Found the lid for the pot?!

Oh! Damn, could you be more careful? - I whined irritably. Damn, I had to go and read that ad. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say, and my insatiable curiosity and thirst for new adventures led me to this—ouch. I don't like getting haircuts, I much prefer being fluffy and shaggy.

But no, here I am lying on my back, legs spread wide apart, cursing my husband left and right. Of course, my husband couldn't care less about his wife's heroic suffering. He placed a pillow under my hips, covered it with a large terry towel, armed himself with a razor and shaving foam, and with a sly smirk asked, "Are you comfortable, dear? Don't fidget, relax!"

Pshh, pshh—

the foam hisses. Yeah, right, try relaxing when a razor starts moving over the delicate folds of your crotch. Any "dear" would start panicking, let alone me. Although for my close girlfriends, this procedure is a common thing. "Comfortable and stylish," some said. "Glamour and hygiene," others reassured, but I just couldn't bring myself to subject my pussy to such an ordeal. And why, pray tell, do I need this style and glamour? If I don't have a lover. And my husband, the dragon, that is, the boatswain, sails the world's oceans for six months or more. In the end: work, home, kids—the week flew by, weekends the opposite: kids, home, mom, and on Monday, "our song is good, start from the beginning." Wait a minute, I've strayed from the topic, oh, I got carried away, not in that direction.

Calm, only calm,—I tell myself and shift all my attention to my husband. The pink tip of his tongue peeks out from under his dark mustache. Afraid of cutting and damaging his and my priceless property, he diligently plays the role of an intimate hairdresser.

— What's taking you so long? I'm tired of lying in this position,—I whine, but don't move, just in case he cuts off the most important part.

— This is beyond belief. What a cheeky guy. My idea?—I slowly start boiling. And who supported it? Who exchanged photos? Who sent messages and arranged the meeting?—continuing to boil with righteous indignation, I ask questions.

— Dear, don't get worked up and look what hairstyle I gave your pussy,—my husband calmed me, handing me a mirror.

— Hmm? Speechless. So what is this folk art?—I ask the mustached one, assessing the fruits of his labor. The sight of my pussy amazed me, it's not as bad as it could have been. The neatly shaved folds looked quite appetizing, I closed my legs, the plump outer lips hid the clitoris, and the absence of hair on them reminded me of a tender age. I raise my gaze higher... My husband began retreating into the depths of the room, putting his hands out in front in defense. The scoundrel understood that a pillow was about to fly at him.

— Dear, first I wanted to shave a heart, then the Victory sign, in the end nothing worked out and I settled on this most optimal option,—my husband helplessly spread his hands.

— Idiot, you could have depicted a maple leaf too,—a pillow conveniently came to hand.

— Ouch! Now my husband dodges the barrage of pillows, running around the room.

— Settled on this option, you say? I look in the mirror, trying to imagine what the remaining tufts of hair look like. Not enough for a bunch of dill, more like a clump of grass trimmed by a lawnmower, I develop the fantasy further, like the bristles of an old clothes brush, which I threw out the other day due to its uselessness, my imagination ran dry. I stare intently at my husband, wondering what else to say that's insultingly sarcastic... It dawned on me, sometimes it's actually useful to stare intently at your husband!

— Haven't you tried shaving your mustache?—I burst out laughing. Without the mustache, his expression is so boyishly defenseless, awkward, due to his deformed thin upper lip.

— Go take a bath, I won't fall for provocations again, dear,—he understood that the storm had passed and the horizon was sunny,—the mustached one grumbles without malice. When I shaved them off, at your request, you laughed for a week and said to glue them back on, and our younger son called me uncle. No, forget it, I won't even think of doing such a stupid thing again! By the way, maybe we can finish the debates and discussions about haircuts and shaving and start getting ready? If you weren't impressed by my hairdressing talents, then let me shave off all the remaining hairs?

Ha-ha three times. No, thank you, it's not worth it. I won't let the remaining hairs be offended! I get up from the bed and with my head held high, swaying my hips, I go to the shower. How do you like that? I turn around, noticing a lustful look and mustache sticking out sideways, like a crab's. Ah, liked it? Can you rub my back in about five minutes?—I slowly, reluctantly stretch upward, toss my hair onto my back, and disappear into the bathroom.

In the bathroom, I relax; from lying on my back for a long time in an uncomfortable position, my body had gone numb and gratefully responded to the warm streams of water. With smooth, lazily slow movements of my hands, I massage and gently rub my shoulders, chest, stomach with a washcloth-mitt... I wash my hair, the smell of my favorite peach shampoo... My thoughts flew off in an unknown direction, how nice not to think about anything, not to rush anywhere, but just stand under the silver streams of water, enjoying their warmth.

