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The alarm wouldn't go off for another forty minutes.

Shane didn't care.

His fingers found his nipples before his eyes even opened fully, the dark buds already stiff and aching like someone had spent the whole night tormenting them. He'd gone to bed hoping the serum would just—do whatever it was supposed to do and settle. Something about "enhanced sensitivity" the ad had promised. He'd thought it might help him feel more during games, more aware of his body on the ice.

What a fucking mistake.

"Ngghhh—" Shane bit down on his bottom lip, hard, as he tugged at his right nipple. The sensation shot straight to his cock, made his back arch off the mattress. His other hand was already pinching the left one, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, scratching at the peak with his nail.

"Hhahh— hahh— m-more—"

The word slipped out before he could stop it, breathy and high. His roommate wasn't home—thank God—because Shane couldn't have stayed quiet if he tried. Every touch felt like electricity sparking under his skin, pooling hot and insistent in his belly.

He pulled his shirt up, bunching the soft cotton under his chin so he could see himself. So he could watch his own fingers work those swollen little buds that wouldn't, wouldn't stop throbbing. They were darker than usual. Puffier. Standing up like they were begging to be touched.

Shane whimpered, actually whimpered, as he scraped his fingernail over the left one. His hips jerked involuntarily, rutting against nothing but air. Pre-cum was already leaking from his cock, wetting his boxer briefs, and he hadn't even touched himself there yet.

"O-oh God— oh—"

He tugged harder, twisting both nipples at once, and his vision went spotty at the edges. His eyes rolled back in his head, lids fluttering, mouth dropping open in a silent moan that finally broke into a keening little "Ahhhn—!"

The orgasm hit him without warning.

Just from his nipples.

Just from tugging and scratching at those sensitive peaks until his whole body convulsed, cock jerking untouched in his underwear as he came with a stuttered, shocked moan. His back bowed off the bed, sweat dampening his hairline, and he didn't stop playing with himself through it—couldn't stop—because the ache was still there underneath the pleasure, demanding more.

Shane lay there panting, fingers still circling his nipples in slow, dazed motions. His cum was cooling in his underwear, sticky and obscene, and his cock was already half-hard again.

"What the hell," he breathed, staring at the ceiling. His cheeks were flushed bright pink, lips bitten red and swollen. "What the hell."

The ache pulsed insistently.

He pinched again, gasped, and didn't stop until his alarm finally screamed at him to get up for practice.

The next few days were torture.

Sweet, unbearable, mortifying torture.

Shane walked around campus in a permanent state of low-grade arousal, face flushed, breath coming just a little too fast. He wore baggy hoodies to hide the way his nipples pressed against the fabric of every shirt he owned, but it didn't help. Every brush of cotton against those oversensitive buds made him shiver.

By the second day, he'd figured out his pattern.

Class for an hour, then—

"Excuse me," Shane mumbled to his professor, grabbing his backpack and practically bolting for the door. His nipples were throbbing, peaked so hard they ached, and he needed to touch them right now or he was going to scream.

He found the bathroom at the end of the hall, the one nobody used because it was too far from everything, and locked himself in the last stall.

"Oh thank God," Shane breathed, yanking his hoodie up and shoving his hand under his t-shirt. His fingers found his right nipple and he gasped, head falling back against the stall door with a soft thunk.

"Uhhhnnngh— s-so good—"

He scratched at the swollen bud with his fingernail, circling the peak, and his eyes crossed from the pleasure. His other hand joined the first, both nipples getting the attention they were screaming for, and Shane bit down on the collar of his shirt to muffle the sounds spilling out of him.

High, breathy little moans. Whimpers that sounded obscene even to his own ears. The wet sound of his fingers pinching and rolling those sensitive peaks.

"Mmmnf—" His back arched, pressing his shoulder blades harder against the door. Someone walked into the bathroom—Shane could hear the footsteps, the sound of a sink running—and he stuffed his fist in his mouth, biting down on his knuckles as he came again.

Right there.

In a public bathroom.

From playing with his nipples for less than two minutes.

His cock jerked in his jeans, untouched, spilling into the briefs he'd already ruined twice that morning. Shane trembled through the aftershocks, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the intensity.

When the other person finally left, Shane slumped against the door and stared at the graffiti-covered ceiling.

"This is insane," he whispered to himself. "This is actually insane."

But the ache was already building again.

Practice was hell.

The hockey pads pressed against his chest, and every single shift and movement made Shane's breath catch. He missed passes. He fumbled the puck. Ilya watched him from the bench with those sharp, assessing eyes, and Shane wanted to sink through the ice from embarrassment.

When practice ended, Shane escaped to the locker room and waited for everyone else to leave.

Then he found a corner.

Shoved his hand under his under-armor.

And bit his forearm so hard he left marks, muffling the desperate little "ngh ngh ngh" sounds as he played with his nipples until he came for the fifth time that day.

By day four, Shane was a mess.

Dark circles under his eyes from barely sleeping. A permanent flush across his cheekbones. His lips were bitten red and raw from trying to keep quiet. He'd lost count of how many pairs of underwear he'd ruined.

And the ache wouldn't go away.

He'd tried ignoring it—lasted about an hour before he was shaking and sweating, unable to focus on anything except the insistent throb in his chest. He'd tried wearing nipple tape—made it worse, the sticky friction driving him crazy within minutes. He'd tried wearing no shirt at all under his hoodie—terrible idea, the soft fleece lining was basically designed to torment him.

Shane didn't know what to do.

So he did the only thing he could think of: he went to Ilya.

Ilya Rozanov was the youngest coach their college program had ever hired, and probably the most intimidating. He was tall—really tall—with broad shoulders and sharp cheekbones and dark curls that was always perfectly styled. His accent made everything he said sound vaguely dangerous.

