Rain drummed on the roof of the taxi as it wound through the narrow streets on the outskirts of the city. The evening dragged on slowly, like a sticky syrup. The bar where Alexey had spent the last three hours with friends was left behind — the smell of beer, laughter and the clink of glasses still rang in his head. He leaned back in his seat, staring out the steamed-up window. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Wife. The message: “Where are you? It’s already midnight.” I didn’t want to answer. The morning’s argument over his overtime still pricked like a splinter. Instead, his fingers dialed another number—Olga Petrovna, his mother-in-law. Her room in the old house was closer than going home and being reproached.
“Olga Petrovna, good evening. Can I come by? It’s getting late, I don’t want to wake my wife,” the voice sounded slightly hoarse, betraying fatigue and a couple of extra glasses. “Of course, Lyosha, come,” she replied softly, with a slight sneer, as if she knew that he had run away from family quarrels again.
The taxi stopped at the peeling entrance. The light of the lantern trembled in puddles, reflecting an old house with cracked plaster. Alexey got out of the car, breathing in the damp air. The entrance door creaked, letting them into a dark corridor that smelled of damp and someone’s dinner. On the third floor, he rang the bell. There were light footsteps outside the door, and the lock clicked.
Olga Petrovna stood in the doorway, illuminated by the warm glow of a lamp from the hallway. She was wearing a light silk robe, casually tied, accentuating her figure—mature, but still graceful, with soft curves. Graying strands escaped from a loose bun, framing a face with fine wrinkles. She smiled, narrowing her eyes a little. “Is the drunken son-in-law here? Well, come in, don’t stand on the threshold.” Her voice was warm and slightly ironic, like a former teacher who was used to keeping everything under control.
The apartment was greeted with comfort: the smell of herbal tea, the old parquet creaking underfoot, and the soft light of a floor lamp in the corner of the living room. On the wall was a photograph of a landscape — a lake surrounded by pine trees—a reminder of Olga’s past, when she and her husband went to the country. Alexey took off his jacket, glancing at the shelves of books: classics, battered volumes of Dostoevsky and Chekhov. “Would you like some tea? Or go straight to sleep?” “What is it?” she asked, straightening her robe. “Tea, if you don’t mind,” he replied, feeling fatigue mingle with mild excitement. Something about her movements, the way the fabric of her robe slid over her skin, made her heart beat a little faster.
While Olga was busy in the kitchen, Alexey settled down on a bench, pulling off his shoes. Memories came flooding back unbidden. A year ago, at his wife’s sister’s wedding, he noticed for the first time how Olga danced — lightly, with a smile, as if throwing off years of loneliness. Back then, her dark blue dress hugged her figure, and her laughter rang like a bell. He caught himself staring at it for too long, and immediately shooed it away. But now, in the semi-darkness of her apartment, the thought returned, warm and insistent.
The kitchen was small, with faded wallpaper and a round table covered with an oilcloth. Olga placed a mug of mint tea and a plate of sandwiches in front of him. “Eat, otherwise it will be bad in the morning on an empty stomach,” she said, sitting down opposite. The robe opened slightly, revealing her neck and collarbones. Alexey looked away, but not immediately. The conversation started easily: about his work at the construction site, where he, an engineer, was drowning in drawings and deadlines; about her school years, when students gave her flowers for graduation. “You know, Lyosha, I still miss those dances when I was young,” she suddenly said, looking out the window, where the rain was still pounding on the ledge.
He nodded, sipping his tea, but his thoughts were confused. His gaze kept catching on her hands, thin, with neat nails, which she used to fix her hair. At one point, she reached for the sugar bowl, and the sleeve of her robe pulled up, exposing her wrist. Alexey, without understanding why, reached out to help, and their fingers touched. Her skin was warm, slightly moist from the steam over the kettle. She froze, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “Careful, it’s hot,” was all she said, but her voice faltered.
Tea spilled on the table — an awkward movement, and the mug tipped over. Olga laughed, jumping up to get a rag. Alexey also got up, helping to wipe the puddle. Their hands met again, and this time he held her hand a little longer than necessary. She looked at him, not reproachfully, but with something akin to curiosity. “Lyosha, what are you doing?” she asked softly, but there was no severity in her voice.
“Nothing, it’s just… you’re beautiful,” he blurted out, and immediately regretted it. But her eyes, dark in the dimness of the kitchen, did not look away. “Well, thank you, son—in-law, but don’t tell your wife,” she replied with a smile, but there was something else in her gaze— a hint, a shadow of desire. Alexey felt the blood rush to his temples and… to the lower one. He wanted to say something else, but she had already turned to the stove, straightening her robe.
