Tough On The Inside, Soft On The Outside

Ilya stood still in front of him, hands behind his back. He was fighting against the excitement bubbling up in his gut, trying to keep a straight face. “Yes.” He said.

“Yes what?” Shane didn’t miss a beat, inspecting his nails, a slight frown to his otherwise unbothered expression. He was still dressed in his gala clothes although the top few buttons of his dress shirt were undone, and some of his carefully manicured hair fell into curls on his forehead. 

Ilya clenched his jaw and smiled that non-smile he did often where his mouth remained in a straight line, but his top lip only slightly pulled up. “Yes, sir.”

Shane seldom took a dominant role in the bedroom, in part because he, by default, liked to submit, but mostly because they didn’t really bring in power dynamics in their relationship. Theirs had been a competition most of their life, and in every aspect, especially hockey, they viewed each other as equals, matched at every level. For any of them to submit to the other this completely was a rare treat, something to be treated with the reverence and respect it deserved.

“Say the whole thing.” Shane was swirling a glass of something dark, Lagavulin surely. Shane had never really liked drinking straight spirits like Ilya did with vodka, until he discovered scotch. Something about the smoky taste of it, it was the one thing he could actually enjoy without soda or tonic.

“Yes sir, I understand.” Ilya’s voice was low and dark, accent thick and syrupy, much like the alcohol that Shane was drinking. In contrast, Shane’s voice was soft and measured, pleasingly even. He wasn’t putting on a show, or forcing a deepness that wasn’t him to seem more dominant. It was Shane, the same way he would talk in interviews, or to Anya. The softness of it grounded Ilya.

“So, making sure you got everything. What am I?” Shane leaned back into the leather chair, fixing Ilya in place with his steady gaze.

“My master, sir.” Ilya barely contained his arousal. He could feel the roots of his hair tingle and burn with it.

“And what are you?”

“Your dog, sir.”

Shane seemed satisfied with Ilya's answers, as could be gleaned by the ever so slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.

“Tell me your safeword again.”

“Mcflurry.”

“And your colour right now?”