Shane knocked on his office door after practice, still in his practice jersey, face flushed and breathing a little too hard.

"Come in."

Shane slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Ilya was at his desk, looking at game footage on his laptop, but he looked up when Shane entered.

"Hollander." His eyes swept over Shane—the flushed cheeks, the labored breathing, the way Shane was hunching his shoulders like he was trying to disappear into his own body. "Something wrong?"

"I— um." Shane's voice came out small, embarrassed. "I need— can I ask you something? It's kind of... weird."

Ilya leaned back in his chair, giving Shane his full attention. "What is it?"

Shane's face went even redder. He looked at the floor, at the wall, at anywhere except Ilya's face.

"I bought this stuff online," he started, his voice barely above a whisper. "It was supposed to help with— I don't know, sensitivity or whatever. For games. And it— something went wrong. I think."

"Wrong how?"

Shane made a small, distressed sound. His hand drifted unconsciously to his chest, pressing against his jersey like he could push the ache down if he tried hard enough.

"My—" He couldn't say it. His face was burning. "Coach, can I just... show you?"

Ilya's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened. "Alright. Show me."

Shane hesitated for only a second. Then, with trembling fingers, he lifted his practice jersey.

His nipples were swollen and stiff, standing up hard against his fair skin. They looked almost angry—flushed and puffy like they'd been played with for hours. Which, to be fair, they had.

"They're always hard," Shane said in a small, confused voice, looking at Ilya with those wide, innocent eyes. "Like— always. And they ache, Coach. Unless I— um. Unless I touch them. What do I do?"

Ilya was very, very still.

His gaze was fixed on Shane's chest, on those pretty, swollen nipples, and there was something dark in his expression. Something hungry.

Shane didn't notice. He was too busy looking down at himself, brow furrowed, genuinely distressed.

"Is something wrong with me?" he asked, voice cracking slightly. "Am I sick? It's been days and it won't stop—"

"Shane." Ilya's voice was low, controlled. "Come here."

Shane obeyed automatically, stepping around the desk until he was standing right beside Ilya's chair. Ilya turned to face him, looking up at Shane's exposed chest with that same intense, calculating expression.

"This," Ilya said slowly, "is not sickness."

"It's— it's not?"

"No." Ilya reached out and Shane's breath caught as warm, calloused fingers brushed against his right nipple. Just a light touch, barely there, and Shane's whole body shuddered.

"Ah—"

"This is normal," Ilya continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Body response to stimulation. Some athletes have this—very sensitive. Is actually healthy."

"H-healthy?" Shane blinked at him, dazed already, Ilya's finger still resting against his nipple.

"Very healthy. Playing with them—" Ilya demonstrated by rolling the nub gently between his thumb and forefinger, and Shane made a high, desperate sound, "—releases good hormones. Makes you more focused. Better reflexes. Will help your game."

Shane's eyes were going unfocused, his lips parted. "It— it will?"

"Mhm." Ilya pinched, just a little, and Shane's knees almost buckled. "You should not ignore this. Is your body telling you what it needs. You should listen."

"O-oh." Shane's voice was tiny, breathless. "I didn't— I didn't know that."

"Is not something they teach." Ilya's free hand came up to rest on Shane's hip, steadying him. "But I can help you. If you want."

"Help me?" Shane looked at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Completely innocent. Completely trusting. "You mean— like, therapy?"

"Like sessions," Ilya agreed. "After practice. I help you with this—" another pinch, another breathy gasp from Shane, "—and you play better. Win more games. Everyone wins."

Shane nodded rapidly, too turned on to think straight. "Yes. Okay. Yes, please, Coach. I— I don't know how to make it stop on my own. I've tried, I keep— in the bathrooms, in the locker room— it just keeps coming back—"

Something flickered in Ilya's eyes at that. The image of Shane, hiding in bathroom stalls, desperately playing with his own nipples, biting back moans, cumming over and over again—

"We start now," Ilya decided. "Come. Sit."

He pushed his chair back from the desk and patted his thigh.

Shane hesitated for only a second. Then he climbed into Ilya's lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, straddling those thick thighs, his jersey still bunched up under his chin.

"Good boy," Ilya murmured.

The effect was instant.

Shane's whole body went slack, his eyes glazing over, a soft "ngh" escaping his bitten lips. Ilya filed that information away for later.

"So responsive," Ilya observed, bringing both hands up to Shane's chest. "Such pretty nipples. Have been driving you crazy, yes?"

Shane nodded frantically. "Y-yes, Coach. So— so much. I can't stop thinking about them, can't stop touching—"

"Shh." Ilya pressed his thumbs against both peaks simultaneously, rubbing slow circles, and Shane arched into the touch with a keening moan. "I take care of you now. You just feel."

"O-okay— ohhh—"

Ilya wasn't gentle.

He'd seen the way Shane played with himself—the scratching, the tugging, the desperate pinching—and he matched it. He rolled those swollen buds between his fingers, pulling them out until Shane whimpered, then letting them snap back. He scratched his nails across the peaks, making Shane's eyes roll back in his head.

"Fffuck—" Shane's hips rocked forward involuntarily, grinding against Ilya's stomach. "C-Coach, I'm— that feels—"

"Tell me," Ilya commanded, twisting both nipples at once. "Use your words."

"Good—" Shane sobbed. "So good, so— ahhhh— please, more, I need—"

"Greedy." Ilya's voice was low, approving. He pinched hard enough to make Shane cry out, high and desperate. "So greedy for it. You love having your nipples played with?”

Shane nodded helplessly, tears pricking at his eyes from the intensity. "Y-yes, I— I do, I love it, please don't stop—"

"Not going to stop." Ilya leaned in, his breath hot against Shane's ear. "Going to make you cum just from this. You can do that, can't you? Cum from your nipples like a good boy?"

