Mature lady over 50

Igor was taught from an early age that he was good for nothing. His mother drilled this into him every single day while he was growing up in their Khrushchev-era apartment on the outskirts, surrounded by perpetually leaking pipes and the smell of fried onions. You'll never amount to anything, she'd say, pouring herself tea with the sediment of yesterday's brew. Igor believed it. He dropped out of vocational school to become a welder in his second year and got a job at a "Husband for an Hour" company—at least they paid cash there, and the clients, mostly lonely old women with chandeliers that needed rehanging, didn't ask too many questions. He replaced electrical outlets, repaired faucets, hung curtain rods, and in the evenings, he'd return to his rented room, where his only joy was an old phone with a cracked screen, on which he watched porn videos—fast, angry, and plotless. He didn't have a girlfriend and didn't expect one: Igor was embarrassed by his stooped posture, the pimples on his cheekbones, and his perpetually dirty hands, which couldn't be washed with any soap. He didn't have enough money even for decent clothes, let alone dates. By the age of twenty-three, he had resigned himself to it—apparently, it was his destiny to spend his entire life crawling under strangers' sinks. The request arrived on Thursday, and the dispatcher gave him the address: downtown, a new residential complex with a concierge and mirrored elevators. "They need to change the kitchen faucet, go right now, the woman paid extra for the rush." Igor stuffed his tools into an old backpack and rode the bus, watching the gray panel buildings give way to glass towers outside the window. At the entrance, he pressed the intercom, and a woman's voice—low, husky, like actresses in old movies—invited him to the twelfth floor. The door opened almost immediately, as if someone was waiting for him. Anna Borisovna stood in the doorway—a tall woman of fifty, with heavy breasts and hips that weren't concealed, but rather emphasized by a thin, mid-thigh-length silk robe. The robe was dark cherry red, shimmering in the hallway light, and there was no sign of any underwear underneath—only a well-groomed, sleek body, the kind you'd see on a woman who's never stood over a stove or lugged shopping bags. She wore heeled slippers and rings on her toes, clearly not from a kiosk. She smelled of expensive perfume, sweet and heavy. Igor swallowed. He'd expected another old woman in curlers, but what he got was... this. "Come in, boy," she said, stepping back into the corridor, the word "boy" laced with a smile. "Take off your clothes. I mean, take off your shoes. The slippers are over there." He took off his sneakers, his toe sticking out, and felt ashamed. The apartment was huge, with panoramic windows, leather sofas, and a peculiar, uninhabited atmosphere. On the table by the window sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a single glass with the dregs of amber liquid at the bottom. "The kitchen's over there," she waved her hand. "Change the faucet, I'll sit here for now and not get in the way. Or I will. We'll see." Igor went into the kitchen, laid out his tools, and turned off the water. It was a simple job, about forty minutes long. He was unscrewing the old faucet when he heard footsteps behind him. Anna Borisovna stood in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame, watching him work. She already had a full glass in her hand. "Do you want a drink?" she asked without ceremony. "I see you're cold. You're so thin, you're swaying in the wind. Your mother probably isn't feeding you." Igor wanted to refuse—drinking was strictly forbidden at work—but something in her tone was commanding, brooking no argument. He nodded. Anna Borisovna poured him whiskey into a heavy glass; their fingers touched. Her skin was hot. "Drink," she ordered. "I'm alone today, my husband is in London, and it's my birthday. Fifty-two, by the way. No children, no grandchildren, only gifts from my husband, worth as much as my longing. At least you could sit with me." The whiskey burned his throat and spread warmth through his belly. Igor wasn't used to strong alcohol, and after just half an hour—he'd barely managed to get the faucet dial right—his head was pleasantly spinning and his tongue was loosened. Anna Borisovna sat across from him at the kitchen table, her legs crossed, her robe parted so that her thigh was exposed almost to her groin. Her underwear was nowhere to be seen. Igor stared at this triangle of shadow and light, unable to tear his eyes away. She noticed and chuckled. “Do you like it?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, added: “And I like you. Young. Clean, even if a little poor. And most importantly, not a pushover. You know what my husband is like? He thinks fucking me is an option on his business schedule. Once a month, with an alarm clock. And I’m still alive, okay? Alive-ish.” She stood up and walked right up to him—he was sitting on a stool, and her hips were right at his face level. The scent of his perfume intensified, becoming almost suffocating. Anna Borisovna placed her hand on the back of his head and pulled him closer. The fabric of her robe slid across his cheek. "Make me feel good, grandson," she whispered with the same grin. "Really. Like in those porn videos you probably watch." Igor, already struggling to think clearly, buried his face in her crotch. His pubic area was shaved clean, her labia were hot, wet, and smelled of musk and soap. He stuck out his tongue and traced the crease, clumsily but diligently. Anna Borisovna moaned from above, grabbed his hair, and guided him. "Right here, it's called the clitoris. Remember this, it'll come in handy." He licked and sucked, choking on her juices, and she moved her hips, grinding against his face, her breathing quickening with each movement. A few minutes later, she pulled him away and yanked him to his feet. She unzipped his work pants, which he'd bought at a thrift store, and pulled out his penis—to Igor's surprise, it was rock hard, even though he'd thought he'd be too scared to get an erection. "And our boy is no slouch," Anna Borisovna assessed, curtsying. "A young penis is the best gift. Better than anything my husband sends from London." She took him into her mouth—deeply, in one motion, all the way to her throat. Igor nearly fell, clutching the countertop. No one had ever done that to him. The sensation was overwhelming—a hot, slippery mouth, a tongue swirling around his frenulum, the light brush of teeth. Anna Borisovna sucked him with concentration, with a dexterity you couldn't learn online. She sometimes swallowed him whole, sometimes released him and swirled her tongue around the head, looking up at Igor with moist eyes. “Now fuck me,” she commanded, standing up. “Just not like that with your wet cunts. Slowly. With feeling. Fuck me like the woman you want.” She leaned her hands on the kitchen table, arched her back, and her robe fell off her shoulders, revealing a large, dimpled backside. Igor positioned himself behind her, awkwardly thrusting his cock into her crotch, but didn't quite make it. She helped, grabbing his shaft and inserting it inside her. It was tight and hot inside, like an oven. Igor began to move, timidly at first, but with her encouraging moans, he settled into a rhythm. She moaned loudly, unabashedly, and her moans made him feel almost giant, almost macho. The table creaked, the glass of whiskey rattled, her nails scratched the countertop. "Harder, boy," she breathed. "I'm not made of porcelain. Drive it all the way into my balls." He thrust. He came quickly, much faster than he intended—his sperm spurted into Anna Borisovna. He went limp on top of her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and slid to the floor. She remained standing, breathing heavily. "It's okay," she said, bringing her breathing back to normal, "not bad for the first time. The second will be better." She walked up to the bar, pulled out several large bills and shoved them into his breast pocket. "For the faucet," she explained matter-of-factly. "And for the rest. Come tomorrow, I'll call your office. I still need to hang a curtain rod in the bedroom. And a few other things." Igor left the apartment in a daze. His ears were ringing. The money in his pocket was damp with sweat. He took the elevator down, passed the concierge, who didn't even look up, and stepped outside. The thought swirled in his head: maybe he wasn't so useless after all. It just hadn't occurred to anyone to put him to his real purpose before.