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It started, like so many disasters in Shane Hollander's life, with a completely innocent Google search.
He'd been looking up protein powder reviews. Protein powder. Because he was a professional athlete who cared about his macros, and definitely not because he was procrastinating on calling his mother back. The search results had been normal at first—Amazon links, a few bodybuilding forums, someone's blog about "clean gains."
And then his thumb had slipped.
He wasn't even sure how it happened. One second he was reading about whey versus casein absorption rates, and the next he was staring at a thread titled: "Be honest—how long do you ACTUALLY last? Poll inside."
Shane should have closed the tab. He knew he should have closed the tab. But his competitive streak—the same one that made him do extra bag skates and watch game tape until 2 AM—had him scrolling before his brain caught up with his fingers.
The poll results were... concerning.
Less than 5 minutes: 12%
5-10 minutes: 23%
10-20 minutes: 34%
20-30 minutes: 19%
30+ minutes: 12%
Shane stared at the screen. His stomach dropped somewhere around his ankles.
Twenty to thirty minutes? Some people were lasting thirty-plus?
He thought about last night. Ilya's hand wrapped around him, that infuriating smirk against his neck, the way Shane had come embarrassingly fast with a choked-off sound he'd pretended was a cough. It had been... four minutes, maybe? If he was being generous. If he counted the foreplay.
He scrolled further, each comment a fresh knife in his ego.
"If you can't last at least fifteen, you're not satisfying your partner lol"
"My ex used to finish in like two minutes and honestly it was such a letdown"
"Anything under ten is a dealbreaker for me"
Shane's face was on fire. He was alone in his apartment, but he still looked around guiltily, like someone might catch him reading this forum thread like it was contraband.
The worst part was the confidence these anonymous internet strangers had. Like they were experts. Like they had statistics backing them up. One guy had actually linked to a study—a study—about average duration and partner satisfaction, and Shane found himself clicking on it with the same morbid curiosity he'd feel watching a car crash.
The study did not make him feel better.
He closed his laptop. Opened it again. Closed it. Shoved it under a throw pillow like that would help.
Ilya probably thinks I'm terrible in bed, he thought miserably. He's just too polite to say anything.
Actually, no. Ilya was never too polite about anything. If Shane was bad in bed, Ilya would absolutely tell him. He'd probably make a little comment in that smug Russian accent, something like "Aw, already?" or "Again, so quick, Hollander?"
...Did Ilya make comments like that? Shane tried to remember. There was definitely some teasing, but Ilya teased him about everything. Was it pointed teasing? Was it disappointed teasing?
Oh god.
He retrieved his laptop from under the pillow and typed: "How to last longer in bed"
The internet, as always, was only too happy to provide.
Attempt #1: The Squeeze Technique
"Okay," Shane muttered to himself in the bathroom mirror. "You can do this. Mind over matter. You're a professional athlete. You have discipline."
The WikiHow article (yes, he'd resorted to WikiHow) had been very clear. When you feel close, you stop, squeeze the base, take deep breaths, and wait for the sensation to subside. Simple.
Ilya was in the bedroom, already naked and sprawled across Shane's sheets like he owned them. Which was annoying for multiple reasons, but also made Shane's mouth water, which was more annoying.
"You are taking long time," Ilya called. "Is having performance anxiety?"
"Shut up." Shane flushed and emerged from the bathroom. "I was just—nothing. I'm fine."
Ilya raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, just opened his arms in an invitation that Shane was helpless to refuse.
It started well. Ilya kissing him slow and deep, hands roaming, that familiar heat building in Shane's belly. Shane kept track of his breathing like the articles said. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm. Controlled.
Then Ilya got a hand on him, and Shane's carefully constructed strategy immediately crumbled.
"Wait—" Shane grabbed his own dick, squeezing the base hard. "Wait, stop, I need to—"
Ilya froze. "Are you okay? Is hurting?"
"No, I just—" Shane squeezed harder, face burning. "I need a minute."
Ilya's brow furrowed. He looked genuinely concerned, which made Shane feel terrible, but also he could notcome in forty-five seconds like a goddamn teenager. He had pride.
"Is something wrong?"
"No! Nothing's wrong. Just—stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like that." Shane gestured vaguely. "With your face."
