Chapter 22: Don’t Cry For Me Sweet Regina

Bea

If it wasn’t for me running out of energy halfway into the day, I would have said everything was fine.

Lydia’s friend Meri was out practicing most of the day, but in the evenings we got along quite well. Thankfully she spoke quite a decent German, because my English was more or less nonexistent. She had started to help me with that and in turn I helped her work on improving her pronunciation. It gave me something useful to do as everything that involved any kind of exertion was pretty much a no-go. My strength didn’t go beyond putting a pot of water on the stove to boil some eggs.

Recovery was infuriatingly slow, but there was not a lot the doctors could do. The pounding my lungs had taken would take months to heal.

Meri

The paint job was a go. Most of the girls didn’t even need to think about it after they had seen the pictures from the FHM shooting. Ricarda, the only Belgian in the team declined, but she wasn’t an official team member to begin with. She had switched to a new startup Belgian team that wouldn’t be operational until March, so she had essentially been a free agent since the end of the previous season and our management had allowed her to train with us. As she was a mountain biker, she wasn’t any direct competition anyway.

As we were in the middle of the mild, yet still present, European winter the painting had to wait until March or April though.

I really liked cycling and I had seriously surprised myself how relatively easy I managed the training rides that could easily end up being a hundred miles and longer. Considering that I had won two sprint medals less than a year before, such a relatively easy transition to a more stamina demanding sport had not been a given.

Mind you, I still ended up having muscle aches or saddle sores more often than my team mates, but I had two more than willing helpers at home, with Lydia and Mark competing for the privilege of smearing ointments into my nether regions and massaging my wrecked leg muscles. That this form of physiotherapy usually ended with one or more orgasms for all involved was a side benefit.

More often than not Lydia had been the one to do it, but only because she didn’t know that I had provided Mark with an alternate way of entertainment. In reality she probably actually knew, as Mark didn’t keep secrets from her. In fact I bet she was actually quite happy with the arrangement, as a properly worked up Mark was what she liked best in the evenings.

Cyclists have a way of training without actually moving an inch. Your bike’s front wheel is fixed in place with the rear wheel resting on two or more rolling road style cylinders. That way you can pedal for ages without actually moving anywhere. The clue is, you can actually modify the resistance to emulate going up a hill or over gravel.

Anyway, since Mark had turned our half of the basement into a sauna and a small gym, I had such an installation at home. With no team training on Saturdays and Sundays, I made my rides ‘on the roll’ as it was called. And as ‘luck’ would have it, right around the same time when Mark was lifting weights to work on his ever expanding biceps. Needless to say, weekend training was a topless affair.

I was under no illusion that my rack, impressive as it was, could hold a candle to Lydia’s as far as Mark’s fascination with mammaries went, but it was definitely enough to make him so horny he would plunder his sweetheart’s rear-end like a desperate pirate later that night. With Lydia not being the quiet type, her sister and I had gotten an occasional muffled audio transmission of the proceedings. It said a lot about Lydia’s vocal chords that she could punch sound through sturdy German walls.

Occasionally, when we were going on very long rides, Lydia tagged along as an unofficial team member, like Ricarda. After three or four such rides the coaches started almost begging for her to consider becoming an official team member. Whenever the road went even slightly uphill, which was thankfully rare in the Netherlands, we had a hard time following her pace. Weighing little more than a small puppy, but having legs used to long, hard work, she was an almost perfect climber according to the coaching team.

Femke was our time trialling specialist. She was too light for a sprinter, too heavy for a climber, but she had the legs to pedal a big gear for an hour and more. The one time we had practiced it, Lydia beat the pants off her, while I ran out of steam halfway along the thirty mile route.

At first that was a complete mystery, until they had calculated Lydia’s power output. It was significantly lower in raw numbers, but not proportionally. While Femke, mainly due to her muscular legs, came in at eighty kilograms, Lydia weighed nearly thirty kilos less, meaning she had to expend a lot less energy to move herself forward. Those scrawny legs of hers, which looked like Femke’s arms, were used to the hard and long grind of a marathon.

At first, Lydia didn’t budge. She insisted on concentrating entirely on her running, even though there were many overlaps between the disciplines. After missing out on two Olympics already she wasn’t in the mood for any experiments. After all, realistically, the rest of her career was a one-digit number of years.

In the end the management won her over by promising that she wouldn’t need to do any races that clashed with her main discipline and that she would get at least three altitude training camps that year. Having aborted her own after the sinking of the ship, she decided that at least a year of cycling wasn’t that bad an idea after all. There was little to salvage in marathon races anyway before late summer at the earliest.

