Stories by this author
624 stories · Page 1The 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
She arrived at nine, as arranged. The house stood at the end of the road, behind a high fence, and as she walked from the gate to the porch, she had time to think that she shouldn't have worn those old sneakers—the house probably had parquet floors, and she'd leave a mark. But the sneakers were comfortable, easy to wash and polish, so she decided not to bother. The door was unlocked. She hesitated on the threshold, then finally went in and called softly—no one was there. The house smelled of dust and something like old furniture. She walked down the hallway and peered into the living room. The huge sofa, the rug, the fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling windows—and everything was covered in a layer of dust, as if no one had been there for a month. She took off her jacket and found a bucket, rags, and a mop in the utility room. The work was familiar; her hands had done it themselves. She washed, scrubbed, wiped the windowsills, and wiped the baseboards. It was getting on for lunch
The whole gang left around two o'clock. Andrey went home—"early tomorrow, bro, you'll figure it out yourself." Katya stayed behind. She said it was scary to catch a taxi looking like this, that the sofa was fine, that "I'll just lie down for half an hour." I was sitting in the kitchen, finishing my beer and staring into the dark crevice of the living room. She was lying sideways on the couch, facing the back. Her dress had ridden up almost to her thigh. One leg was bent, the other slightly extended. Between them were black panties, a thin strip of fabric that concealed nothing if you looked long enough. I watched long enough. Katya is Andrey's girlfriend. Not just an acquaintance. The one he kissed in the kitchen an hour ago, the one whose waist he held while she laughed. And now she's here, drunk, warm, sleeping on my couch, my hard-on already pressing against my crotch. I didn't realize it right away. She'd truly passed out. Then I saw h
On a business trip, I was sitting in my room for the third evening, completely at a loss for what to do with myself. I was fed up with TV, and so was my correspondence with my wife. I opened a website and scrolled through the profiles. One photo showed a girl of about twenty-two, thin, smiling, and wrote, "gentle, uninhibited." I messaged her. We agreed on an hour, I sent her a deposit, and gave her my number. Forty minutes later, there was a knock. I opened the door—and it wasn't her. About thirty-two years old, plump, short hair, a leather jacket, and a shoulder bag. She was definitely different from the photo. — Are you Andrey? - Yes... And you? — It's me today. A photo for those who are afraid. If you want a sweet girl, I'm not her. My rules. If you don't like it, the door is behind you. I stood there in my shorts and a T-shirt; it was already stupid to try to win back. The money was gone. I nodded. - Then close the door and take everything off. Don't
He rents apartments exclusively to female students. Everyone knows this, but no one talks about it out loud. His building is old, three stories, on a quiet street near the university. The apartments are small but clean. And the price is below market. Much lower. I've been renting from him since my second year. Now I'm in my fourth. The room is small, with a window overlooking the courtyard, a bed, a table, and a closet. Everything is modest, but it's mine. My parents think I'm lucky. I thought so too. For the first three months. He comes unannounced. He has his own keys. He says he needs to check the condition of the apartment. The pipes, the wiring. All that stuff. The first time, I just opened the door in my robe. He looked at me, then at the bed. He said the mattress needed to be changed. I nodded. He came over, touched the mattress, then touched me. I stood there like an idiot. He took his time. He took off my robe, then my panties. I didn't even have time to
I want to tell another story about how the most ordinary people unexpectedly discover new dimensions of pleasure. My wife, Irina, and I are 34 and 29. I work in IT, and she's a speech therapist. We're a perfectly ordinary couple: I'm a little overweight but try to stay in shape, and Irina has short brown hair, small B-cup breasts, and a sporty butt. She's shy, but over the years, she's become more trusting of me in bed. Our friends were Pasha and Lena. Pasha was 38, a long-haul truck driver, a big man with a beer belly. Lena was his wife, 31, a brunette with C-cup breasts and wide hips. They were simpler than us, but it was precisely this simplicity that attracted us. Pasha was never shy about his words, and Lena would easily slap me on the butt or sit on Irina's lap and start whispering in her ear. We rented a friend's dacha—an old wooden house with a sauna, a swimming pool, and a huge terrace covered in wild grapes. We arrived on Friday evening and imme
My friend Dima and I have been friends for years, and it was his birthday—he was 22. So, naturally, I came. Of course, how could he not? He was renting an apartment with his girlfriend, Lera. She's so beautiful, slim, with a round butt, neat B-cup breasts, dark shoulder-length hair, and brown eyes. Basically, even the first time I saw her, I thought Dima was lucky. So, when I showed up, almost all the guests had already left, leaving just me, Dima, and Lera. His roommate, Artyom, was there, too, but he'd left somewhere earlier, so it was just the three of us. We were sitting in the kitchen, drinking beer, laughing at all sorts of bullshit, reminiscing about school and partying. Lera had already had a fair amount to drink, her face flushed, her eyes shining, and she kept looking at me strangely. At first, I didn't pay attention—well, who knows, she'd been drinking. But then she started clinging to me when we went into the room, like they wanted to continue. Dima seeme
