Incestuous Escape

Haziran 16, 2024 Yazar admin 0


“Did you see that, Vitale? Right out in the open. Sodomites. We must—”

“Nyet, stay your hand, Egor. That pair has right of passage. And good riddance if the tsarist is leaving Mother Russia.”

The Russian military guard spat on the railroad station platform as he held his fellow soldier back. They had seen a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman—obviously someone of note—pull a young man into his side and the two exchange a tight hug and a kiss. The two had paused on the platform as they followed a cart overburdened with luggage down the side of the train shortly leaving from Moscow, bound for Paris.

The two men who had shared the intimate moment moved as in a circle of protection, oblivious to and floating above the world they had been tossed into. All around them was chaos, as refugees, many of them obviously Jewish, fought for a place on the train taking them away from the dangers in 1920 of the communist takeover in Russia and the subsequent increase of purges of undesirable elements. A few of the others struggling for space on the train were, like the taboo pair the military guards had focused on, remnant members of the nobility whose tsarist world had crashed about their heads.

“But didn’t you see them? The older man was—”

“The older man is Count Slava Fedorov, the composer,” Vitale said. “I was told he would be on the train—in fact, we are here because he is on the train. I am surprised he has not been taken down before now for this behavior in addition to being of the tsarist class. This is, of course, outrageous not only because he is a known and flamboyant sodomite whose acts have been overlooked even under the current government or even that he is from a subversive imperial family. It is an outrage because it shows that the revolution isn’t complete. I was told specifically that he has the protection of a comrade far up in the leadership.”

“You don’t suppose that this comrade also—?”

“I will consider that I have not heard you make such a suggestion, Egor.”

Egor immediately was flustered and deeply concerned. “I didn’t mean, comrade, that—”

Vitali laughed, though, and thumped the other soldier on the back. “I was just joking, Egor. The comrade probably just likes the music Fedorov composes.”

Egor gave him a sharp look to see if Vitali’s laugh matched the look in his eye, which he decided it did. A man could not be too careful these days. One missed step and it could be the firing squad. And Egor already was becoming nonplused around Vitali. The two had worked together for some time and, it seemed, almost could read each other’s thoughts. This was dangerous in a world in which one could get shot just for thinking the wrong thoughts for that particular day’s dogma.

Egor definitely didn’t want Vitali to know some of the his thoughts.

To show that there was no danger, Vitali continued, damning himself too if their discussion was to be overheard. “The truth is, Egor, as was whispered to me, Count Fedorov and the high-and-mighty Commissar Zhulin—at least for this week—are lovers. The commissar can protect him for now, but the officer who told me that assured me that Comrade Lenin isn’t finished with his purges of the military yet. He may need Zhulin now, but when he no longer needs him, he has a reason to chop him down—and then all tsarist sodomites like Fedorov will go down with him.”

“You said we were to ride the train to the German border to watch a passenger. Is it Fedorov?” Egor was uncomfortable with this line of discussion and thus wanted to change it.

“Yes, it is. He is to be permitted to leave Russia. From a look at the amount of luggage he’s taking, it seems he is leaving Russia for good—which is a good thing,” Vitali added, spitting once more on the platform to add emphasis to his view that all homosexuals and Jews could cross the border today for good as far as he was concerned. “But it’s true that we are to ride with him to the border. And it should be an easy ride for us. He will hardly try to escape the train and us with all that luggage to drag along.”

“Are we to see that he doesn’t make it to the border alive?” Egor asked, a note of hope in his voice.

“No. We are looking for him to be joined by his sister, Anya Fedorova. She is one of the leading tsarist subversives still at large. We hope that they will meet up and we can arrest her before she gets across the border. Then we just shove the sodomite across the border and Mother Russia will be all the cleaner for it.”

“Anya Fedorova? Isn’t she that decadent countess who had sons by both her father and her brother? But certainly not this brother, Slava. He fucks young men, I’ve heard. I’ve heard that families lock away their sons when he is nearby instead of the Russian way of locking away daughters from tsarist male visitors.”

