Night call. The erotic novel of infidelity

Юрий Буреве

Night call. The erotic novel of infidelity

Chapter 1. The Bag

“Look, what a nice cafe.”

“Let’s go in.”

“Let’s.”

A very polite waiter came over, offered them menus, and suggested they choose drinks from the wine list.

“Yan, what are you going to eat?”

“The same as you. Pick something you like. I need to make a work call.”

Yan stepped out of the cafe and started calling someone, sounding agitated, but through the thick glass and walls nothing could be heard. Diana sat there thinking, “Maybe he’s calling his mistress, right under my nose?”

“Yesterday they delivered the pipes, but they’re not suitable for connecting the hot water supply,” he explained to the director, calmer now, standing stiffly with his arm at his side.

When he finished, he came back just as the hot dishes were served. Diana started eating, praising the kitchen, and Yan joined in with pleasure.

“I like it here.”

“We’ll come back on the weekend. I’ll drive, so I’m not having wine. If you want, order some. But don’t get drunk—I’m not dragging you home,” he told his wife with a serious face and a slight squint.

“Let’s go now.”

The music playing softly in the cafe drew them in and didn’t want to let them go, even after they paid the bill.

The drive home took half an hour; they had to take a side road because the main road had been under repair for half a year and didn’t seem anywhere near finished. Workers would show up and then disappear for weeks.

They were stopped at an intersection when Diana reached for a water bottle lying on the back seat. Yan turned on the cabin air blast, and her skirt flipped up. Underneath were very thin, nude-colored string panties, practically invisible from even a short distance.

A man crossing the street got stuck on that sight and froze in place, people brushing past, bumping his shoulders.

“What are you standing there for, gaper?” an old woman shouted as she passed.

The joke fell flat, and Diana was annoyed when she noticed a stranger staring at her.

“So what? You like it when some other guy stares at your woman?” Diana said, angry.

“It was a joke.”

“A joke?! Well, isn’t that rich!”

She rode in silence the rest of the way until they reached the elevator. As they stepped in, she grabbed his crotch to check if he was hard and, making sure he was half-erect, she said:

“You did that on purpose. Naughty boy,” and tried to pinch Yan’s butt, but couldn’t reach.

He didn’t say anything, hugged her by the waist, and when they reached their floor, they went into their apartment. The entryway was spacious, lined with shelves along the sides, and the lights switched on automatically, then turned off after a stretch of silence.

After setting down the grocery bags they’d picked up on the way back from the cafe, Diana went to the bathroom. Yan carried the bags to the kitchen, putting things away on the fly—some on the shelves, some in the fridge—carefully and precisely.

By the time his wife came out, her makeup washed off, he already had tea brewing and was plating dessert—a small cream-souffle cake, pretty to look at, with rose swirls and braided patterns. It looked appetizing, and Diana sat down at the table right away.

At home she liked to walk around in just a T-shirt, with nothing on below. All the seating—armchairs, chairs, and the sofa—was upholstered in the same soft fabric, all custom-made in one workshop. The covers could be stripped off and washed easily, so cleanliness wasn’t a problem. She loved the velvety texture, how gently it brushed her skin.

She felt a special thrill when, after dropping something and bending over, she rubbed against the nap. Sometimes she’d drop things unconsciously just to feel that pleasant sensation—especially during tense conversations or arguments, including squabbles over who should cook dinner.

The cake, like a large pastry, was big enough to fill them both. The T-shirt she’d put on after her bath got smeared with cream at belly-button level.

“How clumsy of me. Have to wash it again—I just put it on. Oh well,” she said, took a sip of fruit tea, and went to the bathroom, pulling the T-shirt off.

Diana’s body was perfect—maybe even more than perfect: a graceful figure, no extra fat, lush buttocks and a proud, lifted chest, as if made to order, though it was all her natural beauty. She had a gym membership, but it seemed she went less to work out than to draw men’s eyes. Her workout shorts—more like panties—enhanced her shape, especially her ass, which looked as if it needed to be “glued” back together.

She liked catching men’s gazes, especially young guys who would stare at her and then, meeting her eyes, look away bashfully. If someone insistently tried to hit on her, she’d say she was married and show her ring, which usually killed the mood. As the saying goes, “If the mare doesn’t prance, the stud won’t mount.”

