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Message-ID: <28346asstr$979146604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: jimmy@jimmy-hat.com (Jimmy Hat)
Subject: {ASSM} The Russians Are Coming 1/4 (MF oral mild bd)  
Date: Wed, 10 Jan 2001 12:10:04 -0500
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This work contains graphic depictions of sex acts.
Please do not continue if this makes you uncomfortable,
or violates laws in your part of the world.

This story is Copyright 2001 by Jimmy Hat (jimmy@jimmy-hat.com)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING
Copyright 2001 by Jimmy Hat

ONE 

Agent Gerald Maytag had no intention of getting laid when the
night started. After all, he was not in a hotel room with a
nineteen year old girl for his own personal reasons. He was there
as a Special Agent of the FBI. But, as was often the
case with Maytag and his partner, Special Agent Heather Stanton,
one thing led to another. 

The first thing was that Maytag forgot to adjust his watch to the
Central time zone when they arrived in Chicago from Washington,
DC. They were in a rush to meet their contact, and he simply made a
mistake. So they arrived at the meeting point far earlier than
arranged. That led to his being alone with Nadia in the hotel
room for an inordinate amount of time while Stanton waited in a
car on the street. Another circumstance was that Nadia, born in
the Ukraine, spoke little English. What little she knew came from
working in a Prague brothel for the last year. Communication was
impossible. Nadia could not understand what Maytag wanted in the
room if not her. 

Maytag told her that he was there for Ilya. She smiled knowingly
and started to unbuckle his belt. Maytag told her to hold it, and
that was precisely what she proceeded to do. Desperate, Maytag
quickly stepped back and held up an index finger to indicate,
"Stop!" Nadia held a fist in the air and unfurled a finger of her
own as she smiled, a gesture that mimicked Maytag's and hinted at
an erection at the same time. 

Maytag pushed his palms out and said, "No, no. Wrong." 

Nadia's playful look melted to concern. "Gay?" Nadia asked. 

"Gay?" Maytag asked. Every word she used was a surprise,
practically to both of them. But that was the winner so far. "No,
I'm not gay." 

Nadia's impish smile returned. That made her even prettier. The
beauty was the last "thing" that led to the final coital
"another". Nadia was an absolute Eurobabe. She was thin enough to
fit into her imitation rattlesnake skin pants, and curved enough
to fill them out in the right places. Her full chest held her
short sweater away from her body, revealing a vertical band of
smooth skin above her waist band. A seemingly endless stream of
blond hair fell from the top of her head to a spot behind her
back. She wore glossy lipstick and birthstone earrings, and
neither shone as bright as her green eyes. Pretty soon Maytag
could not understand what he wanted in the room if not her. 

"I hate waiting like this," Maytag had said aloud, meaning
waiting for Ilya to show. 

"Now?" Nadia asked. She must have understood something about
"wait" and "hate". 

Maytag turned to look at her, and found that she had pulled off
her sweater. He found himself staring at her breasts, each about
the size of his fist, curving away gently from her chest, ending
in a nipple as pink as her hair was blond. 

"Oh, my," Maytag said. 

Nadia grinned and made the gesture with her finger again,
mimicking Maytag's growing hard-on. One thing had just led to
another. 

The bed was old and the springs had given out long ago. Not that
it mattered too much. Soon enough, all Maytag felt was the wet
engulfing warmth of her mouth on his cock and the tickling
sensation of her long hair dusting his chest. With a loud slurp,
Nadia slid her mouth off Maytag's cock. She rubbed the fat
tip, covered with spit, against her cheek and chin. Nadia gripped
Maytag's cock by the base, with her palm nestled snug against his
cock. She appraised it, and that grin reappeared on her face. 

"Happy," she said. With her accent, it sounded more like "hoppy".
Either way it meant sense, as Maytag's cock playfully twitched in
the air. 

"Yeah," Maytag agreed. "He's hoppy." 

Nadia rolled over on to her back. Biting her lower lip, she
raised her knees and spread her legs slightly. No translation was
needed for that. 

"He's about to get hoppier," Maytag said. Nadia giggled, not from
understanding but from watching the man's cock point out into the
air as he moved along the bed. 

Maytag brought his face down to Nadia's crotch. His chin brushed
against the fine whisps of her pubic hair, and he noticed their
color was as light as the strands on her head. Gently, he pushed
her thighs apart. The seam of her pussy stood out bright and pink
against the pale white of her legs. He took a moment to drink in
her scent before enveloping her twat with his mouth. Maytag began
to lick slowly, but before long he had a solid hold on each of
her buttocks, and his tongue delved eagerly among the soft folds
of her labia and the rigid nub of her clitoris. With that two
handed grip on her cheeks, he lapped at her pudenda like it was
some fruit of paradise delivered to a man starved. 