— Can I rub your back now?—my husband's voice brought me back from heaven to earth.

— May the devils take you,—I wanted to blurt out in the heat of the moment. I rinse off the shampoo, wipe my eyes, and look at my husband uncomprehendingly. Dressed in a T-shirt and light home shorts, under which the bulge of his aroused penis loomed, he shifts from foot to foot, waiting for approval from me. Caring, affectionate, kind, gentle... Patiently indulging his wife's whims. Well, how can I refuse him?

— It's high time to rub my back, where have you been so long?—I drag him under the shower. He didn't expect such a turn from his bitchy wife. No, I'm not a prude, but today I was wound up, slightly angry, worried about the upcoming meeting with a stranger, tense like a spring that could snap at any moment. While the mustached one snorts and spits out water, I lift my hair and gather it at the back of my head with a clip-clothespin. My husband huffs, diligently rubbing my back with a washcloth, holding my thigh with his other hand so I don't sway and, God forbid, fall. I leaned my hands on the tiles, bliss, anxious thoughts left my subconscious again for a while. Warm, cozy, affectionate, playful hands...

Wait a minute, and by the way, where are these affectionate, playful hands of my husband? Just relax for a second, lose control over reality, and hello—here we go! But then again, what difference does it make where? The wonderful anticipation of tender union under the silver streams paints a charming picture in my head. Excitement spreads through my body in hot waves, rushing down to my hips, to the small, tender pearl of my femininity. I free my mind from unnecessary problems and float on these hot waves of anticipation, surrender to the power of skillful, strong, and gentle hands, enjoy the languid moment of rising to the crest of the wave, to then hiss violently with the foam of the surf and rush away...

Unusual sharp sensations from touching the shaved folds, and shyness disappeared, dissolved like a forgotten elusive shadow, giving way to growing lust. My heated chest is chilled by the tiles, and my husband, kneeling, greedily and demandingly caresses my butt and pussy. Strong hands stroke my buttocks and thighs, his tongue slides along my perineum up and down, moistening the already wet and excited flesh. Up, down. I breathe intermittently, restrain myself and don't let moans break free, impatiently waiting for him to finally stop testing my endurance and linger for at least a couple of minutes on one of the two points.

But his tongue still continues to travel from point A to point B. I wiggle my hips, stick out my butt, tremble from tension, but I don't give in, I don't beg, I'm surprised at such stubborn obstinacy and stay silent. Ah, my husband's tongue stopped on the star of my anus, and his finger on my clitoris. A fantastic explosion of emotions, a long-restrained moan, pleas and entreaties to continue...

I feel slightly nauseous, this passion of the flesh demands release. This desire soars to the crest of the wave, his fingers penetrate the moist vagina and trembling anus, again and again simultaneously enticing, teasing, caressing, waves of pleasure wash over me, taking away the last of my strength, taking away shame and giving ecstasy. Oh yes!—I cry out and rush away to meet the highest peak, to meet orgasm, to meet oblivion...

Reality or dream? Did orgasm happen!? Or am I still waiting for the high wave? I shake my head, gathering sensations and thoughts scattered in the nooks of consciousness. Pleasant sensations, my husband's hand still gently continues to caress my clitoris,—my brain notes, but as for thoughts, I'm not sure. Or rather, I can confidently state their absence at this moment in time. Because all the problems that interest me are concentrated right in the center. And no, not in my head, but much lower. The sphincter pulsed nervously and didn't want to accept my husband's tense penis. Understandable, the outraged, unclaimed for a long period, anus was saying a firm no, I rudely guide the hot shaft into my pussy with my hand. Wow! Did his shaft get bigger?—the first conscious thought flashed through my head.

__PART__Although no, it's just that from tense anticipation, the penis swelled, overexcited, and demands its share of attention. I brace my hands against the wall, smoothly push back, and the elastic, calloused head penetrates inside. Our hands are not for boredom,—my brain notes again. My husband picks up on my initiative. With powerful thrusts of his hips, he confidently drives his penis into the juice-dripping pussy. And again shameless pleasure, and again soft waves of excitement envelop my mind. What thoughts can there be?—when my head lolls from side to side like a rag doll. When loud, frank moans and sobs drown out the sound of water, when my own "I" is lost in burning passion. The rhythm accelerates... Trembling, craving, demanding release, my husband's trembling penis explodes, pouring out semen. A strong tremor, inside me, under my delicate skin, high-voltage wires sing, if I don't discharge, I'll die. A bright flash, euphoria... I take a time-out,—my brain notes and shuts down.

