Aunt Ira
Irina was thirty-eight, and for the first time in many years, she allowed herself to get truly drunk, without a thought for tomorrow's hangover report with its nausea and headache or the stern look of her university colleague. Usually, she kept everything under iron control: the accounting department, where every ruble was accounted for down to the kopeck, with her signature at the bottom of the report; the strict pencil skirt, hugging her full hips and emphasizing the authority that made subordinates straighten up; her hair, pulled into a tight bun that tolerated not a single disobedient strand, even in the wind; her voice, cold and commanding, which made students freeze during economics lectures, and subordinates flinch at the mention of her name — Irina Petrovna, with the stress on "Petrovna," as if it were a title. But today, in this bustle of relatives, where her sister squealed with laughter, stumbling in a dance, and her mother sang along to "Last Christmas" in a false but joyful voice, waving a glass, she was tired of being proper, tired of pretending that her life wasn't an empty shell filled with routine and false contentment.
Her husband Alexey had long since turned into a colorless shadow: he sat downstairs at the table, hugging a beer bottle with foam dripping down the neck, buried in his smartphone with an indifferent expression — glassy eyes, fingers lazily scrolling the feed, not even noticing as she, swaying on high heels with worn leather, climbed the creaky wooden staircase, clutching the railing to keep from falling, her palm leaving a damp sweat mark. "I'll sleep for an hour, until this bacchanalia dies down," she muttered to herself, pushing open the heavy door to the guest bedroom on the second floor, where the air was cooler, saturated with the dust of old books on the shelf. The room greeted her with coolness: it smelled of old polished wood from the antique furniture — a chest of drawers with carved legs, an armchair with faded upholstery — a slight chill from the slightly open window, through which moonlight streamed, falling in a silver stripe on the worn bedspread with grandmother's embroidered initials. Outside, snow fell in large, wet flakes, muffling the distant roar of the party, as if the house were cut off from the world by a white, impenetrable veil, and only an occasional laugh or the pop of a firecracker broke through.
Irina collapsed onto the bed without undressing, not caring that the black evening dress of thick velvet with a deep neckline, emphasizing her full breasts with the slight heaviness of years, had ridden up high, exposing her full, slightly cellulite thighs in thin black stockings with a wide lace band — her secret weakness, which she ordered anonymously online, hid in the far drawer of the dresser under stacks of laundry, even from her husband, and wore only for herself, feeling the lace dig into her skin, reminding her of a hidden femininity. She never wore them for Alexey. Why? He hadn't been able to get properly aroused for over a year, let alone give her pleasure — his body had become soft, flabby, like his desires. The last time, months ago, he simply entered her in the missionary position, moved for a minute or two with mechanical monotony, as if performing a marital duty, and then apologized in a hoarse voice: "Tired, Ir, sorry, we'll try tomorrow," rolling over to his side of the bed. She lay under him then, staring at the ceiling with cracks like spiderwebs, feeling everything inside freeze from emptiness, from loneliness in bed with a man who had once been passionate, kissed her neck in the mornings, and whispered vulgarities in her ear.
Her body, full and mature, with soft curves she hid under strict suits — her stomach with a slight fold, her hips where the skin was tender but hinted at age — craved more: roughness, strength, oblivion, for someone to break her armor without asking permission. Now the alcohol gently lulled her, like a warm blanket with the smell of home: champagne made her head spin, her eyelids grew heavy, the world blurred into a pleasant haze. Her eyes closed on their own. Her breathing evened out, becoming deep and steady, her chest rising under the fabric of the dress. The last thought before sinking into sleep was strange, shameful, forbidden, surfacing from the depths of her subconscious: "If only someone would just take me... without asking, without those pathetic excuses, without words... just take and break this control, tear it to pieces."
Downstairs, the music continued to thunder, the bass vibrating in the floorboards, penetrating through the floors. No one would hear. No one would come.
Sergey pressed his back against the cold, rough wall of the narrow corridor on the second floor, counting the beats of his heart, which echoed in his ears louder than the music downstairs — each pulse of blood in his temples was like a drumbeat, drowning out "Last Christmas" with its synth bells. Every breath was saturated with a mixture of smells: cigarette smoke from his uncle's Belomorkanals, seeping through the cracks in the door, leaving a bitter, tobacco taste on his tongue; the sweet scent of tangerines from the Christmas tree, whose peels littered the living room floor; and the light but recognizable musky trace of Aunt Irina — her perfume, which he remembered from childhood, with notes of vanilla, sharp pepper, and something deep, feminine, that always made his cock stir in his pants, even when he was a child. Downstairs, his mother squealed with laughter, dancing with his stepfather in an absurd, drunken waltz, heels tapping on the parquet; his stepfather shouted a toast to "a new life" and "the health of relatives," clinking glasses loudly with someone; Uncle Alexey had already buried his forehead in a plate of kholodets, snoring with his mouth open, drool dripping onto the tablecloth, forming a sticky puddle. No one would come up — everyone was too drunk, too busy with themselves, their stories, and their drinks. No one would hear, even if the bed creaked or someone cried out muffled into a pillow.
