Tuesday, March 6, 2007


Author's note: No research. Just suspend disbelief. And yes, this was meant to be a little funny.

Tatanya and I had known each other exactly four months when the call came through. Then there were four weeks of training in closed quarters with the others, secret meetings here, secret meetings there, briefings and briefings and debriefings with the KGB. A pill passed silently. No explanation, but we knew what it was. Then injections, pledges, strapping up, reminded that we were expendable. That any Russian would gladly give up their lives for their country and that we should be proud and docile. Proud and docile is what we were.

Tatanya and I were pulled into separate rooms to be told what we were to do for Russia and we nodded, or I’m sure Tatanya did too, like good Cosmonauts. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t delighted that I was ordered to keep this secret from my wife. She knew I could not say no, but what would it do to her? Nothing good. I wasn’t even sure that this would be any good for me and certainly worried about Tatanya, but I put it out of my mind. I put all of it out of my mind when I decided to be a Cosmonaut. I would only be able to glimpse this world from the empty black oceans of space if I gave my heart truly to the Soviet cause. It was done.

The file was laden with the other files that I was to carry on board. The orders of this particular sheaf of paper just as devoid of sentimentality as the ones that checked-off switches flipped and dials twisted. That it was a checklist was no surprise, but it made me nervous. Could I be called upon to calculate the trajectory of my penis at 0700h as easily as the pitch and the roll of the ship? Tatanya, thankfully, could be called upon to encourage me when it was needed. She was a smart girl, a beautiful girl, and everything that meant Russia to me. She was brave, as brave as me.

Your first moments of weightlessness are not really what you expect. In truth, weightlessness just means that you are falling every bit as fast as everything else around you toward the nearest source of gravity (there is no zero gravity) and your context has no meaning. There is no up or down, but only where you are in relation to other things. It makes you lose your stomach really, a sensation that takes some getting used to, once you’ve gotten over the hellishness of being torn from the earth on the back of a bullet. I worried for Tatanya here too. But she took it, if anything, better than me, and immediately freed some rubles from her pockets to watch how they spin if they can spin forever. They reflected in her eyes, gold light in the brown, spinning and warping.

The matter of the checklist and what it entailed was to be taken care of the second day, Star City time. I decided to try a little courtship with Tatanya on the first day and gently cradled her hand as I floated past her to the vertical beds. I found right away, my penis was just as loyal to The State as I was, and could be called upon at any time, like a soldier in a bunker, to come out and fight. I hoped that Tatanya too had steeled herself for battle.

Time, though according to Einstein is supposed to drag when you are away from a strong gravity source, tends to fly anyway when you are under a strict itinerary of busy work and a glimpse of that which has been seen by very few out of your porthole. I concerned myself with other matters and was surprised when my sheet was flipped, the clock spotted, and it was time for Tatanya and I to continue our duties in the back. We did not know, but assumed that the others had not been told of this portion of the mission. Mother Russia never tells anything it doesn’t have to. Tatanya and I, blushing, appeared to the aft of the ship and closed the port at exactly the time in which it was expected. I looked at her and added something to the checklist, a gentle kiss. It was only right.

I’d memorized everything else.

Removing clothing is strange in space, to say the least. You can pull your pants on two legs at a time, or just for the sport of it, throw them up in the air and make a running leap for them. Taking them off is a little more difficult. You cannot simply unlash them and expect them to fall. You must twist out of them like a fish trying to get away from an octopus. Tatanya helped me with this task, holding onto a wall handle and pulling them off by the end of the legs. She took her own clothes off with ease and grace, as if she’d been practicing underwater. We found each other with the robot hair of wires and suction cups, mine all over, hers discreetly away from her breasts. Her panties, white and somehow unbelievably sexy in a teasingly utilitarian way, were saved to be removed by my Soviet, masculine hands, and I did so with great care and affection, Tatanya’s eyes as cheerful as I could hope. They peeled from her hips like the soft tissue on my Cosmonaut’s certificate, revealing a triangle of beauty that would be explored with as much curiosity and precision as space itself.

Communists believe in the equality of women. Her satisfaction was listed first on the checklist. I took her inner thigh, pushed off of a wall and grabbed for the straps on my wall bed. To handle a woman like this, to be able to turn her body this way and that with almost no effort, was a possibility I hadn’t taken fully into account. I would pay her dues gladly, would finally be able to do so at just the right angle, could even ask her which was best without emotional involvement. I wrapped my legs in the straps and lifted her thighs to my face, stopped her roll and pulled her in. I split her pussy open with my thumbs, the sweet musty smell of it, and went in.

If it is science that you are looking for, I can tell you this. Liquids turn to little beads in weightlessness. They fly into your nose and your eyes and cling to your face by way of surface tension. Saliva looks like perfectly rounded diamonds. Pussy juice, opals. There is no telling where they will end up and it’s best to enjoy it. I did, very much. I loved her all over my face, loved her scent and taste and the mess. By the way her back was arching, she loved what I was doing to her. I judged my adjustments by the rippling snaps that her body made across the ether, her hands splayed, her hair waving up and down. When my tongue got tired, I could simply move her. I made a mental note that she liked this just as much. The checklist demands details.

Tatanya coming, her body dancing in the air, a butterfly stroke but faster, more angelic, is something that I will never forget the sight of. She could not say my name, could not moan or yell, but her limbs, indeed all of her, bent out the message to me that I was finished with this duty, that this fish was ready to be prepared, would stop its flopping on the deck and simply await my command.

We’d both been tested and screened and tested some more. I was issued no thick rubber condom, the letters CCCP and a red star down the shaft, only a spermicide, as it was decided that the rhythm method would suffice for her. I pulled her to me, my legs straight, the ankles hooked firmly in the straps and kissed her cheek gently before I pulled her further down, making a pit stop at her breasts, so beautifully gravity-defying here. I made a job of her nipples for as much time as I could squeak in, counting off seconds, having timed her orgasm for the government and found that she came two minutes and thirty-four seconds quicker than they had alloted for. This was flattering. There was no doubt about that. My fingers entered her cave, exited and returned with the shot of spermicide, to be injected directly within. This too gave her little jolt, and I felt the muscles contract around the probe, almost losing it. I balked, envious, frankly, impatient.

“Pull your knees, up, my dear,” I said to her, in a calm scientific voice that comes to me in times of stress. She pulled them into her arms, her breasts bulging at the pressure on their sides, and I drew her to me by the hips, a cocoon with a warm, fleshy entrance. I entered her as gently as I could make the dock, not as easy as you may think, holding onto her with one hand, pressing my cock down with the other. Once I was inside, however, my body began trembling. I got a good hold of her by the thighs and pulled her onto me, fighting only inertia, back and forth, in and out, off and on. I began to twist her once I got the hang of it, screwing her truly, rolling her in my arms back and forth like I was polishing a shoe. “Are you dizzy?” I whispered.

“Of course not,” she whispered back, all fearless Cosmonaut. The best of the best.

I put her through a few 360s, my face twisting with her, gasping quietly, and returned her face up to pound her against me. My ankles were losing the straps in the struggle, the bodily thrusts and as my orgasm approached, very quickly, new things having been done to my cock, I lost one foot, then the other. We soared through the air for a few more strokes when at the moment, the culmination, I lost her altogether. A fast thinking Cosmonaut, true to the cause, she descended, hand over hand, quickly down my chest and finished me with a flick of the wrist. My body in paroxysms, I only caught a glimpse as she deftly caught all the little soapstones, perfectly rounded in the air, in her mouth, as if this too, was part of her training.

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