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Like the sound of the ocean rolling into the shore. Waves of white noise rushing through Dimitri’s hollow body, bubbling up as high as they physically can before giving way to solidity. It hits its peak when the force physically cannot push further through those rocky cliff walls and salt water seeps from the ducts of his eyes, warm and wet.
The ocean persists, holding its place for a full second before it retreats. Each inch disappears slowly, its limp form sinking back into the sea with the rest of its kin. Its absence becomes a prominent thing, but Dimitri isn’t empty. Even at its shallowest, a piece of its body remains, suspended in time—a brief silence stretched through eternity. Then, the moon charms the sea back again.
If Sergei is the ocean, Dimitri is the sand to which he claims. His body burns against the colonel, ground up into billions of grainy nerves. His dichotomous form: dually coarse and fine as he leaves traces of himself on everything he touches; scratches on Sergei’s back, arousal on his cock, and little white flakes where he’s been nuzzling his face into the other’s neck.
Before the chair on which Dimitri straddles Sergei—hips grinding the pace of the tide—a lighter clicks. The first spark of electricity. An inhale, the crackle of burning earth, and an exhaled black storm cloud, crawling over the hills.
“Our last supply shipment is going to good use. Kolka has been training the stragglers and Viktor expects to get rifles in all our men’s arms by November. But we need to talk about Viktor… he seems more interested in making sons than soldiers.” Nikolai speaks, low and cold.
Sergei doesn’t reply, just takes a sip of his drink as he watches Dimitri work himself down on him. The tide is going out. Dimitri remains a flattened thing, unable to possess intelligent thought. His heart throbs in his head. The salt of Sergei’s sweat flavors his tongue.
“He speaks to them like they are friends, teaching lessons that will get them killed when they are on the field, especially to the younger recruits who have never been trained in this sort of thing. What ever happened to skill? What happened to the value of your own life?” The wolf goes quiet again, his lips curling around the end of his cigarette. It smells like chemicals, but when partnered with the ocean, it only translates to a strange sort of incense drifting through the sea breeze.
“Lower, chenok .” Sergei hums before Dimitri—a terse reminder. It takes the brunet a few rocky thrusts before he manages to do so, his senses delayed in the transit to mind and then body. He pushes out a whimper as the tide comes in. He drives the sea to its highest point again—where sand gives way to rockiness and soil.
Dimitri tenses with each thrust, his cervix protesting sharply; He breathes through it. He reminds himself that he cannot stop the ocean no more than the ocean could dispel the moon. His grainy form is meant to be battered against by the sea. Without it, he is only a desert—a desolate, uninhabitable thing.
Nikolai continues. “Perhaps, I am being too traditional. Who knows. But I think the first thing we should be teaching these men is—“
“Must it always be work with you, Kolya?” Sergei inquires in the lighthearted tone he uses with naïve subordinates. The conversation bleeds into the sound of seagulls cawing. Something Dimitri automatically tunes out in favor of the next crashing wave—sea-foam bubbling ashore before dispersing into his veins. “Mikhail is doing exactly as he has been told to. I will never understand your resistance in helping a comrade in need. If I were as selfish as you, you would not be standing here today, do you forget?”
In Nikolai’s shameful silence, Dimitri drags himself up again, thighs clenching and cunt throbbing—his body simultaneously protesting and yearning the abuse. Sergei continues with a sigh, leaning back slightly. “Relax, have a drink, get cock wet. It is the weekend. We have been working hard on these new recruits—it is just as important for us to unwind as it is to work, is it not?”
The clouds darken. “I suppose it is.”
“Come closer, Kolya. Share your dog with me. He is working so hard.” The belittling humor in Sergei’s tone isn’t lost on Dimitri, but he’s too far gone in the clouds to care or react in any way. Somewhere, in the outer reaches of his mind, he holds the knowledge that Nikolai laced him something he hasn’t had before. Potent and relaxing and dazing. Dimitri’s felt this way many times in his life, though, never under such distinct circumstances.
