rubbing Shane’s wrist gently, over the red marks from the cuff. Rose, on the other side, is looking at him curiously.
“You feel okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shane says, and swipes a hand over his face. He feels strangely calm, like the ocean after a storm. He’s a little sleepy, too. He should really find his notebook and write down some ideas for next time. But instead, he sighs and leans his head on Rose’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says. “For doing this. I really like it.”
“I can tell,” she says. “You came twice, hmm? A big improvement. I liked it too, by the way. It was great.” She brushes a hand up his arm, slow and gentle.
“Yeah.” Shane feels as if he should be worrying about something. He looks over at Ilya. “Thank you, too,” he says. He wants to lean against Ilya's shoulder. But that would be too much: they're teammates, after all. Shane is Ilya's captain.
Ilya turns his gaze away. “It’s okay. I had a good time. Hot.”
Soon, they’re showering and moving downstairs. Ilya doesn’t stay for a coffee, this time. Shane watches him step out of the door and towards his car. It’s not a sports car this time: Shane wonders what made him choose that car and not his usual flashy ones. He wanted to show Ilya his improved latte art, too.
Rose, too, is quieter that night. They eat dinner together in silence; Shane asks if she’s seeing any other men at the moment. She shows him one on a dating app that she might fuck. Shane nods and says he looks hot, and that Shane’s next roadtrip is the best time for them to fuck.
She asks him if he wants to be more involved next time. Like a proper threesome. Shane nods, tentative, and retreats to his office to study some threesome porn and write down some notes.
The road trip comes round fast. Soon, the team is on the plane, Shane settled into his usual spot watching tape in the corner. He doesn’t talk to anyone on the plane, usually; everyone always laughs about it and says he needs some alone time to recharge his social battery. They’re not wrong.
He takes out his tape review notebook and a pen, and settles his IPad in front of him. It’s one Ilya recommended, actually. Shane doesn’t talk to Ilya much: he doesn’t talk to many of his teammates except about captain things. He’s fine with it, usually. He has his friends that he likes. A flashy, brash, charismatic man with an ego the size of Mars doesn't usually fall into that category. But Ilya had recommended this excellent IPad, and he’d subtly indicated to Shane last road trip that he’d be willing to participate in his cuckolding project. So maybe he’s a friend now?
Anyway, Shane thinks, back to business. He opens up his notebook, and—oh. It’s the project cuckold notebook. On the most recent page, his notes about threesomes: Usually involves anal sex. Usually the role of the less dominant man to receive. Is that me? How to prepare?
He blushes furiously and shuts the book. Right, no notes then. He presses play and tries to sink into the mindset of hockey.
But instead of thinking about his positioning on the ice; he finds his eyes drawn to Ilya’s figure. He plays hockey like a complete opposite of Shane: he moves with sudden bursts of high-impact energy; he throws his body against people; he prefers long range shots. Shane, of course, is more elegant. It’s not like they have to be like that, either: they have similar bodies, in terms of strength. Rozanov has strong legs; he doesn’t need to laze around like he sometimes does and wait for an opportunity. (Sure, the coaches don’t say that, but Shane thinks that’s what Ilya does.)
Ilya's leg muscles had looked great when he was fucking, too. They had been outlined with every push forwards; they’d looked huge in comparison to Rose’s body. If Shane was fucked by him, it wouldn’t look the same. Their thighs are both the same size, maybe Shane’s a bit bigger. He could probably push back into Ilya with more power, hold himself steady for longer. It’d probably be more rewarding for Ilya, really. He could have someone who can push back. He could manipulate Shane’s body, if he likes, but he could also have someone who can push back against his force. And yes, of course, Ilya’s bisexual. So he would really like it. He likes men and women, right? Shane’s sure that’s what he means. Or did he mean it in the sense of clothing? Bisexual clothes? Oh, no, that’s unisex. He definitely meant he likes men as well as women.
Well, it’s decided, then. Shane will be fucked.
That evening in the hotel, Shane finds Ilya’s room and knocks on the door with a firm rap. Footsteps come to the door; it swings open.
“Shane,” Ilya says.
“Hi. Can I come in?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Ilya leads Shane through the hotel room. Shane sits at the chair next to the desk, Ilya on the bed. It makes Shane feel like he’s cuckolding again.
“So,” Shane says, and takes his notebook out of his pocket. It’s his portable one. “For our next session, I have some ideas, if you agree, and if Rose agrees, of course.”
“Okay.” Ilya lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Right, so, first, Rose and I were thinking that it should be more like a traditional threesome. Would you mind that?”
“I’d like it.”
“Okay. And—I was thinking, as is traditional in these situations, that you might want to fuck me?”
Ilya sits up. He stares at Shane, his eyes wide. “Fuck you?”
