Chapter 4: The Son Rides
Dimitri’s knees ached from the hard wood, his throat burned, the taste of his father’s release still coating his tongue. He looked up through bleary eyes. Sergei loomed above him, a mountain of wet, hairy flesh, his cock lying heavy and spent against his thigh, but thickening again even as Dimitri watched, the blood returning with obscene swiftness.
A quiet, desperate resolve settled in Dimitri’s gut. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He didn’t turn away. He faced his father, his own broad chest heaving. Without a word, he stepped forward, straddling the bench, his thighs framing Sergei’s massive hips.
Sergei’s eyes, dark and predatory, tracked the movement. A smirk played under his thick mustache. “What’s this?”
Dimitri’s hand, trembling slightly, reached down. His fingers wrapped around the base of that re-hardening cock. It was hot as a brand, the skin like rough velvet over solid iron. He guided the swollen, slick head to his own hole, which clenched in terrified anticipation.
“You gonna sit on it, boy?” Sergei grunted, his voice a low rumble of pure intrigue. He made no move to help, just watched, his hands resting on his own knees like a king observing a subject’s tribute.
Dimitri bit his lip, nodded. He sank down.
The initial breach was a searing, impossible stretch. The head, fat and blunt, forced its way past the tight ring of muscle. A sharp, choked cry tore from Dimitri’s throat. He paused, his body shuddering, impaled on just the first few thick inches. The sensation was a familiar agony, a white-hot fullness that bordered on pain but throbbed with a perverse rightness.
“All of it,” Sergei commanded, his breath hitching. “Take your father’s whole cock. Show me you can.”
Dimitri obeyed. He let his weight drop, a slow, excruciating descent that sheathed the monstrous length inside him in a single, continuous slide. His own cock, trapped between their sweating abdomens, leaked helplessly. When his ass finally met the coarse hair of Sergei’s groin, he was full to the point of bursting, every internal contour stretched and claimed.
Sergei’s composure broke. A raw, guttural “Fuck!” exploded from his lips. His hands flew up to grip Dimitri’s hips, his fingers digging into the flesh. “You crazy fucking boy… riding me…”
Dimitri began to move. It was awkward at first, a shaky lifting of his heavy frame, the drag of the cock inside him making his vision blur. Then he dropped back down, a hard, wet smack of flesh meeting flesh. A moan, long and ragged, poured out of him.
He found a rhythm. Up, the terrifying emptiness. Down, the brutal, filling impalement. His hands, needing to touch, to connect, roamed over Sergei’s torso. They slid over the vast, sweaty plains of his father’s chest, through the thick, soaking pelt of hair, tracing the hard mounds of his pecs, catching on the thick nipples. He felt the powerful drum of Sergei’s heartbeat.
His fingers moved up, over the colossal shoulders, the bulging biceps that strained as Sergei held him. He touched Sergei’s neck, his jaw, rough with stubble. Finally, his hand cupped his father’s cheek, his thumb brushing the coarse hair of his mustache.
The touch seemed to electrocute Sergei. His eyes, locked on Dimitri’s, flashed with something feral, unguarded. He leaned up, closing the small distance, and crushed his mouth against his son’s.
The kiss was not tender. It was a hungry, possessive clash of teeth and tongue, flavored with sweat and the lingering bitterness of cum. Sergei’s tongue invaded as deeply as his cock, claiming every space. When he pulled back, his breath was a hot gust against Dimitri’s lips.
“Baby,” Sergei growled, the word ragged, alien, and devastating. “Fuck, look at you. My massive boy… split wide open on my dick.”
He began to meet Dimitri’s movements, thrusting upwards in a sharp, punishing cadence that stole the breath from Dimitri’s lungs. The slap of skin grew louder, faster, echoing off the wet wood.
“You feel that?” Sergei rasped, his words coming in time with his thrusts. “You feel how deep I am? Your mother… she screams when I get this deep. She can’t take it for long. But you… you take it all night if I want.”
He drove up particularly hard, making Dimitri yell out, his nails digging into Sergei’s shoulders.
“Today,” Sergei continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, filthy whisper. “Fucking lunch break. Found a little secretary from the office. Skinny thing. Pretty mouth. I took her out to my truck, bent her over the gear stick.” He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound. “Her cunt was so tight I thought she’d break. She did. Started sobbing after twenty minutes. But I fucked her for an hour. Came so deep inside her she’ll taste me for a week.”
Dimitri moaned, the image mingling with his own sensations, driving him to ride harder, to take the pounding more desperately.
“And Irina… your mother,” Sergei said, his gaze intense. “Last night. I had her on her knees, then on her back, then bent over the bed. I fucked her until she was raw, until she was begging me to stop. I didn’t stop. I never stop. I filled her up until it was leaking out of her all morning. Her cunt is a ruined, used-up hole because of this.” He punctuated the claim with a brutal upward surge. “But it’s her duty. It’s a wife’s duty to be broken by her husband’s cock.”
He groaned, his hips beginning to piston with frantic, erratic force. His hands on Dimitri’s hips were vises, controlling the ride, slamming him down onto the driving shaft.
“But you… you’re different. You’re my son. My blood. You’re built for this. You’re the only one who can really take it. The only one who wants it.” His voice cracked with a mixture of pride and savage need. “I’m proud of you, Dima. My good boy. My secret. My relief.”
His speech dissolved into grunts. “Gonna cum… gonna pump your guts full… make you carry it all day…”
Dimitri felt the telltale swelling, the frantic pulse deep within him. He was hurtling toward his own edge, his cock rubbing between them, smearing pre-cum on their sweat-slick skin.
“Do it,” Dimitri begged, his voice shattered. “Fill me, Papa. Please.”
The permission shattered Sergei’s last control. With a roar that seemed to shake the sauna’s very planks, he slammed Dimitri down and held him there, burying himself to the hilt. His body went rigid, every massive muscle corded and straining. Inside Dimitri, the hot, violent flood began—jet after jet of thick semen, painting his innards, a scalding, claiming violation that triggered his own climax.
Dimitri cried out, his body seizing as he spilled between them, streaks of white mixing with the endless sweat on their bellies. The pulses inside him seemed endless, a relentless flooding that promised he would feel the leak of it for hours.
Slowly, the world swam back. The hiss of the steam. The drip of condensation. The overwhelming stench of sex and sweat and musk.
Sergei’s grip softened. He leaned back against the wall, his chest heaving, his cock still wedged deep inside Dimitri, still weakly pulsing. He looked up at his son, a strange, exhausted tenderness in his eyes. He ran a rough thumb over Dimitri’s lower lip.
“Good boy,” he murmured, his voice finally quiet. “My good, big boy.”
Outside the sauna door, muffled by the thick wood, came the sound of a pot clanging in the kitchen upstairs. Dinner. Irina was home.
Sergei didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. He just kept looking at Dimitri, waiting for him to make the first move, to pull away and begin the cleanup, the concealment, the return to the normal world. The cock inside Dimitri remained, a heavy, spent reminder of the secret that would, in minutes, be tucked away again beneath towels and silent glances.
Sergei now calls Dimitri ‘baby’ or ‘babe’ or ‘boy’.