“I would not trust him to tear off my cock.” Nikolai replies flatly. He throws a hand up from where he rests at his own loveseat toward Dimitri. “Look at him! He eats you alive.”
Sergei looks down to Dimitri. From where he kneels flush against Sergei’s chest, body rocking in a sickly heat, his teeth remain clasped around Sergei’s shoulder, digging deep enough that the skin surrounding it has turned white and the bulk of the bone has disappeared into the plush of Sergei’s flesh. In Dimitri’s haze, he bites down harder—a small, cocksure acknowledgement. The colonel smirks, humored and sets a hand on Dimitri’s hip. From pinkie to thumb, his hand covers the entirety of the man’s ribs.
Sergei replies with a chuckle, “I had not noticed.” Looking back up at Nikolai, “Do not take his mouth, then. Share his cunt with me, he can take it.”
There’s silence at first, nothing more than the tide coming and going—if not a bit slower. Then, Dimitri shivers as something strong echoes over the hills. He can’t quite discern the words, but the air clings to his clammy skin. Static. A sense of uneasiness washes through him with the tide. The goosebumps rake through the grain like sand bugs scurrying. And under him, the earth quakes.
Louder and louder, Nikolai crescendos like a giant in the distance, thudding closer. He manifests in the thunder, in the static touch that raises the hair of Dimitri’s neck, in the wind whooshing past him. He’s a large, encompassing hand, splaying and heated with energy. Like a flame, it licks up Dimitri’s back. A dancing, wild thing brimming with potential. His dark gray form—possessing the freeze of Winter and the blaze of Summer—cloaks his back while something else presses lower. Not even God’s storms could compete with the divinity of Nikolai’s bare flesh.
All at once, when Nikolai’s fingers prod against Dimitri, crooked against the bottom of his entrance, the ocean stops. Stuck in the inevitable, eldritch fist of time. There is no past and no future, only the sinister touch of the inevitable—the zap of realization.
“ P-podozhite ,” Dimitri tries. He pulls his head back and opens his eyes, but he only gets a flash of Sergei’s living room. A flash of Nikolai’s worn and scarred and graying face. A flash before a massive hand pulls Dimitri back under the water. Warm flesh against his teeth. The thick, heavy clouds roll in. The storm roars.
“It won’t fit. I-It’s too much.” Dimitri cracks into Sergei’s shoulder. The panic crescendos quickly as he realizes what Nikolai intends to do. The colonel’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, keeping his scattered, buzzing body contained.
“It will fit, Dima,” Nikolai replies lowly. There’s a flicker from the stormfront, and the thunder that follows couldn’t be more than a mile out. The clouds glow yellow. The boom: “Just relax.”
Something cold prods against Dimitri’s entrance and in the distance he wonders how much time has passed since Sergei told Nikolai to share. Surely hours. The water recedes. The ocean swallows itself whole. Once more, he tries to make peace with the coming tsunami.
“ Nyet , I mean it! Y-You’ll tear something.”
Sergei purrs. “You took me fine, no? This is just a little more. You are a resilient dog, Dima .” His voice, despite Dimitri’s past associations, proves a soothing force. It curls around his scattered, coarse form and like the sea, it flattens him out into order. A primed and prepared terrain for the raging storm, toughened to endure. “Breathe, like I taught.”
The first bolt of thunder strikes the rescinding ocean, jolts and dispenses in wide-splaying branches and arms. A dull reverberating ache growing hot. Superheated sand. The wave in the distance, towering. Pain as sharp as electrified glass. His form shifts and warps in ways it was never meant to. His arms jerk behind himself to push Nikolai’s hips away, but the ocean only comes to pluck them from the air again, forcing them against Sergei’s stomach in the grip of one hand.
“I really can’t,” Dimitri hiccups back. The rain floods his mouth, his throat, his lungs. He coughs, but he can’t expel the sheer amount of water flooding his system. The tide rolls in, rushing over and under itself. A roaring, frothing stampede galloping into shore. The thunder rumbles, the earth unfolds and stretches and aches—its shell cracking open. Sand floods the gap.
