Shane doesn't really know how the conversation got to this point.
It's late, very late, and the fourth — fifth? — overly sweet cocktail is definitely starting to catch up with him: not really his fault, though, since Jackie has a bar corner in her house that Hudson built last summer, and she's been taking bartending lessons just because being a full-time mum can be boring, as she put it, and she needed to pick up some new hobbies.
So, all evening she has been proudly serving sweet drinks in tall fancy glasses with sugar-coated rims accompanied by juices, and dried fruits, and grapes and raspberries that completely covered the bitter taste of the strong alcohol — it was gin, then tequila, then whiskey? he doesn't even know anymore — that usually makes Shane wince in disgust.
"Shane, baby," Jackie asks, offering him a glass full of bright orange liquid: "Try this one as well, it's Hyden's favorite."
Shane is too drunk to refuse: he grabs the glass and takes a huge sip, as he's told to do.
"Do you like it? I personally preferred the rose-infused one."
It's Rose's voice that comes from the other side of the couch where Shane is all cozied up, waiting for Jackie to show off her newly acquired skills as she walks back and forth from the bar.
Shane turns his head toward Rose and looks at her beautifully flushed face: she's out of it as well, pink lips swollen and eyes watery as she sips from her flute and plays with her golden curls, tilting her head back on the back of the couch, following the soft rhythm of the background music Jackie put on the stereo.
When Jackie proposed an all-omega evening together, Shane didn't expect it to end up wasted.
It was a cosmic coincidence that Hyden was taking the kids to the movie theater this evening, Svetlana was out of town for work, Rose had her schedule clean and Shane was off season.
So, when Jackie proposed a night by themselves to gossip and drink, like the old times – "No alphas", she insisted –, they all eagerly said yes.
"Shane, baby, are you okay?"
Shane feels the weight of Rose's hand on his nape, massaging it slowly.
"I think I'm drunk."
"Good," Jackie laughs, plopping down on the big grey couch next to him, a flute between her hands and a gorgeous, tipsy smile on her lips: "How long has it been since you got drunk?"
"Wait, I know", Rose chuckles: "Last year? When we went to that club—and that alpha started to grind his stupid groin on you. You were very into that."
Shane could die of embarrassment right now: he doesn't remember a lot of that night. Just that he won a game and went out with his teammates and their spouses – and Rose, of course – to celebrate. He was drunk and the adrenaline from the game was still pumping in his blood. He folded when a nice alpha started to caress him, approaching him on the dance floor, to which he had been dragged.
"You never told us how it went down, by the way," Jackie takes another sip: "Did you go home with him?"
"No," Shane shakes his head, eyes fixed on his half-empty glass: "That would've been too dangerous for me. I'm too—"
"High profile, we know, we know." Rose sighs, pulling her legs up on the couch: "Shane Hollander, the golden boy of hockey. Shane Hollander, paving the way for male-omegas in sports. Shane Hollander, the first omega captain of the Montreal Metros."
Shane feels warmth creeping up his neck, burning his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
"Baby, you'll never find someone if you're that scared of meeting people."
"Leave him alone, Rosy," Jackie waves a hand in the air: "He'll find someone when he's ready."
"It's not that—" Shane's words wobble out like a whisper, like his tongue turned to rubber because of the alcohol.
Rose is too invested in her thesis to even pay him attention, so she just keeps going, ignoring him:
"I'm just saying! It's for his health! I don't think he should be spending all of his heats alone, that's it. It can't be healthy."
Shane Hollander isn't a prude by any means, but hearing his two best friends talking about his heats so openly makes him want to disappear: he takes another sip, just to keep his hands busy.
They talk about sex stuff—it's not a taboo between them. They've known each other for too long to have taboos: Jackie always complains about Hyden's ruts and how they always end up in a pregnancy scare, which leads to fights about him getting a vasectomy after the fourth child they had, and Rose always talks about Svetlana and the kind of sex they have.
It's just that Shane has a little problem.
And lately it has started to worry him very much.
Jackie chuckles: "Weren't you in heat like, a week ago?"
"Yes! And for the first time my heat synched with Sveta's rut. It was insane." Rose's face gets dreamy at the memory: "Never had something like that in my whole life. Fuck, everything was so wet at the end, we didn't leave the bed for five days straight. We just kept waking each other up to fuck, during the day, the night—Sveta couldn't pull her head away from between my legs, I was shaking so much."
"Fucking hell," Jackie bites back a smile: "I remember the first time it happened with Hyden. I thought I was seeing stars. It was so intense."
Shane has his gaze still fixed on his hands, which are blurry behind the watery eyes. Everything is burning under his clothes.
It's not that—I have this—this thing—
"I know, right? I want my Shane to feel that as well," Rose throws herself at him, whining: "I want to find you a nice alpha, baby. The best, okay? He'll treat you well."
Shane squirms on the couch, feeling Rose's warmth on him, caging him up.
"When was the last time you went on a date?" Jackie asks: "It must be more than a year, right? You really don't want to find someone?"
"It's not that I don't want—" he tries, feeling the alcohol dictating the movements of his tongue.
"Can I try to set you up with Miles?" Rose blurts out, completely drunk: "He's such a great guy. I've heard he has a great dick as well. You two would be so cute together."
"My God, Rosy," Jackie laughs: "you're so wasted—"
The voices and laughter of his best friends fill the room, Shane's ears and everything in between: suddenly every noise is too loud, and Rose's arms burn like fire.
It's probably the alcohol, or the tiredness, or the hotness he feels all over, but when he speaks, it comes out louder than he intends to. And he just hopes it doesn't sound as desperate and sad as it does inside his mind.
"I don't think I can orgasm."
He speaks with an urgency that surprises him, like there's a bubble inside his chest that threatens to explode.
The laughter suddenly gets cut off, and all that is left is the soft music of the random playlist Jackie put on.
There's a moment of complete silence during which Shande doesn't know what's happening: his eyes are fixed on the carpet, his breath is stuck in his throat. It's the first time he has vocalized it.
"What?" Jackie's voice is soft and caring, as she reaches a hand to caress Shane's shoulder: "What makes you say that, Shane?"
