Stories in blow job
329 stories · Page 1She 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
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
The phone rang at half past one in the morning. I wasn't sleeping. I was just lying there and staring at the ceiling. I picked up the phone. - Are you sleeping? I recognized the voice right away. Lenka. A classmate. We hadn't seen each other for about three years, I think. Not since she married some serious guy with a job and a car. - No. — Come over. Just to talk. She gave me the address. I didn't ask what had happened. I could tell from her voice that it had already happened. I got dressed and went out. She opened the door immediately, as if she'd been standing underneath it. She was wearing a robe, her hair was hastily pulled back, and her eyes were red. — Come in. I took off my shoes. I went into the kitchen. On the table was an open bottle of wine and one glass. She took out a second one. — Let's talk? We talked. About university, about his stupid jokes, about how he stole her from under my nose back in our fourth year. She laughed, then cried, then laughed
My name is Vera. This is the story of how I ordered new wallpaper and received something completely different. My husband, Andrey, had been promising to renovate our bedroom for six months. One less-than-ideal day, tired of listening to his excuses about being busy, I simply hired a crew. More precisely, one person—Timur. A friend recommended him, praising his skill and reasonable prices. My husband reacted to my high-handedness with a sluggish air: "Okay, let him try. Just don't bother me with all this nonsense; let him figure it out himself." Timur arrived on Monday morning. Tall, calm, with calloused palms and a piercing brown gaze. Compared to my perpetually tired husband, hunched over his laptop, he looked like an alien from a planet where men still have arms growing out of their shoulders. For the first two days, I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. He did everything himself: removing old furniture, stripping wallpaper, and spackling the walls.
I owed Slava forty thousand since last winter. Back then, I thought I'd borrow it and pay it back quickly, but things weren't working out with my job, then I got fired, then I found a new one, but it paid less. Anyway, by autumn, I realized the amount had grown: Slava calculated the interest, reminded me every month, but didn't push me. He was generally a calm person, the kind of guy who knows how to wait. Vera and I had been living together for three years. She worked in a salon, and I hung out wherever I could. The sex was casual: two or three times a week, longer on weekends, nothing fancy. I was happy with it. I think she was too, although a couple of times she mentioned wanting to try something new. I laughed it off because I didn't understand what she was missing. In November, Slava came to our house. He said he needed money by the end of the month, otherwise he'd go to my parents—they'd definitely help, but I didn't want that. Vera sat next to him,
My Svetka is a normal woman. She was. We knew each other well. She was studying to become a teacher. I was a metallurgist. My teacher used to say, "Not everyone can dance ballet, someone has to smelt metal!" Yes. I work as a foreman at a metallurgical plant. Svetka teaches geography. When we met, she was a normal girl: not a party girl, not a slut, calm, sensible, not brazen... Not a beauty, but quite pretty for my taste. We got married, and before graduating, Svetka gave birth to my daughter. My father-in-law and mother-in-law are truly wonderful people. Following the principle of "let the young live for themselves while keeping the family strong," they took in their beloved granddaughter. My wife and I live alone most of the time. My parents contributed and bought us an apartment. Svetka is a good housekeeper. We have regular family sex without any perversions. After college, my wife went to work. And then real hell began. At school, it was either you or the other.
Marina Lvovna stood in the middle of her future office, wincing in disgust. Cement dust hung in the air. Two workers in stained overalls were laying wiring. More precisely, one, the younger, stocky fellow, was drilling into the wall, while the other, older, with a weathered, red face, simply sat on an overturned bucket, squinting at their boss. Marina was used to men in the office barely daring to look at her. She'd bullied them, fired them, and promoted them without a second thought. But here, in the dim light of the unfinished office, she felt uneasy. She was a queen here only on paper, but in reality, she was just a woman who got in the way of her work. The men smelled of sweat and burning, not expensive perfume, like her subordinates in expensive suits. "Well, mistress, we'll be done soon," the young man said without turning around, shouting over the noise of the drill. He didn't even look at her. It was annoying. Marina stepped around the construction debris
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
My name is Vera. This is the story of how I ordered new wallpaper and received something completely different. My husband, Andrey, had been promising to renovate our bedroom for six months. One less-than-ideal day, tired of listening to his excuses about being busy, I simply hired a crew. More precisely, one person—Timur. A friend recommended him, praising his skill and reasonable prices. My husband reacted to my high-handedness with a sluggish air: "Okay, let him try. Just don't bother me with all this nonsense; let him figure it out himself." Timur arrived on Monday morning. Tall, calm, with calloused palms and a piercing brown gaze. Compared to my perpetually tired husband, hunched over his laptop, he looked like an alien from a planet where men still have arms growing out of their shoulders. For the first two days, I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. He did everything himself: removing old furniture, stripping wallpaper, and spackling the walls.
