Stories in classic
344 stories · Page 1He rents apartments exclusively to female students. Everyone knows this, but no one talks about it out loud. His building is old, three stories, on a quiet street near the university. The apartments are small but clean. And the price is below market. Much lower. I've been renting from him since my second year. Now I'm in my fourth. The room is small, with a window overlooking the courtyard, a bed, a table, and a closet. Everything is modest, but it's mine. My parents think I'm lucky. I thought so too. For the first three months. He comes unannounced. He has his own keys. He says he needs to check the condition of the apartment. The pipes, the wiring. All that stuff. The first time, I just opened the door in my robe. He looked at me, then at the bed. He said the mattress needed to be changed. I nodded. He came over, touched the mattress, then touched me. I stood there like an idiot. He took his time. He took off my robe, then my panties. I didn't even have time to
The highway stretched into darkness, and the headlights revealed only a gray ribbon of asphalt and the occasional light pole. I'd been driving for three hours now and was starting to nod off. The coffee I'd drunk at the last gas station had long since worn off. The cabin smelled of diesel fuel, and the radio, which I wasn't listening to, crackled through the speakers. A figure stood on the side of the road, at the turnoff to some godforsaken village. They were hitchhiking. I slowed down and pulled over. A girl. Young, wearing a jacket unsuitable for the weather, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her face was pale, her lips pursed. I rolled down the window. - Far? "To the city," she answered. Her voice was so gentle. "About two hundred kilometers from here." I took a closer look at her. Her jeans were dirty, her sneakers were broken. She was standing on a highway where buses don't go, and clearly hadn't been for a long time. - Sit down. She
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
The bike died on the outskirts of town, coughing and spitting blue smoke. I managed to slide to the side of the road, curse out loud, and even kick the innocent tire, though it was clear from the start that the tire wasn't the problem. After half an hour of fruitless fiddling with the carburetor, I admitted defeat and headed along the highway to what the map said was a village with the promising name "Remont." It sounded like a mockery. The workshop was found just beyond a slanted sign—a long, corrugated iron hangar, in front of which sat the rusty hulk of a Gazelle and several motorcycles in varying states of disrepair. Inside, the smell of machine oil, old rubber, and heated metal was strangely soothing, like the scent of an autumn forest. The owner stood with her back to me, bent over the workbench. She looked to be around thirty-five or forty, one of those women whom age neither beautifies nor deforms, but simply molds into a tight, shapely form. Her work overalls we
They rented a dacha for the summer, an old log house on the edge of the village, with a sagging fence, apple trees, and a sauna house at the back of the property. Neighbors were rare, mostly on weekends, and on weekdays it was so quiet you could hear the overripe apples falling. That Friday, Lena arrived alone. Her husband was supposed to be arriving later; he had a big emergency at work, so she decided not to wait for him in stuffy Moscow and instead dash out of town. By the time she got there and unpacked her bags, it was already dark. The house greeted her with the smell of old wood and dust. She opened the windows, letting in the night air, scented with grass and river dampness. A text came from her husband: "I'll be late, don't wait up." She chuckled, put her phone down, thought, "Here we are, romance!" She poured herself some tea, and sat on the veranda. She was too lazy to heat the bathhouse alone, but her body ached from the journey and she wanted to
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 got a job as a security guard at a construction site the summer after my second year. The pay wasn't great, but the work was easy: sit in a trailer, patrol the area twice a night, and make sure cables and tools weren't stolen. The site was secluded, behind garages, with not a soul around. It suited me—I was reading a lot back then, and here it was quiet. The woman showed up a week later. Her name was Lyuda. She worked as a crane operator, but the crane at that site hadn't been installed yet, so she was assigned to work as a storekeeper—handing out gloves, hard hats, and nails. She lived right there, in a trailer next to my trailer. She was about thirty-five, maybe a little older. Not a beauty, but shapely: strong arms, a wide backside, large breasts, but not sagging, like dough in a pan—they rose when she laughed. She was cheerful and loud. She would come out in the evening in her robe, sit on the steps of the trailer, and smoke, looking at me. I would pretend to read.
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.