Her fantasies at the sight of muscular men knew no bounds. She imagined hard sex right in the gym, between sets, with some men advising which side to approach from and others telling her how to position her legs for the right angle. These thoughts excited her.

Yan, who knew every hollow of her body, every mole, felt almost nothing looking at his naked wife heading to the bathroom. He kept his self-control, especially knowing he had to get up early tomorrow and present work to his boss. Though he himself was a boss, he had a boss too.

Usually he satisfied her before bed and in the morning—it had become a habit. Yan felt that Diana was testing his feelings, checking whether that animal passion from their first date was still in him.

“Honey, what time do you need to get up tomorrow?”

“I think closer to seven. I also need to stop by the service center.”

“What’s that?”

“Maintenance—I need to change the oil.”

“Can’t you do it yourself?”

“I can; it’s just better when specialists do it right.”

“How hard can that be?”

“Well, the hardest part is tightening the bolt to the right torque.”

“That’s bullshit, just tighten it. Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

He stayed in the kitchen finishing a second cup of fruit tea that had gone cold. An evening that started wonderfully at the cafe had stalled out. The sexual tension built over the evening dissipated under thoughts of the next day. A lot was at stake tomorrow: failure meant a career stall; success promised big opportunities.

The software for designers was ready; only the presentation remained. Investors would gather at such events, often clueless in programming but savvy in business: without pretty packaging, you can’t sell a product. He needed to hook them with ideas, theses, slogans.

Yan took a shower, tried to set himself up for sex, but kept losing focus—which frustrated him even more. He turned off the light and went to the bedroom. Lifting the blanket slightly, he lay down, touching his wife’s thighs. She must have fallen asleep; in a drowse she said:

“Come here, hold me.”

He hugged her, and in an instant her silky skin sparked strong emotions—like a sudden migraine—driving away sleep. In a half-sleep she took his cock in her hand and began to stroke it as if in a dream.

“Make love to me,” she whispered.

He climbed on top, bracing himself so he wouldn’t crush her with his weight. Taking lube from the tube on the nightstand, he spread some on himself and on her, not putting his fingers inside, thinking the shaft would coat the walls on its own.

Spreading her wet slit, he slid in slowly, like a piston in a cylinder, steady and with a push, until he reached her cervix, making it hurt a little.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Keep going.”

He kneaded her butt with one hand and with the other touched her nipples, gently twisting them and massaging her breasts. Turning her onto her side, he kept going, his pelvis slapping her ass with sounds like liquid applause. The rhythm got faster, stronger, more ragged, and soon he spilled into her, then rolled onto his back. Diana, spreading her legs, turned onto her back too.

It seemed she hadn’t fully woken at all—she just spread her legs, took her portion, and rolled back over without opening her eyes. After each coupling she often said, “I love you.” This time there was silence. She ran her fingers along her vagina, brought them to her nose, sniffed, and licked the residue, then threw off the blanket and lay on her side. Her figure in the moonlight resembled the silhouette of an acoustic guitar left on the bed.

Diana opened her eyes and stared for a long time into the far corner of the bedroom—larger than the guest room. The lube tube cast a shadow on the wall from the streetlamp outside, as if demanding attention.

Not having reached orgasm, she decided to get herself there. Running her hands over her body, she was more aroused by touching her silky skin than by sex with her husband. Determined to finish, she took a transparent silicone dildo from the bedside drawer. The lube was on Yan’s side of the bed, and not wanting to climb over him, she wet the tip with saliva and slid it in, thrusting it actively in different directions.

Yan heard it all but couldn’t see, lying with his back to her. The mattress carried the motion, and in the dark room under moonlight they lay facing opposite ways, both awake. Diana massaged her breasts, slipped a finger into her mouth, and imagined being fucked in the gym. She fantasized about a steam-filled men’s locker room where she satisfied everyone, smearing cum over her face like a cosmetic mask.

A thousand needles seemed to prick her butt, and she climaxed violently, her legs jerking. Yan, of course, couldn’t help but wake at that, but he pretended to sleep, quietly masturbating while imagining his boss Irina, degrading her in public in his fantasies. Unexpectedly, he came, spattering the sheets—his movements would have been visible if his wife had turned over. But he didn’t care; he fell asleep.

