Turbulent public life

The gray square university building stands at the edge of a vast field of market tents, a paneled monument of concrete Soviet-era architecture. Against it, the turbulent waves of Ledovykh Geroev Street shatter. Across the road, from morning until late evening, the bus station churns like a whirlpool. A minibus gently pulls up to the asphalt pier. I try to jump out first; otherwise, I'll have to close the door, and then the driver's stern shout is inevitable: "Didn't close it!" or "Bang your own head like that!" — depending on the circumstances.

A low porch — a burly security guard with the inevitable morning "ausweiskontrolle" — and I'm in the dimly lit vestibule of the university. My jacket, swollen from the rain, seems to have gained a couple of kilograms. The cloakroom attendant, an old lady in huge glasses, takes it with displeasure:

— And why is it so heavy, sonny?

— It's a bulletproof vest," I try to joke.

Laughing (truly, old and young are all the same), she hands me an aluminum token.

Above the elevators — a strict sign: "no more than 4 people!". At two elevators, a queue has formed several times larger than necessary. So, not wasting time, I head for the stairs. Second floor... Third... On the fourth-floor landing, lost in thought, I don't immediately turn around at the cheerful "Hi!" A pair of sparkling brown eyes looks at me merrily and playfully. Nastya, the faculty's trade union organizer, smiles with white teeth and coquettishly adjusts her dark hair, curled with tongs.

— Hi, Nastya." — I intend to continue on my way.

— By the way, Roman, today is Wednesday, so...

— I remember!" — I actually remember nothing, but okay. — "The editorial board meeting?

— No, the debut! We're rehearsing today in the assembly hall — Makhmudov got it for us for 3 hours today." — The girl giggled quietly at my forgetfulness.

— OK, I'll be there!

And I ran further — the bell was already ringing and trilling through the floors, and being late for Shcherbina's class (that's a guaranteed reprimand. If they even let you in) was the last thing I wanted.

Lectures today seemed more tedious than usual for some reason. By the end of the philosophy class, I even dozed off, so my friend barely managed to nudge me awake under the teacher's suspiciously sidelong glance. I was in no state to take notes now, especially since I had covered this topic on my own out of boredom while on sick leave. Waiting for the bell, I drew on the desk with a pencil: "Time was brutally murdered here." Then I thought better of it and erased it.

Even the rehearsals for the "Freshman Debut," which had grown tiresome over a month and a half, seemed like salvation. Finally — the bell! There's a queue at the elevator again — I dash down headlong while there's no crowd near the cloakroom. The cloakroom attendant tries so hard that she tears the loop on my jacket. My "quiet, non-malicious curse" she will never hear, even though she's done this for the 8th time.

The empty assembly hall is green with the velvet of its seats. Our "creative team" has gathered in the front rows. Nastya, standing by the music center, laughs and blows me an insulting air kiss. I sit down in an empty seat, slightly offended. And no wonder, she doesn't value me at all, it's obvious! And it only takes one look at our trade union organizer to understand how hard it is to endure her inattention. To say that Anastasia is beautiful is like calling Rembrandt a painter and Pushkin a poet. Both would have spent liters of ink and paint describing her perfection. Her rise began after a beauty contest in her second year. She was nominated for the trade union organizer position by the social dean, who had immediately taken a liking to the beauty. Her candidacy was approved by the regular dean, Makhmudov, a notorious womanizer widely known in narrow circles. And she, having messed with both their heads, having watched their rivalry to her heart's content, blew off the bosses. But they were not vindictive people and didn't drive the girl from her responsible post, especially since she handled public work remarkably successfully, somehow managing to also study with "excellent" grades, play tennis twice a week, and always be in an excellent mood.

Today, my day probably just didn't work out. At least half of the participants in my act didn't show up, so the rehearsal couldn't happen in principle. So I had to sit in the 3rd row for a solid 2 hours and watch as the hired director made my classmates exit correctly and bow "technically" an endless number of times.

Meanwhile, outside the windows, it had grown dark. The light in the hall became more and more yellow, less and less natural. The director began glancing at his watch more often and finally stopped the rehearsal, approached Nastya, and said something to her. Immediately through the microphone, we heard the voice of our trade union organizer:

— Thanks, guys. Evgeny Ivanovich has to leave urgently now, so we'll continue tomorrow. Rest well, and be at the social dean's office by 3 o'clock tomorrow." — her voice sounded clear and cheerful, as usual.

I wonder, is she even capable of getting tired?

My soaked cap slips in my hands. I feel sick at the thought that now I have to leave the bright, warm, and dry building for the soggy street, where it seems the rain will never end. Trying to somehow delay this moment, I sink into the seat and try not to make noise. I can hear the guys leaving, their cheerful chatter fading. Fluorescent lamps hum under the ceiling. The stage is dark and pensive, as if resting, waiting for the next event.

Finally, silence. Now it's time for me to leave too, or they really won't notice and lock up for the night — then you won't be able to shout or knock your way out. I get up from the seat. A sudden reproachful voice makes me flinch:

— And you, Roma, planning to spend the night here?