— Dear, are you okay?—I hear my husband's timid whisper.

He gently kisses my neck and tickles my earlobe with his mustache. I ignore his question. Pleasant languor has completely taken over my body and mind, I have no strength to answer, no desire to open my eyes.

— Hey, wake up, Sleeping Beauty,—the demanding voice of the mustached one bursts into my half-sleep like an irritating chord.

— You can command on your own deck,—I instantly transform from Sleeping Beauty into a furious fury.

— So what were you asking about?—understanding that it's not his fault, I remove the aggressive tone,—about sex? Do, re, fa,—I sang the musical scale to my stunned husband.

— What, what?—he asked again.

— Do, re, fa,—I sang again. No, he didn't understand the tender impulse of my musical soul. For the dense, I explain in detail,—insanely realistic fantasy!

— Ah, now it's clear and understandable, but I was hoping that insanely realistic fantasy would happen tonight,—my husband didn't remain in debt. Go get ready, get dressed, and I'll make us coffee. The mustached one wrapped a towel around his hips and went to the kitchen.

I go to the bedroom, on the way drying my wet hair with a towel. Droplets of water on my skin evaporated instantly +45 in the shade, this summer was hot and even the night coolness brought no relief. Good thing the kids are at the dacha with mom and I can walk around the apartment naked. I wanted to crawl into bed, call my husband, and engage in crazy, exhausting sex, and then lie feeling the distant echoes of orgasm, bliss, and temporarily receding lust in my relaxed body. Stop, I need to get ready. That's easy, thankfully it's summer and I don't need to stress about clothes.

— Dear, the coffee is getting cold, stop making faces at the mirror, wrinkles will appear,—the mustached one's voice comes from the kitchen.

— You sure know how to give compliments,—I attack with accusations, flying into the kitchen. I'll get offended now, get angry, and you'll go to the meeting with the new strangers yourself. And about the wrinkles, tell the neighbor from the first floor when you meet her. All I hear is how she's lost weight, become prettier, you're always shuffling your foot. Watch you don't wear out the sole to holes,—I give my husband advice. Go get dressed already, you old lecher.

Packing is done, on the way to the bus stop we went to the supermarket to buy some things. From our table to your table, so to speak. While my husband catches a taxi, I nervously smoke in the shade. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a children's poem came to mind

"-For a shot! First grade!

-Did you hear? That's us!-

Why am I standing by the wall?

My knees are shaking..."

Sergey Mikhalkov

First grade—first time, it spun in my head, that's how I always twist, organize something and then like an ostrich hide my head in the sand. And now, in the absence of sand, I wanted to hide in the bushes and not show myself.

— Scared?—asks the mustached one and adds,—the car is here.

— Who, me? No way! Just being cautious,—I lie brazenly and get into the taxi. Oh, this curiosity, wanted some variety, new adventures, and why couldn't you just stay home, you fool,—I mentally scold myself. Scared?—my husband's words came back,—of course I am. From the stuffiness and panic, streams of sweat run down my back and chest. I'm in deep trouble, up to my neck. What if they don't like us, what if we don't like them, so many "what ifs" suddenly arose... And are there answer options for the test?

— We're here,—I hear my husband's voice.

— Is that for sure?!—I thought to myself.

— Larisa, but everyone calls me Lora, and this is my husband Mikhail,—said a tall woman with dark hair, looking at us welcomingly.

While the mustached one introduced our family and exchanged pleasantries with the hostess, I quickly glanced over the new acquaintances. Well, the pot found its lid! All the musical scale instantly evaporated, and my brain only scanned Morse code. Three dots dash three dots, or simply SOS. Lora and Misha looked impressive. Tall, sturdy, without curves, Lora looked like a grenadier. Give her a uniform and leggings instead of a robe, and a rifle with a bayonet, and into battle, into the attack, hooray!

Barrel-shaped Misha, a kind of little round bun, bustled around her feet. Now it became clear why, when exchanging photos, they only sent those where they were photographed from the waist up and separately. Another fact became clear: their persistent desire for a quick meeting. How to get out of here as quickly as possible? Misha didn't impress me at all, and I didn't even want to think about sex with him. What to say that's pleasant, not offensive, yet weighty, and politely take my leave. I launch the search program...

— Oh, let's go to the veranda, it's cool there, otherwise we're just standing on the doorstep,—Lora suggests.