Nadia began to moan, and Maytag flicked at her clitoris in a
frenzied manner. She clenched his hair and bucked her quim at his
face. She arched her back in a spastic display of orgasm and
uttered some Slavic words that Maytag assumed were complimentary.
It may not have been genuine, but if it was an act, Nadia was a
true credit to her profession. 

As he slid his pelvis up to meet Nadia's blond bush, Maytag said,
"I want some of that." It might have been his cock speaking for
him. 

Maytag pressed the swollen head of his cock against the
glistening coral of her cunt lips. With one thrust of the hips he
sank in to her slippery shaft until his balls slapped against her
ass. 

Nadia was an active partner. She thrust her hips back at Maytag
and placed a hand on the small of his back to guide him. Maytag
rested his weight on his fists, arms straight out, to allow Nadia
to squirm underneath him. 

Hovering above her like that, Maytag looked down at her face. The
blonde hair seemed to radiate away from her now. She was somewhat
in the shadow cast by his body, but the earrings and her eyes
still managed to scintillate available light. Her cunt was hot
and slippery. The muscles in his arm tired. 

His climax approached. Nadia wrapped her legs around his ass and
forced her pussy upon him. She held on and fucked him from below.
Her weight and motion added to the strain on his arms, and they
began to shake from the effort. Maytag came in a quick tremor,
and collapsed on top Nadia in a spasming heap. 

"Oh, fuck," Maytag said. 

"Yes," Nadia said carefully. "Fuck." 

As quickly as the blood drained from Maytag's waning erection, it
returned to his brain. Maytag dressed swiftly. He realized that
Ilya might arrive any second. He sipped, buttoned, and fastened.
Then he slipped into his shoes. Maytag relaxed again, knowing he
was prepared for Ilya's entrance. That was when the gunfire
erupted. 

Training took over Maytag's motor system. He had his 10mm in hand
and his back to the wall beside the door before Nadia knew enough
to start gibbering in Ukranian. Maytag listened for more shots,
but heard none. 

"At least two," he muttered to himself. There had been at least
two distinct sources of gunfire. One close, most likely in the
hall outside. The second from further away. A set of stairs took
up part of the hall on each floor of the fleabag hotel. The other
shots might have come from the floor below. In any case, they
were rapid. 

The hall was quiet. There was no shouting, no running footsteps.
With a quick turn of his wrist, Maytag opened the door. Nothing.
Maytag darted across to the other side of the door, weapon
extended. He took in as much of the hall as he could in that
quick motion, but saw no one. Maytag licked his lips and
swallowed. He saw Nadia crouched down in the corner, staring at
his gun. Maytag lifted one palm in an attempt to calm her, and
then brought the hand back to his 10mm. 

Semi-automatic clasped with two hands, Maytag twirled, and went
through the door in a genuflecting motion. His arms and head
swept through 180 degrees. His legs uncoiled and propelled him to
the corner of the hall. Maytag had a full view now, and still saw
no one. Residual smells of gunfire peppered the air. Maytag
advanced toward the stairs, weapon extended. When he reached the
top of the stairs, he looked down and saw the barrel of another
gun. 

"Maytag!" Stanton shouted. Quickly, both agents had their weapons
raised to shoulder level. "Boy, am I glad to see you." 

"Likewise," Maytag replied. "What the hell happened?" 

"Our guy showed up, alone, and went inside. Soon after that I
heard gunfire. I called 9-1-1, and headed in to make sure you
were OK." 

"What about Ilya?" Maytag asked. 

"As I was getting out of the car, I saw him come through the
hotel and run down the street. I rushed inside and some tart
almost knocked me over in a rush to head out. The shots must have
spooked her. Ilya wanted to talk to us, right? Simple exchange of
information. So what happened here?" 

"I heard shots in the hall, and came out of the room to
investigate. I saw no one. I'm guessing Ilya was involved, but I
could swear I heard more than one gun." 

"Did you see anyone else here? Anyone waiting downstairs when you
came in?" 

"I don't know. But that tart that ran into you might have been
the other shooter," Maytag said. 

Stanton bit her lip. "Umm. Brunette, short black skirt, make-up.
She wasn't in the room with you and ran out after the gunshots?" 