As Dimitri unfolds, eyes rolling, back arching, pearl tears swimming in glassy, spruce irises, the wave rolls through. It’s an agonizingly slow thing, as if time itself had shifted. He feels nothing but stretching, aching pain. It consumes until the fabric of his existence consists of only a pattern of sensations. Searing and sculpting his malleable form.
Nikolai grunts behind him as he forces his cock deeper. The immense pressure stretches and pushes apart Dimitri’s walls as if his body were being split open—bone shifting against muscle and fat and organ in the process of Nikolai hollowing the man out. He is molding Dimitri to fit him, carving into him and perfecting his existence like Michelangelo unto David. It’s a painful, brutal form of creation, as destruction often is.
Dimitri croaks loudly, “ Blyat— ” A nudge—the sea crashing into sand. A push—the sea swallowing the cities onward. “Blyatblyatblyatblyat— Kol’ka , pozhaluysta, I’m breaking !”
“Just a bit more, Sobak.” Nikolai grunts into Dimitri’s ear. His breaths fall hot on the man’s skin, a warm wind ripping through the air.
Sergei throbs in Dimitri, the soldier feels it warm and thick against his g-spot, pulsating in long, slow motions. It’s a constant force, the only unchanging thing while the sea floods the lands and the storm sobs and thunders and Nikolai huffs into Dimitri’s back and his lungs flood with salt water. It’s the only static thing as that large, hard length finally bottoms out.
Dimitri dryly heaves at the sheer size of both cocks plugging him. The stillness allows him the time he needs to recover, to come to terms with the sensations. The immediate pain dulls to an ache, pulsating in time with his heart. And for a moment—as all the land has given way to the sea and there is nothing to Dimitri but the gentle, sloshing tide—the clouds part. The sapphire sky appears.
The sun beams against his back and his chest in all the intimacy he’s ever needed. Dimitri wonders if this is God. In the glow of a human body, sweat-slicked and grinding and panting and living and consumed by the haze of chemical euphoria and his body stretched to his absolute limit—Dimitri thinks he’s found his religion. In the heat of his Kolya ’s chest against his back, and canines teething over Dimitri’s shoulder, he feels holy.
“I knew you could take us,” Sergei purrs to Dimitri, his hot breaths curling into his ear. The brunet groans a sound of acknowledgement. He still can’t form a meaningful thought. He’s clay under their fingers, around their cocks, between their massive, suffocating bodies.
Somewhere in the tranquil, meditative silence, Dimitri finds his bearings—one hand over Sergei’s shoulder while the other reaches back around Nikolai’s hip and his head tilts forward into the chest before him. He breathes, in and out gently for as long as he’s allowed, before there’s a faint, growling shift. The throbbing, molten masses that fill him slowly break from the mold. The smaller, Nikolai, pulls against flesh, then recedes from the other. At first, his walls protest, squeezing down harder as if to trap Nikolai in, but it only goes to encourage the Sergeant—a shaky growl rattling from deep in his throat. It’s a sound holier than angels, and it wettens the gunsmith accordingly. His stomach flips, his thighs tremble, and Nikolai pulls out further, caring not if he drags Dimitri out with him.
“Oh fuck—” Dimitri wavers, his voice barely able to steady. The man moves further, even as Dimitri’s thighs tremble and quake and his nails bite back into Nikolai’s hip. He recedes until all that remains is the tip, and only then does he work himself back in again.
Dimitri shakes like a leaf, tears falling over his eyes as the ocean meets the earth. All the way back in, he works himself until he can’t fit another inch. Then—with an anguished, clawing moan from Dimitri—he pulls right back out.
Each roll of his hips, each gentle plunge of his cock works bit by bit to open Dimitri up. His muscles stretch further than they ever have before, forced into a new stagnation with each thrust. Dimitri’s entire being aches, the pressure of both members never quite subsiding. Only when Nikolai pushes a full thrust in without having to fight the natural resistance of Dimitri’s body does his pace quicken.
