here's the vision, because i like my kink sort of insane and possibly unsafe:
it's july at the cottage and shane is in socks, boxers & nothing else in front of the net of his private rink, and the whole thing is that ilya must do accuracy shots full stregth and, of course, not hit him. sort of.
so ilya's hitting puck after puck and shane's supposed not to move, except they've agreed that ilya will hit him, at some point, not too hard, somewhere on his ass or upper back, where he can't hit any delicate organs, so he's jolting with every smack of the blade, hard as fuck, and ilya's sort of taunting him, in his sexy condescending way, ohh, hollander, mr three stanley cups, afraid of a puck?
and shane is doing his best to keep still but the adrenaline is rushing through his veins and he's getting cold and his cock is spurting precome with each shot and it doesn't help that is wearing his favourite plug and is clenching, rhythmically, expecting pain, whole body taut and tense, and instead getting wave after wave of pleasure.
and when ilya finally, finally does hit him it's like a paddling or a spanking. the first puck grazes his right flank and he's thinking, holy shit i'm going to come. and then ilya slapshots the hardest puck yet and it misses him, of course it does, ilya would never hurt him like that, but he can't relax, and his cock is blurting precome, an embarassing steady leak, and ilya asks:
should i hit between your asscheeks, hollander? right against the plug in your ass?
shane knows ilya will not miss. and he's shivering, all over, almost violently, and it's fear, yes, it is, fuck, but it's also anticipation, it's this need and his want, he wants it wants it wants it wants it. whatever ilya wants, he wants too. he's his to to spoil and to hurt. whatever he wants. as long as ilya touches, cock hands and tongue but even like this. even like this. hockey is everything, isn't it?
so, says ilya, ask for it.
please, shane but sobs. pleasepleaseplease
and ilya watches him struggle to stay still, his shoulders jumping, muscles tensing, and thinks, mine. when he does swing, he does not miss, and shane is coming hard and hurt, untouched, in his boxers, his and his alone, and finally he does touch him, lips and tongue and teeth.
hockey is everything and so is shane. mine, ilya thinks, mine. and drags him out of the rink to bend him over the barrier, the cum-stained boxers stuffed in his mouth, and finally, finally slides home inside him.
titsay
gummygunk
janainaart
theartofmadeline
