#ronniewrites

"This isn't fair," Shane hides his lie behind a pathetic whine. His dick stirs in the metal cage Ilya had given him on their last encounter. The instructions were simple; put it on after the game and meet Ilya at his hotel room as soon as possible.

"What isn't? That you are paying for not letting me win tonight?" Sitting across the room in a lounge chair, Ilya slowly strokes his dick as he inhales another cigarette. It's to wonder if he let Shane win on purpose just to find himself in this exact position.

"We can't do this all night anyway." Shane doesn't like the way Ilya's eyes darken in defiance.

"Who says that? Your mother?" Ilya's dick is red and his veins are about to burst. Shane rejoices in knowing that he won't be able to play his own game very long. For all that's worth, Shane isn't tied to the bed and could walk out any moment if this wasn't entirely doing it for him. But the precome pouring out of the tube slightly inserted into his slit would betray his attempt at rebellion.

"I just think I should be getting rewarded. Not you." Shane scrapes his fingers along the insides of his thighs to try and get the very least bit of satisfaction. That simple gesture will obviously not get him over the edge in timely manner.

Ilya gets up then, and walks over to the side of the bed. He sits on the edge, digs into the small toiletry bag that's open by Shane's knee and retrieves a small brandless bottle from it. He sets that on the bedside table, every movement agonizingly slow, before going back in for another look around.

"Move here." Ilya pats a spot between Shane's legs, leaving him to guess his next move. Shane scoots down until he's sitting on the spot and looks at Ilya.

"What now?" Shane soon has his answer when Ilya pulls out a rubber plug and starts lubing it generously. The cage becomes more and more painful to bear, but with good breath control, Shane manages to find the delicious appeal of it. Ilya extends the toy to him.

"Put this in," he says blankly.

"You won't even help me?" Shane takes the toy from his hand and angles his leg so that he can reach the tip to his rim.

"I have other things to do," Ilya says before walking back to his chair with the rest of the bottle and something else in hand. He straightens the towel over the seat before sitting down. Part of the post-game instructions Shane had received also included light prep, so the widest part of the egg-shaped plug slips right in until the stopper hits his hole. The new sensation provokes more precome to pool over his balls, which is accentuated by the sight of Ilya sprawled out again in front of him.

Shane moves back to his initial position against the headboard so that he has a better view without craning his neck. The sentiment of relief at not being corrected is short-felt when the toy starts buzzing inside him. To Shane's horror, Ilya presses another button on a small remote before setting it on the dresser behind him and Shane swears it's like the toy is trying to crawl its way back out of him—or further in!

"I can't–fuck–Rozanov, I can't do this." His whines and moans are real now. There's no escaping the torture of having to keep his erection in check and not letting his mind spiral into a series of unfortunate scenarios. God, imagine if we have to call 911, he thinks, even if the key of the cage is inches away from him.

"I think you can, and you are doing it well." Shane's eyes open again when he hears the pop of the lube bottle, and his gaze lands on the hand-held stroker Ilya is oozing it on. It's barely three inches thick, disappears completely into Ilya's palm when he rolls it down his dick to the base.

"Fuuuuck," Ilya moans, his eyes focused on himself as he watches the toy go up and down on his dick, coating him in a mouth-watering glow that should be caused by Shane's saliva, not some stupid lube. Shane's knuckles are turning white from his grip on the bed sheets.

"Rozanov, this isn't going to end well." His voice is cracked. The rope in his stomach is already close to its breaking point.

"Not for me," Ilya responds with an arrogant scoff. He doesn't even look at Shane at he keeps working the tight toy onto his cock. To piss him off even more, Shane knows that Ilya is fucking into the pussy part of the toy, the side facing him being just a normal hole meant to mimic an ass. All of a sudden, Shane's body rages with heat and the feeling of betrayal makes the cage more comfortable for a moment. A very brief moment.

"Why do you need me anyway? You could have told the press you hate me again, and got on with your day." Shane tries to contract his muscles around the toy in hopes of making the vibration feel less intense. It has the opposite effect. Ilya laughs when he sees his face contort in pleasure; can his mind fucking decide on an emotion?

