Chapter 1: Startling Discoveries

Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/Fa, Fa/Fa, Fa/ft, Consensual, Romantic, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Sports, Incest, Mother, Son, Brother, Sister, Light Bond, Swinging, Group Sex, First, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Petting, Sex Toys, Squirting, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Double Penetration, Slow, Nudism, .

Desc: Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1: Startling Discoveries - Mother and son flee from the regime in East Germany and have to rebuild their life after fate washes them up on the shores of California.

Lydia

We'd only been apart for little over two months, but it felt as if we hadn't seen each other for ages, especially as his birthday had been within that time. I knew that it must have hurt him that his mommy was missing from that most important day of the year for all kids. I probably seem like a horrible mother to an outsider

My name is Lydia Karrass, at the time a twenty-five-year-old, born in February 1960. I had just fled communist East Germany for the freedom of the west. The plan had almost failed before it began, because it meant that I had to leave my beloved son behind.

Mark was actually an accident and a very early one at that, but he was also the best accident I'd ever had. He was the shining light in my otherwise not exactly easy life.

In the summer of 1973, during a summer holiday at the Baltic Sea, I as a gullible thirteen-year-old got it into my juvenile head that I was in love with my teenage summer romance Frank. He was a fourteen-year-old, who was just as green behind the ears as I was. I ended up losing my virginity at age thirteen in the worst sexual encounter two people had ever had.

Frank never got to know that he conceived a son. But he was sure as hell aware of the possibility as when he realized we hadn't used any protection; he just panicked and ran away. I don't know what he had told his parents, but it certainly wasn't the truth. The next morning his family left and I never heard of him again. Trying to find him was pointless as I didn't even know his surname and finding the one Frank among sixteen million East Germans would have made playing the lottery look like a safe investment.

Even as a single mother I wouldn't face any problems. Social welfare was the one thing that actually worked in East Germany. My family was the big problem. My parents were both hard-liners, apparatchiks in the worst sense of the word. They disowned me on the spot, before Mark was even born, and most of the family followed their example for fear of political oppression. The only ones, who refused to abandon a thirteen-year-old girl, were my grandparents and my younger sister Beatrice.

I would probably have suffered my fair share of censure from the authorities if it wasn't for the fact that I was one of the country's top-talents in track and field. At age twelve I'd been spotted by a talent scout and immediately drafted into one of the Kinder- und Jugendsportschulen, which were normal schools, but with sports drills in every waking minute; grooming the talents that would later win medals upon medals to prove the superiority of socialism.

Mark was born in March 1974, exactly twenty days after my own fourteenth birthday, and just six weeks later I was back in training. My grandparents took care of him during the day, and I took the one-hour train ride home every day to be with my baby. Grandma Aurelia would often time the feeding in a way that he was hungry just as I came home, so he would get some genuine breast-milk instead of the artificial formula.

Being just fourteen my boobs had barely started to grow out of my chest and I was not producing enough milk, but it was usually enough for an evening and a night feeding. Often granny would already be waiting for me to storm in and rip my shirt off, so that my upset baby could latch on to his mommy, emptying my small cones with an urgency that made a vacuum cleaner look like a lame invention.

He grew up to be the light of my life, and from young age he had gotten it into his head that he was the man in the house. Not that he wouldn't obey me, almost the opposite by looking out for me. By the time he was eight he would always wait for me at the bus station, insisting on escorting me home and carrying my sports bag. In the evening he would massage my tortured feet while we watched TV. I never had to tell him to do house chores. By the time I came home from training the dishes were cleaned, the trash was taken outside. He was much more independent than your average eight-year-old.

Things deteriorated in 1984. I was supposed to be part of the Olympic team, but most of the eastern bloc states boycotted Los Angeles, including East Germany. I was gutted. On top of that I was put under more and more pressure to get on the state-run medical program, a euphemism for the extensive doping program in East German sports. At age twenty-four, which is fairly young for a marathon runner, I was good for the occasional top ten finish, but to get this little bit further ahead, I would have to morph into an African or get on the same 'roids, EPO, hormones and whatever else those Russians, Americans, West Germans, Chinese and my East German team mates were messing their bodies up with. If you see a female team mate shave her face in the morning, you just know it is nothing you want to take. But the pressure was mounting. I was about to lose all privileges, like getting to travel all over the world, if my results wouldn't improve. And that wasn't possible without doping.

