Stories in mature
91 stories · Page 1I'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
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
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 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
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.
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,
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
Many different events have happened in my life, but I will never forget that day at the department, no matter how much time passes. It all started when I, as the youngest and most reliable lab assistant, was asked to stay after classes on Friday to help sort through an old archive. The lectures had long since ended, the hallways were empty, and the only people left in the building were me, the caretaker, Semyon Borisovich, two graduate students, Grisha and Tolik, and Professor Veniamin Arkadyevich, who had locked himself in his office and was said to be working on documents. We were sitting in a cramped, windowless utility room, sorting through dusty folders, and the air there was so stuffy and heavy it made my head spin. It smelled of old paper and something musty, like a cellar. I was wearing a light dress because I was getting ready for a normal day, not a cleaning day. It kept riding up when I leaned over the lower shelves, and I caught quick glances from Grisha and Tolik. At fi
Many different events have happened in my life, but I will never forget that day at the department, no matter how much time passes. It all started when I, as the youngest and most reliable lab assistant, was asked to stay after classes on Friday to help sort through an old archive. The lectures had long since ended, the hallways were empty, and the only people left in the building were me, the caretaker, Semyon Borisovich, two graduate students, Grisha and Tolik, and Professor Veniamin Arkadyevich, who had locked himself in his office and was said to be working on documents. We were sitting in a cramped, windowless utility room, sorting through dusty folders, and the air there was so stuffy and heavy it made my head spin. It smelled of old paper and something musty, like a cellar. I was wearing a light dress because I was getting ready for a normal day, not a cleaning day. It kept riding up when I leaned over the lower shelves, and I caught quick glances from Grisha and Tolik. At fi
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
The sun beat down mercilessly, heating the asphalt so hot that the air above it shimmered and melted. Lera stood on the side of the road, her hand outstretched, her thumb extended, squinting in the blinding light. Next to her, Ksyusha shifted from foot to foot, fanning herself with her straw hat. They'd been stuck on this damned highway leading to the coast for a good hour, and in that time not a single car had passed by, only trucks pelting them with hot dust. "So where's your vaunted hitchhiking?" Ksyusha grumbled, adjusting the strap of her backpack. "You could be lying by the sea, but here we are, like two idiots..." "Be patient, friend," Lera smiled, but her voice also betrayed weariness. "Someone will stop soon. You'll see." And, as if hearing her words, an old, dusty pickup truck appeared in the distance. It was driving slowly, as if its owner were scanning the side of the road for something. The car drew level with the girls and st
I sat in my office, nervously tapping my pen on the desk. It was already getting dark outside, the office was empty, and only the quiet hum of the air conditioner broke the silence. Sergey, my assistant, was late again. And not by five, not ten minutes—a whole hour. This young brat had apparently completely forgotten who was in charge here. Finally, the door quietly opened, and his guilty face appeared in the doorway. "Come in, Sergei," I said in an icy tone, without raising my head. "Have a seat." He slid inside like a kicked puppy and sat down on the chair opposite my desk. I slowly looked up. His blond hair was tousled, his cheeks slightly flushed—whether from running so fast or from embarrassment. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the top button undone. He was clearly nervous, fiddling with his car keys. "What should I do with you?" I asked, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest. “Irina Viktorovna, I really overslept,” he began to bab
Alla Borisovna, the senior call center administrator, a forty-seven-year-old woman with a figure that her expensive pantsuit clung to like a gift-wrapped, overripe peach, sat in her office, listening to a recording of the call. Behind the glass partition, the open-plan office hummed, but here, all was quiet, save for the tapping of her perfectly manicured fingers on the desk. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said without raising her head. Maxim entered the office. Twenty-three years old, a third-line operator, skinny and awkward, wearing a wrinkled jacket that he'd obviously worn to a job interview and hadn't ironed since. He fidgeted by the threshold, unsure what to do with his hands. Alla Borisovna gestured to the chair across from him. He sat down, resting his hands on his knees. She turned off the recording. She removed her glasses, leaving them lying on the table, and looked at Maxim. Her gaze was long and appraising, the kind one might look at not an erran
