Angela is my love forever. Part 1

Every year, my mother went south to a sanatorium for vacation. She was given an annual voucher to Mineralnye Vody by the motor depot where she worked as the chief accountant. And always in early August.

And every time, exactly two weeks later. Rested and tanned under the hot southern sun, my mother would return home.

This year, in August, my mother was again, as always, given a voucher to Mineralnye Vody. But two weeks later, she didn't return home alone, as usual. She was accompanied by a young, long-legged blonde, who looked about thirty. And right from the doorstep, without unpacking her suitcase, she announced to me and my father that her companion's name was Angela. She was a refugee from

Tskhinvali and had nowhere to live. Temporarily, she would stay with us until she found a job and a place to live.

My father, of course, immediately objected. Saying, why do we need some strange woman in the house. We're already cramped in our small Khrushchev-era apartment. And now we're supposed to take in some refugee.

But everything was decided by a liter bottle of chacha that my mother brought from the South. At dinner, she put it on the table, and my father calmed down. Dad Tolik was a big fan of drinking, and after drinking the strong chacha, he immediately softened and agreed to let our mother's new acquaintance. The pretty blonde with legs as long as a model's, stay temporarily in our apartment. Naturally, until she found other housing.

My mother didn't bother asking my opinion. I had recently finished school and was waiting to be drafted into the army. In the fall, I was supposed to be taken into the valiant armed forces of the Russian Federation. And I was completely dependent on my mother, as I wasn't working anywhere. And my mother gave me pocket money for cigarettes and promised to arrange a send-off party for the army. To set a decent table with drinks and snacks so I could invite my friends.

And if I had objected to the presence of a strange woman in our apartment, where the three of us already had no room to turn around. My mother would have immediately cut off my pocket money. And I could forget about the send-off party. I'd have to go to the draft office on foot, "dry," without the customary feast with friends.

So I didn't object when my mother gave my room to her new acquaintance. The refugee Aunt Angela, who in the South was recovering from a wound received during combat in her homeland. It was there, at the resort, that my mother met her. And out of the kindness of her heart, invited her to stay with us in our district center. A thousand kilometers from her native Ossetia, where it was unsettled.

And so the arriving blonde took over my room. And my mother moved me to the living room on a folding cot. But I didn't complain much about it. Anyway, in a couple of months, I'd have to sleep for two years on a narrow soldier's bed with a spring mesh. And my home would become a dreary barracks, possibly at the other end of our vast Motherland.

But I didn't dislike Aunt Angela because she started sleeping in my cozy bed, while I lay my sides on a folding cot I had long outgrown, with my legs dangling from it to the floor.

I just organically couldn't stand blondes. Even beautiful ones like this Ossetian woman. Because of their pale, plain-looking pubic areas. My passion was brunettes with black, overgrown pussies. And I could jerk off for hours to porn photos of them until I foamed.

Perhaps my passion for dark-haired women arose in the eighth grade when I found a deck of playing cards with naked women in the glove compartment of my father's ZIL. And I stole one card from that deck. Ironically, it turned out to be the six of clubs. A brunette with large breasts and a black hairy pubic area.

I wore that playing card to shreds. And spilled many liters of thick young sperm on it. Just like on my mother's panties. The forty-year-old, big-assed accountant, who besides a magnificent ass had large breasts and wide thighs. And also a pretty face. And she was a brunette.

Once, my mother forgot her dirty panties in the bathroom, and I took advantage of her forgetfulness. While my parent was at work, I "did" my homework and jerked off all day to her panties. Sniffing their yellowed crotch, inhaling the magical aroma of female urine and discharge.

In the folds of my mom's white panties, I found a black hair from her pubic area. And I realized that Mom Ira's pussy was overgrown with black hairs. And I adored such women.

My father hadn't slept in the same bed with his wife for a long time. About five years ago, he voluntarily moved from her bedroom to the sofa in the living room. What's the point of sleeping with a woman and not fucking her? And Dad preferred to hit the bottle and play dominoes in the evenings in the yard with the guys at a wooden table. Drunks just like him. So my mother went alone to resorts to "treat" her bad kidneys. And there she let loose completely. Armenians and various "churkas" loved asses like Mom Ira's.

But one thing I didn't understand: why did she drag this refugee with her from the resort, who didn't have a penny to her name. And especially no place of her own?

