A Tale in the Train Compartment — The Secret to Getting Rich
Our director was about to go to Moscow, but then his sciatica flared up so badly that his wife and son had to help him to the toilet. But he needed to go urgently, to deliver documents to a large company—a contract for a timber supply. So then he sent me, especially since the ticket was already booked. So, unexpectedly, I went to the capital in an "SV" (sleeping car) compartment, something I'd never traveled in before. And I got a good travel companion, Roman Andreevich, as he introduced himself, a large, charming man, a storyteller—you could listen to him forever! And then on the second day, having apparently relaxed a bit and gotten quite drunk, he told the story of his sudden
enrichment. And there was a sea of eroticism in his story!…In the turbulent nineties, there was plenty of everything: racketeering, corruption, and just plain shooting. They even created RUBOPs (Regional Departments for Combating Organized Crime)—but then the powers that be shut them down, apparently afraid that after dealing with organized crime locally, they'd come for them next. And the authorities themselves, taking advantage of their impunity, did whatever they wanted. Cash was a real problem, so my wife and I often went to the dacha, we'd gather some strawberries or cherries and sell them, that's how we'd see some cash. And then one day, one fine day…
My wife and I are standing at the bus stop, waiting for the bus, planning to gather a couple of buckets of cherries since the harvest was so good this year, dreaming, when suddenly this grimy gray Volga-24 pulls over and someone waves at us. Oh, it's Seryoga, my childhood friend and classmate.
We've known each other since we were bare-bellied babies, we used to cry in unison from our strollers parked side by side while our shameless mothers stood off to the side, smoking and chatting. We also sat next to each other on potties in kindergarten, even managing to fight over an empty potty. Well, now he's a major, head of a department in the Organized Crime Control Directorate. We got in the car, my wife in the front next to Sergey, and I got in the back, and there "hiding and keeping a low profile" was his wife Nastya, pale and frightened.
Then he made a request—to take Nastya with us to the dacha for two or three days, because a major operation to bust a tough gang was coming up, and he wanted to hide Nastya, while he'd stay at the directorate. Just like in Mario Puzo's "The Godfather," they had that expression in case of war—"Go to the mattresses." So he's asking us—to go to the mattresses in the literal sense. Alright, we'll help out our friends!
And I, while my wife was busy in the store, started calming Nastya down, because she was just trembling all over, her teeth were even chattering, it seemed their situation was very serious. I hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, stroked her shoulders, and she suddenly pressed herself tightly against me and started kissing me on the lips, and so passionately.
And then I started stroking her great breasts with one hand, such a pleasant bulge under her dress, she wasn't even wearing a bra, it seemed she had gotten ready in an incredible hurry. Ha-ha, I boldly reached under her dress, and she wasn't wearing panties either—Sergey had literally pulled her out of the shower and it was a mad dash to pack, they had to run away urgently. I brazenly stroke her everywhere, and she's like in a stupor, legs slightly apart and silent. But then she seemed to come to—stopped trembling, started moaning and groaning so sweetly when I began stroking her crotch and slipped a finger into that cherished little hole.
But then my wife's heels click loudly, we moved apart from each other, and Nastya turned pink, her eyes no longer dull but sparkling mischievously, her breasts started rising and falling so provocatively, her nipples protruding through the fabric of her dress. My wife noticed immediately, started teasing Nastya, saying she couldn't even seduce my husband in a whole half hour, even though she was such a hotshot in college, even had a little fling with the department head. We laughed and relaxed a bit.
So soon at the dacha we organized a secret picnic—after all, we needed to relieve stress, who knows what would happen with Sergey. Well, the first three toasts were for him and his luck. And the table was full—excellent cognac, several sticks of smoked sausage, cucumbers straight from the garden, even three boxes of American MREs. And before bed we went to wash up—we have a summer shower at the dacha. Nastya was shy about undressing, but my wife literally tore her dress off, giving her appetizing bare bottom a slap in the process.