Between Sergei’s rocky body and the blanket of Nikolai, Dimitri resides as a loud, crying thing. Never completely quiet for more than a few moments before his drugged string of consciousness languidly escapes his loose lips. Low croaking moans, muffled into Sergei’s shoulder, high, whiny gasps piercing the rhythm of all three of their breaths, tangling and chanting.
Nikolai’s pace shifts from sluggish, rolling strokes to a steady moderato. It’s intense, and uncomfortable in such a way that Dimitri groans off-key, nails digging into Sergei’s shoulder. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before, Nikolai shifting around inside of him in the presence of another, rubbing against his bottom wall until that familiar sickly feeling—like cyanide and rat poison—bubbles up.
Though the Colonel is an intimidating man—a strange cocktail of sadism, camaraderie, and submission—his sense of empathy for Dimitri when he’s at his lowest has never swayed.
While Dimitri grimaces, grips to Sergei in low, shaky breaths as if the tears were already coming, the colonel brings his free hand—the one not holding Dimitri’s head to his shoulder—away from where it had been hung over the arm of the loveseat and brings it down Dimitri’s chest. His fingers are cold and wet from the drink he’d been cradling not long before, and a trail of goosebumps follows in its wake, down the space of Dimitri’s stomach, the dark hair of his happy trail, and finally to the space between his legs—wet and warm and needy. His cock prods out strong with blood, twitching and aching under the hood.
“Kolya, I think our dog is enjoying this.”
Dimitri moans, arousal jerking in his belly. He used to resent the term with every fiber of his being, but he’s come around. It’s an undeniable truth to him—as real as the swelling waves of the ocean and the crashing tide that follows. He’s found his own sense of pleasure derived from the truth.
“Hm.” Nikolai purrs brassily into Dimitri’s ear. “You are a resilient whore if nothing else.”
The brunet groans in reply. His whole body shudders as he leans back, away from Sergei so those massive digits can toy around his cock, and into Nikolai. When he shuts his eyes again, the ocean dances.
With Nikolai’s hips rocking into Dimitri’s cunt, and Sergei thumbing at his cock, and the salt thick on his tongue, something deeper stirs inside of him. Like the earth croaking. Like the sky trembling.
Slowly, the warmth between his thighs shifts and just as the sky begins to tear apart, Dimitri opens his eyes and finds Sergei’s face before him. That worn brow, the scarred eye, the swooping, silver hair tied back low. And then he feels the shift of his length inside of him from where it had faded into a distant memory.
It stings at first, bad enough for Dimitri to cling to Nikolai behind him, searching out a steady anchor. Nikolai offers no such thing, his cock continuing to grind into him in slow, deep motions.
“Oh, God,” Dimitri strains, face red, brows knotted. It feels as if he were cracking, muscle tearing, brutalized . However, even through that intense pain, through his quick, shaky breaths, through the tears now pouring hot and salty down his cheeks, he perseveres. Sergei shifts out and Nikolai in, and his body adapts—as if it were made for this. As if it was so delicately crafted in order to withstand whatever the people in his life decide to force on him.
“It’s so—” Dimitri starts, only to cut himself off with a yelp as Nikolai pushes all the way to his cervix in one merciless thrust. “It’s—I–I–”
“Hush, Sobak,” Sergei murmurs, his voice unsteady through Dimitri’s tightness. “Breathe. Let it happen.”
“I can’t ,” Dimitri protests, his voice cracking so sharply in the process that it echoes throughout Sergei’s living room. “I can’t I—It’s so much, Serozhya —”
“You can. And you will.” Nikolai commands. It comes so strictly, in such a matter-of-fact tone that Dimitri is forced to accept it as fact. There is no more resistance. No more running. Only fear. Confrontation. Endurance.