My mother never engaged in charity. On the contrary, she was one of those people about whom they say "you couldn't get snow from them in winter." As far as I knew, my mother never gave anything to anyone for free. And once she even refused to lend money to her own sister. Out of greed.

And here she is, coddling and cherishing some young slut she befriended at a resort?

This Aunt Angela spent whole days in the apartment. Drinking coffee in the kitchen and smoking, standing by the window with the vent open. And also reading romance novels. And my stingy-with-money mother bought her expensive cigarettes, clothes, and shoes.

For me, her own son, my mother gave money that was barely enough for cheap "Java" cigarettes. They gave me a cough in the mornings. And for this young blonde she met at the sanatorium, she bought expensive "Chesterfields".

Such generosity from my naturally stingy mother towards a refugee from South Ossetia, with whom my mother had, so to speak, a "nodding" acquaintance. First surprised me. Then made me wary.

Had Mom Ira changed her orientation by forty and suddenly turned from a staunch heterosexual into a lesbian? Although such a scenario didn't fit in my head, knowing my mother's attitude towards sexual minorities. And my mother hated them fiercely. And she always spat when articles about gays or lesbians were written in newspapers and magazines. But still, I decided to observe my big-assed mother-accountant and her new friend Aunt Angela more closely.

A beautiful young blonde with blue eyes and long legs growing "from the ears".

Despite all my dislike for blondes. I had to admit that this refugee from Tskhinvali had beautiful legs. As did she herself. A striking girl with a short haircut and sensual lips. Though her breasts were small. And I liked busty women. Like my mother.

Only Aunt Angela's voice was rough. More like a man's than a woman's. But my mother said she smoked a lot. Said she was stressed about the war in her homeland. And that's why she had such a hoarse voice.

And that was true. The blonde smoked like a steam engine. One cigarette after another, and a pack wasn't enough for a day.

A few days of observing my mother and her new acquaintance went for nothing. I didn't notice anything suspicious about them.

As usual, my mother came home from work. We had dinner as a family in the kitchen. And went to our rooms. I went to the living room to watch TV. Mom Ira went to her bedroom, where she also had a TV. And Aunt Angela locked herself in my room, lay on the bed in her clothes, and read romance novels. My mother brought them from work.

And then one day, when I had already despaired of finding compromising material on my mother and her young friend, whom she had inexplicably taken in, thereby crowding me, my father, and herself. I got up at night to piss in the toilet and, passing through the hallway from the living room, saw that the kitchen door was ajar and the light was on. And quiet female voices were coming from there.

This immediately put me on alert. After all, when I got up to piss, it was three in the morning. And why would my mother and her friend come to the kitchen at such a late hour?

I then walked on tiptoe and, sneaking up to the corner of the hallway, peeked from there into the kitchen through the ajar door.

My mother was sitting at the table in a white nightgown and Aunt Angela in a long green robe down to her ankles. On the table was an opened bottle of cognac, two shot glasses, and a plate with snacks. Thinly sliced lemon and chocolate.

My mother was doing most of the talking. And she, sitting at the table, held the palm of the blonde sitting opposite her in her hand, passionately stroking it, looking at the young woman with loving eyes.

Seeing this, I understood the reason why my mother brought the refugee from Ossetia into the house and took such care of her.

They were lesbians. I wasn't sure about my mother. But Aunt Angela looked so lustfully at Mom Ira sitting across the table from her. There was no doubt. She was a hundred percent lesbian and, obviously, loved older women, since she got involved with my mom, a mature brunette with luxurious curves.

And standing around the corner of the hallway, I managed to overhear a fragment of their conversation. From which it followed that tomorrow was a day off and the two of them would go to the dacha. Where they would be alone until evening.

Hearing this, I immediately changed my mind about going to the toilet and, taking off my slippers. Quietly, on tiptoe, trying not to make noise, returned to the living room.

And even though I really needed to piss after the beer I drank the day before. I decided to hold it and go to the toilet later. So as not to give myself away and not mess up my mother and her friend's plans. Because if they realized I might have overheard their conversation. They would most likely reschedule their intimate date for another time and place.

I wonder, which one of them is the active one, and which is the passive one?

I thought, lying on the folding cot in the living room, waiting for my mother and Aunt Angela to leave the kitchen and go to sleep in their rooms. So I could go piss in peace.

