Hot offer

1.

Summer heat hung over the suburban mansion, nestled among pine trees and manicured lawns. Dmitry drove his modest car up to the wrought-iron gates, which swung open silently, as if inviting him into another world—a world of luxury, solitude, and hidden secrets. He was twenty-eight, working as a journalist for a reputable socio-political monthly magazine, and he dreamed of a big story that could elevate him to a new level. An extensive interview with the widow of a former Minister of Natural Resources was an excellent chance to "rise" professionally. Irina had agreed to meet at her home, and Dmitry planned to get everything he needed

in one day and leave for the city in the evening.

Dmitry got out of the car, adjusted his sweat-dampened shirt, and headed for the front door. The house was huge and opulent: glass walls, a terrace overlooking a pool, everything exuding wealth. The door opened almost before he had a chance to ring the bell.

She stood on the threshold—Irina Ivanovna, but he understood why in her late husband's circles she was called simply "Irina." A youthful-looking widow who had recently turned fifty-seven but, it seemed to Dmitry, looked no older than forty-five. Blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, slightly damp and tousled—as it turned out, after a workout—strands clung to her neck and temples. Her figure was surely the envy of many younger women: toned, athletic, with a full bust of at least a D-cup and rounded hips. She wore a tight-fitting red workout set—a low-cut top that hugged her chest and leggings that accentuated her long legs and firm buttocks. Her skin glistened slightly with sweat: she had just finished a session in her home gym. Droplets of sweat trickled down her neck, disappearing under the top, and Dmitry involuntarily followed them with his gaze.

— Dmitry Khvostov?" she smiled broadly, revealing pearly white teeth. Her voice was low, with a slight huskiness, like that of a woman accustomed to giving orders. "Come in, Dmitry. I just finished on the machines. Terrible heat today, isn't it?

She extended her hand for a greeting, but instead of a formal handshake, she lightly touched his shoulder, as if by accident. Her palm was warm, slightly damp with sweat. Dmitry caught a faint scent of her perfume—something coconutty, mixed with the smell of fresh sweat and her feminine body.

— Good afternoon, Irina... uh... Ivanovna?" he stammered, trying not to stare at her figure. The top was so tight that her nipples were slightly visible through the fabric.

— Just Irina," she laughed, turning and inviting him inside. "We're not at a formal reception. Let's go to the kitchen, I'll treat you to something light. You must be hungry after the drive.

They walked through the spacious hall into a kitchen-dining area with a view of the pool. Irina moved gracefully, her hips swaying slightly, the leggings accentuating every line, and her loose hair swung with each step. Dmitry followed, trying to focus on the upcoming interview, but his gaze kept sliding over her figure.

Light snacks were already on the table—a symbolic "lunch": fresh fruit—grapes, strawberries, sliced mango—a cheese platter with olives, and a couple of glasses of white wine. Nothing heavy—everything fresh, summery.

— Have a seat," said Irina, pouring the wine. She leaned over the table, and her cleavage offered an enticing view of her full breasts, while her hair fell forward, lightly brushing his hand. "I don't eat much during the day, especially after a workout. Gotta keep in shape, you know. A widow has to look attractive, otherwise who will pay attention?

She winked, sitting down opposite him. Her eyes slid over him appraisingly—from his face to his shirt, lower. Dmitry felt his cheeks burn.

— Thank you," he muttered, taking the glass. The wine was cool, fruity. They talked about the drive, the weather, the magazine. Irina flirted subtly: now tossing her hair back, exposing her neck and wiping away sweat, now leaning closer to offer him a grape. Her gaze lingered on his lips, on his hands.

— You're young, energetic," she said suddenly, smiling. "Guys like you always appeal to older women. And I... well, I've been alone since my husband passed. It gets boring sometimes.

Dmitry nodded, not knowing what to say. Tension hung in the air—light but palpable. He reminded himself that he had come for an interview and would leave in the evening, but he already felt the day might drag on.

Suddenly Irina stood up, stretched like a cat, showcasing her flexibility, and her hair cascaded down her back.

— Oh, I'm all sweaty. I'll go change and take a swim in the pool—freshen up. You make yourself at home, eat, relax. We'll start the interview later, okay? This part of the house is at your disposal.

She winked again and left, leaving behind a trail of scent and a slight excitement. Dmitry watched her go—at how the leggings hugged her butt—and realized leaving in the evening might not be so simple.

2.

Dmitry was left alone in the spacious kitchen-dining area, finishing his wine and lazily picking at the snacks. The sun beat down relentlessly, casting long shadows through the glass walls, and the pool outside sparkled with golden glints. He tried to focus on the interview questions—his notebook lay nearby—but his thoughts kept returning to Irina: her athletic figure in the red workout set, the droplets of sweat on her skin, her playful gaze. Time passed slowly. He decided not to rush things and simply wait, as she had asked.

