Stories by this author
641 stories · Page 1Olga was thirty-four. She looked younger—slender, with a narrow waist and C-cup breasts that hadn't yet sagged. Her hair was dark brown, shoulder-length, and her eyes were brown. Her husband no longer looked at her with the same greedy gaze he'd had in the early years. They had sex once every two or three weeks, and then quickly, with almost no foreplay. He'd come, roll over, and fall asleep. Olga would lie there, wet between her legs, her nipples hard, and then go to the bathroom to finger herself. This went on for almost six months. She'd gotten used to it. Until one evening, she opened his laptop—he'd gone shopping and left the page open. A dating site tab was in the browser history. Olga opened it. Profiles, photos, messages. Her husband had corresponded with several women, but nothing more than words. But among his bookmarks, she stumbled upon other men's profiles. Large penises, full-length photos, sizes listed right there in the profile. She stared at
Morning. I opened my eyes on my own, without an alarm clock. My head was heavy, my mouth was dry. At first, I didn't even realize where I was. The room was strange, yet familiar—like it belonged to my own house. A white closet, sheer curtains, laminate flooring. Then it dawned on me: it was the apartment across the street. My neighbor. Yesterday we bumped into each other on the stairs. She was carrying a bag, and I helped her carry it. Things moved quickly after that—tea, small talk, then no more. Now I'm lying here. She's sleeping next to me on the bed, the blanket pulled up to her chin. Her dark hair is spread across the pillow, her face calm. She's damn beautiful. Not exactly a model, but she has a nice figure, and her breasts really showed off yesterday. I sat down quietly, found my jeans on the chair, and started getting dressed. I wanted to leave before she woke up. It felt awkward somehow. Yesterday was all about emotion, and now it's morning, and I don
Many of you have probably rented an apartment from friends. It seems comfortable, humane, and not like living with strangers. That's exactly what happened to us. The apartment was rented to us by Lyokha, an old acquaintance of mine from college. We weren't exactly best friends, but we were on good terms, occasionally bumped into each other and had a drink. When my wife and I were looking for a place to rent, he just vacated his one-room apartment and offered it to us. The price was reasonable, no realtors involved, everything was reasonable. We agreed. Everything went smoothly for the first few months. We paid on time, Lyokha would stop by occasionally to pick up money, and we'd drink tea and talk. He'd just broken up with his girlfriend and was living alone in the house next door, in the same courtyard. It was even convenient for us; if anything happened, he was nearby. Then I started having delays at work. A month, then two. At first, we managed, but then we ran ou
My name is Max. I'm 26 and I work in logistics, working shifts that vary, sometimes including night shifts. I have a girlfriend, Lera. She's 23. She's about 165 cm tall, has a normal figure, not too skinny or too curvy. She has B-cup breasts, but large nipples, which I've always liked. She's in her final year of college and works part-time at a cafe on weekends. We're currently living with her parents, who are strict, so she usually spends the night at mine when she can. We've been dating for almost two years. Sexually, everything's fine; she likes it long and deep, but she rarely gives oral sex and always with reservations. She never gives anal sex, saying it hurts and isn't necessary. Today was supposed to be a normal day off, but this morning Lera texted that Katya, her friend from her class, had a birthday. They rented a dacha outside the city, a small group of about fifteen people. Katya invited Lera, and she immediately lit up. At first, I b
I boarded the train in the late afternoon. My ticket was for a reserved seat, but the conductor upgraded me to a free compartment for a small fee—I had an all-night journey ahead of me, and there just happened to be a rowdy group in the reserved seat. The compartment turned out to be for two, with lower berths. I threw my bag upstairs, stripped down to my T-shirt, and sat by the window. It was already getting dark outside, and the occasional lights of the station flickered. The woman entered just as the train was starting to move. At first, I didn't realize who it was. The face was familiar, yet alien—like when you remember someone as a young person and see them years later. She put down her suitcase, took off her coat, and only then looked at me carefully. “You?” she asked. I nodded. Her name was Lena. It was a dacha community, the late nineties. We lived two properties away. She was still in school then, wearing short shorts and tank tops without a bra, and I was already quite
My wife and I were almost thirty-five years old. Over the years, we had achieved many of our dreams, built careers, and started a family we both felt comfortable in. We had been together for almost fifteen years, but our relationship remained filled with tenderness, mutual interest, and passion. I worked remotely as a mobile app developer. I loved creating products that people used every day. The job required focus, a technical mindset, and constant learning of new technologies, but the freedom to organize my own time was one of its main benefits. Lately, I've been working on a particularly interesting project—a dating app aimed at people looking for casual encounters. I was eager to finish development and test my brainchild in practice. I've often found myself thinking that the project could be useful to me personally. My wife also achieved success in her profession. She worked as a lawyer at a major bank, where she required attentiveness, perseverance, and the ability to m
