"Light striptease"
It was an ordinary, wet, cold autumn Tuesday evening, and I, having parked the car in the lot, was stomping home at a brisk pace, skirting puddles. On such ordinary weekday evenings, I usually manage to avoid the temptation to have a drink of something strong before dinner, to relieve stress, or even just to warm up and relax a bit before bed. Usually. But this time, I was determined, and already entering the hallway, I informed my wife that I intended to "have a shot of whiskey" before dinner and would be quite happy if she joined me.
"Give me your coat. Wash your hands, go to the kitchen, I'll bring it now," said Olya.
Ever since the popular app Instagram won the hearts of hipsters, dining still lifes have been appearing in photo feeds with enviable regularity. And although I usually chuckle at this human quirk and have never succumbed to the desire to show the world my cutlet with macaroni, I sometimes allow myself to post a still life with a glass filled "two fingers high" and an opened bottle of whiskey if it looks, in my opinion, beautiful. So this time, after posting in my feed a bottle of collectible twenty-one-year-old Macallan, one-third empty, in the subdued light of the kitchen lampshade, I focused entirely on the taste sensations. Not even a minute had passed before my wife's friend, Marinka, liked my post with a comment saying she would gladly have joined me.
"Big news," I said to Olga. "Many people would join us right now."
"Yeah," replied Olga. "Look, she's already texting me on WhatsApp saying she urgently needs support right now and if I don't mind, she'll call a taxi and drop by for a glass in about twenty minutes. Ugh, did you have to show off like that? We won't be able to get rid of her until one in the morning, and work tomorrow..." my wife lamented.
"Well, yeah, I agree. I messed up," I said with a crooked smile. "Probably had another fight with Sashka, so she's looking for comfort on your shoulder and in my glass."
And indeed, within half an hour, Marinka was sitting in our kitchen with eyes full of universal sorrow. And another half hour later, it became clear she was spending the night. They must have had a serious fight.
And although on the way home I had planned on just one glass, somehow quite easily and unnoticeably, the three of us polished off that Macallan. I'm not stingy, generally, but for some reason, I felt sorry. I'd rather we had polished it off with her Sanya, just the two of us. The conversation would have been more heartfelt and the mood would have lifted, but as it was...
Olya went to make up a bed for Marinka in our son's room, and Marinka herself, leaning forward and lowering her voice, asked:
"Kir, could you lend me a small sum for two or three weeks? I really need it."
"Hmm, and how small is small?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in surprise.
"Well, about... fifteen to twenty thousand. I'll pay you back, you know that."
It's not that I had no spare money at all, but I couldn't just pull twenty grand out of my wallet right then, as there was at most seven thousand there, with change.
"Kirochka, please! I really, really need it! And from me... a little striptease..." she said, squinting playfully and glancing furtively at the kitchen door, apparently afraid Olga might hear the details of the deal.
I was somewhat stunned by such an offer. Marinka is a very pretty girl, and even now sitting opposite me, with eyes swollen from tears, red blotches all over her face, and no makeup at all, she looked quite attractive. porn stories Quickly glancing at the neckline of her dress and just as quickly looking away, I replied:
"Okay, come by my office tomorrow afternoon, I'll withdraw it from my card."
The next day, closer to lunch, Marinka called me on my mobile and said she could swing by my work in an hour.
About ten minutes after my colleagues went to the cafeteria, she entered my office. Shedding her coat on the go, she swiftly approached me and lightly pecked my cheek.
"Thank you, Kirochka! You really helped me out," she chirped in a rapid-fire manner and sat down right opposite me on the edge of my desk.
This was completely unusual. We weren't on such familiar terms, and no one had ever sat on my desk like that, especially in my presence. Good thing no one saw this.
Gaping wide-eyed at her knees, I reached into my jacket pocket.
"Here." I handed her four orange bills folded in half.
"And here's the promised little striptease," said Marina with a wild smile, pulling the hem of her dress up, above the lacy garter straps, right up to, one might say, the waterline, and froze, slightly spreading her thighs apart.
The edge of the hem passed exactly at that level where you still can't see anything at all, but you already understand that just one or two centimeters more and everything will be visible.
Despite her frozen playful-ironic smile, her eyes looked at me seriously and attentively. She was clearly trying to guess how to proceed. I'm no longer a youth and am by no means timid with women, but such an onslaught left me slightly bewildered.
Damn, how beautiful is that!? And why does Olga never wear stockings? — bidding farewell to the remnants of marital fortitude, I thought incongruously.
"Impressive, but that's not a striptease," I tried to joke, overcoming a sudden dryness in my mouth.
"Yes, I agree. It's more of a pre-striptease to check the reaction," she said quietly and, leaning over, placed her palm on my crotch. It was already hard.
"There's a reaction!" Maintaining the same playful tone, Marina began slowly lifting her dress higher and higher.
Deafened by the tight beats of the pulse pounding in my ears, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the crotch opening before me, with the white silk panties tightly stretched over a very prominent mound.
Not knowing if anything else was included in the promised program of the "light striptease," I uncontrollably reached my hand there and gently ran the back of my fingers, held together, over that bulge down and up several times. Spreading her thighs even wider, Marina pushed her mound forward, and I, just as gently, hooked all four fingers under the thin elastic of the panties to the right of the mound, slipped my fingers under the silk, repeating the same movements but now under the fabric over the smoothly shaved pussy. Descending downward, the knuckles of my fingers felt the moist trembling of the labia minora and, sliding even lower, slightly sank into the hot and wet opening beneath them. Making gentle rotational movements with my right hand, with my left I moved aside the strip of fabric on the mound that was already in my way, and leaning forward, carefully kissed the strongly swollen clitoris. An indescribable and overwhelmingly exciting smell made me completely drunk in an instant.
Just a few minutes earlier, I would have been quite satisfied with a truly "light striptease," but now I uncontrollably wanted to fuck her. No, no, don't take this as cheap vulgarity! I felt quite precisely that I wanted, precisely, to fuck her, with delight plunging into the very depths and surfacing to gulp air... To fuck, not to screw, to have, or anything like that. This, generally a swear word, at that moment was filled with rapturous wildness, admiration, and love for the woman! It could undoubtedly be considered the only word of the hymn to the current grandeur of the moment. And I fucked her self-forgetfully, most of all wishing not to approach the edge of climax for as long as possible. No one disturbed us. When I followed Marina out to the porch for a smoke, my colleagues smiled delicately and kindly. At that moment, I remembered we hadn't thought to lock the door.
So that's how it is...
No, we didn't become lovers in the accepted sense of the word. Over several years, we met very occasionally for a "light striptease" and to agree on a deferral for the repayment of previously issued and, of course, non-refundable loans. And surprisingly, these meetings were never perceived by me as sex for money. The feeling of an amazing disconnect between one and the other was somehow pleasant.