I stand by the window, my back to them, and hear the rustling of silk and the clinking of thin glass behind me. Down below, the hotel bar is still buzzing with guests, someone shouting a toast, someone crying into a vest. But here, on the twenty-third floor, there are only three people and an entire night that will never be anyone else's. I know why I'm here. I know why she called me. I know he's silent not because he's against it. I turn around. She's sitting on the edge of the huge bed, still wearing her dress—white, heavy, with the corset I laced for her this morning at the hotel, before the ceremony. I remember my fingers sliding along the laces, her laughing and saying, "Don't overdo it, I need to breathe when I say 'I do.'" It was a joke then. Now I look at her, and it seems as if I'm still holding those laces in my hands. He's standing by the minibar. He's wearing a shirt, no longer a jacket, his bow tie untied and hanging a
The highway stretched into darkness, and the headlights revealed only a gray ribbon of asphalt and the occasional light pole. I'd been driving for three hours now and was starting to nod off. The coffee I'd drunk at the last gas station had long since worn off. The cabin smelled of diesel fuel, and the radio, which I wasn't listening to, crackled through the speakers. A figure stood on the side of the road, at the turnoff to some godforsaken village. They were hitchhiking. I slowed down and pulled over. A girl. Young, wearing a jacket unsuitable for the weather, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her face was pale, her lips pursed. I rolled down the window. - Far? "To the city," she answered. Her voice was so gentle. "About two hundred kilometers from here." I took a closer look at her. Her jeans were dirty, her sneakers were broken. She was standing on a highway where buses don't go, and clearly hadn't been for a long time. - Sit down. She
The phone rang at half past one in the morning. I wasn't sleeping. I was just lying there and staring at the ceiling. I picked up the phone. - Are you sleeping? I recognized the voice right away. Lenka. A classmate. We hadn't seen each other for about three years, I think. Not since she married some serious guy with a job and a car. - No. — Come over. Just to talk. She gave me the address. I didn't ask what had happened. I could tell from her voice that it had already happened. I got dressed and went out. She opened the door immediately, as if she'd been standing underneath it. She was wearing a robe, her hair was hastily pulled back, and her eyes were red. — Come in. I took off my shoes. I went into the kitchen. On the table was an open bottle of wine and one glass. She took out a second one. — Let's talk? We talked. About university, about his stupid jokes, about how he stole her from under my nose back in our fourth year. She laughed, then cried, then laughed
The bike died on the outskirts of town, coughing and spitting blue smoke. I managed to slide to the side of the road, curse out loud, and even kick the innocent tire, though it was clear from the start that the tire wasn't the problem. After half an hour of fruitless fiddling with the carburetor, I admitted defeat and headed along the highway to what the map said was a village with the promising name "Remont." It sounded like a mockery. The workshop was found just beyond a slanted sign—a long, corrugated iron hangar, in front of which sat the rusty hulk of a Gazelle and several motorcycles in varying states of disrepair. Inside, the smell of machine oil, old rubber, and heated metal was strangely soothing, like the scent of an autumn forest. The owner stood with her back to me, bent over the workbench. She looked to be around thirty-five or forty, one of those women whom age neither beautifies nor deforms, but simply molds into a tight, shapely form. Her work overalls we
They rented a dacha for the summer, an old log house on the edge of the village, with a sagging fence, apple trees, and a sauna house at the back of the property. Neighbors were rare, mostly on weekends, and on weekdays it was so quiet you could hear the overripe apples falling. That Friday, Lena arrived alone. Her husband was supposed to be arriving later; he had a big emergency at work, so she decided not to wait for him in stuffy Moscow and instead dash out of town. By the time she got there and unpacked her bags, it was already dark. The house greeted her with the smell of old wood and dust. She opened the windows, letting in the night air, scented with grass and river dampness. A text came from her husband: "I'll be late, don't wait up." She chuckled, put her phone down, thought, "Here we are, romance!" She poured herself some tea, and sat on the veranda. She was too lazy to heat the bathhouse alone, but her body ached from the journey and she wanted to
My name is Vera. This is the story of how I ordered new wallpaper and received something completely different. My husband, Andrey, had been promising to renovate our bedroom for six months. One less-than-ideal day, tired of listening to his excuses about being busy, I simply hired a crew. More precisely, one person—Timur. A friend recommended him, praising his skill and reasonable prices. My husband reacted to my high-handedness with a sluggish air: "Okay, let him try. Just don't bother me with all this nonsense; let him figure it out himself." Timur arrived on Monday morning. Tall, calm, with calloused palms and a piercing brown gaze. Compared to my perpetually tired husband, hunched over his laptop, he looked like an alien from a planet where men still have arms growing out of their shoulders. For the first two days, I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. He did everything himself: removing old furniture, stripping wallpaper, and spackling the walls.
