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.”