Chapter 10: The Wedding Suit Fitting
The suit jacket hung open, the fine grey wool feeling alien against Dimitri’s broad, hairy shoulders. He stared at his reflection in the three-way mirror of the fitting cubicle. The image was a stranger—cleaner, sharper, somehow contained. The trousers, still unhemmed, pooled around his bare feet. He stood in just his boxers and the open jacket, his own thick chest hair curling over the dress shirt’s pristine white placket.
Behind him, the curtain rustled.
Sergei slipped inside, filling the remaining space instantly. The cubicle, already small, became a closet. He was wearing old grey sweatpants and a tight white sleeveless shirt that clung to every defined slab of his torso. The fabric was strained thin across his pectorals, the armholes revealing dense mats of black hair curling from his armpits. He looked like a gorilla stuffed into human clothes, a raw, physical power that hummed in the fluorescent light.
“Turn around, let me see,” Sergei said, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the gesture making his biceps bulge.
Dimitri turned. The appreciation in his uncle’s eyes was a tangible heat. It wasn’t the look of a relative. It was the hungry, possessive stare of a man surveying a prize.
“Fuck,” Sergei breathed, a slow smile spreading. “Look at you. A real man. All that hair, all that muscle… trapped in a fancy wrapper.” He took a step closer, the scent of him—dried sweat, cheap detergent, and that deeper, muskier base note—crowding out the smell of new fabric. “The girls at that wedding won’t know what hit them. They’ll see a big, handsome kid in a suit. They won’t know you’re already spoken for. That you’re addicted to a monster cock they couldn’t even imagine.”
Dimitri felt a flush creep up his neck. He looked down at his own hands, calloused and out of place against the fine wool.
“Don’t look away,” Sergei commanded softly. He closed the final distance, his chest now just inches from Dimitri’s back. His reflection in the mirror engulfed Dimitri’s. Two massive, hairy men, one young and confused in formal wear, the other older, a predator in gym clothes. Sergei’s hands came up and settled on Dimitri’s shoulders, squeezing the muscle there. “You like this, don’t you? Me seeing you like this.”
Dimitri’s mouth was dry. He gave the tiniest nod, his eyes locked on Sergei’s in the glass.
“I knew you would.” Sergei’s hands slid down, over the jacket, tracing the shape of Dimitri’s pectorals, his thick waist. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of the suit trousers, pulling them slightly away from Dimitri’s body. “Such a good body. Built just like mine. Made for me.”
He leaned in, his bearded cheek rough against Dimitri’s shaven jaw. His breath was hot in Dimitri’s ear. “I’ve been planning our night in Lviv for two months. The hotel room. Just you and me. I’ve thought of nothing else.” One hand slid around front, palming Dimitri’s cock through his boxers, finding it already half-hard. “A whole night. No interruptions. No quiet. I’m going to break your ass open on this cock. I’m going to fuck your mouth until you forget how to breathe. I’m going to split you so wide you’ll feel me in your throat. I’m going to pump you so full of my cum you’ll look pregnant.”
Dimitri shuddered, a weak gasp escaping him. His hips pushed involuntarily into Sergei’s hand. “Sergei… the tailor… he’ll hear,” he whispered, the protest empty.
Sergei chuckled, a dark, vibrating sound. He ground his own obvious, thickening bulge against the cleft of Dimitri’s ass, still covered by the boxers and wool. “Viktor? Don’t worry about him. We go way back. Military service on the border. Cold, boring nights.” His other hand groped Dimitri’s ass cheek, kneading the muscle. “He used to crawl under my bunk. Suck me off under the blankets. Choke himself on this thing, swallow every fucking drop. I came buckets back then. Liters. He drank it all like a man dying of thirst.”
The story, told in this clinical space, was both a confession and a weapon. It stripped away any last pretense of Sergei’s world being separate. This had always been his life. Men worshipped his cock. Dimitri was just the latest.
“Feel how hard you make me,” Sergei growled, pushing his hips forward so the rigid, extensive length of his erection dug into Dimitri’s flesh. “This is your fault. Looking this respectable. So you have to take responsibility.”
His hand left Dimitri’s cock and instead gripped the back of his neck, applying pressure. “On your knees. Now.”
