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A Tale of Two Titties!

sampost

Lantern Swinger
Olga’s head emerged from under the sheets in room 201 at the Kings Cross Koala. She looked up at Barry who was smiling contentedly.

“Tell me that wasn’t the best blowjob you ever had”, she said.

“Okay,” Barry replied, “That wasn’t the best blowjob I ever had. The best was when…”

“I don’t want to know,” Olga interrupted, moving over to the cabinet and pouring herself a vodka. Landing this one hadn’t been easy, she thought, and she hadn’t entirely enjoyed the experience. She lit a Sobranie and moved back to the bed.

“Don’t I get a drink?” Barry asked.

“No, you can make yourself some coffee. Now tell me, sailor, what’s the story with this low cost housing deal?”

“You’re a very curious woman, Virginia,” Barry retorted. She hadn’t stopped quizzing him since they had staggered back to the hotel after an evening of drinking down near the waterfront, and frankly, he found her vaguely suspicious. But she had a certain charm and when she had slid her hand down his trousers, all resistance had crumbled. “I don’t know,” he continued. “It might have something to do with a keg of beer that we dropped over the side on the way up the coast before we reached Amampondoland.”

“Interesting,” Olga purred. “What else?”

Now Barry wasn’t totally stupid, and he put two and two together, so he spun her a story about how some Scottish chap had found a spade and the Scots thought this was as a sign as good as Excalibur, so this leaderless clan had appointed the owner of the spade the new clan chief, and the clan chief was going to use the spade to turn the sod on the new low cost housing development which wasn’t anywhere near where Virginia, aka Olga, had thought that it was, but it was near a railway line.

“You made that all up,” Olga said.

“I did,” Barry admitted. “Now can we do it again one more time before I head back to my ship?
 

sampost

Lantern Swinger
Noah Turnipski hurried across Red Square, then followed the Moskva down to Gorky Park. He wore a mask, hoping that no-one would recognise him and he was confident that, as he was a character in a fictitious story, no-one would. Presently he settled down on a park bench and considered all the information that he had been processing. Olga Honeytrap hadn’t come up with much, but he had learned that Bruce Dashwood had now left Namzambique on the Sagittarius. Nobulus was still the Officer Commanding the Amampondoland naval base, and the sailor Algernon had remained there. The emphasis was now on sail training. Further down the coast, urgent attention was being given to the construction of a breakwater, and some housing development was also underway near the railway line. Turnipski was disappointed that Nobulus hadn’t been ousted – he did so want to get a foothold in Namzambique, but he accepted that the sailors there preferred Pussers to Count Pushkin. It was a matter of marketing. His salesmen would have to learn better selling skills.

He was watching the swans and ducks swimming in the pond when the blond haired lad sat down next to him, as arranged. “Hello Ilya”, Turnipski said.

“Hello Uncle,” Ilya responded. “I hope I did not keep you waiting.

“No, Ilya, I have not been here long. How is your singing going?”

“It is good Uncle. Next week we go on tour to Murmansk and Vidyaevo.”

“Ah, Vidyaevo. Your father, he was a brave man.”

“So they say, Uncle. I never met him.”

“And you, Ilya, what do you want to do with your life? This singing, it is a hobby, not a profession.”

Ilya snorted. He knew he could make it in the concert halls anywhere, but he would not contradict Turnipski. “I want to go to Africa, Uncle. Perhaps Namzambique. I want to see the animals, before they are hunted to extinction or forced off the land by overpopulation. If I can, I will hunt the poachers too.”

“Then you should be like your father, Ilya. Perhaps I can arrange it for you.”

After that, they sat in silence. Ilya was not keen to become a submariner, but he did admire the sailing ships. Perhaps he could go to the State Maritime Academy, and get a berth on the STS Mir. Then maybe he could jump ship in Namzambique and embark on an adventure. It was an option.

“I must go now, Uncle” Ilya said. “It was good to speak to you. I hope I will see you next time I am in Moscow.”

Noah Turnipski nodded and rose to leave. He walked back alongside the river. Distant memories haunted him. He remembered being confronted by Ilya’s mother twenty years ago. He thought he had buried that in the past, but it felt like it had happened yesterday.
 
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