"Nnghh—" Shane's hips stuttered, grinding harder. "Yes— yes, I can, I've been— all week, I keep— just from touching—"

"Show me." Ilya twisted and pulled, relentless. "Show me how pretty you look when you cum."

Shane lasted about thirty more seconds.

His orgasm hit him like a freight train, body seizing up, back arching so hard he nearly bent in half. A high, broken wail tore out of his throat— "Ahhhhn-nnngh!"—and his cock jerked in his practice shorts, spilling wet and hot as Ilya kept playing with his nipples through it.

"That's it," Ilya murmured against his ear. "Good boy. Such a good boy. Cumming so pretty for me."

"Uhhhhn—" Shane collapsed against Ilya's chest, trembling all over. His nipples were throbbing with aftershocks, so sensitive that Ilya's continued gentle touches made him twitch and whimper. "C-Coach—"

"Shh. I've got you." Ilya stroked his sides soothingly, gentling his touch. "Did so well. Feeling better?"

Shane nodded weakly against Ilya's shoulder. The ache was finally, finally quiet—not gone entirely, but manageable for the first time in days.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse from moaning. "Thank you, Coach."

"Same time tomorrow," Ilya said, and it wasn't a suggestion. "After practice. My office. We keep doing this until your body adjusts."

"Okay." Shane's voice was small and dazed, fucked-out and sweet. "Okay, Coach."

The next day, Shane scored a hat trick.

He was everywhere on the ice—faster, sharper, more focused than he'd been in weeks. When the final buzzer sounded and his team swarmed him, lifting him up in celebration, Shane's gaze drifted to the bench where Ilya stood watching.

Ilya smiled.

Just a small curl of his lips, barely visible. But Shane felt it all the way to his toes.

He was right, Shane thought giddily. It really does help.

After the game, Shane practically ran to Ilya's office.

The session that night was even more intense. Ilya had Shane on his lap again, jersey pulled up, and this time he used his mouth—sucking one nipple while pinching the other, scraping his teeth across the sensitive peak until Shane was a sobbing, incoherent mess.

He came twice before Ilya let him go.

They fell into a pattern.

Every day after practice, Shane would go to Ilya's office. He'd climb into Ilya's lap, pull up his jersey, and let Ilya play with his nipples until he came so hard he saw stars.

And every day, Shane played better.

His stats improved. His focus sharpened. He was being scouted by NHL teams now, serious conversations about drafts and contracts and futures. And all Shane could think about was Ilya's fingers on his chest, Ilya's voice in his ear calling him good boy.

"You're so perfect like this," Ilya told him one evening, three weeks into their arrangement. Shane was squirming on his lap, whimpering as Ilya pulled and twisted his swollen nipples. "So responsive. Made for this."

"Nngh— made for— what?" Shane's voice was slurred, fucked-out, his eyes already glazing over.

"Made to be touched." Ilya scraped his nail across one peak and Shane's whole body spasmed. "Made to cum from this. Made to be mine."

"Yours," Shane agreed dreamily, too far gone to question it. "Y-yours, Coach."

"That's right." Ilya twisted both nipples simultaneously and Shane wailed, cumming untouched in his shorts for the second time that session. "My good boy."

The pace changed in quiet increments.

First it was Ilya's mouth on his nipples, sucking and biting until Shane was hoarse from crying out. Then it was Ilya's hand sliding down to cup Shane through his shorts while he played with his chest, giving Shane something to grind against as he chased his orgasms.

Then, one night, it was Ilya's cock.

"Need you to do something for me," Ilya said, unzipping his pants. Shane was already on his lap, already shirtless, already leaking in his shorts. His eyes went wide when Ilya pulled himself out—thick and hard and flushed dark with arousal.

"C-Coach—“

"This will help." Ilya's voice was calm, confident. "Trust me. Going to ride me while I play with you. More stimulation, more hormones. Better for your game."

Shane looked at the cock in front of him. Looked at Ilya's face. Looked at his own swollen, aching nipples.

"Okay," he breathed.

Ilya prepped him slowly, one finger at a time, and Shane didn't think to question why Ilya had lube and condoms in his desk drawer. He was too busy moaning and grinding back on those thick fingers, his neglected nipples throbbing with the need to be touched.

"Please," he gasped. "Coach, please, I need—"

"I know what you need." Ilya lifted Shane up, positioned him, and lowered him down onto his cock in one smooth motion.

Shane's scream could probably be heard down the hall.

"OH— fuckfuckfuck—"

He was so full. Ilya was so big, stretching him open, and it was too much and not enough all at once. Shane's nails dug into Ilya's shoulders, his eyes rolled back, and he hadn't even started moving yet.

Then Ilya's hands found his nipples.

"NNNGH!"

Shane came instantly—untouched, just from the feeling of Ilya pinching his nipples while that thick cock filled him up. His vision went white, his whole body convulsing, and distantly he could hear himself making sounds that should have been embarrassing. High, whining moans. Desperate little squeals. Babbling nonsense punctuated with "Coach, Coach, Coach—"

"That's one." Ilya sounded smug. "Going to make you cum many more times tonight. Now ride."

Shane rode.

He bounced on Ilya's cock like his life depended on it, chasing the fullness and the friction, while Ilya's fingers never stopped working his nipples. Tugging, twisting, scratching, pulling—an endless assault of sensation that kept Shane right on the edge of orgasm at all times.

"Look at you," Ilya murmured. "So desperate. Cumming over and over on my cock like a perfect little slut."

Shane whimpered in agreement. He was too far gone to be offended, too fucked-out to be embarrassed. He just kept moving, kept grinding, kept clenching around Ilya's cock while those merciless fingers played his body like an instrument.

"Please—" His voice was wrecked, hoarse from moaning. "Coach, please—"

"Please what?" Ilya pinched hard, twisted, and Shane shrieked as another orgasm tore through him. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need."

