4 comments/ 4529 views/ 3 favorites Brief Encounter in Budapest Pt. 01 By: Codlingsby I nearly didn't spot it. It was tucked away in the corner of the square, not even a table or two outside to tell the world it was there. That was what drew me to it. The tourist in me would have called it quaint or charming, but what it said to the rest of me was Authentic. Not a great tourist trap like the Gerbeaud cafe, full of people spending more money than they feel happy with just so they can say they've been there; no, this was a modest, unassuming authentic Hungarian restaurant. I could hear how full it was from five yards away and as I stepped through the low wooden doorway and peered through the gloom I knew I had chosen just right. The tables were small - most seemed to be individual, taking no more than two people - and the room was full of Budapesters, eating, talking, reading the newspaper, some still with their coats on, some having a quick read of a novel in their lunch hour. At the back of the room I could see two men in poorly-chosen ties engaged in a business discussion, beers in their hands and their lunch plates sitting on top of a pile of papers as they peered at a small laptop. The restaurant owner, a tubby man in a yellow shirt and a moustache that filled the lower half of his round face, came towards me and scanned the room. I thought at first my luck was out, but he held a finger up to me to be patient and then bent it towards a table by the window. Two women were getting their things together and leaving their tip. The owner gave me a satisfied smile as if to ask how I could ever have doubted him and ushered me towards the table. I was seated at the table before the women had left the restaurant; the owner had cleared the table in what seemed like a single movement before I had had time to take off my coat, and suddenly the menu was in my hand. He bustled off, I glanced round at the room, very pleased with what I saw - yes, this was clearly where the people of Budapest actually came to eat - and suddenly she was sitting down across the table from me. She had dark, straight hair, dark brown eyes, and she was wearing a very smart raincoat, which she did not take off, over what looked like a very elegant navy blue dress and a large silver necklace which hung down and covered her upper chest, like something from ancient Egypt. She sat down so naturally, not even glancing at me, not indicating by so much as a smile or an inclination of the head "Do you mind if I sit here?", that for a moment I thought I had made a mistake. Was this table reserved after all? Had the owner thought we were together? My confusion must have shown in my face because she noticed and said something. I guessed she was asking if I minded. I smiled and shook my head and returned to the menu. The owner came over. She ordered without even looking; more hesitantly, I chose something whose name I recognised and ordered. She was looking past me, into the middle distance; I reached into my bag and took out my book. And that was when she noticed and looked at me properly. "You're English?" she asked - in English. "Yes." "You don't mind me sitting here, I hope? It's how this place works." "Not at all. Is that what you asked?" "Yes." And she smiled. I smiled back. A brief pause. The ice had been broken. We could resume - she eating, me reading - and we would say a brief goodbye when she finished and got up to go and we would never see each other again. Or we could talk. I caught her eye. I saw a hint of a question in it. A moment of understanding. She was thinking the same thoughts as me. We talked. "Are you here on holiday?" she asked. "Yes. I'm having a week here. I've never been to Budapest and I thought it was time I did." "And how do you like it?" "It's a beautiful city." The usual stuff. And so I learned: a) she worked for a fashion company; b) she was not from Budapest but from Szeged, to the south, but she had moved to Budapest six years ago and liked it; c) She had never been to England but she did once spend a holiday in Ireland; d) she appreciated art, she was interested in history, but most of all she loved music, particularly opera. And with that, she got up to go. I stood up and we shook hands. She smiled, she turned, she went. She didn't look back. I made a mental note to remember her as a beautiful woman I once had lunch with in Budapest. Another little incident to add to my experiences. And I put her out of my mind. I took out my Rough Guide and had another check of how to get up to Buda Castle Hill, finished my lunch, paid and headed out to the metro. I forgot her. Yes, really. I spent the afternoon in the old royal palace, now turned into museums, and I lost myself exploring the Budapest History Museum. By the time I took the funicular down the hill and headed back to my hotel for a shower she had