Provocation

Ilya Rozanov was very angry. There could have been many reasons, admittedly: maybe he drank cold coffee for breakfast, ate an overcooked cutlet for lunch, or maybe his new knee pads were rubbing him more than usual. After all, Boston lost today. Ilya Rozanov had every right to rage. Okay, maybe a little bit of his anger was due to Shane. To Shane’s antics before the game. Well, not exactly antics; everyone seemed to enjoy it… Shane showed Ilya his stockings just before the game, taking him to the back room. It was a split second. He lifted his shorts, and Ilya thought he was showing him thermal underwear. Only a few seconds later did his face reflect understanding. And desire. Needless to say, Ilya Rozanov, the world-famous hockey player and team captain, looked like he was in Montreal today? Boston lost badly. “Why the hell did you do that?” the menacing man at the door finally decided to say something. Shane swallowed. Okay. There was no need to wear nylon stockings to the game. Or show them to Ilya. And greeting him in them now was probably a bit rude, too. But what can you expect from him? Ilya can only be aroused by provocation. Otherwise, he’s uninterested, uninterested in the sense of forbiddenness and secret action. He’s cold as ice, but if you light a match to him, he flares up like a trail of gunpowder. “Did what?” he asked, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe with feigned innocence. Ilya grabbed him by the collar, threw him forward, and slammed the door behind him. A pleasant wave washed over Shane. Deep down, he hadn’t denied for a long time that it was this — not hatred, not passion, not interest — the arousal that washed over him every time Rozanov appeared so inappropriately close. He displayed power and didn’t control it. In rebellious anger, his face twisted into a mask of irritation, but desire was also easy to read in his eyes. Shane opened the door for him wearing stockings, shorts, and a T-shirt clearly too big for him. They were still breathless from the game. He’d managed to take a shower, and when he spotted a familiar shock of blond hair through the peephole, he immediately pulled his stockings back on. Nylon stockings, with a thick black elastic band mid-thigh, squeezing his thighs deliciously. Yes, there was definitely something mad in Ilya’s gaze. “Don’t play dumb, okay? You did this on purpose so we’d fucked up.” He shrugged. His heart was pounding so fast in his chest it hurt. It felt like it was about to burst out. It was hard to feign indifference, but he had to try, lest Ilya — God forbid! — not consider that he wanted him back just as much. And who cared that he’d started it all. “Nobody fucked up. Your team played surprisingly well today,” Shane said calmly. “You were the only one out of shape — is it hard to skate with three legs?” A stifled laugh escaped his chest, unable to contain itself. The trigger for Rozanov. Shane was pinned against the wall so quickly he didn’t have time to react. They dropped him, slamming him down in a frenzied kiss. Ilya wasn’t groveling: he licked his mouth, his tongue slid through open lips, tracing across the row of upper teeth, intertwining with Shane’s. Hands were everywhere: on his shoulders, neck, ribs, lower… How pleasant it was to feel that pressure! How pleasant it was to be under someone else’s control, how pleasant it was to be pinned beneath a pumped-up body, with no chance of resistance. They were both hockey players, but Shane was always weaker in strength. He won with intelligence, strategy, agility — anything but brutality. “So, I played badly?” Ilya concluded, breaking away for a few seconds. “Terrible,” Shane nodded. His powerful hands slid to the waistband of his shorts. The movements were jealous, filled with a possessiveness that was mind-blowing. Shane instinctively tensed up and pulled away, but Ilya grabbed the elastic and pulled him closer. “I hope I’m at least better at fucking than I am at scoring goals?” “Not hard for a guy who doesn’t score any at all.” His thigh burned. It wasn’t a slap — it was a real blow. It burned with pain, and Shane tried to back away, but Ilya pulled him closer again by the wrists, pinning them above his head, forcing him to lift his chin and look him straight in the eyes. “You’ll get so horny, you little bitch. I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit still until the next match. Or are you already warming up on your dildo? Jumping up and down to take my cock?” His cheeks flushed. He tried to turn away, feeling embarrassment flush his face. His cock twitched pleadingly in his shorts. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.” Ilya’s lewd smile spread across his face. Oh, that’s not how you look at your opponents, that’s not how you look at your equals. That’s how you evaluate whores you’re about to screw, deciding if they’re worthy of their cock. And for a moment, Shane felt afraid — and that made it all the more pleasurable. “What do I see, embarrassment?” Ilya roughly threw him toward the table. Shane tried to straighten up and leave, but he was defenseless against Rozanov’s pressure. The next second, he was bent over with such ease that it was humiliating. They were holding him for real, not playfully, and even if Shane had tried really hard, he would have struggled to escape. He slid his legs apart, letting Ilya in between his thighs. “That’s amazing. I thought you were a shameless slut. You were just pretending to be straight, weren’t you? I bet all of fucking Montreal has fucked you over and over again. How many times?” There was a ripping sound from behind. Oh my God. Shane turned and saw strong hands, straining to reveal the enticing veins beneath his skin, ripping at the seams of his shorts, pulling them toward him, forcing him to thrust his ass even further toward Shane’s groin. Shane didn’t know what to do with his hands; he tried to grab the flat surface of the table, the edge, and breathe deeper. “Once?” “Stop it!” He reached back with his hands, resisting. “What are you doing?!” “Of course not once. Three?” “Enough!” The pieces of his shorts, now nothing but shameful shreds with loose threads, hung down over his ass, exposing his bare entrance. Shane still tried to cover himself with his hands, but his wrists were once again restrained. The sound of a buckle was heard. Ilya was removing his belt. “So many times, you’ve long lost count, Hollander. I’ll fuck you until you cry with pleasure, until your eyes sparkle with orgasm. Until you die thrashing around on my cock.” “How dare you say such a thing...” Shane moaned. Ilya suddenly grabbed his arms from behind. He turned awkwardly, lifting his neck. The cold plate touched his skin, sending a wave of goosebumps through him. Ilya was tying his wrists with the belt. Shane only realized this when he couldn’t move them. And by the hoarse laughter behind him. “Why did you do that?!” Shane protested, bucking his entire body, his bare ass involuntarily rubbing against the impressive bulge in Shane’s pants. “So you don’t destroy everything around you when you shit yourself.” Ilya sank to his knees. His curls tickled his buttocks, his powerful palms squeezing them, massaging, spanking, and watching them bounce up and down. Ilya dove into his ass with his tongue, and Shane groaned. “Rozanov!” He tried to clutch the edge of the table with his hands, but his fists clenched helplessly. Ilya licked him like it was his last time. He smacked, munched, inhaled, and pierced the tight ring of muscles with his tongue, kneading it. Shane couldn’t find his peace, he was shaking like a leaf— no one had ever sucked his ass or licked his entrance with such gusto. It was bliss, but short-lived. The mouth pulled away, and Shane hopefully pulled his hips back, following the tongue. Ilya laughed. And he inserted his first finger. “Do you like it?” The finger slid in incredibly easily, without any resistance. Shane didn’t even feel full. His ass was already itching. He wanted cock so badly! Ilya’s fat, frisky cock, which he hadn’t freed from his boxers while Shane lay on the table, bound, in stockings, with his torn underwear, and a finger in his glistening ass. “Yeah… just hurry up,” Shane whined, rocking back and forth. “Faster?” Three fingers slammed into him at once — Shane arched his entire body, bucking his arms. A scream echoed throughout the room. Ilya slapped his ass again, and Shane felt it bounce vulgarly from his slap. “What the hell are you yelling about?” he hissed, twisting three fingers inside him, scissoring them apart. “You asked for it yourself.” “Faster, but more carefully!” Ilya roughly grabbed the belt holding his arms and pulled him toward himself, arching Shane’s back and still stretching him. “You’ll be begging for my gentleness, bitch. Be grateful I’m even getting you ready. You could have put it in already. Do you want my dick in you?” “I do!” Shane blurted out, embarrassed, flushed with shame. “The boy really wants a giant dick in his ass, huh? The boy will have to wait until four fingers are inside him, otherwise my dick will rip him apart at the seams, just like his slutty panties.” “Shut up… shut up, Rozanov!..” “Why? You’re dripping with it.” The fourth finger entered more slowly. Shane felt virtually no discomfort, his eyes rolling back in the pleasant pain. And suddenly — a sharp emptiness. Shane almost cried with excitement. His cock was hard, his entrance throbbed, and Ilya, as if to spite him, hesitated and lingered behind him. “What’s taking you so long?” Shane whined, slamming his forehead against the table. Ilya