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Message-ID: <51668asstr$1123312203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Yana and the Catatonic Question {Hoisington} (MF humor)
Lines: 321
Date: Sat,  6 Aug 2005 03:10:03 -0400
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                 YANA AND THE CATATONIC QUESTION
                        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 between this story and actual events that you
should be ashamed of, are purely coincidental.  If it is illegal
for you to access and read erotic fiction, or if you don't like
sex stories, then stop now.

This story is copyright 2005 by Russell Hoisington.  You may post
freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free" area of
commercial sites.  Please do not remove the author information or
make any changes to this story.  That does *not* mean that it is
in the public domain, nor does it mean that I give permission for
you to use it 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, the Soviet Government told a very lovely and intelligent
blonde girl named Yana, who had just graduated from the People's
Collective School #1369, home of the Muscovy Musk Oxen soccer
team, that she wanted to work in the nuclear industry.  She chose
becoming a nuclear scientist over becoming a pick-and-shovel
miner for uranium ore in the Novosibirskiye Islands north of the
Arctic Circle where there is no uranium.
 
     Seven years later, after graduation from the Josef Stalin
Institute for Blowing Things Up in Tblisi, Georgia, she and her
new boyfriend, Batschka, were told they had volunteered for
transfer to Minsk and to the most glorious secret research
facility in all of the Soviet Union, code-named the Donald Duck
Animation Rotoscoping Projects Activity (DDARPA) to fool the
American CIA.
 
     One early September afternoon Batschka fretted in the outer
reception area of the Directorate Offices, waiting for her to
emerge from a last-minute meeting with Comrade Director Makoyev
before catching the People's Transportation to their apartment. 
Last-minute meetings with the Comrade Director were invariably
bad news, and he worried that the absolute love of his life might
somehow be in trouble.  When she finally emerged from the
conference room, she had a worried frown creasing her beautiful
face, her sensual lower lip clutched between her teeth in
thought, and the top four of the six buttons of her semen-stained
blouse unfastened above her half-zipped skirt.  Comrade Makoyev
clearly had presented a difficult project to Batschka's little
love larva, and she'd been unable to dissuade him from assigning
it to her.  Batschka's heart ached for her.
 
     She walked past without recognizing him, her eyes focused in
some distant void he couldn't perceive.  Batschka turned and
caught up to her.  "Is bad news, my little dung beetle?" he asked
in an attempt to make conversation and draw her back from
whatever world she was in.
 
     She grunted a soft, noncommital, "Unh," and kept walking. 
Batschka wasn't certain whether she was responding to his
question or clearing the Comrade Director's ejaculate from her
throat.
 
     Batschka had to show his identification to get through all
the checkpoints on his way out of the building.  Each guard
passed the well-known Yana through with no comments, other than
noting to his comrade Comrade how fine her cleavage looked today.

     But Yana heard none of their observations and continued to
stare into the void.
 
     Outside, where the brisk wind whipped her blouse about and
occasionally exposed the hard pink nipples on her beautiful snowy
white breasts, she was oblivious to the numerous, sometimes lewd,
compliments from the men and the jealous sneers from the women
they passed enroute to the People's transportation stop, on the
streetcar, and from their stop to the apartment.  Nor did she
notice the numerous looks of envy the men directed at Batschka,
who would have grinned at the latter if only he weren't so
worried about his almost catatonic little hairball.
 
     At their apartment, where nobody could overhear them except
through the secret microphone hidden in the ceiling light where
nobody could find it, Batschka patiently waited two minutes while
Yana stood motionless inside the closed door.  Finally, realizing
she was so lost in thought that she would stand there the rest of
the night, Batschka gently kissed her ear and whispered, "You are
being home now, my little blowfly.  Please to be telling Batschi
what is bothering you?"
 
     But Yana said nothing and continued to stare into the void.
 
     Batschka unfastened the remaining buttons of Yana's imported
blouse, made in garment district of  Warsaw, and caressed the
smooth curve of her breast.
 
