In the Long Run
Copyright© 2024 by The Horse With No Name
Chapter 95: Poking And Prodding
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 95: Poking And Prodding - 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 mt/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Sports Incest Mother Son Light Bond Orgy Anal Sex Double Penetration Exhibitionism First Fisting Massage Oral Sex Pegging Petting Nudism
Nadja
The three test days had been interesting and I had gotten some valuable track time, but we still had a day job, and that one would keep us busy all the way to the end of March. Since the winter season was restricted to, well, winter, events were following each other in a rapid sequence. In essence we had an event almost every weekend from now on, with only one bigger break in January. The season opener in Kontiolahti had been somewhat of an appetizer, but the real season would take off in Beitostølen, Norway.
Mark had offered Ian and Ira to stay with us, but they had opted to go home and come back two days later to fly us to Norway. Since Groningen wasn’t too far from Emden, Marshall had already been on the plane when we boarded.
Our expectations were limited. Beitostølen would have two races, a 10 kilometer one in the classic style and a 5 kilometer freestyle one. Both were run with interval start, so a tactical surprise like last time wasn’t really possible. The 10 kilometers were neither fish nor meat for Lydia and me, a bit too short, although the classic style suited us a bit better. The best chances had of course our favorite muscle babe in the 5 kilometer run 4 days later.
Never do the bill without the innkeeper, they say in Germany. After her win in Kontiolahti Lydia had become the dark horse of the field, but Femke and I ended up crashing the odds. The ten kilometers were unsurprisingly won by one of the Norwegian favorites, but Femke and I had banded together and finished second and third, with Lydia in an uncharacteristically distanced 10th place.
Pretty much the same happened the next day. I started not too far ahead of Femke and took it easy at first. Once she had caught up to me, we ran in tandem, taking turns shielding one another from the wind. And it worked out. Femke won, and I was second, but I paid dearly for that one. I wasn’t a sprinter, but I had gone all out and I had aching muscles that I didn’t even know existed.
Lydia
Someone had sold me a used week, that much was clear. While Femke and Nadja had wrecked the odds at the betting offices, I had finished tenth and twenty-second. Maybe age was catching up with me after all. However, before I could get so frustrated to just walk away, one of our service technicians came to us, apologizing profusely. Apparently I had run both races with a hair fracture in my right ski and according to our coach I should count my blessings, because the position of the fracture would have caused a rather nasty fall had the ski broken.
At least I knew I had not gone completely slack all of a sudden. Not that I would have finished much better in the second race, even with a non-broken ski. Poor Nadja had completely gone into the red to keep up with Femke, but in the evening she was literally crying, so bad were her muscle aches. Marshall tried his best, but he could hardly touch her legs without Nadja crying out in pain.
In the end we had to call the team doctor who gave her a sedative and filed the necessary therapeutic use exemption with the authorities. Sedatives weren’t classified as performance enhancing drugs, but these days every kind of medication had to be reported to the authorities. Only after Nadja was knocked out, Marshall could finally work on her legs. If his worried look was anything to go by, Nadja could actually have done some damage to her legs.
Mark
The reunion at the airport was not how I had envisioned it. Both Nadja and Femke had scored two podiums and our favorite muscle babe even wore the yellow bib of the World Cup leader, but that enthusiasm went away quickly when we had to carry Nadja from the plane because she could hardly walk.
Marshall filled me in on what I had to look out for while trying to unscrew her abused muscles before Ian bade us goodbye and took off again to deliver Jonjo’s brother to Groningen.
Once we arrived at home I studied the TUE to see which medication Nadja was allowed to take and she took one of the pills she had received from her team doctor. Soon she was sleeping on the massage bench.
“You mustn’t let her do that again,” I told them. “I know what this is – micro-fissures in her muscles. A few more times and she could end up with a permanent limp. Then it would be curtains for her racing career before it takes off.”
“It’s my fault,” Femke admitted, her voice breaking with emotion. “Nadja felt good that day, and working together really helped me a lot too. I should have known she would be red-lining.”