"D-don't know—" Shane was crying now, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. "Everything. More. Please, just— don't stop— need you—"

"Need me." Ilya's hips snapped up, driving deeper, and Shane's eyes crossed from the sensation. "Need my cock filling you up? Need my hands on your pretty nipples? Need me to tell you what a good boy you are?”

"Yes— YES—" Shane's voice broke into a sob. "Good boy, I wanna be good, please tell me I'm good—"

"The best," Ilya groaned, his own control finally cracking. "The best boy. So tight and sweet and perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to cum from your nipples like a pretty little slut. Mine."

Shane came again with a scream, clenching so hard around Ilya's cock that it triggered Ilya's own orgasm. Shane could feel it—the thick pulses of warmth filling the condom, Ilya's hands tightening on his nipples, Ilya's groan of release vibrating against his ear.

They collapsed together, both breathing hard, both slick with sweat.

Shane's nipples were still throbbing. Still sensitive. Still aching for more.

But for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel desperate about it.

He felt satisfied.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, voice small and hopeful.

Ilya laughed, low and dark, and pressed a kiss to Shane's sweat-damp temple.

"Same time tomorrow."

The morning of the away game, Shane woke up to Ilya's hands on his chest.

He was in Ilya's bed—he'd started spending nights there after the sessions got longer, after one orgasm turned into four turned into Shane passing out on Ilya's chest with his nipples still twitching—and Ilya was propped up on one elbow beside him, watching him with those dark, calculating eyes.

"Wha—" Shane blinked, groggy. Then he felt it. Something cool and metallic closing around his right nipple.

"Hold still," Ilya murmured.

Shane looked down. Ilya was fastening a small, sleek clamp around the swollen bud—not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to squeeze, keeping the nipple compressed and pinched. A tiny bullet vibrator was attached to the flat face of the clamp, no bigger than a shirt button. Nearly invisible under clothing.

"Coach, what—"

"Shh." Ilya attached the second one to Shane's left nipple, and Shane sucked in a breath, his back arching slightly off the mattress. "These are for the bus."

"The— the bus?"

Ilya reached for his phone on the nightstand and tapped the screen. Both vibrators hummed to life simultaneously.

"Ohh—" Shane's hands fisted in the sheets, his eyes going wide and glassy. The vibrations were low—a gentle, persistent buzz against his already oversensitive nipples—but it was enough to make his toes curl and his cock twitch against his thigh.

Ilya leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of Shane's ear. "You're going to wear these for me today. On the bus. Through the whole ride." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "And you are going to be good for me, aren’t you? You are not going to cum until we get to the hotel. Understand?"

Shane whimpered. The vibrations pulsed against his nipples, steady and maddening.

"I— the ride is three hours—"

"I know." Ilya's smirk was audible. "Can you be my good boy for three hours?"

The words hit Shane like a fist to the gut. His cock was already hard, leaking against his belly, and Ilya hadn't even touched him properly yet.

"Y-yes, Coach," he breathed.

"Good." Ilya kissed his temple and pulled back. "Get dressed. Wear the hoodie."

The bus was hell.

Shane had started in his usual window seat next to Hayden, but by the thirty-minute mark, he couldn't take it anymore. Every brush of Hayden's shoulder against his, every concerned glance—it was too much. He mumbled something about needing space to stretch out and moved to an empty aisle seat near the back of the bus, where no one was sitting.

He pulled his hood up, clutched his backpack to his chest, and tried to disappear.

The vibrators buzzed on.

Fifty minutes in, Shane was biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper. The vibrations hadn't changed—still that same low, relentless hum—but his body was winding tighter and tighter with every passing second. His nipples were throbbing against the clamps, swollen and hot, and every bump in the road sent a jolt through the vibrators that made him have to swallow a moan.

He risked a glance toward the front of the bus.

Ilya was several rows ahead, sitting in the aisle seat across from the assistant coach. He was looking at his phone.

As Shane watched, Ilya's thumb swiped across the screen.

The vibrations intensified.

"Ngh!" Shane bit down on his fist, shoving it against his mouth. His hips rocked forward involuntarily, grinding against the backpack in his lap, and oh God, that was worse—the pressure against his cock, the buzzing on his nipples, the knowledge that he was surrounded by his teammates and nobody knew—

He curled into himself, pressing his forehead against the seat in front of him, and prayed for the ride to end.

At the ninety-minute mark, Ilya got up from his seat.

Shane watched through half-lidded eyes as Ilya walked down the aisle, pausing to check on players as he went—a hand on Evans' shoulder, a quick word with the goalie about tomorrow's game. Normal coach things. Nothing suspicious.

When he reached Shane's row, he stopped.

"Hollander." Ilya's voice was professionally concerned. "You look pale. Feeling alright?"

Shane looked up at him with glassy, desperate eyes. His lips were bitten raw. His face was flushed despite what Ilya had said about looking pale. He was trembling visibly.

"'M fine," he managed. "Just— carsick."

"Are you sure?"

Ilya leaned forward, his broad shoulders blocking the view from the rest of the bus, creating a small pocket of privacy around Shane's seat. To anyone glancing back, it looked like a coach checking on a sick player. Nothing more.

Shane's breath hitched when he felt Ilya's fingers on his cheek.

Just a gentle touch—the backs of two fingers pressed against Shane's flushed skin, feeling for fever. An innocent gesture. A caring coach concerned about his player's health.

It was devastating.

Shane's eyes fluttered, his lashes fanning against his cheeks. His teeth sank into his bottom lip so hard it went white. He nodded jerkily because he didn't trust his voice, didn't trust himself to open his mouth without a moan spilling out. The vibrators buzzed against his nipples and Ilya's fingers were so close, so warm, and Shane wanted to turn his face into that touch, wanted to beg, wanted—

A whimper built in his throat. He swallowed it down. Barely.