Sergei is out to the tip; Dimitri’s thighs tremble around the sheer girth of it; Nikolai remains bottomed out, balls pressed flush to both Sergei’s cock and Dimitri’s cunt. The three of them stay like that until—all at once—Sergei thrusts as much of his length will fit, battering so hard it feels as if Dimitri’s cervix were caving in. He screams . That agony threads up his lower stomach, shooting into his gut, and then his throat, a wave of nausea just as strong as Sergei rushes through him. Just as quickly as it takes for the shock to hit him does Nikolai shove a hand over his mouth, muffling the guttural end of his cry.
Dimitri’s legs seize violently around Sergei’s hips, trembling into fatty muscle as his thumb strokes faster at Dimitri’s cock, eager to offer up a reward. Behind him, Nikolai isn’t so merciful. He braces two hands on Dimitri’s waist—spanning the space from his pelvis to his rib—before all at once, he pulls Dimitri’s body up from both of them. Dimitri leaves behind a glossy sheen to their cocks, sticky and wet with his arousal as they throb against each other.
Sergei’s thumb strokes faster, grinding out waves of pleasure from Dimitri’s swollen t-cock until it balances out the pain of the stretch. Until it’s a favorable kind of agony, overloading his senses.
Dimitri shuts his eyes again, unable to look at Sergei any longer. Just as quickly, he’s thrust back into the dizzying haze of whatever drug Nikolai gave him. His hot, coarse body threading through Nikolai’s fingers, pulled further from the sea until the tide reaches its lowest. And then he’s eased back down. The ocean’s massive—spanning miles and miles into a foggy horizon, but it’s surprisingly calm in climbing back up the shore.
Nikolai lets Dimitri’s own weight guide both members back in. Through his little hiccups and cries, both veterans and the sea fill Dimitri, flooding into every unfilled crevice. Rushing and rushing and rushing through his bruised hole and onto the sand. That relentless force pushes on until it can’t anymore, and Dimitri stops sinking under the salt water. Bottomed out, spread open.
Dimitri doesn’t ever completely adjust to the sheer size of it all. It never stops hurting, like a wound continually rubbed raw until he’s all nerves and blood. Dimitri hopes, as he’s lifted again—heavy-lidded and sheathed—that the nerves, too, will chafe into non-existence. He’s accepted his purpose in this world. His only gripe comes with the knowledge that God felt the need to punish him with nerves. With the burden of every ounce of pain the world inflicts upon him.
The tide breathes steadily after the first stroke. All the way back, it recedes to the tip, and then starts in again. A little faster this time. Impatient. Dimitri huffs through the feeling, Nikolai guiding him up and down through the slow, repetitive tide. Each thrust proves as intense as the first, but Dimitri breathes, focusing on the bubbling pleasure—the rainbow in the distance. The sun beaming, balancing out the pain. Something to ease the mind-numbing intensity of it, searing the very marrow of his bones.
Dimitri keens through the motion, groaning like something haunted as both men wreak havoc on his cervix. In and out as one unified member. Nikolai guides Dimitri up and down like a doll, a glorified toy.
“That’s it, suka ,” Nikolai grunts with another sheathing motion, exhaling hard just after. “ Fuck , you’re tight.”
Dimitri keens in return, his back wall screaming through the sheer amount of pressure forced against it.
The longer they go on, the more pliant Dimitri becomes. It takes a small dose of lube—cold and slick over their lengths—before it becomes a smooth process, though. As Sergei caps the bottle and sets it back down, Nikolai lowers Dimitri again on cramping thighs. From the place they all meet, a wet sound emanates. Disgustingly slick. Like a constant, rhythmic reminder of the act. A mirror into his own depravity.
The thrusts quicken from there on out. Aided by the lubrication, Dimitri sinks down easily onto them, loosening more and more with each thrust until—cock still rubbing into Sergei’s thumb—Dimitri releases the first moan that doesn’t sound explicitly pained. Bordering on pleasure.