And thus Lydia became an official team member, just two days before their friend and her daughter were about to arrive.

Mark

Man, you don’t know what heaven looks like until you’ve seen both my better half and Meri doing topless training on the roll. Meri had done that for quite a while, and now they were both at it. I could tell my biceps wouldn’t grow much on the weekends. Halfway into my own training I couldn’t stand the pressure anymore and I whacked off in clear view of them. Cheered on by both women I broke all kinds of records when I came way below a minute after I had started. And with our little gym not exactly being the size of a dance hall, I had managed to splatter some of my spunk across mom’s tits from quite a distance. Doctor Freud would probably know why this happened despite me being too busy to actually aim anywhere.

“Hey, leave something in there for Regina, will you,” mom admonished me with a giggle while wiping my deposit off her boobs.

I was of course quite aware of what she was on about. Since we don’t have any secrets, I had told her about my phone call with Regina, especially that I had promised her a treat, sort of. The foreseeable result was laughter and mom looking forward to the visit as much as I did.

Not that there was any doubt about what was in store for us. Three days after our phone talk, one day after mom and Bea had arrived, so did a letter from Cottbus. It contained a photo of Regina – stark naked. Boy oh boy, what a beauty. She had worn rather drab clothes in Stralsund so I had never really paid much attention to her appearance, but when I saw this photo, I gasped.

Her jet black hair framed her body perfectly. As a certified boob man, I did of course notice immediately that she had a rack that was probably perfectly in the middle between mom’s smaller orbs and Meri’s gargantuan melons. Her hips were a bit more rounded than mom’s almost boyishly slim ones, pretty much the same as Meri’s, but it was obvious that despite having a daughter she had never gone through a natural birth.

My better half caught me staring at the picture wide-eyed.

“Do I need to worry?” she asked me casually.

I shook my head and handed her the picture. “Whoever ends up marrying her is going to be the second luckiest person alive.”

“Second luckiest?” she asked.

“Well, you’re already taken,” I said.

“Good save, buster,” mom said and put a hot smooch on my lips. But then she got a good look at the picture.

“Good grief. That girl must be fighting guys off with a stick whenever she goes shopping,” she exclaimed.

“I doubt she goes shopping in that costume,” I quipped. “The reason why I was so stunned is that the plain clothes she’s wearing hid pretty well how great she looks.”

“What’s in the letter?” mom asked.

“I haven’t yet come round to reading it,” I admitted.

“Why am I not surprised,” she said with a snort and left me to correct my oversight.

I got up and joined mom in the kitchen.

“You still okay with this?” I asked her. “Because she’s terrified to cause problems.”

“That’s a decision down to you,” she answered, and I could hear she was on tenterhooks. “Can you deal with it being only an occasional fling?”

“For all it’s worth it might end up a one-time fling,” I said. “I bet nobody has ever shown her a good time. If I play my cards right, it might be enough to restore her trust in men and she will soon look for a more permanent solution.”

“That sounds like you’re planning a one-on-one session,” she replied and now the tension was palpable.

“That’s exactly what I have in mind. If you don’t want that, say the word and it ain’t happening.”

“I’d be more interested in hearing your reasons,” mom demanded and handed me a cup of coffee. We sat down at the table.

“I have the distinct impression her first time has been as disastrous as yours, with pretty much the same result – a child at way too young an age, and being booted out by the family.”

Mom nodded.

“Unlike you though, she didn’t have any support at all, so she had nobody to blame other than the guy who knocked her up – or men in general.”

“You think she’s only superficially into women?”

“Only one way to find out, is there?”

“So if I get this right,” mom said. “You want to prove to her that a man can make her feel good and then wait if she is still into women?”

“Exactly that,” I confirmed. “I think she deserves to get rid of her negative view on men.”

“That’s quite a task you’ve set yourself there. I have no doubt that you’ll be a perfect gentlemen with her, but are you sure you can keep up that almost scientific detachment. She is after all a nineteen year old drop-dead gorgeous woman.”

“As the only entirely straight person around here you would have to put me on heavy medication not to react to a girl like that, but Meri isn’t a gargoyle either and we’ve learned our lesson before, haven’t we. I think Regina is taking a bigger risk than I do.”

“How so?” mom asked back.

“As far as I can tell, I’m the only male of the species who has ever treated her the way she deserves to be treated. That puts me on a big honking pedestal in her mind. I’m more worried about her getting too attached to me rather than the other way round.”

“Let me deal with that, dear,” she said. “Damn sometimes I forget that you’re only eighteen yourself. You’re sounding mature beyond your years sometimes.”