Business trip to the province

I hadn't planned this business trip and, frankly, I didn't want it. But the department head was down with hypertension, and I desperately needed to sign the paperwork in Saratov, otherwise the plant would be shut down for two weeks. So, on Friday evening, I was shivering in a reserved seat carriage with my travel authorization in my pocket and a bottle of cognac in my bag—just to keep warm. The carriage was old, the air conditioning wasn't working, and outside was a chilly October day. Volodya Kravtsov was supposed to meet me in Saratov—we started together at the branch about ten years ago, then he moved here, got married, and settled down. Since then, we'd seen each other a couple of times at corporate events, and only briefly. When I called to let him know I was coming, he was delighted and immediately declared: you're staying with us, no hotels, don't even think about it. I didn't argue. Hotels in Saratov are a real treat. His wife met me at the station. Volodya was delayed at a construction site and sent her with a note and the keys to the apartment. Ira. I'd only seen her in photos on social media before, but in person she was completely different. About thirty-seven years old, short and shapely, with a short haircut and dark, bulging eyes. She was dressed simply—jeans, a puffer jacket, a scarf—but even beneath the junk, I could see her figure. Not a model's, but a kind of feminine figure, with soft curves. A sweater clung tightly to her chest, and I caught myself staring at it longer than I should have. "Volodya asked me to apologize, they've had some kind of breakthrough there. It'll be too late. Are you hungry?" - Like a wolf. - Then let's go. They had a three-room apartment in a Stalin-era building on a quiet street. High ceilings, creaky floors, the smell of baked goods and something elusive, homey. While I washed my hands, Ira set the table in the kitchen. Borscht, salo, rye bread, a decanter of some kind of liqueur. I appreciated it. We sat down and drank a first round to celebrate our acquaintance, even though we only knew each other remotely. She asked about Moscow, about work, about Volodya's prospects—it was clear she was worried. I answered, quietly looking at her. Her fingers were slender, ringless—she'd removed her wedding ring while getting ready. There was a slight look of tiredness under her eyes, but her skin was well-cared for. Her lips were full, the lower one slightly chapped by the wind. When she laughed, dimples appeared in her cheeks, making her look younger. I noticed how she adjusted her hair when she caught my eye—automatically, like a woman. Such gestures don't deceive. She knew she looked good, and she liked that I noticed it. Volodya arrived around ten. Loud, tired, smelling of diesel. We hugged, had another drink, and I saw Ira looking at her husband—with a mixture of tenderness and habit. But when Volodya went to take a shower, she suddenly caught my eye and smiled differently. Not like a colleague's wife, but like a woman who knows her worth. They assigned me a room. An old sofa, a bookcase, a floor lamp with a shade. I lay there and listened to them getting ready for bed through the wall. Muffled voices, laughter, then silence. No distinctive sounds—either the walls were thick, or marital duty had been declared a day off that night. I fell asleep thinking that Ira shouldn't wear such tight sweaters if she didn't want people staring at her. The next day, Volodya left for the job site early in the morning, and I had a meeting with the client scheduled for two. I came into the kitchen around ten o'clock, and Ira was already bustling about at the stove. This time, she was wearing a housedress—a light one, with buttons down the front, just above the knees. No stockings. I sat at the table, she poured tea, and we got to talking. It turned out she was a philologist by education, had worked at a school, but quit after moving and now sits at home. She's bored. "Volodya's always at work," she said, stirring something in a saucepan. "Sometimes until late at night. I'm here alone, reading books, watching TV series. You Muscovites probably think it's provincial melancholy." - Of course not. Sometimes it's depressing even in Moscow. "Yes, but you have other places to go. And what's here? A market, two shopping centers, and a park that's scary to walk in at night." She spoke, and I looked at her legs. They were smooth, with beautiful calves, a little fuller at the hips. When she turned toward the stove, her dress pulled up in the back, outlining her buttocks. Her panties weren't see-through—they were either thin or nonexistent. I sipped my tea and turned the conversation to Volodya to distract myself. I finished at the site by five and returned earlier than planned. Ira was in the living room, watching TV. I sat down next to her, and she offered me some wine, which I accepted. We drank a glass, then another. The conversation loosened up, and she asked about my personal life. I told her honestly that I'd been divorced for two years and was still single. She nodded understandingly, as if to say, she had a friend like that, also single. At some point, she leaned back on the sofa, stretched out her legs, and her foot accidentally touched my thigh. I didn't move away. Neither did she. For about ten seconds, we simply sat in this position, staring at the TV, where some entertainment program was playing. Her fingers moved slightly, as if testing the limits. I placed my hand on her ankle and ran it up to her knee. The skin was smooth, cool from the wine. She shuddered, but said nothing. “Ira,” I said quietly. - What? - Nothing. Simple. I moved closer, and she didn't move away. My hand rested on her thigh, my fingers slipping under her hem. She sat frozen, looking off to the side, as if deciding something to herself. I didn't press. I simply stroked her leg, moving higher, to the inside of her thigh. The fabric of her dress rode up, and I saw the lace elastic of her