Maytag had forgotten about the wire they had rigged up as a
precaution. "No, blonde." Definitely blonde, he thought.
Embarrassed, Maytag asked "So what exactly did you hear?" 

"Not much, and it wasn't in English," Stanton replied. "I was
hoping you could tell me what was going on. And what the hell
does 'hoppy' mean?" 


TWO 

The Chicago police department is old enough to have a forensics
department whose facility look more like the stained wood
appointed offices of a University English department rather than
the steel and concrete surroundings of a Physics lab. But the
equipment looked the same as any number of other such
departments: microscopes, fume hoods, and computers. Lots of
computers stood on desktops, or off in corners, connected to
equipment, or to other computers. 

Maytag and Stanton were speaking with a ballistics expert. He was
in his late thirties or early forties, a wiry guy, with hair that
was both graying and thinning. He spoke excitedly. "OK, so we
recovered shells, all 9mm. Two different kinds, supporting Agent
Maytag's belief that there was more than one shooter. We pulled
five slugs from the wall at the foot of the stairs, and analyzed
them. So far, it would seem like just another shooting, nothing special
about a 9mm semi-automatic. But it got a little more interesting.
Very interesting." 

"How's that?" Maytag asked. 

"Some of the shells are Winchester Rangers, nothing special
there. The others? Wolf, from the Tula Arsenal in Russia." 

"Our guy is Russian," Stanton said. 

"Yes, and it's possible that he gets that ammunition here if he
likes it. I made some calls. There are dealers in Illinois who
stock it. But from the slugs, I started checking for weapons
matches and I came up with a Makarov 9mm." 

"OK, so he really likes his ethnic cooking," Maytag said. 

"Sure. Until I ran it through NIBIN," replied the smiling expert.
That got their attention. NIBIN, the National Integrated
Ballistic Information Network, combined records from the FBI, the
Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and hundreds of law
enforcement agencies across the United States. It acted as a
library of gun 'fingerprints'. 

"You got a cold hit?" Stanton asked. 

"Yes, I did. And you'll never guess from where." 

"I'll bet it was from our guy," Stanton said. 

"You'd lose," said the expert. "Quantico." 

"What?" Maytag asked. "You mean they had it on record at
Quantico?" 

"No," the expert said, with a wide grin. "I mean the gun was
previously fired at Quantico. There's a date on the file, and a
note about a demonstration. Looks like the shooter is a friend of
yours." 

Maytag and Stanton shared a puzzled look. "Like I said," the
expert added. "Very interesting." 

Interesting enough for Maytag and Stanton to pull out their
mobile phones and place a couple of calls. They each had their
own favorite contacts within the bureaucracy of the FBI's
headquarters, and they each started inquiries at the
Puzzle Palace to find out the same thing: who fired that gun at
the Quantico FBI training grounds, and why? 

The two agents also had a standing bet for these informational
races. After Stanton's phone rang at lunch, Maytag fished out a
twenty dollar bill from his pocket even before she started taking
notes. 

"What do you have?" Maytag asked when Stanton ended the phone
call. 

"The gun belongs to Valerie Patrikov, Russian national. The
Bureau held some sort of seminar with the Russian National Police
force, and they demonstrated the ballistics lab at Quantico,
inviting the Russian police to take part with their own weapons.
Apparently, Valerie Patrikov was participating, and the lab kept
her records on file." 

Maytag's phone rang. 

"So close," Stanton said teasingly, alluding to their bet. "Maybe
next time." 

"Maytag," he said dejectedly. 

"Gerry?" asked the voice on the phone. The speaker's accent made
the name sound like "Zherry". 

Maytag abruptly sat up straight in his chair. "Ilya! What's going
on? What the hell happened yesterday?" 

Stanton stopped eating and watched her partner closely. 

"There was unexpected man at hotel," Ilya said with a thick
accent. 

"I know. And an unexpected woman, too." 

"Woman?" Ilya asked. 

"Valerie Patrikov," Maytag said. "Getting in a shooting match
with Russian police in Chicago isn't such a hot idea, Ilya."
There was laughter on the other side of the phone. "What's so
funny?" Maytag asked. 

"Valerii is name of man," Ilya said. 

"Oh." 

More laughter spilled into Maytag's ear. "You no watch hockey,
Zherry?" 

"Not really," Maytag answered. "That's beside the point. Seems
you're in trouble with the Russians, Ilya." 

Ilya cleared his throat. "I have confession," he said. "I am
Valerii Patrikov." 

"What?" Maytag asked. 

"We must meet," Ilya said. "I explain everything." 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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