“She’s a big girl,” I argued. “It was her decision, but I want all three of you to look out for each other a little more. There is no point for Lydia or Nadja to try and keep up with Femke in a sprint, and neither is there a point to Femke trying to follow you over fifteen kilometers.”
They both nodded.
“I got the latest laboratory results today. No wonder Nadja felt invincible. Her blood values look like she’s come straight out of an altitude camp. I think that break over the summer made her peak a bit late.”
“Are you trying to tell me she wasn’t in peak form at the Olympics?” Femke asked me. “She won the bloody road race.”
“Right now she would probably have won it by more than a minute,” I said.
“I would have won a good deal fewer marathons if she had had access to our training methods earlier,” Lydia suspected.
“If I were to have a guess, I think she can keep it up for another 4 weeks, but that’s about it,” I said, continuing to work on Nadja’s legs. “Your and Femke’s values are more stable. Nadja usually drops off a bit, especially with no altitude camps.”
“Do you think you’ll get her back on her feet for the Italy races?” Femke asked, her worries and self-reproach still noticeable in her voice.
“Sure,” I said, continuing to work on Nadja. I heard Lydia cackle behind me.
“Mark, I don’t think she’ll notice much of that,” she told me and I realized that I had transitioned on auto-pilot to the more entertaining part of my massages. Fingering Nadja’s pussy was indeed not going to do much for her when she was unconscious.
Nadja
How Mark had gotten me back on my feet bordered on a miracle. For five days he had given me two massages a day. Well, I certainly got a lot of orgasms out of it. But I had learned a valuable lesson. Trying to keep up with Femke in a race was a deadly endeavor.
It had taken me until four days before the next event that I could start full training again. That didn’t bode well for the upcoming races in Italy, but at least I had my first two podiums under the belt now. As always, I had been the last. Both Lydia and Femke had scored their first podiums last season while I had had not much to show for it so far. But my god, I had paid a hefty price for it.
I felt good though. Mark had worked a proper miracle. This time we decided not to fly. Santa Caterina di Valfurva was 900 kilometers from our home and with a bit of Nadja’s driving we made it there by car in a little over nine hours, although Lydia, Marschall and Femke were a bit pale around their noses when we arrived, which was quite a feat for Marshall, him being black and all.
Santa Caterina only hosted a single race – a 10 kilometer freestyle race with a mass start. Femke and I were starting from the first row, while Lydia had been relegated to row two, because of her mediocre results in Norway. However, she wasn’t starting too far from me, just two lanes to the left. We had agreed that Femke would be the designated snowplow, paving a way for Lydia and me through the inevitable mayhem at the start. Lydia and I would take it from there.
It almost worked. Lydia and I got through the melee at the start just fine in the shadow of Femke’s sturdy frame. She paced us for about four kilometers before she was spent and had to drop back. Lydia went upfront and kept me out of the wind with me taking the occasional pull in the wind, but she did the majority of the work.
One of the Russians had escaped early on, but we were running second and third with a Czech woman breathing down our necks not too far behind. Now we were in the quandary we had tried to avoid by not competing in the marathon together. I wanted Lydia to take second, and she wanted to give way to me. That presented the danger that the Czech girl would giggle at us while skating past as we were still sorting ourselves out.
Lydia took the decision out of my hand by giving me a slap on the ass to make me accelerate. I could hear the crowd roar in laughter and I sprinted – well, what passed as sprinting for me – to second place while Lydia just about saved third from the Czech girl.
We had to wait nearly two minutes for Femke to arrive. She was running thirteenth and there was nobody to challenge her, so she could spare herself expending energy on a sprint. She skated straight into Lydia’s and my arms for a group hug.
“Did ... did it work?” she asked, still out of breath.
“Second and third,” Lydia said. “I’m afraid, you’ll have to hand over that yellow bib to Nadja now.”
“You’re welcome to it,” Femke said, breathing heavily. “If I get a smooch out of it.”
