Stories in anal sex
249 stories · Page 1I'll say right away that this isn't my first story, but it's one of those that still pops into my head without any reason. It was about eight, maybe nine, years ago. I was renting a room in a three-room apartment on the outskirts of town because the dorm was a shambles and I couldn't afford a decent apartment. The landlady was forty-two, her name was Irina, and she lived in the same apartment, but in the back room. Her husband, Vadim, worked either up north or somewhere else—I never quite remember—because he'd show up every two or three months, for a week at most, and then disappear again. She rented out the room not because she was poor, as I later realized, but so she wouldn't have to sit alone in an empty apartment. At least, that's what she told me when I was about to move out. We met in a very casual way: I came to look at a room, she opened the door in a robe, holding a cigarette, and my first thought was that she was too well-groomed to be a studen
She arrived at nine, as arranged. The house stood at the end of the road, behind a high fence, and as she walked from the gate to the porch, she had time to think that she shouldn't have worn those old sneakers—the house probably had parquet floors, and she'd leave a mark. But the sneakers were comfortable, easy to wash and polish, so she decided not to bother. The door was unlocked. She hesitated on the threshold, then finally went in and called softly—no one was there. The house smelled of dust and something like old furniture. She walked down the hallway and peered into the living room. The huge sofa, the rug, the fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling windows—and everything was covered in a layer of dust, as if no one had been there for a month. She took off her jacket and found a bucket, rags, and a mop in the utility room. The work was familiar; her hands had done it themselves. She washed, scrubbed, wiped the windowsills, and wiped the baseboards. It was getting on for lunch
The whole gang left around two o'clock. Andrey went home—"early tomorrow, bro, you'll figure it out yourself." Katya stayed behind. She said it was scary to catch a taxi looking like this, that the sofa was fine, that "I'll just lie down for half an hour." I was sitting in the kitchen, finishing my beer and staring into the dark crevice of the living room. She was lying sideways on the couch, facing the back. Her dress had ridden up almost to her thigh. One leg was bent, the other slightly extended. Between them were black panties, a thin strip of fabric that concealed nothing if you looked long enough. I watched long enough. Katya is Andrey's girlfriend. Not just an acquaintance. The one he kissed in the kitchen an hour ago, the one whose waist he held while she laughed. And now she's here, drunk, warm, sleeping on my couch, my hard-on already pressing against my crotch. I didn't realize it right away. She'd truly passed out. Then I saw h
On a business trip, I was sitting in my room for the third evening, completely at a loss for what to do with myself. I was fed up with TV, and so was my correspondence with my wife. I opened a website and scrolled through the profiles. One photo showed a girl of about twenty-two, thin, smiling, and wrote, "gentle, uninhibited." I messaged her. We agreed on an hour, I sent her a deposit, and gave her my number. Forty minutes later, there was a knock. I opened the door—and it wasn't her. About thirty-two years old, plump, short hair, a leather jacket, and a shoulder bag. She was definitely different from the photo. — Are you Andrey? - Yes... And you? — It's me today. A photo for those who are afraid. If you want a sweet girl, I'm not her. My rules. If you don't like it, the door is behind you. I stood there in my shorts and a T-shirt; it was already stupid to try to win back. The money was gone. I nodded. - Then close the door and take everything off. Don't
I want to tell another story about how the most ordinary people unexpectedly discover new dimensions of pleasure. My wife, Irina, and I are 34 and 29. I work in IT, and she's a speech therapist. We're a perfectly ordinary couple: I'm a little overweight but try to stay in shape, and Irina has short brown hair, small B-cup breasts, and a sporty butt. She's shy, but over the years, she's become more trusting of me in bed. Our friends were Pasha and Lena. Pasha was 38, a long-haul truck driver, a big man with a beer belly. Lena was his wife, 31, a brunette with C-cup breasts and wide hips. They were simpler than us, but it was precisely this simplicity that attracted us. Pasha was never shy about his words, and Lena would easily slap me on the butt or sit on Irina's lap and start whispering in her ear. We rented a friend's dacha—an old wooden house with a sauna, a swimming pool, and a huge terrace covered in wild grapes. We arrived on Friday evening and imme
