Incestuous Escape

Gregor rose from the bench, moved quietly to the compartment door, slid it open slowly, and took a peek in both directions. Closing the door quickly, he sank back into the bench, and was grinning and giving a low laugh.

"What is it?" his mother asked.

"At the far end of the corridor. The dominant one is sitting on a stool and other one is kneeling in front of him and sucking his cock."

Anya laughed. "Ah, perhaps this is my last success in subversion of this damned communist revolution. Perhaps we should stay and campaign to make sodomites out of all of Comrade Lenin's soldiers."

* * * *

The subversion of their military guards sustained Anya and Gregor in good spirits to the Polish-German border, where the train pulled up just short of the no-man's-land border crossing. Fortuitously, the first class carriage was the first one behind the engine, which had figured heavily in Anya's plan, which was more elaborate than she had told Gregor about.

"It's time, Gregor," she whispered as the train came to a stop for the last inspection. "Prepare yourself to run. We'll only take that case in the rack about the bench there. Bring that down, please."

"What are we doing?" Gregor asked. "Why this case? What about the rest of our cases in the luggage car."

"It's the one with our real documents in it—the one we show the German guards, who have been prepared for our arrival. There is nothing we need in the other luggage. We brought that much so the guards would think we'd have no intention of trying to leave the train."

"Don't we just fuck again to get across this border."

"No, Gregor, no fucking this time. This time we run for it. Are you disappointed you can't fuck mother again right now?"

"A bit, yes. But how can we run for it? We can't get past the military guards. And the Russian border inspectors will have come on the train already."

"Look at the outside wall of this compartment, Gregor. Can't you see the outline of the door that has cleverly been cut, hidden by the elaborate decoration? We weren't assigned this compartment by accident."

At the end of the corridor, the Russian inspectors had arrived. The inspection at this border, the last between communist-held territory and the West, was far more stringent than those in the interior of Russian-controlled territory had been. This time the inspectors had extensive records on their clipboards. And this time they insisted on speaking to all passengers and not just looking at their documentation.

And this time they didn't accept Vitali's attempt to keep them from looking into the count's compartment. Vitali had no idea what they would find there. He had been too busy fooling around with Egor as the train was slowing to a stop at the Gorinz, Germany, checkpoint to check the compartment.

While one inspector was examining the papers of the count and his secretary and Vitali was trying to think up excuses that would prevent them looking into the compartment, another inspector was looking through records on his clipboard.

This is the inspector who spoke up ominously. "Count Slava Fedorov couldn't be coming through the border now. He came through the border on the train to Paris last Thursday. There is no record of his returning from abroad—and there wouldn't be. Once out of Russia, our leaders want him to stay out of Russia. So, who is in that compartment?"

The men rushed to the compartment, which was empty. What they found was that a section of the outer wall of the compartment was missing. Vitali and the two inspectors entered the compartment and rushed to the missing section. They peered out of the side of the train in the direction of the German border . . .

. . . in time to see the two occupants of the compartment having reached most of the way across the no-man's-land and close enough to the German side, where two German soldiers stood with their rifles raised and pointed at a chagrined Russian border guard, to be in Germany before Vitali or the inspectors could act.

All three of the men could clearly see that the figure who had claimed to be Count Slava Fedorov ran like a woman, not a man.