In the Long Run
Copyright© 2024 by The Horse With No Name
Chapter 71: Lydia Step’s In It ... Again
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 71: Lydia Step’s In It ... Again - Mark and Lydia hit a lot of bumps during the cold war and fate eventually brings them to the other side of the globe, but even there the challenges don't end. This is the founding story of my planned "It's always the Germans" universe, which will be created when this story reaches the year 1998.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Sports Incest Mother Son Light Bond Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Pegging Petting Nudism
Mark
“Shit, folks! We reneged on our promise,” I blurted out when a thought hit me on the evening, two days after we had come back from Berlin and the Nürburgring respectively. Now in late October the weather didn’t quite cooperate any more. We were sitting around the pool, but everyone was dressed. Jenny had done her usual bit of abducting her little sister for the night over an hour ago, so it were Meri, Regina, Lydia and Nadia still with me.
“What do you mean?” Lydia asked.
“We promised the kids they can exchange pictures twice a year – for their birthday and in Summer. I guess we can agree that summer has passed by now.”
Regina snorted and started to laugh, which confused me a bit. “That’s where the bit of you lot being away all the time comes in. They didn’t exchange pictures, but videos instead when you were in Pasadena.”
“Videos?” I asked, slightly panicked.
“Calm down,” Regina told me and stood up to fetch something from the house. She returned carrying the new laptop Meri had bought her three months ago. She started displaying a video and we all watched it in awe.
We saw Regina playing her electric guitar and a thankfully fully clothed Jenny delivered a more than convincing rendition of The Queen’s “Somebody To Love”. I was absolutely surprised. I actually started to weep a bit with emotion. Not only because I absolutely loved that song, but also because Jenny had a truly surprising singing voice.
“So instead of trying to excite each other, they decided to serenade each other?” Lydia pointed out the obvious.
Regina nodded. “Wait till you see Matt,” she said, giggling, and called up another video.
“Ich will ein Bier, Will es von Dir, will es jetzt und sofort! Du musst es kühlen, Ich will es fühlen, Ich will es spüren in mir”
The song continued with the exact same simplistic lyrics for three minutes. It basically translated to
“I want a beer, I want it from you, I want it right now, You have to cool it, I want to feel it it inside me.”
There were a few observations. First of all, Matt sang the lyrics without any discernible accent. Jeff, his father, had told me that Matt had been learning German for two years now, in anticipation of meeting Jenny once he was fourteen, but I had not expected him to be that thorough in his studies. His German was definitely better than Meri’s all those years ago.
The lyrics were of course somewhat silly and a bit suggestive, but Matt had recorded himself singing in different octaves or whatever changes in voice where called, and overlapped the different recordings to create a spectacular harmonic effect, similar to The Queen’s “Keep yourself Alive” from 1974. It was absolutely amazing! Considering that both kids had taken their inspiration from my favorite band could only mean there was still hope for future generations.
“Fucking hell,” I swore. “If that racing doesn’t work out, he can still ask for a job at the Met Opera. That boy can sing!”
“He clinched the US karting title just last weekend, so I think it does work out for him” Regina said. “But you should have seen Jenny. She was practically glued to my laptop for half a day.”
“Can’t fault her,” Meri noted. “If nothing else, the video editing alone was brilliant.”
“His dad runs an IT business,” I said with a chuckle. “I would hazard a guess Jeff has taught him a trick or two.”
“And he definitely knows how to work a synthesizer,” Nadja said with a giggle. “All we need is a drummer and we’ll have a full-fledged Rock band when Matt comes over to live with us.”
Lydia
Any musical ambitions had to wait though. Nadja had met up with Femke and the two of them were doing skiing practice around Akureyri in Iceland right now. I would join them in two days time, but I had to stay a little longer because in a bad case of rotten timing, I had agreed to a TV interview with a well known German sports commentator for a Bavarian TV channel.
Waldi Hartmann, a legend as far as German sports commentators went, was not the sort of guy you refused an invitation of, so I went to Munich instead of Iceland. Mark had arranged for Ian’s company to fly me to Iceland on our own jet as soon as the interview was over.
John
Rhonda giggled when I made the sign of the cross over my chest as Lydia’s TV interview was about to start. As far as our most senior client was concerned, TV interviews were always a crap shoot at best, especially as some less reputable journalists had taken to confront her with provocative questions over the years and she had taken the bait more than once.
The only thing that gave me hope was that my staff had briefed me that the interviewer was known to be a serious professional.
