That day, I returned home earlier than usual. Not that much earlier—about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. It was just that the office renovations had been delayed indefinitely, and the boss, with a wave of his hand, sent us all home. I was actually glad: I could collapse on the couch and watch something until Nastya got home from work. But Nastya was already home. I realized it right away—her sneakers were standing in the hallway, thrown haphazardly, with her socks sticking out of one. Next to them were men's shoes. Not mine. My first thought was stupid: a plumber. But a plumber wouldn't leave his shoes behind. A plumber would leave his boots, heavy work boots, with the laces untied. But these were leather, polished, with a neat, narrow toe. The kind worn by men who take care of themselves. I put the bag on the floor. Quiet. Too quiet for repairs. A sound came from the bedroom. Soft, rhythmic. The creaking of a bed—our bed creaked just like that, in one spot, at the foot of the bed, where the spring had sagged a year ago. And over that creaking—breathing. Intermittent, breathy. A woman's. I knew this breath. I knew it for ten years. I creep down the hallway. The parquet flooring doesn't creak underfoot only in one place—right next to the wall, where I'd specially screwed floorboards down when we first moved in. Nastya laughed. "Why?" I said, "So I can sneak up on you." She had no idea how literally this might one day come in handy. The bedroom door is ajar. The crack is the size of a palm. I peek in. Nastya is kneeling on the bed. Her back is to me. Her hair, usually pulled back into a ponytail, is spilling over her shoulders and stuck to her neck. She moves—smoothly, back and forth, and I can see the muscles in her back tense, the way she moves her hips. There's a man beneath her. I can't see his face. Only his legs, his torso, his hands resting on her hips. And what's between them. He's inside her. Deeply. She thrusts slowly, almost thoughtfully, and with each movement a quiet, guttural sound escapes her throat. Not a moan. More like a vocal exhalation. She throws her head back, and I see her profile: eyes closed, lips parted, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip. The man beneath her says something. Quietly, inaudibly. She laughs—shortly, on the exhale—and speeds up. The bed creaks louder. I see her buttocks clench and unclench, how she impales herself all the way, all the way to the base, and freezes for a second, taking him all in. I'm standing in the hallway. My hands are somehow damp. My heart is pounding somewhere in my throat. And the strange thing is, I don't feel any anger. At all. Not a drop. Just some kind of stupid, almost scientific curiosity: who is he? How long has it been? And why is she moving like this—the way she hasn't moved with me for two years? She moans louder. The man beneath her responds—with a low, guttural sound. And I hear Nastya whisper—not to him, but more to herself, into the ceiling: - More... One word. But I know this word. I know how it sounds when she really wants it. Not for show. Not to flatter. But because everything inside is burning. I take a step back. Then another. Into the hallway. I take off my jacket—slowly, so as not to make noise. I hang it on the hook. I look at the men's shoes. And for some reason I remember how three weeks ago Nastya mentioned at dinner: "Our neighbor upstairs seems to be doing some renovations. He's been drilling all day." I didn't think anything of it then. The neighbor upstairs. A man. Alone. I approach the bedroom door again. The gap is still there. Nastya is now lying on him—chest, stomach, her whole body. He hugs her, strokes her back. And I hear his voice—for the first time, I understand the words: - Are you sure he won't come back? Nastya raises her head. She laughs—quietly, happily. — He won't be back. He's at work until seven. I'm standing outside the door. I look at the clock. It's half past three. And for some reason I smile. I stand there for another minute. Maybe two. I listen to them whispering, to Nastya shifting on him, getting more comfortable, to him spanking her lightly on the bottom—loudly, tenderly. She gasps and laughs. And then I take off my shoes. Not because I decided anything. My feet just did it themselves. I place them carefully next to his shoes—my rough, work-ready ones, with scuffed toes, and his—smooth, well-groomed. I look at this pair and feel something click inside. Not anger. More like excitement. Like before jumping into cold water. I unbuckle my belt. Slowly, so as not to rattle the buckle. My jeans slide to the floor. My shirt follows. I take off my socks last—for some reason, they seem the most vulnerable right now. I walk down the hallway naked. The parquet floor is cold, but I'm hot. In the bedroom, the bed still creaks, the whispers continue. I push the door. It opens with a soft creak. Nastya freezes. Her back tenses—I see her shoulder blades squeeze together, her body tensing up like a cat about to pounce. The man beneath her turns his head. Young. About twenty-eight, maybe thirty. Dark hair, a handsome face—the kind that seems plain until you look at the line of his cheekbones. He looks at me and turns pale. He really turns pale—I can see the color draining from his cheeks. “Don’t stop,” I say. The voice sounds calm. Even I am surprised. Nastya slowly turns her head. Her eyes are huge. There's fear in them, confusion, and something else. Something I can't immediately read. She opens her mouth, but I shake my head. - I said, don't stop. The man beneath her swallows. He looks at Nastya. Then at me. Then back at Nastya. And—he begins to move. Carefully, slowly, as if testing the ice for strength. Nastya exhales. Her whole body goes limp, and she lies on him again—chest, stomach, cheek. Her eyes are closed. But I see her fingers trembling on his shoulder. I walk up to the bed. I sit on the edge. The mattress sags. Nastya shudders—from my weight, from the closeness. Her hand reaches out to me—hesitantly, blindly. I take her fingers. I squeeze. “Who is this?” I ask. "Dima," she says into the pillow. "From above." “From above,” I repeat. “The one you started renovating.” - Yeah. The