A house in a remote village

This desire grew out of her fantasy of a complete change of context. We rented a house in a remote village on the border of three regions—a true wilderness, where cell phone reception was limited to the porch, and only on clear days. The house was well-built, with a huge Russian stove and a separate banya (sauna) on the shore of an overgrown pond. It was the banya that became the starting point. Karina imagined herself pleasuring the three sturdy village men we hired to mend the sagging fence and fix the roof right on the wet boards of the anteroom. This idea frightened me with its uncontrollability, but it excited me with the same force that frightened me. I agreed on the condition that everything stay in this bathhouse and in this wilderness. He found candidates through the local caretaker, posing as a swinging couple. The caretaker, a seasoned man, selected three. Sergei was a forty-year-old tractor driver, broad-shouldered and on his second marriage. Denis was a young gamekeeper, lean and taciturn, with perpetually callused hands. Igor was the local boiler operator, slightly balding but with a powerful torso. All three had fresh certificates, which they had agreed upon beforehand—Karina was adamant about safety. On Friday evening, when the heat had died down, we fired up the sauna. Karina was nervous, sorting through her lingerie, not the vulgar lace from the city, but simple—a white cotton bra and matching panties, almost rustic. I looked at her and realized she was already in character. Her nipples showed through the thin fabric, her breathing became shallow. The men approached in the twilight, sober and businesslike. They stood by the gate, exchanging glances. Sergey spat into the grass and stepped into the yard first. I led them straight to the dressing room to wash. Karina remained in the house. About twenty minutes later, they emerged from the steam room, steamed and wearing only towels around their hips. They smelled of birch twigs and cheap soap. Their bodies were rough, functional, without a hint of the city's polish. This was precisely what turned Karina on. I brought my wife. She entered barefoot, wearing her white ensemble, and paused at the doorframe. Sergey looked her over the way one might look at a mare at a fair—intently, appraisingly. Denis silently sipped kvass from a clay mug. Igor rubbed his knees nervously. “Well, mistress,” boomed Sergei, “show me why you called.” Karina sank to her knees right on the rough wooden floor. It was her own move, not her command. Sergey nodded, pulled the towel from his hips, and his tool, not yet fully hardened, dangled before her face. It smelled of man—steam and sweat. Karina took the head into her mouth, carefully tasting it. The flesh quickly filled out, and soon she could no longer close her lips completely. It was a thick, thick root, the color of rich black soil. Denis approached from the side. His penis rose faster and stood almost vertically—long, light, with a neat pink tip. Karina caught her breath and turned her attention to him. Denis didn't move—he stood there like a pillar, allowing her to work his mouth at her own pace. Only the fingers of his right hand tangled in the hair at the back of her head. Igor hesitated. He was the last to approach, and Karina had to help him with her hand while she worked Denis with her mouth. Igor's erection gradually gained strength, but when it did, it surprised her with its thickness at the base. His cock was like a bottle: a thin neck at the head and a massive shaft. Denis came first, silently, with a short exhale. The semen was almost clear, watery from the sauna. Karina swallowed and carefully licked it clean. Sergey lifted his wife from her lap like a feather and laid her stomach down on the wooden table in the center of the dressing room. There were still mugs on the table. Igor swept them onto the bench without looking. Karina's panties were pulled down—the cotton swelled and darkened. Sergey parted her labia with two fingers, and a clear mucus immediately began to trickle down her thighs. “Ready,” he stated. Igor entered her first. His thick shaft stretched her vagina so much that Karina arched her back and hissed through her teeth. He slowly increased the pace, pressing his hands against her buttocks. Karina's breathing quickened, and soon her body was shaken by her first climax—sharp, almost instantaneous. Igor, meanwhile, continued to thrust with his pelvis, never letting up. Denis, having recovered, grabbed her chin and guided his cock back into her mouth. Now she was occupied from both ends. Sergey walked over to the stove and returned with a birch broom. He brushed the leaves across Karina's back, then her buttocks, and then suddenly lashed out. Not hard, but sharp. A pink mark appeared on her