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Subject: NEW STORY: "Incident In Bratislava" (1/2)
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Who's old enough to remember the Cold War? Another try at taking spanko
fiction somewhere unpredictable. Intelligent feedback will be responded to.

	Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means where you are reading.
This story is fiction. All persons, places in it are imagination-enhanced
and little resemblance to real or historic characters is intended.

	(c) 1997 Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes and the author, MrSpraycan, who
chooses to remain 'anon'. For entertainment purposes only. No commercial
use is warranted.  Archive only with this notice intact. Do not repost.



INCIDENT IN BRATISLAVA, Pt.1
by MrSpraycan


Even the reporters from the British tabloids don't drink beer for
breakfast. But here, in Eastern Europe before the fall, it's part of the
way of life. At the next table, a group of noisy Hungarians, Bulgarians and
locals have bottles lined up three deep in front of them. It's 8:45 am.
	"Don't be surprised. I don't think they even went to bed," Tanya
says, taking one of my Benson & Hedges, picking up my Bic lighter. Olga
sneaks one too. I don't begrudge. Duty free purchases to me, on the company
tab, and a valuable barter tool. I'm running low on Gitanes, so I light one
of these disgusting local cigarettes. Oh, my. These are total compost.
	Tanya is with another publication covering this goofy little trade
show. And Olga is our assigned liaison and translator. A Comenius
University lecturer on Modern Art in her spare time, she says. Both are
total foxes, in their late twenties.
	"Was there a lot of noise?" Olga asks.
	"I don't recall. Yes, at first. Some shouting and singing, but I
went to sleep eventually. I sleep well," Tanya tells her. We shield her
from the truth. Tanya and I had been pounding the lumpy Czech mattress
until dawn. We're probably in no better shape than these carousing hacks.
	I'd known Tanya for years, but we'd fallen together on this trip,
in a fairly offhand way. She was a refugee from Eastern Europe, a displaced
person when she was a mere toddler. Coming back here always set off weird
associations in her mind. And made her clingy. I was getting the benefit of
'cling' on this trip. Tall, dark-haired, rather waspish in humor,
superficially rather straight.

	We'd both been at some horrible photographic trade show in Germany,
and discovered we have been scheduled to stay on for a tiresome add-on
staged for Comecon exhibitors. A flytrap for Far Eastern visitors, really.
It's a second-string affair, befitting our lowly status. Publishers and big
editorial types go to more prestigious fall season events in Cannes, in
Rome. There's a two day gap. I agree to meet her at Vienna airport on
Sunday morning, and drive across the border with her. It's about fifty
miles, at most. On the Danube, where the Little Carpathian Mountains cut
across the valley from Austria, and near where the borders of Slovakia,
Austria, and Hungary join. A long way East. It's fall, and the trees are
turning.
	Joint venturing was a good move. There's all kinds of shit about
our papers being wrong, visas expired, from the AK-47 toting, plum
brandy-scented, unshaven border guards. Her fluent Russian and deftly
dispensed hard currency bills had made this problem vanish.
Poverty-stricken conscripts bribe easily.
	It's a big town. A city of a half-million or so, and in very bad
shape. The war ended thirty-plus years before, but you wouldn't know. Many
of the outer parts of the city are poorly patched, or still ruined. There
are huge tower blocks, soulless tenements. And monumental official
buildings, statues of revolutionary heroes, all the male preening of the
nation state.

