Themed collection
350 stories · Page 5Night had enveloped the city. The moon shimmered in the sky, surrounded by stars like a circle. I stepped outside into a pleasant, warm day. A gentle breeze blew, fluttering the leaves, and I walked forward, determined to take a stroll. I was dressed charmingly. No underwear, just black lace fishnet stockings and red open-toed shoes... On top, I wore a snow-white, translucent blouse and a short black skirt that barely covered my butt. I must say, I looked amazing. I'm 5'4" tall and weigh 167g. My breasts are a D cup, and my large nipples are visible through my blouse... It was nice to stroll through the park, feeling the breeze between my legs. How he caressed me, oh, that libertine!)) I was humming one of my tunes cheerfully as I walked along the park path. It was quite dark, and only the moon lit my way. As I turned the corner, I felt someone's presence. It was a little frightening and at the same time incredibly arousing... I felt my nipples tense in anticipation.
Let me start with my age. I'm 54. I recently went to the countryside to get some heating installed at our dacha. They put me up with an old lady who lived next door. She was an ordinary old lady, and very easy to talk to. She often used swear words in conversation, making jokes. Her jokes were often below the belt. She was pleasant-looking, plump, with a huge ass and seven-cup breasts. Her name was Anna Semyonovna. I arrived at the site in the late afternoon. When we sat down to dinner, she poured me a shot and shared it with me. I thanked her for the treat and went to bed. The next morning, my hostess woke me to the clatter of dishes as she bustled about in the kitchen. A light breakfast and I was already at the site, which was located on the neighboring property. I worked all day, breaking only for lunch. “And I’m following you,” I heard Anna Semyonovna’s voice as I was installing the fasteners. “What is it?” I responded. "Okay, it's time for lunch. War is war, but lun
Abeba is 23 years old. Black skin. If Latika's was chocolate brown, Abeba's was a dark brown. She has a big butt, large breasts, and is probably as tall as Manana, with large, full lips and dandelion-like hair like all African women. Her father was the African ambassador to our city, so when she came of age, he brought her here to study, especially since she had a passion for archaeology. There was much unexplored back home in Africa. I'd always had my eye on her; I liked that type of girl. It was probably because of Manana. Abeba spoke fluent Russian with a slight accent. This is probably my favorite story from my diary, I have never had sex like this with anyone, Manana and my aunt don’t count. So one day, when the higher mathematics lesson ended, the teacher asked me to stay a little longer. "Maxim, I have a task, or rather a request. I simply don't have time at work, let alone with tutoring at home. There's an African girl named Abeba in her second year;
...She loved taking pictures of my erect penis on her phone. Naked, without panties or a bra, she squatted and photographed it from every angle.... When it sagged, she'd wrap her lips around it again, bringing it to the desired tension, and take more pictures, experiencing indescribable pleasure.... I loved this game. Erotic mode flowed seamlessly into porn mode, and vice versa. After reviewing our sex photos, we'd once again immerse ourselves in the world of fucking, and it was a creative act, because neither of us knew how this madness would end. After the classics, I'd lay Rita naked on her back on the table, spread her legs, drop to my knees, and begin licking my admirer's genitals. I'd lick deeply and wetly, slowly dancing my tongue around her small clitoris, and launching into a swift tango with two delightful petals, deep within which her vagina glowed pink. The dark skin of my beautiful Creole wonderfully set off this pink tenderness into which I entered,
Artyom stepped off the commuter train with a heavy backpack over his shoulders and immediately felt the hot July air envelop his skin. The station was almost empty, just an old woman with baskets and a couple of local kids on bikes. He texted Aunt Nika to let her know he'd arrived, and a minute later he saw her white SUV pulling into the parking lot. Veronika Sergeyevna stood by the open car door, wearing a light beige dress with thin straps. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and she wore large sunglasses. She looked about thirty, at most, though Artyom knew for a fact she'd turned thirty-seven in January. She'd been divorced for three years, had no caravan, and lived alone in a large house outside the city, teaching yoga in two studios. "Well, hello there, nephew!" She smiled broadly, stepped forward, and hugged him so tightly that he felt her chest spring against him. Her scent was light, citrusy, with a hint of spice. The hug lasted a couple of second