"I just—", he breathes in and out again, trying to pull out words from his foggy mind: "I've never orgasmed."
He can feel Rose's eyes going wide:
"Never? None of the alphas you've been with made you come once?"
"No."
The pool of alphas Shane's been with isn't that big, to be fair.
Growing up, he always watched films where the alpha fell in love with the petite female omegas: the general narrative has changed since then, but Shane Hollander is still a 190-pounds-five-feet-eleven hockey player, and for a long time he couldn't fathom the idea of an alpha falling in love with him.
He started to date late, too caught up in games and training sessions, and only when he started meeting alphas that were more open-minded.
But Shane doesn't think that that's the problem. It's probably the opposite: if being with an alpha made him feel like Rose and Jackie describe, he would try to date more.
"But—but by yourself, you have, right? We gifted you that vibrator, for your birthday," Jackie continues: "It was as a joke, but it was a nice-brand vibrator, I hope you at least tried to—"
"I did." Shane barely raises his eyes, feeling gut-wrenching shame eating him from the inside: "Nothing."
"Like—like you feel nothing?" Rose has her mouth agape, clearly wrapping her drunk mind around the concept of her best friend never reaching the climax.
"Well, no—I feel something. And—and it's nice. I like it when it starts to build up." Shane bites his bruised lower lip: "I just get really close and then I get frustrated because it's there but not quite. And then my—" he stops himself, devoured by embarrassment: "Well, it hurts down there. It becomes numb. Then I stop. It's always the same."
Usually, Shane would stop right here, he's not really the kind to overshare details when it comes to his sexual life, mostly because of the lack of it. But, right now, the same ugly feeling of misplacement creeps from his stomach to his throat to his eyes.
Because growing up as the only male-omega kid in all of his school was isolating enough: he truly didn't have anyone to talk about these things before he met Rose and Jackie, especially in a male-alphas-dominated field like competitive hockey.
"Sometimes I'm scared I will meet the one and then I just can't—make him happy," he blurts out, throat tightening: "Or that he'll get frustrated with me because he can't make me come. And I don't know if I can lie to him for the rest of our lives, or fake orgasms forever. And I know sex isn't everything in a relationship, but what if it is very important to him? So important he'll realize I'm a fraud and he will leave me and I can't—"
"Baby," Jackie puts down her flute on the coffee table to hug him tenderly. Rose follows immediately after: "you're talking nonsense, right now. You will not disappoint anyone; they will love you nevertheless."
They smell so good, Shane closes his eyes to breathe in, slowly, feeling his heartbeat immediately soothing in the arms of two of the people he loves the most.
"Am I broken?"
God, he's so drunk, it's pathetic.
"No, baby, not at all." Rose cups his face to force him to meet eyes: "You're not broken. But—Have you ever thought about seeing a specialist? Maybe you just have a weak pelvic floor and you need to do physiotherapy, or something."
Shane is very dutiful about following his medical schedule, mostly because it's all covered and required by his job: screening and a PAP smear every year, a general check every eight months, just in case.
And that's just for his gynecologist — hockey made him hypochondriac, he knows: now, he can't even fathom the idea of casually getting or giving head without the entire medical history of his partner, too afraid to catch an STD or a UTI.
"I do regular check ups."
"Yeah, but I mean—did you explicitly say what's your problem? Doctors can't help you if they don't know what they're looking for", Jackie says: "Trust me, I've had four fucking pregnancies. I know something about stating a problem when you have one."
Shane rubs his knee, feeling the fabric of his sweatpants under the palm: "I can't talk about it with the team doctor. He's professional and very competent but—"
Just the thought of the conversation makes him sweat.
"But?" Rose tries.
Shane feels like he's about to cry for some reason.
"I can't go to him and say doctor, I can't come. Maybe I don't know how to touch myself, and I can't watch porn to learn because it's too degrading and makes me feel bad. Maybe it's because I'm a male omega. I don't have any other male omegas friends, I don't know if it's something that happens to everyone like me. I hope not. I just want to come. Just once. Fix me" he blurts out, words one over the other: "Fuck, I can't say that. I will never be able to look at him again."
Rose and Jackie stay silent for a long moment, doing nothing but caressing Shane's back and shoulders, reassuringly.
"You know," Jackie says eventually: "I know a great gynecologist downtown. He followed my last pregnancy—he moved here from the States last year, but his practice is already pretty established. He's covered under most sports' insurance plans, as well."
"The Russian one?" Rose asks.
Shane raises his eyebrows: "Russian?"
"Yeah, Sveta met him a couple months ago—Ottawa Russian's community is not that big."
"Yeah, him." Jackie's fingers card through Shane's dark hair, at the base of his neck: "He's very good. I'll give you the clinic's number."
Shane nods, keeping his jaw tight, trying to choke down another pathetic cry.
He tries not to build his hopes up.
He never does.
"Mr. Hollander?"
Shane raises his head, looking at the secretary that just entered the waiting room from behind the black snapback he put on to protect his identity.
That was unnecessary, he finds out: his personal manager sent an NDA (that was not needed, but helped Shane's nerves to calm down) to the clinic prior to his appointment, and the doctor's schedule was cleared for the last slot of the afternoon, keeping the waiting room empty from indiscreet eyes.
The clinic is downtown, in a nice modern building with big windows and a lot of natural light: it smells of citrus-infused disinfectants.
Shane likes it.
"Yes?" he answers back, taking off his cap because his mother taught him manners.
"Dr. Rozanov is ready to see you. Please follow me."
Shane stands up, following the lady down the corridor that leads to a white door where a silver plate states Doctor Rozanov – Gynecologist.
She opens the door for him, and lets him enter with a soft smile.
Shane steps inside and feels the door being closed behind him.
The room is big, tinted in white, with a neat exam table on the right and a dark-wooden desk on the opposite side, right in front of the windows.
"Mr. Hollander, yes?"
Behind the desk, sits Dr. Rozanov, who immediately stands up to greet him, gesturing to the metal-leather chairs on the other side of the desk: "Please sit down."
Shande stands still for a long second, registering the man in front of him.
