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From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Yana and the Small Problem {Hoisington} (MF humor)
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<1st attachment, "YanaAndTheSmallProblem.txt" begin>
YANA AND THE SMALL PROBLEM
Russell Hoisington
================================================================
This is an erotic fantasy. The characters and the situation are
purely imaginary, and this story is **NOT** intended to be a
guide for actual behavior. Any similarities between this story
and actual people, or actual events that you should be ashamed
of, are purely coincidental. If it is illegal in your part of
the world to access and read erotic fiction, or if you are
underage, or if you don't like sex stories, then you should stop
now.
This story is copyright 2003 by Russell Hoisington. Please do
not remove the author information or make any changes to this
story. You may post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in
the "free" area of commercial sites. That does *not* mean that
they are in the public domain, nor does it mean that I give
permission for you to use them in spam advertising. I reserve
the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by *my*
definition, not yours or anyone else's.
Thank you for your consideration.
================================================================
Once upon a time, in the days of the now-dissolved Evil
Empire, there lived in Moscow a very lovely and intelligent
blonde girl named Yana. When she graduated at the top of her
high school class the government told her that she wanted to work
in the nuclear industry. She wisely chose studying for seven
years to become a nuclear scientist at the Josef Stalin Institute
for Blowing Things Up in Tblisi, Georgia, over becoming a
pick-and-shovel miner for uranium ore in the Novosibirskiye
Islands north of the Arctic Circle where there is no uranium.
Despite an unfortunate setback while she was working on her
neutron bomb graduation project for the government, which was the
true name of all institutions within the Soviet Union, Yana
graduated at the top of her class.
"Congratulations, Comrade Yana," said Comrade Marshal Artz,
the Commandant of the Josef Stalin Institute for Blowing Things
Up in Tblisi, Georgia. "Is great news for you. Am pleased to
announce you and you boyfriend, Comrade Batschka, have
volunteered for transfer to Minsk and to most glorious secret
research facility in all of Soviet Union. Facility is code-named
Donald Duck Animation Rotoscoping Projects Activity (DDARPA) to
fool Amerikanski CIA. Science Officer is Comrade Director
Makoyev. Is good man, from here in Georgia. Transfer will be
approved when you have paid standard fee."
Yana knew she would have to pay the standard fee for
something because the Comrade Marshall had locked the door after
escorting her into his office. She lifted her skirt and pulled
aside her industrial cotton panties, giving the short, fat,
balding man with the misshapen nose a good look at her shaved
babushka. "Is to be quickie, Comrade Marshall, or are we make
time for couch today?"
Two hours later, as she arose from the couch and began
dressing, the Comrade Marshall handed her a few neatly wrapped
packages. "For going away presents," he explained. "Is going to
be lonesome here without my best student ever. I give you small
somethings to remember me by."
Yana had already had a "small" something to remember, though
she'd be happy to forget the semi-soft little pink pistol that
he believed was a powerful Kalashnikov of love. She opened the
packages and thanked him for the crotchless rayon panties in
faded primary colors, each embroidered with the name of a
different month, the vibrating dildo with cables to be attached
to a car battery, the picture of the Comrade General himself
wearing only polished marching boots and her panties on his head
and autographed with the words, "Please to be returning any time
you wish," and the liter of Old Trotsky. She could use the vodka
to remove his taste from her mouth and to help forget the Comrade
Marshall.
***
Because of their researcher status at the Activity, Yana and
her beloved Batschka did not have to apply to a waiting list for
an apartment. They were immediately assigned to a dreary,
unpainted, concrete-walled, two-room apartment with a bathroom
down the hall. The building sat on Gloomye Prospekt only a
half-kilometer from their Donald Duck Animation Rotoscoping
Projects Activity workplace on the southern outskirts of Minsk.
The sixth floor walk-up apartment had an excellent view of the
picturesque Svisloch River winding between broad banks bedecked
with thick green grass and majestic leafy trees and of the
spectacular fiery red sunsets beyond the odious columns of
yellow-green steam rising from the hog fat rendering plant
located next door.
The DDARPA Science Officer, Comrade Director Makoyev, told
Yana she was to build neutron bombs while Batschka, her beloved
boyfriend, worked on a process to shrink them for concealment in
small devices such as portable radios, the fender wells of Yugos,
and very large, hollowed-out potatoes.
"Yugos?" Batschka had asked with a frown. "Why not Trabants
or Ladas?"
Comrade Director Makoyev threw up his arms in a
temperamental display of curmudgeonly intolerance with questions
to which he did not know the answers. "Damn it, Comrade, am
being Science Director, not doctor of psychology! All I am
knowing is Amerikanskis are dumb enough to be purchasing Yugos,
but they are not being completely stupid."