A centuries-old, gloomy forest stood like a wall on either side of the rutted road, sunken by recent rains. Spruce trees, like black guards, locked their shaggy paws overhead, not letting through even a ray of the midday sun. Only occasionally, somewhere high above, a solitary bird would cry out anxiously, and in the distance, an invisible quagmire would hoot heavily and piercingly. It was a godforsaken, remote place, the kind of place people used to say: "Here the devil would break his leg, and a man would lose his head." A lone carriage trundled leisurely along the bumpy road that wound through these gloomy thickets. A portly dapple-colored gelding, his ears twitching, lazily flicked his tail at horseflies. The coachman, a sleepy man, languid from the heat and the forest air, nodded off every now and then. Inside the covered carriage, upholstered in leather darkened by time, sat a young woman on embroidered cushions. Her name was Marfa Andreyevna Volkonskaya, wife of the S
Igor had only worked in the sales department for six months and quietly hated his boss, Alla Borisovna. She was forty-eight years old, tall, with a heavy gaze and a habit of muttering her words through clenched teeth. She dressed strictly—knee-length skirts, buttoned-up blouses—but even through this shell, her powerful figure was visible: a wide backside, impressive breasts. In the smoking room, the guys joked that having sex with such a woman was like hugging an iceberg, but Igor sometimes dreamed of her in the most obscene positions. And then there was this remote worker. Alla Borisovna complained that her work laptop was slow and the system administrator couldn't be reached. Igor volunteered to help—the sales quota was hanging by a thread anyway, and a little sweetness wouldn't hurt. On Saturday morning, he was already standing at her door with a flash drive and a bunch of software. The apartment turned out to be unexpectedly cozy. The boss's husband, some important c
All grown women have something to remember on a quiet evening... Hello. My name is Tamara. I decided to write something down while my memory is fresh. I'm 42 years old. My figure, as they used to say, is "blood and milk"—small but shapely, with heavy D-cup breasts and curvy hips that no skirt can hide. My hair is light brown, my own, and falls below my shoulders. I work as an administrator at a private dental clinic, and I'm used to being the face of the clinic—a smile, a manicure, a smart suit. I've lived alone: my husband died five years ago, and my son is in the army. Out of boredom, I sometimes allow myself small pleasures—wine on Fridays, dancing at an adult bar where you don't have to think about age. This story happened in November. I was returning from a company party. I'd stayed up late and had too much to drink. My boss offered to get me a cab, but I refused—I didn't want him to know my address. He'd been looking at my lap with unkind
I moved to the regional center to attend university. My parents didn't have their own place there, and renting a room was expensive, so my mother's sister, Aunt Vera, took me in. She was forty-five and worked as an accountant at a garment factory. She had divorced her husband about ten years ago, lived alone in a spacious two-room apartment, kept a cat, and, as I thought then, had given up on her love life. I was nineteen. I'd noticed this oddity about myself before. On commuter trains, in lines, on the street, my gaze always gravitated not to my peers with their skinny jeans and backpacks, but to women in their forties and fifties. I was mesmerized by their heavy thighs, clinging to their skirts, their powerful calves, and the large breasts they carried before them like jewels. Their backsides were especially intoxicating—wide, substantial, swaying as they walked. I imagined myself plunging my hands into that flesh, spreading the cheeks and penetrating that most secret,
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 str
Our company sold expensive foreign cars. We had a peculiar team: the managers were all hardened windbags in cheap but well-pressed suits, the secretaries had silicone-like everything, and then we—the service department. The techies. There were three of us: Sanya, Dan, and me. We didn't wear suits, we swore, and we were the only ones who actually understood how all these fancy cars worked, and weren't just kissing customers' asses for a percentage of the sale. Taras Arkadyevich was the head of this entire cesspool. A fat, sweaty man in his late sixties with a perpetually purple neck and a gold signet ring on his little finger. He yelled at everyone, delayed wages, and considered himself a business genius simply because he'd once borrowed money and opened a dealership in the right location. We quietly hated him, but tolerated him because he gave us the opportunity to tinker with expensive cars and occasionally make a small profit on spare parts. But he had one asset wh