Ilya and Isolde
For more than an hour now, fluffy flakes of December snow had been falling outside the window with church-like serenity, puffing up the bare trees, winding roads, and sloping house roofs with their white cotton. As if dissolving into it, the outlines of the tall Caucasian mountains were barely sketched in the distance. The air itself seemed to have frozen in the invisibly hovering shyness of silence.
"A whole month has already passed since I dug in here," thought Ilya, pensively watching the falling white winter down. "In just about an hour, the New Year will take its rights..."
Anticipating the upcoming celebration, he finished the remaining wine in his glass and, with a new spreading warmth, contentedly
surveyed the room—everything was prepared for his mother's arrival. The snow-white walls were adorned with the fluffy lights of colorful garlands. The nearly two-meter-tall fir tree (with a shining blue megandavid on its top and silver tinsel) was hung with multicolored glass balls. And finally, the main table was set with a huge cheese pizza and the best "tankist" wine, "Saakashvili.""I prepared all this..." Ilya stated, almost with pride. "Mom will be quite pleased..."
Indeed, on this pre-New Year's Eve, he had practically done a magnificent job all by himself—from finding the fir tree in the local forests (chopping it down and preparing it) to independently "sculpting" the pizza! And all this for his beloved mommy, the famous pop singer Izolda Aslanovna, who was due to arrive here in S. any minute—to her cozy hunting lodge, after another concert at a banquet for some local mafioso.
"Yes, mom will be pleased..." Ilya said once more in his thoughts.
Satiated, pleasantly tipsy, he lazily stepped away from the window, placed the empty glass on the table, and stopped by the wardrobe mirror. That large mirror in which his famous momma looked at herself, putting the final touches before every public appearance.
In the reflection, a tall, slender young man looked back at him, with a pale, gothically elongated face, a small mop of sleekly combed black hair, tired brown eyes, a long straight nose, and swollen pale-brown layers of lips.
"Typical student," he merely smirked to himself, noticing that the blue denim jacket (under which was only a white T-shirt) and similarly blue jeans only emphasized the slenderness of his body. However, he was suddenly more drawn to the features of his lanky face, which, after last year's acne attack, seemed to him significantly more mature.
"Who do I look more like," thought Ilya, peering intently into the mirror reflection. "Right, my eyes are my father's, and my nose... But my lips and chin are my mother's... So, I have Jewish 'loops' and sense of smell, but Georgian sense of touch!"
At this amusing thought, his plump lips stretched into a drunken smile. Now he clearly saw in the mirror the vivid creation of his father—a slender Russian office Jew—and his striking mother—a lovely Georgian diva. And this "creation" was already two decades old.
"I'm only half Georgian," he grinned. "The other whole part of me is a Jew!"
He again surveyed the prepared room with a tired gaze. The wine, in honor of the legendary Georgian tankman Grigory from the old Polish multi-series film "Four Tankmen and a Dog," had greatly relaxed his body and was pulling him to lie down on the luxurious snow-white sofa located right there in the hall. However, he understood that if he just lay down, he would fall into a blissful sleep, and after all the efforts for the upcoming New Year's meeting, that would be a staggering blunder for him!
Ilya went back to the window: no glimpse of bright headlights, no hum of his mother's silver Mercedes was yet to be heard. Only the thick snow continued to rustle quietly in the darkness of the pre-holiday night.
Hypnotized by it again, Ilya thought that this New Year would apparently be the calmest in his life. Without city noise, bright fireworks, and human shouts, the battle of chimes with the TV, and the flickering of the same "blue-pink" pop stars. Nor would there be that hustle and bustle with which he had seen in the current year in one of the Tbilisi student dormitories, together with classmates, first lapping up medical alcohol almost by the gallon, and then, in that intoxication, carousing all night on creaky beds with smoky, pimply female students!
"Eh, I should have taken Leopold with me..." thought Ilya, about his plump student friend. "Otherwise, it's quite possible I'll have to celebrate the New Year alone tonight."
He had reason to worry. Izolda Aslanovna often disappeared at banquets for whole nights on end, returning to her hunting nest only by morning. She would return all flushed, a bit tired, but with a sparkle in her eyes and several hundred thousand fresh bucks in her expensive purse.
He understood that his mother had such a job (after all, his father, when he was not yet ten, had vanished somewhere to the USA), and that only thanks to her he was studying at the institute, wearing fashionable clothes, and eating at all. However, being no longer a child, involuntarily absorbing those rumors that his mother allegedly received fees not only from concerts but also from her numerous mafia lovers, he felt in his heart the beginnings of real jealousy. Jealousy that grew in him along with his sexual maturity.
