Chapter 1: Midnight Jackhammer
The wall shook.
A dull, rhythmic thud pulsed through the plaster and into the headboard of Dimitri’s narrow guest bed. Thump.Thump. Thump. It was a familiar sound here, the heartbeat of his godfather’s house. He stared at the ceiling, the darkness thick and hot around him. His own body felt colossal and useless on the thin mattress, a pile of muscle and hair sweating onto the sheets.
Another sound, sharper—a choked cry, female. Then Boris’s voice, a low, guttural rumble that penetrated the wall like it was paper. “Yeah… you take it. Take all of it, you stupid suka.”
Dimitri’s breath hitched. His hand, which had been lying inert on his stomach, twitched. He didn’t want to move it. Moving it would be an admission. But the thumping grew faster, a brutal, jackhammer tempo that made the light fixture on his ceiling tinkle softly. His boxers were already tight, the heavy weight of himself straining against the cotton. He was hard, painfully so, a thick, aching line of heat.
He shut his eyes, but that was worse. In the darkness, his mind painted the picture. Boris’s room. The smell of it first—stale sweat, cheap cologne, the iron-like scent of pure testosterone. The yellowed pages of magazines taped to the wall, images of women bent and presented. And the bed. That monstrous, groaning metal frame. He imagined Boris there now, a beast of a man, his tanned back a landscape of shifting muscle under a pelt of dark hair. Dimitri had seen him shirtless a thousand times, fixing the car, chopping wood. The man was a monument. Shoulders like boulders. A chest so broad and thick it blocked the light. And the hair… a gorilla’s coat, spreading from his collarbone down over the defined slabs of his stomach, descending into a dense forest.
The woman cried out again, a sound that was half pain, half something else. “Please… Bozhe…”
“You don’t say please,” Boris grunted, the words slurred with effort. “You just take. You choke on it. You smell my muzhyna.”
Dimitri’s hand moved. It was a betrayal, but he couldn’t stop it. His own fingers, thick and calloused, curled around himself through the fabric. A jolt of electricity shot up his spine. He was big, he knew that. A good twenty centimeters, heavy. But in his mind, it was pathetic. A child’s toy compared to the weapon he knew Boris possessed. Boris had told him once, drunk on horilka, bragging about the dyvo between his legs. “Twenty-five centimeters, Dima. Like a fucking Coke can. And the balls, boye… like two ripe plums.” Dimitri had laughed with his parents, his face hot, his gut twisting with a shameful, dizzying awe.
The memory merged with the present. The thumping became a frenzied, violent drumbeat. The woman was sobbing now, rough, ragged gasps between impacts. “I can’t… I can’t…”
“You can.You will. You’re my little hole tonight. My warm, tight dira.”
Dimitri’s fist was moving under the sheet, a slow, desperate mimicry of the violence through the wall. He thought not of the woman, but of Boris. The heat that radiated from him. The way his massive hand, rough and scarred, would clamp down on Dimitri’s shoulder when he was proud of him. The time Boris had grabbed his pec after he’d lifted a tractor engine, squeezing the solid muscle there, his thumb brushing a nipple. “Look at this! A real bull! My boy!” Dimitri had frozen, his entire being narrowing to that point of contact, a fire igniting in his belly.
Boris’s roar shattered the memory. A final, animalistic sound of release, followed by a deep, shuddering groan. The thumping stopped. Silence, then the sharp, wet sound of flesh on flesh—a slap, playful, possessive. The woman whimpered.
Dimitri’s own climax ripped through him, silent, vicious, a flood of shame that left him trembling. He lay there, sticky, disgusted, listening to the aftermath.
He heard the bedsprings complain as Boris shifted.Heavy footsteps. The bathroom door closed, the pipe in the wall clanging as the shower turned on. Boris never slept right after. He’d stand under the water, then come back to bed, sometimes starting again if the woman could take it.
Dimitri pushed back the sheet. The room air was cool on his damp skin. He felt hollowed out, used. He got up, his huge frame feeling clumsy, and padded to the door.He needed air. He needed to not be in this tiny room that smelled of his own secret.
He crept into the dark hallway. The door to Boris’s room was ajar, a slash of yellow light spilling out. The other smell wafted into the hall now—unmistakable, potent: sex, sweat, him.
Dimitri’s feet carried him forward, silent on the worn wood. He shouldn’t look. He knew he shouldn’t look.
He peered through the crack of the door.
The woman was a pale, crumpled shape on the ravaged bed, sheets tangled around her legs. She was breathing heavily, her face buried in a pillow.
And there was Boris, standing by the bed, his back to the door. He was naked, a mountain of muscle and dark, wet hair gleaming in the lamplight. Water droplets from his shower clung to the forest on his back. He was reaching for a towel, the monumental sweep of his shoulders flexing. As he turned slightly, Dimitri saw the dense, black thatch of hair at his groin, the heavy, spent weight of him, the sheer brutal size of the man at rest.
Boris paused. He lifted his arm, sniffed deeply at his own armpit, a crude, satisfied smile curving under his thick mustache. “Tak. Good,” he muttered to himself.
Dimitri’s heart hammered against his ribs. He took a step back, but the floorboard creaked.
Boris’s head turned, those dark eyes scanning the darkness of the hallway. He didn’t look alarmed.He looked… knowing. A slow, deep breath expanded his colossal chest.
“Dima?” he called out, his voice a low, warm rumble. “That you, little bull? Can’t sleep?”
Dimitri froze, caught in the dark, his secret still warm on his stomach, the evidence of his shame plain on his face. He couldn’t answer. He just stood there, a massive, hairy boy, trembling before the god in the doorway.