I got a job as a security guard at a construction site the summer after my second year. The pay wasn't great, but the work was easy: sit in a trailer, patrol the area twice a night, and make sure cables and tools weren't stolen. The site was secluded, behind garages, with not a soul around. It suited me—I was reading a lot back then, and here it was quiet. The woman showed up a week later. Her name was Lyuda. She worked as a crane operator, but the crane at that site hadn't been installed yet, so she was assigned to work as a storekeeper—handing out gloves, hard hats, and nails. She lived right there, in a trailer next to my trailer. She was about thirty-five, maybe a little older. Not a beauty, but shapely: strong arms, a wide backside, large breasts, but not sagging, like dough in a pan—they rose when she laughed. She was cheerful and loud. She would come out in the evening in her robe, sit on the steps of the trailer, and smoke, looking at me. I would pretend to read.
I owed Slava forty thousand since last winter. Back then, I thought I'd borrow it and pay it back quickly, but things weren't working out with my job, then I got fired, then I found a new one, but it paid less. Anyway, by autumn, I realized the amount had grown: Slava calculated the interest, reminded me every month, but didn't push me. He was generally a calm person, the kind of guy who knows how to wait. Vera and I had been living together for three years. She worked in a salon, and I hung out wherever I could. The sex was casual: two or three times a week, longer on weekends, nothing fancy. I was happy with it. I think she was too, although a couple of times she mentioned wanting to try something new. I laughed it off because I didn't understand what she was missing. In November, Slava came to our house. He said he needed money by the end of the month, otherwise he'd go to my parents—they'd definitely help, but I didn't want that. Vera sat next to him,
Andrei rented a one-room apartment on the fifth floor with no elevator. The building was old, paneled, with a perpetually smelly entryway and neighbors who listened to the television as if it were on full blast. The apartment was lousy, but cheap. And the landlady—a woman with a heavy gaze—wasn't intrusive into his life. Or rather, she wasn't until he stopped paying. At first, he just delayed it for a week. Then two. Then a month. He had money, but he squandered it: bets, beer, some idiot from a dating site who squeezed everything he had on his card out of him. And then she came. Tamara Ivanovna. 45 years old. Plump, with wide hips, a bob haircut, and arms that could clearly carry bags and much heavier objects. She didn't yell from the doorway. She walked into the kitchen, sat on a stool, and crossed her legs. Her high-heeled pump swung in the air. "Two months," she said. "Plus utilities. Total sixty-four thousand." "I don't have any right now,
My Svetka is a normal woman. She was. We knew each other well. She was studying to become a teacher. I was a metallurgist. My teacher used to say, "Not everyone can dance ballet, someone has to smelt metal!" Yes. I work as a foreman at a metallurgical plant. Svetka teaches geography. When we met, she was a normal girl: not a party girl, not a slut, calm, sensible, not brazen... Not a beauty, but quite pretty for my taste. We got married, and before graduating, Svetka gave birth to my daughter. My father-in-law and mother-in-law are truly wonderful people. Following the principle of "let the young live for themselves while keeping the family strong," they took in their beloved granddaughter. My wife and I live alone most of the time. My parents contributed and bought us an apartment. Svetka is a good housekeeper. We have regular family sex without any perversions. After college, my wife went to work. And then real hell began. At school, it was either you or the other.
Marina Lvovna stood in the middle of her future office, wincing in disgust. Cement dust hung in the air. Two workers in stained overalls were laying wiring. More precisely, one, the younger, stocky fellow, was drilling into the wall, while the other, older, with a weathered, red face, simply sat on an overturned bucket, squinting at their boss. Marina was used to men in the office barely daring to look at her. She'd bullied them, fired them, and promoted them without a second thought. But here, in the dim light of the unfinished office, she felt uneasy. She was a queen here only on paper, but in reality, she was just a woman who got in the way of her work. The men smelled of sweat and burning, not expensive perfume, like her subordinates in expensive suits. "Well, mistress, we'll be done soon," the young man said without turning around, shouting over the noise of the drill. He didn't even look at her. It was annoying. Marina stepped around the construction debris