"But I need the MVP of the year to tell me what I did wrong," Ilya says and switches the TV on to the game recap segment, where some analysts are having a field day going over every moment of the game that went wrong for the Raiders. Of course, they're praising Shane's plays in the making.

"Rozanov, this is–"

"–Your moment to be mean to me," Ilya interrupts, his dark gaze now fixated on Shane. He's not sure at what point the game had flipped and Shane had control over the situation (or so he thinks), but that's not usually his go-to vibe.

"But, I mean. You're good, Rozanov." Shane watches as Ilya rolls his eyes at him, but the motion of his strokes stays steady. Every time Shane lets his mind imagine sucking or riding that perfect dick, his dick twitches in the cage and his stomach tightens in pleasure. He's not sure what he's going to have to do to get out of the situation. And maybe he doesn't really wishes to. "Tonight was just, a bad night…"

"Then tell me about that, Hollander," he taunts. The stroker has started squelching around him, and Shane knows that if he could kiss up his collar bones and neck he'd have Ilya a whimpering mess. Shane dives head first into the trap nonetheless like the poor content expert that he is.

While Shane distracts himself with commenting a few of Ilya's plays on the screen, Ilya pushes the intensity of the toy up a notch every time he says something he likes—and every time, Shane looks down at Ilya with pained eyes, only to find him either fucking up into the stroker or lazily rolling it over his tip. It doesn't take long before Shane's sentences are incoherent, and his forehead begins to shine with desperation.

"You, um–aah–need to work on your, on your, um–"

"–You cannot come, Hollander." Shane can make out the strain in Ilya's voice, which indicates that sweet relief is right around the corner. Ilya has got to be seeing just how badly Shane is leaking right now. Another change to the toy's intensity and Shane will start pissing himself through the open tunnel in his slit. He'd never thought that feeling would be something he'd experience one day.

"You have to stop. Pl-please, I can't. Just let me, let me make it up to you, please." Shane's vision is blurry with tears of agony. He extends a hand out to Ilya, unsure what he's really inviting him for, but anything to make the night come to its fruitful end.

Surprisingly, Ilya gives himself a few last strokes before walking over to the bed and quickly straddling Shane's chest so that his dick stands right above his chin. Ilya grabs both of Shane's wrists and brings his hands to grip around the stroker. "Finish me," he demands. Shane starts moving the toy up and down Ilya's length, allowing his tip to tap against his tongue on every other pull. He twists it, tries to change the tightness of his grip, every attention making Ilya grunt louder and deeper until he moves to rest his hands against the headboard to start pistoning into the toy so hard Shane has a hard time keeping his hands from hitting his own face.

"Fuck, Rozanov," Shane moans, his own hips rutting up against thin air. The pressure in his stomach is so strong, he's about to push the toy out of himself. Ilya suddenly swats his hands away and glides the stroker off himself to angle his load into Shane's awaiting mouth. Shane gives him a few good-earned licks and his eyes roll back at the taste of Ilya's come against the back of his tongue.

"So pretty, Hollander," Ilya says before sitting back onto Shane's hips, eliciting a yelp from him when the cage is wedged between them. Ilya chuckles and bends to kiss Shane, lifting his ass off of him.

"Can I–I mean will you–" Shane isn't sure what to ask for, just that his dick is throbbing in its confines and the toy is marteling his prostate now that his legs are stretched straight down.

"You already won tonight. You don't get more." Ilya moves off of him and onto his feet. He stands by the bed and stretches before letting out a satisfied breath. Shane hopes the angry look on his face conveys how strongly he intends on making him pay for this, but Ilya's smile tells him it's a lost cause. Ilya walks towards the dresser and finally turns the toy off.

"Fuck off," Shane says simply and wipes his eyes. He lets out a long shaky sigh and decides that accepting his fate might be the best decision if he wants to make it home and wash the despair off his body. He's about to sit up when his bladder decides otherwise. "Fuck, give me a bottle or something." Ilya is fast to help him with that request and Shane waddles over to the bathroom with his tip at the edge of the opening, because that—to his gooey, horny brain—seems more practical than taking the cage off instead. That, and Shane hates to admit he's waiting for Ilya to give him permission to.

