Lilac mist
Rasul Anvarovich got out of the car, loosening his tie on the go. Over his shoulder, he nodded to the driver: "Until tomorrow," inhaling the light country air. The early June heat had enveloped the settlement with a pre-storm sultriness. It smelled of cut grass and falling lilac. A motionless haze of bushy clouds hung in the air. Rasul Anvarovich unhurriedly headed towards the house, towards where girlish shouts and laughter were coming from the property. From a distance, one could see a shuttlecock with white feathers flying high above the lilac bushes: Zarema was playing badminton with her friend. Over the green lawn, a column of light was screwing into the sky — skinny, fair-haired Anyutka, all in white, a shiny spring
soared above the patterned paving stones of the path, hovering on a racket straining towards the sky. Ultra-short shorts, a crop top, sneakers, a baseball cap.Muscular bare legs, touched by the first tan, a flat, toned stomach… Rasul frowned: what kind of outfit for a young girl! His Zarema, despite being the same age, looked much older and more respectable. Tall, with a long black braid, in a fashionable polka-dot dress — a real Eastern girl from a decent family. Anyutka, noticing him, suddenly from a run screwed in a sliced serve, Zarema, stumbling awkwardly and almost falling, rushed forward but didn't make it. "Zyyaama! You're spacing out again! How much longer will I have to suffer with you, huh?" Anyutka joyfully yelled. Rasul Anvarovich frowned again: he did not approve of this friendship. But who would ask him…
About ten years ago, Rasul moved closer to the family business, built a cottage in a fashionable settlement, and moved his non-Russian-speaking family here. Zarema was supposed to start school here. Start she did, but… Rasul Anvarovich did not spare money on tutors and financial injections into the gymnasium. It was all in vain. Raised with strict family upbringing, Zarema shied away from everyone — tutors, teachers, classmates, neighbors… And, most often, simply didn't understand what was wanted from her. She probably wouldn't have finished even the first grade, but then the lively, curious neighbor girl Anyutka appeared in their lives. She accidentally dropped by as a neighbor, and so remained forever friends with his daughter.
All 18 years, the girls were inseparable. More precisely, Anyutka had firmly settled into their house.
Long ago, her family moved into her grandmother's little house, selling their only apartment and investing all the money in a small business — a sports club. The parents, former athletes, both fair-skinned and blue-eyed, lived for sports and their business. The father handled development and security, the mother ran fitness and accounting. Starting with a small gym in a semi-basement, they eventually created a cozy sports and wellness center with many activities, and the old little house gradually turned into a comfortable cottage. Anyutka grew up among men straining at weights and girls diligently swinging their legs. For as long as she could remember, she was involved in some sport. Swimming, gymnastics, running, skating… Her parents unquestioningly invested in her sports results, though, giving her the opportunity to choose her own path. As a result, from the age of 18, Anya seriously took up badminton and by the end of school had a first junior rank. Everything came easily to her — she was used to working hard and being responsible for herself since childhood. Her parents were cool, sociable, but more often busy with each other and their own lives. They often disappeared on business trips and travels, and Anyutka constantly hung out at Zarema's. The large, round-faced, smiling Malika Vakhitovna, who rarely left her family nest, was insanely hospitable and welcoming. She asked Anechka about her affairs, fed her something divine from the national cuisine, and always took her on trips to the city with her daughter.
Rasul Anvarovich, however, could hardly stand strangers in his house. The famed Eastern hospitality was targeted: for "our own." All household chores were handled by his wife, occasionally involving a visiting gardener and a helper. Only for Anyutka did Rasul, gritting his teeth, make an exception. After all, it was thanks to communication with the lively, direct friend that Zarema quickly started speaking Russian, learned to laugh again and even play pranks. And her school grades stopped being so strained. Anechka spent days and nights at their house while her parents gave her maximum independence. Rasul Anvarovich deep down despised them for their careless attitude towards raising their daughter. What kind of occupation for a girl — sports! He would never let his own daughter go where sweaty, half-naked girls gasp before spectators in the heat of sports competition. Zarema was preparing for medical school — the best profession for a woman. She'll study, marry a decent man from their circle (someone was already in mind), continue the family line and business management. And where will this wild Anechka go? What kind of life for a girl: training until the seventh sweat, training camps, camps, competitions… It's even scary to imagine how they live there in those national teams. Probably on top of each other. And what future do they have after thirty…
True, lately Anechka had been dropping by less often — both were taking exams — but always — as if it were her own home. This irritated him greatly. It was hard to relax at home — he constantly bumped into the ubiquitous girl — on the living room sofa with the remote, in the kitchen with a glass of lemonade, coming out of the bathroom with wet hands… It infuriated him beyond belief. But he remained silent, only occasionally throwing contemptuous glances her way. Once long ago he tried to talk about it with his wife and daughter. Zarema threw an inhuman tantrum, screamed that Anya was her only friend, and why did he take her away from her homeland, from her grandmother and cousins. Malika just waved her hands in fright, begging her husband not to be strict with the girls. Rasul spat and waved his hand…
"Papa!" Zarema ran up, out of breath. "Mama said: lunch soon…" Rasul Anvarovich kissed her on the forehead, briefly nodded to the laughing Anechka, and headed deeper into the garden. He needed to rest and think. It's hard to change permanent partners on the fly during a crisis, to pick new people. At his age, one lives by habits, not turning one's nose to the wind like steppe wolves…
Tended by his wife's hands, the garden was fragrant with irises, lilies of the valley, carnations, bright with cornflowers, forget-me-nots, daisies, and God knows what else. Jasmine was swelling with tender buds. Malika especially loved lilac. Pink, white, pale blue, bright purple, growing wildly, taking over the whole plot, beckoning with its mysterious coolness, lashing with wet, rain-soaked clusters against the face, intoxicating with its scent spreading in the night air… The garden path, leading deep into the property towards the guest house, dove into a thick lilac mist. Rasul thoughtfully plucked one petal — a rare, five-lobed one. Zarema and her peers had a belief: if you find such a petal in lilac clusters and swallow it, you'll definitely get an A on the exam. He smirked and softened a little. He sat down on a bench near the guest house. Closed his eyes, tried to focus on business. But before his eyes stood only the image imprinted on his retina of a flying column of light.