Pushing my hair over my shoulder, I inadvertently run my fingers down my neck, brushing against my collarbones, and a warm wave of memories, desire, and pleasure runs through my body. No, he never does that - our desire when we meet is too strong for such unobtrusive foreplay - but for some reason it is this reflex of my body that my memory associates with him, as, indeed, many others, and it is so attractive with its delicate, sharp sweetness, like the taste of caramel-mint ice cream. This chain of associations, memories and desires is impossible to break - although I have never tried, why would I? I close my eyes and imagine his hands unbuttoning my dress, his fingers touching my breasts, freeing me of all excess fabric. They squeeze my nipples, and they instantly harden, and I feel the growing wetness below, under the lace of my underwear. Then his lips encircle one nipple, then the other... And I want to press him to me, I stroke his hair, stretch my whole body toward him, archi
The story was written to order for my beloved reader and published with his approval. Background: The Perfect Cell Yana married Oleg at twenty-two. He was ten years older, confident, and as steady as a Swiss watch. He was the epitome of success: a burgeoning career, an expensive car, a spacious apartment in a prestigious neighborhood. For many of her friends, she had won the lottery of life. But after three years of marriage, Yana realized she'd won a ticket into a gilded cage, albeit a cage nonetheless. Their life was scheduled down to the minute: Oleg's work, his business dinners, their rare social outings where he'd talk business deals and she'd have to sit there, smile prettily, and nod. Her own life, her dreams of something more than decoration, were slowly fading. Oleg loved her, but he loved her as a valuable possession, as part of his successful image. He adored her beauty, but he took it for granted, like a pretty painting on the wall, something he could occ
Almost two months had passed since that unexpected, heady, risk-filled sex with Misha in the movie theater and my provocative naked stroll under a down jacket. During that time, we met at our rented apartment only a couple of times, and our encounters began to lose their former intensity, becoming a predictable ritual. First, Misha would perform oral sex on me, which greatly aroused me, his tongue tracing leisurely circles on my clit, making my whole body shudder in anticipation. Then he would put me on all fours on the bed and, firmly gripping my hips, fuck me for about 30 minutes with his thick cock, accompanied by my moans and screams. Each thrust echoed like a dull thud in my uterus, and a burning heat spread through my back and buttocks. Then he would come on my back, and I would feel hot streams of sperm spreading across my skin, leaving sticky trails. Then we would go to the shower, where we would wash each other. Hands sliding over my wet body washed away traces of passion,
Sochi is a special city. Vacationers bring their own rhythms and moods to its life. Locals usually rent out rooms by the sea, where all sorts of people live. I once rented a room in a house by the sea. I relaxed, swam, sunbathed, and went on excursions. As always, I was troubled by Him, my dick, always on guard, always searching, always dissatisfied. But one day he finally got lucky. A couple of girls from Nizhny Novgorod, Vera and Lola, arrived. One of them, Lola, having escaped the city's wilds, apparently decided to have a blast. In the evenings, the vacationers would gather in the courtyard, drink tea, eat fruit, play cards or table tennis. Then one evening, Lola came out to the table tennis. Her breasts were barely covered, a small piece of fabric under her navel, and her butt was completely bare. Well, maybe a little string was visible... She and her friend started playing tennis, Lola flashing her bare buttocks. Soon the women started making a fuss, pounced on the trouble
One night, I hadn't gotten much sleep from watching porn until midnight, so I decided to go home to catch up on some sleep, going to my tech room when everyone else had left. After walking a bit down the street, I returned to the entrance, climbed the stairs to my apartment, opened the door, and then heard my mother's voice a couple of floors below. I dashed into the apartment, tossing my jacket, boots, backpack, and bag with two shoes into the built-in closet in the hallway and darted in. The closet doubled as a storage room and was quite spacious. I hid behind the hanging things, and almost immediately the door to the apartment opened, and I heard my mother's softly cooing voice and a man's voice talking to her. - Oh, Yanka, you're such a bitch! I'll eat you right now! - Yes, I am! I'm going to eat you right now! My mother flirted back! I couldn't believe it! She's certainly a beautiful and sexy woman, and men like her, I could see it perfectly.