When he walks out of the bathroom, with a mess avoided and the messy toy rolled up in a towel in his hand, Shane finds Ilya laying comfortably in bed.

"I, um. I guess I'll get going." Shane starts gathering his clothes and Ilya perks up to watch. It's a weird ritual they'd grown accustomed to, and feels almost comforting at this point.

"You will send me video later?"

Shane turns around with a confused look. "Sorry?"

"Of you. Coming," Ilya says it like it's written on a big board above the bed and Shane is just too stupid to read it. "I want to see you come. And hear you too." Shane picks up his phone and his hoodie from the little desk by the entry and sets his hand on the door handle.

"Good night, Rozanov."

"Bobby!" Chim shouts from the ground floor. Setting the pan aside, Bobby walks over to the rail, still licking his famous spaghetti sauce off his fingers when he makes eye contact with the young man below him. He doesn't look hurt nor lost—which Bobby already knows, recognizing him from the application picture. He looks even better than said picture, all six-foot-two of him in those skin tight jeans. His blue eyes sparkle as he watches Bobby pull his thumb out of his mouth.

"Can I help you, son?"

"I'm Evan." Buckley, Bobby finishes in his mind, new recruit. The curls peeking out of the varsity cap give away how inexperienced he is, and even though Bobby can take on a stray under his wings easily, the rest of the guys might have a hard time adjusting. There was just no way he was passing this one up though, as selfish as it might have been in retrospect. Being Captain had its perks.

Bobby fakes looking back at someone and says, "Are you looking for an Evan?" He turns the other way, as if scanning the room. "Nobody?" When he looks down again, his heart tightens at the sight of poor Evan being caught in a harmless initiation jab. Bobby had never been much of a fan of those college rituals, but the kid had awaken his youthful spirit.

"Is, um-" Evan turns and confirms he's in the right place by the number written on the engines. God, he's endearing. "This is the 118." The end of his sentence sounds like a question, but his posture stays confident. Bobby figures he'll have other opportunities to torture him a little more, because his stomach is killing him and his crew is getting just as impatient.

"Come on up, we're about to eat." Is all Bobby says with a smile before turning around and letting Evan take the first steps towards his new future at his own pace.

"I'm Chimney." Bobby looks up from his pan as Evan follows him like a shadow up the stairs and makes a funny face at the nickname. "I'll tell you about it one day," Chim adds, which Bobby knows isn't true. Chim walks Evan over to the table and pulls an undesignated chair for him.

"He's the one you have to worry about," Bobby teases, pointing the tongs towards Chimney. Chim feigns offense and laughs before sitting down at the other end of the table. He's learned not to argue against that.

Evan chuckles before setting his bag on the floor and sitting besides the captain's chair. "The house funny guy. Knew plenty of those in college. I hope your jokes aren't recycled." Now Chim is offended. A grin threatens the corner of his mouth, confirming that he'll be getting back at Evan shortly enough. Bobby goes back to dropping mountains of spaghetti in plates as the boys keep bickering.

"Shit, this is going to be fun," Tommy quickly whispers behind Bobby, not needing much explanation. He runs a strong hand up Bobby's back knowing the angle won't give him away. Bobby drops a ladle of sauce in his bowl and leans closer.

"Tell me about it," he ads and they walk over to the group.

"Tell me," Bobby orders, his voice hoarse from the dry LA heat engulfing them in the cabin. "Tell me what you'd do to him."

Tommy's brain is already short-circuiting from their current situation alone, adding Bobby's filthy demands to it is testing his thinning stamina. He might just be thirty-five, but being heavy-duty commodity and working long shifts had its negative effects on one's body. Tommy slows the pace of his hand, "I need him kneeling before me. His tongue out and ready for my cock." He taps the tip of his cock against Bobby's as he says so. Their precum forms a single stringy bridge.

