Stories by this author
630 stories · Page 1Why 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
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