The magical "little button"
I was about 30 years old at the time. I had been married for 18 years and had a growing 6-year-old son. Sexual relations with my wife had reached that established, bland phase where the presence of a mistress should have been assumed with a hundred percent probability.
So, I was regularly meeting with an attractive, married 27-year-old Olga, whom I had met at a gathering at the city's tourist club. A couple of times we ended up together on weekend hikes and imperceptibly progressed to tender relations.
Olga was married, and our meetings most often took place at her school friend Tonya's place, who lived in her own house on the outskirts of the city with her two
small children.At that time, I was dashing around in a bright yellow "Kopeyka" (a VAZ-2101), of a very venerable age, in which various "ailments" were constantly discovered, and I often spent evenings in the garage, tinkering with the car's innards, searching for and fixing the next malfunction. There were no cell phones back then, and it was difficult for my wife to monitor my whereabouts. I took advantage of this. Having arranged things with Olga in advance, after the family dinner, instead of the garage, I would head straight to the agreed meeting place, and then together we would fly to Tonya's place. There, for the sake of decency, we would drink tea with a brought cake, after which Tonya would quickly send the children to bed, and Olga and I would retreat to a small bedroom, where for about an hour and a half we would provide each other with those joys that we lacked in our family lives.
It's not that Olga was a skilled or temperamental partner. On the contrary, she was quite indifferent to sex, and meetings with me were for her a kind of response to her husband, who did not hide his successes on the alternative "female" front at all and therefore performed his marital duty not only very rarely but also as if as a favor.
Despite all of Olya's restraint and inhibition, the atmosphere of adultery filled our meetings with a special aroma, and I received enormous pleasure from possessing her body.
Closing the door behind us, we didn't waste time on empty embraces — quickly undressing, Olya lay down on the narrow, sagging sofa covered with a bedspread, and I, kneeling down, began to kiss her, starting from her slightly parted lips and gradually descending lower and lower.
Olga seemed not to react, neither to kisses on her neck, nor when I kissed her breasts and hands. For me, however, it gave enormous pleasure to touch her body with my lips, sensing the smells of a young woman who had taken a shower a couple of hours ago but had already managed to become imbued again with the natural scent of a living body. Kissing her neck, I absorbed the remnants of the smell of her daytime perfume. Kissing her breast, I involuntarily felt the light, arousing smell of her armpits, mixing with the pungent echo of deodorant.
When my lips finally found the hollow of her navel, she slightly spread her legs, and I understood this as a sign that she was ready to receive me. I lay on top of her, and my member entered the slightly moist vagina without hindrance. By this point, I usually had already reached that degree of arousal and readiness that the first "shot" occurred literally after a few movements. I knew that Olga used an IUD and wasn't afraid to finish inside her. As soon as I pulled my limp organ out of Olga, she immediately closed her legs, as if trying to hold the received male vitamins inside her longer.
Having satisfied the first desire, we continued to lie next to each other until my member began to regain strength again. Leaning on my elbow, I stroked Olya's breasts, quietly squeezing her nipples. It seems this was the only thing that aroused her at all. When I, forgetting myself, lowered my hand down and tried to slightly spread Olya's legs, she simply took my hand and returned it to her breast...
Eyes, accustomed to the semi-darkness, distinguished large dark circles around Olya's nipples, a flat stomach, and a convex pubis covered with short, delicate hairs. Olga took care of this part of her body and periodically trimmed them, leaving a short, ticklish stubble that didn't get in the way when my lips passed over it.
I guessed that she was ready to receive another portion of sperm by her slightly quickened breathing. Placing my hand on her pubis at that moment, I felt that her legs were no longer clenched and a small gap had formed between them. I was on top again, and this time the creaking of the old sofa didn't subside for much longer.
Olga didn't move, didn't moan, didn't open her eyes, and didn't help me with pelvic movements. She seemed to allow me to do everything necessary for obtaining my own "male" pleasure. Throughout all our meetings, she never once moaned or had an orgasm in the way it's usually depicted in adult night programs. Most likely, she derived some kind of her own, unknown to me, pleasure from sex, because she never refused it and always gave me a long kiss goodbye.
After such a "mandatory program," I would go to put the car in the garage, where I conscientiously washed my face of the remnants of Olya's makeup, and my hands, on the contrary, wiped with a dirty, greasy rag, so that later, at home, I could as if casually show my wife traces of intimacy with the ailing child of the Russian auto industry.
Olga most often stayed overnight at her friend's, and the problem of secrecy didn't exist for her.
One can only guess what sensations the unmarried hostess of the house experienced, forced to listen to the rhythmic creaking of the sofa coming from behind the thin plank door. Tonya didn't shine with beauty or a slender figure. She was a "gray mouse," hiding her complexes and desires under nondescript blouses and long skirts. Tonya worked in a large female collective and practically had no opportunity to find herself a normal man, barely managing to pick up her close-in-age children from kindergarten after work. Where her husband had gone, or if she even had one, I didn't inquire.
