"Privyet, comrade," said Satou-san, as she sauntered into the factory and laid her tools down beside me. Her uniform was a slimmer fit than my budget for rations and her lips (and political affiliations) were redder than the leftover borscht in my fridge. Though she'd transferred in from a shabby rural town, she had the distant, beautiful air of a Tsarina, and her smile was enough to warm us all against the relentless winter. She had more curves than the all the sickles I'd grown up using, and eyes that gleamed with life throughout our designated work hours. Three hours into our first shift, I already knew that I wished to enter a domestic union with her and contribute more citizens to the Socialist Sapphic State of Lesbos.
last edited at Nov 8, 2020 1:27AM