Sex with a married landlady

I'll say right away that this isn't my first story, but it's one of those that still pops into my head without any reason. It was about eight, maybe nine, years ago. I was renting a room in a three-room apartment on the outskirts of town because the dorm was a shambles and I couldn't afford a decent apartment. The landlady was forty-two, her name was Irina, and she lived in the same apartment, but in the back room. Her husband, Vadim, worked either up north or somewhere else—I never quite remember—because he'd show up every two or three months, for a week at most, and then disappear again. She rented out the room not because she was poor, as I later realized, but so she wouldn't have to sit alone in an empty apartment. At least, that's what she told me when I was about to move out. We met in a very casual way: I came to look at a room, she opened the door in a robe, holding a cigarette, and my first thought was that she was too well-groomed to be a student landlord. Her hair was dyed dark, cut short, and she still had a good figure; it was clear she took care of herself, although age was already showing in her face and neck. The room suited me, as did the price, and I moved in a week later. For the first two months, everything was normal: I was studying, working part-time, she went to her job, we'd run into each other in the kitchen, drinking tea, and chatting about nothing in particular. She complained about her husband, that he was never around, that she was tired of being alone, but without any hysterics, more like everyday things. I nodded and agreed, but didn't really pay attention. Sometimes we'd have a drink together on weekends; she'd buy wine, I'd buy something stronger. A couple of times, she'd get drunk and start talking about her youth, how beautiful she was, how she'd had so many admirers, but she'd married the first person who proposed, and now she was stuck indoors. I listened, but didn't pay attention. I was young and stupid then, and it seemed like just idle talk to me. The first time I felt something was wrong was when she accidentally came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, and I was just heading to the kitchen. She pretended not to notice me, but she didn't cover herself or apologize; she simply walked past, and I caught a whiff of her body odor mixed with shower gel. I didn't think anything of it at the time, chalking it up to a fluke. There were a couple more moments like that, but I didn't dare do anything about it, because who knows, maybe I was just imagining it, and I'd look like an idiot. But one evening, as we sat in the kitchen drinking wine and she started complaining about her husband yet again, I felt her foot under the table. At first, I thought she'd accidentally touched it, but she didn't move it. Instead, she slowly ran her foot down my shin, and I froze. She stared at me, her eyes fixed on mine, and I realized it wasn't an accident. I didn't know what to say, so I just sat there and looked at her. She smiled, stood up, said she was going to bed, and left the kitchen. I remained sitting there, my heart pounding, unsure of what had just happened. And two days later something happened that makes me still remember that apartment, that kitchen, and that smell of her perfume when she leaned over me to pour herself more wine. The next day, I couldn't concentrate on anything. I sat like a log in my chair during class, and pretended everything was fine at home, but inside, I was seething. I didn't know how to act. On the one hand, she was a married woman, twenty years older than me, and that should have stopped me. On the other hand, I kept remembering her leg under the table, the look in her eyes, and I realized it was turning me on more than it should have. That evening, I returned home later than usual, hoping she'd already been asleep. But she wasn't. She was sitting in the living room, in a chair, with a glass of wine, wearing the same robe she'd been wearing when she opened the door two months ago. The TV was on, but she wasn't looking at it. When I entered, she turned her head and said: - I thought you weren't coming. "I had things to do," I replied, although I had nothing to do. I was simply walking the streets so as not to sit in the same kitchen with her. “Sit down,” she nodded towards the sofa. “Would you like a drink?” I sat down. She poured me some wine, even though I didn't ask. We were silent. The television muttered something, but I didn't hear a word. She looked at me, and I felt her gaze even when I turned away. “You’re tense,” she said finally. “Because of yesterday?” “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Maybe.” — Did I embarrass you? I didn't answer. She put the glass on the table, stood up, came over, and sat down next to me, too close. I could feel the warmth of her body, the smell of wine and the cigarettes she'd been smoking on the balcony an hour ago. "I won't pretend it didn't happen," she said quietly. "I know how you feel. I feel it too." “You have a husband,” I said, and it sounded stupid, like an excuse I didn’t want. "My husband," she repeated, and there was no bitterness or anger in her voice, just a simple statement. "A husband who's not here. A husband who comes over once every three months, fucks me