My mother's drunk friend stayed overnight.

I'd been playing "Tanks" for three hours when another burst of laughter came from the kitchen. My mother and her friends, Natasha and Irina, were celebrating her fortieth birthday. I popped in to congratulate her, drank a glass of cognac with them to their health, and retreated back to my den—sitting with three forty-year-old women and listening to them talk about men, diets, and bosses was more than I could handle. She's twenty years old, after all, and has her own interests. Around eleven o'clock in the evening, the laughter died down. I went to investigate. The kitchen was piled high with dirty dishes and empty bottles. Mother and Aunt Natasha were asleep in Mom's bedroom, the door ajar—I heard their synchronized snoring. But Irina was nowhere to be found. I walked into the living room and saw her. She was lying on the sofa, on her side, her legs tucked under her, covered only by a light blanket that had slipped halfway to the floor. The light from the streetlamp fell through the uncurtained window, casting strange shadows on her body. Irina was the most youthful of my mother's friends—thirty-six, with an athletic figure and shoulder-length blond hair. I couldn't help but stare. The blanket barely concealed the contours of her hips in her tight skirt. Her blouse had ridden up, revealing a strip of her stomach and a hem of black lace. I stood and looked at her for a minute, two, three. My cock began to harden. She didn't even move. She was breathing deeply, evenly, with a slight whistle. I walked closer and squatted down next to the sofa. Her face was relaxed, without makeup—she must have managed to wash her face before passing out. She smelled of booze and some sweet perfume. Sickly, but not repulsive. I gently touched her shoulder. No reaction. Then I grew bolder and placed my hand on her thigh, sliding it upward. She didn't wake up. My cock was already pressing against my pants, demanding release. Thoughts raced through my head: "She's my mom's friend, what the hell am I doing?" But another part of my brain had already turned off all the brakes. I quietly unzipped her skirt. It was lying on its side, and pulling it off was incredibly awkward. I decided to carefully lift it up. First one side, then the other. She fidgeted, rolled over onto her back, muttered something unintelligible, and then fell silent again. The skirt was hiked up. She was wearing black lace panties—small, more for show than for comfort. I stared at them, mesmerized, examining the pattern in the semi-darkness and the way the fabric stretched across her pubic area. My heart was pounding. I leaned closer and carefully inhaled. The scent was intoxicating. A mixture of residual perfume, light sweat from a long day, and, most importantly, the tart, spicy aroma of her heated body. Unable to resist, I pressed my nose right to the fabric of her crotch. The scent grew stronger, more concentrated, with a slight sourness. It made my head spin. I imagined her husband, Uncle Kolya, fucking her every night, and it turned me on even more. I pulled my cock out of my pants. It was already hard, a drop of precum oozing from the head. My balls were humming. I began to slowly jerk off, never taking my face off her panties. "Irochka," I whispered barely audibly. "Aunt Ira..." Silence. I pulled her panties down just a few centimeters, revealing the top of her pubic area. Dark hairs, neatly trimmed. I ran my fingers through them, feeling the heat and wetness. I pulled the panties aside and paused. Her labia were slightly swollen, and natural lubrication glistened between them. My tongue darted forward. I licked them carefully. The taste was salty, clean, not an ounce of disgusting. I licked again, parting her folds with my tongue, finding her clit. She gave a barely perceptible twitch of her hip. I froze for a second, but she didn't wake up. Then I pressed my mouth to her pussy and began working my tongue more boldly, licking up her juices, penetrating her with my tongue. My cock rubbed against my fingers as I jerked off, watching her shamelessly spread legs. My tongue moved higher, toward her anus. I turned her slightly on her side and spread her cheeks. A small, neat hole, so clean. I licked there, feeling her reflexively clench. The taste was simply of skin, nothing extra. The realization that I was licking my mom's friend's ass while she slept drunk in our living room nearly made me come all over the couch. I paused for a second, catching my breath. No, it couldn't go that fast. I wanted more. She rolled over onto her back again, arms spread out. I lifted her hips, placing a nearby pillow under them. I spread her legs wider. Her panties were already hanging around one ankle. I placed the tip of my penis against her vagina. It was wet—either from my saliva, or from her own juices, or from both. I pressed. The tip entered easily. I gasped at the sensation—hot, tight, pulsating. She had already given birth, but her muscles held up perfectly. I went deeper, centimeter by centimeter, feeling the walls encircle my cock like a tight ring. The thought was pounding in my head: "I'm fucking Aunt Ira, Mom's friend, this is really happening." She moaned in her sleep. For a second, I was afraid she'd wake up, see me, and scream. But she merely licked her lips and began breathing evenly again. Apparently, in her sleep, her body was reacting to the penetration. I began to move—slowly, almost gently, withdrawing almost completely and then plunging back in. The sound was wet, squelching. With each thrust, her pussy made lewd, slurping sounds that echoed throughout the quiet living room. "That's it, Aunt Ira," I whispered, picking up the pace. "My dear..." At some point, I lost my composure and started fucking her for real. My balls slapped against her ass with a wet sound. She began breathing faster, her eyelashes fluttered, but consciousness didn't return. I imagined her waking up and wrapping her legs around me, begging for more. But reality was different—she was completely at my mercy. The orgasm hit me suddenly, a hot wave from my balls to my head. I wanted to pull out, but I didn't have time and came inside her, deeply, my whole body shaking. The sperm spurted into her heated womb. I froze for a few seconds, enjoying the pulsation, and then slowly pulled out my limp penis. It started leaking immediately. A thick, whitish liquid trickled down, staining the sofa. I took a step back, catching my breath, looking at my handiwork. Aunt Ira lay with her legs spread, dirty, disheveled, unsuspecting. On wobbly legs, I made my way to the bathroom, wiped my penis with a damp towel, and returned to the living room. I carefully wiped her crotch with the same towel and adjusted the blanket to cover the mess. Her panties were still hanging from the chandelier—I'd tossed them there in a fit of mischief. I imagined her searching for them in the morning and grinned. I walked into my room, closed the door, and collapsed onto my bed. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins. Going over every second in my mind, I didn't even notice how I'd fallen asleep. In the morning, I was awakened by noise in the kitchen. My mother and friends were drinking tea. I went out, trying hard to look like a sleepy student. “Good morning,” I muttered, heading towards the kettle. "Hello, Dimul," Aunt Ira responded. She was sitting at the table, already dressed and fresh, drinking coffee. "How did you sleep?" “It’s fine,” I answered, not looking her in the eyes. “And you?” "Can you imagine, I'm so hungover, my head's splitting," she complained, "and I've been dreaming about something crazy all night. Like I was having fun with my lover..." Mother and Natasha laughed. "Maybe it wasn't a dream?" Mom joked. "Oh, come on," Irina waved it off. "Unless the brownie screwed me." I poured myself some tea in silence, trying not to smile. My gaze fell on the chandelier in the living room. The panties were already gone. She must have found them. I wonder what she thought when she took them off?