Chapter 2: First Night in Kyiv
The first dinner was a quiet, overwhelming affair. Sergei served a heavy stew, his massive hands looking comical around the delicate porcelain spoon he offered Viktor. He asked gentle, probing questions about London, about school, his voice a soft rumble. Dimitri mostly watched, his eyes lingering on Viktor with an intensity that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. The apartment was steeped in their presence, the air thick with the smell of tobacco, male sweat, and something else Viktor couldn’t name—something primal.
Later, in the narrow, sparse room that was to be his, Viktor lay stiffly on the single bed. The walls were thin, painted a dull institutional green. He could hear the low drone of the television, then the heavy tread of Sergei going to his own room. Silence settled, broken only by the distant groan of plumbing.
He must have slept.
A sharp, guttural cry tore him from it.
It was a woman’s voice, choked and mangled, followed instantly by a deep, rhythmic slapping sound—wet, meaty, relentless. Thud-thud-thud-thud. Viktor’s eyes snapped open in the dark. Another scream, this one strangled into a moan, then a roar he recognized. Sergei.
“Yes! Take it, you bitch! Take all of it!”
The voice was his father’s, but transformed. It wasn’t the gentle rumble from dinner. It was animal, dominant, dripping with a brutal pleasure. The thudding intensified, faster, a piston driving into soft earth. The bed in the next room slammed against the shared wall with such force Viktor felt the vibration in his own mattress. He heard the woman sobbing, a sound that wasn’t quite pain, wasn’t quite joy, but something shredded and raw.
“My cock splitting you open! Feel it! Feel how deep this monster goes!”
Viktor froze, his heart a trapped bird. He pulled the thin blanket over his head, but it did nothing. The sounds were inside him now. The slaps, the creak of the bed, Sergei’s filthy, triumphant commentary, the woman’s broken whimpers. It went on and on. Twenty minutes. Forty. An hour. A symphony of sweat and strain. His own body reacted traitorously, a hot, shameful clench low in his belly, a sensation that made him want to vomit.
Then, another sound. The distinct click of a door latch down the hall. Dimitri’s door.
Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approached his room. The door opened without a knock.
Dimitri stood silhouetted in the faint light from the hallway. He was shirtless, his torso a breathtaking landscape of defined muscle and dark, swirling hair. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin, gleaming on the slabs of his pecs and the deep canyon of his abs. He smelled of heat and man.
“Can’t sleep?” Dimitri’s voice was a low rasp. He stepped inside and closed the door, plunging them into near darkness.
“The… the noise,” Viktor whispered.
Dimitri chuckled, a sound without humor. He sat on the edge of the bed, the frame groaning under his weight. The mattress tilted Viktor toward his massive heat. “That’s Papa. Every night. Sometimes two, if the first one passes out too fast.”
“It’s… loud.”
“He’s a beast,” Dimitri said, and there was a thread of pride in it. “A fucking animal. They line up for him, you know. Girls from the factory, from the bars. They hear the stories about his cock. Think they can handle it.” He snorted. “They never can. Not for long. He breaks them. Pounds them stupid. Fills them up until they’re dripping for days.”
As if on cue, a particularly savage series of impacts shook the wall, followed by a sustained, guttural roar from Sergei and a sharp, screaming climax from the woman that died into a whimper.
“See?” Dimitri said calmly.
Viktor swallowed, his mouth dry. The hot feeling between his legs was now a persistent, aching throb. “Doesn’t it… bother you?”
Dimitri turned his head, his blue eyes catching a sliver of light. “Bother me? It’s life, brother. It’s in the blood. The need.” He leaned closer, his scent enveloping Viktor—sweat, engine oil, pure male musk. “He’s not the only one with… appetites.”
He paused, listening as the furious rhythm from the next room finally peaked with a final, deafening series of slams and a roar that sounded like victory. Then came a heavy silence, broken only by ragged breathing.
“My problem,” Dimitri continued, his voice dropping to a confidential growl, “is I got his hunger but not his… reputation yet. Women see me, they see a big guy. They don’t understand. They don’t know what’s in my pants.” He shifted on the bed, and even in the dark, Viktor’s eyes were drawn to the formidable bulge in his grey sweatpants. It was a vast, heavy-looking outline. “They start something, then they feel it, and they get scared. They run. Or they cry. It’s… frustrating.”
He sounded genuinely aggrieved, like a craftsman without the right tools.
“It’s… big?” Viktor heard himself ask, the question hanging in the dark, obscene.
Dimitri barked a laugh. “Big? Yeah, little brother. It’s big. Twenty-six centimetres. Thick as a Coke can. Two fucking apples for balls.” He said it with the casual pride of stating his height. “It’s a tool for a specific job, and the job is wrecking holes. For hours. Without getting tired.” He stood up suddenly, the conversation apparently over. “You’ll get used to the noise. Or you won’t. Doesn’t matter to the walls.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Viktor lay there, trembling, the explicit image seared into his mind. Twenty-six centimetres. Coke can. The shameful ache between his own legs intensified.
Ten minutes later, a new sound began.
From Dimitri’s room, directly across the narrow hall. The rhythmic, steady squeak of bed springs. Squeak-squeak-squeak-squeak. Faster than Sergei’s pounding, but just as relentless. No woman’s cries accompanied this. Just the mechanical, tireless sound of friction, and then, after a while, Dimitri’s own voice—a low, continuous stream of grunts and filthy encouragements to himself. Dimitri was stroking himself so hard. No girl. Just his cock and his hand.
Viktor curled into a fetal position, his hand sliding involuntarily under the waistband of his pajamas. His own fingers found the sensitive, hidden folds that were his secret, stroking in time with the squeaking springs from across the hall. Dimitri’s monologue grew louder, more graphic.
The squeaking became frenzied, a manic rhythm. A final, sharp cry from Dimitri—a raw, satisfied sound—and then a heavy, gasping silence.
Viktor’s own breath hitched, his body tensing, but he didn’t let himself finish. He pulled his hand away, shaking with disgust and a confusion so profound it felt like drowning.
The silence in the apartment was total now. Oppressive. He could smell the sex in the air—old sweat, new sweat, something saline and metallic. He stared at the ceiling, the reality of his new life settling into his bones like a cold weight.
This was his blood. This hunger. This noise in the night. And as dawn’s first grey light began to bleed around the edges of the window shade, Viktor realized, with a jolt of pure terror, that a part of him was not horrified.
A part of him was desperately, shamefully awake.
For next chapter: they don’t fuck yet, Dimitri only tries to gently piss off his brother, amused, proud of the size of his cock. Dimitri Barr chested only wears a grey tight-fitting underwear. Dimitri explains to Viktor that the red scratch on his torso are from his last girl, one week ago. The fuck was so hard she scratched him deep, and the marks are still here. Dimitri arousing his brother ‘innocently’ but thy don’t have sex yet. Sergei arrives bare chested, wearing only a work trousers, still open on a dirty smelly underwear. Sergei is amused but asks Dimitri to don’t bother Viktor. After the breakfast, Sergei and Dimitri go to work, and Viktor stays at home alone, resting.