Jana and the Jizz Bomb by Hoisington

Once upon a time, in the days of the now-dissolved Evil Empire, there lived in Moscow a very pretty blonde girl named Yana. She was an exceptionally bright girl and graduated at the top of her class from the People’s Collective School #1369. The Government decided she wanted to become an nuclear engineer and sent her to study for the next seven years at the Josef Stalin Institute for Blowing Things Up in T’blisi, Georgia.

In her final year Yana was working on a neutron bomb as her assigned graduation project from the Government, which, as was the case with all institutions and businesses in the Soviet Union, was the true identity of the Josef Stalin Institute for Blowing Things Up in T’blisi, Georgia. One day Yana accidentally dropped her container of neutrons. The lid popped off when the container hit the floor and all the neutrons escaped, leaving her in a panic. She was afraid that she would be brought before the school assembly, stripped naked, skinned alive, burned at the stake, and given an “F” as an example to the other students in the Josef Stalin Institute for Blowing Things Up in T’blisi, Georgia.

But the accident was witnessed only by Batschka, a resident researcher who had graduated the prior year. Batschka quickly took her aside. “Is lucky nobody else saw what happen, Comrade Yana,” he said in a quiet, furtive voice. “Fortunately I am knowing solution to problem facing you. I cover for you for week if you uncover for me, tonight, my room. We got deal, da?”

Yana saw no other choice. “Da,” she agreed. Besides, she could do a lot worse than Batschka. He was the handsomest young man in the Josef Stalin Institute for Blowing Things Up in T’blisi, Georgia, and his trousers displayed a most interesting bulge of impressive proportions.

That night she lay sweating and moaning under Batschka while he squeezed her medium-sized but exquisitely-proportioned breasts and repeatedly inserted his strategic-sized guided missile into her wet, welcoming missile silo. He whispered in her ear, “Moan louder. Is microphone in ceiling light and in table lamp.”

The same places they were hidden her bedroom. She began wailing, “Oh, Comrade Batschka!” and “Please to be fucking me harder!!” and “Oh, Comrade Lenin!!!” while he told her of a famous elderly German physicist with a fondness for beautiful young blonde women with medium-sized but exquisitely-proportioned breasts. “You will be crossing border into Turkey, taking airplane to Frankfurt where everybody knows his name.”

She had a question, so he began calling out “Please to keep fucking me, Comrade Yana!” and “Pussy is almost as glorious as October Revolution!!” and “Oh, Comrade Lenin!!!” in a loud voice as she whispered in his ear, “I have money enough for plane fare, but how I get across border with no permits?”

As she screamed, “Detonating NOW your SCUD warhead in my target, Comrade Batschka!!!” he whispered, “Is lucky I have brother in Border Guards. Is also lucky you shave your babushka. He tell me Border Guards have soft spot and hard Cossack for women having shaved babushkas. Have friend who will be providing phony papers for you, friend who also is liking shaved babushkas. Am about to be cumming now.” And he did, triggering her own ecstatic release.

Three days later she cleared customs at Frankfurt International Airport with large smiles on both her face and her shaved babushka, and with much more money remaining in her purse than she had expected. A LOT of men in important job positions liked shaved babushkas.

Somebody jostled her on her way to the taxi stand. She apologized to the back of the young man who hurried away. As she entered the taxi she told the driver, “Take me to Professor Barnhardt.” It wasn’t until the taxi arrived at the Frankfurt Physics Foundation that she discovered the young man who had jostled her was a pickpocket.

The taxi driver was sympathetic both to her plight and to shaved babushkas. He loaned her his handkerchief to wipe his semen from her shaved babushka and returned it to his coat pocket. He agreed to wait for her and to return her to the airport in exchange for a second helping of her shaved babushka, a blow job, and her used panties. Well, Batschka had warned her about Germans.

But she didn’t have any money to pay the physicist. What was she going to do?

Professor Barnhardt was unpacking a new shipment of particles when she was admitted to his office. The tears welling in her eyes moved him, and he gently held her in a fatherly embrace while she sobbed out him her story.

“Ach,” he said, “dry your eyes. I haff run out of neutrons, but I reqvisitioned more und mein order has yust arrifed.” He removed the shipping manifest from the parcel and scanned it. “Bosons, qvarks, leptons…. Hmmm.”

He looked at the labels on the containers in the parcel. “Nope. Keine neutrons in zis shipment, Fraeulein Yana. Zey haff been backordered at least a month. Here’s ze backorder form.” He showed her a paper with a dozen different seals, signatures, and stamps.

Yana began to cry, but Professor Barnhardt said, “Nein, nein! Do not cry, Fraeulein. I have all ze ingredients here to make zome more.” He took the package into the laboratory and soon emerged with a small container filled with neutrons.

Yana stopped crying and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him passionately. “I’m sorry, but I’ve no money with me….” she began as she lifted the hem of her skirt and pulled aside the front of her panties, showing him her shaved babushka.

“Oh, zat’s okay, Fraeulein” said Professor Barnhardt with a dismissive wave of his hand. “For neutrons zere is no charge.”