Aside from the thick Russian accent, Shane is completely taken aback by his appearance. When Jackie told him about this doctor, he somehow imagined a middle-aged man with gray hair and a gray beard, not—not someone this young.
Not someone like this.
He must be around Shane's age, maybe a little older, with blonde curls and cerulean eyes, a clean-shaved face with masculine features and a square jaw: his shoulders look broad and his chest defined under the light blue shirt that hugs him and the long white coat. Shane notices his long legs once they both sit down again, crossed under the table.
He's objectively a very handsome man: Shane has always been around handsome men, but none of them was about to make him lay on an examination table with his legs spread open.
He's being so childish—that's a professional right in front of him: he doesn't need to fantasize about anything else.
"I'm doctor Ilya Rozanov, nice to meet you" the man speaks with a thick Russian accent, reaching hand.
Ilya Rozanov.
Shane shakes it, raising his head to meet the doctor's stoic face: "Shane Hollander."
"Yes, Shane Hollander," the doctor repeats, looking at him so directly Shane has to break eye contact for a second: "So, Shane. Tell me why you are here and how I can help."
Shane takes a deep breath in.
Like he repeated to himself this morning in front of the mirror of his apartment: he came with a problem, and he won't leave this clinic until he has some answers.
Rose and Jackie are right—it's stupid to keep running away from the embarrassment for something he can't even control. He's a grown man. He deserves a normal fucking sexual life.
He won two fucking Stanley Cups already. At twenty-seven, the sum of his life consists of two Stanley Cups, a forty million dollars of net worth and zero orgasms.
That must change.
"I have some problems regarding—", phrasing it suddenly feels incredibly stupid: "my sexual life."
"Okay." Dr. Rozanov doesn't seem fazed by Shane's answer, he just slightly raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue: "Can you give me some more details?"
Shane feels his cheek burn; he needs to look down at his own hands, fidgeting on his lap.
Why is he acting like a prude? Fucking hell.
"I can't come."
Dr. Rozanov stays quiet for a long moment. Shane has no idea what his expression must be right now, because his eyes are fixed down.
"You can't reach orgasm?" the man clarifies.
"No. I mean—I can get very close, but I don't… Uhm, climax?" Is that even a medical term? He raises his head to look at him: "I wanted to check if everything was okay. Down there."
Dr. Rozanov nods after a moment of silence: "So, you have never orgasmed before?"
Shane feels his cheeks getting red: "No."
"Some orgasms can be very subtle, you know? Everybody is different."
There's an undertone in the doctor's voice that irks Shane for reasons he can't fully understand: he didn't come here to be told that his body is perfectly okay, because it isn't. And the only one who knows it is him.
"Trust me," he chirps back: "I would know if I had ever come."
"Okay."
The man seems unfazed by Shane's reaction. He taps his long fingers on the dark wood of the desk and turns a little toward the slim PC on his right: "We are going to check for vaginitis and do a check up on pelvic floor muscles. I need to ask you some questions. Is it okay?"
"Y-yeah."
Shane leans back a bit, looking at Doctor Ilya Rozanov as he types something on the keyboard that he can't really see behind the monitor: as he proceeds to speak, his eyes keep focusing on the screen, barely looking at Shane.
"Are you on suppressants?"
"Only during the season."
"Are you on birth control?"
"No."
Dr. Rozanov types quickly, tampered fingers flying from one button to the other.
"Off-season, are your heats regular?"
"Yes."
"When was your last heat?"
"Uhm," Shane thinks about it for a moment: "Two months and twenty-one days ago."
"Ah, so the next one will arrive soon," the man looks at him, side-eye: "Was everything normal? Pain? Weird color or consistency of slick?"
"No."
Shane just remembers being curled up in the bed of his big empty apartment, curtains down, hot and sweaty all over for four days, feverish. Everything was wet between his legs, he had to throw away the sheets by the end of that torture.
He helplessly humped his pillow for hours straight, trying to find some release for his throbbing clit and aching cunt, but nothing happened and the frustration led to an unpleasing state of drowsiness.
(Out of frustration, he tried to watch some porn: but all the most famous categories that he thought he might like were about a female-omega and male-alpha and Shane realized that watching that kind of thing gave him something very akin to gender dysphoria, so. He closed the tab.)
(For a couple of hours, his foggy mind wished a big masculine alpha could throw him around as easily as the omegas in those videos were thrown around.) (His foggy mind wished he wasn't that big or muscular, that some alpha could just lift him up and put him on the bed, pinning him down as he fucked into his slicked cunt mercilessly until his knot popped inside.)
(He can't believe he'll have to go through that whole process again soon.)
"—Everything was," Shane moves a little on the chair, clearing his voice: "normal."
Dr. Ilya Rozanov types down some more. "Are you mated, Shane?"
"No," he fidgets with the fabric of his jeans: "No mate."
"Do you usually spend your heats alone?"
"Yes."
The man mouths the words as he takes his time to write down something.
As he does, Shane's eyes wander around, waiting for him to be done with the report: they land on a nicely framed picture of a little girl on an ice rink with long golden curls and a big smile with two missing teeth. She stands straight and proud, wearing a hockey jersey that fits huge on her, ice skates, hockey stick and all.
There are Cyrillic words on the fabric that Shane can't possibly understand. The little girl – she must be no more than six years old in the picture – has big cerulean eyes.
"Is she your daughter?" Shane asks, breaking the silence of the room and the sound of typing keys.
Dr. Rozanov turns his head to look at Shane, then at the picture: he smiles fondly, and it's the first time since Shane entered that the doctor's face shows a genuine emotion.
"Ah, no, no. She's my niece. Polina."
"Does she play hockey?"
"Yes, back in Moscow—she is very good at it," Dr. Rozanov looks at him, tilting his head with a smirk: "She is a big fan of you, Shane Hollander. Every time she comes to visit, we go to one of your games. And you never disappoint."
The sudden image of Doctor Gynecologist Ilya Rozanov – the one to whom Shane just confessed he had never orgasmed in his life – coming to one – maybe more than one? How many? – of his games suddenly sends warmth rushing to Shane's face.
Those stoic face and icy eyes had been zeroing in on him all along, without Shane even noticing.
