—STORY
All characters depicted in this story are over the age of 18. The setting, events, and characters are entirely fictional and intended for mature audiences. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental, and the story is meant as a work of fiction for adult entertainment purposes only.
![IMG_3439.jpeg]( "IMG_3439.jpeg")
Dimon’s footsteps echoed through the quiet corridor, each step reverberating off the cold stone walls as he approached the examination room. The hallway stretched out before him, long and intimidating, with every stride bringing him closer to the inevitable. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, sharp and metallic, a reminder of the cold precision awaiting him on the other side of the door. He wasn’t the only one here—other young men drifted along the corridor, some with tense expressions, others trying to mask their nerves under a veil of indifference. All of them, like him, were here for one reason: the military fitness examination, a trial that would determine their readiness for service.
For Dimon, the pressure felt especially heavy. His family had a long tradition of military service; his father and older brother had both passed through this rite without a hitch. The weight of expectation bore down on his shoulders, and despite his attempts to reassure himself that it was just a routine procedure, the thought of standing nearly naked under the scrutiny of uniformed men with steely eyes made his stomach tighten.
At nineteen, Dimon was in his physical prime, a young man whose lean frame hinted at hours spent in the gym and on the track. He was proud of his body, though modest about it; it was strong, capable, and healthy, all marks of what was expected of someone preparing for service. Still, there was a vulnerability that came with having to strip down and stand exposed in a room full of strangers, especially knowing that they would be inspecting him from head to toe, down to the last detail.
Dimon reached the door to the examination room and hesitated, taking in a breath to steady himself. The door itself was formidable, thick and heavy, almost as if it served to contain the authority that lay beyond. As he pushed it open, the sterile brightness of the room greeted him with an almost blinding intensity. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, as the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the white walls and cold tile floor.
The room was wide, divided into different sections with curtained areas where other young men were being processed. Near the entrance, a group of soldiers stood behind a long table piled with forms, their green uniforms crisp and immaculate, every crease and button in perfect place. The soldiers were of varying ages, but they all carried the same aura of authority and discipline, their stances relaxed yet poised, as though they were accustomed to controlling the room simply by being in it.
The one standing at the center, a man with a jawline so sharp it could cut glass, spoke first. “Name?” His voice was deep and resonant, carrying easily over the low murmur of activity in the room. He did not look up from his clipboard, as if certain that his question would be answered immediately.
“Dimon Sokolov,” came the response, though his voice felt smaller in comparison. He stepped forward, trying to project confidence even as his nerves simmered beneath the surface.
The soldier glanced up, his eyes scanning Dimon from head to toe, assessing him with a practiced, clinical gaze. “Come forward,” he instructed, gesturing toward a marked spot on the floor in front of the table. As Dimon moved into position, he could feel the eyes of the other soldiers on him, each pair tracking his movements as though they were silently sizing him up. The air was thick with the quiet, omnipresent authority that permeated military spaces, and he could almost feel it pressing against his skin.
“Stand up straight,” another soldier directed, his voice carrying a stern undertone. This man was broader, his muscles filling out the sleeves of his uniform, the ribbons on his chest indicating his rank. His face bore a faint scar running from his cheekbone down toward his jaw, a silent testament to a life lived under discipline and duty. “We’ll start with your general measurements,” he continued, retrieving a measuring tape from a nearby table.
Dimon straightened his back, setting his shoulders as the soldier approached with the tape. He tried to keep his breathing steady as the man came closer, the sensation of the measuring tape brushing against his skin feeling almost foreign in this context. First, they measured his height, marking it down on a clipboard. The soldier’s hand lightly grazed the back of Dimon’s neck as he adjusted the tape, a touch that was clinical yet personal, as though every small detail of his body mattered.
“Good, now your weight,” another soldier commanded, gesturing toward a nearby scale. Dimon stepped onto it, the metal cold beneath his bare feet. He watched as the needle swung up and down before finally settling on a number. One of the soldiers called out the measurement, his voice devoid of emotion as he recorded the details.
“Take off your shirt,” a new voice directed, this one gruffer, as another soldier approached with a notepad in hand. Dimon felt a slight tremor in his fingers as he reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head. As the fabric cleared his face, he was aware of how the cool air kissed his now bare skin, the goosebumps spreading across his chest and arms. He stood there, exposed from the waist up, feeling the weight of their eyes on him.
His physique was solid, toned without being overly muscular. His skin was slightly flushed, not from embarrassment, but from the reality of the situation settling in. He wasn’t just standing in some gym or locker room; he was in a military examination, being assessed by men whose expressions remained impassive and whose eyes seemed to record every detail.