“Yes, that’s her. The Fedorovs’ shit doesn’t stink like everyone else’s apparently. They breed only with each other to keep their family pure Fedorov. It is said that the çorum escort family patriarch’s motto is ‘The only one worthy of a Fedorov is another Fedorov.'”

“Perhaps they would all like the revolution to allow them all to share the same mausoleum, and then they could sleep in each others’ into eternity,” Egor said. Both men laughed.

Vitali continued. “The latest family by-blow from the womb of Anya is said to by either another brother, Dimitri, who the revolution has already put under the ground, or by her own son from her father. She has never been married, but she has known the males of her family from more than twenty years, with sons by her father, and just last year by Dimitri—and a daughter by an uncle. This is just the arrogance and decadence that the revolution came to save Russia from.”

“We best be boarding the train ourselves now, but look lively that the count and his catamite actually board. I have the number of his compartment. and we have positions at each end of their car to ensure they never leave our sight.”

“Won’t the count know we are there?”

“Yes, he will know we are there—and that we are there to watch over him. We want these decadent tsarists to know that Mother Russia sees all.”

“But that we can’t stop his decadent acts in the open?”

“He will soon get that message.”

Neither of them wanted to say more on that—that they anticipated that the count’s protector would soon be brought down himself and even that there were agents of the revolution who could touch the count even in Paris when was time to make an example out of him.

Boarding the train, the younger man of the pair the two soldiers were discussing turned to his older companion and whispered, “There are two soldiers watching us closely, Mother. I thought they were going to arrest us.”

“Shush, Gregor. No one must hear you call me mother until we reach Paris. I am Count Slava Fedorov. You must remember that, and you must play your role as well. You are my young secretary and lover.”

“But being a man’s lover is against the new regime’s laws, punishable by death. Won’t we—?”

“No, as long as I am Count Fedorov, we are protected. Slava is protected by Commissar Zhulin. What they are to each other will be tolerated for as long as we need to get to the German border. In fact, we need to play up these soldiers’ expectations of us so they don’t get suspicious.”

“You mean that—?”

“Yes, my son, as long as they can’t tell my real sex, you can fuck me all the way to Berlin once we get settled in our compartment.”

“But just as I should refrain from calling you mother, ‘Count Slava,’ you must refrain from calling me son, right, sire?”

“Right,” the “count” answered, with a grin. Anya’s son, Gregor, by her father was also grinning when the “count” pulled him up onto the steps of the entrance into the first-class train car, and, holding him close, gave him a deep kiss on the lips. Anya’s eyes looked beyond her son’s face to ensure that the two military guards she knew would be closely watching them had seen that she and Gregor were playing the role of older sodomite and young catamite to the hilt.

* * * *

“Why is the train slowing down? I think it’s stopping.”

“Don’t panic, Gregor. We are coming into Minsk. They will do a papers search here.”

“Our papers . . .”

“. . . are in order. I am Slava and you are Ivan Brodsky, my personal secretary. I have the papers in a leather envelope on the other side of the compartment door.”

“I don’t understand. Why—?”

“Our papers are in order for who the authorities think we are. But we may not pass close scrutiny ourselves. I am like Slava but a close look will show that I am female. And you—you have as many of the Fedorov characteristics as I or Slava have. You could be seen as a Fedorov rather than someone named Brodsky. No we must be doing something they will not interrupt for a close check when the authorities come through.”

“But what?”

“We will pull the curtains to the corridor a bit closed but not enough so that we can’t be observed. And when the inspectors go through, I will be sucking your cock. It’s what they expect. It’s what they’ve been told not to interrupt.”

“Sucking my cock?”

“It’s what you want anyway, isn’t it? What you’ve been dying for since we pulled out of Moscow Station. At the Polish border there will be another check. We’ll be doing more then.”

Gregor looked at his mother, who was grinning at him, and the tension drained out of him. She always was in control, always had an answer. She’d always been one step ahead of him in life. That’s why she’d had her way with him. She hadn’t even consulted with him about having his child—either of them. Not the one in Paris who many thought Uncle Dimitri sired and not the one now inside her. She was using them to hold him to her. His love for her—and, yes, his lust for her—was something she didn’t trust enough. denizli escort They both existed, however. If they didn’t, he’d be done with her now.