"Do you—" he clears his throat: "Are you a Metro fan?"
The man shrugs. "I'm a huge hockey fan. I was part of the medical team for the Boston Bears, back in the States," he pauses for a moment: "But since I moved to Canada, I'm getting fond of the Montreal Metros. I cannot lie."
Shane met Ryan Carmichael, the male-omega who played right wing for the Boston Bears, a couple of years ago during an All Stars. Male omegas in Hockey are so rare, they all know each other, so they exchanged numbers right away.
Ryan retired last year after a bad concussion—maybe that's why they dismissed Ilya Rozanov from the team. No omegas means no need for a gynecologist there.
"We're going to win the Cup again this next year," Shane says after a moment, because the only thing he feels confident about in his entire life is hockey.
Clearly not his sexual or romantic life, clearly not his inter-personal relationships.
But hockey? Yes. He doesn't disappoint when it comes to hockey.
"As long as you're the captain—yes, probably."
Shane smirks, cocky.
Dr. Rozanov types one last thing before standing up, circling around the desk to end up next to Shane: for a moment, he towers over him, and just now the latter realizes how muscular the doctor's physique looks from under the coat and the shirt.
"Shane," he states, leaning back on the desk and looking down at him: "First of all, I want you to know that it is completely normal for male-omegas to have some issues regarding the sexual sphere. I've worked with male-omegas for a long time and I can assure you that you are not first and you won't be last. Biologically speaking, is just a little more tricky. But nothing is wrong with you, I want you to know that. It may be mostly a psychological factor, but we will do a thorough check-up, yes? Then I can refer you to a sexologist who can help you, if you want to."
Shane bites his inner cheek, the cockiness from a minute before has completely vanished; now, he barely can hold the doctor's eye contact as the man speaks.
"Yeah," he breathes out: "Thank you, doctor."
"Good." Dr. Rozanov smiles reassuringly and gestures toward the other side of the room: "Now, please, take off your pants and underwear and sit on the exam table."
Shane does as instructed: he takes off his shoes and his clothes behind the curtain positioned on the corner of the room, then he neatly folds them to lie on a chair nearby. The cold air from the AC hits the naked skin of his thighs, making him shiver for a second.
Butt-naked, but with the socks on, he walks toward the exam table and lies there: out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dr. Rozanov's back as the man is focusing on putting on the latex gloves, taking them out of a box on a metal table where the speculum and other medical equipment are lying.
Shane spreads his legs and puts his feet on the stirrups.
The chilly air hits the hottest part of his inner lips.
He interlocks his hands on his tummy and stares at the ceiling, waiting as he holds his breath.
This is so stupid.
He's done it a thousand times already, why is he so nervous right now?
He blames it on the possible outcome of the visit, more than the idea of having Dr. Rozanov's long fingers inside and blue eyes fixed on his bare cunt.
He hears the doctor walk closer, positioning himself between his spread legs.
Shane is not looking away from the ceiling anytime soon, not even when Dr. Rozanov speaks to him.
"Do you do laser removal?"
Shane shifts a little on the table: the fact that he knows the man is staring directly at it – his smooth lips – makes his face hot.
"No—I got it, uhm, waxed."
"Good—hair is important down there. It's a barrier to protect you from infections. Do not remove all of the hair." From the squirting sound Shane hears, Dr. Rozanov must be putting some lubricant on the speculum: "Do not wax all the time, especially if you have an active sex life."
And how is Shane supposed to tell him that he doesn't wax because he wants to but because sometimes – hence: a five days ago – he likes to pretend he's all smooth and hairless like the petite female omegas he sees in those horrible, degrading videos?
Smooth like dolphins, from head to toe.
Maybe he just thinks that alphas will like him more that way—if he happens to have a casual hook up, maybe the alpha would look at his smooth pussy and be more eager to eat him out, to make him come.
(He knows he won't, he's too paranoid about it. But he still gets dragged by Rose and Svetlana to all the clubs in Ottawa, and he still gets tipsy and alphas still grind on him on the dance floor.)
(His mind is so fucked up when he gets horny, fucking hell.)
"Are you sexually active, Shane?" the doctor asks after a long moment.
Shane can hear the man grabbing a stool to sit right between his spread legs, wheels scratching on the floor.
He swallows a mouthful of air: "No—not really."
"Uhm—" he pauses for a second: "Have you slept with more than two different partners in last four months?"
"No."
God, he sounds like a fucking loser.
He was definitely cursed by someone because how is it possible that the doctor Jackie recommended is a handsome, young alpha and a hockey fan who came to his games, only to end up looking like a complete loser in front of him?
He's supposed to be a celebrity in his eyes. Shane is regretting many of his choices right now.
If the answer surprises Dr. Rozanov, he doesn't show it: his tone is still professional, and Shane can feel the moment he gets closer to him.
"Okay then, I'm going to insert the speculum, yes? Tell me if it hurts you at any time."
Shane nods and patiently waits for the moment the cold metal will meet his entrance.
It doesn't arrive.
Instead, Shane gasps and jolts on the table at the sensation of a gloved-finger smearing lube right between his inner lips, caressing for a fraction of a moment the raw, pink flesh of his entrance.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—", he immediately apologizes, burning like fire: "I didn't—I'm sorry."
He looks down – why the fuck does he looks down?! – to meet the doctor's widened eyes and raised eyebrows.
"Everything okay?" Dr. Rozanov asks.
Shane wants to die.
"Yeah, yeah—", he leans his head back once again against the table, hoping the man didn't notice his cherry-red cheeks. He wants to cover his face with his hands, but that would probably be worse: "I'm sorry, it's—it's cold", he lies.
He looks like a pathetic touch-starved loser.
Shane will probably hide in his apartment for a week after this humiliating visit.
"The speculum will be colder now, okay? I'm going to insert it."
"Y-yeah, go ahead."
Dr. Rozanov slowly inserts the speculum inside Shane, and Shane only winces at the sensation of the blades opening inside of him: this, he's kind of used to.
He relaxes as much as he can, taking deep breaths as he counts the seconds in his head.