A soldier approached him with a set of calipers, used for measuring body fat percentage. “Arms out,” the soldier ordered. Dimon raised his arms obediently, and the soldier began to measure various points on his body—his upper arms, his waist, his chest. The calipers pinched his skin, the sensation mildly uncomfortable as they squeezed and released.
Another soldier had retrieved a stethoscope, pressing it to Dimon’s chest and then his back, commanding him to breathe in deeply. The cool metal of the instrument against his skin made him shiver slightly, a reaction he hoped none of the soldiers would interpret as nerves. He breathed in as instructed, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement in the otherwise still room.
“Relax,” the soldier murmured, though there was a firmness in the word, as though relaxation itself was a test he needed to pass.
Dimon exhaled slowly, his breath leaving a slight mist on the instrument as it was removed. He let his arms fall back to his sides, though he could not fully shake the tension in his muscles.
There was a moment of quiet as the soldiers finished recording the preliminary data, each one exchanging brief, knowing glances. Dimon felt a nervous flutter in his gut as he waited, uncertain what would come next but acutely aware that the examination had only just begun.
A soldier with a broad, solid frame and a voice that carried an air of absolute authority stepped closer. “Strip down to your underwear,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, leaving no room for hesitation.
Dimon’s pulse quickened as the order hung in the air, an inevitable part of the process he had been expecting but dreading nonetheless. He reached down to undo his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle sounding disproportionately loud in the silence. He slid the belt from its loops, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet thud. Next came the button of his trousers, and then the zipper. With a resigned exhale, he pushed the fabric down his hips, over his thighs, and let the pants pool around his ankles.
He stood there now in only his briefs, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the shape of his body. His legs were strong, his muscles taut under the skin, and though his stance was casual, there was a tension in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders.
“Step forward,” another voice commanded, and Dimon obeyed, taking a step out of his discarded trousers and moving closer to the soldiers, who remained impassive.
The soldier who had first addressed him took a step back and glanced at the others. Dimon felt their collective gaze intensify, as though now that he was down to this final layer, the examination had taken on a new level of intimacy.
The air was cool against his skin, and the knowledge that this was only the beginning of what was to come weighed heavily on his mind.
Without missing a beat, the soldier with the baritone voice broke the silence once more. “Now,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle hint of expectation, “remove your underwear. We need you completely naked for the next part of the exam.”
Dimon’s heart pounded in his chest, the pulse beating so strongly that he could hear it in his ears. He glanced between the soldiers, hoping for a sign that maybe this part of the exam wasn’t as necessary as they made it seem. He took a breath, the air catching in his throat as he asked, his voice barely more than a murmur, “Is this really necessary?”
His question hung in the air, and for a moment, the only sound was the steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The soldier nearest to him, the one with the square jaw and the steady gaze, raised an eyebrow as if surprised that Dimon would even ask. “Orders are orders,” he replied flatly, his voice carrying that unyielding tone of authority. “We don’t have time to waste here, so let’s get this done. Hands off your sides, now.”
But Dimon hesitated, his hands gripping the waistband of his briefs. He could feel his cheeks flush, the embarrassment burning under his skin. His fingers dug into the fabric as if clinging to that last vestige of modesty, but the soldier’s patience was wearing thin. With a sharp exhale, the soldier’s jaw tightened, and he took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
“You heard the order,” the soldier snapped, the impatience clear in his tone. Before Dimon could react, the soldier reached down, his hands rough and unceremonious as they gripped the waistband of Dimon’s underwear. In one smooth, practiced motion, he tugged the briefs downward, the elastic scraping against Dimon’s skin as the fabric was stripped away, leaving him standing naked in the harsh, clinical light.
Dimon felt the cool air rush against his bare skin, every inch of him exposed to the room. He gasped, the sound escaping his lips before he could stop it, a rush of heat flooding his face as his hands instinctively shot down to cover himself. But the soldier was relentless, not even acknowledging Dimon’s shock as he stepped back and assessed the now fully exposed young man before him.
“Stand straight,” came the command, stern and unyielding. Dimon’s mind was reeling, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as he struggled to process what was happening. His hands hovered protectively over his groin, but the soldier’s tone left no room for defiance. “Move your hands. We need to examine you properly.”
Dimon swallowed hard, his throat dry. He knew he had no choice, not really. With a deep, shuddering breath, he forced himself to comply, his hands trembling as he slowly moved them away from his body, letting them hang awkwardly at his sides. His entire body felt like it was on fire, the humiliation of his situation more intense than anything he had ever experienced.