     But Yana said nothing and continued to stare into the void.
 
     Batschka removed her blouse and sucked her nipple into his
mouth, teasing the hard, pink berry with his tongue.
 
     But Yana said nothing and continued to stare into the void.
 
     Batschka tugged the zipper of her imported leather skirt,
made in slaughterhouse district of East Berlin, the remainder of
its distance and skinned it down the silken shapely legs.  He
noticed that her imported edible panties, made in the candy
district of Prague, were missing.  He caressed the smooth mound
of her shaved babushka and wiggled a finger into the moist slit
trying in vain to erect her sweet clitski and draw her back to
this world.
 
     But Yana said nothing and continued to stare into the void.
 
     "Praises be to glorious Comrade Lenin!" Batschka murmured as
he clapped a hand to his forehead and paced back and forth with
wide-eyed worry.  "Is serious problem this time that glorious
Comrade Director has assigned my little love chancre."
 
     Batschka stopped pacing and removed her imported shoes, made
in the thermoplastic district of Belgrade, and rolled her
domestic stockings, made in the nylon district of Chernobyl, down
curved thighs and firm calves that looked as if they had been
carved by a master sculptor from the finest marble produced by
the Siberian gulags, supporting her with one robust arm as he
lifted her dainty feet to remove them.
 
     But Yana said nothing and continued to stare into the void.
 
     Batschka carried her into the bathroom and stood her in the
tub.  Yana didn't move.  He undressed and climbed in to shower
his little slime mold.  With hot water and lilac soap imported
from lard rendering district of Riga, Batschka scrubbed her
nubile body with his strong hands and tender fingers, massaging
her tense muscles and removing the traces of Comrade Makoyev's
bodily emissions from her silky skin and her glorious cleft of
exquisite pleasure.
 
     Yana moaned softly and relaxed, but continued to stare into
the void.
 
     Batschka turned off the water and gently dried her with a
large, imported bath towel made in the terrycloth district just a
kilometer from the Josef Stalin Institute for Blowing Things Up
in Tblisi, Georgia.  He swept her into his manly arms and gently
placed her on the bed, kissing every pair of her soft, sweet
lips.
 
     But Yana said nothing and continued to stare into the void.
 
     "Is calling for stronger measures to reach where she has
retreated from world," Batschka murmured in a concerned tone.  He
wiggled his tongue into her honey pot and stroked upward, wetting
her clitski with his saliva.  He spread the labia of her shaved
babushka with his thumbs and slurped through the short, thin
inner lips and over her clitski again.  He repeated the motion,
over and over, noticing that her little clitski slowly hardened
into a pink pearl that crept out of its hiding place.  Warm,
slick, delicious sweetness began seeping from her erotic passage. 
Batschka swept it up with his tongue and spread it through her
heavenly slit.  He attacked her clitski with urgent fervor,
sucking it between his lips and vibrating the tip of his tongue
against it.
 
     Yana quickened her breathing and continued to stare into the
void.
 
     Batschka slipped a finger into her tight, hot sheath and
vibrated the neck of her uterus while he sucked on her clitski
and fluttered it with his tongue.
 
     Yana continued to stare into the void, but her legs tensed. 
Her toes curled under, and her knees lifted, drawing her feet up
along his sides to the tops of his shoulders.  The small of her
back arched up from the mattress.  Her body shook, then convulsed
once, twice, a third time.  Her back settled to the mattress and
her legs slowly straightened, until her feet were at the points
of his hip bones.  They returned to his shoulders with a jerk,
and her back arched again.  Her delicate throat almost succeeded
in squeezing a low moan into submission while she convulsed.  And
then she relaxed again.  Her legs settled to their original
position and her body went as limp as the imported dish rag from
the linen district of Leningrad.
 
     Batschka smiled, kissing her thighs, lips, vagina, clitski,
and the mound of her shaved babushka.  "Is feeling better now, my
little slime toad?" he asked in a loving, though concerned,
voice.
 