	The night before, we'd eaten at some restaurant recommended by the
exhibition's press office, specializing in game. Not too vile, but scarcely
cordon bleu. Road kill, a better approximation.
	Forced to purchase vast amounts of local currency at ridiculous
exchange rates, we'd also been dabbling in the black market, and now, more
than halfway through our stay, we were trying to find ways of spending it.
Tougher than you'd think. How much beer or muddy Georgian champagne can you
manage?  Everyone hints that hard currency is preferred.
	So, we drink. In the laughable nightclub in the hotel, we're
regaled with endless reruns of 'Rivers Of Babylon.' By Boney M it was bad
enough. By the feeble local musicians, the Krapp Brothers, it's execrable.
Tanya is getting quite nicely plastered, and reminds me of a little
exchange we'd had during the day, one of those very English pieces of
banter that had made Olga stare at us for a while. It had been while we
were being asked to admire the local war monument, high on a hill over the
city. It's a huge Stalinist-era heroic bronze mess with brave poses,
brandished rifles and flags. Commemorating the much welcomed (I'll bet)
arrival of the Red Army in April 1945. Walking round it, Tanya says:
"Listen to that. It's my jeans rubbing! Don't yours do that?" We're both
wearing Levis, and I've been offered money for mine several times by street
touts.
	"Nope," I reply, "why should they?"
	"I suppose my legs are closer together than yours, dear," she
chuckles.
	"Oh, I doubt it, Tan, I doubt it," I laugh.
	Olga's gaze showed that she'd milked this exchange for all the
sexual chemistry it contained. We were a great pair for her to be assigned
to, if she wanted to improve her vernacular English.
	So now, 'byda ribbas of babbalon where wheel ay dow', she asks:
"What did you mean, eh? About my legs, not being close together, I mean?"
	"Uh, nothing much. Just a thought. Women, different design, that
kind of thing. Nothing personal."
	"Oh." She seems disappointed.
	"What did you think I meant."
	A pause. She looks at me, out of the corner of her eye, and says:
"That you thought I was an easy lay, maybe? Isn't that your style? They
call you Randy Andy, don't they?"
	"Whoever 'they' are. I don't know if that's fair. I'm, you know," I
swill some beer to be more English. Having attended an English public
school has not concealed my French roots, I'm afraid. My mother la Comtesse
would laugh at  such attempts. "Andre, please, why bother? They are such
barbarians, non?"
	"Not that type? You're gay?" she says disbelieving.
	"Hold on! I didn't say that! No, I'm bloody well not! It's just,
you know, I try to be a little gentlemanly. So I wouldn't imply something
like that about you.  I don't know you that well.  didn't mean anything
pushy, Tan, okay?"
	"Am I that horrible, that repulsive, then?" she sulks. "I'm offended."
	"Offended? By what? Oh, you think I ought to be doing some big
seduction on you? Really, Tanya. I'd get my face slapped, I know."
	"I think not."
	It's clear she is in a 'nesty' mood, and clearly expecting me to
make the next move.
	"Would you, Tanya? If I asked?"
	"Would I what?"
	"You know."
	"Sorry, I don't."
	"Come to bed with me."
	"Ah, that. I thought you'd never ask." She finds my hand, squeezes it.
	So, a drink or two later, we orchestrate our departure. She goes
first, I follow a decent five minutes later. She's on the third floor, I'm
on the fourth. This would pose no problems. We've already extracted a lot
of amusement from this hotel. The Majestic. We call it the Titanic. It's
the best in town, and it is zero-star bad. No elevator. Oh, there's a hole
where the elevator should go. And a rather ominous crater in the ground
floor where one might have gone once, after the cable broke, sometime in
the 1950s.
	When we checked in, my bags had been carried up -- against all
protests of self-reliance -- by an asthmatic army veteran about seventy
years old, who'd stopped to wheeze and cough at every flight. Kafka's dad,
for all I knew.
	On every floor, a concierge is posted. An old crone, bundled up in
layers of clothing despite the heat. You bribed them for everything. Soap,
a key to the communal bathroom, hot water for shaving, tea. Everything.
Mine nods to me as I walked by. I give her a DM 20 note. A big smile under
the headscarf. Three brown teeth. I point  to the stairwell, make a 'see no
evil' gesture with my hands over my eyes. She nods, understanding.
	I open my room. A minute later, Tanya knocks and slips in.
	"Is the room bugged?" I whisper.
	"Maybe. But don't say anything out loud, and we'll be fine," she
murmurs. "I gave the old bag $5."
	Some business, eh?
	I kiss her, then begin to unbutton and unzip her. She does the
same,  and like kids at Christmas we're not too disappointed at what we
find. She's quite trim, slimmer than I'd thought. There's something very
cool about the first time, and I'm genuinely excited at her pale breasts,
her hard nipples. But it's slipping her panties off and being greeted with
that first heady breath of her pussy scent that really inflames me.
	She's in a very passionate mood. Well, I'd figured she would be,
since she propositioned me. When women are bursting for it, I go for the
munchie stuff. I sink to my knees and start to lick her. She's not used to
this, and is murmuring protests at first. But soon she loses her
inhibitions. And begins to get quite frantic. She's whispering hotly,
pleading for more. And her body shows she's not just playing along. She is
bubbling and drooling with desire.
	After she's come a couple of times, and I look like an
ice-sculpture Santa Claus round the chops, I guide her to the rickety old
bed. Oh, does it creak! We giggle at the comic 'boings' from the springs.
We go at it like we're possessed for a while. Well, that's a side effect of
beer, y'know. That old David Crosby song, "long time coming, long time
gone."
	But a long funky night follows. She comes from an inhibited,
ultrastraight family, easily shocked at anything. She confides that she's
not been licked much before, but that she loved it. "Weren't you put off by
how sticky I am?" she whispers, anxiously. "No, not at all. I like women
with some flavor and sauce," I reply, hungrily.
	 I spend some time introducing her to some ideas she might not be
familiar with, tactfully describing exploits with unnamed women. Some of
whom, did she but know it, are colleagues of hers.
	She's most fascinated by my mention of 'someone you know' who is
into spanking. She guesses, quite rightly, "That's Diane. No doubt about
it." I reply: "don't be so sure."
	"Ha. So, own up. Did she -- whoever she is, this oh-so-mysterious
woman I know -- spank you? Or did you do her?"
	"Both," I admit, plugging on.
	"And which did you like best, Andre?"
	"I don't know."
	"Yes you do, or you wouldn't be talking about it," she growls in my
ear. "Tell me."
	"Getting spanked."
	"Yes, I'll bet. You English schoolboys are all the same."
	"Even when we're French?"
	"Especially then, I'm sure," she sighs. "Tres mechant. Now, a
little bit slower."
	I pump away, and soon she purrs: "You'd like me to spank you,
wouldn't you?"
	"Maybe." I would like it a lot. But here? We'll never get away with
it.
	"There's no maybe about it."
	She's right. She's a very attractive young woman, with a rather
stern personality. She could be wonderful in a bedroom spanking scenario.
	"Oh."
	"Is there?"
	"No, Tan, I'd like it a lot. But we can't. Not here. We'll bring
people running."
	"Yes, you're right. But you can promise me, can't you?"
	"Yes. Oh, Tan, will you?"
	"Promise me," she says firmly.
	"Yes, I promise. I want you to spank me, Tanya. Will you? Please?
When you get a chance?"
	"Yes, you just wait," she groans, arching her back and lifting me.



