Seducing a friend's mother at the dacha

I never thought I'd be fucking my best friend's mother while lying on a lounge chair in the middle of a pine forest, while the birds sang as if they were requesting a soundtrack. Seriously. My name is Alexander, I'm twenty years old, five feet five inches tall, I play basketball at the college level, and I'm used to getting what I want. But Anna... that was on another level. We went to Vitka's dacha for the May holidays. He, his parents, and I—like, to get away from the city, have a barbecue, go to the sauna. I'd known Vitka since first year, but I'd only seen his parents briefly a couple of times. He'd say, "My mom's strict, my dad's busy." Okay, fine. I thought it would be a classic woman in a robe with curlers. I was wrong. When we walked into the house, she was standing by the living room window, adjusting the curtain. The sun was shining from behind, shining through the thin knit of her housedress. Her silhouette was simply stunning. I, the bitch, almost tripped over the threshold. A wide, heavy ass, tight as a ripe melon, and a waist that should be thin with such a butt—and it was thin. Her breasts were a D-cup, no less, and they weren't silicone, but heavy, real flesh. She was forty-five, but she looked thirty-five, except there was a certain weariness and hidden anger in her eyes, like a cat that hasn't been petted in a long time. "Sasha," she said in a low, slightly hoarse voice. "Vitya told me a lot about you. Come in." She smiled, but her eyes slid over my shoulders, lingered on my groin. I saw it. Or did I imagine it? A split second. She looked away, but I could already smell it. The scent of a wet, luscious woman who wants it but can't afford it. That evening, Vitka's dad, Igor Sergeyevich, got drunk on cognac and passed out in the gazebo. Vitek went to the bathhouse with some local guys. The two of us were left alone by the fire. She sat in a wicker chair, her legs tucked under her. Her dress had ridden up above her knees, and I could see the cellulite on her thighs—not much, just a little, but it was so natural. Not a porn star, but a real woman you'd want to fuck. "Where are you looking?" she asked, sipping her wine. Not sternly, more playfully. “On the fire,” I lied. "You're lying," she chuckled. "You're like all young people. You think that if a woman is over forty, she doesn't need anything anymore." I remained silent. She finished her glass. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing quickened. "You know," she said suddenly, "Igor hasn't slept with me for six months. He watches TV and snores. I'm not a woman to him anymore." I almost choked on the smoke. It was too frank, too harsh. She realized she'd said too much and turned away. “Sorry,” Anna said quietly. “The wine loosened my tongue.” “Don’t apologize,” I moved closer. “He’s an idiot.” She looked at me. In the darkness, her pupils dilated, almost hiding her irises. Her lips glistened wetly. The silence lasted an eternity. "Sasha," she exhaled. "Go to bed." But she didn't move. I stood up. I took a step toward her. I leaned down and ran my knuckles across her cheek. She shuddered, closed her eyes, but didn't pull away. My skin was hot and soft. “Good night, Anna Igorevna,” I said. And he went into the house, leaving her alone by the smoldering coals, with her heart pounding wildly. I stayed up almost until morning. I tossed and turned on the creaky sofa, imagining how I'd approach her in the night. How I'd pull down that thin dress, how she'd moan into the pillow so no one would hear. My dick was so hard, I could barely restrain myself from jerking off right there in the living room, listening to her husband's snores. The next morning, I went out into the courtyard to wash myself at the outdoor washstand. I took off my T-shirt and splashed ice-cold water on my face. Then I heard her voice from behind me: - You won't freeze? I turned around. She was standing on the porch in a short robe tied in a knot. Her legs were bare, and there was a wet streak down her chest—she must have just washed her face. Her nipples were visible through the terry cloth. "I'm used to it," I said, straightening up to my full height. Water was running down my abs, along my hairline, disappearing into my jeans. She was watching. Greedily. Almost hungry. “Can I...” she hesitated. “Can I touch it?” I didn't answer. Instead, I took her hand and pressed it to my stomach. She gasped, more from her own boldness than from the cold. Her fingers were shaking. She stroked her six-pack, running her nails down to her belt. “Oh, God,” Anna whispered. “What am I doing?” “What I’ve wanted for a long time,” my voice became hoarse. I tugged at the belt of her robe. The fabric fell open. She was wearing no underwear. None at all. Juicy, full thighs, a dark triangle of hair, slightly damp. A stomach—not perfectly flat, soft, feminine. I swallowed. There was no saliva left in my mouth. “Not here,” she breathed out. “There, behind the bathhouse. The old greenhouse. In half an hour.” She wrapped her robe around herself and went into the house. I stood there, watching her butt sway under the thin fabric. Her jeans felt tight. The greenhouse was abandoned: broken glass, rusty frames, the smell of rotting leaves and earth. The perfect place for infidelity. She arrived first. She stood with her back to herself, hugging herself as if she was cold. I closed the door and clicked the latch. One step. Another step. She heard, but didn't turn around. “Don’t look at me,” she begged. “I’m ugly. I’m old.” I moved closer, pressing my cock against her buttocks, and cupped her breasts in my hands. They were heavy and warm, and her nipple immediately hardened under my fingers. She moaned, throwing her head back on my shoulder. "You're the most amazing woman I've ever seen," I whispered into her ear, biting her lobe. "And I want to fuck you so hard you'll forget your name." I turned her around and captured