A neighbor invited me for tea with mint.

Denis had gotten drunk again. No, it wasn't even offensive—it was somehow dull and familiar, like the creak of a cracked veranda door, the kind you hear every day and no longer notice. But today, that creak was the end of me. We'd only been at the dacha for three days, and I was dreaming of at least a little break from the city, but by lunchtime he'd already coaxed a bottle of cognac "for the shashlik" and by evening he was sprawled out in our summer bedroom, arms spread out, snoring rhythmically. He hadn't even properly undressed. I sat on the porch, smoking—I'd actually quit a year ago, but now I'd borrowed a pack from him—and watched the first streetlights flicker on over the neighboring property. A dull resentment throbbed in my neck. Thirty-six years old, and I was living with a man who preferred the bottle to me. The thought made me so bitter that I stood up abruptly, threw a light summer dress over my naked body, and went out the gate. Just to take a walk, to clear my head. The street in our dacha village was empty in the evening, save for the distant barking of a dog and the smell of mown grass. I wandered barefoot along the warm, dusty path and, before I knew it, had reached Andrey's property. We'd barely interacted: I knew he'd bought the place a couple of years ago and lived alone, perhaps a widower or divorcee. We'd exchanged greetings a couple of times by the well, and I'd caught him looking at me—appraisingly, but not insolently. Back then, I didn't think anything of it. — Can't sleep, neighbor? I shuddered. Andrey was standing by his fence, wearing only shorts, holding a mug of tea. In the light of the streetlamp, his figure seemed even more powerful than I remembered: broad shoulders, a strong chest sparsely grayed, and short-cropped hair. And that look in his eyes—calm, confident, somehow too mature compared to the perpetually drunk Denis. "My husband fell asleep, but I can't seem to sleep," I replied, not knowing why. My voice sounded hoarse, with a hint of complaint. "It happens," he smiled at the corner of his lips and suddenly added, "Maybe you should come in for some mint tea. You're standing here alone, looking lost." I should have refused. In theory, I should have turned around and left. But something clicked in my chest—either out of spite for Denis, or simply because I was thirty-six and had forgotten the last time I felt desired. I nodded silently and stepped through his gate. We drank tea on his veranda. Or rather, we pretended to. I sat on the old sofa, my legs tucked under me, and felt a strange warmth spread through my body—and not from the hot drink at all. Andrey sat next to me, too close, his knee almost touching my thigh. We chatted about nothing: seedlings, neighbors, the city. And I caught myself looking at his hands—large, sinewy, with dark hairs on his fingers. "Do you even understand why you came here?" he suddenly asked without any preamble. I looked into his eyes and realized: he knows everything. And I know everything, too. Before I could respond, Andrey leaned down and kissed me. Not tenderly, not timidly, but greedily, deeply, and his tongue slid into my mouth with such confidence, as if he'd done this a hundred times. I jerked, but he held me by the back of the head, and my resistance vanished in an instant. A sweet ache swelled in my lower abdomen, and my wetness grew between my legs so quickly that I surprised myself. He pulled back for exactly a second, looking at me with his narrowed gray eyes, and pulled my dress over my head. I was left naked on his couch—only my panties, thin, cotton ones, the kind you usually wear at the dacha. I should have been embarrassed, but instead I leaned toward him and unbuttoned his shorts myself. When his penis slid out, I froze for a moment: thick, with a steep upward curve and a dark pink head that was already glistening with precum. “I’ve been dreaming of doing this for a long time,” he said hoarsely and, pressing on my shoulders, laid me down on the sofa. I squeaked something unintelligible, and he was already pulling my panties down and settling himself between my spread legs. The first thrust was abrupt—he went all the way in, filling me so completely that I cried out. But that brief twinge of discomfort was immediately replaced by a wave of pure pleasure. Andrey began to move—strongly, steadily, driving me into the creaking sofa with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his hips and was already openly moaning, not caring that the windows were open or that anyone might pass by. "Good girl, do you like it thicker?" he whispered, leaning towards my ear. “Y-e-e-e...” I exhaled, no longer able to control myself. I came quickly, unexpectedly for myself—literally within a few minutes. Something like this hadn't happened to me with my husband in ages, if ever. The orgasm surged with a hot pulsation, and I arched my back and bit my lip to keep from screaming loud enough for the whole village to hear. And he didn't even slow down—he continued to pound his cock into me, increasing the pace. “I’m going to cum now,” Andrey moaned. "At me, come at me!" I blurted out. He pulled out, ran his fist over his cock a couple of times, and the next moment, hot, whitish drops splashed onto my stomach and chest. I watched his sperm drip down my skin and felt absolutely happy. Not a drop of shame, not a drop of regret. Then we lay on that little couch, and he stroked my shoulder, and I thought: I need to go home, Denis is sleeping there, he won't notice anything. But my body was asking for more, and my thoughts were already spinning around the fact that tomorrow my husband would probably get drunk again, and Andrey... Andrey would be here. “I’ll come tomorrow,” I said, getting dressed. “I’ll wait,” he answered calmly, and there was neither surprise nor question in his voice. I returned home in the early morning. Denis was sleeping in the same position, not even moving. I climbed into the shower, washed away the foreign scent and the foreign touch, but the smile never left my face. A completely different woman was reflected in the mirror—one who had long since disappeared behind the gray everyday life and drunken quarrels. Two days later, my husband sobered up, swore it was the last time, and even gave me a bouquet of wildflowers. I kissed him on the cheek, smiled, and told him everything was fine. Meanwhile, I was already thinking about how in a week we'd go to the dacha again, and Andrey would be waiting for me at the gate. I also thought I wouldn't mind trying something with him that Denis had always been indifferent to—but that's a whole other story.