Agitation Brigade Rehearsal by Zoya Senova
Author: Ruslander
Rating: 18+
Genre: Het, Romance, Fluff, PWP, POV
Warnings: description of heterosexual relationships, petting, masturbation
Chapter 1. Comrade Senovo
The country was rapidly approaching the tenth anniversary of the revolution. The amateur circus I attended suddenly exploded with unhealthy energy and a thirst for fame. We began frantically training and preparing acts. It all ended with a serious man in a tunic arriving in mid-September. He had cavalryman's airs, Budyonny-style mustache, and a dashing, determined look. He refused to watch our acts. He asked for everyone who could do the splits to be called. We came running, excited and joyful. However, everything turned out to be more prosaic and boring than we expected. We sat in the splits with varying speed and ease, and the serious comrade nodded approvingly and suggested sitting on the other leg. Three gave up at that point. The remaining five now had to do a full straddle split. We did it. Some better than others, but everyone did it. The man asked to see a front split. Four couldn't, but I sat down. The director huffed and wrote down my details in his notebook.
Two days later, an assignment came for me from the district committee, I was excused from classes and sent to the house of culture to rehearse. That's how I ended up in a freshly assembled city propaganda team. There were three guys—besides me, a railway depot worker and a repair station worker—and two girls, both seamstresses from a clothing factory. We were tasked with preparing a life-affirming gymnastic sketch in record time and performing it from an open platform on a moving truck during the parade. There wasn't a single truck in our town yet, but we were assured they'd get a real AMO by the holiday.
Around the same time, they assigned us Zoya Anisimovna Senovo from the region, an employee of the sports and culture sector of the regional Komsomol committee. She was a party member, a recipient of named awards from the People's Commissariat, a delegate to the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks) congress, and we sincerely feared the old woman would ruin everything for us. We had already drafted a plan for the sketch, agreed on how to perform it, and even held a rehearsal. We were, in general, pleased with each other. We didn't need any Comrade Senovo.
And yet, one day, a young girl walked into the assembly hall where we were rehearsing with the confident, springy gait of a real (not a fake, like us) gymnast, in the manner of a regional committee official. She looked my age, more like a schoolgirl than a responsible worker. However, she was a champion of something, a prize-winner of some competitions, a member of the national team, a delegate, and so on and so forth.
It became clear immediately who was in charge. Our sketch plan was immediately rejected, our roles changed, and instead of rehearsing, we were driven outside to train. The workers grumbled, the girls sized up Zoya Anisimovna with critical looks, but there was no way out.
Chapter 2. Subversive Tights
Daily training sessions began. Three to four hours each. Then we'd take a break, change, go to the assembly hall, and rehearse the sketch for another two or three hours.
After about a week, the propaganda team finally stopped being feverish, everyone became friends, and Zoya Anisimovna allowed us to call her "Zoya" and use the informal "you" with her. It turned out that when she wasn't shaking with organizational zeal, she was quite a nice girl, with a funny upturned nose and big brown eyes. She was charming and friendly, and everyone very quickly began to consider her one of their own.
In the sketch, I was her partner. The guys played with their muscles and were the power base for the figures. The girls demonstrated flexibility and stretching. Just like me, since I couldn't be considered an athlete.
It was simple for the workers. Nothing special was required of them, just to stand reliably in a stance while we demonstrated our abilities on their shoulders.
It was much harder for us. We had to show numerous gymnastic figures not just by themselves, though that was difficult enough. We needed to create a kind of performance, connect everything into a single action, smoothly transition from one element to another.
Since I was the only flexible guy, I worked in a pair with each of the girls, but mainly, still, with Zoya. She was the central figure of the entire performance, naturally. With her abilities and credentials! Well, and the only guy, of course, had to be her partner. Zoya couldn't demonstrate her talents with another girl!
I fell into a real trap. Not only were the girls, as befits gymnasts, in tight-fitting clothes. Not only were their bodies arching in all sorts of ways right in front of me. But I also had to touch them all the time! And not just touch—hold them firmly in my hands, grab, squeeze, press them to myself! And the girls also constantly touched me! Essentially, I hugged and squeezed all our girls every rehearsal, and Zoyka three times over!