Diana didn’t want to take the dildo out, wanting to keep it inside, warmed by her heat. That’s how she fell asleep, not hearing it slip out and fall to the floor, sticking by its suction cup, where it would remain until the next night.

In the morning, Yan woke to find his wife already in the shower. Not wanting to get distracted, he went to the kitchen, made scrambled eggs with tomatoes—a quick dish to stay focused on the big day. On another day he would have joined her in the shower, but today, after a quick breakfast and washing his face and upper body, he gathered his documents into a leather bag he’d bought second-hand. It was a heavy but stylish doctor’s bag that made him feel like a big boss, though he was middle management.

“Good morning, Yan Konstantinovich.”

“Good morning,” he replied, not knowing many by first name, but remembering surnames from documents. “A world of surnames—it’s what you know, but can’t use,” he thought as he entered his office, smelling of freshness and a newly washed floor, where he nearly slipped as he opened the vent window. He disliked air conditioners, preferring fresh air.

“Kristina, please prepare the quarterly report,” he said, popping his head through the door.

Beyond the presentation, there were routine tasks. The presentation began at 11:00 with a speech from the executive director introducing Yan to the investors.

“Good afternoon. This product will allow designers to work as a team without relying on other communication tools; our team has under—” he was cut off by the investor holding 31%:

“Have you tried working with this product yourself?”

“Yes, but I’m not a designer, I’m a programmer.”

“Yesterday I gave the trial version to my daughter—she couldn’t immediately figure out the interface, and she’s a straight‑A student. That means users won’t be able to launch it quickly.”

“But she’s not a designer.”

“She’s a straight‑A student and used to draw well. Your product needs work—simplify the interface.”

“But it’s built for professional designers…”

The project was sent back for improvements. Yan returned to his office and sat motionless for ten minutes, staring out the window. Colleagues, understanding the situation, didn’t disturb him.

“Fuck!” he said loudly, unable to hold it in.

He scrolled through contacts trying to distract himself, but no one picked up. He went to the smoking area but couldn’t start a conversation. Delegating his authority to a senior employee, he went down to the cafe and ordered a pastry reminiscent of last night’s cake. His thoughts were jumbled, drifting back to his wife and himself in the night.

Noticing an employee, Nadya, in the corner of the cafe, he decided to break protocol and sat down next to her.

“Hello.”

“Hello. We already said hi this morning. I’m Nadya—though you probably know that, but how can you remember everyone.”

“I know,” Yan said, though he didn’t know her name.

She wore black pants and a light blouse—the recommended dress code. There was no ring on her hand. As he got up, he wrote his number on a napkin and, patting her shoulder, said:

“Call me after work.”

She didn’t answer, finishing her portion.

The workday ended. Yan didn’t rush home; he waited for Nadya’s call. The phone stayed silent. Finding her number in the internal directory, he texted: “Hi, it’s Yan Konstantinovich.” Five minutes later came the reply: “I’m going to a friend’s birthday today. If you want, you can drive me home afterward.” He replied: “Okay.”

Not wanting to go home, he decided to walk around the city. Parking in a paid lot, he set off on foot, hoping walking would shake off the depression. In a park he found half a free bench and asked if he could sit.

“Go ahead,” said a girl in a tracksuit with a large bag beside her.

“Yan.”

“Anna.”

“Nice to meet you. Heading to the gym or leaving it?”

“No, I’m moving. Broke up with my boyfriend.”

“You’ll make up.”

“Unlikely. There’s a reason.”

The conversation turned personal, and Yan suggested grabbing coffee at a nearby cafe. They ordered coffee, and he offered to help her find a rental. A spark ran between them back in the park, and when she took off the top of her tracksuit in the car because of the heat, he nearly lost control.

When they reached her friend’s place, he carried the bag upstairs. The friend opened the door and took him for Anna’s boyfriend. When the friend went out to the store, Anna undressed, and the passion swept them away. They had sex without stopping—even when the friend returned and, hearing them, masturbated in the hallway.

Afterwards, Yan left, and the friend asked Anna:

“Is he married?”

“How’d you know?”

“I can see right through these dogs. Come on, let’s have tea; dinner will be ready soon.”