Nastya was standing by the silent tape recorder. Her dark eyes looked down at me condescendingly and mockingly. And I stared at her, unable to look away. Nastya looked so good in the striped sweater she had knitted. Petite, she was surprisingly harmoniously built. From her slender legs to the delightful shape of her breasts and half-bare shoulders — everything about this girl was wonderful. And if you strained your imagination... I wonder, by the way, to see someone who doesn't need imagination here. Surprisingly friendly and open, Anastasia had never once hinted, even with a word, if she had a boyfriend. Although one look was enough...

I probably got too carried away with my imagination. Later it turned out I had been looking at her silently for a whole minute, even with my mouth slightly open. This, of course, didn't escape her. Nastya smiled and, as if nothing had happened, said:

— Take this tape recorder and let's go, we'll take it to the social dean's office.

The music center wasn't heavy at all, the social dean's office was close, and following the orders of such a trade union organizer was a sheer pleasure.

The social dean's office — a long, narrow little room furnished with old furniture. I put the tape recorder on a bookshelf and was about to leave when Nastya came in.

— By the way, Roma, I completely forgot. I was going to give you your tape back!

I had already managed to forget about the tape with music for the dance number, which fell through at the third rehearsal.

— Just a moment, it's here, on the cabinet." — With these words, Anastasia climbed onto a chair and peered onto the dusty bookcase, which once, perhaps, adorned a big boss's office and now was quietly living out its furniture days here.

— Here it is, found it.

Suddenly, the girl lost her balance on her high heels and waved her arms in the air, dropping the tape on the floor. I jumped to the chair, bracing her from falling. My hands, unexpectedly for me, grabbed Nastya by the hips. "Better to be a cad than to let a girl fall!" — this thought did little to calm me when she, having regained a stable position, turned to face me and jumped down. Jumping, she placed her palms on my shoulders. Now standing on the floor, she was in no hurry to remove her hands.

— I'm sorry, please," I said, blushing, as it seemed to me.

— No, you're sorry.

With these words, Nastya pressed a passionate kiss to my lips. I had no choice but to embrace her — as tightly and tenderly as I was capable. The scent of her hair was intoxicating, her tender touches carried me far, far away, hundreds of miles from the cramped room stuffed with junk, from the boring university, from the gas-polluted metropolis on the bank of a shallow river — beyond the clouds...

Anastasia, closing her eyes, continued to cover my entire face with hot kisses. Her fingers, meanwhile, with frantic movements, were unbuttoning the buttons of my shirt. With one hand, I was stroking her pleasantly rounded bottom, the other hand had long since made its way under the sweater — to the excitingly smooth skin of Nastya's chest. Voices and someone's idiotic laughter were heard outside the door.

— We need to lock the door!" — I let go of the girl, grabbed the key from the table, and hurriedly turned it in the lock.

Turning around, I couldn't believe my eyes. Nastya was sitting on the polished writing desk. In just 10 seconds, while I had turned away, she had managed to pull off her sweater and jeans, remaining in lacy silk panties. My beloved was so beautiful in her nakedness, seemed so ethereally airy, that for several long moments I simply enjoyed the wondrous sight, not daring to touch this unearthly beauty. Noticing my hesitation, the girl beckoned me with her finger:

— Come on, Romochka. Make me happy...

Approaching Nastya, I kissed her lips passionately again but didn't linger on them, instead sliding down — to her delicate, swan-like neck, to her firm, smooth breasts. Licking her cherry nipple, I caught her sweet whisper-moan. My hand behaved much more boldly, penetrating under the damp fabric of her panties. I ran my hand over her lips, then carefully inserted a finger into the girl's holy of holies, finding the swelling bud.

Nastya leaned forward and began to rhythmically move her hips:

— Come on!... Take me...

I never make a girl ask me twice. Shedding my clothes, I grab Nastya's bottom with my hands and slowly enter her.

— Ah-ah-ah!..." — the girl cried out abruptly and tried to embrace me.

We began to move: first slowly, then — faster and faster. Nastya moaned softly, closing her eyes and throwing her head back. How wonderful it is — to regulate the pace yourself! As soon as I felt a heavy, warm wave approaching my lower abdomen, I immediately slowed my movements. And when the sensation passed, I drove the girl to a furious speed, like an engineer squeezing full power from a locomotive. It's marvelous — to see how, in time with the strong thrusts, the girl's pert breasts tremble, to hear how her breathing changes, how a moan turns into a sensual cry.

The climax came simultaneously. Feeling Nastya's vagina tightly clench my member, I increased the speed to the limit. The moans and cries of my beloved merged into one common sound. She reached her hands to my sides and squeezed them with all her strength.

A few seconds later, it was all over. I drew the girl to me, and she, opening her eyes, pressed her cheek tightly against mine.

— Oh, darling, what will happen now!..

— Don't worry, Nastyenka, I love you, we'll be good together now.

Time showed I wasn't mistaken. We were good together many more times. But that's a completely, completely different story...