The command brooked no argument. Dimitri sank down, the rough carpet biting into his kneecaps. He was now eye-level with the straining bulge in Sergei’s sweatpants. The fabric was already damp at the tip.
Sergei looked down at him, his expression one of profound, arrogant pride. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers and pushed them down in one swift motion.
His cock sprang out, slapping against his lower abdomen.
Dimitri’s eyes widened. It wasn’t just hard. It was colossal. Fully erect, in the stark light, it looked even more impossibly vast than in the shadowy darkness of his bedroom. Every vein was a raised river on the thick, forward-curving shaft. The head, a deep purplish-red, was flared and glistening. But it was the smell that hit Dimitri first—a powerful, virile blast of pure animal stench. Testosterone, dried semen, the faint, sharp tang of old piss, and something else, something cheesy and profound.
“Twenty-six centimeters of Ukrainian meat,” Sergei said, his voice thick with lust. He took his cock in his fist, presenting it. “All for you. Look at it. Look at what you do to me.”
Then, with his other hand, he grabbed Dimitri’s wrist and guided it. “Pull it back. See what you have to clean.”
Dimitri’s fingers, trembling, grasped the thick foreskin and rolled it back over the massive glans.
The underside of the foreskin and the corona were coated in a thick, white, curd-like accumulation of smegma. The smell intensified exponentially, a pungent, salty, deeply intimate odor that flooded Dimitri’s nostrils and seemed to seep directly into his brain. It was the scent of neglect, of raw, unwashed male potency, of Sergei’s essence in its most concentrated, filthy form.
Sergei watched his face, his own breathing shallow. “See that? That’s mine. That’s what a real man makes. Now clean it. Lick it off. Make your uncle’s cock spotless.”
He didn’t wait. He fisted a hand in Dimitri’s hair and guided his head forward.
The first touch of his tongue to the cheesy deposits was a shock of salt and bitterness. Dimitri gagged, his eyes watering, but Sergei held him fast. “Lick,” he ordered, his voice a guttural command.
Dimitri obeyed. He closed his eyes and dragged his tongue along the ridge under the head, collecting the thick, pasty substance. It coated his tongue, the taste overwhelmingly musky and foul and yet, perversely, exciting. It was the purest taste of Sergei. He worked, lapping at the underside, cleaning the groove, his own cock now painfully hard and leaking into his boxers.
“Good boy,” Sergei rasped. “Such a good, nasty boy for your uncle.”
When the head was relatively clean, Sergei didn’t give him a respite. He angled his hips and pushed the broad, slick tip between Dimitri’s lips. “Now suck. And be quiet. Viktor is just out there, pinning a hem.”
The invasion was immediate and brutal. Sergei fed his monstrous cock into Dimitri’s mouth with slow, relentless pressure, not stopping until the head nudged the back of his throat. Dimitri’s jaw ached with the stretch. He breathed hard through his nose, the smell of smegma and precum filling his sinuses.
Then Sergei began to fuck his face. He set a deep, rhythmic pace, using his grip on Dimitri’s hair to control the depth and speed. Each withdrawal pulled saliva and strings of filth in a glistening bridge; each thrust choked Dimitri, forcing his throat to open.
“This is just a preview,” Sergei grunted, his hips pumping. “In Lviv… I’m going to use all three of your holes. I’m going to fuck you in the shower, over the desk, bent over the windowsill so the whole city could see. I’m going to make you scream into a pillow. I’m going to own you that night. It’s our engagement. You understand? I can’t live with anyone else. No one takes this cock like you. No one worships it like you. You’re mine.”
The words, mixed with the brutal face-fucking, the cramped, public space, the risk of discovery, sent Dimitri into a spiraling frenzy of shame and need. He moaned around the thick shaft, his hands coming up to clutch at Sergei’s hairy, powerful thighs. He was drowning in the man, in the smell, in the taste, in the overwhelming reality of his own addiction.
For thirty minutes, Sergei used his mouth. He varied the pace, sometimes fast and punishing, sometimes slow and deep, holding himself embedded until Dimitri’s eyes bulged. He whispered filthy promises, reminders of the wedding, of the shared hotel room.
Finally, his rhythm stuttered. His grip on Dimitri’s hair became vise-like. He shoved himself down to the root and held there, his balls tightening against Dimitri’s chin.
