Stories in under duress
146 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
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
He 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
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
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,
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Marina froze, clutching a duster in her hand. Her husband's voice was heard from behind the office door. "Thanks for staying late, Stas. Let's go over the estimate again, and then I'll let you go. Lenka's probably waiting at home, and she's probably pissed off." "It's okay, Sergeich," Stas replied. "Lena can wait. It's important." Marina was kneeling before the director's desk, completely naked except for rubber gloves and a headscarf. This was exactly how she was supposed to look on Fridays, when she came to "clean" her husband's office after hours. Only her husband didn't know this. He thought the cleaning lady came on Saturday mornings, and that it was some Aunt Zina from the cleaning company. In reality, for six months now, Marina had been coming here every Friday, undressing in the utility room, and getting down to her duties. But instead of a mop and bucket, she was given a different task. Sometimes it was