Stories in in the bathhouse
11 stories · Page 1I 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
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
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
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
My college friend, Lera, invited me out for the weekend—her husband, Sasha, and his friends had rented a large cottage by the lake to celebrate his birthday. I'd recently broken up with my boyfriend and agreed right away: I wanted to unwind, get away from it all. Lera said it would be a small group, seven or eight people, all close friends, and I got ready without a care in the world. I had to take the train, then a taxi. I put on my favorite sundress—a lightweight one with thin straps, white with tiny blue flowers, and mid-thigh length. I only wore a swimsuit underneath, because Lera had promised a sauna and a dip in the lake. The sundress was slightly see-through in the sun, but that added to the feeling of summer freedom. The cottage turned out to be large, wooden, with a terrace and a barbecue in the yard. When I arrived, Lera happily hugged me and introduced me to the guests. The group included: the birthday boy himself, Sasha; his colleague Denis, a large, bearded man of a
I knew this wouldn't end well. As soon as Lenka called and said her best friend had arrived and they were hanging out in the city until the morning, leaving her mother and I alone at the dacha, I immediately sensed something was wrong. But Victoria Mikhailovna, my mother-in-law, just chuckled into the phone: "Well, that's good, Sasha, I was so eager to go to the bathhouse after my long journey. Would you like to join me? I'm bored alone." I would have refused. Claim a headache, or the football game on TV. But she was already standing on the veranda threshold in her light robe, which was translucent even in the sunset. She had a figure, I must admit. For a forty-five-year-old woman, she was a real bombshell. Lenka, my wife, took after her father—slender, petite. But Victoria Mikhailovna was a force of nature. Tall, busty, with wide hips. Just like a Russian beauty from the epics, only modern and well-groomed. "What are you standing there for?" she said, wa
I'd like to share a story that happened to me last summer. My wife and I rented a dacha in a small village, and we shared a bathhouse with our neighbors—an old wooden structure where everyone took turns steaming on weekends. My neighbor, Liza, a young widow in her thirties, lived alone, with a stunning figure: full breasts, a narrow waist, long legs, and a butt so perfect you couldn't take your eyes off her. I'd sometimes see her in the garden wearing short shorts, and it turned me on, but it never went beyond fantasy. One hot evening, my wife went into town on business, and I decided to take a steam bath in the banya. I lit the stove and filled it with water, but then I heard footsteps – Liza had arrived too, apparently unaware I was there. She entered the changing room and began to undress, while I, already in the steam room, froze. The door to the steam room had a small, fogged-up window, but I could peek through a crack in the wall – it was an old banya, with holes e
I always thought smell was the most important thing. Hot stone, oak whisk, kvassed bread for steam, and honey. And underneath it all, the scent of clean wood, warmed by human bodies. "Margarita's Bathhouse" was an expensive place, private, where people didn't just come to wash. They came to remove the crust from themselves, the one that accumulates from money, negotiations, and the eternal rush. And I, Marina, twenty-two years old, was part of this ritual. His name was Artyom. This was his third visit, and always only to me. Not the kind of brute who jumps in with his hands, no. Silent, with dark eyes that looked not at his body but right through it, as if searching for some kind of flaw within. Today he was especially exhausted. His shoulders were like boulders, his neck tense. I worked silently, the classic way. First, warming up, lightly tapping with a birch broom soaked in a basin of fragrant infusion. The steam room hummed like a living beast, the heat envelopin
The stuffiness in the car gave way to a sharp December chill as I stepped out into the bumpy parking lot of the Taiga bathhouse. Steam billowed from the exhaust, as if the car itself had breathed a sigh of relief. I had come alone—on purpose. After three months in the smoke-filled office, after his calls begging me to come back, I needed a shake-up. Or oblivion. A bathhouse, I decided. Alone. The old log cabin had turned black with age. Inside, it smelled of smoke, damp wood, and something deeply earthy. The owner, a woman with a tired face and nimble hands, handed me a sheet and a broom. "Are you taking the whole hour?" she asked again. "It's free until eight. Just... It's a wood-burning stove, so you have to heat it yourself. Can you handle it?" I nodded. Drowning is even better. It'll keep my hands and mind occupied. The dressing room was quiet and empty. I slowly undressed, looking at my reflection in the fogged window. The thinness he'd called &#
The rain pounded the tin roof of the bathhouse, creating a cozy, detached noise. I sat on the oak shelf, all steamed up, listening to the coals crackling in the stove, and enjoying the peace. My father had gone to town on some urgent business, promising to return only tomorrow evening. We were left at the dacha alone with Irina. My stepmother. She was young. Too young to be a father. She was barely forty, and looked thirty. Slender, fit, with a look that made my twenty-year-old self get a hard-on. I always tried not to show it, looked away when she walked past in her tight shorts or bathing suit. It was torture. The door to the steam room creaked. I turned around and was stunned. Irina was standing on the threshold. Wrapped in a small white towel that covered the most important things, but hugged her curves so tightly that it took my breath away. Her damp chestnut hair was gathered into a messy bun, her cheeks were flushed, and drops of water were running down her collarbones. “Is t
Well, I'll tell you how I fucked my mother-in-law in the bathhouse. Yes, you heard right. The same one, Natalya Petrovna, who usually looked at me like I was shit on a shoe. And this is how it happened. My wife and I went to her dacha in the village, she had just left on an urgent business trip, and I had a lot of work to do on the property. My mother-in-law, of course, lived there all summer. In the evening after work we were sitting, finishing up the shashlik. And of course we drank. Not to the point of being completely drunk, but good enough, relaxed. My mother-in-law poured me some drinks, and she looked at me in such a way... Not in a motherly way. And she was a woman, mature, of course, over fifty, but her figure... Such wide hips, a butt the size of half a trough, boobs - you could carry her in your arms. That day she was wearing a tight T-shirt, so I kept glancing at those curves out of the corner of my eye. And then she says: “Oh, the bathhouse is all heated up. Is it f