Ilya's eyes flickered with something dark. Satisfied.

His hand dropped casually onto Shane's shoulder.

His thumb pressed against the side of Shane's neck—right over his pulse point, where his heart was hammering rabbit-fast beneath the skin. His fingers squeezed once, firm and possessive, and Shane wanted him so badly it hurt. A physical ache in his chest, in his gut, between his legs. Three hours of this. Three hours of wanting and not having and being so fucking good and Ilya was right here, touching him, and Shane couldn't do anything about it.

Ilya watched him struggle. Watched the flush climb higher on Shane's cheeks, watched his throat work around another swallowed sound, watched his hands clench white-knuckled on his backpack.

Then Ilya leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Shane's ear.

"Halfway there," he whispered. "Being so good for me. So perfect. My sweet boy."

Then he was standing again, moving on down the aisle like nothing had happened, and Shane had to shove his entire fist in his mouth to keep from moaning out loud because those words almost—almost—pushed him right over the edge.

The second half of the ride was a fever dream.

Shane existed in a haze of need, every nerve ending sparking, his world narrowed down to the twin points of vibration against his aching nipples. He was so hard it hurt, his cock straining against his joggers, leaking so much that a damp spot was forming beneath the backpack on his lap. He couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Everything was heat and buzzing and the desperate, screaming need to cum that he couldn't—wouldn't—give in to because Ilya told him to be good.

When the bus finally pulled into the hotel parking lot, Shane was practically catatonic.

"Shane. Shane!" Hayden shook his shoulder. "We're here, man. Wake up."

Shane unfolded himself from the seat on trembling legs. His face was crimson, his eyes vacant and dazed, his lower lip bleeding slightly where he'd bitten clean through the skin. He grabbed his bag and stumbled off the bus, and he could feel Ilya's gaze on his back—hot and possessive and satisfied.

Room assignments had already been made. Shane barely registered whose name was next to his on the list—it didn't matter, because Ilya's hand closed around his elbow as soon as they were inside the hotel lobby, steering him away from the elevators.

"You're with me tonight," Ilya said quietly, pressing a keycard into Shane's trembling hand. "Room 814. Go. I'll be there in five minutes."

Shane didn't question it. Couldn't question it. His brain had been reduced to static and need and please please please.

He rode the elevator alone, clutching his bag to his chest, thighs pressed together. The mirrored walls showed him what he looked like—flushed and wrecked and desperate, pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black, lips swollen and bloody.

He looked like he'd already been fucked.

Room 814 was a corner suite—ocean view, king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across two walls. Shane dropped his bag and stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, waiting.

The vibrators were still going.

After a moment, Shane's gaze caught on something draped over the desk chair. A jersey. Ilya's coaching jersey, ROZANOV printed across the shoulders in bold letters.

Shane glanced at the door. Still closed. Ilya wasn't here yet.

Before he could think better of it, he was stripping off his hoodie, his shirt, stepping out of his joggers. The vibrators buzzed against his bare nipples, making him gasp, but he didn't stop. He pulled Ilya's jersey over his head.

It was huge on him—hanging past mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the collar drooping to expose his collarbone. The fabric was soft and worn from washing, and it smelled like Ilya. Shane's cock twitched against his stomach as he breathed in.

He caught his reflection in the window—just Ilya's jersey, his white ankle socks, nothing else. The clamps visible through the thin fabric. His flushed face and desperate eyes.

He looked...

The door opened.

Shane spun around, face flooding with heat. Ilya stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, his eyes traveling slowly down Shane's body. Taking in the jersey. The bare thighs. The obvious bulge where Shane's hard cock tented the fabric.

"I— I was just—" Shane stammered. "I was going to take it off before you—"

"Don't." Ilya's voice was rough. He stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him, the deadbolt clicking into place. "Keep it on."

Shane swallowed hard. "O-okay."

Then Ilya was behind him, chest against Shane's back, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other hand coming up to cup Shane's jaw and tilt his head back against Ilya's shoulder.

Shane went boneless instantly, melting into the hold, a shaky exhale escaping his bitten lips.

"Three hours," Ilya murmured against his temple. "Three hours and you didn't cum. Didn't even touch yourself. Such a perfect, obedient boy."

"Please—" The word tore out of Shane like a prayer. "Coach, please, I need— I can't— it's been so long, they're so—"

"I know." Ilya's hand slid down, pressing flat over the vibrator on Shane's left nipple through the jersey.

Shane buckled. His knees gave out and Ilya caught him, pulling him back against his body, holding him upright.

"P-please—"

"Bed," Ilya said, and guided him toward the king-sized mattress.

Shane climbed onto the bed on shaky limbs, expecting instruction, but before he could even settle, Ilya's hands closed around his waist and pulled.

"Eep—!" Shane squeaked as he was hauled backward, positioned between Ilya's spread thighs with his back against that broad, bare chest. When had Ilya taken off his shirt? Shane couldn't remember. Couldn't think. He could feel the heat of Ilya's cock against the cleft of his bare ass, and the hard thud of Ilya's heartbeat against his shoulder blades.

"There we go," Ilya murmured. "Right where you belong."

His hands slid up Shane's sides, pushing the hem of the jersey as they went. Up, up, over the clamps and the vibrators and those swollen, abused nipples. Shane shivered as the cool air hit his chest, his back arching instinctively, pushing his chest out.

Ilya gathered the bunched fabric and pressed it against Shane's lips.

"Open."

Shane obeyed, letting Ilya feed the hem of the jersey into his mouth. He bit down on the fabric, the position forcing his back into a deeper arch, putting his clamped nipples on obscene display.

"Perfect," Ilya breathed. His hands settled on Shane's chest, framing those tormented peaks without quite touching them. "Look at you. Wearing my name on your back with your tits out. If your teammates could see you now..."