The glass doors of the PharmaCorp clinic slid open with a soft hiss, ushering Jane into sterile, icy-cold air. It smelled of antiseptic and money. The latter was especially appealing. It was this smell, or rather the lack thereof in her own life, that had drawn the twenty-year-old student here. The reception area was decorated in calm, neutral tones—gray sofas, blue accent walls covered with abstract paintings, presumably intended to be calming. But Jane couldn't relax. Her fingers fiddled nervously with the strap of her old backpack, filled with notes from an introductory sociology course. "Jane Doe?" a woman in a white coat rose from behind the counter, her smile as flawless and lifeless as the interior. "My name is Linda. Come with me, Dr. Murdoch is waiting for you." Jane nodded, feeling her legs buckle. She followed Linda down the long hallway, their footsteps echoing dully on the glossy linoleum. The office doors were closed, their nameplates bearing incomp
My heart was pounding wildly, a dull thud echoing in my temples. I looked in the rearview mirror at my reflection: out of breath, with an unnatural flush on my cheeks and overly shiny eyes. I was now biting my lips, which I had so carefully lined with ripe cherry-colored lipstick, until they hurt, trying to push back the obsessive thought: “You're a traitor. You're a bitch. You're doing this.” Rain splattered the windshield, turning the city lights into blurs. The car smelled of my perfume—Black Opium, his favorite. My phone, lying on the passenger seat, vibrated again. I glanced at the screen: "Husband." A breath caught in my chest. Just a couple of hours ago, I'd been kissing this man, my husband, cooking him dinner, listening to him talk about a boring day at the office. And now I was racing to the outskirts of town, to the cheap Eden Motel, which smelled of despair and lust, not paradise. "Meeting with Lenka, I'm running late, don't wait up, k
My head felt quite heavy, and my thoughts were all jumbled up from the alcohol. Several months had passed since Ira and I broke up, but no matter how hard I tried not to think about her, it just wasn't working, so I drowned my obsessions and nagging thoughts in cognac. I lay down on my couch when I suddenly heard a knock at the door. I reluctantly stood up, walking from the living room into the small hallway where the front door was. I looked through the peephole and couldn't believe what I saw. I opened the door, and there stood Ira, still as beautiful and sexy as ever. She was wearing short black shorts and a crop top that barely covered her pink, erect nipples. Ira is a petite 23-year-old brunette, 155 cm tall, with a pretty face, small but graceful breasts, a thin waist, and a rounded bottom. "Hi, Pash!" Ira said shyly, looking me in the eyes. "Will you let me in?" “Hi... yes, of course, come in,” I barely managed to get the words out, trying to collect m
Ira and I had a complicated relationship; we were on and off, though we kept in touch for several years. One time, when we broke up again, I decided that was it and I needed to start over. I messaged my friend and we went to a nightclub, ideally to pick up some chicks, but as it turned out, just to have a drink and have a good time. We started with one, then another, until it was late at night and we were standing at the entrance to yet another, quite drunk. My friend decided he couldn't continue our "crusade" any longer and called a taxi. I was about to leave, but something seemed to draw me inside. I walked into the club, the stairs leading straight down. Upon entering, music and the murmur of people became immediately audible. Couples stood along the steps in the semi-darkness, enjoying each other with rapture. I went downstairs and found myself in a large room. The music was loud, and the flickering, dim red lighting created an intimate atmosphere. I went to the bar,
It all started so banally that it's even funny now. I was coming home from college, pulling into the entrance hall, drenched in sweat from the stuffy street, and she was just coming out of her apartment—Aunt Natasha. Our neighbor, in her forties. I always saw her as well-groomed, smelling of perfume and baked goods, a true homemaker. She was always smiling at me, asking about my studies, and there was something warm and maternal in her eyes. The guardian angel of our building. But today her gaze was different. Narrowed, appraising. I muttered "hello" and reached for my door. “Andryusha, wait a minute,” her voice, usually so clear, was now low and velvety. I turned around. She was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a light housecoat that outlined... God, it outlined everything. All those soft, seductive curves that I sometimes thought about out of the corner of my mind as I drifted off to sleep. "You're so disinhibited, poor thing. Session?" She took a ste