twice, and then leaves, and I'm left alone in this apartment again. Do you think I like that?" I remained silent. She placed her hand on my knee, and I flinched. Her palm was warm, slightly damp, and I felt my body react before my head could even decide. "I won't force you," she said. "If you want to leave, go ahead. I won't be offended. But if you stay, I want you to know: I won't pretend this was an accident." I looked at her. She wasn't young, but there was something about her that wasn't found in girls my age. Calm, confidence, and a tired but vibrant sensuality. I didn't know what to do. I'd never been in a situation like this. I'd had two girlfriends before her, both ordinary, both short-lived, and I didn't remember either of them looking at me the way Irina did. “I’ll stay,” I said, my voice breaking. She smiled, stood up, took my hand, and led me to her room. I followed her like a fool, not realizing what I was doing, but also not wanting to stop. Her room was dimly lit; only the table lamp by the bed was lit. She closed the door, turned to me, and took off her robe. She was wearing nothing underneath. Her body wasn't like a twenty-year-old's, but I didn't expect it. Her stomach had sagged a little from the birth, which, as I later realized, wasn't real, just age. Her breasts weren't perky anymore, but were large and heavy, with large nipples that immediately tightened when she came into the world. Her hips were wide, her pubic area was clean-shaven—I noticed this right away, and for some reason, it turned me on more than anything else. She had stretch marks on her stomach, thin and light, and she made no attempt to hide them. She stood there, looking at me, uncovered, waiting for me to do something. I walked over and hugged her, and she immediately pressed her whole body against me. She smelled of wine and tobacco. We kissed, and it wasn't the kind of kiss I was used to, not rushed or hesitant. She kissed slowly, deeply, as if she wasn't in a hurry, and I felt her hand slide under my shirt, down my back, then down to my belt. She unbuttoned it, then the button on my jeans, and I felt her fingers slip inside. She grabbed my cock through my underwear, squeezed, and I exhaled into her neck. "How long has it been since you've had anyone?" she asked, not pulling away. “A couple of months,” I lied, because in reality more had passed. “Good,” she said. “Then you have a lot of strength.” She knelt down right there by the bed, pulled down my jeans and underwear, and I was left standing there, bare-chested, my dick sticking out like a salami. She looked at it, then at me, and smiled, not mockingly, but kindly, I think. “Good,” she said. “Fat dick.” She took it in her hand, rubbed it a few times, then licked the head slowly, and I felt my legs buckle. I'd never received a blow job from a woman who did it so calmly, so confidently, so without fuss. She took it into her mouth, not deeply, but rhythmically, helping with her hand, and looked up at me, watching my reaction. I stood there, afraid to move, lest I come too quickly. “Lie down,” she said after a minute, letting me go. I lay down on the bed. She climbed on top, sat on my hips, and I felt her vagina slide over my cock, warm and wet. She didn't insert it right away, just rubbed herself, spreading the lubricant, and looked at me. — Have you ever fucked a married woman? - No. - Then remember this evening. She raised herself up, took my cock in her hand, guided it, and slowly lowered herself. I felt it enter her, and it was different from my exes. She was hot, slippery, and tight inside, despite the fact that she was clearly not a virgin. She began to move, slowly at first, then faster, and I watched her breasts sway in rhythm, her lips bite, and the sweat beading on her forehead. “Good,” she said. “It’s good that you’re young.” I didn't understand what she meant, but I didn't care. I grabbed her hips and began to move forward, going deeper, and she moaned uncontrollably, loudly, so loudly that I was afraid the neighbors would hear. But she didn't stop. She leaned toward me, kissed my neck, my lips, bit my shoulder, and I felt myself being washed over. "Don't cum yet," she said, feeling it. "I want more." She got off me, turned her back, got on all fours on the bed, and I saw her butt, full and white, with red marks from my fingers on her thighs. She spread her legs, and I saw her vagina, wet, open, and her anus, small, dark, clenched. She turned to look at me and said: - Let's do it from behind. I want to feel your dick deeper. I knelt down, took my cock, which was glistening with her juices, and entered her in one motion. She screamed, buried her face in the pillow, and I began to fuck her hard, just as she asked. The bed creaked, I held her by the hips and drove my entire length into her, and she bucked up to meet me, and I heard her moan into the pillow and her body slap against mine. "That's it," she said between moans. "That's it, don't stop." I didn't stop. I felt myself cumming and told her so. She arched her back, pressed herself against me, and I came inside her, deeply, my whole body shaking. She moved on top of me for a few more seconds, squeezing everything out, then slowly got off and lay on her back. I lay down next to her, breathing heavily. We lay in silence, the