My friend Dima and I have been friends for years, and it was his birthday—he was 22. So, naturally, I came. Of course, how could he not? He was renting an apartment with his girlfriend, Lera. She's so beautiful, slim, with a round butt, neat B-cup breasts, dark shoulder-length hair, and brown eyes. Basically, even the first time I saw her, I thought Dima was lucky. So, when I showed up, almost all the guests had already left, leaving just me, Dima, and Lera. His roommate, Artyom, was there, too, but he'd left somewhere earlier, so it was just the three of us. We were sitting in the kitchen, drinking beer, laughing at all sorts of bullshit, reminiscing about school and partying. Lera had already had a fair amount to drink, her face flushed, her eyes shining, and she kept looking at me strangely. At first, I didn't pay attention—well, who knows, she'd been drinking. But then she started clinging to me when we went into the room, like they wanted to continue. Dima seeme
Andrei rented a one-room apartment on the fifth floor with no elevator. The building was old, paneled, with a perpetually smelly entryway and neighbors who listened to the television as if it were on full blast. The apartment was lousy, but cheap. And the landlady—a woman with a heavy gaze—wasn't intrusive into his life. Or rather, she wasn't until he stopped paying. At first, he just delayed it for a week. Then two. Then a month. He had money, but he squandered it: bets, beer, some idiot from a dating site who squeezed everything he had on his card out of him. And then she came. Tamara Ivanovna. 45 years old. Plump, with wide hips, a bob haircut, and arms that could clearly carry bags and much heavier objects. She didn't yell from the doorway. She walked into the kitchen, sat on a stool, and crossed her legs. Her high-heeled pump swung in the air. "Two months," she said. "Plus utilities. Total sixty-four thousand." "I don't have any right now,
Many different events have happened in my life, but I will never forget that day at the department, no matter how much time passes. It all started when I, as the youngest and most reliable lab assistant, was asked to stay after classes on Friday to help sort through an old archive. The lectures had long since ended, the hallways were empty, and the only people left in the building were me, the caretaker, Semyon Borisovich, two graduate students, Grisha and Tolik, and Professor Veniamin Arkadyevich, who had locked himself in his office and was said to be working on documents. We were sitting in a cramped, windowless utility room, sorting through dusty folders, and the air there was so stuffy and heavy it made my head spin. It smelled of old paper and something musty, like a cellar. I was wearing a light dress because I was getting ready for a normal day, not a cleaning day. It kept riding up when I leaned over the lower shelves, and I caught quick glances from Grisha and Tolik. At fi
Many different events have happened in my life, but I will never forget that day at the department, no matter how much time passes. It all started when I, as the youngest and most reliable lab assistant, was asked to stay after classes on Friday to help sort through an old archive. The lectures had long since ended, the hallways were empty, and the only people left in the building were me, the caretaker, Semyon Borisovich, two graduate students, Grisha and Tolik, and Professor Veniamin Arkadyevich, who had locked himself in his office and was said to be working on documents. We were sitting in a cramped, windowless utility room, sorting through dusty folders, and the air there was so stuffy and heavy it made my head spin. It smelled of old paper and something musty, like a cellar. I was wearing a light dress because I was getting ready for a normal day, not a cleaning day. It kept riding up when I leaned over the lower shelves, and I caught quick glances from Grisha and Tolik. At fi
I knew this visit would end badly. I knew it from the moment the guard at the tower's entrance looked at me the way one looks at a drowned man—disgusted and almost sympathetic. “To Mrs. Elena,” I said, trying to sound confident. The guard silently checked his tablet and nodded. The elevator took a long time to rise. The mirrored walls reflected my face—pale, with dark circles under my eyes from three sleepless nights. My jacket was awry, though I'd adjusted it a dozen times. The debt—a sum I wouldn't be able to raise in a year—was burning in my pocket like an IOU that too many people knew about. The penthouse greeted me with silence and cold light. Huge windows overlooked the city, but the sun didn't penetrate—the hue was gray, as if before a storm. “Alexander,” a female voice said. I turned around. Elena was standing in the doorway leading deeper into the apartment. Tall, wearing a figure-hugging dark gray dress, her hair slicked back. Next to her, slightly behind h