Moscow in October smelled of wet asphalt and the smoke from the chestnuts roasted by the babushkas outside the metro. Anna walked along Tverskaya Street, her heels clicking on the tiles like a metronome counting down to the next casting. Her long black hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, swayed in the wind, and her ivory coat accentuated her figure—the kind that made men turn their heads and women purse their lips ever so slightly. She was twenty-five, and she still believed that beauty wasn't a curse, but simply a fact, like rain or snow. At the agency, they called her a "gentle muse," but Anna knew that tenderness was a mask concealing the weariness of endless "turn around, smile, look just below the shoulder." At home, in their small apartment, whose windows overlooked a narrow courtyard dotted with stunted linden trees, Valera was waiting. He was ten years older, a manager at Sberbank, with a neat beard and eyes that always held a lurking smile—not ironi
My wife, Tonya, and I have been living as husband and wife for a whole year now. My name is Igor, and I'm thirty-two. My wife, Tonya, is only twenty-seven. There's a five-year age difference between us, but we don't feel it at all. I don't feel older, and she doesn't feel younger. We're just living. After my grandmother died, I inherited her one-room apartment in an old panel building. That's where Tonya and I are living. My wife doesn't want to have children yet. She keeps telling me that first we need to get back on our feet, pay off the loans, and do some renovations. Well, I'm not rushing her. I understand her concerns, so I don't bring it up myself, so as not to put unnecessary pressure on her. Tonya and I met under somewhat odd circumstances. She came to work for a new assistant. Our team was mostly male, and almost everyone was married. Tonya was young, vibrant, and immediately attracted attention. But she ignored the advances of single
Four in the morning. The brokerage app made me sick. The red numbers stubbornly slid down, like beads of pus from an unhealing wound. I closed it and opened Instagram. The first photo was of Karina. She was sitting on the windowsill in my shabby room, the dank courtyard, a well of damp brick, behind her. But she looked like an alien who had wandered into a dump. Dark hair pulled back into a careless bun, eyes that knew the value of their beauty. Cunning, damn it. Followers in the comments called her "angel" and "goddess." They didn't see the way she looked at me when she wanted to. VKontakte was buzzing with memes about deadlines and perpetual poverty. I scrolled through them like shuffling my bare feet across a dirty floor. Then I switched to Telegram. Karina shared a sticker—a lewd anime hentai where the character's eyes were the size of her own breasts. And the caption: "Miss your boobs?" The air in the room was stale, smelling of dust, cold tea, a
— Fuck, yes! More! Fuck me like this, deeper! My nails dug into the cool plastic of the kitchen countertop, and my entire body arched in a silent scream from a new, crushing jolt that echoed deep within, causing my insides to clench in a delicious spasm. Sweat trickled down my back, mixing with the tears of madness that rolled down my face. Strong, young hands gripped my hips, pressing them in with such force that there would definitely be bruises tomorrow. Bruises that I would proudly examine in the mirror, a crazy thought flashed through my head. "Mommy's just an insatiable whore," a low, commanding voice rasped right next to my ear, its roughness making me shudder with desire again. "It's been forty minutes, and you're still thirsty. There's already a puddle under you, see?" I lowered my head, trying to catch my breath. The floor did indeed glisten in the light of the kitchen lamp. A puddle. From me. From what he squeezed out of me again and again.
A friend of mine, Seryoga, told me about it. He and I were in the same class at university. He met this romantic woman. Blonde. Lips as big as a horse's. Curvy, a little slow. But it was clear she had very earthly thoughts—getting fucked hard. There are students like that—it's written all over their faces. They come to university not so much to study as to end up in some cute guy's bed and spread their legs. And then they tease their friends, saying, "Nobody fucks you!" Seryoga was cute. Also blond. With a good sense of humor. And so, he says, he came to her dorm. He brought cake. They sat down and drank tea. What else should they do? Not read books, after all. He started groping her. He unbuttoned her robe, and there was her bra. He reached into her bra and started feeling her nipples. They were also large, like cherries. Her areolas were wide, dark, and bumpy. He got turned on, of course. Victoria noticed it and placed her palm on his bulge. And so they sat the