	"You and Tanya, you are very good friends, even though you work for
different publishers?" Olga asks me as we wander round the trade fair,
sipping some horrible wood pulp concoction sold as orange juice here.
	Tanya is off at an arranged interview for a book on East-West
barter trade she is researching, and we've left it that we'll probably all
meet up again after lunch.
	"Sort of. We didn't know each other well before this trip, I suppose."
	"But you do now."
	I give her the old-fashioned look. "Oh?"
	Olga is petite, shoulder-high to me. Short blonde hair, sharp
features. Her mother is a deputy minister, her father an army general. What
they call a member of the Kommendatura in Russia, the privilege classes,
building Medici-like empires for their kids and relatives. Ah, human
nature. So much for socialism.
	She speaks flawless English, though she's never left
Czechoslovakia. She is, in every sense, a fox. And I think a little
dangerous to know. Oh, she's smiled tolerantly as we've swapped dollars or
Deutschemarks for Crowns, she's watched us greasing peoples' palms with
packs of Marlboro. We're the typical decadent westerners to her, I'm sure.
	"She was in your room last night."
	"Oh? Yes, uh, I had to loan her an adapter, for her hairdryer."
	"Please, Andy. Don't insult my intelligence."
	"Were your people listening? How did we sound?"
	She laughs. "Oh, very clever. Well, if you must know, they say you
have a lot of stamina, and that she is very greedy!"
	"I suppose I should feel complimented, but I don't."
	"It's not a problem. You are both foreigners. Fuck each other all
you like," She sniffs.
	"Jealous, maybe?"
	She turns to look at me. "Perhaps. You look at me, then, you look
through me."
	"Olga, I'm sorry. It's all because of your position. I, ah, I think
you're a very attractive young lady. I really do. But I was warned fifty
different ways, don't touch the candy here, however sweet it is."
	"Your people are so obsessed about plots by the evil Communists,
that's why!" she huffs.
	"Right we've all seen 'From Russia With Love.'"
	"Your Tanya is more Russian than me."
	"Ukrainian or Polish, I think. Tough call, the way the borderlands
shifted and all that. And part Jewish, too."
	"Well, I am 100% Slovakian, and the Russians? I feel about them,
the same way you feel about the Americans."
	"Who I work for, as it happens. My magazine is owned by them, that
is."
	She takes my hand, says, "If we step out of the side gate, and take
a tram back towards town, then get a cab, we may end up losing our tails."
	"We're being followed?"
	"Please, of course. But it's very low-level stuff. We can lose them."
	"And why would we want to?"
	"Because you would enjoy making love to me."
	"Oh, and you?"
	"Because I need it, yes."
	"Then . . .?"
	"Follow me, Randy Andy."
	As we follow her plan, she whispers: "What were you doing to her,
to make her so noisy?"
	I whisper back. "Licking her."
	She gasps. "You mean, down there?"
	"Where else? Don't you people do that?"
	"Oh, sometimes. I knew an Italian man once. A famous Communist, who
lectured here, at the Slovak Academy of Sciences." She shivers. "Will you
do that for me? Lick me?"
	"Everything your little heart desires, Olga. Do you taste nice?"
	"He said so."
	"And we romantic Latins have great taste, so, yes."
	"Oh good!"
	"Just be straight with me, though. What would happen if we got
caught?"
	"We won't get caught. I'd be in more trouble than you, anyway."
	"And where are we going?"
	"My mother's place, of course. It's quite safe. No one that
important has to put up with any shit."
	Her scheme works. We hop on a tram at the last moment. Then step
off. I see a rather frantic dimwitted man staring at us through the rear
window as it trundles away. Soon we're on another, going in the opposite
direction. A couple more transitions, then a cab. We're driven to the
outskirts of town, very civilized, somewhere overlooking the Danube. We
walk the last few hundred yards up hill, to a walled house. She has a key.
A maid greets us, is sent away.
	Out onto the terrace. Very private, a great view. She begins to
undress.
	"Out here?" I ask.
	"Don't be so British, please. I sunbathe here all the time. No one
is watching, no one is even vaguely interested. Come on, take your clothes
off too. You must be roasting!"
	She has quite a good tan, and I see it's an all-over one as she
slips off her bra. Now she's just in her panties, some white lace things
that have that not-from-Comecon look. I have my jeans round my knees, my
shirt half off. I grab her, and pull her panties down. An all-over tan it
is. And a wet, inviting muff. Did she bathe this morning? It's
questionable. I sit her on a garden wall, and get to work, licking and
nibbling. I suppose there's something of the submissive in me, the way I
love these juices and smells, the way I force her to come, ignoring the
suggestions my rather beefy erection is making. She has her legs over my
shoulders, ankles locked.
	Since she'd been so keen to be licked, I spend at least a half
hour, sucking and probing and slurping. She loses control, several times,
yelping with pleasure. When she finally pushes my head away, and help me to
my feet, she purrs: "Beautiful. Now I'm not jealous at all." She kisses my
sticky mouth, licks her own dribbling juices from my chin and nostrils.
"Oh, you are a disgustingly good lover, Andy."
	"And you're a very kinky young Lady, Olga. Now, may I shove my
prick in you? It's rather anxious to get its share of the pie."
	And she's eager for more. We're both naked, and wander from room to
room, doing stuff in every place we want to try out. On top of the kitchen
counter, in her mother's bed, on the grand piano, on couches, standing at
the top of the huge staircase. She's insatiable. And she brings me back to
licking her, several times. She giggles pleasurably when I'm agreeable to
sucking my own semen from her vagina and pubic hair.
	"Oh, you are so decadent!" she laughs. "It's quite disgusting
really, but, I just love it."