But that's not all! In gymnastics, anything can happen! My palm often ended up on one of the girls' chests. Or on her butt. Or even between her legs, and I went crazy from the sensation of something soft in my palm!
And their hands! They need to hold onto my waist, but the grip slips, and now a girl's hand is pressing against my rear. Or they need to do a handstand on my thigh, but their fingers suddenly end up right on my cock…
Every rehearsal turned into an erotic nightmare for me. After a month of training and rehearsals, my body, down to its most intimate parts, was no longer a secret to my comrades in the propaganda team. Just as the bodies of our girls were no secret to me.
I tried to save myself with one thing—I masturbated furiously, to the point of frenzy. Morning, evening, before, after, during breaks. It helped little. It was enough to look at Zoyka again, to feel her flexible girlish body again, and I'd get hard—on display for everyone!
The tights were supposed to come with some special V-shaped briefs with cups (who knows what that is) and padded bras for the girls, but the factory was delayed with them. And in tights over regular underwear, my organs and rear were on full display.
Moreover, the cock, covered by the fabric, constantly felt the tight confinement of the cloth, and this affected its size. If my cock even twitched a little, this, amplified many times over by the lighting, immediately turned into a fully erotic spectacle. The girls would then start, as if on purpose, to miss their marks, and I, to prevent them from falling, had to grab them wherever I could, grab them firmly, and their hands would start brushing against the erection itself, and I could barely restrain myself from howling. And they'd giggle behind my back afterwards! And I'd look at them, also clad in elastic fabric, hug them, touch them, and couldn't overcome the desire tearing me apart.
Zoyka also reacted vividly to these scenes of frank eroticism. Like all the girls, she examined me both from the front and the back. Like everyone, she'd mess up gymnastic figures when the bulge in my tights became especially visible. Like everyone, she'd blush when my protruding penis ended up right before her eyes. And it ended up there constantly because we did figures, including ones where the girl ends up hanging upside down on the guy. That is, Zoya—on me!
She, however, couldn't allow herself to whisper with the girls—she was, after all, from the regional committee! Surprisingly, she was no less embarrassed than I was. Our comrades were amused by everything happening, but Zoyka and I constantly walked around red-faced.
My anxieties, of course, were no secret to anyone. The guys in the locker room kept starting conversations with me about how I needed to relieve myself, telling me about cold showers and bromides. What Zoyka's girlfriends told her, I don't know.
Chapter 3. A Talk with an Older Comrade
Everyone was dismissed, and I sank onto the edge of the stage. I was completely exhausted and needed five minutes to come to my senses. Zoyka usually went to the shower with the other girls, but this time she didn't. She sat down next to me.
— Can you stay for another hour? — she asked. — We need to go through the "paired cartwheel" with you.
I was taken aback. I felt wrung out like a lemon. Besides, it was already past nine.
— Understand, — Zoya continued insistently, — there are only a few days left until the performance, and you're always thinking about something else, fidgeting, messing up the stance. The "cartwheel" didn't work at all today, and it's the simplest figure!
I nodded resignedly and obediently walked to the center. Zoyka approached me and easily went into a handstand, back to my back. I gripped her ankles, she gripped mine, and she ended up practically hanging on me. And we spun in place like a wheel, easily and simply. Everything was fine, but I felt her firm little butt right by my head, and my rear pressed against Zoya near her head. There was no one around, and I somehow managed to distract myself from what was happening in my underwear. We spun faster and faster and finally reached an utterly unimaginable speed.
Zoya easily jumped to her feet and said quite sincerely:
— Well done! Why didn't you do that right away? There wasn't a single mistake just now!
I also stood up, wanted to say something, and then noticed the girl looking at how the shadows moved on my tights. I became embarrassed again, but the girl also became embarrassed.
— Listen, — she said. — I think you're constantly thinking about something else. You're always turning your back to the other members of the brigade, you keep bending over, sitting down when you need to stand. What's wrong with you?
— Nothing, — what else could he say?
— It really wasn't there just now. Have our comrades started to embarrass you?