completely passed from my head. I had forgotten her. Yes, really. Well, all right: almost. And then I met her again. It was the next morning. I had spent the morning visiting the splendidly ornate Parliament building and I wanted to sit down over a leisurely cup of something warm. It took a bit of searching but I found exactly the sort of cafe I was looking for: small, fin de siècle style, not too crowded, and, to my delight - books! The place was virtually furnished with books: on the walls, on the window seats, books to pick up, to browse through, to read. Possibly even to buy? I was in love! This was the sort of place I had been looking for since I arrived. I went in and stood for a moment, taking in the scene, almost drinking it in. I chose a small table, sat down and immediately twisted round to scan the bookshelf behind me. They books were mostly in Magyar but I saw a couple of German titles and then I spotted some French ones. I picked out a copy of Maupassant stories and was just getting into them when I sensed the waitress had come over. I looked up and it took a moment to register what I was seeing. Gone was the smart dress and raincoat; she was in a plain black top and jeans. But it was her. "I thought it was you", she said. "When you came in, I thought it was you." "Yes. It is. What are you doing here?" "I work part-time at the office. The owner here is an old school friend. I often help her out on my day off. It all helps with the rent." She smiled. "What can I get you?" "I'd really like a cup of tea." "You're not in England now. In Hungary you drink coffee." "So I have noticed. So what would you advise for someone who has never much liked coffee?" "Really? You've never liked it?" "Too bitter." "Leave it to me." She disappeared and I returned to the Maupassant. Then she came back, with two cups on a tray. "This is free. On the home." I smiled. "On the house", I said, correcting her. "That's very kind of you." "It's to welcome you to Budapest. You cannot visit Budapest and not drink our coffee." And she sat down in the chair opposite me. "So, tell me: where will you visit this afternoon?" We talked. We talked of history, of Europe, of university days (she had read law; I had read history), of holidays, of travel, of things we hadn't done but dreamed of doing, places we dreamed of going, things we longed to see. And then I thought it, and then I hesitated, and I thought No, I couldn't possibly, and then I said it. "What time do you finish? Would you like to come to the National Gallery with me?" She looked me straight in the eye. She had understood. She didn't even pause before saying: "Yes. Yes, I would." And she did. She came through from the back, a green and orange silk scarf tied very stylishly round her neck and wearing a very chic black leather jacket. To my surprise, she took my arm and led me out of the cafe and down to the metro. I glanced at her; she looked straight ahead. This could turn interesting. How to describe it? It felt almost light-headed as we entered the metro and sat in the train - not crowded at 2.30 in the afternoon. She was smiling and quizzing me about my life. What history did I like? Did I know anything about Hungarian history? (yes, a bit) What books did I like? She had noticed me reading the Maupassant - did I like his work? So did she. Her name was Frijda. A Norwegian name - her mother was Norwegian. Yes, she had been to Norway: she had relatives there. Here we are - we get off here. Why did it feel gloriously as if we were playing truant from school? Why did it feel as if we shared a secret? Why had she come? Why was I so glad she had come? Well, that last one was obvious. The gallery was another of the museums in the old royal palace. It was built on a grand scale - large marble staircases and high, vaulted ceilings. I dutifully admired some landscapes and seventeenth century portraits before we headed towards the impressionists. But to get there we passed through a gallery lined with dramatic portraits of Hungarian Magyars in armour or on horseback. It didn't seem to be Frijda's cup of tea (cup of coffee?) but somehow we both ended up standing in front of a rather dashing portrait of a hussar with a twinkle in his eye, as if he was checking out anyone who might be looking at him. We were standing side by side in front of the picture, the right, comfortable distance apart - personal space and all that - and then she said it. She didn't move her head, she didn't even glance towards me, but she said it. "John, you are probably wondering if we can spend more time together after this. You hope we can get a drink. You hardly dare think that we might spend the evening together. And you are convincing yourself even now that spending the night together is just a silly dream. But it's not. If you would like to, you can stay with me all night. And just so you