"I cannot remove my face, Hollander."
"Just—give me a second."
Shane breathed through it, white-knuckling his cock until the urgency faded. Okay. Okay, he could do this. The squeeze technique worked.
They resumed.
Forty-three seconds later, Shane was scrambling for the base again with a strangled "wait, stop, hold on—"
This time Ilya looked less concerned and more suspicious. "Why you keep stopping?"
"No reason."
"Is very much seeming like a reason."
"It's not. Can we just—" Shane made a vague thrusting motion. "Keep going?"
The third time Shane grabbed himself, Ilya actually sat back on his heels. His erection was flagging slightly, which made Shane want to die of shame.
"Okay," Ilya said flatly. "What is happening."
"Nothing!"
"Is not nothing. Is making sex very..." He searched for the word. "Choppy."
Shane wanted the earth to swallow him whole. "I'm just—trying something. A technique."
"Technique."
"Yes."
Ilya stared at him for a long moment. Shane could see him deciding whether to push it. Mercifully, he didn't.
"Okay," Ilya said slowly. "Is very weird technique."
They did manage to finish eventually—Shane with a bitten-off groan he tried very hard to time appropriately, and Ilya looking vaguely bewildered the entire time.
Shane counted it as a partial success.
Attempt #2: Numbing Spray
The box at the drugstore had promised "long-lasting performance" with a picture of a very confident-looking man giving a thumbs up. Shane had bought it wearing sunglasses indoors, like he was purchasing drugs instead of a topical lidocaine product.
He applied it in the bathroom before Ilya came over, following the instructions carefully. Wait five minutes. Wash it off. The active ingredient should absorb into the tissue and reduce sensitivity.
What the instructions had not mentioned was that washing it off was apparently more of a suggestion than a guarantee.
"Oh fuck—" Ilya pulled back from where he'd been enthusiastically working Shane's cock with his mouth. "Why is—what—" He stuck his tongue out, face scrunched. "Why is numb?"
Shane's heart stopped. "What?"
"My tongue. Is going numb." Ilya poked at his mouth with rising alarm. "Shane. What is on your dick."
"Nothing!"
"Is not nothing! Cannot feel my—" He licked his lips experimentally. "Is definitely something. What you put on there."
Shane wanted to die. He wanted to spontaneously combust. He wanted to travel back in time and stop himself from ever logging onto that godforsaken forum.
"It's... numbing spray," he admitted in a tiny voice.
Ilya stared at him. His tongue was still sticking out slightly.
"Numbing. Spray."
"It's supposed to make me last longer."
"So you make me numb instead?"
"I didn't know it would transfer!" Shane buried his face in his hands. "The box didn't say anything about—oral—it just said wash it off—"
"Did you wash it off?"
"YES."
Ilya made a disgruntled sound and stomped to the bathroom. Shane heard the faucet running, aggressive gargling, what might have been Russian swearing. When Ilya emerged, his mouth was set in a flat line.
"We are talking about this," he said.
"Can we not?"
"No. We are talking."
"My penis is still out."
Ilya threw a pillow at him.
Attempt #3: The Mental Distraction Method
Reddit had suggested thinking about something unsexy. Baseball statistics. Tax returns. Your grandmother.
Shane did not have the cognitive capacity to think about tax returns when Ilya was inside him, but he tried anyway.
Capital gains, he thought desperately as Ilya's hips snapped forward. Schedule C deductions. 1099 forms—
"Nngh—" His back arched involuntarily. God, Ilya was hitting the perfect angle, the one that made Shane's brain short-circuit. Focus. Think about—about—
"You are making very strange face," Ilya observed, not slowing down at all. "Like constipated."
"I'm FINE."
"Is not looking fine."
"Just—" Shane bit his lip, trying to hold on. He was so close, way too close, they'd barely been going for three minutes. "Just—slow down—"
Ilya, because he was a contrary bastard, sped up.
Shane came with a wail, completely untouched, clenching down so hard Ilya groaned. Pleasure whited out his vision, his toes curling, and when he finally came back to himself Ilya was still moving inside him, chasing his own finish.
"So much for constipated face," Ilya said breathlessly, and Shane seriously considered smothering him with a pillow.