"I don't see any redness or inflammation." Dr. Rozanov's voice arrives in Shane's ears a little bit muffled, probably because he's hunching down: "No swelling, no lesions or white patches. Cervix looks fine."
The man straightens up again: "I'm going to take a vaginal swab, okay? Maybe you'll feel a little tickle."
"Okay."
It's done inless than a minute: Dr. Rozanov carefully takes the speculum out and stands up to walk toward the little metal table, placing the swab in the sterile container. Shane pushes himself up a little, propping himself up to look at the man, expectantly.
"I'll send you the lab results as soon as possible," Dr. Rozanov says, turning around: he has the sleeves of his coat rolled up to his elbows, exposing his toned forearms. Shane looks away.
"But I don't think you have an infection, you don't even feel any discomfort." The man lays down the container on the table, and walks back toward Shane: "I know it can be hard to accept, but I think this is more of a psychological thing than a physical one, Shane. I suggest you consult with a specialist—Also, maybe the partners that you had weren't making you comfortable enough. You should communicate your needs more, yes? It's the foundation for good intercourse."
"It's not a psychological thing."
Shane bites his inner cheek out of spite.
How can it be psychological if it is the only thing he wants so desperately? If he had a mental block, he wouldn't be thinking about how coming must feel every waking second of the day when he's not playing hockey.
He wouldn't try to masturbate so often, only to end up more frustrated than before because his mind and his body don't let him enjoy the moment.
He wouldn't be so stressed all the time.
"There's nothing wrong with—"
"Doctor, it's not a psychological thing," Shane's tone doesn't leave room for any argument.
He stares up directly at his doctor and almost forgets he's still naked, with his legs spread open on the table.
"Can you check for anything else? Can you—I don't know," he's starting to sound whiny, he knows, he just wants fucking answers: "Check my nerve terminations or something? There must be something there, I know I'm not—"
I know I'm not broken. I can't be.
Dr. Rozanov stares down at him, looking like he knows what Shane was about to say; sounding desperate works, apparently, because the man slowly nods, icy eyes never leaving Shane's.
"I'll check the pelvic floor."
"Yes," Shane nods eagerly: "Yes, please."
The doctor goes back to grab the lube and squirt a generous amount on the fingertips of his right hand: he stands between Shane's open legs, nudging at him.
"I'm going to insert two fingers inside, is it okay?"
Shane nods and lies back once again, closing his eyes. "Yeah."
After a moment, he feels the coldness of the lube and the smooth sensation of the latex against his skin. He feels a fingertip wiggling its way through the breach, tasting around to relax his entrance, then a second one joining: Dr. Rozanov pushes the phalanges of his middle and index finger inside as Shane takes deep breaths to relax as much as he can.
"Do you feel my fingers?" He hears the doctor asking.
"Yes—yes I feel them."
"Do you feel any pain?"
"I don't feel anything at all."
To be fair, touching his clit has always been the only thing that brought him somehow close to orgasm, but vaginal stimulation? It has always felt like nothing. The stretch on his entrance is nice from time to time, especially when the alpha he's fucking has a girthy dick, but nothing more than that.
At twenty-seven, Shane is sure that every omega that states that penetration can bring pleasure is simply lying. (And, yes, this includes Rose and Jackie.)
Dr. Rozanov slowly moves around, testing the inside walls of Shane's canal: his fingers pad the soft flesh, rotating from left to right as he's checking the muscles.
Shane barely feels anything at all except from the obvious intrusion, the sensation of the latex against his raw inside and the stretch.
Dr. Rozanov rotates his wrist, and suddenly the pads of his fingers are pressing against his upper pelvic floor, down on the spongy texture.
"Is there anything—?" Shane tries to ask.
But the rest of the air in his lungs gets kicked out of his body the next second.
What the fuck.
"Ah!"
Because Dr. Ilya Rozanov just did something that Shane's body didn't know how to react to: he hooked two fingers behind flat bone and pressed up into a spot Shane has no fucking idea was there all along.
He jerks forward with his whole body: a sharp, almost painful shot of pleasure running through him like the strike of lightning. His thighs tremble a little and from his mouth escapes an uncontrolled moan: it's loud and strained and unmistakable, there is no way the man between his legs didn't hear it.
Shane would normally die of embarrassment on any other occasion, eaten up by the humiliation, but the shock is so intense it overpowers every other emotion.
He feels Dr. Rozanov's hands frozen inside him.
"Everything okay?" the man asks, unsure: "Did you feel pain?"
"No!" Shane urges: "No—I'm—I'm sorry, fuck, I'm sorry—" What the fuck. He props himself on his elbows, raising just enough to meet eyes with the doctor, looking at him like he did some kind of sorcery on him. "I'm sorry, just—what, what was that?"
Shane Hollander had been living on this Earth for twenty-seven years and didn't know what was inside of him.
That there was a spot buried deep down in his pussy, a fucking button that he could just press down, all along, for all of those years.
Nobody has ever reached it before, not even himself, not with that specific angle, at least.
The alpha in front of him just rammed right into it with two fingers, on the first try: he wasn't even looking for it.
A nervous laugh escapes Shane's lips before he can even stop it; he feels shivers all over his body, his pussy clenches around the doctor's fingers at least a couple of times, but Dr. Ilya Rozanov doesn't seem fazed by it.
He just stares at Shane, blue piercing eyes and a serious expression that doesn't let out any emotion.
"So—you are responsive inside. Not a nerve problem."
Shane feels cotton in his head: "What is it?"
"It?"
"That—" his throat feels dry: "That thing. That you touched."
The man looks at him for a moment, clearly trying to hide the stupor: "There are zones more erogenous than others inside the vaginal canal," Dr. Rozanov's voice is toned down a little for some reasons: "People call it vulgarly the G-spot."
"I didn't—" He has a G-spot inside. He felt it. It was inside him all along. "I didn't know I had that—It's like," Shane's mouth runs before his mind can stop it: "It's like you were rubbing my clit from the inside. I've never—Sorry I didn't mean to say clit I was just—"
Words get out of him like a fountain: his mind is racing so fast, Shane forgets for a moment that there should be some formalism in the way he speaks to the professional in front of him.