“Swallow it all, you fucking slut,” he snarled through clenched teeth.
The first eruption was a torrent. Thick, hot, viscous semen flooded Dimitri’s mouth, so much it immediately overflowed, spilling from the corners of his stretched lips. Sergei kept coming, pulse after pulse after impossible pulse, filling his mouth to the absolute brim. Dimitri swallowed convulsively, gulping down the salty, bitter load, but more kept coming, a seemingly endless geyser from his uncle’s monstrous balls. It coated his tongue, his throat, filled his cheeks. When Sergei finally pulled out with a wet, slurping pop, a great rope of it followed, splashing onto Dimitri’s chest and the front of the pristine dress shirt.
Dimitri knelt, panting, dripping, his face a mess of spit and semen, his eyes glazed and empty.
Sergei looked down at him, spent, his cock slowly softening, glistening with wetness. He tucked himself back into his sweatpants with a satisfied sigh. He reached down and, with surprising tenderness, used a clean corner of the dress shirt to wipe Dimitri’s chin.
“See?” he said, his voice returning to its normal, casual tone. “Viktor didn’t hear a thing. He’s used to it.” He straightened the suit jacket on Dimitri’s shoulders. “The suit looks perfect. We’ll take it. Now get dressed. Your mom wants us back for dinner.”
He pulled the curtain aside and stepped out, calling cheerfully, “Viktor! My nephew will take the grey one. Needs the trousers hemmed, of course.”
Dimitri remained on his knees for another moment, listening to the casual chat outside, the taste of smegma and semen a permanent brand on his tongue, the promise of Lviv a terrifying and thrilling shackle around his heart. He slowly, achingly, got to his feet and began to change, the sticky chill on his chest the only tangible proof of what had just happened in the silent, fluorescent-lit cube.
For next chapter: they go home, and Dimitri’s parents live the suit they choose. After a dinner, Sergei discreetly joins Dimitri to his room. The house is already sleeping, and Sergei wastes no time. The moment he enters, the smell becomes so strong in the room, pure testosterone, ripe cock, cum, sweat. Sergei gets naked, joins Dima in the bed, and presses a thick finger to Dimitri's lips, commanding absolute silence. Without lube, he spits generously into his palm and forces the monstrous head of his cock against Dimitri's tight hole. Dimitri bites into his pillow, screaming muffled as Sergei pushes inch by inch, splitting him open. Sergei fucks him relentlessly, his massive balls slapping wetly against Dimitri's thighs. He talks dirty the whole time—how Dimitri will never be satisfied by anyone else, how his hole belongs to his uncle. Sergei talks longingly about next week’s night in Lviv, before the marriage, and how Dimitri will be completely split open, broke. Sergei says this will be the worst night of Dimitri’s life, a hellish night of only hard and pure sex, taking his uncle’s monstrous 26 cock non stop for hours until morning, just to see if he can endure that for the rest of his life. Sergei confesses he loves to dominate men way more than women, and tells some stories with young men all over his life to relieve him. He tells this is the destiny of Dimitri for the rest of his life with Sergei. Sergei says this muscular hairy body, this chest, this face, is what Dima will mostly see everyday, fucked under his man. Sergei says Dima will have to eat and worship his gigantic hairy balls for hours, choke on it, smell that ripe smell every day, because Sergei loves when they eat his massive Ukrainian tomatoes. Sergei starts kissing Dima’s neck and licking it, calling him ‘babe’, making Dimitri so happy. They go through multiple positions: missionary with Dimitri's legs pinned to his chest, doggy style with Sergei gripping his hips, and finally on his back with his ankles hooked over Sergei's shoulders, Sergei always promising hard sex all night in Lviv. Sergei cums six times, load after thick load of cum painting Dimitri's insides. By five in the morning, the sheets are a ravaged mess of sweat and semen. Sergei is proud of it, commentating about the smelly ripe sheets and how Dima’s mother will be mad, not imagining the sheets are like that because is son is destroyed In it all night by a pure animal of sex. Sergei lies down, and Dimitri curls into him, burying his face in his uncle's neck, finding a few hours of broken sleep. Before sleeping, Dimitri says he wants nights like this everyday for the rest of his life, and says he feels like Sergei’s wife. Sergei was so proud, caressing him, kissing his head but saying nothing, until both sleep.