dug his fingers into the elastic of his stockings, pulled, forcing Shane’s obedient body to rock toward him, and positioned the head, entering. God. Oh God… Huge, rock-hard, thick. He thrust his pelvis forward, thrusting deeper and deeper, and the length didn’t stop. Shane looked back — it seemed Ilya had inserted it all the way. His eyes widened. “Oh, not so abruptly!..” His balls pressed against his ass. Ilya inside him. His cock inside. He allowed only a few seconds for him to adjust and then began to rock gently, pressing his broad chest against his back. Hot breath fanned his neck and shoulders. Ilya’s fingers still dug into his stockings, seemingly leaving creases. Surprisingly, Ilya’s movements were terribly gentle for a man who had burst through the door in rage and arousal, having spent two hours playing with desire and his erection; Ilya was doing everything he could to get Shane used to the feeling of being filled. His eyes rolled back in their own accord as the thrusts became sharper. More rhythmic. Shane twitched his bound hands, trying to grab onto something. His consciousness was swimming —Ilya was fucking him. The dominance, both inside and out, was so overwhelming that it was mind-blowing. Ilya fell on top of her, exhaling loudly. The table creaked monstrously, and the loud slurping of ass echoed throughout the hotel room — half the floor had probably already heard it and begun whispering. Just when Shane thought he should be quieter, Ilya picked up a furious pace. His hot cock slammed into her tight ass, pulling out almost all the way, his balls slapping against the entrance. Before he knew it, Shane was screaming, moaning, and giving in to the lewd thrusts, and Ilya covered his mouth with his hand, forcing him to moan into his hand and cry, sobbing with pleasure. His body hummed, and suddenly… He was overcome by such a mind-blowing orgasm that he bucked, thrashed under the powerful breasts, and tensed all the way down to his toes. “Mhm!” Shane moaned and came, splattering the surface of the dining table with his seed. Ilya bit his neck, continuing to pound into the heated flesh, and then slowly pulled out. He walked around the table, positioning his groin in front of Shane’s head, and began jerking him off. Shane looked up and obediently stuck out his tongue, grazing the sensitive tip. A rough grip grabbed the hair at the back of his head. “You’re such a slut, Hollander, such a slut… oh, oh, my God…” Cum spurted and covered his face. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, feeling something liquid and thick flow into his open mouth, dripping onto his tongue and down his neck. He swallowed as much as he could and let his head drop limply when they released his grip. His wrists came free as if in a fog. Shane was still barely aware of reality. Never had he experienced such a stunning orgasm. With such a stunning man. He carefully rose with someone else’s help and began to stretch his numb arms. Ilya stood opposite him, running a damp cloth over his face, wiping his own semen from his forehead, cheeks, lips, and chin. His gaze was no longer angry. But something possessive remained. “Give them to me.” Shane frowned. “What?” Ilya held out his hand and raised his eyebrows condescendingly, lazily observing Shane’s shyness. He blurted out, “Give me your damn stockings.” Shane chuckled softly. “Want to try them on?” “Even after what happened, you still manage to be cheeky,” he snorted. “I’ll throw them away. And don’t you dare wear anything like that again. It’ll only get worse.” Shane swallowed, carefully pulling the nylon stockings down his legs. “Worse than today?” He placed them in his outstretched palm and watched as Ilya jealously tore them apart and crumpled the pitiful remains in his fingers. “Much.” And then he left. Not toward the door, though. Toward the window. Shane looked at his back in surprise and only realized what he was about to do when Ilya opened the window. He tossed the scraps of stockings into the cold, and the wind blew them down onto the sidewalk. Satisfied, Rozanov turned the knob back and, like a cat overfed with sour cream, crawled onto Shane’s bed. A single bed. Shane carefully put on his pajamas, wincing in pain. His pelvis was burning. He turned over, hesitating, and groaned wearily as he approached the bed. “No, come on, go away. I need to sleep before tomorrow.” “Then get some sleep with me.” He pulled him by the hand, forcing him to lie down next to him. Shane couldn’t resist, plopping down on the bed and laughing, forced to cuddle closer on the cramped space. Ilya wasn’t bothering him anymore, wasn’t groping him, he was just… there. “Good night,” he said in Russian. Shane, of course, didn’t understand. And for the next game, he’ll probably wear stockings after all.