"Shane," the doctor's firm voice halts his train of thoughts. "Is okay. Good we found it, yes?" he hints a smile, reassuringly: "I'm going to write down that—"
As he speaks, he slowly starts to retract his gloved fingers from Shane's vulva, ready to end the visit, throw away the gloves and not touch Shane's G-spot anymore.
At the mere thought, it's like Shane's entire body rebels.
Before he can even realize it, his arm reaches up, his fingers wrap around Dr. Rozanov's wrist, halting him, keeping him inside.
His eyes are wide and bewildered by his own actions, fixed on the spot where his hand touches the man's skin.
He feels burning all over, and he's sure it's not subtle.
"Can you do it again?"
Shane doesn't even recognize his voice when he speaks: it's like a whisper coming from some secret corner inside him. He doesn't raise his eyes. He doesn't know how to justify all of this.
"I just—I wanna see something. Can you—can you do it again?"
Even if his eyes are fixed down, Shane can feel the icy gaze of the doctor on him.
He expects him to say no, he expects him to retract his hand, call the secretary, tell him to fuck off, to leave his office.
He expects him to call the media and tell them about perverted, desperate, inexperienced, zero-orgasms Montreal Metro's captain Shane Hollander that held his wrist to keep him inside his pussy.
Instead, Dr. Ilya Rozanov curls his fingers inside, pads slowly circling around the spot that made Shane see stars before, then he presses up.
Shane feels his body melting on the exam table.
"Fuuuck."
He moans, shamelessly, falling back on the thin mattress.
Dr. Rozanov does it again, tapping quickly right on the spongy flesh before circling it in a quick feather-light stroke: it does really feel like the man is massaging his clit from the inside, but it's even more intense.
"Doctor—", Shane's body shivers, trying to fight the urge to rub his vulva against the man's strong hand: "Dr. Rozanov—holy, ah, holy shit."
"This is—highly inappropriate."
The doctor stills, trying to pull out his fingers again but Shane's grip is solid and doesn't let him move further away.
When he opens his eyes, he finds Dr. Rozanov staring back at him: pupils blown out, cheeks lightly washed in pink.
He looks so handsome, Shane can't believe the man didn't pursue a career in acting or modeling. He's probably the best looking alpha he's seen in the last—God, he doesn't even remember the last time he genuinely thought an alpha was this attractive.
The last alpha he had an intercourse with was a snowboarder from Brazil: he met him last year during the Winter Olympics. Back in their rooms Shane sucked him off: the man looked like a model but whined when Shane demanded him to put on a condom and that was as much of a turn off for him as it gets.
Even that professional athlete didn't look half as good as this Russian gynecologist—how's that possible?
"This is highly inappropriate," Dr. Rozanov's voice is hoarse: "I could lose my license for this—this thing we are doing."
He straightens up, clearly flustered.
No, no, no—
"No," Shane whines: "No, no, no, I won't tell anyone, I swear."
God, he sounds pathetic—it's the fact that the hormones from the next heat are building up inside him, right? That must be the only logical reason why, right now, he could literally drop to his knees and beg the handsome alpha in front of him to put his fingers inside him.
Shane Hollander has never begged anyone in his entire life.
He could start now.
"I could lose my job," the tone in the doctor's voice is serious.
Shane's eyes flicker down for a moment and his eyes get wider: Dr. Gynecologist Ilya Rozanov from Moscow to Boston to Ottawa is hard right in front of him, bulge visible from under his tailored navy slacks.
He's hard because of Shane.
"I just need—", Shane feels delirious: "I just need this—I just need this once, I need to know if that was… if I could have come all this time and that thing, inside, was the key to—"
"Blyat," the man grunts, interrupting him. Shane doesn't know what the word means: "Shane Hollander—is hard enough to not see your face all the time when I walk around this city. Hard enough to not look only at you during games. Now you come here and tell me you don't orgasm—now you want my fingers inside."
Shane can start begging now for the first time ever.
(The man was looking only at him during games.)
"Yes—please." He burns from the humiliation, and it feels amazing on his skin: "I want your fingers inside."
Rozanov's blue eyes are swallowed by the dark dilated pupils: "Fuck, this is such a bad idea."
They look at each other for a moment, and then the alpha slips his finger inside Shane's cunt and curls them.
And, oh, Shane thinks he's seeing stars.
Handsome, perfect, sexy Doctor Ilya Rozanov starts to fuck his gloved fingers inside him, starts to fuck his cunt open.
Shane arches his back against the exam table, holding tight on its sides because he really doesn't know what to do with his hands anymore.
"F—fuck—Yeah, there—right there—"
He raises an arm, placing him over his mouth, biting down on the soft fabric of his sweater, trying to keep his mouth shut.
He wants to moan, he wants to let it all out.
He feels like he's been holding it inside for twenty-seven fucking years.
Twenty-seven years and never once has someone touched the spot that now, Ilya Rozanov, is drilling on.
The doctor suddenly places the other hand – ungloved – on Shane's right knee to steady himself as he gets so close Shane feels his warmth against his entire lower body: the contact makes him jolt for a second.
But the man keeps him in place as he keeps stroking the spongy spot inside him.
"Shane, fuck", Dr. Rozanov calls him: "You're lubricating so well—you're so responsive inside. So good."
Shane bites back a broken whimper because he knows: he can clearly hear the lewd, squelching sounds of his pussy being fingered open. He can feel the slick gushing out, coating his inner lips, dripping down his taint.
He doesn't remember the last time he was this wet for an alpha—doesn't remember a time where foreplay didn't take forever for his cunt to be loose enough for a dick.
But right now, his body is accommodating like it's starving.
The nice bump of the doctor's knuckles against his entrance every time he pulls in-and-out makes his pussy shiver.
"Is—everything okay?"
"Yes, yes—oh my God, fuck," Shane rests one hand on top of Dr. Rozanov's, desperately needing to something to hold: "Don't stop, please, don't—"
The man immediately grabs it, interlocking fingers as he looks at him with heavy eyes and parted lips.
Then, suddenly, Dr. Rozanov pulls out his fingers, interrupting abruptly the steady rhythm of his strokes.