He had not approved of her imperialist subversive activities. The time of the tsar was past. He would not have chosen the new reality of Vladimir Lenin and his thugs, either, but there was a time of the Republic. And Anya had helped bring the Republic down as well. It was a return of the tsars or nothing for her.

They had argued and he had threatened to turn her in if she wouldn’t allow the Republic to have a chance to breathe. To negate that, she had conceived his son and sent the baby to Paris. Gregor didn’t know where his son was. Anya had controlled him at that time by holding his son from him. And now, she had done it again. He could not turn her over, even though her activities were going to get the whole Fedorov family wiped out. She was carrying another one of his children now. She was superbly good at controlling him.

She also was superbly good at sucking a man’s cock, as he was reminded yet again, when, during the papers’ inspection at Minsk, the “count” knelt between the knees of his male secretary and catamite, unbuttoned the young man’s trousers, and, as the inspectors were approaching, took the young man’s hard cock—hard because, despite everything, Gregor was lost to the sexuality of his mother—in her mouth, and was giving him deep-throated head.

As instructed, Gregor kept his head back in the front corner of the compartment bench, in the shadows, where it could not be seen in the gaps of the curtains covering the windows and door to the corridor. And, of course, Anya’s face, pressed into Gregor’s crotch, was obscured from the vision of those in the corridor as well.

Gregor was mostly lost in the working of his cock and on Anya’s rolling, squeezing, and distending of his balls with a gloved hand, and Anya seemed to be enjoying what she was doing—and how Gregor’s body was reacting to it as well. But both also had their ears half tuned to the corridor and their minds half focused on stilling the beat of their hearts against the danger they were in. Counterrevolutionaries like Anya Fedorova were known to be just taken of the train when caught as they could be apprehended now, summarily executed against the side of the train, and left to sink under the train and onto the tracks to be run over by hundreds of wheels when the train continued its journey.

Gregor could see out of the corner of his eye that the one military guard who was traveling with them—the more subservient one, Egor—was watching Anya suck his cock. If anything, the shock shown in his face seemed mixed with something else—something that indicated that the condemnation of sodomy that flowed out between his lips didn’t fully represent his level of interest in the practice.

But it was the other soldier, the dominant one, Vitali, who gave the fugitives relief in Minsk. He had gone down the corridor, the false papers of Anya and Gregor in his hand, and was telling the authorities that Count Fedorov had special transit authority, given by Commissar Zhulin, whose mere name made soldiers and regime functionaries across Russia come to attention and provide accommodation through both respect and fear.

The ploy worked, as the inspectors passed over the compartment, and soon the train was leaving Minsk for the Russian-Polish border. They would have to transit Poland to get to Germany and thus to Paris, in France, but Russia occupied Poland, so Anya and Gregor would not be safe until they cleared Poland’s border with Germany and they were on their way to Berlin. This train would travel all the way to Paris, but it would take several days to reach that destination, and the pair would be in danger for more than half the distance of the trip.

Even as the train was pulling out of Minsk Station, Anya continued to suck her son’s cock, with both mother and son lost to the magic she could work with a man’s shaft—sucking on the bulb; flicking her tongue at the piss slit; gently biting down the length of the hard, throbbing shaft; sucking on his balls; probing his ass channel with her fingers; and rubbing on his prostate to encourage him to ejaculate in her throat. Gregor’s moans and groans were not manufactured for the needs of the ruse.

Vitali turned his eyes from the gap in the curtain and gave Egor a searching look. Then he squared his shoulders, gave a snort of disgust and derision as the train resumed its motion, and quickly walked away, down the corridor. Egor watched for several more minutes before, seemingly reluctantly, moving to the opposite end of the corridor.

“Was one of them there, watching, for some time?” Anya whispered as she sat back on her haunches, still stroking Gregor’s cock with a hand after he’d come.

“Yes. They both watched, but one continued doing so. Not the one in charge—the other one,” Gregor whispered back. “I saw lust in his eyes.”

