[NSFW] Russian Trixie ride-along


                                            >When Trixie told you she would pick you up this morning, you honestly weren't expecting this.

                                            >A tank—a fucking tank—is idling in the street next to your house, the roaring engine already drawing stares from the neighbors.

                                            >The hatch pops open with a sickly squeak, followed by the annoying girl slowly raising her head out of the vehicle, grinning so wide it's threatening to split her skull in half.

                                            "What the fuck is this, Trix?" you shout over the noise, gesturing at her mode of transportation.

                                            >"Is gift from old country," the girl yells back, affectionately slapping the thick steel. "Good condition, nearly no trouble when going into corners."

                                            "Can you even drive that thing?"

                                            >"Driving tank is easy," Trixie waves you off, "push lever forward, tank goes forward. Pull lever back, tank goes back. Left, right; no problem."

                                            >You're at a loss for words, honestly.

                                            >"Comrade Anon get in tank, now. May need you to load."


                                            >You actually got into the tank.

                                            >You’re not really sure why, though.

                                            >With Trixie sitting in the driver’s seat, operating the levers with tight, practiced motions, you’re in the loader position, with not much else to do than look around the vehicle’s interior.

                                            >A couple of AKs are stacked into a corner, together with some spare magazines and loose ammo.

                                            >What looks like ration packs, water canisters, and actual tank shells fill most of the remaining space, with about half a dozen bottles of vodka tucked away into the leftover nooks and crannies.

                                            >The girl focuses on driving mostly, still grinning madly whenever you catch a glimpse of her face.

                                            >She looks cute with the tanker helmet, though, you have to admit.

                                            >The ride is smooth for the most part, only occasionally disturbed by a rough maneuver, usually combined with the blue-haired girl angrily muttering under her breath.

                                            >"You think traffic light will stop the Trixie? Is tank, ass-face," she chuckles through her heavy accent, "tank doesn’t stop."

                                            >She’s going to cause an accident at this rate.

                                            >Then again, you’re in a tank.

                                            >She’s probably caused three or four by now and you simply failed to notice.

                                            >"Comrade Anon, load shell!" Trixie yells suddenly, turning from her periscope to face you, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

                                            >"Driver of stupid American minivan is going too slow and will not let Trixie pass!"

                                            "I’d… I’d rather not, Trixie."

                                            >"Gah! Load shell, Comrade! Is only to fire warning shot," she grins, "maybe."

                                            "Are you serious?"

                                            >"Ah, wait."

                                            >The Russian is peering through her vision slit again, pushing the levers to accelerate with a grinding bellow coming from the engine.

                                            >"American minivan is pulling over. Stupid driver. Is tank. Is driver of American soccer mom, yes? Have heard of them."

                                            "Where are we going, anyway? I feel like we’re about to start a war here."

                                            >"Drive-through."

                                            >You pause for a second, dumbly staring at the back of Trixie’s helmet.

                                            "Come again?"

                                            >"We go to drive-through," the girl repeats, turning around. "Is date. Like in American movie of romantic comedy. First get food and then have the sex afterwards."

                                            "I… I think I might be okay with that," you grumble reluctantly, earning yourself another toothy grin.


                                            >"Have arrived," Trixie announces a few minutes later, letting the tank idle while clambering up towards the hatch.

                                            >An audible thud echoes through the metal war machine, followed by the girl loudly shouting what you can only roughly place as Russian expletives.

                                            >"Son of the bitch hatch!" she finishes, angrily rubbing her head below her helmet.

                                            "You okay?"

                                            >"да."

                                            >Trixie manages to get the hatch open before attempting to stick out her head this time, the thick metal slab flipping over with a rusty screech.

                                            >She leans out, propping herself up on the metal rim and bending forward as far as she can without actually losing her balance.

                                            >Sitting below the girl, still in the bowels of the tank, you realize you’re getting quite the view, what with her wearing her typical short skirt and all.

                                            >You quickly avert your eyes, your cheeks feeling just a bit flushed.

                                            >The bear print is really not your cup of tea, anyway.

                                            >Over the Russian’s loud yells demanding service, you can soon make out a faint, static-infested voice coming from the drive-through speaker system.

                                            >"Welcome to McBurgers, may I take your order?"

                                            >"The Trixie will have two large cheeseburgers with fries and the American Coca-Cola. Comrade Anon…"

                                            >She looks back down the hatch at you.

