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,... continue reading

All grown women have something to remember on a quiet evening... Hello. My name is Tamara. I decided to write something down while my memory is fresh. I'm 42 years old. My figure, as they used to say, is "blood and milk"—small but shapely, with heavy D-cup breasts and curvy hips that no skirt can hide. My hair is light brown, my own, and falls below my shoulders. I work as an administrator at a private dental clinic, and I'm used to being the face of the clinic—a smile, a manicure, a smart suit. I've lived alone: my husband died five years ago, and my son is in the army. Out of boredom, I sometimes allow myself small pleasures—wine on Fridays, dancing at an adult bar where you don't have to think about age. This story happened in November. I was returning from a company party. I'd stayed up late and had too much to drink. My boss offered to get me a cab, but I refused—I didn't want him to know my address. He'd been looking at my lap with unkind... continue reading

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,... continue reading

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... continue reading

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... continue reading

Night. The sound of the surf. Music somewhere in the distance. Liza and I walked away from the fire. The sand was still warm. There were two people nearby: Seryozha and Vlad. They brought champagne. Bitter, bubbling on the tongue. — Are you frozen? - No. - And you have goosebumps. - It's not from the cold. Liza is already kissing Seryozha. His fingers are tangled in her hair, wet from the bath. Vlad looks at me. For a long time. I take a sip straight from the bottle. I hand it to him. His lips are on the same glass as mine. — Do you want to take a swim? - I'm not wearing a swimsuit. - So much the better. We run to the water. The waves lick our feet. He catches up with me, already waist-deep in the sea. The water is warm, almost hot after the afternoon sun. His hands slide along my waist underwater. — You can't see anything here. - Do you want to see something? — I want to touch it. A palm falls on a chest. The nipples instantly harden. Not from the cold. Salt water on th... continue reading

I love to watch. That's my greatest thrill—to see my wife turn into an insatiable bitch under someone else's control, while still being mine. Lena and I have been together for eight years, and in that time I've realized: her sexuality is like fine wine, only getting brighter with age. Tall, with shoulder-length, wheat-colored hair, languid gray eyes, and long legs—she's the kind of woman that even women turn heads. But the main thing about her is her appetite. Not for food, no. For cocks. When we started renovating our new two-room apartment, I knew how it would end. Lena volunteered to oversee the process while I was at work, and I just chuckled to myself. She put on her favorite summer dress—a lightweight cotton one over her bare skin, the slightest movement clinging to her butt so tightly that the outline of her panties was visible. White heeled sandals, minimal makeup—and there she was, standing in the doorway, watching me go with a look in which I read anticipat... continue reading

My name is Igor, I'm 32 years old, and my wife, Katya, is 29. We've been married for six years, and over those years, I've come to think I know absolutely everything about her. But I'll never forget my last birthday. It all started on a typical Friday morning. Katya woke me with a kiss, congratulated me, and handed me an envelope containing some kind of travel voucher—honestly, I didn't even read it right away because she looked absolutely stunning. A light silk robe, barely covering her hips, her hair loose, the scent of her favorite perfume. I pulled her toward me, but she deftly slipped away, smiled mysteriously, and said, "This evening will be a real treat, don't even think about getting out of it." Honestly, I thought she was talking about some special lingerie or a romantic dinner. The day went by as usual—work, calls, bustle. Katya texted me to be home by eight, take a shower, and await further instructions. She generally loved to boss me aroun... continue reading

When Yulia told me she'd invited my boss to dinner, I didn't understand the implication at first. I figured my wife was trying to give me a career boost, feed him some homemade food, and win him over. I wasn't opposed. Viktor Sergeyevich, my direct supervisor for the past five years, is a generally decent guy. He's in his early fifties, with a hint of gray hair, a trim figure, and always smells nice. He's a widower. Yulia cooked all day. She twirled around the kitchen in a short robe, and a couple of times I caught myself staring at her bare thighs as she reached for spices on the top shelf. I also noticed something else: she had put on her robe without underwear. Her pussy, still untouched by the razor but already neatly trimmed, flashed with every careless movement. I slapped her on the ass, laughed, and said something about a horny housewife. She smiled, but it was a bit too mysterious. "Maybe I should walk around like this in front of the boss too?" s... continue reading