man—Dima—moves more boldly. The rhythm increases. Nastya moans, but somehow restrainedly, as if forced. As if she can't fully relax. I let go of her hand. I stand up. I walk around the bed—towards Dima's side. He glances at me sideways, but doesn't stop. I look down at them: at his glistening cock entering and exiting her, at her pussy gripping it, at her ass rising and falling in time. “She likes it from behind,” I say. Dima blinks. - What? — From behind. She likes it from behind. And her hair needs to be pulled back. She doesn't like it when it gets in her face. Nastya makes a sound—half laugh, half moan. I lean over, gather her hair in my fist, and pull it back. She arches—hard, her whole body. And she moans—no longer restrained. Loudly. “That’s it,” I say. “Go on.” Dima looks at me. There's something like gratitude in his eyes. Or surprise. Or both. He nods—briefly, like a man—and starts moving as I said. From behind. Deeply. Rhythmically. Nastya moans loudly. Her hands clutch the sheets. I stand next to her, holding her hair, watching her body accept his cock—and I feel my own cock growing heavy. Concrete. Like that dream I never told anyone. I let go of her hair. I place my palm on the small of her back. She freezes—for a second—and relaxes again. Her skin is hot, damp. I move my hand lower, to her bottom. Stroking. Just stroking. She exhales, long and trembling. “May I?” I ask. She doesn't answer. She just nods, barely noticeably, her cheek on the pillow. I spit on my fingers. Roughly, without ceremony—there's no lube in the bedroom, and looking for it now, with Nastya on all fours and another man entering her, seems completely inappropriate. Saliva isn't ideal, but it's better than nothing. Nastya flinches when my fingers touch her bottom. Not from surprise—she was expecting it. From something else. Maybe from the fact that I do it like this, so casually, as if I'm continuing something I've started. “Relax,” I say. She's trying. I feel her muscles resist, clenching. Dima slows beneath her—instinctively, as if he understands that now is not the time for sudden movements. He seems to be a man of sense. He moves carefully, deeply, but softly. Giving her time. I press harder. My finger enters slowly, one knuckle at a time. Nastya exhales raggedly, with a sob. Her back arches. “More,” she whispers. I push deeper. The second finger follows. She leans back, meeting me. And I feel everything inside her relax, open up, accepting. As if this is exactly what she's been waiting for. Dima speeds up again. Now he and Nastya share a rhythm—he enters, I thrust my fingers forward, and she moans with every movement. Loudly, no longer holding back. I see her fingers crumple the sheets, her face pressed into the pillow, her hips trembling. “There you go,” I say. “Good girl.” She whines. She really whines—thinly, pitifully, happily. I pull my fingers out. She moans in protest, but I'm already there, already positioning my cock. My own, heavy, throbbing. I lubricate it with saliva—quickly, generously—and place it against her ass. "Dima," I say. "Slow down." He nods. Slows down. He enters her slowly, almost unbearably slowly. And at that moment, I enter too. In one movement, but without rushing. Just—entering. Nastya freezes. Her whole body goes rigid for a second. I feel her muscles contract around me—tight, hot. And Dima freezes inside her, too. We both stand motionless. Waiting. Then she exhales. Long, raggedly. And her body goes limp—relaxes, accepts us both. I feel her adjusting. Her breathing evens out. She begins to move again—of her own accord, barely noticeably, pushing herself down on us. “Now,” I say, “we can.” And we begin. Slowly at first. Synchronously—I enter, Dima pulls out, and vice versa. Nastya moans continuously, on a single note, and this moan vibrates in the air, filling the room. I feel her body working—accepting, releasing, accepting again. How her anal muscles contract around my cock, how her pussy contracts around Dima. How we both fuck her—from both sides, at two tempos, in two rhythms that gradually merge into one. “Faster,” she breathes. “Please.” Dima looks at me. I nod. And we are accelerating. This isn't a slow, deliberate movement anymore. This is pounding. Real MFF. I'm holding her by the hips and pounding into her ass, and Dima is pounding into her pussy underneath her, and she's bukvoeb.org between us—helpless, bound by our rhythm, our desire. Her breasts are shaking, her stomach is hollowing and bulging, her hair, which I've gathered into a fist again, is stretching. "More!" she screams. "More-more-more!" And we give her more. I feel everything inside her tighten—first around me, then around Dima. How her body begins to tremble—small, rapid, as if in a fever. How her moans become higher, thinner, almost a scream. She's finishing. I can feel it in the way her muscles clench around my cock—sharply, spasmodically, in waves. She screams—loudly, uncontrollably, at the top of her lungs. Her body arches, and I see her pee—a thin stream running down Dima's thigh, across the sheet. She can't stop. She screams, cums, pees—and cums again, because she can't stop. Dima freezes. He looks at me, his eyes wide and surprised. I nod: continue. And he continues. Slower, more gently, helping her through this. I slow down too. I stroke her back, long and soothingly. “My good one,” I say. “Good girl.” She sobs. Her body still trembles, but it's already quiet. Her breathing evens out. Dima looks at me over her shoulder. “Is she always like this?” he asks quietly. “Not always,” I say. “But often.” Nastya lets out a weak laugh. She raises her head, barely, her eyes cloudy and happy. "Shut up, both of you," she says. "Let me lie down." We don't give in. I pull out of her—slowly, carefully. Dima does too. She groans as we both slip out, and sinks onto the bed—face down, arms spread out. I look at Dima. He looks at me. We're both breathing heavily. His dick is glistening—from her, from the lube, from everything. Mine is too. “How are you?” I ask. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s just that… I didn’t expect that.” - Me too. We stand. Silent. Nastya snores into her pillow. “Maybe,” says Dima, “a beer?”