He knew this bedroom like the back of his hand — every corner, every creak of the floorboard, every crack in the parquet where dust had gathered for decades. Three years ago, at sixteen, he hid in the tight built-in wardrobe with wooden doors darkened by time, holding his breath, when Aunt Irina came in to change after a family trip to the pool — water still dripped from her hair, leaving wet marks on the floor. The wardrobe door was ajar a centimeter — enough to see everything in a narrow strip of light. She took off her wet swimsuit slowly, unhurriedly, drops of water running down her body: over her full breasts with dark nipples that hardened from the cold, leaving goosebumps on her skin; over her soft stomach with a slight fold, where the skin was velvety; over the inside of her thigh, where a vein showed blue under the pale surface, and her muscles trembled slightly from fatigue. She didn't look in the mirror, just adjusted her breasts with a confident hand, habitually, as if this body were her instrument of power, not a source of shame or desire — her fingers squeezed her nipple for a moment, and Sergey felt his own body respond. He sat there, in the darkness of the wardrobe saturated with mothballs, squeezing his cock in his fist through the fabric of his shorts, and came for the first time with her name on his lips — "Ira... Aunt Ira..." — feeling the semen stain his underwear in a warm, sticky wave, guilt mixing with euphoria that burned inside like forbidden fire. Since then, every time she passed by at the university — the strict pencil skirt hugging her rounded ass, heels clicking on the linoleum with an echo in the corridors, her voice "Sergey, being late for a lecture is minus points, and don't argue with me, young man," with that cold look over her glasses — he felt everything inside tighten into a tight knot of desire, jealousy, hatred for her control, for how she ruled the world, unaware that he had long ruled his fantasies about her.
Now, at nineteen, he was a head taller, broader in the shoulders from training in the university gym — his abs showed under his skin, his biceps tensed at the slightest movement; his cock in his pants was hard as a rock, so the zipper of his jeans dug into his skin, leaving a red mark that burned with every step. This wasn't just lust — it was revenge for the years when she babysat him, fed him porridge, scolded him for bad grades, and now looked down on him as a student, not a man. He entered silently, turning the handle with a thief's caution: the door didn't creak — he had oiled the hinges with kitchen oil earlier that day, under the pretext of "fixing the squeaky door in the pantry," while everyone was fussing with decorating the tree. He closed it with an old metal hook — not for real security, but so a random drunk guest wouldn't burst in with a bottle in hand, stumbling and muttering toasts.
Moonlight fell on the bed in a wide silver stripe, highlighting the contours of her body like a stage in a shadow theater, where the lead actress lay in a careless pose. Irina lay on her back, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, fingers relaxed, nails with fresh polish; the other — under her cheek, her cheek pressed into the pillow, leaving a slight dent. Her dress had ridden up to her waist, exposing her full thighs, her stockings gleamed in the moonlight like liquid black silk, the lace band dug into her soft skin, leaving deep red grooves — marks he had imagined thousands of times in his nightly dreams, masturbating under the blanket in the dorm. Her breathing was even, her chest rose and fell under the fabric, her nipples showed through her bra as hard bumps, reacting to the cold of the room.
He took off his jacket slowly, the fabric rustling quietly, like a whisper in the night, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Under it — only a black fitted T-shirt, already damp from the sweat of anticipation, clinging to his back and armpits. He lowered his pants to his knees, freeing his cock — heavy, hot, veins swollen blue, the head already glistening with pre-cum, a drop slid down the shaft, leaving a salty trail. He didn't touch himself — afraid of coming too soon, losing the control he had so carefully planned for months: gathering information about her habits, knowing she always went to bed first at family gatherings, that she drank champagne to relax.
He approached on tiptoe, his knees sinking onto the mattress. The bed sagged with a slight creak, like an old sigh, but Irina didn't stir — alcohol and fatigue held her in deep sleep, her eyelids fluttering slightly, as if in REM phase.
He pulled the belt from her dress — soft black leather, still warm from her body, saturated with the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of sweat and perfume, with the barely perceptible smell of champagne from her breath. He tied her wrists behind her back with one confident motion: the knot tight, but not cutting her skin — he had practiced on his own belt in his dorm room, imagining her hands, her resistance, her surrender, his fingers trembling then from excitement, leaving sweat on the skin. His fingers now trembled from adrenaline, from excitement, from the fear of being caught — but he wouldn't stop, this was his moment, years of waiting.
