The Mysterious Abduction of Yuri Gagarin by Sexy Alien Women

It was 1963. Somewhere out there, in the West, there were the noble speeches of the dark-skinned King, hippies, Kennedy's smile, and the myth of free love; somewhere here, in the Union, there was Bella Akhmadulina, the nationwide craze for corn, and the first cosmonaut as a response. But this guy in his worn-out work pants had none of that on him; the only thing he had then was a little boat of weed, which, though it touched his butt due to being in his back pocket, warmed his soul directly.

Smiling like creatine at the whole world around him, striving to hug every person he met along the way, he walked, or rather floated in weightlessness along

Stalin Avenue, alongside the main city highway of a famous resort. Cars occasionally sped past him; there weren't many cars back then, and no one had even heard of UFOs, so when suddenly, against the backdrop of PAZ buses, Moskviches, and Pobedas, something extraordinary loomed, he, of course, was stunned. We need to stop right here and clarify something: up to that moment, the young man had never seen a Chaika car. Gleaming with blued sides in the sun, this amazing vehicle pulled up very close to him and stopped a few steps away by the parapet; its portholes opened, and in the freed space, the faces of six sexy alien girls immediately appeared.

We also need to take a little pause here and clarify: at that moment, the young man had also never seen sunglasses or the daughters of the party elite. The aliens looked at him with the same surprised, round eyes as he looked at them. It was clearly audible that they were animatedly arguing about something among themselves. But then, finally, one of them addressed him directly.

 — Tell me, young man, you aren't by any chance Yuri Gagarin? Irochka here says it's definitely him... Lera says he just looks like him... Sasha says maybe a twin... Nona says it's definitely not him... Eli doesn't care, but Eli never cares... And I personally think that if you're not the first cosmonaut, then I'm not Mashenka and we're not in Sochi. So, are you Yuri Gagarin or just look a lot like him?

 — Well, actually, my name really is Yuri, — the young man answered, scratching the back of his head, — and they call me a cosmonaut, even when I myself wouldn't really want that.

A second, another, and a real ovation burst from the car's interior.

 — Well, if you really are Yuri Gagarin, then allow us to abduct you, — the charming alien exclaimed rapturously.

 — I allow it, — Yuri answered without even hesitating and moved towards the car.

A minute later, he was already sitting in the leather interior of the luxurious car, or rather lying in it, since all the seats were already taken. And indeed, Yuri Gagarin himself shouldn't have to squeeze into corners. Moreover, he was lying not on the floor, as often happened to him in this life, but right on the legs of three aliens, and even though this bench was hard and to a certain degree inconvenient—for instance, to avoid falling at the girls' feet, he had to hold onto the leg of one of them—still, it must be admitted, this was the most divine bench in his life. Besides, a wonderful panorama opened up from here, and the love for wonderful panoramas, as is known, is in the blood of all cosmonauts.

 — Tell us about yourself, Yuri. I can call you that, can't I?

 — Of course you can, but I'm afraid there's not much to tell about myself, as I'm just one of many cosmonauts in this vast world, — the young man answered, not thinking too hard about the question, captivated at the same time by contemplating the white panties that looked so innocent, revealed to him in the gap between two slender female legs.

 — One of many? You're joking! You are our first... you are our only... you are our answer!

 — Yes, yes, yes.

 — But still, what is space like?

 — Space is an illusion, a dream, it's too perfect to be true. We look at these myriads of stars, we think about... but besides amazing worlds and new revelations, its expanses hide dangers.

 — Dangers?

 — Well, yes, sunspots, black holes, and monsters, creatures live in them.

 — Creatures?

 — Greedy, covered in fur, with little tongues hanging out, they hide behind illusions like behind a screen's fabric, but you only have to open it a little...

 — Have you opened it?

 — More than once.

 — I can imagine, — another cute little voice chimed in, — I return to Moscow, approach my dad, say, Dad, you won't believe it, but Yuri Gagarin himself was lying on me in Sochi, Dad will be so surprised.

To this, the young man wisely chose to remain silent.