“Ms Karass, not wanting to sound too intrusive,” the interviewer began. “At thirty-nine most of your former competitors have already retired, yet you go into only your second season as a cross-country skier. Was marathon running no longer enough to keep you busy?”
Lydia chuckled and smiled at him.
“I have to admit, I’m a bit obsessed in that regard. I’ve been around for nearly twenty years now, yet I have only competed at Olympic Games twice. I lost the 1984 games to the soviet bloc boycott, and the 1988 games at Seoul to a disagreement with the Stasi about my choice of residence. As long as I can still hack it, I’m trying to add at least another Olympic Games or two.”
Her casual reference to the abduction attempt in 1988 made the audience go eerily silent.
“Speaking of which,” the interviewer caught his own momentary confusion. “You emigrated to the United States in 1988. Have you ever considered starting for Germany again after the wall fell in 1989?”
Lydia shook her head. “I competed for one German state until 1985, then for the other German state until 1987. One state wanted to abduct me, the other one couldn’t keep me safe. The United States took me in and provided for my safety from then on. It would be a gross ingratitude to turn my back on them.”
The audience applauded her statement, which was remarkable. I knew that sports was one of the few things where Germans allowed themselves to show some tacit national pride.
“So we will see you as an American athlete at the Sydney games next year?” the journalist asked for clarification.
Lydia nodded. “It will most likely be my last Summer Olympics. I’ll be forty next year. My original plan had been to retire for good in 2000, but a chance to go out after the 2002 Winter Olympics on home soil in Salt Lake City was too good a prospect to dismiss.”
“Endurance athletes like you are known to be competitive for quite a long time. Do you see any realistic chances for success this late in your career?”
Lydia smiled again. “I won three marathons and two half marathons this year,” she said. “I guess you could chalk that up as some kind of success. It’s not getting any easier, but I think I have practiced harder this year than any time before. My skiing technique for the winter still needs some fine-tuning, but I’m fairly sure I’m well prepared for next year’s Olympics. I haven’t forgotten how to run.”
“That’s quite a statement, considering that the Sydney games are almost a year away,” the interviewer noted.
“Waldi, you’ve been around the block a few times,” she addressed him quite personally. “You have exactly two options. You either start preparing a year in advance or you rely on the pharmaceutical industry to help you out. I choose option one. In a way my skiing will help me as I can keep my fitness up over the winter and then I can top up with an altitude camp next spring.”
“You are a marathon runner, you have been a cyclist and you dabble in cross-country skiing now. All three of those disciplines have been embroiled in doping scandals in recent years,” the journalist pointed out.
“There is one thing you need to understand about doping,” Lydia explained. “No amount of drugs will turn a donkey into race horse. You could say, dopers are just lazy. I could jack myself up to the gills with EPO, running the risk of turning my blood into ketchup and suffering a heart attack. I can have the same effect, perfectly legally, by torturing the raw stuffing out of myself in an altitude training camp for three weeks without the health risks. We did that earlier this year and we were usually sound asleep by 7pm in the evening from sheer exhaustion, but we reliably woke up again the next morning.”
“Are you saying that doping is not actually cheating?” he asked, visibly astonished.
“It is cheating,” Lydia replied. “But not in a way that you can suddenly turn a sprinter into a climber. If you don’t have the talent and the physical attributes to win the Tour de France, you never will, no matter how many drugs you take. Doping is just a measure to create the effects of hard training without doing the actual hard training.”
“I have to admit, I’m a little confused,” the interviewer admitted.
“It’s fairly easy, Waldi,” Lydia explained. “To optimize my red blood cell levels by legal means, I have to spend the best parts of March and April in altitude training camps. That’s two months in which I can’t compete in any races. That’s why I never ran the Munich marathon. I was always in training camps at the time. There are teams and athletes who choose to do more competitions and use pharmaceutical help to create the effects of training they didn’t actually do. More competitions, more prize money. And sponsors don’t help much.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. By now it was obvious that the interviewer realized this interview would be explosive news.
“This will be unpopular here in Germany, but I’m telling the story anyway,” Lydia said.
“Fuck! That’s gonna be a doozy!” Rhonda said as we listened to the translation.
“A few years ago we met some of the cycling heroes of my youth in a Swiss training camp,” Lydia said. “Ampler, Ludwig, Raab, Heppner, all the greats I had watched competing in the peace race in the eighties. Back then they were all riding for a relatively new team called Telekom. We met them again a year later and some of them suddenly put in simply impossible efforts. I spent most of that evening crying because I realized that none of those efforts had been the result of training alone. The heroes of my youth turned out to be cheats. I can’t say for sure but I would bet my ass that the pressure from the sponsors drove them to employ dubious methods. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Telekom expected results in the 1996 Tour and – bam – they suddenly win both the overall and the green jersey.”