Almost as a sort of reward, Sergei hooks his thumb under Dimitri’s hood and grinds the digit into the most sensitive part. The nerves that make Dimitri squirm the most—whining and whimpering like he were in heat.
Faster now—enough that Dimitri grows completely breathless and half-lidded—Nikolai thrusts Dimitri down onto them, percussed by the brunet’s chanting moans and pants until, finally, Nikolai tires himself out enough to stop. Though Dimitri’s putty body slumps between them, he manages to hold himself up with Nikolai’s order. When he’s on his knees, quivering with overstimulation and exhaustion, both lengths just barely remain stuck inside—heads caught in the tight muscle of his hole.
“Do you remember the last time we did this, Kolya?” Sergei purrs before Dimitri. He peers over the man’s shoulder—painted over with waterfalling, chestnut hair—and sees Nikolai’s red face on the other side. Clenched jaw, gray hair, that nasty scar on his cheek that Sergei recalls the infliction of.
“Afghanistan?” Nikolai asks hesitantly—uncertain with Sergei’s intentions as he often is.
“Novosibirsk.” Sergei huffs back, bringing himself up just so that he has a better center of gravity. “After the war.”
Dimitri sees it behind his eyelids. Sergei in full uniform with Nikolai like the photograph on his desk. His giant, double-breasted coat adorned in all sorts of badges and metals, dazzlingly gold. Nikolai, five inches shorter in military slacks, his hair still dark blond with youth.
“The hotel with that redhead?”
“Viktoria,” Sergei replies, beaming as if it were just as inspiring as their tales of battle. “You took her from front and I from behind. It was our first night back home.”
Nikolai replies dimly, leaving Dimitri strung out and neglected between the two of them. Even Sergei stops tending to his twitching cunt. “She was so loud. Would not shut her mouth no matter how I told her to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You love a loud whore,” Sergei jests back. “Otherwise, you would not have picked this one up.”
Nikolai exhales sharply.
“My point is to ask you, Kolya, if you remember how we fucked her at the end. In the kitchen.”
“I think I may recall,” Nikolai replies, low and bordering on mischievous. There’s a quirk in his tone that makes Dimitri’s stomach twist—whether from dead or arousal he hasn’t yet decided. “Will you take front of back?”
Sergei pats Dimitri firmly on the thigh—a nudging direction for him to stand. The man doesn’t wait to comply, pulling himself off the men and standing, but not before stumbling in the process.
On shaky legs, he holds himself—aching, trembling, and dissociative—tangled, chestnut hair clouding bloodshot eyes, and fingers interlocking between the ghosts of his rib.
“I have seen him enough. He is yours, after all,” Sergei replies, lifting himself from the couch in tandem with Nikolai, robe tailing behind him.
Neither Dimitri nor Sergei notice the flash of annoyance in his expression. Nevertheless, he pulls himself up from the lounge and plants himself firmly before Dimitri. Through blurry eyes, the gunsmith looks on at Nikolai with nothing less than awe. Eyes full of that graying, pale skin, the severe scarring of his years of war. The healthy swell of his torso. That permanent lack of impression sewn onto his face. Even out of control of his own mind, he still admires Nikolai like he’s divinity.
He barely realizes what’s happening, Sergei’s hulking steps fade into the fireplace behind them, and even the trembling ground merely rocks like another wave of the ocean.
Without warning, the world falls out from under his feet. Body numb, Sergei’s hands ghost Dimtiri’s waist, only felt around the edges of his digits, but with a firm enough grip to hold him up from the ground nonetheless. Nikolai hooks Dimitrir’s legs over his shoulders, hands planting to his hips after.
Dimitri is suspended between the two of them, breathing quick, nails digging into whatever flesh of Sergei’s he can reach. He feels Nikolai’s hand shift between his legs, grabbing at something. Behind Dimitri, where his head splays back over the colonel’s shoulder, the man inhales sharply. It’s a sound echoed by Dimitri when the familiar girth of Sergei’s sex drags over his sore, swollen entrance. He only manages to hiss a strained “ blyat ” before the head catches on his entrance and sinks into his drooling heat.