The highway was empty. I pressed the gas pedal too hard, rushing home after a bad date. Anger and frustration burned inside me, and I longed for speed. The red lights of a patrol car flashed unexpectedly behind me. I cursed under my breath and pulled over to the side of the road. The inspector approached slowly, the beam of his flashlight gliding across the car, across my bare knees. I rolled down the window. "License and car documents," the voice was low and brutal. "You're speeding by forty kilometers, citizen." "Sorry, I'm in a hurry," I handed over the documents, trying to speak softly. The flashlight still shone in my face, and then the beam slowly crept lower, down my neck, to the neckline of my light sundress. My breathing quickened. "The punishment for such violations is severe," he said, walking around the car and opening the door on my side. "Get out." I stepped out. My legs were shaking slightly for some reason. He stood ver... continue reading

Everything started to spiral when our Olimp chain fitness club was acquired by Golden Energy. For me, a Pilates instructor, it was a low blow. Rumors of personnel purges were terrifying: even star trainers were being fired. I'm thirty-two, I maintain the figure of a twenty-five-year-old, and this place was my bread and butter. Three days after signing the documents, the five of us instructors were called into the main hall for an "interview." The new manager, Denis, a strong, muscular man in his forties, sat in a leg press chair. Beside him stood his three assistants—equally muscular "muscle men." The conversation began with banalities: training plans, attendance statistics. Then Denis put down his protein shake and asked point-blank: — Tell me, Angelina, is this job your last chance? “Yes,” I exhaled, clutching my fitness tracker. "Okay. New rules. Your work attire is leggings one size too small and a sports bra with no support. You leave your bra in the loc... continue reading

Friday evening was lazy. I was lounging on the couch, mindlessly flipping through channels, when the doorbell rang. Standing there was Inga, my neighbor downstairs. A tall, athletic brunette, the kind I usually only greeted in the elevator. She looked nervous, her long hair pulled back into a messy bun. "Dima, I'm so sorry," she babbled. "My kitchen faucet blew, a pipe burst, I turned the water off, but I'm afraid to turn it back on—I'm afraid to flood it completely. You said you were a tech savvy person, right?" I rummaged around sparingly, but helping my neighbor was a sacred duty. I threw on a T-shirt and went downstairs to get her. Her apartment smelled of something spicy. Walking into the kitchen, I assessed the scale of the disaster: streaks on the ceiling, wet rags on the floor, and a puddle under the sink. Inga stood nearby, nervously fiddling with the hem of her short housedress. I crouched down and examined the pipe. Replacing the gasket was a s... continue reading

Our company sold expensive foreign cars. We had a peculiar team: the managers were all hardened windbags in cheap but well-pressed suits, the secretaries had silicone-like everything, and then we—the service department. The techies. There were three of us: Sanya, Dan, and me. We didn't wear suits, we swore, and we were the only ones who actually understood how all these fancy cars worked, and weren't just kissing customers' asses for a percentage of the sale. Taras Arkadyevich was the head of this entire cesspool. A fat, sweaty man in his late sixties with a perpetually purple neck and a gold signet ring on his little finger. He yelled at everyone, delayed wages, and considered himself a business genius simply because he'd once borrowed money and opened a dealership in the right location. We quietly hated him, but tolerated him because he gave us the opportunity to tinker with expensive cars and occasionally make a small profit on spare parts. But he had one asset wh... continue reading

Friends think I'm a model family man. Colleagues think I'm a quiet, henpecked husband. But I'm just a guy who realized: my dick only gets hard when I know someone else has already been inside my wife. And the dirtier, the rougher it is, the more hands and dicks there are, the harder it shakes me. Polina understood this before I did. She brought me into this life—the life of a cuckold who waits in the bushes, in the closet, behind the vegetable crates. Waiting to lick it off later. My wife Polina had completely developed a taste for infidelity and no longer hid the fact that she enjoyed being used roughly, without ceremony. She began staying late more often "on business" and always returned home with that same smell that drove me crazy. In mid-August, Polina said she was going to the vegetable market to pick up some seasonal fruit. She was wearing a light summer dress that barely covered her butt, and no underwear. I immediately realized it had nothing to do with... continue reading

I'm twenty-nine. I work for a large logistics company. In the sales department. Our team is small and close-knit. Dimon, Seryoga, and I are the trio that manages half the workload. And above us is Tatyana Leonidovna. She's the executive director. She's forty-three years old. She's a striking woman. Tall, stately, with the posture of a former basketball player. Broad shoulders, long, strong legs. Her C-cup breasts are always encased in formal blouses. Her butt is round and curved, tightly clasped by a skirt below the knees. She wears heels and clacks down the hallway so loudly that heads turn. Her hair is light brown, cut in a bob. Her face is well-bred, with fine features, and her gaze is sharp and commanding. She's been divorced twice. No children. She lives for her work. She had a rock-solid character. Her voice was well-trained and commanding. At the slightest provocation, she'd call you to the carpet and scold you so hard the walls would shake. But she wa... continue reading