I felt sweat on my face. I probably turned crimson.
— Well, tell me! I'm an employee of the regional committee, you can trust me with any secrets! Well, what's the matter?
I sighed. What was I supposed to say?
— Our comrades don't embarrass me.
— Then what? What's wrong? You understand, you must leave your personal problems aside. We have the most responsible task of the party before us. Whatever is happening with you, you must, you are obliged to tell me. Otherwise, you're jeopardizing the common cause!
I nodded timidly but continued to be silent. What's the point of these conversations? How can she not understand what's happening to me? Is she mocking me?
— Are you a Komsomol member?
— Yes! — I even raised my head, so outraged was I by her question.
— Then speak!
I remained silent.
— Do you remember the revolution? — Zoyka suddenly asked.
I looked at her in surprise. Shrugged.
— Very vaguely, — I said, not quite understanding where she was going. — I remember some fragments…
— You see, we are already Soviet people. We didn't live under the cursed tsarism. For us, the whole world immediately became a world of happiness, equality, and freedom.
I nodded. What is she getting at?
— Then why are you hiding something from me, another Soviet person? Why are you dodging? We must be open, frank, honest with each other. Understand? And you… Some secrets! Our comrades suddenly started embarrassing you!
I sighed and blurted out:
— It's not the comrades, it's these damned pants that embarrass me.
— Pants? — Zoya drawled with feigned surprise. Alas, she wasn't a brilliant actress. — Pants? The tights?
As if she didn't already know! She's a hypocrite! And she talks about Soviet people!
— Yeah, — I suddenly felt more confident. — For example, what catches the eye when I stand like this?
I turned towards the light so the shadows on the tights would most prominently highlight the bulge.
— Well, — Zoya said again, feigning. — That you've turned red. You've turned red, you know?
The cock swelled even more and now stood confidently again, almost piercing the fabric. It was impossible not to see it, and Zoya, of course, saw it very well.
— Alright, — I said, — maybe it's not true, but these pants are too tight. Everyone's constantly staring at my crotch. There!
Zoya's breath caught from such frankness.
— Why did you suddenly decide that everyone's staring at your… Well, there?
Is she, by any chance, a virgin?
— Because even now you're staring right at my crotch.
Zoya jerked, sharply turned her head away and said:
— If these tights are too tight for you, I can ask to have another pair sewn for you. But don't expect too much—they'll still be form-fitting. The other guys wear these tights and aren't embarrassed.
I nodded resignedly.
— Then don't bother with another. Let it be these.
We stood silently a few steps apart.
— Alright, — Zoya finally nodded. Her gaze treacherously shot towards my tense cock. She immediately raised her eyes, but, meeting my gaze, lowered them again and again ran into the bulge, which twitched at that moment.
— You're constantly looking there, — I muttered, feeling I was overstepping. After all, I really was talking to a person from the regional committee.
— And you're constantly aroused, — Zoya replied sharply, looking away. — Are you, like, obsessed?
I was taken aback. What am I supposed to be? Not obsessed?
I sighed. Well, at least she stopped pretending. Finally admitted that she sees and understands everything!
Zoya interpreted my silence in her own way.
— Don't be offended. But, really, you're constantly aroused. It's visible to everyone. Something needs to be done about it. Take a cold shower before rehearsal. Drink bromides or valerian. Consult with friends, finally…
With friends? She's advising me to ask friends how to relieve sexual arousal? That is, how to masturbate?
— It doesn't help, — I muttered.
— What doesn't help? — Zoya wasn't expecting such an answer at all and looked at me in amazement.
Damn, how ambiguous that sounded! She probably thought about masturbation!
I grumbled:
— The shower.
— Why? — she was confused, confused that a Soviet person, a Komsomol member, was having such conversations with her.
— I don't get aroused before rehearsals. I get aroused during rehearsals.
— Why? — Zoya asked again. — Though, I can guess. There are many beautiful girls around. They're also in the same tight tights. That must have quite an effect on a young man your age…
She read that somewhere in books. About young men and age. She speaks too officially.
— No, — I said, still hesitating whether to speak or