On the turns, the legs of the girl whose hands he was squeezing and whose knee he had the fortune to nuzzle his cheek against would slightly squeeze together, then spread apart again, and in this endless flickering, in the appearance and disappearance again, as in the desired and impossible, entire oceans of human fantasies lived. And he watched this amazing play of flesh and fabric, shadow and nuance, first with tenderness resembling the breath of spring, then with youthful excitement, and later, judging by some stirring in his trousers, courage was already awakening in him. However, to the young man's credit, up to a certain point, he behaved quite prudently, engaging exclusively in what artists do before their model.

 — But still, how did you become that lucky one? Surely you had huge competition?

 — Yeah, my older brother, the jerk, got me hooked.

 — What, your older brother was also a cosmonaut?

 — Both my brother, and my uncle, and my father, and my father's father—they all dabbled in cosmonautics a bit.

 — But we thought you were the first.

 — Well, yes, in this country, a quarter of the male population are cosmonauts, but only hidden cosmonauts, and I'm an obvious one, so I guess that's why I'm the first.

 — But you really are such an interesting person; you can tell right away you're not from the common lot. But still, how can one get hooked on that? Space is neither opera, nor cinema, nor ballet.

 — You can get hooked on anything, especially bad things. First, you think everything is fine, then that everything is fine but something is missing, and after that, all the good suddenly evaporates, and you yourself don't know how to get rid of it all. And generally, I'm very partial.

 — And to what else?

 — Well...

On one of the sharp turns, Yuri's head (he, by the way, didn't lie) was tossed up strongly, and my hero, taking advantage of the convenient situation, grabbing the waist of the nearest girl, in an instant, with the speed of a rocket rushing into the distance, with his own face, or rather his curious nose, entered the realm of his pornographic inevitability: white spots, black holes, the heat of a beautiful body, the barely perceptible scent of a female—all swallowed him up at once.

For some time, the car's interior resembled a henhouse into which a cunning and brazen fox had crept. Yuri, writhing like a worm, shouted at the top of his lungs something unimaginable, something like—I'm gonna cosmonaut all of you right now; the girls, of course, objected; expressing their displeasure in the most eloquent phrases; giving the world star cuffs on the back of the head, painfully poking with knees, loudly stomping their little feet, and so on. At some point, Yuri realized he had made a big mistake—but it was too late. Suddenly, unexpectedly, a pop, resembling the sound of a bursting bubble of chewing gum, echoed in his left ear, then the sounds faded, the colors dimmed, night poured into his eyes, and now he saw what the first cosmonaut probably should have seen upon entering orbit—namely, myriads, myriads of stars.

How much time passed from the moment Yuri lost consciousness, history is silent, but it is known for sure that he came to in the evening, in the bedroom of an unfamiliar house. His head, after its acquaintance with the sharpness of a woman's shoe heel, was awkwardly wrapped in a towel. His previous clothes had disappeared somewhere, and instead, his naked body was covered by a woman's robe. Had he been able to see himself in the mirror at that moment, he would surely have fallen in love with himself. He looked truly magnificent in it! His head hurt as if after a collision with an asteroid. The narcotic intoxication had completely worn off.

The only thing he could see earlier from the general interior of the room, and probably didn't want to see, was the face of the leader of all peoples, looking down at him from one of the walls in a thin wooden frame. All of Yuri's petty and cowardly nature awoke in him from that angry gaze, for one didn't need to be a great mathematician to calculate for oneself how much trouble he faced—for the girls, for the weed, and worst of all the evils he had committed—the disgrace to the honor of the first cosmonaut. And even though it was 1963, the time of the so-called Thaw, still, the horrors of the past from his brother's Kolyma Tales vividly awoke in the memory of this involuntary charlatan; the hair on his head stood on end, and his soul flattened to the level of the polished floor.

Without wasting a moment, the young man decisively rushed to the window, but alas, it turned out to be barred from the outside; he grabbed the handle of the door leading to the balcony—damn the one who first thought to lock those doors. The young man looked around in horror again. The door leading deeper into the house was slightly ajar; beyond it, something—apparently a lampshade—dimly flickered with muted light, music was playing, quiet shadows wandered across the floor. The young man swallowed, took a deep breath, and on tiptoe, quietly, quietly moved towards the saving exit.

