May Day gathering at Petrovsky

Part One.

Acquaintance.

That year, spring turned out sunny and dry, even hot. The concrete jungle of the city heated up to plus 20 degrees Celsius and above during the day. The guys wore t-shirts and shorts, and the girls wore light dresses and frivolous sundresses. That year, I turned 18. I was studying at the university, and naturally, with such weather, all my thoughts and desires were directed not at studying, but at girls. But by nature, I am shy and timid, so I didn't dare to get acquainted, limiting myself to long glances, following either slender legs, an appetizing butt, or an alluring bust.

That evening, as always, I came home from studies, somehow did my homework

and went to the park. On the way, I bought an ice cream, sat down in the alley in the shade of chestnut trees, and slowly ate the ice cream while looking at the girls. My eyes couldn't keep up with the slender legs walking along the alley, the firm girls' butts accentuated by the fabric of light jeans, but what attracted me most was the female bust, slightly larger than what is usually shown in movies. From time to time, I would linger my gaze for a long time on the owners of precisely such treasures when they strolled leisurely along the alley, proudly carrying their assets, accentuated by their bras. Sometimes, while walking in the park, I would get stuck staring at older women, fixing my gaze on their cleavage, that alluring hollow. That day, I stayed in the park for quite a long time, and when I got home, my parents were already bustling about in the kitchen.

That evening, mom was cooking dinner, dad was helping her in the kitchen—peeling vegetables and chopping them for a salad.

Hearing the sound of the door opening, mom called me to the kitchen:

— Pash!

As you've probably already guessed, my name is Pavel.

— Son, go pack your things! Tomorrow, dad's boss Mikhail Abramovich will pick you up. They've invited us to their country house for the weekend; there's a lake there. No need for you to wander around the stuffy city in this weather!

I had seen Mikhail Abramovich a couple of times—a cheerful, slightly plump man who constantly joked. He and dad had a good relationship, but this was the first time he had invited us over. Thinking that escaping from the concrete box to the lake wasn't such a bad idea, I ran to my room, took a backpack, threw in some shorts, a couple of t-shirts, a fleece, and pants in case of cold evenings, my phone charger, and went to the kitchen for dinner.

— Pash, — dad responded, — mom has some work to finish up tomorrow, so Mikhail Abramovich will pick you up tomorrow morning in his car, and mom and I will come in the evening.

In the morning, I woke up to the doorbell ringing; no one was home. I opened the front door—Mikhail Abramovich was standing on the threshold. He gave me a critical once-over.

— You're still in your underwear? Come on, hurry up and get ready; we're waiting for you downstairs. Silver Suzuki Vitara. — He turned around and slowly went down the stairs.

I quickly went to my room to get dressed, on the go shoved a sandwich into my mouth, washed it down with cold tea, grabbed my backpack, locked the front door, and went out into the yard. I saw the silver Suzuki immediately. Mikhail Abramovich was standing next to it smoking, and next to him, in a tight-fitting sports top and a sports jacket, stood a gorgeous blonde. I approached closer.

— Meet my wife, Angela, — he gestured with his palm towards the blonde, — my friend's son, Pavel, — this time he pointed at me.

Angela extended her hand and gave my palm a firm squeeze. Seeing my stunned look, Mikhail Abramovich burst into infectious laughter.

— Angela works as a rhythmic gymnastics coach! — Mikhail Abramovich noted proudly, opened the front passenger door, placed his hand on Angela's waist, and seated her in the car.

— My younger daughter—Daria, and this is my friend's son—Pavel, — Mikhail Abramovich introduced us.

Dasha did something between a curtsy and a jester's bow and pointed to the open car door. I peeked inside the cabin; there, taking up a good half of the back seat, half-lying in a doze, was another girl.

— And this is my eldest daughter, Anastasia, — Mikhail Abramovich said in a half-whisper, — she's expecting.

Nastya half-opened her eyes, waved her hand in my direction in a friendly manner, and placed it on her clearly protruding belly, gently stroking it.

— Get in! — a high-pitched girlish voice rang out near my ear, — I like to sit by the window. — Everything was said in such a tone that I dared not object.

I sat on the back seat, Daria immediately settled next to me and nudged me with her hip, pressing me tightly against Nastya.

Then something sharp poked me in the side. It was Nastya's elbow.

— Help me take off my jacket, — she said.

— So, will you help me take off my jacket? — her soft voice brought me back to consciousness.

— Aunt Angela, could you pass the water? It's very hot!

— No 'aunts,' just Angela, — she said and passed over a barely started, fogged-up bottle of mineral water.

— The shoemaker goes barefoot, — Mikhail Abramovich remarked sarcastically, — I own a network of service stations, but no time to go and recharge the air conditioning in the car, — he added bitterly.

I moistened the relatively dry edge of my t-shirt with the water and thoroughly wiped my stomach, hoping my pants would reliably cover my damp underwear. I glanced at Dasha; she didn't show it, but the situation clearly amused her.

After another 10 minutes or so, the car stopped in front of a low wrought-iron fence with ornate gates.

— Here we are, — Mikhail Abramovich's voice rang out.