only sound was the TV in the living room. "Have you ever tried it in the ass?" she asked after a minute, looking at the ceiling. “No,” I answered. - Do you want to fuck my ass? I turned my head and looked at her. She was lying naked, sweaty, with sperm smeared across her thighs, and she looked at me calmly, as if asking if he wanted some tea. “I want to,” I said. She smiled and got out of bed. She left the room and returned a minute later with a bottle of massage oil she'd pulled from somewhere in the bathroom cabinet. I lay there and watched as she climbed back onto the bed, not on top of me this time, but on her side, facing me. She unscrewed the cap, poured some oil onto her fingers, and, without looking at me, began slowly moving her hand down her stomach. "Just lie there," she said. "And watch." She bent one leg at the knee, spread it, and I saw everything. Her fingers, glistening with oil, slid between her labia, ran over her clitoris, then lower, to her anus. She took her time. She circled the sphincter ring, pressed the pad, and I saw it give slightly, allowing the tip of her finger in. She exhaled, relaxed, and her finger entered all the way to the first knuckle. She moved it slowly, back and forth, and watched me, watching for a reaction. My cock began to harden again, even though it had only been ten minutes. "Come here," she said. "Just take your time." I sat down next to her. She handed me the bottle, and I poured some oil onto my fingers. She lay on her stomach, propped a pillow under her hips to raise her bottom, and spread her legs. I saw her ass up close, full, with dimples above the cheeks, and her anus, clenched but already slightly damp from the oil she'd applied there herself. I ran my finger over the ring, and she shuddered but didn't tense up. I pressed, and my finger went in easier than I expected. It was hot and tight inside, and I felt her muscles squeeze me, then release. “More,” she said. “Now two fingers.” I added a second one. She exhaled, shifted a little, but didn't complain. I moved my fingers slowly, stretching, and she began to moan softly, burying her face in the pillow. "Enough," she said after a couple of minutes. "Now give it to me." I poured oil onto my penis, spread it with my hand, and placed the head against her anus. She lay there, waiting. I pressed, and she tensed, and I felt the head resist, not going in. She exhaled, relaxed, and I pressed again, harder. The head entered, and she cried out briefly, not from pain, but rather from surprise. I froze. It didn't feel like a vagina. It was tight, hot, and her muscles squeezed me so tightly that I was afraid to move. "Slowly," she said. "Very slowly." I began to enter, millimeter by millimeter. She was breathing deeply, and I saw her fingers clutching the sheets. I was halfway in, and she told me to stop. I knelt, feeling her body adjust to me, and watched her back, watching her slowly relax. After half a minute, she said: - More. I pushed all the way in. She screamed louder, and I thought it was all over now, that she'd tell me to get off, but she didn't. She lay there, breathing heavily, and I felt her anus pulsating around my cock. "Now move," she said. "Just not too quickly." I began to move. Slowly, with short thrusts, pulling out almost all the way and then pushing back in. She moaned, not from pain, but somehow differently, deeper, perhaps. I felt her body give in, her muscles stop resisting, and after a minute I could move more freely, entering her fully. “Faster,” she said. “We can go faster now.” I sped up. I held her hips and thrust into her ass, and the bed began to creak again, and I heard her moan into the pillow and her body slap against mine. The oil was doing its job, and I was thrusting in and out with almost no friction, and it was unlike anything I'd experienced before. I looked at her ass, watching my cock disappear into her and reappear, and it turned me on so much that I forgot about everything else. “Do you want to cum?” she asked, turning her head. - Yes. - Then go ahead. Just not in the butt. I pulled out, flipped her onto her back, spread her legs, and entered her vagina, which was wet with oil and her juices. She wrapped her legs around me, and I began to fuck her hard, fast, looking into her face. She looked at me, and there was no shame or embarrassment in her eyes, only something heavy, calm, like that of a person who has gotten what she wanted. I came within a minute, deep inside her, and she pressed me against her, not letting me come until I stopped shuddering. We lay there, and I felt her body relax beneath me. She stroked my back, slowly, and I didn't know what to say. My head was empty. I thought only about what had just happened, and about how tomorrow I would have breakfast with her in the same kitchen. “You don’t regret it?” she asked. “No,” I said, and it was the truth. She smiled and kissed me on the forehead. Then she stood up, threw on a robe, and went into the kitchen. I heard her open the refrigerator and pour water. I lay in her bed, naked, with the scent of her body on my skin, and I knew this wouldn't be the last time. And that from now on, I would look forward to every evening when she would come home from work again, sit in the chair, and look at me the way she had looked at me today.