"You're going to need to do that," Volgin warned offhandedly, his spit-slicked, engorged cock bouncing as leaned over and, with one hand for balance, went to work unlacing himself. The suit had to come off, and Raikov was not going to be making a perfect circuit, starting with his mouth, if he could help it.

He found he had to very awkwardly sit himself down to fully slide the boots off and the rest of his clothing with it. His erection was sagging. Concern and all the worst scenarios playing out in one's head was effective when it came to cock-softening.

Volgin was pretty impressive in his nudity, with his network of scars marring his entire body, the dark patterning of some asymmetrical predator. He had faded numbers stamped along his right ankle, a smaller hint to the larger denotation of his status as an experiment staining his back.

(One of Stalin's dirty secrets, hidden under Moscow in her white belly, within a womb of wiring as her humming heart. No need for coal or fuel to power her... Hff!)

He shook his head, shaking those ... memories away. He caught his gaze on his ankle.

Grunt.

Taking the discarded suit, it was placed on the floor, Volgin mumbling as he nudged Ivan's legs as a hint, "Ivan... Ivan, sit on this. Don't touch anything else but me and that, alright?"