Ilya had more than once caught himself thinking that he was very attracted to his own mother as a woman. However, this did not cause him any embarrassment or torment. Raised by his mother, he naturally liked both her and other mature women. To one of them, namely Yulia Vladimirovna, who was the director of his institute, he had long felt an unrequited love, mixed with genuine inner passion. This Armenian woman, endowed with a cute, youthful doll-like face, an invariable golden braid on top of her head, a firm, wide bottom, and stunning legs—simply drove him crazy! In dreams alone, he had probably caroused with her a thousand times, spilled white nocturnal emissions into the bed hundreds of times, thought of her every ten minutes, but in reality... In reality, he only trembled near her at the lectern, seeing her in her usual stylish light suits (with invariably tight pencil skirts), and in a stupor of rapturous delight, he was dazzled by her gently sounding voice, so sexually mesmerizing with its echo of metallic strictness!
And with this Queen Yulia (as she was called in the dorm), only his mother Izolda could compare in Ilya's tastes—the mother, thanks to whose fame he always felt various indulgences in his studies from the teachers, although he himself was far from a fool.
"I wonder how Yulia will celebrate the holiday?" thought Ilya, still looking at the snow outside the window. "She would be very suitable for the role of the Snow Maiden..."
Instantly imagining the "Balzacian" cutie-directress in a white-blue velvet robe, and even having let down her golden braid from under the appropriate hat, he felt a slight excitement, which passed as a pleasant warmth through his already hot youthful vessels.
Along with this breeze of excitement that had wafted, he suddenly thought there was some mockery of fate in this. For both the lovely Yulia Vladimirovna and the star beauty mother Izolda Aslanovna were prominent, "tasty" women, yet both were still divorcees! Unmarried! Yes, let the directress have a quite adult daughter Angela, and the songstress have him, a young second-year biology student, but there were still no official husbands! Lovers, yes, masses! But men, their own men, were still absent! Such beauties, in their "prime," and none!
This thought stirred in Ilya a wave of indignation, which, passing through his body, rumbled in his stomach and echoed with tension in his bladder—after the wine he had drunk, he finally felt that he wanted to piss.
With this natural feeling, he headed to the toilet, though on the way he managed to glance at the large wall clock, which already showed around half past eleven.
"Only half an hour left, and mom's as if vanished," he thought with annoyance, unzipping his jeans before the open bowl of the elegant white toilet. "I'll definitely be alone tonight!"
Baring his curly black-hairy crotch and pulling out from it a 27-centimeter pale-brown penis as thick as a decent zucchini, he (continuing to mentally fret about this) noisily began to gush a brisk stream of spurting urine. This stream of his urine briskly splashed the toilet enamel with a light amber liquid and immediately exuded a certain almond-viscous aroma.
With closed eyes, reverently releasing warm streams of processed fluid from himself, Ilya, feeling a surge of relief, thought again of Yulia Vladimirovna. In his half-drunk brain, the beloved directress again surfaced in the image of a Russian Snow Maiden: now sparkling with a pair of golden thick braids, she, with a languid moan, swallowed the scarlet "lollipop" of a "Chupa Chups" and playfully winked at him!
At the sight of this scene, Ilya's urine-streaming "zucchini" began to slowly straighten, and the wide strawberry of the glans immediately swelled with all its venous bluishness!
Having overeaten pizza and heated by wine, Ilya, gripping the impressive rod of his manhood with his fingers, was about to mechanically masturbate to the beautiful image of Queen Yulia (as usual, dumping another batch of sperm cream into the sewer!), but unexpectedly froze, catching some rustle from the hallway.
— Ilyushshsh! — he heard the booming voice of his dear mother, bursting into the house like a fierce wind from the very mountain peaks. — Ilyush, are you home?!
"Mom's arrived!" immediately flashed joyfully in Ilya's head. "Mom!"
With the last spurts, splashing the remnants of amber urine from his slightly excited member, he, in an instant, tucked his "goods" back into his pants and, zipping up his jeans, hurried to his returned mother.
— Genatsvale... — seeing her, Ilya could only utter, with his mouth agape simply freezing in the hallway.
He had never seen her so extraordinarily beautiful! Having taken off her snow-dusted black fur coat, Izolda Aslanovna stood before him in a seductive red dress, artistically embracing her bare shoulders with hands in elegant blood-red velvet gloves! The unusually short hem of this intimate dress barely covered even half of her curvy thighs from below, and from above, it almost exposed the snow-white marshmallow of her lush breasts!