In the end I pretended to cave in. I made a deal with the medical staff. There was an upcoming half-marathon in Stuttgart on March 1st 1985. If I would not finish on the podium, I would willingly submit myself to their program.

I had no intention to honor that dirty deal. Since pensioners were allowed to travel to West Germany, grandpa had visited his brother, who lived in Hilden. They traveled to Stuttgart and found out the route of the race. The reconnaissance information he brought back was that we'd pass a police station at kilometer 9.8; ideal to flee into and request asylum.

The hardest decision was to leave my beloved son Mark behind. Close family members were not allowed to travel with us. It was East Germany's cruel way of making sure we'd come back. But I had done my homework. During the seventies a treaty had been signed between the two German states that whoever ended up in the other German state, the immediate family had to be released to join them, no matter how that change of position had been achieved. Not even East Germany was cynical enough to go against that treaty in the case of an internationally known athlete.

Knowing that I wouldn't run more than 9.8 kilometers, I started with the pace normally reserved for 10.000-meter track runs. The Kenyans must have thought I was out of my mind, and didn't even try to follow my murderous pace - just how I wanted it. Those bastards back home were able to see me flee to West Germany live on TV and from the lead of the race. At kilometer 9.8 I veered sharply left, hopped over the barrier that separated the track and the spectators, and ran into the police station. I had made it.

That's how I came to miss Mark's eleventh birthday, taking solace in the fact that my eighteen-year-old sister Bea would be with him that day, trying her best to stand in for his missing mommy, but my heart still ached, knowing that he had probably spent most of the day crying in Bea's arms.

And finally the day came - in early June 1985. The political tug-of-war between Germany and Germany had gone on for over two months, but now I was pacing the arrival area at Hamburg Fuhlsbüttel airport like a caged animal, waiting for the flight from West Berlin to arrive.

I died a thousand deaths every time someone exited the gate and it wasn't my son, but then, finally, I saw him. A flight-attendant held him by the hand as he walked out with his oversized duffel bag that was way too big for him. The whole world faded out as all I could see was my baby, standing still, his bottom lip quivering in a desperate attempt to be manlier than you can expect from an eleven-year-old.

I suspect I was doing a pretty good impression of Lot's wife myself, standing paralyzed with tears running down my face. Finally he dropped the large bag and came running towards me and for what seemed like an eternity the two of us stood in the middle of Hamburg airport, hugging each other desperately while we both cried helplessly until there were no more tears left to shed.

Mark

I had never thought I'd ever see the West. Suddenly, when mom sent me to buy groceries, I wouldn't come back with half the list missing because it was sold out like was normal in the East. When I went to the shops to buy milk, I knew there would be milk and even several different brands and types to choose from.

Suddenly I could see all the things that I only knew about from watching commercials on West German TV that we had been able to watch in the East as well. Suddenly I could taste all the stuff that had seemed more mythical than real so far. This state of amazement persisted for almost a year, but in the end it wasn't able to mask the fact that we didn't really find our footing.

The people were different. In a system where everyone had to fend for himself, it simply didn't happen that neighbors would just invite you over for a barbecue like it had been custom in the East. No, most of them didn't speak much more than polite greetings when we encountered each other.

In late 1985 Aunt Bea had been released to the West as well, so I at least would no longer need to be attended to by a nanny whenever mom was having competitions abroad. The fact of the matter was, we were even more dependent on each other than ever before, living in our little bubble, just the three of us.

Being the only male in the house, I tried to fill the role that any boyfriend of mom or Bea would have, if there had been any. I knew mom had dated a few men, but nothing ever came of it. Years later I would find out why. Having had me at only fourteen years, mom had become way more independent than most men appreciated. Many of the guys couldn't deal with being the man at the side of a successful woman, especially one who doesn't think her place is in the kitchen.

Aunt Bea, will never bring a boyfriend home, because she likes girls. For her coming to the West had probably been the biggest change as, unbelievable as it sounds, the communist part of Germany had been much more relaxed on the topic of two women or two men loving each other.