                                            "Uhm... small fries?"

                                            >Trixie sighs before relaying your order.

                                            >"Comrade Anon will have kid’s menu because is too embarrassed to order what he actually wants to eat."

                                            >"That’ll be 18.50. Please drive to the next window," comes the crackling reply from the speaker, laced with the bored monotony of a fast-food employee’s indifference.

                                            >Jumping back down into her seat, Trixie guns the engine for the five meter drive, before climbing up again.

                                            >"Here is twenty dollars of shitty American paper!" the girl explains loudly, and you’re hit in the face with a bag filled with your food a few moments later.

                                            >"Eat fast, Comrade," Trixie grins while adjusting herself in the driver’s seat again, already reaching for her burger. "Can’t wait much longer for next part of date."


                                            >Another couple of minutes of driving later, Trixie stops the tank and finally cuts the engine, the deafening rumble that had accompanied you for the past hours subsiding.

                                            >She’s scarfed down her food while operating the tank already, peering through her periscope with fries sticking out of her mouth.


                                            >"Is time now, yes? Cannot wait any longer."

                                            >To emphasize her words, the girl is already working at pulling her skirt down over her legs, revealing soft, curvy thighs and the bear panties you already caught a glimpse of earlier.

                                            >"Comrade Anon take off pants, too!" she commands, pointing.

                                            "Wait, we’re going to do it…"

                                            >You let your sight wander through the tank again.

                                            "…in here?"

                                            >The panels of painted metal and stacks of ammunition don’t exactly radiate comfort, to be honest.

                                            >Sure, the controls are cool, and the back of the main cannon is downright sexy with its bulky blocks of polished steel, but all in all, this isn’t really putting you in the mood.

                                            >Luckily, Trixie’s breasts bouncing out of her shirt seem to do the trick just fine, the Russian pulling the piece of fabric over her head before putting her helmet back on.

                                            >She’s now standing in front of you, clad in nothing but her panties and tank helmet, securing her chin strap with a sharp click and grinning proudly.

                                            >"Is cute, yes?" Trixie points to her underwear, spinning around to give you an unobstructed view of her backside.

                                            >Her ass is deliciously curvy, her round cheeks flowing nicely into her thighs and leaving a bit of open space below her crotch.

                                            >You were half expecting her to have a hammer and sickle tattooed onto her ass cheek or something.

                                            >Before she can react, you quickly grab hold of the last bit of cloth protecting the girl’s modesty and pull it down in a quick motion.

                                            >"ой!"

                                            >You can’t wait any longer, with your dick already freed from the restrictions of your own pants and underwear.

                                            >Also the bear was stating to give you funny looks.

                                            >"Comrade," Trixie pants as you pull her back into the gunner’s seat with you, your dick slapping the flesh of her thighs and—with a little help of the girls hands—coming to rest between them, excitedly sticking out below her pussy.

                                            >"Wait! You have to wear protection."

                                            "Huh?"

                                            >The Russian starts to fumble through the stored odds and ends, all the while instinctively massaging your erection by rubbing her thighs together, keeping you at attention.

                                            >"Son of the bitch! Could have sworn…" she mumbles to herself, clattering through the shelves.

                                            "Come on, can’t we just do it like this?"

                                            >You let your hands wander around to her front, finding her breasts and earning yourself a small, stifled moan in the process.

                                            >"No, the Trixie is responsible girl. Not like stupid Americans with their– AHA!"

                                            >Grinning the cheeky grin you’ve come to grow accustomed to, the girl pulls at the boxes stacked into the back corner, producing—after a few more seconds of struggling—a second helmet.

                                            >You swear her smile is about to crack her jaw.

                                            "Very funny, Trixie."

                                            >"Is not funny, is safe, yes?" she explains while putting the helmet on your head and securing its strap under your chin. "Protection is important! Tank sex is dangerous."

                                            >Her hands finally free for more important tasks, Trixie is quick to focus all of her excitement on your boner.

                                            >The girl’s own arousal has already started to lubricate her thighs and your sex, but she spits on it for good measure before starting to pump your shaft between her legs.

                                            "Wait, you’ve done it before? In here, I mean?"

                                            >"дa. Well, alone," Trixie scratches her cheek guiltily, "but is same thing, really."


                                            >It seems the girl has had enough of the foreplay, raising her hips and guiding your dick towards her entrance before slowly lowering herself.