About an hour passed when he heard footsteps on the terrace tiles. The door to the outside opened, and Irina entered the house—fresh from swimming, with wet blonde hair loose over her shoulders and back. Water dripped from the strands, onto the floor and her skin. She wore a bright green, extremely revealing monokini-string—more a set of thin, water-shiny strips of fabric than a proper swimsuit. The semi-transparent top barely covered the nipples of her full, firm breasts, then transitioned into narrow straps, forming a large oval cutout in the center, completely exposing her flat, tanned stomach with defined abs and a navel. In the crotch area, the straps converged into a minimal triangle, and at the back, the triangle turned into a thin string, completely disappearing between her rounded, still firm buttocks, leaving them absolutely bare. The swimsuit fit like a glove, highlighting the curves and muscles of her toned, trained body—broad shoulders, defined arms, sculpted legs. On her feet were high, transparent heels that clicked on the tiles, adding a defiant edge to her walk and making her figure even more dominant.

She walked past the table, not looking at him immediately, and headed to the fridge for a bottle of water. Dmitry involuntarily froze, staring at her: the view from behind was stunning—the completely bare buttocks swayed slightly as she walked, the muscles of her back and thighs played under her damp skin, and the thin green string only accentuated the nudity.

At that moment, without thinking, he picked up a few strawberries with his hands and put them in his mouth—juice dripped onto his fingers.

Irina turned sharply, noticing this out of the corner of her eye. She put the bottle down and came closer, crossing her arms under her chest, which made the cutout even deeper and lifted her breasts. Her blue eyes narrowed in an arrogantly playful grimace, her lips curved into a disdainful smile.

— Oh, Dmitry, dear," she said in a low voice, with a note of mocking superiority, as if teaching a careless boy. "Did you grow up in the woods? Eating with your hands like some savage? There are forks and napkins in my house, you know. Men should behave... civilized.

She said this with a light chuckle, but her tone carried arrogance—as if she, an experienced hostess, was condescending to correct his manners. To emphasize her words, Irina turned to him sideways, then with her back, showing off her bare buttocks up close: firm, muscular hemispheres, separated only by a thin green string, slightly damp from the pool. She leaned forward slightly, as if adjusting something on the table, and her buttocks tensed, her skin glistened. Dmitry felt blood rush to his face—and lower.

— Sorry," he muttered, wiping his hands with a napkin, trying not to stare too openly. Excitement was building, but he kept his composure.

Irina straightened up, turned to face him, and laughed—softer now, but with the same playful haughtiness.

— Alright, forgiven for the first time. You're young, hot-blooded..." She winked, tossed her wet hair back, and droplets of water flew. Then she took a light white robe hanging on a chair and draped it over her shoulders without tying the belt—the robe slightly covered her body but left her legs, sides, and deep cleavage exposed.

— I'll go to my room, change, and rest a bit," she said, heading for the stairs to the second floor. "You wait here or walk around the house. I'll call you when I'm ready for your interview. Don't rush me, okay? A woman needs time to... prepare.

Her voice sounded commanding but with a coquettish note. She started up the stairs, the robe slightly opening, flashing glimpses of green straps and bare skin.

Dmitry nodded patiently, though inside he was boiling with a mix of desire and curiosity.

— Of course, Irina. I'll wait as long as needed," he replied calmly, smiling. "No rush.

She glanced back from above, gave him one last appraising look—as if checking how he was handling the provocation—and disappeared down the hallway. The door to her room closed quietly.

Dmitry leaned back in his chair, exhaled, and looked at the pool outside. He was shaken by the sight of that "swimsuit," possibly bought in a sex shop. The tension in the air thickened, and he felt this was only the beginning.

3.

Time dragged on unbearably slowly. Dmitry sat in the living room, flipping through his notebook of questions, but the letters blurred—the heat was stifling, even as evening approached. The air conditioner was on, but the air still felt heavy, sticky. Irina had disappeared upstairs over an hour and a half ago, and there was no sign she would come down soon. He stood up, walked around the house, looked out onto the terrace: the pool beckoned with cool water, softly lit by underwater lights. Silence surrounded him, only cicadas outside, and the sun was already sinking toward the horizon, leaving the sky in orange-pink hues.