Shane moaned around the jersey, eyes squeezing shut.

"Hmm. You like that idea?" Ilya's fingers danced closer to Shane's nipples, circling, teasing, not quite touching the clamps. "Want them to see what a slut their precious captain is? Want the whole team watching while Coach plays with your nipples until you cry?"

"Mmmnph—" Shane shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again, confused by his own reaction. His cock was drooling pre-cum onto his stomach, twitching every time Ilya's fingers ghosted near his chest.

"I think you do." Ilya's voice was silk and gravel. "I think you'd love it. Sitting on my lap in the locker room, jersey pulled up, moaning like a whore while the whole team watches. Would you cum for them? Cum from your nipples while they stare?"

Shane sobbed against the fabric, his hips grinding back helplessly against Ilya's cock.

"Let's take these off now," Ilya murmured, and his fingers closed around the first clamp.

He released it.

The rush of blood back into Shane's compressed nipple was blinding.

"MMMFH—!" Shane screamed into the jersey, his entire body jerking. The sensation was indescribable—pain and pleasure slamming into each other, the nipple swelling and throbbing as circulation returned, so sensitive that the air itself felt like a touch.

Ilya released the second clamp.

Shane's back arched like a bow, spine curving so dramatically his head pressed back against Ilya's shoulder. His eyes rolled back, showing white, and a long, broken wail bled through the jersey between his teeth. Both nipples were dark pink now—puffy and engorged and so swollen they looked almost bruised.

"Beautiful," Ilya breathed.

Then he touched them.

Both hands. No warning. Thumbs pressing directly onto those raw, oversensitized peaks.

Shane shattered.

His orgasm was violent—a full-body convulsion that ripped the jersey from his mouth, sending his scream bouncing off the hotel room walls. Cum erupted from his untouched cock in thick ropes, splattering his stomach, his chest, some of it catching the underside of the bunched-up jersey. His hole clenched rhythmically around nothing, desperate and empty.

Ilya didn't stop touching him.

"There you go," Ilya murmured, rolling those destroyed nipples between his fingers. "Been waiting all day for this. Three hours of being good and this is your reward. Cum as many times as you want."

"Ahh— ahhhn— C-Coach—" Shane was barely coherent, his voice wrecked and high, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. Every touch to his nipples sent another aftershock crashing through him, making his cock jerk and leak.

"Want my cock now?" Ilya asked, and Shane felt it—that thick shaft pressing insistently against his ass, slick with the lube Ilya must have applied while Shane was lost in his orgasm. "Want to sit on it while I play with your tits?"

"Yes— please yes please—"

Ilya lifted him.

Positioned him.

And sank Shane down onto his cock in one long, devastating stroke.

"OHHH—" Shane's eyes crossed, his mouth falling open into a perfect O. His hands scrabbled at Ilya's thighs, at his own knees, finding nothing to ground himself. He was so full—stretched and stuffed and impaled—and Ilya's cock was pressing against that spot inside him that made his vision go white at the edges.

"That's it." Ilya bottomed out and held Shane there, fully seated. "Take all of it. Such a good boy. So tight for me."

Shane whimpered, squirming. His hole fluttered and clenched around Ilya's length in involuntary little spasms—squeeze, release, squeeze—like his body was trying to milk Ilya without Shane's conscious input.

Ilya gathered the hem of the jersey again, pressing it back to Shane's lips. Shane bit down obediently, arching his back, presenting his chest. His nipples were still throbbing from the clamps, swollen and glistening where his own cum had splattered across them.

Ilya began to play.

Slow, deliberate circles around each areola. Barely-there touches that made Shane twitch and whine through the fabric. Then a sudden sharp pinch that wrenched a strangled squeal from Shane's throat and made his ass clench so hard Ilya groaned.

"Fuck— you squeeze me so good when I do this." Ilya pinched again, harder, and Shane's hips bucked. "Every time I touch your nipples, your little hole clamps down on my cock like it's trying to keep me inside forever."

"Mmm— mmmngh—" Shane was rocking now, tiny involuntary movements, trying to grind Ilya deeper while simultaneously pushing his chest into those tormenting hands.

Ilya's fingers found a rhythm—pull, twist, scratch, pinch, repeat. Alternating sides. Sometimes both at once. Sometimes abandoning one nipple entirely to focus all his attention on the other, tugging the neglected one's twin between his thumb and forefinger until it stretched away from Shane's chest.

Shane's moans climbed higher and higher—breathy, girlish sounds that he couldn't control, building to a crescendo every time Ilya's fingers tightened.

"Eeehn— nngh— hahh— hah— Coach Coach COACH—"

He came again, clenching and shaking, cum dribbling weakly from his spent cock. Ilya fucked up into him through it, shallow thrusts that kept his cock buried deep while Shane's hole squeezed and fluttered.

"Two," Ilya counted. "How many more do you have in you tonight?"

Shane was crying openly now, face wet with tears, the jersey damp where he'd bitten through it. His head lolled back on Ilya's shoulder, eyes glazed and distant.

"D-dunno—" he slurred. "'S many as you want—"

"Correct answer."

Ilya's hands resumed their assault. Scratching his nails across both peaks simultaneously, making Shane's body jackknife forward. Pressing the pads of his thumbs flat against the tips and vibrating his hands rapidly, mimicking the clamps. Pulling both nipples out to their limit, holding them there while Shane squealed and thrashed.

"What would they say," Ilya murmured, his lips against Shane's ear, "if your boys could see you right now? Their sweet captain sitting on their coach's dick in nothing but my jersey and little white socks. Crying and cumming because someone's playing with his tits."

"Ahhhnn—"

"Would you want them to watch? The whole team lined up, watching their captain bounce on my cock?"

Shane sobbed, his hole clenching so hard Ilya hissed through his teeth.