A fair amount of time had already passed since Yuri, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms on his chest, observed what was happening. And there was something to look at: in the space of the living room, veiled with a haze of smoke, silhouettes were outlined; the putrid smell of hashish mixed with the subtle aromas of perfume; quiet moans mingled with the music from the gramophone; while light played with darkness, flesh with its secret desires. All as one, one as all, throughout the entire space—quite in the spirit of socialism, materialism, and female solidarity. Quite a picture.

Two girls had found refuge on a cozy leather sofa; one lay on it in complete undress, the other, not yet fully rid of her clothes, sat astride her, pressing the fragile body powerfully into the soft leather; a third girl from this overall, delightful composition sat on the floor and, hugging the leg of the lying girl with her arms, played with her shapely knee with her tongue. A little away from them, right on the spread-out carpet, rested two more naked bodies—like two writhing snakes, seemingly fused with each other. I haven't read the Kama Sutra, I don't know what number this intricate pose had, but I myself would call it—Good!!! The last girl, still not having found a partner, sat on a chair, very close, with her back to the observer, and while taking a drag from a joint, played a game of cat and mouse with her finger.

Sometimes she would pull the moistened finger out, greedily suck on it, and plunge it back into the opening hidden from view. The scoundrel that had escaped from under the robe's flaps, the young man's, could have told about how sex in the Union did exist after all, and the trace of lipstick, standing out on his uneven and long shaft, about how he—this Mr. Notorious—could even in those times take on rather liberal features. Captured by the temptations, the young man no longer thought about escape; no, the thought of it hadn't completely evaporated from his consciousness yet, but still, it was yielding submissively to another, much more pressing one: how now to draw the girls' attention to his forgotten person, so that he himself could plunge into this alluring and boundless ocean of lesbian love.

To start, he decided to cough—but that didn't help; then he whistled—but the girls were too engrossed in the process; finally, the young man was forced to say out loud, literally the following.

 — Comrades, girls, may I have a second of your attention!

No, Stalin, of course, didn't come back to life, the sky didn't part, the music didn't die down, but the young man still achieved his goal. Six pairs of interested eyes turned to him at that moment.

 — Ah, finally, Yuri, you're awake; we thought you'd be resting until morning. Pretending to be a good boy, so artlessly, so in the Russian way, you gifted the world with your famous smile, but in reality, you turned out to be what—a big rascal. How could you, that's not good at all!

Saying this, one of the girls, the very one who had remained alone all this time, and whose lipstick, by an amazing coincidence, had the same shade as the one whose trace, like evidence at a crime scene, gaped on the already mentioned excited organ of Yuri, rose from her place and moved straight towards him.

The other girls immediately followed her example—like six hungry she-wolves surrounding their unfortunate victim. They approached slowly, quietly, eerily. The young man, not expecting such a trick, backed away and retreated until he stumbled over the already familiar bed. But suddenly, unexpectedly, perhaps even to himself, he straightened up proudly, his pupils sparkled playfully, and a smile slid across his lips. He swept the girls with a captivating gaze and, after a pause, said:

 — But I can, I really can do it!

 — Who would doubt it, of course you can, — a pretty brunette responded, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, — you are Yuri Gagarin—the first cosmonaut, you must, it's your duty—you were born to be great.

 — Yes, I am like that, and he, by the way, is too, — the fraudster grinned, glancing downward.

 — Yes, that's a fact! But it would, of course, be good if his performance matched his appearance.

With these words, the alien firmly squeezed the object of her admiration, and then leaned her whole body onto Yuri, and after her another, and then the next, and so all of them.

How can one describe what is practically impossible to describe. Fantasy that became reality—reality overflowing into fantasy! Six against one, one against six, in a war where no prisoners were taken. On whose side the numerical advantage was is clear, but as a character from a certain Hollywood film would say, the one with the bigger barrel wins.

And who among them all had it?! And he fired it so often and so accurately that even the first cowboy of Texas would have been forced to tip his hat to his undeniable talent. White streams of semen, not once or twice, covered the bodies of the adversaries, and the greedy little trunks of the latter only intensified the effect of these precise hits, not missing an opportunity to collect every