The soldiers, however, seemed unfazed by his nakedness. To them, it was just another part of the routine, another box to check off. One of them crouched slightly, bringing a measuring tape into view. He glanced up at Dimon, his expression detached, as if he were measuring a piece of furniture rather than a person. “Stay still,” he ordered, voice low and gruff, as he began to align the tape.
Dimon froze, every muscle in his body tensing as the soldier leaned in closer, the tape brushing against his thigh as it moved toward his groin. The contact sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, his mind screaming at the sheer indignity of it all. He fought to keep his breathing steady, his face burning with embarrassment as the soldier methodically measured the length of his penis.
“fourteen point two centimeters flaccid,” the soldier noted aloud, calling out the number to another who scribbled it down on a clipboard. His tone was factual, detached, as though he were announcing the weather rather than broadcasting Dimon’s most intimate measurement to the room. “Hold still. It needs to be precise.”
Dimon could hardly believe what was happening, the surreal absurdity of the situation almost making him feel like he was outside of his own body, watching the scene unfold from afar. He could feel every brush of the tape against his skin, every movement of the soldier’s hand as he adjusted the measurement with infuriating care.
And then, as if the humiliation couldn’t deepen, the soldier reached for a small camera on the table nearby, a sleek, compact device meant to document every stage of the examination. He turned it on with a quiet beep, the sound slicing through the tense silence.
Dimon’s eyes widened, his breath catching as the realization struck him. “What—why are you taking a picture?” he asked, his voice cracking with a mixture of disbelief and desperation. The idea of his naked form being recorded, his most intimate parts captured as evidence, made his skin crawl with a new wave of embarrassment.
“It’s protocol,” the soldier replied without missing a beat, bringing the camera closer. His expression remained impassive, the way one might look at a piece of equipment rather than a person. “We need proof of every measurement for the records. Now stand still and keep your hands to your sides.”
Dimon’s mind reeled, but he knew there was no point in arguing. He bit down on his lower lip, trying to steel himself against the shame that clawed at him as the camera lens zeroed in. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with a spot on the wall behind the soldiers, trying to detach his mind from the cold click of the shutter as the camera captured the image of his most exposed self.
With each click, it felt as though a part of him was being stripped away, the sound echoing in his mind like the finality of a locked door.
—-—————
Love this type of erotica and want to support my work?
You can find my full collection on Amazon and enjoy more stories like this. Visit my Amazon KDP kindle and support my hot novel there or simply scan the QR code provided to access my books directly.
All characters depicted in this story are over the age of 18. The setting, events, and characters are entirely fictional and intended for mature audiences. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental, and the story is meant as a work of fiction for adult entertainment purposes only.
Dimon’s footsteps echoed through the quiet corridor, each step reverberating off the cold stone walls as he approached the examination room. The hallway stretched out before him, long and intimidating, with every stride bringing him closer to the inevitable. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, sharp and metallic, a reminder of the cold precision awaiting him on the other side of the door. He wasn’t the only one here—other young men drifted along the corridor, some with tense expressions, others trying to mask their nerves under a veil of indifference. All of them, like him, were here for one reason: the military fitness examination, a trial that would determine their readiness for service.
For Dimon, the pressure felt especially heavy. His family had a long tradition of military service; his father and older brother had both passed through this rite without a hitch. The weight of expectation bore down on his shoulders, and despite his attempts to reassure himself that it was just a routine procedure, the thought of standing nearly naked under the scrutiny of uniformed men with steely eyes made his stomach tighten.
At nineteen, Dimon was in his physical prime, a young man whose lean frame hinted at hours spent in the gym and on the track. He was proud of his body, though modest about it; it was strong, capable, and healthy, all marks of what was expected of someone preparing for service. Still, there was a vulnerability that came with having to strip down and stand exposed in a room full of strangers, especially knowing that they would be inspecting him from head to toe, down to the last detail.
Dimon reached the door to the examination room and hesitated, taking in a breath to steady himself. The door itself was formidable, thick and heavy, almost as if it served to contain the authority that lay beyond. As he pushed it open, the sterile brightness of the room greeted him with an almost blinding intensity. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, as the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the white walls and cold tile floor.
The room was wide, divided into different sections with curtained areas where other young men were being processed. Near the entrance, a group of soldiers stood behind a long table piled with forms, their green uniforms crisp and immaculate, every crease and button in perfect place. The soldiers were of varying ages, but they all carried the same aura of authority and discipline, their stances relaxed yet poised, as though they were accustomed to controlling the room simply by being in it.
The one standing at the center, a man with a jawline so sharp it could cut glass, spoke first. “Name?” His voice was deep and resonant, carrying easily over the low murmur of activity in the room. He did not look up from his clipboard, as if certain that his question would be answered immediately.