Shane's voice cracks and a plea already forms on his lips, but the words get knocked out the moment the Russian man slap his hand right on Shane's throbbing clit, full palm and all, before pushing back the fingers inside.
That makes Shane see white for a split moment.
He moans, out loud, thighs trembling from the sudden shock.
"Oh, shit, fuck—"
Shane Hollander has never been treated like that in bed before: nobody has ever held him in place and spank his cunt, keeping his legs spread, forcing him to take it.
Nobody has ever dared before, even though, deep down, Shane has always felt the burning need to ask.
Who the fuck is this doctor, he thinks, deliriously: How the fuck did Jackie find him.
"You liked that, yes?"
"Yes, yes—", Shane thinks he's crying. His cheeks feel wet: "Again, fuck. Do it again, please."
Ilya Rozanov does it again and again, alternating from fucking his squelching hole to slapping his cunt, to take little breaks from time to time to massage the clit, wet and smeared in slick.
The orgasm builds up inside him quickly: sticky warmth coating his mind, pooling down his tummy.
The sensation isn't new, he got himself to this point before, after fucking himself on a dildo or desperately pushing the vibrator on his clit; but the continuous varius stimulation is different now: it's like all the buttons are being pressed at the same time, like he's a violin string stretched taut and ravaged by the bow.
Shane's gotten this close before and he knows that right when things start to get too much, his mind wanders somewhere else.
A sudden wave of awareness washes over him, pulling him out of the pleasure his body is feeling, dimming it down.
What is he doing?
This is so inappropriate, what the fuck.
What if Dr. Rozanov tells the press about this?
What would his fans say?
He's already victim of a stupid narrative regarding how uptight and serious he is all the time—Shane happens to read from time to time the things his haters say about him on social media: that he should get fucked more because he's too tense, or that he became captain by sleeping with the team managers and letting his pussy be railed by everyone.
(If only people knew.)
Moreover, what if Ilya Rozanov is mated? What if he's married? Given how handsome he is, he must be, right? Shane didn't look for rings before, but still. What if Shane is being a homewrecker? He begged a man to make him come with tears in his eyes, of course the doctor is kind enough to do it for him.
What if—
"Shane."
His train of thoughts halt. Dr. Rozanov is drawing circles with his thumb on Shane's thigh as he looks at him as if he's seeing right through him:
"Don't think about anything else, okay?" He curls his fingers again, slower: "Focus on me. Let it build up—let it build up inside you."
Shane nods, flushed and pathetic, leaning back and taking a deep breath to relax.
His mind is always a buzzing swarm of bees when somebody isn't giving him directions, when somebody is not talking him out of the noise.
Right now, Dr. Rozanov's voice is low and firm enough to make him fold.
Nobody has ever talked to him like that before.
"You're doing so good, you feel good, yes?"
The alpha's voice is soothing and gentle in Shane's ears; so sweet and syrupy it makes his limbs feel like jelly: "So good on my fingers. Blyat, so good. You deserve this, so much. Let it go, let it go—" Shane whines, holding on to the doctor's hand, looking at his blue eyes with furrowed brows and a panting mouth: "Yes—just like that. Rock your hips against my hand, fuck my fingers."
Shane follows his voice like he's in trance, canting his hips against that miraculous hand. He has always been so good at following instructions, everything is easier in his mind when he does.
"—Feel it growing inside you, let me drag it out of you, it was building up for so long... so fucking long, you really need to let it go. So fucking good Shane, fuck."
It doesn't know what it's happening inside his body. Shane has never gotten this close to an orgasm and the sensation is scaring him: everything in his body is tensing, like an elastic pulling too tight.
A part of him is scared his body is about to snap in two: his thighs are shaking, fighting against the doctor's firm han.
His body is on fire, sweating under the light sweater, making his face and neck bright red. His pussy is leaking, his heart is rushing.
He wants a cock inside so bad.
He wants Doctor Ilya Rozanov's knot inside him.
The doctor frees his left hand from Shane's grip with a sharp tug, just to slap one last painful time against his throbbing clit.
In a matter of seconds, it builds up down in his tummy and pops out like a balloon mercilessly filled with air.
"Oh, my fucking—fuck—I'm—I'm—"
"Let it go, c'mon, Shane, let it go."
The first sensation Shane registers is pain: a convulsion, a sharp, overwhelming feeling of pain washing through his body, passing through his junctures, his jaw, his toes, his temples. Like a sudden release of a muscle that has been tensed up too long.
Then, it's the euphoria: a rush of endorphins to his brain that makes him feel high, that makes his entire body relax.
He clenches around the doctor's fingers, feeling the muscles spasming.
Everything is blurry for a long minute, and maybe it's because of all the tears that pooled up in his eyes and that probably fell down his cheeks. His brain shuts down for a moment, and the only thing he can focus on is his heavy breathing.
He came.
Is this how orgasms are supposed to feel? Now he understands the way Rose talks about the sex with Svetlana. Now he understands why Jackie gets so excited to stay at home with her husband when the kids are at their grandparents'.
Ilya Rozanov made him come.
In less than half an hour he did what no one was able to do before.
When Shane opens his eyes, catching his breath, Ilya Rozanov is still standing between his parted legs, right hand unmoving but still inside, stretching him out: his left hand is massaging Shane's hipbone, soothing.
"You made me come." Shane slurs out, still processing everything.
In his head it sounds more like I love you, because his brain doesn't know the difference between letting someone fuck the brain out of him and falling in love in a matter of minutes, apparently.
"I came."
"You," Ilya Rozanov clears his hoarse throat: "You liked it, yes?"
"My God. Yes."
Shane feels glue inside his head.
The doctor slowly retracts his gloved hand from his pussy, raising it high and proud: there's a thick coat of white-and-transparent slick all over his hand, down to his wrist – Shane slicked so much, he feels wetness between his inner thighs –.
When the alpha parts his fingers, spreading the hand open, there are strings of discharge and slick connecting them.
It looks obscene.
Shane could die from embarrassment, right now.
"No, no, it's good", the doctor urges: "Good lubrication. Your pussy works amazingly."
There's something about the doctor calling his vagina pussy that makes Shane shiver.