After Olga and her husband and children moved to Germany for permanent residence, I lost contact with Tonya for a while, but she suddenly reminded me of herself. Calling me at work, she informed me that the tourist club was planning a rally and competitions in the coming weekend about 40 kilometers from the city on the bank of a small river. She would gladly go there with her kids but hadn't managed to sign up for the tourist club bus. Tonya asked if I was planning to go and if so, could she "tag along." The idea was supported, and we quickly discussed who was bringing what equipment.
On Friday evening, I drove up to Tonya's little house, and not without difficulty, we placed in the car ourselves, Tonya's two kids, my little rascal, a bunch of tourist gear, and even managed to strap a battered plastic kayak, which Tonya had from who knows where, onto the roof rack. Arriving at the spot, we saw that we were by no means the only ones who decided to arrive early. Several campfires were already burning in the clearing, around which familiar and unfamiliar figures were bustling. From one campfire, guitar strumming and the clinking of glasses were already audible.
Assessing the situation, I chose a secluded spot on the edge of the forest, away from the main camp, for our tent. It was a habit developed over many years of traveling in large groups. Thin fabric walls did not contribute to soundproofing nighttime snoring and suppressed moans, which in our youth, my wife and I emitted nightly when getting out into nature. Only a significant distance from the other tents allowed us to make love on spread-out sleeping bags more or less confidently, without receiving good-natured teasing from colleagues in the morning about the peculiarities of our nighttime lifestyle.
I absolutely did not plan to engage in anything like that at night with Tonya, considering the presence of three already quite conscious kids in the tent, but habit took over, and my three-person "Varta" found its place about forty meters from the cluster of tents of the main camp. After setting up the tent, I busied myself with the campfire, and Tonya and the kids took on preparing the sleeping places.
Having a snack of sandwiches prepared at home and washing them down with tea from a thermos, we sat by the fire for a while until it began to get dark. Tired from the journey and new impressions, the children began to yawn, got bored, climbed into the tent, whispered a bit, and soon fell silent.
Left alone by the fire with Tonya, we quickly exhausted topics for conversation. We didn't feel like going to the neighboring campfires, and we also decided to go to sleep. So as not to embarrass the woman, I suggested she climb into the tent first, get settled there, and then call me.
Tonya ran to the nearby bushes for a minute and darted into the tent. Only at that moment did I first get a good look at her figure and realized that I had clearly underestimated her. She had been sitting by the fire in a sweater and knit sport pants. If the baggy sweater hid the shape of the upper part of Tonya's body, the tight-fitting pants demonstrated quite slender legs. Tonya didn't fully unzip the tent's vestibule; opening it halfway, she got on all fours and crawled inside, as if deliberately showing me her buttocks, stretched by thin knitwear, on which the contours of her panties were clearly visible under the fabric of the pants. At that moment, I realized that my subconscious desire to set up the tent far from prying ears might be quite justified... It's not that I already wanted Tonya as a woman, but I also no longer felt a state of indifference towards her.
Waiting a few minutes, I crawled into the tent vestibule, cluttered with children's shoes, and pondered. The cool night suggested leaving on as much clothing as possible, but the anticipation of closeness with Tonya required leaving on only that minimum which would be easy to remove in the cramped space. The dilemma was solved simply — I remained in my briefs and a T-shirt, and rolled my sweater and warm pants into a fluffy bundle to put under my head and, if necessary, use for extra warmth.
Carefully squeezing into the tent with the improvised pillow in one hand, I shone a flashlight searching for my spot. The kids were snoring, wrapped in sleeping bags. Tonya was lying next to the children, leaving me a narrow spot right by the wall.
Trying not to step on anyone's feet, I squeezed into the allotted space and realized that if not intimate, then certainly physical closeness with Tonya was guaranteed for me. I could only lie on my side, tightly pressed against Tonya's body. There were only two options — either I pressed against her with my stomach, or with my back and buttocks. In the second case, my face would rub against the tent fabric all night, and after tossing a bit, I turned to face Tonya.
Tonya was lying on her back. The zipper of her sleeping bag wasn't fastened, and my hand, searching for a comfortable position, as if accidentally ended up on her stomach. More precisely, my hand rested on the thick woolen long johns she had put on for warmth at night, replacing the light sport pants that had so reliably demonstrated Tonya's tempting shapes to me. Not a sound, not a movement from Tonya reacted to such an encroachment on the honor and dignity of her body. Most likely, she was expecting some similar actions from me, and any sounds and movements on her part were limited by the cramped conditions in the tent and the presence of six small ears in the enclosed space. Judging by the uniform three-voice snoring, our offspring were sleeping soundly and had no idea of the difficulties that had arisen for the sexually mature inhabitants of the tent. Waking them with careless movements of our bodies clearly wasn't part of my or Tonya's plans.