“Yeah.”
Ilya huffs out a laugh and slumps back down against the bed like he can’t believe it. “Of course, I’ll fuck you.”
“I know it’s strange with me being your captain, but I think we can manage. You still have to be like you were before, right? Sort of…dominant.”
Ilya’s face looks slightly astounded. The range of expressions that this project has elicited from him is quite amazing: Shane had previously thought he was only capable of the expressions horny, angry and excited. It’s quite amazing.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Yes. Definitely."
“Okay. All sorted. I think we can figure the specifics out later. There’s just one other thing. So—” Shane can feel himself sort of hard in his sweatpants. It’s very inconvenient. He looks over at Ilya, and—oh. Ilya’s hard too. It’s sticking up a little obscenely because he’s laying back flat on the bed. Shane crosses his legs and clears his throat. He continues: “So, I’ve obviously never done anything…anal, before.”
“Really?”
“Well,” Shane says. “You know, maybe a bit of… self-experimentation. But not properly.”
“I have,” Ilya says, standing up and turning on the kettle. He searches through the tea selection.
“So…” Shane starts. “You prefer to, uh—receive?”
Ilya glances at Shane, flicking his chosen teabag in his hand. “No. I prefer to top. But I’ve tried both. You want tea?”
“Oh. Uh, sure.” Shane swallows tightly. “How did you manage that? Whilst we were on the road?”
“I used to take more risks.”
“Oh, okay.”
Ilya pours out the water into two teacups, the steam trailing up into the air. It smells like green tea. “So. You want me to teach you?”
Ilya tells Shane everything he needs to know whilst they sip their tea. They’re still hard, which is a little awkward, but Ilya doesn’t seem to care. Shane places his notebook in his lap and writes down everything Ilya says.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, when Ilya has run through everything. “I, uh, really appreciate you doing this.”
“Oh,” Ilya says, a grin growing on his face. “I enjoy it, don’t worry. You think I don’t like seeing your desperate face?”
“I’m not—” Shane starts. “Well, I am—uh. You like it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m, like—your type? In men?”
“Hmm,” Ilya says. “Well. I like men with big thighs.” He reaches out from where he’s sitting on the bed and squeezes Shane’s leg again. “Like this. And I like men that whimper. And are a bit submissive. A bit pathetic, maybe.”
“What—” Shane says. “I’m not.”
Ilya smirks. “You are.”
“I’m not.”
Ilya’s smirk grows.
“Okay. Maybe a bit. But you’ve got the biggest ego I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, you know what they say.”
“What do they say?” Shane says.
“The bigger the ego the bigger the cock. Can you confirm?”
“Eh,” Shane says, trying to hold himself back from grinning. “I’d say you’re pretty average.”
“What!” Ilya stands up and reaches out to grab Shane’s shoulders. His hands are broad, hot with the residual heat from where he’d been holding the teacup. He looks into Shane’s eyes with mock-anger on his face. “It’s nine inches.”
“Nine? I don’t believe you. I saw it.”
“Measure.” Ilya says.
“No.”
Ilya takes a step back. He sits back on the bed with his legs spread, a gleam to his eyes. He’s gonna say some bullshit, Shane already knows. “It’ll sure feel like nine inches when it’s inside of you,” Ilya says.
Ah, there it is. Bullshit. Shane narrows his eyes. “You think I can’t take it?”
“I never said that.”
“Good. Because I will take it. And I’ll fuck myself on it.”
Ilya snorts out a laugh, sitting back on the bed and watching Shane with curious eyes. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says.
Shane looks down. Ilya’s sweatpants are bulging with the weight of his boner, his legs spread wide like he’s inviting Shane in. Shane imagines kneeling between those legs, for a moment. That’s something else people often do, in those threesomes. The guys often suck each other off. It’d probably feel strange, right? Very different to eating a woman out. It’d probably be much more intense, because you can’t let your mind wander to thoughts of hockey and captaincy when you’ve got a dick shoved down your throat, right?
But then, also, it’d probably be harder. You’d have to train your gag reflex—treat it like a project, maybe. Sure, eating a woman out is a skill. But sucking a cock: surely that’s another beast entirely. You’d have to work hard, receive feedback and praise. You’d have to have someone who really knows what they’re doing helping you.
Shane looks at Ilya.
“What?” Ilya says.
Shane sinks to his knees on the hotel carpet in front of Ilya. “There’s something else I need to practice,” he says to the tent in Ilya’s pants.
“Sucking cock?” Ilya says. He sounds slightly breathless, and Shane looks up and—huh, Ilya does seem to like it. He’s looking down at Shane with his lips parted and his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Ilya moves his legs apart, says: “You want me to train you?”
“Yeah.”
Fuck, Shane thinks. Cuckolding is brilliant.