A Warm Front in the Cold War

“A Warm Front in the Cold War” – Extract of a SL novel by Lady Heady Antfarm.
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(Soon to be found at Grignano Books)

“Ah, so you think your American bravado will save you?” Major Ilyka Italot stood before the captured B52 pilot, her leather-clad hands resting confidently on her shapely hips.

“Honeypie, all youse is gonna git out of me is my name, rank and number. But if you’re a good girl I reckons I can stretch to kiss,” Captain Hank Wayne the Sixth of the United States Navy Air Force Wing Marines Crops quipped with a wink and a smile. At least it looked like a wink and a smile. It could have been a nervous tic. Even he wasn’t sure now.

The Russian Major (theatre studies minor) stared at the handsome imperialistic pigdog sat before her. From the toes of his strong, athletic legs to the curls of his boyishly charming hair, she hated his capitalistic guts with a passion.

“You Americans! You think that with a joke here, a wink-smile-thing there you can just charm country peasants such as myself, don’t you!” She hissed at him, her anger rising and making her chest heave.

Hank Wayne watched her chest heaving inside her uniform. He was no longer listening to her and had no idea what she was saying, something about heaving breasts he guessed.

“YOU MAKE ME SICK!” she shouted at him and slapped him hard across his cheek, an action that proved too much for her collective-sewn blouse and caused both of her magnificent and perfectly round breasts to leap out of her regulation five year bra and burst from her blouse in a shower of buttons, torn fabric and magnificent, round, large, lovely breasts. And nipples.

“By Lenin’s Tomb!” exclaimed the Major’s second-in-command, a small man in the Urals, who fainted dead away at the sight of such a forbidden and foreboding spectacle.

“By Lincon’s Beard!” exclaimed Captain Hank.

The Major, proud of her magnificent people’s bosom stood in front of him unashamed of her nudity. And with a rack like that, why should she be? “You Americans! You know nothing about hardship! Struggle! Pain! We Russians know these things. And in Russia, these things know you!” she bellowed cryptically.

Captain Hank had no idea what the broad was on about, but he nodded and made vague reassuring sounds. If being married three times had taught him anything, it was how to keep his mouth shut at the right time or risk losing all chance of landing his bomber.

“You think that with your B52s and your up-and-over garage doors and your popcorn you will win the war? You are fools!” Her passion burned brighter inside her, its warmth flooding into all the hidden nooks and crannies of her Amazonian body. She looked the western swine full in his handsome face and she kissed him hard and deep. She tore her clothes off and then his until they were both naked. She stood astride the chair he was chained to and noted with pleasure the generous size of the salute he was giving her military honours.

“Prepare to cross Checkpoint Charlie, Captain Hank Wayne…” she whispered as she lowered herself onto his refuelling rod…

(For more by the same author, click here)

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8 comments

  1. Burro-y Burro! My fuzzy friend! I was just thinking about you this morning and voila! A message was waiting for me in my Wife Soup blog! I can’t stop using exclamation points!

    I see you’ve been keeping yourself… um… busy. 😉 How is the misses and the spawn? How is your garden?

  2. Oooo Heady you fiercely feminine gonzo (gonza?)! You have outdone yourself, and me! I bow to your superior tail of lusty wartime seduction!

    By the way, are you interested in a threesome with the Professor and me? (I will not invite him until we have lured him into a plush pit of purple passion, where he will witness our girlish figures writhing together unabashedly; or maybe I will not bother to invite him!)

    1. Emma, my dharlink! Oh how that dear Professor drives we women wild – even more so than that hunk in trunks, Raoul. Let me know when and where and I’ll bring some feather boas, pruple of course! MWAHS!

    1. Dharlink Dio! If that slab of southern man Sepp ever becomes free for a while, have him saddle up and mossy down to my watering hole… let’s see what I can do about that Deadwood of his, shall we? Let’s do lunch! MWAH!

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