The weapon shrinkage chamber had been designed by a
committee of Argentinian, Yemeni, and Haitian physicists and
built by itinerant Romanian sewage plant workers in northern
Bulgaria of steel recycled from substandard North Korean
frog-clickers. The specifications and quality were precisely as
one would expect in the Soviet Union, but fortunately the chamber
did not explode when it was activated. One day Yana walked past
the faulty door seal of the shrinkage chamber at the precise
moment that Batschka hit the activation switch. At first nobody
noticed anything amiss.
Two months later, on a night when Batschka's rampant pink
tractor was plowing her shaved babushka with great fervor and
much delight for the both of them, she realized she was staring
at the end of his nose. His eyes had once been even with hers
when they did the horizontal Bolshoi.
"Batschi?" she said with a curious frown as she stilled the
rocking of her shapely hips on their lumpy mattress stuffed with
the finest imported Outer Mongolian straw. "Am noticing your
eyes being no longer even with mine."
"Am egregiously sorry, my little turnip," said Batschka with
a loving smile as he looked down at her pretty face. His head
dipped to kiss the pert pink points of her perky round bubulas
before he continued. "Is because your shaved babushka is
becoming much tighter these days. Is difficult to achieve full
penetration." He shifted his weight and thrust forcefully. She
gasped in surprise and more than a little discomfort. It felt as
if an entire SCUD missile including the warhead had been slammed
into her shaved babushka.
"There," he announced with a groan of delighted agony as her
hot, wet, shaved babushka pinched his manly organ like a
crankshaft in a welder's vise. "Sexual submarine is at maximum
depth in lagoon of love."
Now she was staring at his mouth. "Batschi!" she cried in
anguish. "We are having serious problem here!"
"One moment my little borscht beet," gasped Batschka. His
eyes unfocused and his hips increased to flank speed as his
sexual submarine prepared to launch a seminal torpedo. "Am
cumming now like mighty Soviet Army rushing in to liberate
Czechoslovakia. Oh, LENIN!!!"
***
Yana measured the pencil mark on the door frame again. It
was true. She was only 162 centimeters tall! She had lost six
centimeters. No wonder her clothes were loose. She had thought
that she had lost weight because of the Donald Duck Animation
Rotoscoping Projects Activity's Dzhennikraigskye diet plan, which
required one day's food ration per week to be surrendered to the
administrators of DDARPA. The Josef Stalin Institute for Blowing
Things Up in Tblisi, Georgia, had the similar Prityekan Diet
Plan, but the Comrade General had been willing to eat shaved
babushka instead of salt pork, turnip greens, and beets. So far
the people at the Activity had, unfortunately, preferred the more
substantial comestibles.
A month later she verified that she was losing height at the
rate of one millimeter per day. That was three centimeters per
month! "Oh, Batschi!" she cried, showing him the two dated marks
spaced three centimeters apart on the door frame in their
apartment. "Is being monumental disaster! Am certain to be
volunteered for transfer from Donald Duck Animation Rotoscoping
Projects Activity researcher to pick-and-shovel miner for uranium
ore in Novosibirskiye Islands north of Arctic Circle where there
is no uranium! What is possible for me to do?"
Batschka wrapped her in his loving arms, kissed the top of
her head, and said in a soothing voice, "Relax, my little skunk
cabbage. We are being very lucky that most famous and
knowledgeable physician in all of Soviet Union, winner of two
Nobel Prizes and three-time Vivisectionist of Year, Comrade
Doctor Spockanov, is right here in Minsk! Surely Comrade
Director Makoyev will certify to Comrade Bureaucrat Smegma's
Medical Treatment Necessity Verification Committee your case is
genuine emergency. After all, you are being his favorite
researcher after only short time here."
"Assisted" by the Comrade Director's intervention, Comrade
Bureaucrat Smegma's Emergency Medical Treatment Necessity
Verification Committee needed only one month to certify Yana's
case as a genuine emergency. Comrade Smegma himself personally
scheduled her appointment with Comrade Doctor Spockanov at nine
fifteen in the morning exactly eleven months later.
Eleven months! She would be only 123 centimeters tall by
then! She hadn't been 123 centimeters since she was eight years
old! She had to do something, and quickly. But what? While she
was waiting in line to buy a loaf of bread at the Red October
Bakery on Pispur Prospekt, she realized what she must do.
***
Yana waited outside the Heroes' Medical Office Building
adjacent to the most glorious Botanical Gardens in all the Soviet
Union until the Comrade Doctor emerged. She approached him at
the door. Crying tears as huge as Antonov transports she poured
her story out to him.
"Now, now, Comrade Yana," Doctor Spockanov said in an
emotionless voice. He patted her shoulder with joined fingers
twisted by arthritis until they spread in a "V"-shape. "Is
fascinating story, but please to be controlling your emotions."
"But Comrade Doctor...!"
"Comrade Yana! Please. You must learn to be a little
patient."
================================================================
Copyright Russell Hoisington 2003
<1st attachment end>
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