And when I finished washing up, these two half-naked nymphs, and quite drunk at that, I see—they're kissing passionately, and then they dragged me to their bed. We started reminiscing about our youth, both girlfriends turned out to be bisexual, the three of us celebrated New Year's at our polytechnic institute, we got really plastered back then. They caressed me and each other, wildly arousing me. And even when we celebrated my anniversary last year, Nastya got really "loaded" and started kissing my wife full on, then our daughter. Irka, our daughter, to my surprise, started responding to her, so they really turned me on then too. So our sex with my wife that night was incredibly passionate, just like in our youth.
And then my wife, in a completely drunken voice, insistently demands that I "calm down" her best friend—we urgently need to relieve stress! And I'm not against it—it's nice to remember our youth! I even thought about marrying Nastya after getting my diploma, but my beloved got pregnant. And I, as a decent man, proposed to her! Well, now my wife made me a very unusual proposal, although after our "get-togethers" in the polytechnic dorm…So soon I was going at it full force between Nastya's legs, but couldn't come for a long time—after all, my wife was lying right there, stroking my back and kissing Nastya. But then, to the moans of a very "hungry" young lady, we began ecstatically pounding into each other—heading for the finish! And then Nastya, literally writhing in the languor of orgasm, suddenly cried out loudly: "Igor, come inside me! Inside me! I want another baby, with this kind of life! Come inside me! Ah-ah, I'm coming!"
In the morning, the girlfriends woke up and kissed me with their sweet little lips. Then the three of us gathered a couple of buckets of cherries and I took them to the collection point—money attracts money. My wife was pleased, and Nastya too, she was swinging her round butt so much, walking around the dacha. The night was wonderful, Nastya again convulsed in orgasm, we fell sound asleep, and in the morning my wife woke me up with a blowjob, also presenting her plump butt—remembering our youth! That's how a week passed, and our major still wasn't back. But on the eighth day, early in the morning, he came for Nastya, and I was sound asleep after a wild night—I came inside Nastya once, and the second time already in my wife's ass. So at noon we went home, and there was a surprise—our daughter had arrived. So much joy!
She interrogated us, saying she'd been home for two days, and we were still gone. My wife and I had a shot for luck and spilled the beans to our daughter about where we were and why, only not telling about our "naughty antics." And at night, when my wife and I went to bed in separate rooms to rest, our daughter crawled in with me. She had empathized so much during our story, was afraid that she could have lost me and her mother that way—you never know…So we fell asleep like that, hugging tightly. Well, in the morning our hero-major Sergey flew in, we had a drink—the nest of corrupt officials and racketeers had been busted. He brought us more booze and food—everything their superiors allocated had to be drunk and eaten, no returns, otherwise… that's their superstition. And then he and I talked some more in my garage, in secret. Turned out to be an interesting thing!
When those scoundrels were fleeing, someone from their car threw some object out the window on a turn, and only he saw it. Well, since they wounded the OMON (Special Purpose Mobile Unit) commander, the enraged guys were shooting to kill, so
there are no witnesses. But he can't show up there, but I would have to, but quietly sneak off in my inconspicuous Lada. I took his sketch-plan and went. Surprise—there was a small briefcase in the bushes with an insane amount of dollars. It lay in my garage hideout for a week, and then news—the major was fired, saying the operation was poorly conducted and so on…In short, the authorities tried to get rid of such a pro!
Well, good, now he and I are respected businessmen, we have decent sums in our accounts. My grown-up daughter was especially happy about this—she's now dressed like a princess of Monaco, and the cash in her purse is in full assortment. And often now, in the absence of her mother, she "thanks" me, and her sweet little mouth and firm bottom give me a sea of pleasure. And after such caresses I simply feel younger and my wife is very happy about it all night long.
In the morning we parted in Moscow, and I watched for a long time as my companion walked away with a dashing stride. Interesting things happened in those stormy nineties!