The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

But no horsing about Solovey’s sniffing skill! And more than once, under loud curses from the trader, he poured onto the ground the bootlegged “samohrie” confiscated from her gunny sack. Once, an alky from the crowd could not stand the temptation, he fell on his four bones and lapped the hooch from the puddle. Solovey swooped at him, drove his boot a couple of times against the rummy's ribs, but the sot was in the Lap of Happiness already. Then the vehicle arrived and took him to the Sobering-up Station.

Occasionally, Solovey got his share too, and more than once they would trap him someplace in the dark and warm up with a blizzard of beating. One time they poured kerosene over him and set on fire, in another sorting out his both arms were broken with a crowbar. Well, the guys would get their times to serve, he’d recover and again – to Bazaar, in his red-topped militiaman cap, and there again, “Sol!..– Sol!..– Sol!..”

So, Kuba made a good one about becoming a secret serviceman thru Solovey…

During the winter vacations, the winners in the Physics Olympiad were taken to the city of Sumy, for the Regional Physics Olympiad. In the Konotop group, there were four boys and a girl, a ninth-grader, though she looked quite an adult girl.

In Sumy, we were accommodated for a night stay in a hotel. The number of boys coincided with the number of beds in the room. Our overseer, who was a teacher from School 12 with its Math and Physics specialization, stayed somewhere farther along the corridor, and the girl-like-an-adult in some female number.

Soon everyone gathered in our room around a two-volume paperback Collection of Tasks and Exercises in Physics for Matriculants brought in by the head of the group.

Gee! I had never seen such books and, until that moment, believed in earnest that school textbooks were all there was in Physics. It was a misconception. The rest of the future Einsteins from Konotop met both Collections volumes as their good acquaintances and even bosom friends. They began to actively discuss in which of their sections there were especially complex tasks and in which not that much so.

The teacher offered to work out some of the tasks, just for a knock-up. Everyone immediately fell to scribbling formulas and explaining them to each other. I was “the sixth odd” at their laborious party. Those exercises advanced far beyond the problems which Binkin solved with us in the class blackboard.

Then we went out to the city to have a meal at a canteen. On the way back, I lagged to furtively admire the gait of the girl-like-an-adult. The green coat fitted her wide figure tightly and every step produced oblique folds in the coat’s fabric on her back. Flick to the right, flick to the left. Hither-thither. Flick-flick.

In fact, besides the long coat, high boots, and a knitted hat, there was nothing to look at but those rhythmic folds on her back… well, using the cant from the Onegin’s epoch, they drove me crazy. Though, seemingly, a fiddle-faddle, those folds were not a trifle for the connoisseur and collector of the like gems. Some books were reread for more than once just because I knew there were a couple of lines “about it”. A couple of miserly lines, but they contained a specific detail, which I would put into my secret casket for later use.

For instance, in a sci-fi story by Harry Harrison about time machine, a film-shooting crew jumped over into the year of one thousand, to make an action movie. Their male star had an accident there, and they had to replace him with an available local Viking.

Now, the film director instructs that newly baked Schwarzenegger about his action in the next scene: “You rush into a bedroom in the castle you’ve just seized. You see a half-awake beauty and throw away your weapon. Sit down on the bed next to her and slowly move her brassiere strap to fall from her shoulder. Cut! The scene is done. Everything else is left to the imagination of film-goers, where the sky’s the limit, and you can safely bet your bottom dollar on it.”

A-ha! That’s the long-awaited-for detail! The brassiere strap sliding slowly from the soft smooth round shoulder… No flat and vague “kiss on the sugar-sweet lips” for you.

And that same night, with the blanket pulled over my head and the eyes closed tightly, I burst into a half-asleep beauty’s bedroom. But, of course, without any stupid cameras and highlights, I am not a movie Viking but a real-life one, and it’s the real Middle Ages we are having around here. I throw away my shield and sword and flick her brassier strap off.

At first, she resists but, on taking a more attentive look at the regular features of my face, she willingly spreads over the bed. I roll on top of her body… A hot wave floods the lower part of my belly… My cock twitches in the boner… My eyes are shut… And I… What?!!.

I do not know what comes next. So, it’s time to take a rest before another dive into the coveted casket for some other secret detail to start building up a new situation about it and eventually bring about the painfully sweet state of cursed ignorance.

(…Leo Tolstoy fervently advocated against male masturbation.

Any seasoned saint starts their career in a form of unscrupulous sinner, otherwise, they would miss the stage of self-denying in their spiritual growth which is just null and void if the pains of disentangling from the ties to brute creation level were omitted.

I cannot make my mind precisely if my erection orgies might be classified as a commonplace masturbation. On the one hand, no cock chafing was applied thru the noose-like palm grip, and I had never cum. But on the other hand, what if that was just a contactless