"That's a yes," Ilya murmured darkly. "Dirty boy. You want them to watch? Want everyone to see what a perfect little slut you are for me?”

"'M not— I don't—" But Shane's cock was twitching again, trying valiantly to get hard despite having cum twice already, and the flush had spread all the way down his neck to his chest.

"Don't lie." Ilya twisted both nipples and Shane yelped, high and sharp. "I can feel how tight you get when I talk about it. Your pussy loves it."

The word—pussy—made Shane's brain short-circuit. A garbled, incoherent sound spilled from his mouth, and his hole spasmed violently around Ilya's cock.

"That's what I thought." Ilya kissed below his ear, almost tender, while his fingers were anything but. "My sweet boy with his needy little pussy, wanting everyone to watch him get played with. So filthy. So perfect."

Shane came a third time—barely anything left, more of a full-body shudder than an actual orgasm, his cock pulsing weakly while his hole clenched in helpless waves. He sagged back against Ilya's chest, utterly spent, floating somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.

Ilya was still hard inside him.

"We're not done," Ilya said.

Before Shane could process the words, Ilya was shifting him—hands on his hips, turning him so they were face to face, Shane's trembling thighs bracketing Ilya's waist. The movement jostled Ilya's cock inside him and Shane gasped, oversensitive and raw.

"Coach— I can't— hnngh—"

"You can." Ilya's voice was absolute. His hands slid under Shane's thighs. "Hold onto me."

Shane's arms wrapped around Ilya's neck on instinct, and then Ilya was standing, lifting Shane like he weighed nothing, like carrying a fucked-out hockey player impaled on his cock was effortless.

"Eee—!" Shane squeaked at the shift in angle, his grip tightening, legs wrapping around Ilya's waist. Every step Ilya took made his cock shift inside Shane, rubbing against that devastating spot.

"So light," Ilya murmured, carrying him across the room. "So easy to move wherever I want you."

The floor-to-ceiling windows loomed ahead—two massive walls of glass overlooking the beach below, the afternoon sun streaming in, the ocean glittering in the distance. Shane could see people down there. Tiny figures on the sand. Swimmers in the water.

Ilya pressed Shane's back against the glass.

"COLD—" Shane arched away from the window, but Ilya held him in place, pinning him there. The glass was sun-warmed on the outside but cool from the air conditioning within, and it pressed along Shane's entire spine, his shoulders, his ass.

"Look down," Ilya instructed, and began to thrust.

Shane's head fell back against the window, a moan punching out of him. Ilya fucked him slow and deep, each stroke dragging across his prostate, making his toes curl in his little white socks.

"You see them?" Ilya's mouth was at his ear. "All those people on the beach. Having their nice vacation. No idea that right above them—" a sharp thrust that made Shane cry out, "—some pretty boy is getting bred against the window."

"Ahh— ahhn—"

"All they have to do is look up." Ilya's hands found Shane's nipples again, pinching them roughly, and Shane wailed. "One look up and they see everything. See you bouncing on my cock. See your pretty little tits being played with."

Shane was shaking, his cock hardening again despite how many times he'd already cum. The thought of being seen—of someone glancing up and seeing him like this, wrecked and desperate and full of cock—it should have horrified him. Instead, his hole clenched so tight that Ilya groaned.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Ilya pulled back, letting Shane's feet touch the ground, then spun him around to face the window. "Being watched. Being on display."

Shane's palms slapped against the glass as Ilya pressed him forward, and then—

His nipples hit the window.

"NNGHHHH—"

The cold glass against those swollen, oversensitized peaks was electric. Shane's entire body spasmed, his ass pushing back involuntarily, and Ilya took the opportunity to sink back inside him with one smooth thrust.

"There we go," Ilya purred against his ear. "Look at that."

Shane looked.

His nipples were pressed flat against the glass, dark pink and obscenely swollen, smooshed into puffy circles against the transparent surface. They looked almost pornographic—these desperate, abused little nubs on display for anyone below who might glance up.

Ilya began to move.

Each thrust pushed Shane harder against the window, rubbing his nipples across the cold glass. The friction was maddening, too much and not enough, and Shane couldn't stop the sounds spilling out of him—high, breathy moans that fogged the glass in front of his open mouth.

"So pretty," Ilya murmured, fucking into him steadily. "My pretty boy with his tits pressed against the glass. Everyone can see how much you love this."

"Nnngh— Coach—"

"Can you imagine?" Ilya's hands gripped Shane's hips, angling him so each thrust hit deeper. "Someone down on the beach, looking up at the hotel. Seeing you. Seeing your nipples all red and swollen. Watching you moan and cry while your Coach breeds you against the window."

Shane's cock twitched, leaking pre-cum that smeared against the glass.

"Move your hips," Ilya ordered, his thrusts slowing. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show them how desperate you are."

Shane whimpered, but he obeyed. He pushed back against Ilya, taking that thick cock deeper, then pulled forward until just the head remained inside before grinding back again. His nipples dragged across the glass with each movement—forward slide, back push, forward slide—and the sensation had his eyes rolling back.

"Uhhhn— hnnn— s'good—" He was babbling, barely aware of what he was saying. "C-Coach, feels so—"

"That's it." Ilya's voice was rough with arousal. "Fuck yourself. Use my cock. Show everyone what a needy little slut you are."

Shane moved faster, chasing the pleasure, his forehead dropping against the cool glass. His nipples were throbbing from the friction, his ass clenching around Ilya's cock, and he was so close—

Ilya's hand wrapped around Shane's cock and stroked twice.

"AH— AHHHH—"

Shane came with a scream, splattering the window with his release. His hole clenched rhythmically, milking Ilya's cock, and he felt Ilya groan against his shoulder as he followed Shane over the edge, pulsing hot and deep inside him.