During the day, Diana had gone to see her friend in a nearby city and poured out her soul about problems with her husband. The friend advised her to dress provocatively to make him jealous. Dressed like a “train-station slut,” Diana strutted around town, enjoying men’s looks.

In an abandoned area she met a man who offered to lead her to “some people.” In a derelict building he grabbed her, and she, not resisting, gave in to passion and climaxed. He disappeared afterwards, and she walked toward the road, clenching to keep the semen in.

At a bus stop a guy gave her a ride, and between floors in the stairwell of the building to which she’d given a fake address, she gave herself to him again. At home, stripping off, she fell asleep on the bed, leaving stains on the sheets.

Yan came back late, saw his wife and the stain on the sheets, sniffed, and realized it wasn’t her fluids. Rage flooded him: “Already started bringing her studs home, bitch!” He dressed and left without waking her.

Diana, not asleep, felt his gaze and his leaving. Finding the dildo, she satisfied herself again, mixing shame, pain, and pleasure.

Yan connected with Nadya, who was at the birthday, and drove her home. In a copse she offered sex, wanting a promotion. They gave in to passion, and afterwards he saw her home. He stayed the night, reveling in her frankness and her body. In the morning, after breakfast, they had sex again, merging into a single organism.

By lunchtime he decided to return home to break it off with Diana. But at home he found everything spotless and Diana in a sheer peignoir vacuuming the floor.

“Hi,” she said without straightening up.

“Hi.”

“I made dinner. Come eat—you’re probably hungry. I missed you.”

Chapter 2. The River

Deciding to start renovating her room—which still hadn’t even been painted—Nadya hit a wall by day two of her weekend: she just didn’t have the strength.

By Sunday it was clear she couldn’t handle it alone, and she put it off indefinitely. The thought of asking Yan for help kept coming back. She pictured him either doing the work himself or hiring specialists. But once she did the math on his salary, Nadya realized there wasn’t enough for the renovation she wanted.

Problems piled on, and no rearrangement of scenarios could change things fundamentally.

Nadya got promoted to senior staff—a position Yan invented and convinced management to approve.

Financially it brought a 30% raise, but given how small the base pay was, the final amount was still insignificant. As she liked to say: “If you multiply one by a thousand, you still get a thousand.” It was far from what she wanted.

She also wavered over her personal life. Get a steady boyfriend or wait? On the one hand, a steady relationship meant pastries on weekends, flowers once a month, and inevitable jealousy scenes. On the other—future loneliness was scary. The dilemma felt harder than the binomial theorem, and Nadya tried to choose a strategy to change something.

Sometimes after work or on weekends, Yan would drive her home, and their meetups ended in passionate sex. Thinking it over, Nadya concluded that a steady boyfriend would provide regular sex “for the good of the body,” while casual hookups would remain at her discretion. She even tried to seduce Yan’s boss, but failing that, turned it into a joke.

Still, she felt he began checking her out in the hall, especially her ass. Nadya sensed it, but kept her cool. “If the conversation comes up again, I’ll demand a higher position or cash bonuses,” she thought. “My vagina should work at least as much as I do,” she told herself, though takers weren’t exactly lining up yet. But she was resolute.

One day in the office, a conversation changed her immediate plans:

“Hey.”

“Hey. I heard you’re going on vacation? Where, if it’s not a secret?”

“Yeah—one week at home, one in the forest. Back home the woods are great. I’ll go fishing, though I don’t even like fishing, but I need to spend the time somehow. There won’t be electricity or cell signal.”

“Take me with you.”

“You have vacation too?”

“Well, I can get it approved. Let’s agree we keep this between us.”

“Okay, I actually needed a partner.”

Nadya knocked on Yan’s office door to discuss vacation:

“Yan Konstantinovich,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I have a vacation question. Can you decide it for me? I want to go next week—can you talk to HR or whoever?”

“But the head of HR is a woman—she won’t be as close with you as I am,” Yan smiled.

“Then sleep with her—tell her Nadya has urgent business.”

“Then she’ll realize I’m sleeping with you.”

“Then just talk to her.”

“Very well, Nadezhda Valeryanovna,” Yan said in an official tone, opening the office door so everyone could hear.