“Dimon Sokolov,” came the response, though his voice felt smaller in comparison. He stepped forward, trying to project confidence even as his nerves simmered beneath the surface.
The soldier glanced up, his eyes scanning Dimon from head to toe, assessing him with a practiced, clinical gaze. “Come forward,” he instructed, gesturing toward a marked spot on the floor in front of the table. As Dimon moved into position, he could feel the eyes of the other soldiers on him, each pair tracking his movements as though they were silently sizing him up. The air was thick with the quiet, omnipresent authority that permeated military spaces, and he could almost feel it pressing against his skin.
“Stand up straight,” another soldier directed, his voice carrying a stern undertone. This man was broader, his muscles filling out the sleeves of his uniform, the ribbons on his chest indicating his rank. His face bore a faint scar running from his cheekbone down toward his jaw, a silent testament to a life lived under discipline and duty. “We’ll start with your general measurements,” he continued, retrieving a measuring tape from a nearby table.
Dimon straightened his back, setting his shoulders as the soldier approached with the tape. He tried to keep his breathing steady as the man came closer, the sensation of the measuring tape brushing against his skin feeling almost foreign in this context. First, they measured his height, marking it down on a clipboard. The soldier’s hand lightly grazed the back of Dimon’s neck as he adjusted the tape, a touch that was clinical yet personal, as though every small detail of his body mattered.
“Good, now your weight,” another soldier commanded, gesturing toward a nearby scale. Dimon stepped onto it, the metal cold beneath his bare feet. He watched as the needle swung up and down before finally settling on a number. One of the soldiers called out the measurement, his voice devoid of emotion as he recorded the details.
“Take off your shirt,” a new voice directed, this one gruffer, as another soldier approached with a notepad in hand. Dimon felt a slight tremor in his fingers as he reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head. As the fabric cleared his face, he was aware of how the cool air kissed his now bare skin, the goosebumps spreading across his chest and arms. He stood there, exposed from the waist up, feeling the weight of their eyes on him.
His physique was solid, toned without being overly muscular. His skin was slightly flushed, not from embarrassment, but from the reality of the situation settling in. He wasn’t just standing in some gym or locker room; he was in a military examination, being assessed by men whose expressions remained impassive and whose eyes seemed to record every detail.
A soldier approached him with a set of calipers, used for measuring body fat percentage. “Arms out,” the soldier ordered. Dimon raised his arms obediently, and the soldier began to measure various points on his body—his upper arms, his waist, his chest. The calipers pinched his skin, the sensation mildly uncomfortable as they squeezed and released.
Another soldier had retrieved a stethoscope, pressing it to Dimon’s chest and then his back, commanding him to breathe in deeply. The cool metal of the instrument against his skin made him shiver slightly, a reaction he hoped none of the soldiers would interpret as nerves. He breathed in as instructed, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement in the otherwise still room.
“Relax,” the soldier murmured, though there was a firmness in the word, as though relaxation itself was a test he needed to pass.
Dimon exhaled slowly, his breath leaving a slight mist on the instrument as it was removed. He let his arms fall back to his sides, though he could not fully shake the tension in his muscles.
There was a moment of quiet as the soldiers finished recording the preliminary data, each one exchanging brief, knowing glances. Dimon felt a nervous flutter in his gut as he waited, uncertain what would come next but acutely aware that the examination had only just begun.
A soldier with a broad, solid frame and a voice that carried an air of absolute authority stepped closer. “Strip down to your underwear,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, leaving no room for hesitation.
Dimon’s pulse quickened as the order hung in the air, an inevitable part of the process he had been expecting but dreading nonetheless. He reached down to undo his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle sounding disproportionately loud in the silence. He slid the belt from its loops, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet thud. Next came the button of his trousers, and then the zipper. With a resigned exhale, he pushed the fabric down his hips, over his thighs, and let the pants pool around his ankles.
He stood there now in only his briefs, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the shape of his body. His legs were strong, his muscles taut under the skin, and though his stance was casual, there was a tension in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders.
“Step forward,” another voice commanded, and Dimon obeyed, taking a step out of his discarded trousers and moving closer to the soldiers, who remained impassive.
The soldier who had first addressed him took a step back and glanced at the others. Dimon felt their collective gaze intensify, as though now that he was down to this final layer, the examination had taken on a new level of intimacy.
The air was cool against his skin, and the knowledge that this was only the beginning of what was to come weighed heavily on his mind.
Without missing a beat, the soldier with the baritone voice broke the silence once more. “Now,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle hint of expectation, “remove your underwear. We need you completely naked for the next part of the exam.”