white skin. Karina flinched but didn't pull away. Sergey repeated the gesture, this time along her inner thighs. She moaned into Igor's stomach, still holding Denis's cock in her mouth. A minute later, Igor froze, leaned his full weight on her, and began to empty himself. The sperm flowed out in thick, white globs as he pulled out. Sergei immediately took his place, plunging his penis into her already engorged womb. The slurping sounds filled the dressing room, mingling with the crackling of the wood in the stove. Denis came deep in her throat, and this time Karina coughed, but held it in. A drop of semen rolled down her chin and landed on the table. Meanwhile, Sergei slowed down and, coming out, commanded: — On the bench, on all fours. Show me your second hole. Karina moved onto the wide bench, got on all fours, and spread her knees. Sergey spat into his palm, lubricated his anus with saliva mixed with the sperm that had leaked out, and inserted the head. Unlike me, he didn't wait or coax—he pressed gently, but with the relentless force of a tractor. Her anus didn't give in right away. Karina screamed once, briefly, and then fell silent, her shoulder blades trembling. Sergey entered all the way and stopped. - Get used to it, mistress. He remained motionless for a moment, letting her adjust, and then began working with the same methodical thoroughness with which he probably ploughed the earth. Karina began making guttural sounds that resembled growls. When Sergei came inside her, she was wet with sweat and her own lubricant, and the boards of the bench beneath her gleamed. Meanwhile, Igor pulled out a long-necked glass bottle of local moonshine. I tensed. The bottle was empty, washed clean. He bent down, checked the diameter of the neck with his finger, and looked at Karina. “He’ll cope,” he said to Denis, more affirmatively than questioningly. Denis shrugged. Karina was turned onto her back and her legs were spread wide. Igor tested the bottle's neck against her vagina—her vagina, slick with lubricant and semen, accepted the glass without resistance. He twisted the bottle, gradually pushing it deeper. Karina breathed heavily, staring at the ceiling. The bottom of the bottle swayed rhythmically. He pulled it out slowly, admiring the gaping opening. "Now back," he said, turning the bottle over. The smooth bottom now slid inward. Karina screamed, but Denis immediately clamped his hand over her mouth. The stretch was extreme—the entrance tightened, turned pale, but didn't tear. Igor pulled the glass out again and grunted with satisfaction. I wanted to stop it, but I caught Karina's gaze—there was no plea for help there. There was excitement there, wild, almost insane. Around two in the morning, there was a knock on the dressing room door. Denis went out and returned a minute later with his neighbor, Stepan, a fifty-year-old beekeeper. We'd seen him the day before, when bukvoeb.run was buying honey. It turned out the men had called him in advance. Stepan turned out to be stooped, with a gray mustache and an unexpectedly large, gnarled penis, reminiscent of the root of an old oak tree. When he stood up, his head rested against his stomach. Stepan silently drained his mug of kvass and approached Karina. She sat on the bench, exhausted, her legs spread, white liquid oozing onto the boards. The beekeeper grabbed her by the hips, pulled her toward him, and entered her standing. Karina closed her eyes and sobbed. His cock seemed to reach her lungs. Stepan didn't fuss—his thrusts were long and full, like the work of a well crane. Twenty minutes passed before he, still inside, began to ejaculate deep into her womb. Karina dug her nails into his shoulders, leaving furrows, and screamed silently, a single breath. Towards morning, around five o'clock, the men began packing up. Denis was the last to say goodbye to Karina. He forced her to her knees right on the grass by the bathhouse, to the chirping of the waking birds, and came on her face and breasts. Sergey gave me his phone's memory card—the only photo they'd taken was on it: Karina lying on a bench, lit by the stove fire, with a bottle in her vagina and a swollen anus. I tucked the card into my breast pocket. I carried Karina into the house in my arms, wrapped in a bathrobe. She was unconscious from exhaustion. Judging by everything, there was at least half a liter of someone else's semen inside her. At noon she woke up, asked for some kvass and quietly said: - You know, they still haven't fixed the fence. I chuckled. A week later, we returned to Moscow. The memory card is in the safe. Stepan, by the way, suggested we try it again at his apiary, on honeycombs. Karina is still thinking about it. But the way she bit her lip when she heard this proposal tells me that a sequel is just around the corner.