Summer in the Village. Part 1
To all lovers of mature women!
All characters in the story are adults.
Of my two grandmothers, I loved Grandma Liza, my father's mother, the most; she was kind and never scolded or punished me, even for childhood mischief. Grandma Liza always smelled of cabbage pies, which she loved to bake in the large, whitewashed Russian stove, and I would gorge myself on them when I stayed at her house in the village. But I didn't love my other grandmother, my mother's mother, Grandma Zoya, because of her natural stinginess and meanness.
When Grandma Liza passed through our district center, she never came to our house empty-handed; she always brought gifts and treats, cookies,
gingerbread, and even chocolate candies.But my mother's mother, Grandma Zoya, was stingy with treats, and on rare occasions would give me a handful of rock-hard candied sweets that had been lying in her sideboard at home for who knows how many years, completely dried out, and brought as a gift to her grandson because they were no longer good for her.
But the thing is, despite her kindness, Grandma Liza was unattractive, plump, and flabby. She always wore long, ankle-length sundresses and, as a woman, she didn't attract me; I never jerked off to her or fantasized about her.
But I did jerk off to Grandma Zoya, sometimes until I was foaming at the mouth, because she was beautiful, mean but attractive, an older woman who looked exactly like her daughter, my mother.
My father's mother never wore makeup or sprayed on perfume; she always wore galoshes outside and baggy clothes that hid her plumpness but made her completely unsexy. And she didn't strive for that anyway; she lived alone without a husband in the village where she kept a cow, piglets, and chickens. Until retirement, Grandma Liza worked on the collective farm as a milkmaid, and after retiring, she started keeping house, selling milk, meat, and cottage cheese at the market.
Unlike the prematurely aged Grandma Liza, who had slaved away her whole life on the farm hauling heavy milk cans, my mother's mother looked young because she didn't do physical labor. Grandma Zoya was a representative of the rural intelligentsia, worked as the chairman of the village council, and never lifted anything heavier than a pen or a folder of papers, which is how she preserved her health and beauty into old age.
For the most part, I spent my summer vacations at Grandma Liza's, my father's mother. Her village was close to our town, about seven kilometers away, and I would go to her by bus, sometimes by hitchhiking, and even walked. But the village where my mother's mother, the mean and nasty Grandma Zoya, lived was far from our home in a neighboring region, and I didn't visit her often for that reason. The old woman herself wasn't particularly keen on me staying with her due to her stinginess, after all, she'd have to feed me, give me drinks, and spend money on it.
But everything changed when I moved to the upper grades. By that time, my father's kind mother, Grandma Liza, had died, and soon after, my father died too, having drunk himself to death on surrogate vodka at work. My mother and I started living alone, and soon, when summer vacation came, she decided to send me to the village for the summer to her mother, the mean and nasty Grandma Zoya, because after my father's death, Mom got a job as a train conductor on the railroad, and that kind of work involved long trips, and there was no one to look after me. My mother was afraid to leave me alone.
"Mom, I'm already grown up and can take care of myself. Nothing will happen to me while you're away," I said to my mother the evening before, after learning she had decided to dump me for the whole summer until autumn at her mother's place in the village.
"No, Kostya, don't even ask. There you'll be fed and supervised, but here, in my absence, you'll get mixed up with hoodlums and might even burn the apartment down. Go to my mother's for the summer; she'll keep an eye on you, and then I'll be at ease. I have work tomorrow, and I'll take you with me to the station on the way and put you on the commuter train. Don't even think about running back; I'll lock the apartment and take the keys. I won't be back home for two weeks; my train 🚆 'Moscow — Vladivostok' takes a long time. So, you can pack your things in your backpack, son; there won't be time tomorrow. We're leaving early in the morning; I bought a ticket for the first train, I need to get to work early." Talking to me, my mother stood by the open window smoking a cigarette, one foot on a low stool, flicking the ash down somewhere onto the flowerbeds from the height of the fifth floor where we lived. Noticing my gaze on her thigh, which had inadvertently become exposed under her robe, she stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray, closed the window, wrapped her robe shut, and turning her back to me, walked to her room, thereby letting me know the conversation was over.
And I didn't argue with her anymore, knowing my mother's stubborn character; if she had decided on something, it was impossible to dissuade her. And the reason she decided to send me to her mother's for the summer was obvious: in my absence, Mom Lena wanted to arrange her personal life, and I was in the way.