The lace band of her stockings dug into her flesh, leaving deep grooves, raised and red, and he ran his tongue over them — salty skin, the taste of sweat from a long day, the taste of her life, her authority, which he was now destroying. His tongue left a wet trail, the lace grew damp, sticking. Irina stirred in her sleep, her thigh twitched slightly, a muscle tensed, but her eyes remained closed, her breathing only quickened a little.
His tongue — slowly, in circles, first light touches, like a feather, then stronger, drawing her nipple deeper, his teeth gently biting the base but with a hint of strength, leaving a faint mark. The taste — slightly sweet, with a light saltiness from her skin, mixed with traces of lotion. Irina sighed in her sleep, her chest lifted to meet him, her thighs parted a couple of centimeters on their own, her knees bent slightly, inviting.
His other hand slid under her panties — thin, black thong, already damp in the crotch from subconscious arousal. His fingers found her clit: swollen, slippery, pulsing under the pad of his middle finger, like a tiny heart. He rubbed slowly, as if petting a cat, feeling it grow under his touch, feeling Irina arch towards him instinctively, though her eyes were still closed, her eyelids fluttering.
His fingers went deeper — two at once, without warning, parting the wet folds. Inside was hot, wet, tight, like a scorching cave, the walls clenched around his fingers, pulsing. He moved them, finding the spongy spot on the front wall, pressed rhythmically, released, circled, feeling juices flow onto his palm. Irina's breathing quickened, her thighs parted wider, her knees bent, her feet braced against the mattress with a quiet rustle of the sheet. Her body knew what it wanted, even if her mind slept in an alcoholic fog, her vagina clenched greedily.
"Alexey..." she exhaled, her voice sleepy, hoarse, with a note of habitual tenderness, and that name hit Sergey like a slap in the face, fueling jealousy like gasoline on fire.
He pulled back sharply, her nipple slipping from his mouth with a wet smack, leaving a thread of saliva. His eyes burned with rage and triumph.
"Not Alexey," he whispered in her ear, his breath scorching her earlobe, his voice low, vibrating. "Me. Your Sergey."
His fingers went even deeper, a third added, stretching the walls, his thumb pressed on her clit, pushing. He pulled them out slowly, brought them to his face — glistening, smelling intensely of her, with a thick, salty aroma. He licked each one, savoring. The taste — sweet, with a slight sourness, with the aftertaste of champagne and her desire, which he had awakened.
He knelt between her legs, his cock swayed, touching her stomach — hot, heavy, the head left a wet mark on her skin, pre-cum mixed with her sweat. He didn't enter. Yet. He wanted her to wake up fully. He wanted to see her eyes — first horror mixed with shame, then — surrender, acknowledgment of his power.
Irina surfaced from sleep abruptly, as if pulled from warm, viscous water into the icy air of reality, where every nerve flared with fire. First — taste: salty, musky, foreign, filling her mouth to the brim, pressing on her tongue and palate, with the flavor of skin and pre-cum. Then — pressure: hot, hard, pressing against her palate, sliding over her tongue rhythmically, the head pulsing at the very back of her throat, making her swallow saliva. Her eyes flew open wide, pupils dilated in the dark.
Sergey. Above her, naked torso with defined muscles, skin glistening with sweat, drops running down his chest. His cock — thick, shiny from her saliva, with swollen veins — already in her mouth, the head touching her throat. Her hands behind her back, tied with the belt, the leather digging into her wrists, causing sharp, but arousing pain. Her dress pulled up to her neck, her bra slipped down, her breasts spilled out, heavy and free, nipples hard from the cold, arousal, and recent caresses.
"Mmph!" — she jerked her whole body, trying to pull away, neck muscles tensed, but he held her by the hair — firmly, fingers tangled in the bun she had so carefully styled that morning with gel and pins, now disheveled. Not painful, but with no chance of escape, control complete.
She didn't remember the words, but remembered the sensations: how her body trembled, how fingers inside her moved confidently, how she arched to meet them, how her vagina clenched in emptiness, seeking more, juices flowing down her thighs. Was it him? Her nephew? The prohibition hit like a cold shower mixed with heat.
Her eyes darted to the mirror on the wall — antique, in a darkened frame with cracks, reflecting the scene without mercy. The reflection struck like a slap to her pride:
• Her — tied up, dress crumpled at her neck, nipples jutting out provocatively, lips stretched around a cock, saliva glistening on her chin.
• Him — on his knees over her face, hand in her hair, cock in her mouth, balls pressed against her chin, heavy and warm.
• Her own thighs — spread wide, panties pulled down to her knees, tangled in her stockings, crotch glistening with moisture, clit swollen.
This isn't me. This can't be me, Irina Petrovna, with a reputation, a career. But why is my body betraying me? Why is my vagina pulsing with emptiness?
She tried to push away with her tongue, but her