I learned a long time ago: all women are the same, some just hide it well. Especially those who pretend to be untouchable and "faithful wives." My older brother, Gena, apparently never understood this. Six months ago, he married a girl named Lera. According to him, she was an angel incarnate: she cooked, cleaned, and, of course, everything was magical in bed. He even invited me over to get to know him, and I finally made the time. I arrived at their country house. They greeted me warmly. Lera really was pretty—short, well-built, with heavy breasts that she was clearly embarrassed to show, but which still drew the eye. She was wearing short shorts and a tight T-shirt, no bra. Her nipples were clearly visible. While Gena set the table, I undressed her with my eyes. My cock stirred inside me, as usual. We were sitting on the veranda, drinking wine. Gena kept praising his little Lera, how she was so good at housekeeping. She sat there, blushing and pouring us more wine. I joked
Hello everyone. It's me again, the husband. My wife and I are both 34, and we've been married for five years. I'll describe her—she'll be the center of attention today. My wife is a woman with a chiseled figure, a narrow waist, and slightly wide hips, which she's a little self-conscious about, but which I'm absolutely in love with. Her breasts are a B-cup, very responsive to caresses, with dark areolas and nipples that literally harden in a draft. Her hair is a shoulder-length bob, dark and thick. And her eyes are large, brown, which turn almost black when she's aroused, and they squint slightly when she bites her lip. I noticed this detail every time she immersed herself in her "role." Our experience with third partners has expanded over the past year. After the sauna, there were more encounters, and each one added something new to our repertoire of scenarios. My wife has developed a taste for the role of "slut on a leash," but it's s
Igor had only worked in the sales department for six months and quietly hated his boss, Alla Borisovna. She was forty-eight years old, tall, with a heavy gaze and a habit of muttering her words through clenched teeth. She dressed strictly—knee-length skirts, buttoned-up blouses—but even through this shell, her powerful figure was visible: a wide backside, impressive breasts. In the smoking room, the guys joked that having sex with such a woman was like hugging an iceberg, but Igor sometimes dreamed of her in the most obscene positions. And then there was this remote worker. Alla Borisovna complained that her work laptop was slow and the system administrator couldn't be reached. Igor volunteered to help—the sales quota was hanging by a thread anyway, and a little sweetness wouldn't hurt. On Saturday morning, he was already standing at her door with a flash drive and a bunch of software. The apartment turned out to be unexpectedly cozy. The boss's husband, some important c
Vera and I are in our early thirties. We've been married for six years. She had two men before me, and I had a few women. Our marriage is like a well-oiled machine: sometimes it creaks, but overall it's a joy. We try not to stagnate in bed: toys, role-playing, light BDSM. But there's one taboo that Vera guards with the tenacity of a border guard. Her ass. More precisely, the entrance to it. My finger—go ahead. My tongue—for God's sake. But my dick—no way. "It's all tight down there, I'm scared, it hurts, let's not do it now." I didn't push. I waited. Sometimes we fantasized out loud before bed: I'd whisper to her how hot it would be if a third person, experienced and patient, took her there for the first time. She'd blush, giggle excitedly, and quickly come from these conversations. But it never went beyond fantasies. And then there was the district clinic and an appointment with a proctologist. Vera had been experiencing discomfort fo
Hi everyone. My name is Kristina. I'm 21 years old. I'm a final-year student majoring in design. I'm of average height, with natural, shoulder-length blonde hair, gray eyes, and an athletic build—I've been involved in track and field for three years. I'm single and have been dating my boyfriend for a year. Last weekend, I drove from Vladimir to a small village to visit my grandmother—to drop off some medicine and groceries, and to check in. My car, a brand-new Kia Ceed, was bought three months ago on credit. I turned on the GPS, but, as often happens in the wilderness, it took me down a shortcut through the forest. The asphalt ended abruptly, giving way to a broken dirt road, and after the recent rains, the road turned into a mess of mud and clay. I still drove on. I'm not a timid girl, and it was a shame to abandon the car. I drove about three kilometers. Then the front wheel sank into a deep rut, the bottom sank to the ground, and the car began to hum helpl