Bobby's face twists, but his hand doesn't falter. The old man truly is an exception to the wear and tear of the job. Tommy thought drinking enough of his cum would grant him eternal youth, but he's yet to see the effects. "He'd be so cute like that. Just waiting to be used," Bobby ads to the story. Tommy nods and his wet curls stick to his forehead. His thumb circles his wet tip and he moans loud enough that it surely escapes through the cracked windows.

"He'd be so easy to bend. I could fuck him on this seat," Tommy says through gritted teeth as he dips his head to his right. "I'd fuck him so hard the engine would move with us."

"Jesus, Tommy. You have no idea how much I loved doing that to you." Tommy smirks at those words, and who wouldn't take the opportunity when it presented itself?

"Loved?" Tommy challenges. The look he receives in return is chilling, but the sweat on Tommy's forehead keeps slipping down, their bodies steaming in the unbreathable material of their uniforms as they jerk themselves off in the backseat of the engine. Neither of them can tell where they are; they drove until all they could hear were seagulls and waves. It's not like a sitting red truck wouldn't attract any attention, but they couldn't care less at the moment.

Bobby pushes himself off the opposite door and pulls his shirt out of his pants before dropping them a few inches. "Don't make me regret this," he says as he grabs onto Tommy's ankle.

Tommy makes quick work dropping his pants down to his mid thigh, just low enough that when he's leaning on his back with his knees against his face they're not in the way for Bobby to plunge into him slowly, the cumulated sweat easing the motion. "Fuuuck," Bobby groans. He doesn't wait long before rocking back and forth, aiming to prove to Tommy that he can still do all the things they used to get into when they first started fooling around.

"S-so go-ood," Tommy says through the sharp thrusts. His eyes are burning and his skin is on fire but he's never felt better. "Will you, ah, will you fuck him too?" Somehow Tommy already knows the answer, because Bobby had made it clear he wasn't looking to be brought to his death bed faster than necessary. It's still fun to tease him about it, because Tommy will be fucking the newbie any chance he gets.

Bobby leans closer and whispers, "Only if you can't fuck him properly." Cheshire smiles spread across their faces as Bobby settles his forehead against Tommy's. His entire body will curse him tomorrow, but he'll be spending the day sprawled on Tommy's bed running even more scenarios, so it's a win-win.

"Not happening," Tommy chuckles. "Fuck, can you imagine those desperate eyes all watery? H-how incredible he'd look all high on dick?" Tommy reaches for Bobby's nipples, abandoning his knees on his shoulders, and that pushes him over in a few more thrusts.

"Baby," Bobby moans as his hips falter until he stops entirely, completely buried inside Tommy and emptying himself until he's seeing white and his fingers get tingly. Once Bobby can compose himself, he realizes Tommy hadn't finished yet but when he goes to reach for his cock, Tommy moves him away.

"It's okay—"he looks up and bites the chuckle away when he sees the sense of relief in Bobby's face, "—maybe I'll get the probie to finish me off when we get back to the station." Bobby helps him up once he's done sharpening his appearance and Tommy's upper back is screaming at him to find new hobbies.

His hands are clammy as he walks into the dim building; something similar to a clandestine poker arrangement someone had taken him to a few months back. His destination is behind yet another two doors, which allows him time to doubt his decision, even if he had set foot here a few times before and, well… enjoyed himself. But Tommy is no quitter, even if that means putting his sanity on the line for about fifteen minutes of the best head he’s ever had. Okay, he’s lying to himself. He never lasts much more than eight minutes when he comes here.

He doesn’t even remember where he had managed to get the cues on an establishment like this, though it seemed like West Hollywood would cater to this clientele and anyone who ventured into the area was bound to stumble onto it. It must have been some stupid newspaper ad, he recalls, and his instinct was allowing him to feed his (late) coming of age curiosity.