stockings. Stockings. At home, on a day off, she had put on stockings. It wasn't an accident. “You knew it would happen,” I said. — I didn’t know anything. — I knew. Stockings, dress. I was waiting for me, not Volodya. She turned sharply, her eyes mingling with anger and arousal. I didn't argue—I simply grabbed her chin and kissed her. Hard, without preamble. She responded immediately, her tongue sliding into my mouth, and I tasted red wine. Her arms wrapped around my neck, she pressed her whole body against me, and I felt how hard her nipples were beneath the thin fabric. I unbuttoned the dress—one, two, three. It fell open, revealing a lacy bra and a sliver of belly. Not flat, with a slight fold at the waist, but alive and warm. I ran my hand over it, down to her stockings, and felt the lace hem. She began to breathe faster and suddenly pulled the dress up, over her head. "Just quickly," she exhaled. "Volodya might come back." "He won't be back. He's at the site until eight." - How do you know? — I called him myself. She froze for a second, realizing I'd planned everything, but it was too late—I'd already pulled her bra off and laid her down on the couch. Her breasts were full, with large, dark nipples that immediately hardened under my fingers. I leaned down and took one in my mouth, and she moaned, running her hands through my hair. She smelled of something spicy—not perfume, but body, heated and aroused. I pulled down her panties—black, lacy, already soaking wet. I spread her legs and admired the sight for a second: her damp, swollen crotch, a neat strip of hair, her stockinged thighs. My friend's wife lay before me, ready, and only one thought was racing through my head: how long had it been since she'd had normal sex if she was so wet just from touching me. I thrust in abruptly, without preparation, and she cried out, clutching my shoulders. It was tight, hot, and very wet inside. I began to move, slowly, deliberately, to feel every fold, and she thrust forward, bucking her hips. Her stockings slid down my sides, the elastic cutting into my skin. I lifted her legs, threw them over my shoulders, and thrust deeper. She moaned louder and immediately covered her mouth with her hand—she was afraid the neighbors would hear. "You have good soundproofing," I said, removing her hand. "Scream if you want." She didn't answer, just bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. I picked up the pace, feeling everything inside her tighten. My stockings chafed my neck, her heels dug into my back, but I didn't care. I saw her face contort, her mouth open in a silent scream, and then she came—hard, convulsively, arching. Her inner muscles squeezed me so hard that I almost came too, but I held back. I pulled out of her and rolled her over onto her stomach. She was exhausted and didn't resist. I pulled her stockings down—simply rolled them down, leaving the elastic at her thighs—and entered from behind. This position made her even tighter. I leaned over, cupped her breasts, and continued moving, inhaling the scent of her hair and listening to her sob into the pillow. It wasn't a moan anymore, but some kind of animal sound coming from within. I didn't last long. She clenched around me in another spasm, and I came inside her with a low groan. The cum was hot and thick, and I felt it spurt out in spurts. We froze, breathing heavily. Then I rolled back to the edge of the couch, and she remained facedown, her legs spread. We were silent for about three minutes. Then she sat up, looked at me, and suddenly smiled—guiltily, like a girl. - I don't even know what to say. - Don't say anything. She stood up, picked up her dress and panties, and staggered into the bathroom. I got dressed and opened the window to air out the room. It was already getting dark outside, and lights were starting to come on in the house across the street. I thought about how Volodya would be back in an hour and the three of us would be sitting at dinner, as if nothing had happened. And I would look at Ira, knowing that just a few minutes ago she was lying beneath me on this very couch, and she would avert her eyes and fix her hair, and no one would notice. That evening, we were indeed sitting in the kitchen, eating fried potatoes with mushrooms and drinking moonshine that Volodya had brought from somewhere in the village. Ira was quiet but relaxed. A couple of times she caught my eye and immediately blushed, lowering her eyes. Volodya didn't notice—he was enthusiastically talking about local customs and complaining about the suppliers. I listened with half an ear, remembering how she smelled when she came. On Sunday morning, Volodya left again—this time to help his mother-in-law with some chores at the dacha. Ira stayed home. I went into the kitchen around nine, and she was already waiting for me. She was standing by the window in the same housedress, but now I knew what was underneath. We didn't speak. I simply walked up to her, turned her around, and started kissing her. This time she was bolder—she unbuckled my belt and pulled down my pants herself. I sat her on the kitchen table, spread her legs, and entered. She wrapped her legs around me, and we fucked right there, among the cups and plates, quickly and hungrily, without the foreplay from the day before. We finished at the same time—amazingly, but it happens. She buried her face in my shoulder, breathing heavily, and I stroked her back, thinking that the business trip had probably been a success. I left that evening. Volodya drove me to the station. Ira stood in the doorway, waving. She was already wearing jeans and that same down jacket, and nothing reminded me of what had happened in that apartment. I shook Volodya's hand, promised to call, and boarded the train. The carriage was the same as Friday, but now I didn't care about the drafts. I lay on the top bunk, stared at the ceiling, and smiled. A month later, Volodya called and said Ira was leaving him. He didn't say who. But that's a whole other story.