I kissed her and the crowd started applauding. I jumped a bit at first, but then I remembered we weren’t in Russia. Western Europeans were much more relaxed about the fact that we weren’t mere team mates.
Mark
Jenny giggled like a maniac when the TV camera showed Nadja and Femke kissing each other in the finish area. It had been a nice race and I felt inordinately proud that I had gotten Nadja fit enough to score another podium.
“That Russian woman looked like she was about to vomit,” Jenny said, clearly amused.
“Yeah, they are not the most liberal of people,” I noted dryly.
“Will Auntie Nadja get a problem?” Jenny asked me. “They will have a race in Russia next year.”
I chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. If anything, Nadja will do the same there, just to stick the middle finger up to them.”
Jenny giggled again.
“I’ll go to the track. My new kart arrives today,” Jenny said and stood up to go.
“Don’t forget to put some clothes on, okay? You don’t want to catch a cold, like your mother,” I teased her.
“Thank you!” came Regina’s sarcastic reply from the kitchen, followed by the trumpeting sound of her blowing her nose. Jenny giggled and skipped up the stairs to her room.
Lydia
We had evaded most of the media attention so far, but eventually we had to do a media round and we had to go through the whole rigmarole because of one kiss. Yes, we loved each other, yes, we loved men and women, yes, yes, yes, yadda yadda.
With the vultures fed, we retreated to our hotel, got massaged by Marshall and once he had left we ended up in a naked pile licking each other’s pussies. Life was good.
There was a one-week break until the next race, but that was in Italy as well, just 350 kilometers west of Santa Caterina. That’s why we had decided to stay in Italy. Milan was halfway along the route to Brusson, so we spent two days there and went shopping and sight-seeing.
We didn’t need to worry about Mark feeling left out, because not only was he in the gentle and capable hands of Meri and Regina, but Rhonda had arrived in Germany as well to help him with some mysterious project he wasn’t willing to tell us about.
Knowing Rhonda, part of that project had been trying to get his equipment into her rear-end, and in that regard she had definitely succeeded. According to Mark, she had experienced her first dp at the tender young age of forty-four, courtesy of him and Mario. Weren’t we a really helpful bunch?
With Mark more than well catered for, and our shopping in Milan done, we arrived in Brusson in the Aosta valley for the next world cup round, which would most likely be easy pickings for Femke. The first race was a ten kilometer race in classic style, more suited to Nadja and myself, but the day later there was a stadium sprint in freestyle, and Femke had only been beaten once in one of those since last year.
The first race was done with an interval start and Nadja and I started too far apart for any chance at cooperating. Femke and Nadja had started right after each other, but I had no idea if that had worked out. The only thing I could do was using my trusted method of ‘donkey mode’. I found a rhythm just quick enough not to exhaust myself and I stuck to it.
In the end I had to yield to the Norwegian and one of the Russians who had been the only ones to beat Femke in a sprint. Make of that what you want. Being dominant over 10 kilometers and the one kilometer sprint was definitely having a bit of a fishy smell about it. But at least I had finished third. Femke had finished 13th – again – and Nadja had come home 7th, which meant she was keeping the yellow bib of the world cup leader.
At least for me and Nadja the sprint race the next day was nothing to write home about. I was eliminated in the very first heat and finished 44th while Nadja at least made it to the second heat, but her day also came to an unceremonious end in 23rd. Femke, well she was on fire. For lack of Mark or Mario in attendance, Nadja had administered Femke’s traditional good-luck boink the night before with a strap-on – fresh from a sex shop in Milan – and our muscle babe tore up the place, winning all her heats up to the semi-final.
When the final was on, she didn’t take any prisoners, coming out of the gates like the proverbial bat out of hell. The Czech girl who had hunted down Nadja and me at Santa Caterina, as well as a young Finnish girl tried to keep up, but Femke was too much for them that day. Two seconds was not a big gap in normal races. In a sprint it was massive and our muscle babe won her third race of the season in dominant fashion.
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