Attempt #4: The Cock Ring (Self-Prescribed)
Shane bought it online. Discreet packaging. Adjustable silicone. The reviews said it helped maintain erection and delayed orgasm, which was basically exactly what he needed.
The problem was putting it on correctly.
The problem was also that he'd never worn one before and had no idea what the right tightness was.
The problem was additionally that he'd been so embarrassed at the drugstore after the numbing spray incident that he'd ordered this one without much research, and it turned out to be slightly too small.
"Shane." Ilya's voice was strange. They'd been fooling around for a while—Shane was counting, eleven minutes, a new record—and Shane was actually starting to feel smug about it. "What is that."
"What's what."
Ilya reached down and touched the ring at the base of Shane's cock. Shane's smugness evaporated.
"Oh. That."
"Why you are wearing cock ring."
"It's... comfortable?"
Ilya's expression said he absolutely did not believe that. Shane's cock, dark red and straining against the too-tight silicone, certainly didn't look comfortable.
"Take off."
"No, it's fine—"
"Is not fine. Is looking like is hurting."
"It's fine, I want to last—"
He cut himself off too late. Ilya's eyes sharpened.
"Want to last," he repeated slowly. "Shane. What is going on with you."
"Nothing!"
"Is not nothing. For weeks now, is weird. Stopping during sex. Numb spray on dick. Now this." He gestured at the cock ring. "Is about lasting?"
Shane's face was so hot he thought he might actually have a fever. He turned his head away, staring at the wall, unable to look at Ilya.
"Forget it."
"No. Tell me."
"It's stupid."
"Then will be quick to explain. Tell me."
The silence stretched. Shane could feel Ilya watching him, patient and implacable. That was the worst thing about Ilya—he seemed like he'd be easy to outlast, but when he wanted something, he was immovable.
"I read something," Shane finally mumbled. "Online. About... how long you're supposed to last. To be good. In bed."
Another silence.
"And?"
"And I don't. Last long enough." Shane's voice came out small and humiliated. "I come too fast. I always have, with you. And I thought—I mean, you probably already know, you just haven't said anything because you're—I don't know. Being nice. But I know I'm not... satisfying. Properly."
He couldn't look at Ilya. His eyes were burning, which was ridiculous, this was so stupid, but he'd been thinking about it for weeks and all his attempts had failed and Ilya probably thought he was pathetic—
"Shane."
"I know it's dumb—"
"Shane, look at me."
Reluctantly, Shane turned his head. Ilya's expression was unreadable.
"You think," Ilya said slowly, "that I am not satisfied."
"I mean... statistically—"
"Forget statistics. You think I—" He gestured at himself. "—am not satisfied when I make you come?"
Shane blinked. "Well—"
"When I make you fall apart? When you make those sounds? When you shake and grab me and come all over yourself?" Ilya's eyes darkened. "You think this is not satisfying to me?"
"But I'm supposed to last—"
"Says who?" Ilya snorted. "Those people don't know how pretty you look when you lose control. Don't know how tight you get when you come. Don't know—" He leaned in, voice dropping. "How hard it makes me, seeing you so desperate for it you can't hold back."
Shane's breath caught.
"You think I want you to last twenty minutes?" Ilya continued. "I want to make you come in twenty seconds. Want to see how fast I can ruin you." He stroked a thumb over Shane's hip. "Is not failure, being sensitive. Is gift."
Shane's cock throbbed against the too-tight ring. His voice came out strangled. "But—"
"But nothing." Ilya's expression shifted, something wicked entering his eyes. "However. Since you are so worried about lasting..."
Shane did not like that tone.
"...maybe we try. My way."
"Your way?"
"Mm." Ilya smiled, slow and predatory. "You want to learn control? I teach you."
Shane swallowed.
Ilya removed the uncomfortable silicone ring—Shane hissed at the rush of blood—and then produced something from his bag. Shane hadn't even noticed him bring a bag.
"What is that?"
"Proper ring." Ilya held it up. It was adjustable, leather, and it had... Shane squinted. It had the Ottawa Centaurs logo printed on it.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Is custom made." Ilya looked extremely pleased with himself. "Very expensive. See?" He pointed at tiny text underneath the logo. "Says 'Property of I. Rozanov.'"
"I'm not wearing that."