                                            "Fuck," you can’t help gritting your teeth, grabbing Trixie’s ample hips to help her impale herself on your erection.

                                            >The girl herself, though, has gone uncharacteristically quiet.

                                            >No jokes about you penetrating the motherland or corny stuff like that.

                                            >No excited shouting of the Soviet Union’s national anthem.

                                            >Just heavy, wet panting.

                                            >It takes a while before she’s sitting in your lap again, although the position is so much more electrifying than before.

                                            >"Need… need a moment, Comrade," the Russian pants, a bit of drool running from the corner of her mouth.

                                            >She’s clamping down on you tightly, her entire insides seemingly trying to prevent you from exerting any form of additional movement.

                                            >You take the moment of the cheeky girl finally being on the defensive for once to push your attack, finding and softly kneading her nipple with one hand while the other is making its way down to her pussy.

                                            >Her clit is painfully excited, the cute pink button just sitting above the base of your swallowed erection.

                                            >You start circling it, eliciting another series of cute mewls and mumbled Russian.

                                            >She turns around after a bit, trying—and succeeding—to stifle herself by kissing you, her tongue all but lolling out of her mouth before finding its way into yours.

                                            >With the girl impaled on your dick, drooling into your mouth, and rubbing her own nipples, you can slowly start to feel her relax.

                                            >After a minute or so, you dare exert a minimum of movement, much to the Russian’s approval.

                                            >You push her up just a bit, driving your hips upward when you let her fall back down.

                                            >She’s following the movements, pressing her thighs together to increase the pressure.

                                            >"Is good, Anon," Trixie breaks the kiss, "we can do the fucking now."

                                            >You would probably laugh if you weren’t so preoccupied with satisfying the girl’s demand, picking up speed and vigor with your thrusts.

                                            >It’s good that you’re in the tank after all, as the slapping and squishing of your hips against Trixie’s buttcheeks is quickly swelling into a lewd crescendo.

                                            >It also doesn’t help that the girl is letting her voice sing freely now, moaning and grunting with every bit of movement.

                                            >As an added bonus, her heat and scent are quickly enveloping you, trapped by the tank’s confining interior.

                                            >She’s pushing against you, slamming down her ass whenever you drive upwards.

                                            >This is bad; you’re on the back foot again.

                                            >You will not yield against the Russian.


                                            "Let’s switch."

                                            >Pushing Trixie off you—earning yourself a small, annoyed grunt in the process—you spin her around and guide her onto her back into the gunner’s seat.

                                            >You slip back into her and get back into your rhythm.

                                            >The movement hasn’t changed that much, although you feel more in control again, driving your hips into the girl instead of her riding on top of you.

                                            >She’s holding up her end of the deal though, wrapping her legs around your waist and forcing you back down whenever you’re idling too long for her comfort.

                                            >You’re poking into her with long, forceful thrusts now, parting the hot flesh of her pussy with each cycle.

                                            >Her breasts bounce nicely with the movement, and her head keeps hitting the back of the seat on the strokes you’re a little over-eager on.

                                            >Good thing she’s wearing the helmet after all.

                                            >You’re also kind of relieved that no shell is loaded into the main gun, as you’re sure you’d have accidentally fired off a round by now.

                                            >"Kiss Trixie," the Russian commands. "Can feel it coming."

                                            >You do as instructed, sticking your tongue into her mouth again, the girl’s sweet saliva mixing with yours.

                                            >You feel her orgasm all around your body, be it her thighs clamping up around your waist, her hot breath pushing into your mouth, or the girls convulsing pussy greedily wrapping around your dick.

                                            >You keep thrusting, trying your best to wring more and more pleasure out of her before your own release.

                                            >You don’t manage to keep up much longer, shooting off strands of hot cum into Trixie after a few more pokes.

                                            >Panting and moaning, the both of you keep riding out the waves of your orgasms until you finally pull out of her.

                                            >A thick glob of white follows your dick, running down the girl’s thighs and dribbling onto the tank’s floor panels.

                                            >"Is… is the creampie of American porno movie," Trixie states wearily, looking down on herself.

                                            >Seeing your handiwork, you absentmindedly touch the helmet still perched on your head, the word 'protection' just now ringing in your mind with its true intensity.

                                            >"Don’t worry, Comrade," the girl manages a tired grin before speaking in a somewhat quieter, gentler voice. "Trixie would like being mother."