My wife's name is Karina. She's thirty-one, but looks twenty-four at most—a slender brunette with long hair down to her waist, expressive brown eyes, and full lips. She has B-cup breasts, but very firm, with large, dark nipples that always protrude. She has a flat stomach that tapers to a shaved pubic area with a thin strip of hair. Her labia are well-groomed and tightly pressed together. She has a round butt with a small anus that I sometimes fuck on holidays. Her legs are long and flowing—her measurements are 88x58x92. We've been together for seven years. Karina works for a large IT company, managing the testing department, and she has a team of men. The team is young and ambitious, all between twenty-five and thirty-five. The company planned a corporate retreat for late November at the Sosnovy Bor country spa hotel, an hour's drive from the city. The two-day program included a conference, team building, spa treatments, and an evening banquet. Wives and husbands we... continue reading

I hated all the pre-wedding chores. My best friend had decided to throw a big ceremony, and as best man, I was forced to wear a tuxedo. Not just buy one, but have it custom-made at some fancy tailor. A nasty autumn rain was drizzling outside, and the prospect of hanging around for an hour or two while they took my measurements was depressing. The Velvet Atelier was located in the basement of an old mansion. Inside, it was dim, cozy, and cramped with endless rolls of fabric. I gave my name to the receptionist, and a minute later she came out to meet me. Her name was Elvira. She couldn't have been more than twenty-eight, but she carried herself with that calm, slightly haughty grace that comes from women who know their worth and their craft. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a high, sleek ponytail. A strict black pantsuit clung to her figure, emphasizing her slender waist and the sharp curves of her hips. Underneath the jacket, she wore an ivory silk blouse, and I could have... continue reading

We decided to celebrate New Year's at our place—it's been a while since we've had a group over, always feeling either short on time or short on inclination. My wife, Lena, got the idea back in November: she planned the menu, created the contests, and sent out the invitations. Lena is a stately woman, a natural blonde with a short haircut that reveals a graceful neck, C-cup breasts, and the pleasant curves of her hips, which she was a little self-conscious about, but which I adored. There were about ten guests. The table was groaning under the weight of salads and hot dishes, champagne flowed freely, and the chimes of the clock struck, making the neighbors' ears pop. Around three in the morning, the crowd began to slowly disperse—some called taxis, others walked, fortunately living nearby. Only Marina remained, a close friend of Lena's, whom she'd known since infancy. Marina was the complete opposite of my wife—tall, with a bob cut, flaming brown hair, green e... continue reading

My name is Olga, I'm 28 years old. I've been married for five years, and the last three have been a blur—diapers, borscht, sick days. My husband, Sergey, is a good man, nine years older than me. He works as a shop foreman, comes home tired, and usually falls asleep in front of the TV. We had sex once a month, purely marital, no-nonsense, and that was generally fine with me. I'd forgotten that I used to love dancing until the morning. A month ago, my old friend Kristina, the perpetually lonely adventurer, talked me into going to the new nightclub, Hades. My husband let me go without question, only chuckling, "Where are you going with your maternity-age body?" I pouted, bought myself a tight black dress, styled my hair, and went off to prove to myself that I was still an attractive woman. The club smelled of smoke, sweet alcohol, and something musky and alien. Kristina immediately disappeared onto the dance floor with a bartender, leaving me alone at a high table w... continue reading

Lera stood at the bus stop, watching the taillights of the regular bus recede into the distance. She was literally a minute late—she'd been held up at the dorm packing for the weekend, and then the minibus to the bus station was crawling along. Now the next bus wasn't until tomorrow morning, and she absolutely had to be in the district center this evening: it was her mother's birthday, she'd cooked everything, and was expecting her only daughter from the city. Lera was a third-year student at the teacher training college, nineteen years old, short and slender, with short dark-blond hair and playful brown eyes. She had a strong, athletic figure—she used to do track and field, and it still showed: toned thighs, firm buttocks, small, neat breasts. She was dressed casually: jeans, sneakers, a light windbreaker over a T-shirt. Over her shoulder was a duffel bag containing her belongings and a gift for her mother. There was no one else at the bus stop. The sun was already... continue reading