"No?" Ilya's thumb traced over Shane's oversensitive cock, making him jerk. "Then I stop touching you."
"That's—that's blackmail—"
"Is motivation." Ilya kissed his jaw, his neck, sucking a mark into the hollow of his throat. "You want to come? Wear the ring."
"You're the worst."
"Yes. Very terrible. Now lift up."
Shane, because apparently he had no self-respect left, lifted his hips and let Ilya fit the goddamn Centaurs cock ring around the base of his dick.
It was snug but not painful. The leather was soft. The logo sat right there, visible, humiliatingly on-brand.
"There." Ilya sat back to admire his work. "Beautiful."
"I hate you."
"Mm, yes, I can tell." Ilya wrapped a hand around Shane's cock, stroking slowly. "So much hatred. Is why you're leaking all over yourself already, yes?"
Shane bit back a whimper. The ring made everything feel more, somehow—every stroke amplified, pleasure building rapidly but with nowhere to go. He could feel his orgasm gathering, cresting... and then stalling, caught by the tight band.
"Oh fuck—" His hips twitched. "That's—"
"Is working, yes?" Ilya's strokes didn't falter. "Now you can last. Like you wanted."
It took about thirty seconds for Shane to realize this was a punishment.
Ilya edged him mercilessly, bringing him right to the peak and holding him there. Every time Shane thought he might be able to push through, Ilya would slow down, or squeeze the base, or stop entirely and just watch Shane squirm.
"Please—" Shane's voice cracked. "Ilya, please, I need—"
"Need what?"
"Need to come, please, take it off—"
"But you wanted to last." Ilya's tone was sweetly condescending. "Is what you said, no? Wanted to be better? Last longer?"
"Changed my mind—"
"Mm, no. I think we keep going."
Shane's back arched as Ilya's thumb pressed against his slit, rubbing precome in circles. His cock was angry red, visibly throbbing, the stupid Ottawa logo mocking him every time he looked down.
"Please, please, I can't—" He was actually crying, tears spilling down his cheeks, and he should be embarrassed but he was so overwhelmed he couldn't think. "Ilya, please—"
"You are very pretty when you beg." Ilya kissed his wet cheek. "Love seeing you like this. So desperate. So needy."
"I'll do anything—"
"Anything?" Ilya's eyes glinted. "You want to ride me?"
Shane nodded frantically.
"Okay. You ride me. You control the pace." Ilya lay back, cock standing thick and flushed against his belly. "Show me your control, Hollander."
Shane scrambled to straddle him, shaking so badly he could barely coordinate his movements. He'd prepped earlier—more remnants of his pathetic attempts to have stamina—so he was already wet and loose enough to sink down with only a slight burn.
"Oh—oh god—" The stretch was incredible, Ilya's cock filling him perfectly, pressing right against his prostate. The ring kept him hovering on the edge, unable to tip over, the pleasure so intense it was almost pain.
"There you go." Ilya's hands settled on Shane's hips, not guiding—just resting. "Now. Show me. Nice and slow. Control yourself."
Shane rolled his hips experimentally. The drag of Ilya inside him made his eyes flutter. He tried to set a slow pace, tried to be controlled about it, but every movement sent sparks up his spine and he couldn't—he couldn't—
"Nnngh—" He bounced faster despite himself, chasing sensation. "Ah—ah, fuck—"
"What happened to slow?" Ilya's voice was infuriatingly calm. "Is not looking very controlled to me."
"I'm trying—"
"Are you?" Ilya canted his hips up, just a little, and Shane's vision went white at the edges. "Seems like you are just using me to get off."
"'M not—"
"Are." Ilya's hands tightened on his hips, holding him still. Shane whined, high and desperate. "You are so hungry for it. Can't even pretend, can you? Have no self-control at all."
"Please—please move—"
"No. You were supposed to control the pace. You failed." Ilya's smile was sharp-edged. "So now I control."
Before Shane could protest, Ilya flipped them, driving Shane into the mattress and seating himself deep in one brutal thrust. Shane keened, fingernails raking down Ilya's back.
"There," Ilya growled. "This is what you need, yes? Not to last. Not to control. Just to be fucked."