For me things weren't exactly easy either. I never was one of the popular kids anyway, often keeping to myself, and now in the west I was a curiosity on top of that - the poor kid from the East. People weren't bullying me but nobody went out of their way to get to know me either. I spent the last three years of middle school largely without friends; spending my days on the beach drawing and painting.

Our lives were turned upside down again in August 1987 when one day I was called to the Principal's office where I was met by a policeman and a completely panicked Aunt Bea. I think the policeman had to explain it to me three times until my thirteen-year-old brain could process that mom was in the hospital. She was being treated for light injuries she had sustained fending off an abduction attempt with the help of a boxer from her sports club she happened to walk home with.

Later in the hospital, I think mom was the most collected of us three. Bea was completely beside herself. I was a bit better, but my attempts at being manlier than my thirteen years accounted for, were only partially successful. The thought that the East German secret service, Stasi, had tried to kidnap my mother to bring her back to the East for punishment for her flight two and a half years earlier was overwhelming. It was more than your average thirteen-year-old can take when his mommy is threatened.

The sort of punishment to expect, would most likely be similar to that demonstrated by the Stasi in 1983 when they made an example of Lutz Eigendorf, who like mom, was a high-profile athlete, a footballer, who had fled to the West. After a failed kidnapping attempt, the Stasi had murdered him in a staged car accident.

That meant we had a good idea what kind of punishment mom was in for and unsurprisingly, we soon found ourselves being visited by two men. They introduced themselves as an agent of the West German secret service, BND, and the American counterpart, CIA. Back home in the east we'd always been told that the CIA were the evil incarnate, but somehow the slim middle-age man with his blond hair and soft-spoken, accented German did not exactly instill fear in me.

Since mom's safety could not be guaranteed indefinitely in West Germany, we were told that within the next year we'd be emigrating to the United States. The Stasi were ruthless, but they weren't idiots. Going after mom in the States would have been a suicide mission as not even the Soviets would dare cover their asses in an operation against US citizens.

I would be finishing middle school in a heavily secured government school, while for mom it meant that she had to take a one year break from any competitions. That meant the Seoul Olympics in 1988 would be the second one she missed due to being caught up in the political wrangling of the cold war.

Lydia

When I was shaken awake on that day in late May 1988, the small government-owned business jet was already on approach to Burbank, where we were scheduled to be met by someone from the German consulate in Los Angeles.

With all the routine of an international athlete I had slept through most of the flight, but I immediately felt guilty, when I noticed that in my sleep I had leaned on my son, whose tired features left no doubt that he had been awake all the time. Ever the young gentleman, he had not only accepted the additional weight on his shoulder, but had put his arm around me holding me steady for hours. He was smiling at me despite his obvious exhaustion and anxiety. I gave him a little kiss on the lips and he looked the other way in an attempt to hide his blush.

I knew that he liked getting those small pecks from mommy, but at fourteen he was 'becoming a man' now, at least in his own mind. As such he could of course never admit to something like relishing a kiss from his mother, so he hid his guilty pleasure behind the fact that the chaste good-night kiss from mommy had always been part of his night-time preparation. He would probably blush a deep shade of crimson if I reminded him of his infantile fantasy at age eight when he was still dead set on marrying me when he was old enough.

But those momentary thoughts of motherly love were soon put back when I remembered what I was putting my baby through. For the second time in his young life he had had to leave everything behind to start from scratch all over again in a country that was as alien to him as Outer Mongolia. For me this wouldn't be the first visit to the States, having run the Boston marathon twice - once for the G.D.R. and once for West Germany. But at least Mark would have the language advantage. We'd both been put through a crash-course in English, but he was much better at it than I. No matter how hard I tried, I always failed to get rid of my German accent.

If I should ever decide to search for Mark's father, I'd probably better start in academic circles. I was utterly mediocre at school, and so was every ancestor of mine that I knew of, so Mark's brilliant brains must have come from his father's side. And no matter how stupid it had been to give up my virginity at thirteen to a boy I barely knew, I must have stumbled on one of the finest specimen of Homo Sapiens as my baby was also blessed with good looks.

