Moscow in August

The devils deal and a carnal conundrum

19 Aug 2025

Moscow in August

Is there a finer slice of paradise than Moscow in August, where the air ripples vodka fumes and the Kremlin looms like a brooding matriarch?

I’m here, your humble narrator Johnny C Rhodes, thumping wenches alongside Vlad at his swanky club, a brisk stroll from Putin’s lair. After our Alaskan acid escapade, Hyrum scarped west, leaving Vlad and me to swagger back to Moscow, hell-bent on dragging Putin to the table and securing my juicy cut.

The Crimea deal’s now a fevered beast, and Vlad and I can’t shut up about it, our tongues wagging faster than a politician’s promises. First, though, I’ve got a pressing predicament. I’m marooned mid-foursome with Vlad and two club attendants, their giggles a siren song amid the chandelier glow. Bless Vlad for hosting us, but orgies have rules, darlings! Start with a mob if you must, but the grand finale demands sorting—three’s a charm, five’s a festival, four’s a fiasco, and anything beyond five is chaotic.

The deal’s a breeze by comparison: fling Crimea to Donbass open-source, craft a libertarian economic zone where capital sprouts like weeds, labor be damned. With Trump, Putin, and the arch-oligarchs clutching their more than fair shares, Crimea morphs into a city-state to rival Dubai’s glitzy excess. It doesn’t matter who owns the Dombass as long as they buy our Drugs.

Three's a charm

Five is a festival

Four is a fiasco.

Back to my carnal conundrum. The outcome hinges on the wenches’ whims. Fact one, straight from Moscow’s survival handbook: any self-respecting Slavess soons weighs her options of suckfucking a vodka-drenched Russian brute or oiling an imperial stud like me, with an arse chiseled from cement. Fact two is courtesy of Kipling. If you can “Treat a lady like a whore, a whore like a lady.” you will be a man my son. It’s one of those vintage quips that’s been recycled through decades of locker-room philosophy and cocktail party bravado. Depending on who’s quoting it, it’s either a lesson in charm or a masterclass in tone-deafness.

Skip the thuggish thumping, slip in comfortably, and play the boyfriend card. They’ll lavish you with the girlfriend experience. From there, a fivesome’s yours for the asking.

But in a foursome, alas, the strongest wench soon pairs “us” into twos, shattering the orgy’s flow into a tame couples’ mingle, on any Friday night. When the lads propose a musical chairs swap, she turns clingy, territorial! Try reasoning with her finger up your arse and your balls in her maw! It ends in cum and tears, not the bromantic bliss we craved.

“First order in Sevastopol,” I declare, my Hairy Hogan mustache bristling, “we plant a Club branch and stock it with the crème de la crème!” Vlad nods, raising a glass to our debauched destiny.