So he finds himself here again, at a well-maintained glory hole house. Or could he even call it a house? In his defense, the only thing he knew about anything related to sex work was when his dad joked about the blond woman living across the street, who he speculated was hosting a whore house for the neighbourhood when he was growing up; “Tommy, one day make sure you bring home one of those bimbos. They’ll make you satisfied for life!” His dad had slurred and laughed with his construction friends around the firepit the week before his twelfth birthday. Little did he know…

Tommy gives the clerk a faint nod hello and drops the money onto the counter before walking to the furthermost spot on the right hallway. He’s expecting a comment from how many times his face had walked into that door, but a jaded “enjoy!” echoes behind him. There were certainly many perks of making adult money and this was one of the main places he loved to blow his tips. Ha!

He pulls the curtains to the side as he reaches his favourite booth, and steps in, his dick already tenting in his sweats in anticipation. Before he can free himself and settle in the hole, a voice comes from the other side of the thin wall;

“Your usual is sick today, man. Mind if I take care of you instead?” The voice is a lot lower than the usual man Tommy’s used to, and his mind runs wild with ideas of his physique: is he tall? He sounds tall, and buff, and hot! And Tommy’s excited to try something different, not that the more feminine sounding person he had before didn’t do the job, but he felt like the safe option, like the closest thing he could have chosen to getting sucked by a woman. It was time he delved into it properly and got sucked by someone who might look a little more like him.

“Y-yeah. Yeah I guess,” Tommy answers finally and positions himself. Just like every time, he struggles to fit everything into the oddly cut hole, trying his best not to get a freaking shard stuck in his balls. He’d left a comment in the suggestion box about it, but clearly it had been discarded.

“Heard you taste fucking good, boy. Come here.” The voice says and wastes no time in taking Tommy whole, no spit, no prep, nada! Yeah, he was getting addicted to that. Any chance of saying goodbye to this establishment fully out the window. This is where he belonged, right here in that hot and wet mouth. Tommy shudders when the mystery man pulls off of him with a pop, digging his tongue on the underside of his dick on the way out. He stays off for a few seconds, and Tommy feels some cold air being blown onto him, some more licks to slick him again and more air.

“I also heard you can’t last very long. Shame, that dick is fucking stunning and perfectly shaped for my throat.” The voice chuckles when Tommy’s dick bobs and pushes out a shiny drop of precum. Tommy’s hands are damp against the wall as he focuses on beating his poor record. He can’t cum so soon, not anymore, not here with this wonderful beast he has all to himself. He takes a deep breath and the mouth is on him again.

He’s not sure how exactly things went after this. It was a mixture of intense throating, gagging and heavy pants, then Tommy could barely feel the man’s lips around him as he swallowed his dick like a delicate flower. All he knows is he’s barely holding on for his life, his knees burning trying to keep him up and there are tears in his eyes he never got for anyone - even with himself as he jerked his teen years away. But he was twenty now, and not about to be embarrassed again. Tommy faintly taps on the wall, enough to get the man’s attention.

“You okay out there?” There’s a gargle in the voice and a hint of straining, and Tommy beams a little at the silent praise. Even if Tommy wanted to back out - which he’d be fucking insane to do so - it was physically impossible for him to pull back, his dick had never been so engorged and though his balls were tight, they clearly had gotten fuller since the moment he walked in.

“Fuck, just um… Shit,” Tommy pants into the void, forehead resting against the wall. He wants to talk dirty, wants to let the man know just how amazing his body feels right now. Like he’d been run over by a semi with satin-clad tires. This man proved to be a revelation. A hallelujah. A fucking reverse conversion therapy if Tommy ever saw one. He felt like crying and laughing and in this moment; cumming. “I’m sorry, can I call you anything? You just, I don’t know…”

The deep voice hums; “Call me Lucas, baby.” And before he can say it back, Lucas’ mouth is back onto his throbbing dick, sucking down until Tommy’s sure his nose is smooshed against the wall. His skills are driving him wild and Tommy tries, tries really hard to memorise everything he does to, one day, maybe, apply them in his turn. He feels Lucas’s tongue play along the bottom of him all while he sucks onto his dick like a straw, like it’s Bottomless Margarita Tuesday and Lucas is a pack of white ladies on the loose.

“Lucas, please. Fuck, I’m-” And the moment stops. Tommy whines but his body is on fire and the pause is more than welcome. He’s dripping so much it feels like he’s pissing.