His skin was smooth, his facial features manly but not rugged, all dominated by his brilliant clear blue eyes and a short mop of dark hair. He wasn't exactly a sporting ace. He jogged along sometimes when I was warming down after training, but that was as far as any physical activities went, but he was nonetheless well-built; not a body-builder, but despite his healthy appetite there wasn't any fat on his young frame.

The firm touchdown of the plane rattled me out of my musings about my baby boy. We had arrived in our new home - California.

Mark

If I learned one thing about the U.S. of A. pretty quickly, it was the fact that everything was huge. The country was huge, the buildings were huge, and so were some of the people we encountered. I had never seen such ridiculously fat people before, but that mystery was pretty much explained when I had been to a McDonald's for the first time. I had done that before in those few years in West Germany, but ordering a big coke over here meant you had to carry a whole bucket of the stuff back to your table and it tasted like someone had dumped a whole bag of sugar into a glass of dark-colored water. It may be one of the great American symbols, but I could never quite muster the patriotism to acquire the taste.

Thank the heavens for the Bachlmayers, an elderly pair of Bavarians, who had emigrated to the States in the fifties. Not only had they helped us find our footing in the new surroundings, they were also running a German restaurant and a small shop specializing in German foodstuffs. It was of course more expensive than buying at the likes of Wal-Mart, but neither mom nor I could really warm to the American cuisine. I suppose the fact that we hadn't left Germany entirely voluntarily made us hold on to every bit that reminded us of our roots.

I had expected to feel even more lost than during those four years in West Germany, but to my surprise, I found life in America not half bad and the surroundings had a lot to do with that.

First of all, the Californian climate was nothing short of paradise for a German. Seriously, up to twenty degrees centigrade in December: that's what we used to call summer back in Europe.

And then there was our house in Pasadena - oh my gosh. Back in East Germany you would have had to be a high-ranking communist party official just to own enough land to build something that size. It was a two-story dream of a home and we didn't even have any debt on it. It had all been paid for by a West German government fund created to help politically oppressed people. Mom's starting and prize money and a small advertising contract with a local business in downtown Pasadena wasn't paying a lot of money, but she made sure to donate at least two-hundred dollars back to the fund every month, even if it wasn't required. We both knew what they had done for us.

If you wonder where Aunt Bea was, well, she had stayed behind in Germany, keeping our small flat back in Lübeck. Adamant that she wasn't the target the Stasi was looking for, she chose to stay in her familiar surroundings. Besides that, she had met a new girlfriend in 1987.

Being fourteen, I had arrived just in time to start high school. Unlike back in West Germany, I wasn't an oddity around here; I was downright exotic. It sounds hard to believe, but some people hadn't even known that there were two German states. But at least my exotic background made me interesting enough to garner the interest of other people and I had even made a few friends. For the first time since 1984 I felt like my life was getting better again, but, like always, complications were just around the corner.

Lydia

It was one of those bright, sunny and ridiculously warm October days that reminded me of the fact that we were definitely no longer in Germany. I was standing in front of the stove, checking my pots, making sure that Mark's favorite piece of mom's cooking would come out the way it was supposed to.

The door flew open.

"Hi Mrs. K!" I was greeted cheerily and it was a good thing I had anticipated the arrival of an unplanned guest.

"Hi Jonjo," I replied.

Of course, coming home in the company of his best friend, my 'growing up' fourteen-year-old son would not be seen planting his customary kiss on my cheek, but I knew he was going to make up for it with an extra-long hug after his goodnight-kiss, when nobody would be around to know about that blot on his white vest of manliness.

Jonjo Ross, the new best friend of Mark was a fourteen-year-old fellow high school freshman and the son of Jamaican immigrants. Jonjo definitely looked the part. First signs of facial fluff styled to resemble a Bob-Marley-beard, dark skin, Rasta locks and a garishly colored woolen cap. Having been born in the states, he lacked the thick Creole accent of his parents, but pride of his ancestry made him add the word 'man' to every other sentence and he pronounced it 'munn'. Since he wasn't able to pronounce Karrass right, I was just 'Mrs. K' to him and I gladly accepted that appellation. It definitely beat being called 'Mrs. Caress'.