He grew tired of waiting. Dmitry smiled to himself: he had long enjoyed nudist recreation—on beaches, in saunas, where he could shed everything unnecessary and feel free. Here, in someone else's house, it was risky, but the heat and solitude won out. "No one will see," he thought. "And if they do—I'll apologize." He quickly undressed in the living room, leaving his clothes in a neat pile on a chair: shirt, pants, underwear. His body was athletic—regular runs and the gym showed results: a toned torso, defined muscles, strong legs. His penis, already slightly swollen from thoughts of Irina and her provocations, hung heavy, semi-erect, pointing downward, but with a noticeably enlarged head and visible veins.

Dmitry stepped onto the terrace naked, feeling the pleasant evening breeze on his skin. The pool was large, heated—the water perfectly cool. He dove in without a splash, swam a couple of laps, feeling the day's tension fade. The water caressed his body, though the arousal didn't completely subside.

Finally, refreshed, Dmitry climbed out of the pool via the ladder, water streaming off his body in rivulets, dripping from his hair, shoulders, thighs. He stretched, shaking his hair, and turned toward the house—and froze.

Irina stood on the terrace. She had come out quietly, in the same light white robe draped over her shoulders, untied. Under the robe—still the same bright green, extremely revealing monokini-string: the top of semi-transparent fabric barely covered her nipples, the large oval cutout exposed her entire stomach, her sides were half-open, and below only a small triangle of a darker shade hid her most precious part. The robe had opened slightly from her movement, flashing glimpses of her muscular body and green accents. Her hair was already partly dry, loose over her shoulders, but still slightly damp at the ends. In her hands was a glass of wine, which she had apparently picked up on the way.

Her blue eyes widened for a moment but quickly narrowed into the familiar indignantly playful grimace. She set the glass on a table, crossed her arms under her chest, and nodded directly at his crotch—at the swollen semi-erection, heavy, pointing downward but clearly enlarged, with a head glistening from the water.

— Well, well, Dmitry!" she exclaimed in a low voice, mixing indignation and mocking playfulness, like a strict hostess catching a guest misbehaving. "Have you become completely brazen? Strolling naked in my pool like some primitive male! And this..." she nodded again at his cock, raising an eyebrow, her lips curving into a disdainful yet coquettish smile, "...already swollen so impressively? Is it from the heat or from thoughts of me?

Dmitry froze, feeling his face flush, but didn't cover himself—stood straight, water still dripping from his body. The arousal only intensified under her gaze: she looked openly, appraisingly, not averting her eyes.

— Sorry, Irina," he said calmly but with a slight smile, trying not to lose face. "It's very hot, got tired of waiting... I enjoy nudist recreation, thought no one would see. Didn't mean to shock you.

Irina snorted, took a couple of steps closer—the robe opened wider, revealing her body in the green monokini. She nodded again at his swollen, semi-erect penis, shaking her head with feigned indignation.

— What distinguishes a man from an animal male is the presence of underwear, dear," she said arrogantly-playfully, with the same haughty tone as before. "And you here... are displaying yourself in all your glory. Firm, thick—I won't argue, it's impressive. But there are rules in my house, after all!

She laughed softly, but interest flickered in her eyes—not just indignation. Dmitry noticed her gaze lingering on his body a bit longer than necessary.

— Alright, I'll forgive this too," she sighed, taking a sip from her glass. "But only because you're such an... appetizing savage. I'm a bit tired today—workout, pool... Let's reschedule the interview for tomorrow. Come earlier in the morning, okay? And now... get dressed and head home, it's already evening. I don't want you wandering around here alone at night.

She winked, turned, and went back into the house, the robe swaying, flashing bare buttocks. Dmitry exhaled, feeling his heart pound. He dove in once more to cool off, then got out, dressed, and gathered his things. Leaving in the evening was sensible—the tension between them had peaked, and tomorrow, with a fresh head, everything could continue. He got into his car, cast a last glance at the mansion, and drove off into the gathering dusk, anticipating the new day.

4.

The next day, Dmitry returned to the widow's mansion fairly early, but the heat was already rolling in waves—the sun beat down mercilessly, the air shimmered over the asphalt. He parked at the gates, which opened automatically, and got out of the car in light clothing: just loose shorts and sneakers, leaving his shirt in the car—too stuffy. His body was tanned, muscular, and he felt confident after the previous evening. In his hands: a notebook, a recorder, questions prepared. "Today I'll definitely get the interview," he thought, but memories of the naked swim and Irina's gaze made his heart beat faster.

The house door was ajar, but Irina wasn't in sight. He walked through the hall to the terrace—and heard her voice from afar, near the pool.

— Dmitry, dear!" she called out melodiously, with a slight huskiness. "Don't come inside, it's terribly hot! We'll talk here, by the pool. Come to me!

Her voice came from the loungers under a