Nikolai follows suit, audibly exhaling with a strained brow as he nestles his cock against Sergei’s, and pushes into Dimitri’s cunt once again. There’s a moment of struggle, Dimitri’s tightness refusing to bow to the force. However, Nikolai quickly overpowers him and forces his way through. He slips past bruising flesh, follows the overwhelming size of Sergei’s length, and finally meets him at the barrier of Dimitri’s cervix—bruised and angry.
Merely feeling the ocean return to shore has Dimitri crying. It’s a howl of a noise, loud and resonating, then fading into nothing but pain. Shattered, guttural, and—above all else—anguished. Unable to parse his surroundings, head pounding, tears rolling, lungs undulating, and the ocean shore—the one he’s only seen in movies—flooding over his head.
Nikolai readjusts his grip on the gunsmith until he’s stable, squeezed between both the men’s chests, nearly suffocating in on himself. Despite the uncomfortable position—his lungs refusing to expand as Nikolai begins to move—it proves a strangely pleasant feeling. His grainy form compacted neatly between the two men as he’s finally set up for them, his body steeled to take the beating.
Dimitri’s head lays back onto Sergei’s shoulder, but his eyes remain foggily set upon Nikolai, blurrily examining his face, immortalizing what details he can in his inebriated state. He doesn’t get much of a clear view before—without leniency nor mercy—he pulls himself out back to the head. It’s a wet noise, one that seeps under Dimitri’s skin and into his bones, making his stomach twist in both arousal and delight.
When Nikolai retracts and begins back in, Sergei follows suit. It’s when he moves, that massive member dragging smoothly through Dimitri’s insides, that the world unfolds. His nails bite viscous enough to bleed, tearing through Sergei’s skin to cope with the sheer intensity of his cunt split open on both men, now moving simultaneously inside of him.
When Sergei withdraws, Nikolai bottoms out, quickly filling the space Sergei leaves behind. It isn’t long before Nikolai’s fucking him steadily, crashing and roaring into shore. Sergei’s slower to catch up—he takes his time in plunging himself into that tight heat before he, too, settles with a brisk, bruising pace.
It all leaves Dimitri stranded and drowning, tears of overstimulation prickling at his eyes as both members thrust one after the other, pressing into his back wall hard enough for the force to reach his stomach. His mind refuses to process anything beyond his senses. It’s all only input and the desperate, sobbing moans he emits. He hiccups and howls into the walls of Sergei’s living room as the penetration continually knocks the air from his lungs. He feels it in his teeth and the back of his throat like stomach acid building up, bubbling and burning. The only thing that comes up is another sobbing, choked up mimicry of Russian.
He is an island now. His head barely remains afloat even as the waves lap at him greedily, suffocating but never taking him completely. He perseveres despite it all—even howling, delirious, and debauched—he perseveres.
He watches in double vision as Nikolai’s red face comes into view—an image superimposed over his oceanic reality. The sweat glistening off-white on his forehead, the low, focused brow, those thin lips just barely parted to allow his thick, heaving breaths to echo.
As he squints through the sea, gasping and panting and struggling to discern his Sergeant’s frame, he manages to just barely notice the shift of his hands. They travel up his legs, still propped onto Nikolai’s chest and shoulders, and—without warning—maneuvers those legs down. He shifts them in at first, a move that painfully drives all of Dimitri’s weight down on both men, punctuated by a shrill cry, then pulls them in around his chest, then down his torso until Nikolai’s slotted flush between them.
With all of Dimitri’s weight spearing him open on both men, reeling and gasping, they continue. Harder, now, aided by gravity. Neither of them seem particularly keen on sparing Dimitri their anatomy. Sergei thrusts first, his head retracting just enough as is comfortable before slamming back in with his full force.