After letting Tonya's stomach get a bit used to the weight of my hand, I slightly moved my fingers, which were lying right on her pubis, stroked my palm over the soft-to-the-touch fabric tightly covering Tonya's stomach, and, receiving no reaction, understood that I could attempt more active efforts to penetrate to the female charms hidden by several layers of knitwear.
Successfully overcoming two barriers, I immediately overcame the third — the elastic of tight woolen panties. My fingers plunged into the thick forest of silky hairs on Tonya's pubis. Pressed from above by three layers of dense knitwear, my hand practically couldn't move left or right. Only my fingertips had a little freedom, but they barely reached the place where the pubis turned into that very desired slit, towards which male hands and other protruding parts of the male body constantly strive.
My head, preoccupied with the problem of penetrating to the coveted Tonya's cave, wasn't yet giving a signal to my male instrument, and it lay modestly, pressed against my testicles in the tight confinement of my briefs. I don't know why, but I wanted to reach Tonya's "lower part" precisely with my hands... Maybe I internally understood that in such cramped conditions, traditional sex was practically impossible, and I needed to look for alternative ways to satisfy my and Tonya's desires.
Feeling Tonya's flat pubis under my palm, I paused my conqueror's ardor for a while and, freezing, tried to catch the sounds of the sleeping children's breathing in the silence.
It seemed that, having run around in nature in the evening and tired from a large dose of new impressions, the kids were sleeping like logs, conscientiously filling the darkness with serene snoring. Assured of this, I continued my attempts to penetrate Tonya's inner world. Tonya lay with her legs tightly together, and it seemed that, having already overcome all obstacles, I had stopped at a locked door. All that remained for me was to lightly massage with my fingertips the place where Tonya's fluffy pubic triangle ended, squeezed by her thighs.
Judging by Tonya's breathing, she was getting quite tangible pleasure from my touches and wasn't rushing things, as if trying to accumulate more desire and languor within herself. She understood that it was enough for her to spread her legs a little, and my fingers would cross the border of relative innocence, opening a completely different horizon for our relationship. Actually, Tonya couldn't particularly spread her legs in this cramped space...
Only later did I understand the reason for this not so much indecisiveness as slowness. Starved for male affection, lonely Tonya knew her own possibilities and needs too well and had no idea of mine. Tonya at that moment didn't yet know that for me there was no greater pleasure than bringing a woman to the peak of passion, caressing her clitoris and the entrance to her vagina, and only then entering her, exhausted and having spilled a puddle of juice onto the sheet, with an erect member, tired from the long wait. Tonya timidly listened to my caresses, expecting their completion with traditional, fleeting sex. I, however, was in no hurry. There was a whole night ahead.
Tonya slightly spread her legs and, oh joy, my fingers could slightly squeeze into Tonya's hot crotch. True, not very deep, but it was enough for the firm little raisin of Tonya's clitoris to be under my fingers. As soon as I touched it, Tonya let out a suppressed moan. It seemed the clitoris was her most sensitive erogenous zone.
Tonya panted, gasped, made completely indescribable sounds that inflamed me more and more...
My experience in caressing clitorises at that point practically exhausted itself with communication with my own wife's pussy, who very much loved such sexual delicacies but was so capricious during its consumption that I didn't often force myself to do it. My wife demanded such gentle touches to her sensitive spot and with a rhythm known only to her at each moment in time that I couldn't maintain these parameters for long and regularly received, in the intervals between her suppressed moans, her dissatisfied hissing: — "Slower... softer...". I, getting aroused by the process, was no longer in full control of myself and tried to move my fingers in the rhythm that was familiar and pleasant to me... As a result, most often, my wife remained unsatisfied, and I was branded with shame as an inept man who didn't understand the needs of the female body.
Now, caressing Tonya's little bump, I felt with all my fibers that Tonya liked absolutely everything I was doing, regardless of rhythm or force... At some point, I felt Tonya's legs tense up and she herself fell silent for a second, held her breath, and stopped emitting the moans that so aroused me... Slightly lifting her butt, Tonya tried to press closer to my finger...
Trying not to scare away the peak of pleasure rolling over Tonya, I continued to make the same movements with my fingers that had awakened in Tonya the growing avalanche of orgasm, and here it came. The firm little caterpillar under my finger began to pulsate, and in time with these pulsations, Tonya moaned near my ear. Pressing the revived bump with my finger, I froze, not disturbing the woman...
The impulses stopped, and Tonya immediately went limp and, exhaling heavily, lowered her butt onto the sleeping bag... My hand froze, squeezed by Tonya's thighs. We