"Giiirls!! Fooood!" came from the cottage. Malika was calling for lunch. Rasul slowly turned towards the house, occupied with his thoughts. Some movement caught his attention. He stopped and was stunned. Under a lilac bush, next to the path, squatting, Anyutka was frozen. She looked at him bewilderedly from below, holding her shorts below the knees with her hand. A transparent, light stream, gurgling, foamed in the freshly cut grass of the lawn. Blue eyes blinked in confusion. A vicious grimace distorted Rasul Anvarovich's face: again this… in his house… the height of indecency and shamelessness… He scorched the shameless girl with a withering look, intending to pass by contemptuously and talk to Malika today. But then something imperceptibly changed in Anyutka. The expression of embarrassment on her face was replaced by a cynical smirk, her eyes narrowed, her lips parted, releasing a seductive, beckoning little tongue to roam free. The little tongue ran along the edge of her lips, stuck out, curving like a snake. Nyuta slowly, demonstratively straightened up to her full height, revealing to view muscular, long-legged legs in white sneakers, bound by white shorts. And there, in the intimate place, covered with whitish down, perfectly shaped plump pads with tightly clenched pink petals between them. At the very tip of the petal, a shiny droplet trembled, ready to fall any second. And when it happened, and a transparent trail ran down the tender thigh, something in Rasul Anvarovich's head snapped and began to pound. Throwing her head back and continuing to lick her lips lustfully, Anyutka lowered thin fingers with short nails to the whitish pubis, slid down, there, into the crotch, parting the pink lips and white pads, slid her finger back and forth between the moist petals, slightly gasping, sending him a look simultaneously innocent and depraved. Pouting her lips, and as if surprised at herself, with her other hand she lifted the crop top, exposing small breasts that knew no bra, with voluminous, like the body, dummy-like nipples, protruding. Pinched one of them, squeezed her eyes shut, threw her head back, losing the baseball cap, revealing the fair down of her cropped hair, moaned softly, thrusting her hips forward, towards the playful hand…
"B-b-bitch!" Eyes filled with blood were covered by a wave of murky rage. His heart jumped somewhere into his throat, his hands clenched into fists by themselves. He barely remembered and understood what was happening to him, but with disgust felt a wild excitement surging from who knows where. The spicy smell of falling lilac filled his entire being. The tiny droplet on the pink petal drip-drip-drip — pounded his brain. The pungent bitterness of hatred, tightly mixed with desire, intoxicated him. He stepped forward, and Anyutka recoiled in fright, as if expecting a blow. Terribly mangling the words, with a monstrous accent from who knows where, he hoarsely spat out: "How! Dare! You! In my house! You! Girl! How were you raised…"
He sharply pulled down her crop top, roughly pulled up and yanked to fasten the slipped-down shorts. He froze, breathing heavily, as if ready to strike…
Anyutka waited, her head pressed into her shoulders. Why she had been carried away so hideously teasing this old ram — Zaremka's dad — she herself didn't know, his contemptuous, arrogant look just pissed her off too much. But, well, what would happen now, it was even scary to imagine…
… His groin was literally aching. He hadn't experienced such intense arousal in a long time. Since he was thirteen, when it was agonizing and almost round-the-clock, damn it, and you don't know what to do among strictly raised beautiful, dark-eyed girls. And from this "can't" you want it even more.
"Do you want this?" he asked hoarsely, looking into her face. His head pulsed "Can't, can't!" but his lips themselves spat out: "Do you want to be a whore? Do you want to be fucked?"