know, I would like that. I would like that very much indeed." She never moved her head as she said it. Nor did I. Then, still looking at the painting, I nodded slowly. "I would like that too", I said. And she reached out and squeezed my hand. We headed for the museum cafe. She chose a different type of coffee; it wasn't quite as nice as the first one. She seemed to be watching the waitresses with a professional eye, noting how well they attended to the customers. That was when I thought to look (a woman would have looked long before now): she wore no ring, but the faint indentation of one was there: she had once worn one. Divorced, then, or separated. She noticed me looking and raised an amused eyebrow. "You're divorced?" I asked. "Nearly. The papers are coming through." "Has it been difficult?" "Not as bad as it could have been. He's been very good about it really." She leaned forward, looking into my eyes. "And as for you, you are married, happily enough, but part of you wishes you weren't," she said. "How can you tell that?" "You are here for a week on your own and you are not on business. Any woman can tell that. Any woman." And I realised that she didn't just mean herself. "So," she continued, "for these days we are both free. Starting tonight." And she gave me that evening's rendezvous. Seven o'clock in front of the concert hall. "Don't be late". I was outside the concert hall, showered and changed, by a quarter to seven. At seven o'clock exactly I saw her walking slowly towards me, her hands in the pockets of her smart coat, a rather beautiful pashmina round her neck, her eyes fixed directly on mine. When she drew level she kissed me on both cheeks and then, without a word, she put her arm through mine and led me inside. "I have the tickets", she said: "my treat." It was Beethoven. A couple of shorter pieces by composers I hadn't heard of - quite good, though - and then Beethoven's seventh symphony. And as the music gathered pace, faster, louder, more intense, I glanced at Frijda. We hadn't touched all evening - apart from the usual kiss on both cheeks when we met at the door (usual? It's usual for friends. We had only met the day before) - but there had been something, in the eyes, in the air, a sense of expectancy. Enjoying the music while knowing there was more to come. But now I sensed a tension, a tightening, and I looked over at Frijda. She was looking straight ahead at the orchestra, her eyes wide and bright - she was giving herself to the music, letting it fill her. She glanced towards me and saw me looking at her. And her eyes lit up in pure delight. She was in heaven. She took my arm again as we filed out at the end. I wasn't quite sure how to broach the topic in my mind, but it would have to be faced. She spoke first. "Dinner, then your hotel." "All right." "This is your night," she added; "tomorrow will be mine." Dinner was in a small restaurant, not unlike the cafe where we had first met. I thought having goulash might be a bit too obvious but she recommended it. She was right. I had had it in England many times but this was quite different. A much richer, deeper taste. She looked into my eyes, obviously wanting to know what I thought of it. "It's delicious", I told her, "much better than I have ever tasted before." "Good", she said; "welcome to Hungary." After such a wonderful dinner, I felt rather ashamed of taking Frijda to my very ordinary hotel room. It wasn't even downmarket enough to be charming: it was a chain hotel, with standard facilities, standard furnishings, a standard colour of shirt for the staff, a standard drinks and snacks machine in the lobby and standard furniture in the rooms. When I had first arrived there was even the standard welcome message on the TV screen in the room. I opened the door and ushered her in and waved an arm apologetically around the room. She took it in with one glance. I put the little hotel room kettle on for some coffee (I was learning) and she took off her coat and sat elegantly in the one armchair. I turned round to her - and I forgot all about the coffee. "John, this is your night. Do as you want," she said. And, without even thinking about it, as if by instinct, almost without knowing what I was doing, I sank to my knees before her, bent down and kissed the straps of her shoes. Little kisses, almost reverent. I glanced up at her. I half expected her to look shocked or surprised, or else to have gone into stern dominatrix mode, but she did neither of these: she smiled. Kindly. "Is that what you want, John?" I nodded. "Very well." And she held out her hand. I kissed it, kissing each finger. She held out her other hand, and I kissed her fingers one by one. And she slipped a finger inside my mouth, and I was caught, like a fish on a line. She drew me in. We kissed. Deeply, hungrily. She was holding me to her, tightly, gripping