Hot pain overloads nerves and instinct, frying his fear responses until all Dimitri can do is scream . Doped up and incomprehensible, the waves push and pull at his insides without rhyme or reason. A stampeding onslaught of blow after blow—over and over again. He feels as if his internal organs were succumbing to the beating—mushing into morbid, fleshy pulp. Useless for anything but taking cock. Both the Sergeant and the Colonel steadily brace Dimitri through each excruciating thrust. Even as Dimitri’s body jerks away from the grueling pace, and he screams for mercy for his aching body, they keep him down. They discard all care or concern for him as their orgasms approach, harsh, huffing breaths in his ear and against his red face.
“Pozhaluysta, ostanovis’—Podozhdite—Kolya, Serozhya, Pozhaluysta—”
Dimitri’s hysterical pleas come to a sharp end when Nikolai shoves his hand over his mouth. It’s a grasp as firm as any muzzle, and just as effective, forcing Dimitri to look Nikolai in the eye, even squinting and weeping.
“Hush, Dima,” Nikolai speaks, breathy and low with exertion.
Behind him, Sergei leans in closer, nose tickled by Dimitri’s matting hair. Directly in his ear, he laughs a short chuckle, and when he speaks, he sounds unafflicted by the viscous pace of his hips, only invigorated with his surmounting hormones and chemicals.
“You cannot hide behind your pride, Sobak,” Sergei starts. A hand worms between his legs where—through the shuffling of their moving bodies and the steady tempo of slapping skin—the brunette can discern, faintly, the wetness of his cunt. It’s a sickening sound, a reminder of his own depravity. Lube aside, he knows he’s gushing. Even battered and abused, he’s aroused. No matter how much he struggles and fights he knows just as much as Sergei and Nikolai do that he loves this. He loves being forced past his limits. He loves being discarded in favor of Nikolai’s pleasure. And more than anything else, he loves being relentlessly fucked into oblivion.
“You’re getting wetter.” Sergei strains. “You’re going to cum, aren’t you?”
Dimitri still can’t speak through his muzzle, but he keens something high as his eyes roll back, his stomach cramping in anger of both his rapidly approaching orgasm and the ruthless beating.
It feels as if they were trying to cave their way in, push past that barrier and directly into his womb—filling every inch of space along the way until they hollow him out completely. The truth of it—when both men’s breaths grow rabid and discomposed—is that nothing is left hollow.
Dimitri cums first in a grating, muffled scream. Eyes white and full of the sea—crashing in sun-kissed, glittering waves, thick with seafoam and shockingly cold—he orgasms. His cunt clenches impossibly tighter around both men, and he loses all control. Every muscle in his body seizing, nails tearing claw marks into Sergei’s flesh and Nikolai providing the steady anchor of his hand upon Dimitri’s lips, he gushes hard. He hears his cum drench the two men, soaking their cocks, before hitting the floor below them, but he loses the sound to the sloppiness of their plunging sex and the low, strained grunting that possesses Nikolai every time he’s close. It’s a sound as familiar as Dimitri’s own name.
Nikolai cums a few seconds after Dimitri with his flushed face and penetrating nails, digging past the first few layers of Dimitri’s skin, and then some. The recognizable sensation of his cock throbbing preludes the cum itself—rushing deep inside of Dimitri and leaving no space untouched. Throb after throb, he grinds into the younger man, emptying himself of every last drop until all that remains in the weak, worn body attached. His breaths come heavy and exhausted, bottomed out completely as Sergei continues on, always last to finish.
Nikolai remains limp and shaky before Dimitri, torso expanding and contracting between the man’s legs. One hand still grips tight to his hip while the other moves away from his mouth, falling to his leg where he shakily thumbs at the rough skin.
Sergei continues at full speed, his breaths growing progressively shakier. Dimitri doesn’t have the mind to tend to it, can’t bring himself to make sense of anything, be it responsibility or reality. Dimitri fades into the quaking lull of the drugs and the ocean and his past-orgasmic haze.
Full, satiated, and dumb, the tide crashes over him and pulls his aching, worn, abused body under.