“We diyarbakır escort may have to use that before the trip is over,” Anya said. “He probably fancies you and cannot admit it. One person can desire another without restrictions—neither gender nor familial relationship are natural barriers to one’s natural desires. We may have to use that. If you need to lie with him or suck or be sucked, are you prepared for that? I could give him a suck of his cock, but it would be dangerous—and impossible to give him more without giving us away.”

“Yes, Mother, if I needed to do that, of course I would.”

Always planning, this scheming and controlling mother of his, Gregor thought. But, even though he understood her manipulating ways, he also knew he was as lost to her sexual charms as was his grandfather and his uncle. He also had a love for her that transcended the physical and did not hinge on her being his mother.

It was only his nominal father who had been immune to her—the man Anya had publicly identified as Gregor’s sire realized that the patriarch of the family, his grandfather Fedorov, was his biological father. But his nominal father, who preferred men and had made advances even to him, Gregor, had somehow been exposed to the new regime as a sodomite—and not a protected one as Slava Fedorov was—and had been taken away and shot. Gregor would not have put it past his mother to have secretly denounced the man to keep Gregor for herself.

Yes, he would give the guard whatever was necessary to protect his mother, his lover, the mother of his son and child to be. The woman he loved beyond all others.

He was lost to her and her sexual charms.

* * * *

At the Russian-Polish border, the inspectors were more insistent about the papers, but Vitali, scared now that he and Egor were in danger of being caught in a vice, once again held the inspectors at the far end of the corridor. He did so this time by telling them that both the count and his secretary were in a delirium with a fever that the train’s doctor was treating them but thought the mysterious malady might be highly contagious. The inspectors decided not to contend the point—or to enter the count’s compartment.

What had Vitali in such a difficult circumstance, though, was the undeniability of what the “count” and his young secretary were doing at the moment. For what they were doing—what Vitali and Egor were letting them do within view of the inspectors if they went to the compartment—was enough to have them and those letting them do it shot against the side of the train, Commissar Zhulin or no Commissar Zhulin.

Showing same-gender affection in public was one thing. One man fucking another man in public was beyond the pale.

That didn’t prevent Vitali and Egor coming back to the compartment to peek through the gaps in the curtains after the inspectors had left the first-class carriage.

Anya, as the count, was stretched, belly down on the bench’s pillows, along the bench of the compartment. Her left leg was bent slightly, with her knee raising her exposed buttocks just enough to show that her anal canal was stuffed with Gregor’s thick cock. But her trousers were pulled down just in back and just below the buttocks. Hidden from view was her cunt and the expectation of being able to see balls or a cock. Her right leg was dropped toward the front of the bench, with the ball of her booted foot pressed into the floor of the carriage to give her leverage to provide countermotion of her hips to meet Gregor’s thrusts.

Gregor was crouched over her back, his right leg also extended to the floor and using the ball of his own booted foot as leverage for his deep thrusts. His hands ran up under her frilled white shirt, and he was squeezing her breasts as he fucked her in the ass and was thumbing her full nipples. Of course the guards weren’t able to see that they were a woman’s breasts, plump and firm from her pregnancy.

Although they were purposely posed for effect—and for continued concealment of Anya’s gender—both Gregor and his mother were lost in the fuck. Anya was groaning at the working of her son’s thick cock inside her, enjoying his seeding deep inside her that served no purpose other than pleasure because he was fucking her in the ass and had already impregnated her for a second time. Her only need for purposeful control of her responses was to keep her gender hidden and to keep her groans in a low, throaty register to seem male.

For his part, Gregor, as always with his mother, was completely lost to her ability to use her channel muscles—the muscles of either channel—to send him to highest heaven and to forget that he was her son—to think only that he was a lover from whom the ultimate courtesan was draining every drop of his cum.

Once the train commenced clattering through Poland, Gregor ejaculated and the two parted and sank into opposite corners of the bench seat, panting and smiling at each other.

“Were either of the guards watching?” Gregor asked. This time it was Anya who could spy the partially curtained windows from the shadows of her vantage point.

“Both of them continued to watch this time.”

“With a look of disgust?”

“With a look of something else. Neither one is there now, though.”

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