     Yana was smiling, but said nothing and continued to stare
into the void.
 
     Batschka sighed with frustration and wondered what to do
next.  He had to bring her back to earth for dinner.  He was
planning to prepare borscht using his mother's recipe that Yana
loved so well.  He licked his lips and looked startled.  "Hmmm. 
Is tasting more like Moscow sturgeon than Stalingrad catch
today."
 
     Yana sat up and blinked.  Her dark eyes sparkled.  "Is
answer!" she exclaimed as a soft smile spread across her face. 
At the sight of that smile, Batschka's heart swelled with love
for her, in much the same manner as his manhood swelled with
desire for her.
 
     Batschka rose to his knees and shuffled up to look into her
dark eyes, his engorged manhood pointing the way.  He tenderly
wrapped his strong arms around her slender shoulders and delicate
waist and squeezed her.  "Is possible to tell me what is
question, my little bubonic plague?" he asked, indicating with
his eyes the secret microphone hidden in the ceiling light where
nobody could find it.
 
     "Da!" she said.  "Is related to big problem in your
division."
 
     Batschka nodded.  "Meaning difficulty of precise
computer-timing of high explosives, designed to implode nuclear
material and set off high-order fission detonation which is to
trigger fusion explosion in warheads designed only for defense,
so as to achieve highest yield."
 
     "Da," Yana agreed with a smile and a nod.  Her perfect brow
wrinkled with a frown as she looked down at her nubile body and
then at Batschka's manly frame.  "Batschi, am noticing we are
naked and in bed.  Please to explain how this happened without
noticing on my part?"
 
     Batschka smiled and explained.  He groaned as she wrapped
her small hand around his manly Cossack, pumping it to maximum
hardness in preparation for letting it invade her glorious
Motherland.  "And you have now solution to problem, my little
skunk cabbage?" he gasped.
 
     "Da.  Oh, Batschi, my love, am very sorry to say you are to
be left alone again.  Will have to be traveling to England.  Is
most necessary, unfortunately.  Please to be making love to me
now?  Am afraid will have to be leaving tomorrow after
coordinating with KGB liaison at Directorate."
 
     "Of course Batschi will be giving pleasure to his little
pig's knuckle if such is being her wish.  But please to be
telling me, why to London?"
 
     She lay back and lifted her open legs, waiting for him to
insert himself and begin thrusting.  She adjusted her hips until
he was entering her at just the right angle and bouncing off her
upper chamber wall in the perfect spot.  After he'd settled into
a comfortable rhythm she hummed with pleasure and then explained. 
"Is being problem with computer chips, Batschi.  Is necessary for
all signals to arrive at all detonators absolutely
simultaneously, but is big problem with processor getting signals
out properly spaced for length of detonator wires.  Are needing
better and faster processors than 8088 design which Amerikanskis
at Intel stole without permission from Russia after we invented
it first, so is necessary to get other country to involuntarily
volunteer to donate new computer chips for glorious warheads
designed only for defense.  London is being best place to get new
processors for warheads.  Perhaps 80386 design which Soviet
scientists have not invented yet."
 
     Batschka moaned as her prurient passage clamped tightly
around his carnal staff.  He felt the sudden tightening in his
manly marbles and began short stroking.  His body tensed until
only his hips could move, slamming through the glorious silky
wetness of her lower body.  His handsome face screwed itself into
the familiar look of unbearable ecstacy and remained so until he
exploded within her.
 
     She cooed and stroked his back with one hand and his head
with the other.  He gasped and slowly relaxed.
 
     Finally he regained his breath and was able to ask his
question.  "London is best place to get warhead processors and
not United States?"
 
     Yana's delicate hands lifted his head from her shoulder, and
she gave him a look of genuine surprise.  "Of course, Batschi! 
Everyone is knowing London is best place in world for obtaining
fission chips."
                               ***

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2004

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