Later, she made a bed for him on the couch, and he lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come. Olga’s bed was in the same room, just a couple of meters away. The light of a lantern filtered through the thin fabric of the curtains, outlining her silhouette. She was lying with her face turned away, but her breathing betrayed that she was awake too. There was some kind of herbal scent in the air, probably from shampoo or something, making it difficult to think. Alexey sat on the edge of the sofa, his heart pounding. “Olga Petrovna,” he began softly, almost in a whisper, “I’ve been meaning to say for a long time… I like you. Not as a mother-in-law, but as a woman.”
She turned, her face soft in the dim light, but her eyes were bright. “Lyosha, don’t,” she said, but her voice was uncertain, as if she was struggling with something inside herself. He got up and took a step towards her bed, feeling the floorboards creak under his feet. The blanket lifted when he sat down next to her. The silence became thick, almost palpable. “Why are you here?” she whispered, but she didn’t move away.
The silence in the room was oppressive, only the creaking of the bed under Alexey’s weight broke it. He sat on the edge of Olga Petrovna, feeling his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer. Her face, illuminated by the weak light of the lantern outside the window, was tense, but her eyes—dark, deep— betrayed confusion. “Lyosha, don’t,” she repeated, but her voice was trembling like a string about to snap. He didn’t answer, just watched her breasts rise slowly under the thin silk of her robe.
“Olga Petrovna, I… can’t hold back anymore,” he breathed, leaning closer. His fingers reached for the edge of the blanket, lifting it. She didn’t move, just stared, as if struggling with herself. Alexei slid under the covers, feeling the mattress buckle under his weight. The fabric of his underpants tightened — his cock was already standing, hard, throbbing, ready to break out… or rather, to burst in. He lay down next to her, so close that he instantly felt the heat of her skin. She was lying on her back, her robe pulled up, exposing her thighs. “What are you doing, Lyosha?” she whispered, but there was no anger in her voice, just confusion and something else – an attempt to maintain the bounds of decency that hindered her.
He didn’t answer, just moved closer, touching my shoulder. His hand slid down her arm, then up to her neck. The skin was soft, hot, and velvety. Almost indistinguishable from his wife’s body. He bent down and kissed her, first on the corner of her lips, then deeper, feeling her lips tremble. “No, don’t,” she gasped, but she didn’t push him away. Her breathing became heavier, and her chest rose faster. Alexei could feel her body responding, despite her words. He snuggled closer, his cock pressed against her thigh through the fabric of her panties, and she shuddered, but it even seemed to press a little harder.
His hand slid down to her breast. There was no bra under the robe—her nipples were hard, protruding through the thin fabric. He squeezed them with his fingers, pulled slightly, and Olga moaned softly, closing her eyes. “Lyosha, this is wrong,” she whispered, but her hands were on his shoulders, not pushing him away, but as if holding him. He yanked at the belt of her robe, the fabric parted, revealing her body—full breasts with dark halos, a soft belly, rounded hips. Alexey pulled off his panties, his cock burst out, hard, hot and aching with the desire to fuck his mother-in-law.
“Oh, Lyosha, don’t!” she gasped, but her voice was weak, almost pleading. He wasn’t listening, he couldn’t anymore. His hand slid between her legs, finding a hot, wet slit. There were no panties, just soft, swollen labia, slick with her juices. She jerked, trying to squeeze her thighs, but he spread them apart, feeling her tremble. My fingers penetrated inside, feeling tight and hot. The mother-in-law arched, crying out softly, her hands clutching the sheet.
“You’re wet,” he breathed, and she opened her eyes, looking at him with a mixture of shame and desire. “Maybe not? It’s a sin,” she whispered, but her body said something else — her hips slightly parted, giving him more space. Alexey leaned on top of her, pinning her mother-in-law to the bed. The tense shaft rested against her crotch, the head slid over her wet lips, teasing the entrance. She was breathing heavily, her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted. He pushed harder, and the head went inside, into the hot, narrow tightness of her vagina.
“Oh!” the woman blurted out, her body tensed, but immediately relaxed. Alexei moved deeper, feeling the walls wrap around him, hot and throbbing. He began to move, slowly at first, then faster, going all the way in. The balls slapped against her skin, the sound mixing with her moans—low, hoarse, as if she was holding them back but couldn’t. “Lyosha… I, oh… feel so good,” she breathed, and this spurred on her son—in-law. He fucked her, increasing his pace, sweat trickled down her back, the sheet was bunched up under them.
Olga suddenly leaned forward, her hips began to swing in time, settling deeper. Her luscious tits swayed with every thrust, her nipples rubbing against his chest. He grabbed her hips, digging his fingers into the soft flesh, and accelerated, feeling her vagina squeeze his cock, as if wanting to suck it deeper. “Take me, Lyosha,” she moaned, and those words finished him off. He pulled out his cock, turned her over on her stomach, lifting her by the ass with a jerk. She obediently got down on her knees, her bare ass, full, white in the semi-darkness, appeared in front of him.