With reverent awe, Ilya somehow managed to realize that he was brazenly staring at these "marshmallows" that had once nourished him, and, not without some embarrassment, immediately shifted his gaze to her face. The lovely, blooming face of a mature woman, with dramatically lined large gray-green eyes, eyelids sparkling with silver shadows, and lushly painted plump lips!
— Ilyush! — these poppy lips pronounced his name again, intimately pursing into a tube. — How glad I am that you're here! That means we'll be together this New Year's night! But I'm so tired, Ilyush, today was a long concert—with just the song "Forward, hero, forward!" they called me for an encore four times! I'm so tired, son! Sorry, I poured out all my festive mood on the audience! I'm exhausted and now I only want one thing, to at least sit on the sofa!
— I understand, mom, I understand everything, — finally closing his mouth, Ilya said with an unexpected tremor in his voice, already accustomed to such post-concert tirades from her. — I prepared everything myself. As promised...
— I see, son, I see, — Izolda Aslanovna said, looking contentedly at the transformed room of her "nest," and gratefully pecked him on the cheek. — What a beautiful tree! What a table! You're my good boy! A real jigit! It's okay, we'll still have time to toast the New Year! I'll just rest a bit...
— Of course, mom, — said Ilya, looking at her with "all eyes" of puppy-like admiration. — Whatever you say...
The stately Izolda Aslanovna, bestowing a tired smile on her son, gracefully clicked across the marble floor in shiny red boots on high heels (which nicely highlighted her beautiful legs, sheathed in dark transparent nylon tights), and blissfully sank into the soft sofa's gentle embrace. The hem of her short dress involuntarily rode up, exposing even more the beauty of her "mare-like" legs.
And Ilya, feeling the cool burn of his mother's kiss on his cheek, looked at her almost breathlessly—any other woman dressed so revealingly, he would have taken for an ordinary roadside whore—but his own forty-year-old mother in such attire seemed to him in a dazzling divine light! He looked at her as a seductive beauty!
All inwardly melting, he idly examined Izolda Aslanovna for some time (who had freely sprawled on the sofa, closing her marvelous eyes), but then with a timidity that had crept up from nowhere, he still asked:
— Mom, are you sure you won't eat anything? I made cheese pizza today. It seems to have turned out okay for me.
— No, I won't, son... — the Georgian diva boomed, her eyes flashing for a moment. — But I'm glad you're gradually learning to cook. For any real Eastern man should be able to cook.
— For his women...
— Not only, son, also for his mothers and sisters.
Izolda Aslanovna, glancing at him merrily, immediately shook her luxurious body with laughter—the lively, flowing laughter of a true mountain woman.
— Oh, son, I see you've completely worn yourself out, that you even emptied half the pizza along with the brave "Saakashvili"! Hahahahaha! Well, it's okay, I already said I don't want to eat anything. Yes, and I'm not Italian to get upset about that! Hahahahahaha!
His mother's laughter began to embolden Ilya's timidity. He suddenly wanted to painfully squeeze this dark-haired laugher in his hands and finally press his lips to her vulgar lips in a brazen kiss!
— And what will we drink in just ten minutes? — he addressed her with surprise like a proper gentleman. — Serve a new "Saka" to the table?
— No, son! Hahahaha! — Izolda Aslanovna exploded with new chesty laughter. — I usually meet the New Year in my S. not with "Saka," but with a glass of "Tsinandali"! Hahahaha!
— As you say, oh beautiful madam! — with a smile, still hiding the flared-up boldness behind playfulness, said Ilya and, to the new roar of his mother's laughter, headed to the bar.
Soon, the elite light Georgian wine was skillfully uncorked by him and, in small doses, carefully poured into two large crystal goblets with magnificently engraved swans.
— Here you are, madam, — Ilya said in the same playful tone, giving his mother one of the glasses, and with the other, sitting down beside her. — But I must warn you, though its aroma is indeed elegant, its color is like my saka!
— Hahahahaha! — Izolda Aslanovna shook again, heaving her lush chest waves. — Oh, son, you say such things! This wine is real Georgian elite wine, not some saka of yours! And stop calling me "madam," I may sing many French ballads, but, as before, I am a Georgian! Call me your Suliko, my glorious jigit! Your Suliko!
— Oh, my Sulikooo! — obeying his mother's playfulness, Ilya exclaimed melodiously. — Pronounce it, pronounce the toast! The New Year is already hovering like an eagle over our mountains! Pronounce it for us, and we will meet it as a dear guest, clinking our glasses in a bruderschaft!
The dark hands of the wall