"Yes—yes—oh god, please, please—"
Ilya set a punishing rhythm, slamming into Shane hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall. The sound of skin on skin was obscene, wet and slapping, and Shane could hear himself making noises he'd be mortified about later—high, breathy moans and broken pleas.
"Look at you." Ilya's voice was wrecked but still commanding. "So desperate. So easy. Crying for my cock."
"Ahh—" Shane's eyes rolled back as Ilya nailed his prostate dead-on. "Right there, right there, please don't stop—"
"Not stopping. Going to fuck you until you scream." Ilya buried his face in Shane's neck, biting down. "Going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."
The ring—Shane couldn't think past the ring. He was so close, suspended on the knife's edge, every nerve ending on fire but unable to fall.
"Please take it off—" He was sobbing openly now, tears streaming. "Please, I can't, I can't, Ilya, please—"
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
"Say you don't need to last. Say you're perfect when you fall apart for me."
"I—I—" Shane choked on the words. "I don't need—I'm perfect—please, please—"
Ilya reached between them and unclasped the ring.
Shane's orgasm hit like a freight train. His back bowed completely off the mattress, a scream tearing from his throat as he clamped down around Ilya. Come striped his chest, his stomach, catching Ilya's chin—and it just kept coming, his cock pulsing in wet spurts as Ilya fucked him straight through it.
"I'm sorry—" The words tumbled out delirious and broken. "I'm sorry, I'm coming, I can't stop, I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize." Ilya's hips stuttered, rhythm faltering. "Fuck, Shane, so good, so tight—"
"'M sorry, 's too much, I can't—ahhn—" Shane's cock was still twitching weakly, oversensitive, and Ilya was still moving inside him, each thrust sending shockwaves through his wrung-out body. "Ilya—Ilya, please—"
"One more." Ilya shifted angles, grinding deep. "Give me one more."
"Can't—"
"You can. I know you can." Ilya's hand wrapped around Shane's spent, sensitive cock, and Shane wailed. "There. Right there. Can feel you clenching. You want it."
"'S too much—"
"Is not. You can take it. You take everything I give you because you're so good. So pretty. So perfect for me."
Shane's eyes crossed. Ilya's hand was relentless, stroking Shane's overstimulated flesh while pounding into his prostate, and the pleasure was so sharp it almost hurt.
"That's it." Ilya's voice had gone low and reverent. "That's my good boy. Letting me use you. Letting me make you feel good."
"Hhh—nngh—" Shane couldn't form words anymore. His whole body was shaking, limp and pliant, letting Ilya manipulate him however he wanted. Every brush against his prostate made him clench involuntarily, little hiccuping moans punching out of him.
"Going to come inside you." Ilya's thrusts were getting sloppy. "Going to fill you up. Would you like that?"
Shane managed a weak nod, drool escaping the corner of his mouth. He felt drunk—cock drunk, praise drunk, completely beyond coherent thought.
"Say it."
"Please—" His voice was wrecked. "Please come inside me. Fill me up. 'M yours."
Ilya groaned, burying himself deep, and Shane felt the hot pulse of him letting go. The sensation pushed Shane over one more impossible edge—a dry orgasm that made his whole body seize, back arching, mouth open in a silent scream.
When Shane came back to himself, Ilya was stroking his hair, murmuring soft Russian words against his temple. Shane was still crying—or crying again, he couldn't tell—and his whole body felt like jelly.
"There you are." Ilya kissed his forehead. "Was good?"
"Mmmph." Shane couldn't manage more than that.
"For the record." Ilya's voice was warm. "You are always satisfying. Always perfect. Never think otherwise."
Shane tucked his face into Ilya's neck, still sniffling. "The internet said—"
"Internet is stupid. I am smart. Listen to me."
"You had a Centaurs cock ring custom-made."
"This does not disprove my intelligence."
Shane laughed weakly, the sound wet and exhausted. Ilya pulled him closer, and Shane let himself melt into it, boneless and wrung-out and—fine.
More than fine.
"For the record," Shane mumbled into Ilya's skin, "that was definitely more than twenty minutes."
Ilya's laughter rumbled through both of them. "Yes. You are cured. Very impressive stamina now."
"Shut up."
"My little quick shot."
"I will smother you with a pillow."
But Shane was smiling when he said it, and Ilya's arms only tightened around him.