She wasn't an old woman yet, only thirty-seven, and she wanted relationships with men. That's why she got the job as a train conductor; in our town, there were no decent men, just drunks, but on the train, Mom could find herself a worthy man, or a fuck-buddy for a while.
After all, my father hadn't slept with her in a long time recently, he was always drunk coming home from work, and my mother, as a woman, naturally wanted affection, so she decided to go wild after her husband's death, and I was a burden to her in this matter.
Realizing there was nothing to be done and resigning myself to spending the summer vacation at my disliked grandmother's in the village, I went into my room, which was next to my mother's bedroom, opened the linen closet, and started packing the necessary things into my backpack.
"I bought you some cigarettes for the time being, Kostya. Zoya will buy them later; I transferred money for your upkeep to her account." About an hour later, when I had already packed my backpack, turned off the light, and gone to bed, my mother came into the room. She businesslike clicked the switch on the wall, turning on the light, which made me squint, and approaching the bedside table, she placed two cartons of "Chesterfield" on it.
Mom herself smoked this American brand of cigarettes and bought them for me. But she preferred the light ones in the light packaging, and for me, she got the strong ones in the red packaging from the store. And although "Chesterfield" were quite expensive cigarettes for the province where we lived, my mother said that if you're going to poison yourself, do it with quality tobacco.
But truth be told, she bought me cigarettes at the rate of a pack every two days. She didn't smoke often herself and had gotten me used to that.
I started smoking at home in front of my parents in the eighth grade, when my father was still alive, and my mother was the initiator. She told my father then that since he smoked anyway, he should smoke in front of us and not hide in corners; the last thing we needed was for him to burn the apartment down. My father objected at first, saying he didn't smoke in front of his parents at my age, but he quickly quieted down; he was afraid of his wife and was under her thumb. And since then, I started smoking in front of them, and my mother supplied me with cigarettes of the brand she smoked herself. My father preferred cheaper cigarettes, "Java" or "Saint George," but they made me cough.
"Thanks, Mom, I'll go to work and pay you back all the money for the cigarettes," I thanked my mother and involuntarily stared at her lower abdomen.
Mom had changed into a nightgown for bed, wide and long like a robe, and in it, she came into my room carrying the cigarettes. And if there were no questions about the length of the gown—it was purely puritanical and hid all parts of the body—the material it was made from revealed forbidden places on a woman.
My mother stood a meter away from me, and I practically point-blank examined the extensive black thicket on her pubic area. The material of the nightgown my mother was wearing that evening was thin nylon and showed through perfectly in the light.
.
"Holy shit, does she really not know her gown is see-through? Or did she put it on on purpose and come to me with the cigarettes she could have just given me in the morning?"
I thought, stunned, looking at the huge black triangle of her hairy pubic mound at the bottom of my mother's abdomen, which was showing through the fabric of the nightgown in the most shameless way.
It was the first time in my life I had seen a woman's pubic area up close in real life, and that woman was my own mother, and my dick instantly went rock hard in my underwear.
"No, I don't need your payback, son. You'd better think about the future. You've become an adult, and it's time for you to start your own family; you're not going to live with me forever." Putting the cigarettes on the nightstand, my mother stepped to the bed, sat down on the edge next to me, first stroked my hair on my head, and then ran her palm over my chest as if caressing me, all while looking into my eyes with a kind of special, squinting gaze.
"I'm not planning to live with you, Mom. But it's too early for me to get married; I'm going into the army soon, I'll serve two years, and then I'll get married," I answered my mother, lying in front of her with a rock-hard dick under the blanket, looking into her eyes, and being dazzled by her caresses.
And Mom Lena was really caressing me, running her palm over my chest, and these caresses weren't those of a mother loving her son, but of a woman who had been living without a man for a long time.
"She came to me drunk, and she's wearing nothing under her nightgown; she's sitting on my bed naked."
It flashed through my head as I smelled the alcohol coming from Mom Lena's mouth. It was barely perceptible, but I could smell it, just as I could smell the light floral perfume from her wavy black hair and the smell of tobacco from her lips.
My mother drank a glass of dry wine at night, telling me it was good for the heart and helped her fall asleep faster. But today, she probably didn't stop at one glass and got drunk. That's why she came to me in such attire.