Dr. Ilya Rozanov is still visibly hard, a bulge tenting the front of his pants: it looks thick and heavy and makes Shane's mouth water.
"Do you want me to—?"
Shane can make him come: he would love to take the thing inside his mouth and suck him off. He's good at giving head—he's great at giving head.
But the look on the doctor's eyes is anything but clear and calm.
The panic of realizing what he has just done is quickly growing on him.
Shane props himself up on his elbows, fighting against the fog in his mind.
"I—I won't tell anyone."
"I could lose my job."
"I know but—" Shane squirms a little, trying to sound as reassuring as he can: "Why would I tell anyone? It was—it was the best thing that has ever happened to me. Literally. It felt amazing. Like my body relaxed for the first time ever. I can't believe I've never—"
He stops. Fuck, he's rambling.
The wave of shivers down his spine hasn't worn off yet and his brain is still high on it; Shane is sincerely surprised he can talk so coherently. Coming really does feel amazing.
Doctor Ilya Rozanov, despite all, seems endeared by Shane's rambles.
"You need better sexual partners, Shane Hollander."
Shane swallows a knot that immediately forms in his throat.
"Are you—Is your partner good?"
"Ah. Well, I don't have one."
It lingers there in the silence for a long moment, the implication making Shane's heart beat fast in his chest.
Then, the doctor helps him clean up the mess between his legs. He turns around as Shane stands up and puts his pants back on, throws the filthy glove away, and sits down at his desk.
It's so mechanical it feels unnatural, like there's a clear effort on Rozanov's part to act like nothing happened, like Shane can walk out of this room and forget about the best moment of his life. Maybe even better than winning the Cup. Twice.
When he's done and ready to leave, Shane just stands there, looking at the doctor, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"So," Ilya Rozanov clears his throat, a weak attempt at recomposing himself: "I will send the results to you as soon as—"
"Did you like it at least half as much as I did?"
"What?"
Shane has never felt so brave before in his life. He doesn't usually chase, he never has a reason to. Now, he can list a thousand.
"I won't tell anyone—I swear. But—did you like it as well?"
The doctor takes some time to ponder the words: he looks conflicted.
"Yes," he eventually says: "I liked it a lot."
"Then—" Shane straightens up, gathering the courage: "Can we do it again?"
"Shane."
"You made me come," he urges, as if he needs to justify himself: "You made me come and nobody ever did—" Maybe I fell in love with you a little as you slapped my clit and held my hand. "I can make you come too, next time. People say I'm good with my mouth. I can give you great head, I know how to deep-throat and I'll make you feel good and—Why the fuck am I telling you this?! Oh, my God."
Shane wants to crawl out of his own skin and disappear into the void.
"Shane, Shane, hey."
When he looks up, Doctor Ilya Rozanov is smiling at him, amused and fond at the same time.
"How about you take me out for dinner, first?"
— six months later —
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—Ilya—fuck!"
Shane spreads his legs impossibly wide as Ilya is pounding into him, ramming right on his G-spot, grinding his public bone against his sore clit.
One of Ilya's hands is placed on the headboard of the bed, for support, and the other is pushing Shane's thigh against Shane's chest.
He doesn't know what time it is, just that it's pitch-black outside: Ilya came back from a medical conference in Seattle this afternoon, Shane drove to the airport, kissed him as soon as he saw him walking out, and brought him back to his luxurious apartment downtown.
(Ilya might as well move all of his things here, for what it's worth—Ilya's been sleeping here basically every day in the last two months.)
After that, Shane lost track of time.
Ilya has been away for a week because of work, and as soon as they walked past the door, he let his bags fall on the floor, pushing Shane against the wall of the entrance to eat him out loudly and shamelessly.
"Missed you so much, Shanechka—Baby, you taste so good."
Shane came with a broken moan and his hands on Ilya's soft curls.
Ilya stood up then, and he grabbed Shane's ass and lifted him up as if he weighed nothing — a thing that even after all these past months still makes Shane shiver — and carried him to the bedroom to lay him down on the bed and crawl on top of him.
"Take a shower first, you animal," Shane chuckled as Ilya kissed down his neck.
"Nooo," his boyfriend pouted: "I wanna fuck you."
"Shower first." Shane used his big brown eyes that always earned a yes from Ilya: "Doctor, the shower is mandatory."
(He likes to tease Ilya by calling him doctor in bed, and most of all, likes when Ilya groans in frustration because of it, already hard in his pants.)
They took a shower together, of course.
Shane blew him, but Ilya stopped him before he could come. "Inside you, yes? Please? Want to make you come again. And again, and again, and—"
Shane kissed him.
So that's why right now Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander's boyfriend, is pounding inside of him so mercilessly, exactly how Shane likes it.
"Fuck, baby—Ilya—"
Shane feels so fucking full: Ilya's dick is nine inches of pure pleasure that fit inside him like he was molded for them. The first time they slept together Ilya took a tortuous amount of time to stretch him out, scared he might hurt him.
But Shane was frantic with hunger.
His pussy always gets so wet every time they have sex: they ditched condoms lately, since Shane started the pill—which means they will stain the sheets. Again. (Such a shame, they are silk.)
"Like that, da?" Ilya groans: "Want to make you come, want to make you come on my cock, then I'll make you sit on my face again, Shanechka. Can't have enough of you. Can't have enough of your pussy, blyat."
Ilya's rhythm is fast and perfectly paced: his dick drills right on Shane's cervix, making his eyes roll back.
Shane's going to come again, isn't he?
He's going to come again on his boyfriend's cock.
He feels delirious—he can't believe that a good dick was all it took to turn him into this. What's Ilya's cock done to him?
He's Shane fucking Hollander, for God's sake.
Shane Hollander. Two-time Stanley Cup winner. Forty million dollars of net worth.
But he doesn't really care anymore about that: he's glad there's something more, now. Now he likes to be called Shanechka by a certain Russian doctor—he prefers it that way.
Shanechka: two-time Stanley Cup winner, forty million dollars of net worth. But also: one gorgeous boyfriend, more than two – three? He lost the count – hundred orgasms under his belt and many more to go.