Maxim was returning from a business trip in his old but well-maintained Toyota. The highway was deserted, the stereo was playing retro rock softly, and his thoughts were focused on a hot shower and a soft bed. He was already anticipating turning off the interstate onto the familiar dirt road leading to his village when he spotted a silhouette on the side of the road with a raised hand. Slowing down, he narrowed his eyes and whistled. It would be a shame for a fellow traveler like her not to stop. She looked like she'd stepped off the cover of a magazine someone had accidentally left behind at a gas station. Tall, with a shock of red hair pulled back into a messy, yet all the sexier bun. She wore skinny jeans that hugged her long, slender legs and curvy hips, and a light white T-shirt that revealed her firm, full breasts, devoid of a bra. Her face had sharp, slightly predatory features, green eyes, and bright, luscious lips, which she nibbled every now and then, apparently nervou
It was my first party at university, and I felt out of place. I, Vlad, a first-year student—skinny, shy, and bespectacled, who blushed at every loud word—had been invited by Lera. She was a third-year student and a real star in her department: a tall, brunette with a nose piercing and a perpetually mocking gaze. I didn't understand what I'd done to deserve the invitation, but I couldn't refuse the attentions of such a girl. The apartment where they gathered was a rented two-room apartment in an older building, but tastefully furnished. Besides Lera, there were three others: Katya, a redhead with freckles and a scattering of freckles on her exposed shoulders; Alina, a short, perky woman with a pixie cut; and Sveta, a taciturn, plump blonde with a huge bust who constantly munched on potato chips. The occasion was Katya's birthday. Someone shoved a glass of some sweet disgusting thing into my hand, and the evening went downhill. The girls chatted about their own things,
I was in a private room—luckily, my relatives had gotten me there. My appendix had been removed two days earlier, and the puncture site still hurt a bit, but it was already gone. It was night, quiet, and the nurses occasionally shuffled their slippers down the hallway. I was dozing off, sedated, but woke up when the door quietly opened. In fact, I was lying facing the wall, the blanket pulled almost up to my chin. The only light in the room was a nightlight above the door, so anyone entering would hardly be able to tell whether I was asleep or not. I decided not to move. “Come here, there’s no one here, this is a private ward,” I heard a young female voice, quiet, with a kind of nervous laugh. I carefully turned my head, millimeter by millimeter, so I could see what was happening out of the corner of my eye. Three people entered the room: Sveta, a very young intern, about nineteen; a thin brunette I'd seen during my rounds; and two doctors. One was a surgeon of about forty-five,
The steam was so thick it was hard to see the face opposite. The guys and I had had a wonderful steam bath, drank a couple of beers, and were now lounging in the anteroom. My Verochka, my beloved wife, brought us some cold kvass. She was wearing only a short silk robe, which she pulled loosely around herself, barely covering her tempting breasts. My friends, Kolyan, Tolyan, and Seryoga, grinned lecherously. In the bathhouse, after the heat, the blood rushes, and desires intensify. Kolyan, the most daring of my friends, grabbed Vera's hand. "Why does your husband let you bathe alone, such a beauty? Let us at least check if you've washed properly." With these words, his rough paw slid under my wife's robe and greedily squeezed my wife's firm breast. Vera gasped softly, but didn't pull her hand away. She merely glanced reproachfully in my direction. But I pretended to be completely absorbed in my kvass. Then Tolyan, taking my silence as consent, came up behi
Thursday. I stopped by to see my old friend, German Borisovich—we went to medical school together, but he'd later gone into private practice. He'd opened a small office on the outskirts of town, where he saw patients with the most delicate problems. German was a forty-five-year-old man, lean, with long, musical fingers and a perpetually squinting gaze that somehow made his patients uneasy. His white coat fit him perfectly, revealing a starched shirt underneath. I'd just dropped in for a chat, a cup of coffee from his old Turkish coffee pot—the office hours were already over, and he'd dismissed the nurse. We were chatting about trivial matters when the doorbell rang insistently. Herman winced and glanced at his watch. “Who’s going on there?” he muttered and went to open the door. A girl of about twenty-two stood in the hallway, wrapped in a long cloak despite the warm weather. Slender legs in black stockings and expensive shoes peeked out from beneath the cloak. Her f