The girls and I rented an apartment for the weekend to have a good time. We had it all: plenty of booze, revealing outfits, and no men within a kilometer, because we'd decided it would be just us girls this weekend. No sappy courtship or disappointments. We planned to chat until the early hours, watch porn, discuss our adventures, and indulge ourselves in every way. By Saturday evening, we were already pretty warm when we realized there was nothing left to eat. We ordered pizza and rolls. Well, ordering by courier is sacred; you can't drag yourself to the store when you're already in a robe and with a glass. When the doorbell rang, I didn't even think about putting on anything more decent. I went to answer it in a short silk robe with nothing underneath. And there was a boy at the door. Not a man, but a boy. Fresh-faced, about twenty years old, with such a stupid, confused smile. He saw me, blushed like a girl, and started mumbling something about an order. "Come
Alisa, a graduate student in the Department of Social Anthropology, was in her third year of slaving away at her dissertation on contemporary ritual practices. The topic was tricky, reeking of grants and international conferences, but she was sorely lacking in material. She needed fieldwork—not a library or online surveys, but the real, living, sweaty core of the subculture she was studying. And when her supervisor, a gray-haired professor with a perpetually shifty eye, reluctantly mentioned the existence of a private club in the city called "Panopticon," Alisa realized: this was it, her ticket to big-time science. "Just remember, Alice," the professor mumbled, adjusting his glasses, "this is no place for young ladies of your upbringing. I've heard they practice... uh... physical hierarchies there. But if you insist, here's the phone number of someone who can help." The phone belonged to a certain Mark, possessing a soft baritone voice and, as it turn
The sun beat down mercilessly, heating the asphalt so hot that the air above it shimmered and melted. Lera stood on the side of the road, her hand outstretched, her thumb extended, squinting in the blinding light. Next to her, Ksyusha shifted from foot to foot, fanning herself with her straw hat. They'd been stuck on this damned highway leading to the coast for a good hour, and in that time not a single car had passed by, only trucks pelting them with hot dust. "So where's your vaunted hitchhiking?" Ksyusha grumbled, adjusting the strap of her backpack. "You could be lying by the sea, but here we are, like two idiots..." "Be patient, friend," Lera smiled, but her voice also betrayed weariness. "Someone will stop soon. You'll see." And, as if hearing her words, an old, dusty pickup truck appeared in the distance. It was driving slowly, as if its owner were scanning the side of the road for something. The car drew level with the girls and st
Alla Borisovna, the senior call center administrator, a forty-seven-year-old woman with a figure that her expensive pantsuit clung to like a gift-wrapped, overripe peach, sat in her office, listening to a recording of the call. Behind the glass partition, the open-plan office hummed, but here, all was quiet, save for the tapping of her perfectly manicured fingers on the desk. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said without raising her head. Maxim entered the office. Twenty-three years old, a third-line operator, skinny and awkward, wearing a wrinkled jacket that he'd obviously worn to a job interview and hadn't ironed since. He fidgeted by the threshold, unsure what to do with his hands. Alla Borisovna gestured to the chair across from him. He sat down, resting his hands on his knees. She turned off the recording. She removed her glasses, leaving them lying on the table, and looked at Maxim. Her gaze was long and appraising, the kind one might look at not an erran
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