"Honey mushrooms"

In our family, all the women were avid honey mushroom gatherers; my mother, grandmother, and even great-grandmother loved collecting these autumn mushrooms, and this passion didn't pass me by either.

Every autumn, when the honey mushroom season arrived in the nearby forests around our town, it was as if I was replaced. I became beside myself; a mischievous sparkle would appear in my eyes, like that of a hunter or a treasure seeker.

At this time of year, I would take vacation from work and spend whole days disappearing into the forest, collecting these cute little mushrooms that grew on tree roots, on stumps, and simply on the ground.

Though, I had to travel far for the honey mushrooms, about 25 kilometers from our city,

to a village where there was a forest, a very large forest, a tract where one could easily get lost.

And then, when my son grew up, I started taking him with me on honey mushroom trips. My boy was mature for his age, tall, and being in the forest with him was easy and calm for me. And as for Vadim, with his belly, he was of little use; he didn't gather mushrooms, he only got in the way. I had to spend as much time helping my boar of a husband climb over fallen trees as I did looking for mushrooms.

It was a different story with Kostya. My son is an athlete; he easily jumped over the aspens and birches lying on the ground and found honey mushrooms in the most secluded corners of the forest, places I couldn't reach. That's how it was this time too. Kostya was finishing school, in the 11th grade; the guy had turned 18, and in the spring he was supposed to be drafted into the army.

So we went with him to the forest for the last season, because next autumn I would have to stay home; my son would be serving and would return home in a year. The evening before, I had packed a backpack with provisions for two days, putting in a couple of cans of stewed meat, some smoked sausage, bread, canned fish, cereal, and, essential for our weather, a soldier's flask of pure medical alcohol.

I worked as a doctor for the ambulance service and had access to alcohol at work. Little by little, about a hundred grams at a time, I would bring it home in a small bottle; over a week, I'd accumulate a flask. I kept the alcohol in my room, which I locked with a key; otherwise, Vadim might get in and drink up all my alcohol reserves.

Which sometimes happened when I forgot to lock my bedroom when leaving for work, and Vadim, as if sensing the door was unlocked, would get into the room and drink all my alcohol with his friends.

That damn drunkard. I hadn't slept with him in a long time; when Kostya moved to the eighth grade, I evicted my husband from our shared bedroom to the living room sofa. Vadim grumbled a bit at first but complied, understanding I was right. After all, by that time he wasn't really fucking me properly anyway, and if you're just sleeping with a woman in bed as "furniture," then you might as well sleep on the sofa, especially since the sofa in the living room was big.

And how could you have sex with a woman with a belly like that, which my husband had grown due to his love for beer?

I don't even remember the last time he fucked me; probably about six months ago, in winter. Then, Vadim came home from work drunk and was overcome with a desire to fulfill his marital duty. He piled his belly on top of me, barely got his dick in, and immediately came, then fell into a drunken snore.

I barely crawled out from under him and swore that day never to get into bed with that boar again.

It wasn't even five in the morning yet when I woke my son and started getting ready for the trip. The backpack was already packed, as were the baskets for mushrooms; they were standing in the hallway.

Kostya and I had breakfast—sandwiches and tea. I went into the living room where the drunk Vadim was sleeping; my husband was on another binge, and the room had a persistent smell of stale alcohol.

>What a fate, to be given a drunkard for a husband. But never mind, let his mother endure it. My boy is healthy, strong, and tall. And my son's dick is bigger than Vadim's, much bigger. What a fool I am, why didn't I put a pad in my panties this morning? What a son I have—healthy, handsome, and strong. Unbelievable, what a situation.< I thought to myself with a smirk, quietly, stealthily rubbing against my son's cock with pleasure, so it wouldn't be noticeable from the outside. > A couple more potholes like that on the road and I'll definitely come.