"Hi mum, I invited Jonjo along for lunch. That okay?" my son asked, knowing all too well that it was a little bit too late to ask my acceptance after already presenting the guest. I just smiled and nodded.

I didn't really mind feeding Jonjo. I liked him and his parents. The Ross family lived just a few houses down the street and I knew I could leave Mark in the care of Jonjo's parents when I would resume my competitive career.

"You runnin' again, Mrs. K?" he asked me coming back from the bathroom after washing his hands.

I nodded and smiled at him. "I'm starting in Vancouver in two weeks. First race in more than a year."

"Too bad you missed the Olympics, man," he mused. "I bet you are better than this Katrin Dorre girl, who won the Bronze medal. And you're definitely better lookin'."

"Roger that," my son confirmed.

"Why, thank you," I acknowledged the double-pronged compliment, concentrating on my pots to prevent them from seeing the momentary slight blush I must have been wearing. "Katrin only started competing the year we left East Germany and she was at a different club than me. She ran a two-hour twenty-six. I've only done better than that four times so far. But it's good to know that my fan club believes in me."

They both grinned when I looked back at them.

"What's cooking, mom?" Mark asked.

"Königsberger Klopse," I replied and both their faces lit up like Christmas trees. It was their favorite.

"Man, that's the one with the cooked meat balls, isn't it?" Jonjo asked his friend and whooped and cheered when his inquiry was answered in the affirmative.

Mark had tried to teach Jonjo the pronunciation of their favorite German dish, but considering that the poor boy was stymied by our family name, the success had been foreseeably limited. But that didn't prevent my son's friend from properly enjoying my cooking and properly complimenting me for it.

When the two ravenous three-headed dragons were well-fed and I'd been declared a ten-star cook by both of them they took their leave to do their homework at Jonjo's place.

After washing the dishes, I went to my bedroom and got rid of my clothes to catch some sunlight while the boys were out. I wasn't really concerned to be seen naked by Mark - we've been to nude beaches all our lives. But I had quickly noticed that Americans were a whole lot more concerned about things like children seeing their parents without clothing. I didn't want to creep out Jonjo's parents by being seen naked by their son.

The sunbathing was necessary in a way. I was an outdoor athlete and the daily training in the sunny Californian climate quickly gave me a dark tan, except of course where the two-piece track and field suit covered the precious bits. The stark difference in skin color looked simply ridiculous, so I often spent three to four hours roasting myself in the back yard when Mark was in school or toiling about the neighborhood with his friends.

Except for bringing Jonjo unannounced for lunch once in a while, Mark never brought any friends without notifying me beforehand, knowing what I often spent my afternoons doing. Having that security allowed me to relax and dozing off after a hard training wasn't uncommon. Mark was used to seeing me naked and wouldn't mind.

Mark

Except from that day onwards it was no longer true.

On the way back from Jonjo's place I picked up a couple of items from the Bachlmayer's German store, most importantly German Cola, and when I walked in, I could see mom asleep on a deck chair next to the pool. I stored away the loot from my shopping trip, grabbed a bottle of Cola and went outside.

It was a well-established routine. Mom wanted to get rid of her tan lines and often spent the afternoon sunbathing naked in the backyard. Often she fell asleep and I checked that she wouldn't burn herself.

When I sat down at the small camping table, I could see that her skin was still glistening with a fresh layer of sun cream, so she couldn't have been sleeping more than perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes and there was no danger of her catching sunburn. This being October, the sun would be gone in about two hours anyway.

For reasons I only understood months later, I ended up taking a really good look at my mom's naked body. It was a sight I'd seen so many times before, but even though my fourteen-year-old mind wasn't yet able to comprehend why, that day I looked at her with different eyes. Perhaps it was Jonjo's earlier comment about mom's good looks.

Being a competitive athlete, mom had not a single gram of superfluous fat on her body. In fact she was almost on the skinny side - a 57kg flea of 1.70 meters height. Seeing her slim frame, I couldn't believe I'd once grown inside that petite body. The effect was emphasized by the fact that she didn't have wide hips like other women. At 1.74 meters at the time, I think even my hips were wider than mom's.