Dimon’s heart pounded in his chest, the pulse beating so strongly that he could hear it in his ears. He glanced between the soldiers, hoping for a sign that maybe this part of the exam wasn’t as necessary as they made it seem. He took a breath, the air catching in his throat as he asked, his voice barely more than a murmur, “Is this really necessary?”
His question hung in the air, and for a moment, the only sound was the steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The soldier nearest to him, the one with the square jaw and the steady gaze, raised an eyebrow as if surprised that Dimon would even ask. “Orders are orders,” he replied flatly, his voice carrying that unyielding tone of authority. “We don’t have time to waste here, so let’s get this done. Hands off your sides, now.”
But Dimon hesitated, his hands gripping the waistband of his briefs. He could feel his cheeks flush, the embarrassment burning under his skin. His fingers dug into the fabric as if clinging to that last vestige of modesty, but the soldier’s patience was wearing thin. With a sharp exhale, the soldier’s jaw tightened, and he took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
“You heard the order,” the soldier snapped, the impatience clear in his tone. Before Dimon could react, the soldier reached down, his hands rough and unceremonious as they gripped the waistband of Dimon’s underwear. In one smooth, practiced motion, he tugged the briefs downward, the elastic scraping against Dimon’s skin as the fabric was stripped away, leaving him standing naked in the harsh, clinical light.
Dimon felt the cool air rush against his bare skin, every inch of him exposed to the room. He gasped, the sound escaping his lips before he could stop it, a rush of heat flooding his face as his hands instinctively shot down to cover himself. But the soldier was relentless, not even acknowledging Dimon’s shock as he stepped back and assessed the now fully exposed young man before him.
“Stand straight,” came the command, stern and unyielding. Dimon’s mind was reeling, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as he struggled to process what was happening. His hands hovered protectively over his groin, but the soldier’s tone left no room for defiance. “Move your hands. We need to examine you properly.”
Dimon swallowed hard, his throat dry. He knew he had no choice, not really. With a deep, shuddering breath, he forced himself to comply, his hands trembling as he slowly moved them away from his body, letting them hang awkwardly at his sides. His entire body felt like it was on fire, the humiliation of his situation more intense than anything he had ever experienced.
The soldiers, however, seemed unfazed by his nakedness. To them, it was just another part of the routine, another box to check off. One of them crouched slightly, bringing a measuring tape into view. He glanced up at Dimon, his expression detached, as if he were measuring a piece of furniture rather than a person. “Stay still,” he ordered, voice low and gruff, as he began to align the tape.
Dimon froze, every muscle in his body tensing as the soldier leaned in closer, the tape brushing against his thigh as it moved toward his groin. The contact sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, his mind screaming at the sheer indignity of it all. He fought to keep his breathing steady, his face burning with embarrassment as the soldier methodically measured the length of his penis.
“fourteen point two centimeters flaccid,” the soldier noted aloud, calling out the number to another who scribbled it down on a clipboard. His tone was factual, detached, as though he were announcing the weather rather than broadcasting Dimon’s most intimate measurement to the room. “Hold still. It needs to be precise.”
Dimon could hardly believe what was happening, the surreal absurdity of the situation almost making him feel like he was outside of his own body, watching the scene unfold from afar. He could feel every brush of the tape against his skin, every movement of the soldier’s hand as he adjusted the measurement with infuriating care.
And then, as if the humiliation couldn’t deepen, the soldier reached for a small camera on the table nearby, a sleek, compact device meant to document every stage of the examination. He turned it on with a quiet beep, the sound slicing through the tense silence.
Dimon’s eyes widened, his breath catching as the realization struck him. “What—why are you taking a picture?” he asked, his voice cracking with a mixture of disbelief and desperation. The idea of his naked form being recorded, his most intimate parts captured as evidence, made his skin crawl with a new wave of embarrassment.
“It’s protocol,” the soldier replied without missing a beat, bringing the camera closer. His expression remained impassive, the way one might look at a piece of equipment rather than a person. “We need proof of every measurement for the records. Now stand still and keep your hands to your sides.”
Dimon’s mind reeled, but he knew there was no point in arguing. He bit down on his lower lip, trying to steel himself against the shame that clawed at him as the camera lens zeroed in. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with a spot on the wall behind the soldiers, trying to detach his mind from the cold click of the shutter as the camera captured the image of his most exposed self.
With each click, it felt as though a part of him was being stripped away, the sound echoing in his mind like the finality of a locked door.
—-—————
Love this type of erotica and want to support my work?
You can find my full collection on Amazon and enjoy more stories like this. Visit my Amazon KDP kindle and support my hot novel there or simply scan the QR code provided to access my books directly.