One time, I went to sleep over at a friend's house after her birthday. Her parents were away on a weeklong business trip, so it was just me and her and two of her friends the same age. She'd already invited them when I called and said, "Come over, we're going to have a blast tonight, no holds barred." I decided to wear a short skirt, a crop top, and a thong because I knew what was going to happen. I was free, the alcohol was already in my system, and I just decided to let loose. A friend opened the door; she was really happy I'd arrived and wasn't afraid. She introduced me to the guys—there were three of them. It was clear I was scared, but she assured me they were nice and wouldn't hurt anyone. We immediately went to the kitchen, turned on some music, and poured ourselves a glass. We drank to our new acquaintance. We started chatting, laughing, and dancing in the kitchen. Then I noticed my friend kissing a guy by the window, while the other one had h
Oleg and Nastya moved into their first apartment at the end of August. The renovation was completed quickly, the furniture was arranged, the boxes unpacked—and then Nastya said, "We should invite the neighbors over and introduce ourselves." Oleg frowned at first, but then agreed. The apartment was small, a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor, but the living room had room for a table and some room to spare. Nastya was a short girl with rounded hips and small breasts. Oleg was slightly taller than her, of average build, with a short haircut and a habit of constantly fiddling with things. They had been together for three years, previously renting a room near the metro, and now they had their own place. They knew their neighbors only by sight. Across the street lived a young couple—Denis and Lena, both in their early thirties, unencumbered. Upstairs lived Igor, a man in his forties, divorced, living alone. Downstairs lived Timur, an athletic-looking guy who worked either in
The hotel was called "White Sail"—a silly name, but with a certain pretentiousness. Three stars, all-inclusive, buffet from seven to ten, heated pool, but not deep. Lena and I chose it for its affordability and proximity to the sea. Or rather, to the sea because of its proximity. To the affordability because of its inevitability. We arrived on Saturday morning, tired and grumpy after a six-hour layover. Lena went straight to her room to catch up on sleep. I went to the pool bar to drink beer and look out at the sea. The bartender was a local guy. About twenty-five, maybe younger. Dark-skinned, black-haired, with a smile that seemed to never fade. He was wiping down the counter and chatting with someone in Italian—quickly, sing-songly, waving his arms as if conducting an invisible orchestra. I ordered a beer. He nodded, opened the bottle, and placed it in front of me. And said: - Russian? - Russian. “Good.” He smiled wider. “I like Russians. They drink a lot and talk little.”
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
Hello everyone. This is pure fantasy. Any coincidences are purely coincidental. "A strange gift in a rented apartment" is another dirty story about silicone skin and abnormal sizes. Swearing, crude language, milk, urine, and torn holes. There is no realism and there never will be. If you don't like it, close it. For everyone else, have a nice day. The apartment reeked of dampness and cheap air freshener, which hadn't masked the smell of sweat and semen in a long time. Alina stood by the window, adjusting her short red dress, which barely stretched over her silicone breasts and swollen ass. Her heels dug into the linoleum. The neighbors on the other side of the wall were already yelling—either they were having sex or arguing. She didn't give a damn. The client had promised to come with "something special," and the money in the envelope was supposed to last a week. The door opened without ringing. A man walked in, closed it behind him, and tossed a package
Why is it that when you're thirty-two, running a department, with your own apartment, car, and complete independence, everyone thinks you're deeply unhappy? Marina threw her phone down on the couch in irritation. Another "kind" friend had sent her a link to a dating site with the caption, "Well, at least try it, okay?" Try it. As if they were talking about a new kind of tea, not a real person. She walked to the window, hugging herself. Outside, November drizzled, gray and hopeless, making her feel even more miserable. Her friends had long since married, had children, and were now trying with enviable persistence to arrange her personal life. "Marisha, you're not made of iron," they'd say, sighing meaningfully. Iron. Maybe she was. In three years of running the department, she'd learned not to show emotion, not to trust first impressions, and not to mix work with personal matters. Especially the latter. At work, everything was stable and pr
My father married when I was already nineteen. I was a sophomore then, living in the dorm, and coming home on weekends—just to do laundry, get a decent meal, and so on. My mother had left us even earlier, three years earlier, and my father was alone for a long time. I got used to the quiet house, the smell of old books and his tobacco, the same mug always standing in the kitchen, and dumplings and beer in the fridge. And then he called and said he was married. He just presented me with a fait accompli. I didn't even know how to react right away. I just asked, "Who?" He replied, "Come over and meet me." Her name was Irina. She was thirty-two. I remembered the number because it somehow immediately stuck out to me—thirty-two, and my father was forty-eight. I thought then: well, it happens. Anything can happen. Maybe she needs an apartment, maybe something else. Anyway, I didn't really worry about it. I had enough of my own problems—sessions, a part-time job, I h