And what did she have to be shy about with me? We were alone now, and she had no one to be afraid of. If before, when her husband was alive, she seemed to be shy about walking around in front of me in her underwear, after my father's death, I often saw my mother in a bra and panties when she came out of the toilet or bathroom.
"She's not only not wearing panties, but no bra either."
I thought, as if casually examining the outline of Mom Lena's large breasts through the thin fabric of the nightgown. Her large, seemingly ripe melon-like tits with dark brown nipples at the ends drew my gaze like a magnet, and I could barely restrain myself from hugging my mother around the neck and grabbing her magical breasts with my hand and giving them a good feel right through the gown.
A pretty thirty-seven-year-old brunette was sitting in front of me in a see-through nightgown, caressing my chest with her palm, and literally driving me crazy. I was burning with desire to pounce on my mother and start fucking her, hiking up her gown. And only one circumstance held me back from this rash step: my mother might not let me, and even worse, report me to the police for rape. If she had been completely drunk, that would be another matter, but now, no, she was only slightly tipsy, and I was really afraid of the consequences.
"But I already have a girlfriend, Mom, my classmate Tanya Titova, you know her, that tall, red-haired girl. Her mother works as a store manager, and her father is the head of a motor pool." I deliberately lied to my mother to at least keep her in my room a little longer and enjoy the sight of her tits, which were clearly visible through the nightgown.
Although I only half-lied to my mother, this Tanya had certain designs on me, and I had even walked her home from school a couple of times. I didn't like her, but I probably liked her quite a lot, and if I wanted to, I really could have gotten involved with her and even married her before the army.
"That's commendable, son. Tanya is a girl with a dowry. Don't miss your chance; maybe her parents will give you young ones an apartment as a wedding gift. Well, okay, go to sleep, I'm going too; we have to get up early tomorrow." My mother, as if reluctantly, removed her palm from my chest, got up from the bed, and went to the door. Before she reached for the switch to turn off the light in the room, I saw her incredible ass, which, like the other parts of her beautiful body, showed through the nightgown.
Her firm, milky-white buttocks, like two large "buns," were visible on my mother through the fabric of the nightgown, and I even managed to see for a moment before the light went out how the white and plump "buns" of Mom's ass rubbed against each other as she took a few steps to reach the switch on the wall.
.
For a few minutes, I lay in the dark with a raging hard-on, recovering from what I had seen, and then, tiptoeing, I went to the bathroom where Mom Lena's panties and bras were lying in the laundry basket.
Before, when my father was alive, my mother never put her underwear in the common laundry basket; she always washed them separately and kept her dirty panties in her room. But after her husband's death, something shifted in Mom's head, and her panties and bras, as well as nightgowns, stockings, and other parts of her wardrobe, freely lay in the laundry basket in the bathroom. True, my mother didn't put her underwear in plain sight but hid it at the very bottom of the basket so her piss-stained panties wouldn't catch her adult son's eye, but my mother didn't suspect that her son was an experienced wanker and, on top of that, a sniffer. I would quickly find my mother's silk panties under the pile of dirty clothes and jerk off to them, inhaling the scent of her piss and vaginal discharge that soaked the crotch of the panties.
And now, under a heap of clothes—my shirts, sweatpants, and Mom's robes—I discovered several panties and bras neatly folded by a caring female hand into a plastic bag. My mother didn't throw her underwear around haphazardly but always carefully folded things into a large bag and placed it at the very bottom of the basket. Perhaps she did this out of shyness towards me, so I wouldn't see her panties, but it's unlikely Mom guessed that it was all useless and you couldn't hide anything from her wanker son.
I started sniffing women's panties and jerking off to the smell coming from their piss-stained crotch a year ago when I was visiting a friend, my classmate Sanya. That day, there was a math test, a subject we both hated, and Sanya and I decided not to go to school but to hang out at his house. My buddy's parents were at work all day; his mother worked in a store, and his father was a long-distance bus driver, so no one bothered us to skip school. We were sitting in Sanya's room, playing cards and watching TV, and when we got bored with all that, my friend went to the bathroom and brought back his mother's large white panties—his mother, Aunt Valya, a big-assed saleswoman.
Sanya turned them inside out and showed me the crotch of the panties, which had previously been in contact with his mother's pussy and ass, and it was all yellow from piss. We took turns sniffing Aunt Valya's panties and jerking off to their piss-stained crotch. And after that, I tried sniffing and jerking off to my own mother's panties, and I really liked it.
And now, I carefully pulled