Nobody except me usually saw her without clothes, but even with full attire we were often mistaken for brother and sister, mainly because I proudly sported my sparse moustache, making me look a year or two older and mom was looking younger than she was. And then there was of course the fact that there was only a fourteen-year age difference to begin with.

Mom having ditched the frock, I noticed, she looked even younger. She didn't have big breasts, but as I noticed for the first time that day, they were utterly perfect - firm, well-shaped orbs with little pale-pink nipples on top. I supposed I could easily cup one of her breasts using both my hands. Not that I ever tried, but in retrospect I recognize that very day as the first time I ever fantasized about it. With their perfect shape and firmness, they looked more like breasts I'd seen on much younger women on nude beaches in Germany, which was not meant to say that at twenty-eight mom was old in any way. She wrecked the age-average at every parent-teacher conference and often had to explain how her son could only be 14 years younger than herself, not a very dignified task in a country as conservative as the States.

Another aspect of her youthful appearance was the fact that mom had no pubic hair. I would only learn much later that she was a regular recipient of a Brazilian wax, because any hair down there would have caused skin irritation inside those ridiculously tight pants of her track and field gear.

When I returned to the here and now after ogling my naked mom, I noticed I had a raging hard-on, something that had never happened looking at her before. Ashamed of and shocked by the forbidden arousal I fled to the sanctity of my room where I proceeded to masturbate over the forbidden image of my super-sexy naked mom.

Lydia

Something was definitely wrong with my son. Spring of the year 1989 had just arrived, Mark was fifteen now, and the temperatures had risen just high enough to resume ridding myself of those damn tan lines, but Mark's behavior had definitely changed.

He still checked on me, making sure I wouldn't burn myself in case I nodded off, but in the case of me being awake, he no longer stayed for the customary chat about his day. Instead after checking that I was okay, he went back in and holed himself up in his room.

Considering where we came from, a state that was obsessed with supervising its own citizens using the omnipresent Stasi, I afforded him the maximum amount of privacy, but his strange behavior was worrying me more and more, especially as he had completely abandoned his so cherished habit of collecting a goodnight-kiss from his mommy.

It might sound silly to some, but that worried me. He had always been very close to me and no longer allowing any close contact was beyond his puberty-induced striving for a sense of manliness. He was still the caring and trouble-free son he'd always been, but I'd gotten more compliments from Jonjo lately than from him and Mark had lately reacted somewhat strange, almost angry, to his friend's playful attempts at smooth-talking me.

When his class went on a three-day field-trip, I committed the ultimate violation of privacy and searched his room, but I was completely unprepared for what I was about to find.

Mark was incredibly gifted, academically and artistically. He was in his freshman year at the high school, taking lessons in a language that wasn't his native one, but the worst I'd ever seen on his report card was an A- in English. Despite his aspirations to become an artist one day, he was still interested in scientific matters and very partial to a book called Weltall, Erde, Mensch a large book of popular science that I had received as a gift for my Jugendweihe, the non-religious counterpart in the East German system to Christian confirmation.

When I took it off his shelf a dozen loose sheets fell out and I nearly fainted when I looked at them. Most of them were pencil drawings, and they all showed me, stark naked. There was mom running through the finish-line ribbon, sitting at the beach, cooking, cuddling with him on the couch - and there wasn't a stitch on me in any of those picture. My god, he had made me look like a goddess. I knew he was talented, but I had never posed in any of the postures he'd drawn me in - and they all looked so life-like it took my breath away.

I actually got a bit aroused by looking at myself through the eyes of my own son. It was so utterly wrong that my own son would feel like that about me, but it also felt so right. I tried to flee his room after this disturbing discovery, but it was as if some invisible force tied me in place, forced me to look at all the sheets of paper and I was in for the surprise of my life.

The last sheet wasn't a drawing; it was a handwritten text. I could tell it must have taken ages to produce this neatly. It started out with "My beloved mommy," and to my utter shock it turned out to be the most yearning and romantic love-letter I've ever read. It was penned by my own son, addressed to me, written so beautifully it left me in tears of emotion, but also horrified at the taboo these words represented. My own flesh and blood was declaring his undying love for me.

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