“What, baby? You’re doing so good. Shit, I want your cum, but I don’t wanna stop.” Tommy grunts at the thought of spending the rest of his life here. He wouldn’t mind. He’s sure there are beds somewhere he can crash on. Can’t be worse than when he sleeps on a booth bench at the bar when his dad’s passed out drunk at home. He wants out of there, wants out and into his own place so he can invite Lucas here and he can get the life sucked out of him again. “Babe?”

“Sorry, I’m just, wow.” Tommy huffs and runs his hands over his abs to calm his nerves. “I wish I could see my cum all over your tongue,” he blurts out. Lucas chuckles and kitty licks the precum off him.

“That would be a sight, huh?” He takes Tommy down his throat again, pauses there for a few seconds and swallows around him before pulling off. “Tell you what,” Lucas starts. “I’m gonna suck that tasty cum out of you and I’ll keep it there until you tell me to swallow. Now I’m not encouraging you to cheat, but I’ll stay right here on my knees until you say so…”

“Will you be here next week?” Tommy can’t help but ask, and Lucas takes a second too many to answer. Tommy’s stomach drops, of course you shouldn't get attached dumbass. But he has to know if he can let himself go or if he should stretch this out with the last bit of power he’s got.

“I’ll be here. But I’m usually not in the blow job booths, babe. I’m an escort. Like the full deal.” There’s a visceral reaction in Tommy’s mind at the phrase, like he wants to go full-Hulk on these walls and beg Lucas to have his way with him. But he doesn’t want to sound pushy. Or desperate. Even if he’s one babe away from asking the man on a date.

“Can, uh. Can you be reserved, or are your clients assigned at random? I’m sorry that sounds awful…”

“Hey, I know which line of work I’m in. Wouldn’t do it if I couldn’t handle the question.” The nonchalance is soothing for the time being, but Tommy’s mind and body cannot catch a break as Lucas keeps his hand steadily stroking him. That’s another difference, he notes just now, how much tighter the bigger hands can get around him. I want that hand around my throat, Tommy thinks.

“You’ll just have to come back if you want that,” Lucas says and somehow, Tommy can hear the wink in his tone. As if Tommy’s body wasn’t burning already, a new wave of shame spreads across his skin. Before he can even ask about the fees, or how exactly to get a reservation, Lucas is yet again working his magic around Tommy, slurping and gagging and moaning and giving him sensations he’s never had, even the hairs on his feet are up!

“Lu-Lucas!” Tommy whimpers against the wall. Goddamn wall! Tommy curses as he imagines himself holding onto Lucas’ face, running his fingers in his hair and really using his throat like a fleshlight. He knows now. It clicked. Tommy loves men and he loves big men who can take a rough night and follow his needs. “I’m so… Fuck, I’m so close. Do that again!” The cheap screws are screaming as Tommy absentmindedly thrusts into Lucas’ movements, his pulls acting as a makeshift cockring. Then Tommy feels himself being enveloped entirely, all nine inches of him and his balls are in Lucas’ mouth.

“No, no-” Tommy warns as the first spasm runs up his legs and he can do nothing but push the pleasure out, leaning almost his entire weight against the wall. But Lucas is quick, expertly feeling the moment the dick in his mouth gorges for the last time and he pulls off, but slowly, letting his teeth scrape ever so slightly against Tommy’s oversensitive dick, and Tommy’s so far gone he’s crying into his fist and seeing the light.

It takes a moment before he can remember where he is, and then to remember what Lucas had told him about the end of their time together. When his dick has shrunk back enough to pull himself out, Tommy takes a deep breath and backs up, getting his pants up onto his hips. He pulls the hem of his shirt up so he can wipe at his sweat and he allows himself to fall in a crouched position. As promised, a waiting mouth full of cum is right there on the other end of the hole, displaying it like a trophy. Tommy looks attentively, though he can’t see above the man’s nose. And fuck what a nice glimpse this is! He notices the body hair, and veins going up Lucas’ neck. The sheen of his body in the low light, and the salty trail of his tears down his cheeks. He could guess he’s around his own build from the picture he’s making in his mind.