Chapter 1: Planting More Than Potatoes
The sun blazed over the dacha, a rustic retreat nestled in the Russian countryside, where Sasha and Olga, his wife’s younger sister, were knee-deep in the earthy task of planting potatoes. Sweat glistened on their skin as they worked side by side, the air thick with the scent of soil and unspoken tension. Olga, a fiery 25-year-old with a sharp tongue and sharper wit, bent over to dig into the dirt, oblivious to the way her loose tank top gaped at the neckline, revealing the full, tantalizing curve of her breasts.
Sasha, a rugged man in his early thirties, tried to focus on the task, but his eyes kept darting to the forbidden sight. Each glimpse sent a jolt through him, his breath hitching as he fought the heat pooling in his groin. 'Damn it, Sasha, get a grip,' he muttered to himself, wiping his brow with a dirt-streaked forearm. But the image of her creamy skin burned into his mind, and his resolve crumbled.
'Hey, Olga, I’m parched. Gonna grab some water from the house,' he grunted, his voice rougher than intended. He didn’t wait for a reply, stalking off toward the greenhouse, his boots crunching on the gravel. Once out of sight, he leaned against the weathered wood, his hand trembling as he unzipped his jeans. Closing his eyes, he let the fantasy take over—Olga’s breasts bouncing as she worked, her lips curling into that smirk she always wore. His cock was already hard, throbbing in his grip as he started to stroke, slow at first, then faster, losing himself in the illicit thrill.
Meanwhile, Olga straightened up, brushing dirt off her hands. 'Where’d that lazy bastard run off to?' she muttered, scanning the field. Feeling a sudden urge, she shrugged—nature called, and Sasha was nowhere in sight. She jogged toward the greenhouse, her sneakers scuffing the path. Without a second thought, she ducked behind it, tugging down her shorts and panties in one swift motion. Squatting, she let out a sigh as the stream hit the ground, her eyes fixed on the dirt beneath her.
The faint sound of rustling and a low groan snapped her out of her reverie. Her head whipped up, and her jaw dropped. There, not a meter away, stood Sasha, his hand wrapped around his thick, pulsing cock, stroking with a desperate rhythm. His eyes, dark with lust, locked onto hers, and for a moment, time froze.
'What the actual fuck, Sasha?' Olga snapped, her voice a mix of shock and fury, though her gaze couldn’t tear away from the raw, primal sight of him. 'You’re jerking off while I’m taking a piss? Are you insane?'
Sasha’s lips twisted into a half-smirk, his breath ragged. 'Couldn’t help it, Olya. You’ve been teasing me all damn day with that shirt. Thought I’d get some relief before I lost my mind.'
Her eyes narrowed, a flush creeping up her neck—not from embarrassment, but from a dangerous spark of anger and something else. 'Teasing? I’m planting fucking potatoes, not putting on a show. You’re a sick bastard, you know that?' But her words faltered as she noticed the way his hand hadn’t stopped, the way his cock twitched under her stare.
'Call me what you want,' Sasha growled, his voice low and strained, 'but you’re still looking, aren’t you? Don’t pretend you’re not curious.'
Olga’s lips parted to fire back, her sharp tongue ready to cut him down, but before she could, his body tensed. A guttural moan escaped him, and she watched, stunned, as he came, thick spurts of cum shooting from his cock. The first jet hit the ground, but the second—oh, the second—arced through the air, landing hot and unexpected on her parted lips.
Her gasp was sharp, her hand flying to her mouth as the taste of him hit her tongue. Shock, disgust, and a forbidden thrill collided in her chest, her heart pounding as she stared at him, panting and spent, his eyes still burning into hers. What the hell had just happened—and what the hell was going to happen next?
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