They stayed pressed against the window, both breathing hard, Shane's nipples still flattened against the cum-smeared glass.

After a long moment, Ilya's lips brushed Shane's ear again.

"One more?"

Shane's breath caught. His body was wrung out—he'd cum four times, his nipples were raw, his legs were shaking. "I— I don't think I can—"

But Ilya was already pulling out, already turning Shane around, already guiding him toward the balcony doors with one hand on his lower back. He slid the door open and the warm ocean breeze hit Shane's flushed skin.

"Coach, wait— outside? People could—"

Ilya kissed him.

Slow and deep, his tongue sliding into Shane's mouth, stealing whatever protest Shane had been about to make. Shane melted into it, his hands coming up to clutch at Ilya's shoulders, moaning softly as Ilya sucked on his lower lip.

When Ilya pulled back, Shane was dazed. Pliant.

"You can do one more for me, yes?" Ilya murmured against his mouth. "My good boy?"

Shane nodded before he even knew he was doing it.

"That's what I thought."

Ilya settled into one of the balcony chairs—a low, cushioned lounger—and pulled Shane down with him by the waist.

"Eep—" Shane stumbled into Ilya's lap, thighs bracketing those hips, and felt the blunt head of Ilya's cock nudge against his twitching, fucked-open hole. Not pushing in. Just rubbing. Teasing the swollen rim, smearing the mess of lube and cum that was already leaking out of him.

"Gonna ride me again?" Ilya's voice was low, amused.

Shane nodded frantically, his hips already trying to push down. "Y-yes— please— please, Coach, yes, wanna—"

"Shh." Ilya guided him down, letting Shane sink onto his cock inch by inch.

Shane's moan was punched out of him as he bottomed out, taking Ilya to the hilt like his body had been made for it.

Ilya gathered the hem of the jersey and pressed it to Shane's lips again. Shane bit down obediently, the fabric muffling his moan as he bottomed out.

"Good boy," Ilya breathed. "So good for me. Now ride."

Shane rode.

Slow at first, shaky from exhaustion, but Ilya's hands on his hips guided him into a rhythm. Up and down, up and down, the ocean breeze cool against his sweat-damp skin, his nipples bouncing with each movement.

Anyone could see. Anyone could look up.

Shane rode faster.

"Mmmnf— hnnnh—" His sounds were muffled by the jersey, high and desperate, and his eyes had gone glassy and unfocused. He was beyond thought now, beyond shame, existing purely in sensation—Ilya's cock inside him, Ilya's hands on his hips, the warm air on his bare chest.

Ilya's thumb came up to rub across Shane's cheekbone, wiping away a tear Shane hadn't realized he'd shed.

Shane leaned into the touch instinctively, nuzzling against Ilya's palm like a cat seeking affection.

"You're being so good for me." Ilya's voice was low, reverent. "So pretty. The prettiest boy, taking my cock where anyone could see. Riding me like you were made for it."

Shane moaned brokenly, his rhythm faltering as the praise washed over him.

"Perfect," Ilya continued. "Absolutely perfect. My good boy. My perfect little slut. Cum for me one more time. Can you do that? Cum on my cock like a good boy?"

Shane could.

Shane did.

His fifth orgasm was barely more than a flutter—his cock twitching weakly, a dribble of cum spilling out—but his hole clamped down like a vice, wringing Ilya's own release from him. Ilya's hands tightened on Shane's hips hard enough to bruise as he spilled inside Shane for the second time that evening.

Shane collapsed against Ilya's chest.

The jersey fell from his slack mouth. His arms hung limp at his sides. His face was wet with tears and his lips were bitten raw and his nipples were swollen and red and he had never, ever felt so thoroughly used.

Ilya's hands gentled, stroking up and down Shane's sides, rubbing soothing circles into his hips.

"There you go," Ilya murmured against his hair. "So good. Did so well for me. Such a perfect boy."

Shane made a small, contented sound, burrowing closer.

They sat like that for a long time—Shane boneless and fucked-out on Ilya's lap, Ilya softening inside him, the sun starting to dip toward the horizon over the ocean. The breeze was cooling now, raising goosebumps on Shane's bare skin, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

Eventually, Shane shifted. His face turned into Ilya's neck, hiding there, and when he spoke, his voice was so small it was almost inaudible.

"Coach?"

"Mm?"

A pause. Shane's cheeks flushed an even deeper red against Ilya's throat.

"Could we... um." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Could we do this again? T-tomorrow? Before the game?"

Ilya's hands stilled on Shane's hips.

"Outside, I mean," Shane added quickly, still hiding his face. He was trembling slightly—from the cool air or nerves or both. "We have a game tomorrow and I—Maybe... for good luck...?"

He trailed off, too embarrassed to continue.

Ilya hooked a finger under Shane's chin and gently tilted his face up.

Shane's eyes were glassy and dazed, his pupils still blown wide. His lips were swollen and parted, bitten red. Tear tracks marked his flushed cheeks, and his expression was so open, so vulnerable, so completely wrecked that something dark and possessive curled in Ilya's chest.

He kissed Shane.

Not rough or demanding—slow and deep, coaxing Shane's mouth open, sliding their tongues together until Shane was whimpering and sucking on Ilya's tongue like he couldn't help himself.

When Ilya pulled back, Shane tried to chase his mouth, blinking dazedly.

Ilya rubbed his thumb along Shane's jaw, watching him. Watching the way Shane's lashes fluttered at the touch, the way he bit his swollen lip, the way he leaned into Ilya's hand like he craved any contact he could get. Cockdrunk and desperate and so fucking pretty.

Ilya smiled—slow, satisfied, his eyes dark with promise.

"Then we'll do it as many times as you want."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

Shane's breath caught.

Ilya leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of Shane's mouth. Shane could feel the curve of his smirk against his skin.

"For 'good luck,’ of course.”