I knew that among lesbians there are active and passive partners. And there are also versatile ones who can be both active and passive in bed if they want.

My mother - a voluptuous brunette with a voluminous behind. Most likely passive and likes to be licked. And Aunt Angela - the active one. She's slender, energetic, and just fits that role.

Waiting for the friends to leave the kitchen and go to sleep in their bedrooms. I slipped into the toilet and locked the latch.

After pissing, I jerked off right there. Mentally imagining my mother lying on her back with her legs spread, with a black overgrown pubic area. And Aunt Angela, lying on her stomach between her legs, diligently licking her vagina.

And also, while jerking my dick, I realized I could see the sex between my mother and her new friend live. If I got there before them. Got to the dacha and hid in the linen closet.

And from the thought that maybe tomorrow I would see with my own eyes how Aunt Angela and my mother would engage in forbidden lesbian love. I came so profusely that I covered not only the toilet but the seat itself with sperm. And that had never happened to me before.

Wiping the seat with paper and flushing the toilet. I returned to the living room and, under the snoring of my drunk father sleeping on the sofa. Started thinking about how to get to the dacha before the two lesbians - my mother and her friend. And have time to hide and lie low in the closet.

We didn't have a dacha in the general sense, where city dwellers usually relax and spend time in nature. But we did have a house in a village seven kilometers from our town. This was my mother's parental nest.

Mom Ira grew up in the village, then moved to the city, got married there, and received an apartment from the motor depot where she worked. And after her parents died, she didn't sell the house in the village. We used it as a dacha.

Behind the house was a garden and a vegetable plot where my mother planted various vegetables and potatoes for the winter.

The house itself was small, built of red fired brick with a wooden terrace attached. In the house, besides the terrace, there was a kitchen with a traditional Russian stove. And one room, which served us as both a bedroom and a living room.

In this room, against the wall, stood a sofa bed where I slept when we came to the village as a family. A little further away was a spacious wooden bed. My father and mother slept on it.

Next to the sofa was a dining table and three chairs. And against the wall, near the doors, at the end. Stood a huge, ceiling-high linen closet made of black wood.

As long as I could remember, the closet was always locked. My mother said it used to be opened. But the key to the closet got lost somewhere, and it remained standing with its doors closed.

My father wanted to break the closet doors open with an axe. But my mother wouldn't let him. Explaining to her drunkard husband that there was nothing valuable inside anyway. Except for old coats and fur coats, long eaten by moths. And it wasn't worth ruining the closet for them.

Especially since this antique furniture, by the looks of it. Could be sold for good money later. Because this closet used to stand in the estate of a local landowner. And ended up in my mother's house during the revolution. Her great-grandfather Ivan brought it on a cart from the looted manor house.

Since then, the antique linen closet had stood in the house where my mother used to live with her parents.

On the side of this closet, there was even the year of its construction. Nineteen hundred and nine.

Although my mother said the key to the closet had been lost long ago. I still found it. It was lying, wrapped in a canvas bag, in a small recess in the Russian stove in the kitchen.

Besides the key. There was a candle stub, a ball of woolen thread, and a homemade awl.

That this was the very lost key to the antique closet standing in the living room. I understood by its shape and the intricate monograms on the end. Such keys were only made in tsarist times.

Naturally, I didn't say anything about the find to my parents. And, waiting for my mother and father to go out on business. Opened the closet doors with the key and looked inside. Hoping to find something valuable. But I was disappointed. Inside, as my mother said. On hangers hung old-fashioned coats and fur coats, long out of fashion, with collars eaten by moths.

I was about to give the key to my mother, since there was nothing valuable inside. When I accidentally saw latches on the inside of the closet doors. The closet could be locked from the inside, and one could hide in it unseen and observe through the keyhole.

And from it, the whole room was visible as if in the palm of your hand. The table with the sofa and the bed.

And I decided to secretly observe my mother when she would change into dirty clothes, to see her naked.

Once I did just that. Slipped into the house while my mother was doing some chores in the yard, and, opening the closet with the key, hid in it and lay low.

A few minutes later, my mother came into the house from the yard and, to my joy, started taking off her clothes, thinking I was somewhere outside. And I was sitting in the closet a meter away from her, watching her through the keyhole.

But, unfortunately, Mom Ira didn't take off all her clothes