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 bike died on the outskirts of town, coughing and spitting blue smoke. I managed to slide to the side of the road, curse out loud, and even kick the innocent tire, though it was clear from the start that the tire wasn't the problem. After half an hour of fruitless fiddling with the carburetor, I admitted defeat and headed along the highway to what the map said was a village with the promising name "Remont." It sounded like a mockery. The workshop was found just beyond a slanted sign—a long, corrugated iron hangar, in front of which sat the rusty hulk of a Gazelle and several motorcycles in varying states of disrepair. Inside, the smell of machine oil, old rubber, and heated metal was strangely soothing, like the scent of an autumn forest. The owner stood with her back to me, bent over the workbench. She looked to be around thirty-five or forty, one of those women whom age neither beautifies nor deforms, but simply molds into a tight, shapely form. Her work overalls we
Hi everyone! I thought I'd share something that happened to me last week. I still can't believe it happened to me. I've never written anything like this before, so please don't judge me too harshly. A little about myself. My name is Lena, I'm thirty-two years old, and I've been married for six years. My relationship with my husband is good, but in bed, things are very bland. He tries, and I try, but it feels more like fulfilling marital duties than real sex. I can't even remember the last time I experienced something truly intense. That's probably why it all happened. A friend had been telling me to get a massage for a while. She said it helps me relax, unwind, and feel like a woman. I kept demurring, but then I finally made an appointment. I chose a more expensive salon so that everything would be decent. I asked for a male massage therapist—my friend said men have stronger hands and are better at working my back. Honestly, I just imagined that men&#
I sat in my office, nervously tapping my pen on the desk. It was already getting dark outside, the office was empty, and only the quiet hum of the air conditioner broke the silence. Sergey, my assistant, was late again. And not by five, not ten minutes—a whole hour. This young brat had apparently completely forgotten who was in charge here. Finally, the door quietly opened, and his guilty face appeared in the doorway. "Come in, Sergei," I said in an icy tone, without raising my head. "Have a seat." He slid inside like a kicked puppy and sat down on the chair opposite my desk. I slowly looked up. His blond hair was tousled, his cheeks slightly flushed—whether from running so fast or from embarrassment. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the top button undone. He was clearly nervous, fiddling with his car keys. "What should I do with you?" I asked, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest. “Irina Viktorovna, I really overslept,” he began to bab
I heard this story from a woman I happened to talk to on the train. She said she needed to talk, and I, she said, seemed like a good listener. I don't know how true it is, but I remembered what she told me word for word. So, the heroine—let's call her Vera. Thirty-four years old, petite and well-built, with heavy dark hair and a calm, slightly tired face. Not a cover-girl beauty, but one of those women who men linger on longer than intended. Vera worked for a small agency that officially organized private events, but unofficially found escorts. Not prostitution in the traditional sense, more like theater: dinners, receptions, trips, the occasional night out. Vera wasn't the kind of woman to be called on often. She was valued for something else: her ability to get into character. She knew how to be whatever her clients were looking for: a giggly student, a bored wife, a stern teacher. The agency called it "individual support with elements of psychological reconstructi
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
A centuries-old, gloomy forest stood like a wall on either side of the rutted road, sunken by recent rains. Spruce trees, like black guards, locked their shaggy paws overhead, not letting through even a ray of the midday sun. Only occasionally, somewhere high above, a solitary bird would cry out anxiously, and in the distance, an invisible quagmire would hoot heavily and piercingly. It was a godforsaken, remote place, the kind of place people used to say: "Here the devil would break his leg, and a man would lose his head." A lone carriage trundled leisurely along the bumpy road that wound through these gloomy thickets. A portly dapple-colored gelding, his ears twitching, lazily flicked his tail at horseflies. The coachman, a sleepy man, languid from the heat and the forest air, nodded off every now and then. Inside the covered carriage, upholstered in leather darkened by time, sat a young woman on embroidered cushions. Her name was Marfa Andreyevna Volkonskaya, wife of the S
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
I offer a story from life, where the details and names have, of course, been changed, but the emotions are very real. A trip out of town with a big group was my Alena's idea. She generally loves getting everyone together—my friends, her girlfriends. It's loud, fun, and almost always ends with dancing around the campfire. This time we're going to a new place; someone mentioned there was a small lake and an old bridge there. I'm driving, Alena's next to me, and in the back, the friends are discussing something, music, and the smell of summer coming from the open window. We arrive. The clearing is excellent, the grill is set up quickly, and the girls are laying out snacks. Alena is wearing a light sundress today, her hair tied up, but a couple of strands have come loose from the wind. I look at her, she catches my eye and smiles, a knowing smile, as if to say, I know what you're thinking. We haven't really seen each other for a week; we've both been work
The downpour came on suddenly, turning the street into one solid wall of water. I'd just picked up my order at the door—a tall paper bag with the Maru-sushi logo—and was about to close the door when I noticed the delivery girl in a light yellow windbreaker and shorts standing on the porch, helplessly watching the torrents of water fall from the sky. Her scooter lay forlornly wet by the curb. "Come in and wait it out," I suggested, retreating further into the hallway. "It's been such a blast for an hour." She hesitated for a second, then stepped inside. The hallway immediately smelled of rain, asphalt, and something sweet—probably her perfume. I closed the door. Now we were standing alone in my bachelor apartment: me barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt, and she soaking wet. Her thin windbreaker clung to her figure, and I couldn't help but notice her neat breasts, visible through the wet fabric, and her flat stomach. She pulled off her windbreaker, and I almo
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