Anechka herself didn't know, didn't understand what she wanted, why she started this sharp, cruel game with arrogant Zaremka's dad. Perhaps it had become unbearable to feel like a stranger in this house that had long become her own in his presence.
… It started around when she and Zaremka were about thirteen. Anvarych began looking at her bare, lengthening legs, the hills of swelling breasts showing under her crop top, short shorts, and open tops with some disgustful disapproval. At the same time, he began to monitor with particular care Zaremka's adherence to a special dress code — tightly braided braids and long, expensive, but modest dresses. Meeting Anyuta's gaze, he would bestow her with a contemptuous grimace, trying to pass by quickly. But Malika was invariably sweet and welcoming, and Anyutka soon stopped paying attention to the strict dad. After all, Zyama was her best friend!
And only with time, as she grew up, a vague guess began to creep into her head. Those contemptuous glances were too frequent, long, passionate, and sparkling. By the end of school, she had already managed to part with childhood naivety, and much was no secret to her. But, still, the darkness of those burning black eyes watching her fascinated and frightened her. That look took her breath away, and her lower abdomen strangely tightened.
… A frank, hating gaze. Eye to eye. No, don't! She was just joking.
"I was just joking," Anechka babbled fearfully. "Rasul An…" He roughly grabbed her throat, forcing her to look into his eyes. His other hand descended down her stomach and pressed against her shorts. He desperately tried to push his palm behind the waistband, forgetting that two minutes ago he himself had zipped and buttoned them. He tensely pulled his stiff, sweaty fingers, down there, into the forbidden womb, gasping, getting tangled in words, with some terrible accent:
"You don't know that you can't do that? You can't joke like that with men! That's how the lowest whores behave, you were raised like a whore…" He finally remembered the fastener, yanked the zipper, almost pinching the skin, tore off the button, groaned, slipped his fingers under the narrow gusset of the thong, there, through the sparse whitish hair, into the sweet, cherished flesh, into the wet, burning cave…
… What sweet heat! What tender languor! The girl closed her eyes and bit her lip — it seemed she understood she was completely caught. How she moans, how she moans…
… How long had it been since he had something like this! And had he ever?..
… Of course, he wasn't limited to Malika alone. His wife — would never allow herself what mistresses were actually for. So there were mistresses. Usually, buxom, bored divorcees. But Rasul was sufficiently fastidious and cautious not to get involved in a long-term habit and unnecessary obligations, and neatly changed girls about every six months to a year. And he didn't need that much anyway — business took all his time. But something like this — simultaneously tender, brazen, tremulous, happy, young, depraved, and pure — he simply couldn't recall in his life. His mind was clouding. Young, nervous breathing — lips to lips, a sweet moan, and now she was impaling herself with all her weight on his instantly soaked fingers. Her shorts slid down to her white socks, the girl's knees were buckling, the tender petals of her parched lips opened like a flower — and moans, wonderful ringing moans! Rasul pulled up the elastic crop top, exposing a firm, convex, dummy-like nipple, admired it, pressed his hard mouth against it, biting, tormenting, teasing with his tongue, driving the Anyutka writhing on his insistent fingers to frenzy.
Anya understood — that's it. She couldn't leave. Couldn't run away from herself. From the hard hands, skillful lips, the unstoppable, locomotive-like pressure. She would have to go to the end. It was so sweet. And so scary… She dug her thin fingers into Rasul's white shirt, convulsively pulling it away from herself. There was a tearing sound of fabric — buttons popped and flew off, Rasul gasped, the shirt flew open, revealing a sculpted torso covered in luxurious black shiny fur, with large dark nipples peeking through the thick curly hair. Anya gazed admiringly at this thoroughbred beauty. She wanted to run her fingers over the swarthy, hairy chest, grab the stiff, shiny fur and not let go. To press her lips to the blue-brown nipples, inhaling the pungent male smell. Rasul followed her gaze.
"What, do you like it?" he asked, looking into her eyes and continuing to roughly finger her wet pussy. Anya didn't understand what the question referred to — the suddenly revealed nakedness or the actions of his skillful hand. And only moaned louder, closing her eyes. Yes, she liked everything. And that frightened her.
His fly was aching and bursting. He so wanted to quickly insert it into those tender lips! Rasul pressed on the rounded, whitish back of her head, forcing the girl down onto her knees. Pressed his bulging fly against her face, forcing his flesh to calm down at least a little. Looked into her eyes with that excited, defenseless, and pleading look with which men all over the world look into the eyes of women about to take them in their mouths. Took it out.
"How beautiful!" Anya thought automatically. Circumcised, with a shiny smooth head, straight as an arrow, medium-sized, strong, thick, swollen with desire, with round, tight balls — ohhh! — Anya, exhaling, carefully took it with her lips. An amazing sensation of a smooth, firm shaft in her mouth, gently sliding across her palate