“Holy shit,” I gasped. “Did she just accuse the number one cycling team in Germany of doping?”
“She sure did,” Rhonda confirmed. “That’s going to blow up big time! But fuck it, someone finally had to say it. I mean Riis in ‘96, Ullrich in ‘97. As she says it was simply too amazing to be true. And don’t get me started on Armstrong. You know he’s a fraud as well.”
“It’s a good thing we never signed up many cyclists,” I said dryly. “After the Festina affair last year and now Lydia’s interview this is going to go nuclear.”
Rhonda
Nuclear it did go, indeed. Most of the German news coverage had to go through our Berlin office for translation, but it was obvious that Lydia had not only poked a hornet’s nest. She had whacked it with a baseball bat.
Accusing Team Telekom of doping was – at least for the German public – like accusing the pope of being an Islamist. There was a massive backlash and quite predictably the yellow press rags ran stories along the line of how a nearly forty year old woman was still winning marathons. How had she done it without any performance enhancing drugs? It was a classical case of trying to shoot the messenger when the news were unfavorable.
Unfortunately they had not expected Lydia to have the receipts. When the Festina affair had nearly wrecked cycling for good in 1998, John had teamed up with USADA and all our contracted athletes were subjected to weekly blood tests, even though most of them were track and field athletes instead of cyclists. If nothing else we wanted to protect our own business against ending up embroiled in a doping scandal.
The cycling association UCI had implemented something similar for cyclists, called a blood passport, to catch any dubious changes in blood values, but unlike our own scheme theirs was way less effective because their blood tests were less frequent. But even that less effective system had busted a lot of asses over the last few months.
With Lydia living in Germany we had contracted the German NADA authorities to do the testing for us through the Berlin office. Just a week after the yellow press had gone medieval on Lydia’s ass we published her entire blood profiles of the last twelve months, which shut down the accusations in a damn hurry. Funnily enough, the party she had levied accusations against weren’t quite able to render the same service to the German public.
Knowing Lydia, I was quite sure she would have doubled down and fought the fight, in the courts if need be, but for once I agreed with John. The business didn’t need a protracted dirty fight in the media and the courts, so we just waited for the whole thing to blow over. When the yellow press in Germany realized that Lydia had comprehensively refuted their faux accusations, they were strangely eager not to mention that whole affair anymore.
That meant Team Telekom would get away with it for now, but twenty years in the business had taught us that their day of reckoning was coming, sooner or later.
Lydia
I arrived in Iceland the morning after my interview and Femke tackled me with a very enthusiastic kiss right in the airport of Akureyri.
“You were amazing,” she beamed at me. “Someone had to say it!”
“I can probably do without what’s coming the next weeks though,” I replied, hugging Nadja. “I’ll be the flavor of the day for the Bild-Zeitung for weeks on end.”
“Do we care?” Nadja said. “We’re in Iceland and nobody will find us here. All John has to do is publish your blood values and by the time we get back the yellow press will go nowhere near that topic anymore.”
“This is not about me,” I argued. “That would just mean they’ll get away with it again, probably for a few more years.”
“Leave it be, Lydia,” Femke told me as we walked out towards the parking lot. “Yes it sucks, but you won’t bring down that whole rotten system by yourself. We’ll have to wait for the whole system to collapse in on itself. I guess the best result we’ll ever get out of it is being able to tell people one day: ‘we told you so years in advance’.”
“Fat comfort that is,” I sighed. “But you’re probably right.”
“Well, I for once get a kick out of beating people that I know are on the juice,” Nadja said with a rather mean sounding giggle. “Imagine the money they paid for all that shit, literally risking their own lives, and then we beat them.”
“There is a rather grim satisfaction in that, isn’t there,” I agreed. “But it’s certainly not getting any easier.”
“That’s because you’re old,” Femke teased me.
“Wait until we are in the hotel,” I replied with a grin. “This here old woman will make you squeal like a piggy.”
“Oh goody!” Femke beamed and giggled like a school girl.
Femke
Did I mention that Lydia wasn’t in the habit of making empty promises? As soon as we had arrived in the hotel, Lydia and Nadja tackled me and I lost not only my clothes, but also count after the third orgasm.
But serious business awaited us again the next day. We had been fairly spoiled all year by the weather, with mostly sunny days all the way from April to October. Needless to say it took some getting used to the fact that Iceland was cold. The place certainly deserved its name.
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