Story 4: Yana and the Catatonic Question

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.