	"Were you with Olga?" Tanya asks, peering over her glasses. She's
in the dimly lit hotel bar with a two-day old International Herald Tribune
and a Bud. The real one,  from here.
	"Yes, why?"
	"I just ran into her. She seemed a bit, uh, distracted. Know what I
mean?"
	"Yes, Tan."
	"What did you two get up to?"
	"Uh, nothing much."
	"Oh sure."
	"Well, you know . . ."
	"Ha. Be careful. I know more about this kind of thing. She's
forbidden fruit, Andy. Her mother's a fucking minister for Christ's sake!
Haven't you got any idea about how powerful she is?"
	"She says . . ."
	"Fuck what she says! I don't want you being slung in jail. I'll
feel obliged to get you out."
	"She ought to know."
	"Ought to, yes. But there are bigger stakes. For her, this is more
than just a bit of student hanky-panky with some visiting commie. Oh she
told me about the pussylicking Italian, of course. But you're a prize of
some importance, if they play it right. Things are tense, with this
Afghanistan thing. Show some sense! Don't get set up!"
	"I'll try." It was a bit late though.
	"And how do you think I feel?" she snaps. "While we're at it."
	"Oh?"
	"After last night. You're off banging some little tart, before my
cunt has even stopped dripping."
	"Nicely put, Tan. Very poetic. And ladylike too. Look, it was just,
you know."
	"Oh, I know. Men!"
	"Don't be jealous, Tan. Tonight we can . . ."
	"We'll see about tonight, Andy. But don't take it for granted,
alright? I've had a long day of stuffy rooms, halitosis and barefaced
lying, and my tolerance of men is a little low."
	"Okay. I understand."
	"Make sure you do. You'll have to earn it this time."
	"I promise I'll be good."