If someone had told me I'd be spending the night on the veranda with two groomsmen at my best friend's wedding, I'd have been shocked. I've always been the good girl in our group. That is, the one who makes sure no one overindulges, collects everyone's phones and purses, calls taxis, and reminds everyone that they have to go to work the next day. Even the bride's mother praised me all evening: "This is someone we should follow." I smiled modestly and adjusted the strap of my dress. The dress, by the way, was mint-colored, with an open back. I spent three weeks choosing it and was unsure until the very last minute if it was too bold. Anya said, "Take it, you look like a queen in it." Anya always makes all the decisions around here. The wedding turned out to be a big one. Seventy people, a country house rented for two days, a tent in the courtyard, live music, a toastmaster with below-the-belt jokes that everyone pretended not to hear. I was run
I'll tell you how I fucked my former classmate, now a neurologist. It all started when I started having some strange pain in my groin. My wife said, "Go see a doctor, stop putting up with it." So, I made an appointment at a private clinic to avoid lines and prying eyes. I show up, sit in the hallway, and wait. The nurse calls out, "Come in, room twelve." I walk in and am stunned. Sitting at the desk is Olya Smirnova, my classmate about ten years ago. She's aged, sure, but not much. She still has the same bangs, but instead of jeans and a sweater, she's wearing a white coat. "Wow," I say. "Olya? Is that you?" She looked up, squinted, then smiled: - Oh, my God. I didn't think you'd end up here. Come on, sit down and tell me what's bothering you. I sat down and began to explain. She listened, nodded, and wrote something down. Then she said: - Okay, let's watch. Lie down on the couch and take off your pants. Well, I undressed.
Hello everyone. It's me again, and again, the story isn't about me. Or rather, it's about me, but not in the way you might think. This time, the story is told from the perspective of a man—an acquaintance of mine with whom I once got to talking about this topic. He allowed me to record it but asked not to use his real name. Let's call him Igor. He's 34, lives alone in a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts, and works remotely in IT. I'm quoting his words almost verbatim, only editing them a bit for readability. So. It happened last fall. I was working on a project, sleeping five hours a night, and eating whenever I had to. That night, I finished a call around twelve thirty, realized I hadn't eaten anything decent all day, and went to the app to order something. I opened it, chose burgers, fries, and a cola. I looked at the delivery time—thirty-five minutes. Okay. I ordered, went to take a shower, and then sat down to finish watching the series. The
We moved into this house in May. It's a two-story building with four apartments, a small courtyard, and parking for two cars. Ours is on the far left, on the ground floor. The neighbor on the right is a man of about forty, lives alone. His name is simple, Sergey. He works from home, does something with computers. I've seen him a couple of times: going out for the mail, taking out the trash, sometimes smoking on the porch. An ordinary guy. Not fat, not thin, short, dark hair. Strong hands. For some reason, I noticed this right away—his hands. The first few weeks, we just said hello. "Good morning," "Good evening." Nothing more. His wife greeted him too, but casually, without stopping. Then one day, I came home from work, and she was standing next to him at the gate, laughing. He was telling her something, and she was listening. I walked over and said hello. Sergey nodded, saying that we had a nice yard, that it was quiet. I agreed. We went home. In the evening
The door opens, you come in with your suitcase, take off your coat without looking at me. It smells of the road, perfume, a foreign city. I stand in the hallway, waiting. You finally look—and I understand everything in your eyes. You're not tired. You're not missing me in a human way. You want to. You put down your suitcase, without taking off your shoes, and come closer. Silently. You take my chin and turn my face. You look. I remain silent. You run your thumb over my bottom lip, pressing lightly. I open my mouth. You smile—briefly, without warmth, rather contentedly. "Did you miss me?" you ask. Your voice is low, calm. I nod. You let go of my chin and walk into the room without turning around. I follow you. The suitcase is still standing in the hallway. In the room, you click the locks, lift the lid. You take out something wrapped in black cloth. You put it on the bed. You unfold it. A belt. Leather, wide, with a buckle. I look at it, then at you. You don’t smile.
I got out of the car first, without even turning around, knowing he was watching me. The evening air was cool, but I was still warmed by the champagne and his hands under the table throughout the banquet. My legs wobbled a little, not from the drink, but from anticipation. I took out my keys, swayed, and he grabbed my elbow. - Be careful, Natasha. His voice was low and calm, with that drawling quality that always made my stomach turn. Viktor Petrovich, my immediate supervisor, forty-six years old, divorced, with arms like an athlete, and such a master of the tongue that I sometimes forget my own name. I opened the door and immediately realized the light in the hallway was on. That meant Kostya wasn't asleep. Of course, how could he sleep when his wife was at the office party? I deliberately didn't tell him I'd be coming with someone. Why? Let it be a surprise. “Come in, Viktor Petrovich, don’t be shy,” I let him go ahead and slammed the door. Kostya stuck his head out of
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 studen