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His socks were always the last thing he removed, even after his underwear. His clothes folded on a chair, a dresser, the floor beside the bed - wherever it was most convenient. Socks on. Toes nervously wiggling inside white cotton, and polyester, and whatever the fuck Dri-FIT shit is made of. Ilya is endeared by it. Endeared by him standing completely nude from the shins up. He looked ridiculous. Stupid. Cute. He looked really, really cute. So cute Ilya felt a tension in his body. A heat in the pit of his stomach. An energy inside of him that he just needed to fucking get out.
He pushes Shane onto the bed. Shane lands on his back letting out a surprised huff of air that puffs his cheeks up. It makes the feeling inside of Ilya worse. His blood feels like it’s pushing against his skin. He feels like he’s going to fucking explode.
He lunges towards the bed. Slots himself on top of Shane. Their tummies press together. Skin brushing against skin. Shane pushes up against him, their bare cocks bumping. Shane’s tip is already leaking, the thin fluid dripping from it sliding against Ilya’s hard cock.
Shane pulls his feet up, socks rubbing against Ilya’s thighs. The fabric tickles his skin - breaks it out in goosebumps. He presses a hand hard against Shane’s face. Shane’s nose smooshes under the pressure - cartilage bending against his palm.
“Fuck,” Ilya moans, grinding his crotch against Shane’s. “You’re so fucking cute.”
Shane makes an indignant noise behind his hand.
“Is true,” Ilya tells him. “You are so cute. So cute I want to hurt you.”
Another noise is uttered against his palm, this time something that’s a cross between a whimper and a moan. It’s a pathetic sound. A keening that makes him want to slap Shane. He does. He moves his hand from Shane’s face and brings it up quickly. He brings it back down even quicker. The slap echoes loud in the silence of the bedroom and when he pulls away Shane’s cheek is tinged pink.
“Ow,” Shane sniffs, eyes watery.
“Ow,” Ily repeats mockingly. Slaps him again. Makes his cheek go from pink to red.
Shane wraps his legs around Ilya’s torso. Socks once again brushing against. Driving him crazy. Making him angry. Making him mean. He needs to do something. Something to calm himself down.
“I need to cut your fucking feet off,” Ilya growls.
Shane pushes back against the pillow his head is resting on. His eyes go from dazed half-lidded to wide open.
“What the fuck?” He asks.
“Your fucking socks,” Ilya groans.
“Ilya,” Shane starts, very seriously. “I can just take them off. You don’t need to cut my feet off.”
Shane’s already reaching for his feet before finishing his sentence. Ilya pushes him back down.
“Don’t fucking take them off!” He shouts.
“Okay, okay,” Shane appeases, voice slow and steady. “What should I do then?”
“Lay the fuck down!” Ilya snaps. Shane acquiesces immediately, eyebrows raising in surprise, entire body pressing into the mattress enough to make an indent in the sheets. Ilya hadn’t meant to yell, really, he didn’t. He just couldn’t handle Shane and his boring, cute, little questions. He pushes himself off the bed. Paces the room. He feels pretty dumb walking back and forth, hand rubbing his face, dick still hard and bouncing against his stomach.
“You can hurt me,” Shane whispers.
Ilya’s pacing halts, “What?”
“If you think it’ll help you can hurt me,” Shane says. “Just, uhm, just don’t cut off my feet.”
“I’m not going to cut off your fucking feet, Shane,” Ilya tells him, rolling his eyes.
“I just wanted to be clear.”
“I can hurt your feet, though?” Ilya asks, eyes locked in on Shane’s sock covered feet. Shane looks down at them and nods.
“Sure,” He answers with a shrug.
Ilya goes to the closet and opens the chest where they keep all their toys. It’s not a lot. Shane’s still worried. Still paranoid. He’s built up about a thousand scenarios in his head of people finding them and knowing.
He fishes the rattan cane out from the chest - a long thin piece of rattan wood emerging from a black handle. He’s used it on Shane before to leave red stinging stripes down his ass and thighs. He pats it gently in his hand.
Shane is waiting for him on the bed. Still laying flat on his back. Arms above his head. Hands holding the back of his head. He’s tapping his toes together. A movement he does often. Ilya’s not sure Shane even knows when he’s doing it. Ilya’s once again overcome with the desire to cut Shane’s feet off.
“Scoot down so your feet are at the end of the bed,” Ilya tells him. Shane follows his orders adjusting himself so his heels rest on the edge of the mattress.
Ilya runs the cane across the tips of his toes, pushes it between them, stretches the sock. The first hit of the cane is soft. He can’t even hear it woosh through the air. Shane doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even react.
The next hit is harder. The cane is long enough to catch both of his feet. Shane breathes in sharply when it lands on the sole. The socks dull the sensation. Ilya can tell by Shane’s reaction. It should have elicited more of a bodily reaction. His toes didn’t even curl. His fingers wrapped around the handle tingle. He tightens his grip and pulls back again.
This hit is hard. It’s forceful. It’s harder than he would normally hit him. It makes Shane shout. Perfect.
He hits him again.
“Fuck!” Shane shouts. His arms fly over his face. His teeth bite into his lip.
“Did that hurt?” Ilya asks. Hits him again just as hard.
“Fuck! You know it hurts!” Shane whimpers. His big toes are overlapping trying to hold onto each other in an effort to not move his feet away.
“I know,” Ilya laughs.
The cane rushes through the air and lands against Shane’s socked feet with full force. Shane’s knees fly up. His feet move away from the edge. He presses them into the mattress.
“Put your fucking feet back down,” Ilya growls.
Shane shakes his head. His face is flushed and sweaty.
“It hurts,” He whines pathetically. He must really mean it - to sound like that - he must really think it hurts.
Ilya grabs Shane’s ankles one by one and pulls his legs back down. Shane begs him not to. Tells him he’s changed mind about it but he doesn’t care anymore. The blood pushing at his skin, the feeling of needing to explode, it was all still there. It was all still thrumming within.
Shane’s feet are back to the edge of the bed. His hands are twisted in the sheets and his eyes are pinched closed waiting for the next strike. The strike comes quickly. It’s rougher than the others. Meaner. Shane shouts. His body tenses as he tries not to move his legs back again.
“You’re such a fucking pussy,” Ilya says. He brings the cane down again. Then again. Hit. Hit. Hit. Shane cries out with each quick swing. “Stop crying you fucking cunt. You said to hurt you, yes?”
“It hurts,” Shane responds stupidly.
Ilya breathes in heavily. His head twitches to the side so hard his neck cracks. He brings the cane up above his shoulders and back down. The crack of it echoes through the room. Echoes over the sound of Shane’s pathetic fucking crying. With the crack of the cane and Shane’s crying he almost misses it. The sound of fabric giving way.
There’s a perfect perpendicular tear in both the socks. The skin peaking out is an angry bright red. Fuck. It’s perfect.
“Your socks are ruined,” Ilya tells him calmly. He finally feels settled. Finally feels like his blood is pulsing through him the way it's meant to.
Shane sniffs, “I liked these socks.”
“I do not really care,” Ilya scoffs.
“Okay,” Shane whispers.
Ilya whacks the cane down on the exposed flesh. The skin breaks, small dots of blood appearing. Ilya kneels at the foot of the bed. He licks at the soles of Shane’s feet. Tongue lapping against the hot flesh. The bitter copper taste of blood and the earthy musk of sweat filled his mouth. He licks until the bleeding has stopped. He licks until Shane’s feet are clean.