her lips. First gently, then roughly, biting and sucking on her lower lip. She responded greedily, clumsily, as if it were her first kiss. Or the first real one in years. I pulled her dress over her head. She was left in stockings—that's all. A luxurious, mature body. I knelt down and spread her legs. The smell hit my nose—pungent, sour, arousing. The scent of a female. She tried to bring her thighs together: - It's not shaved... I didn't think that... - Shut up. I ran my tongue along her folds. From bottom to top, slowly, feeling her tremble. Her lips were swollen, dark, and moist. Her clit was swollen and protruded from its hood—a large pea, which I took into my mouth and began to suck, pressing rhythmically with my tongue. "Ah-ah!" She grabbed my hair. "Oh, fuck, yes... yes..." I licked her like ice cream, sucking in her juices, feeling her fluid and hot inside. Her legs gave way, I held her up, throwing one leg over my shoulder. I opened the door wider. I inserted a finger. It was tight, cramped, the muscles squeezing as if she'd never given birth. A second finger. She screamed and jerked. - Hurt? - No... it's crowded... there hasn't been anyone for a long time. I pushed my fingers deeper, felt the rough wall. The G-spot. I pressed. And then she exploded. Without warning, without buildup—she simply arched, gasping for air. Juices sprayed onto my face. The orgasm overwhelmed her in ten seconds. She slid down the wall, breathing heavily, her mouth open. I stood up and unzipped my jeans. My cock popped out, red, swollen at the tip, wet with precum. She looked at it, and fear flashed in her eyes. - Yours is so big... I'm scared. - Don't be afraid. I will be gentle. I sat her down on an overturned box, her back to the wall. She wrapped her legs around me. I ran the head of my cock over her labia, collecting moisture, spreading it. I entered a couple of centimeters. She bit her lip until it bled. More. More. All the way. There was nowhere deeper. "Oh, God," she breathed. "Stop... wait... I feel you in my throat..." I froze. I let her get used to it. My cock throbbed inside, squeezed on all sides by the hot, living velvet. She moved, and I groaned through my teeth. “Move,” she whispered. I fucked her slowly, deeply, all the way to the bottom. Every thrust was a slurping sound of her juices. She scratched my back, bit my shoulder to keep from screaming. I felt her womb contracting, her body bucking towards me. “I want it in the ass,” I breathed into her ear. She froze. — I never... my husband and I tried it, but he couldn't get it up... — Mine is as it should be. I pulled out my cock. It glistened with her lubricant. I turned her over, positioned her on all fours, and propped her hands against the wall. I spread her buttocks. The hole was small, wrinkled, pink. I spat on my fingers, rubbed the saliva in, and inserted one finger. She twitched. - Relax. Breathe. A second finger. The ring of muscles gave way, but reluctantly. I spread them, preparing the passage. She moaned, burying her face in my forearm. - Enough... come on already... I pressed the head in. Pressure. She screamed—I clamped my hand over her mouth. Slowly, very slowly, I entered that tight, incredibly hot depth. Like oil, but oil is a vagina. Anal is overcoming. When the penis was completely gone, we both froze, stunned by the sensation. I felt her heartbeat through the wall of her rectum. I felt her anus contracting, trying to push me out. It was unbearably pleasant. I began to move. Briefly, sharply, almost pulling out and then thrusting in again. With each thrust, she shuddered more and more violently. Saliva flowed down my hand, which I used to clamp over her mouth. She came a second time—silently, shaking violently, squeezing me from within with such force that I could barely contain myself. "On my face," she suddenly croaked. "Cum on my face. I want to try it." I pulled out my cock. It twitched in my hand, and the first stream hit her lips, her cheeks, her closed eyes. A second, a third. There was a lot of sperm—I'd been saving it up for days. She opened her mouth, caught the drops, smeared them over her skin with her fingers, and licked them off. We collapsed onto a pile of bags. I hugged her from behind, my cock still hard, pressing into the small of her back. She sobbed and laughed at the same time. "I cheated on my husband," she said. "Oh my God. And I'm not ashamed at all." We returned to the house one by one. I through the garden, she through the path. That evening, Igor Sergeyevich was grilling shashlik and complaining about politics. Vitka was pouring vodka. Anna sat across from me, primly adjusting the collar of her dress, hiding her hickeys. Nobody noticed anything. That night she came to me herself. She sat on top of me, looking into my eyes, swaying her hips. Slowly, agonizingly slowly. Her breasts swayed in front of my face, I took her nipples into my mouth, sucked, nibbled. She came three times in an hour. I came twice. With a condom, so as not to leave marks. Towards morning she said: "It won't happen again. We're leaving tomorrow. You'll forget me and find a younger woman." I remained silent. Because I didn't want to lie, and telling the truth would only complicate matters further. Three months passed. I stopped going to Vitka's house. He was upset, but I made up excuses. This evening I received a message on Telegram. An unfamiliar number, a black avatar. "Hi. This is Anna. I divorced Igor. I rented an apartment in the city. If you want to see me, I'll send you the address. You said I was the most amazing. Was that a lie or the truth?" I look at the screen. I remember the smell of rotting leaves, the moisture on my fingers, her muffled moan when I entered her from behind. Fingers type out a reply while the head is still trying to come up with an excuse. "It's true. Send me the address." My dick is hard again. I close my laptop. It seems like I'll be going to the city a lot this summer.