	It's pouring with rain. No cabs in sight. We're both rather drunk,
as usual. The crowd of hacks at the restaurant thins down to just Tanya and
I, and that's fine by us. We decide to walk. About a mile to the hotel,
through narrow backstreets. We dash from doorway to doorway, but we're
getting soaked. She has on a short plastic coat, I'm in some lightweight
summer jacket and jeans. To demonstrate my Englishness, I stop and piss in
a doorway or two. Well, a skinful of lager will do that, you know.
	We're a bit lost for directions, and stop under a faint streetlamp
looking for signs. All the streets sound the same to me, frankly. Tanya
pulls me into a shop doorway. As the rain pours down, she begins to kiss me.
	"So, how was she, your little friend?"
	"Very nice."
	"Better than me?"
	"I wouldn't say that, no."
	"So, did you put this thing in her?"
	"I always aim to do that, you know."
	"I'm sure. Oh, feel it! It's very hard."
	"Are you surprised?"
	"No. And did you lick her, too?"
	"Yes, as a matter of fact."
	"Should I be jealous? Did she taste good?"
	"Delicious, though, well, soap and deodorants here are a bit,
y'know, second-rate. Kind of Woolworth's standards."
	I have gotten my hand under her skirt and into her panties, and I
withdraw it for a moment, to let her sniff my fingers.
	Her eyes widen with pleasure, then grow hooded as I lick my fingers
and tell her: "You have a beautiful cunt, Tanya."
	"Oh, thank you."
	"It smells good, tastes good, feels good . . ."
	"It's still sore, you bastard."
	"I want you to sit on my face tonight, so I can give you a really
good tongue bath."
	She giggles. I'd mentioned this idea the night before.
	"Alright, I will. So she was fishier than me?"
	"A bit more hospitally, I'd say."
	"Stickier?"
	"Very sticky. But about the same, though."
	"Is she very hairy?"
	"No more than you'd expect. I think younger women here wear
bikinis, and know how to take care of little details like trimming their
pubes . . ."
	"But they don't shave their underarms!"
	"Which is nice, actually."
	Tanya snorts.
	"You would like that, you filthy swine."
	"Fresh sweat smells good. And she's not all stubbly. It's like a
collie's coat, all silky."
	"And her fanny hair? How's that?"
	"Oh, real thick, for a blonde. And kind of wiry, as you'd imagine.
A bit long, away from the edges of her panty line. I don't know if she was
really expecting me to like chewing on her as much as I did."
	Tanya's fascination with Olga's body is intriguing. Could I get
them into a threesome? Now, that would be very nice.
	It's also surprising. Tanya has long conducted an office politics
war with a colleague who is an overt lesbian, radiating conventional
disapproval, and asking sneering questions like: 'What do you actually do
in bed? Don't you need men, really?'
	But now, and several times the night before, she'd shown a definite
interest in our cute little translator. How would I set them up? Some
mutual muffmunching is one choice high on the list. What a nice prospect.
I'll ask later, I decide.
	"Meaning?"
	"She seemed surprised I would want to put my tongue inside, not
just tickle her little button."
	"But she came, I bet."
	"Oh, yes. Women usually do, you know. Uh, do you want me to . . .?"
	"Yes! In a minute. But I want to suck you first."
	She's already got me unzipped, and she works my jeans and shorts
down to my knees. Is this wise? Well, maybe. The streets are dark and
deserted, and we might as well wait for the rain to abate.
	She's squatting down, and feeding my cock into her mouth, to the
back of her throat. She gags a couple of times, but this is what she wants.
	Looking down, I see she has wriggled her skirt up to her waist, and
spread her thighs. She's rubbing herself with her free hand.
	I smile. I'd taught her to do this -- oh, I mean, to accept seeing
a man watch her do it! -- last night. She'd been on her knees on the bed,
rubbing wildly, whispering her fantasies to me as I smoked, and tried to
massage some life back into my throbbing cock.
	We're getting lost in this game now. I have my hand in her hair,
hoping to be able to send her a signal in time to prevent myself being
forced to come. I want to save this for her cunt. She is gurgling and
grunting with pleasure, and from her own efforts to rub herself off.
	Suddenly, a blinding light.

	<continued in Pt.2>

Copyright (c) 1997, MrSpraycan. All rights reserved.
Contact, e-mail: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com> or
<http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan>



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