me. I kissed her neck, along her shoulder, small kisses, little licks. She purred like a cat. "That is gorgeous. Oh God, that is gorgeous." Suddenly she took my head in her hands and kissed my face, my forehead, my cheeks, my chin - I closed my eyes and she kissed my eyelids. Suddenly she was kissing my neck. I squirmed in agonised pleasure. Then I sank to my knees again and kissed her feet, first one foot, then the other. Then I started to move up her legs. Kissing, licking, up towards her knees. As I reached her knees, she shifted to pull her dress up, as I slowly eased her knees apart. I was kissing her thighs now. Licking her thighs, as I caught the faint smell of her cunt. Kissing more daringly now, longer licks - I could hear her breathing more heavily, sense her body tensing, as my tongue licked its way slowly, slowly towards her knickers. She shifted again and eased her dress right up. I could see the top of her hold-up stockings and the lacy triangle of her knickers. Suddenly, I licked the bare flesh of her thighs in one long lick right up to her cunt and I kissed through her knickers. Kissed and licked as if I was french kissing her cunt. And her hand came down, and I backed off, and I watched as she hooked a finger inside her knickers and pulled them to one side. And I moved in and I kissed her cunt lips. Little kisses. Little flicks of the tongue. And another flick, slipping ever so slightly inside her. And another. And another. Deeper inside her. Until my lips were touching her cunt, and my tongue was deep inside. Licking her, flicking her. And I found her clit. And I licked her clit. And I played my tongue around her clit. And I could hear her breathing getting faster, as she began to squirm in the chair. And her cunt was running with her juices. And I sank my face into her cunt and bathed my face in them. I drank her. I ate her. And she shuddered and held my head firmly in place as I licked her faster and faster, taking her clit into my mouth. And I made her cum. She was shaking, her chest heaving, as I brought her the nasty hotel room coffee. She took it gratefully. "Thank you, John. Thank you." She didn't just mean for the coffee. "Is that what you like?" she asked. "It's part of what I like. But not all", I said. "I'll show you. If you're ready." She nodded. "I'm ready". "You won't mind?" "I won't mind anything." "You're sure?" "Believe me." I did. So I slipped my shoes off and stood in front of her. I took off my tie and undid my belt. She sat and watched, interested, amused. I undid the waistband of my trousers, unzipped, and let them fall down my legs. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh," she said. "Wow." I took the trousers off and the socks. "Nice stockings". "Thank you", I said. "I like them too." She stood up and pushed me gently towards the bed. "I think you should be lying down." "There's one thing", I said. "One thing?" "Something I like." "All right. What is it? I don't have toys", she added, as if warning me off an avenue. "I don't need toys", I said. And I unbuttoned my shirt and handed it to her. "I want you to wear my shirt." She took it. "Real cross-dressing?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "Only, I don't have to wear your stockings - I've got my own." "And the knickers?" "I got them in a sex shop. They're designed for men." "Ah." She understood. I sat on the bed as she stood before me and, her eyes fixed on mine, she unbelted her dress. She reached up and unzipped it behind her. She let it fall to the floor, stepped out of it and stood before me, in her bra, knickers, stockings and shoes. I looked up at her, adoringly. She looked down at me - what was that look in her eye? A look of fondness? And suddenly, so quickly I almost missed it, she winked. And she reached behind and took off her bra. She stood for a moment, her hands on her hips, her breasts standing proud. Then she reached down, picked up the shirt, and put it on. She buttoned it from the bottom, just two or three buttons, so it showed her cleavage. Then, as if she suddenly thought of something, she held up her finger and reached down to the floor again. I wondered what it was and then I saw - she had picked up my belt. And she was fixing it wound her waist. My shirt was now her dress and it looked just fine. And then, as if she knew, still looking at me, she turned up her collar. And my eyes gave me away. And she knew it all. She knew what I liked, what I could not resist. She moved towards me. She pulled my head towards her chest and I kissed. I kissed her cleavage, kissing desperately, kissing as if it was her mouth, kissing from sheer love of this beautiful woman who has suddenly come into my life. She pulled her shirt (her shirt? my shirt!) open and I kissed her breasts, lovingly, adoringly. I kissed her nipples, and ran my tongue over them, and drew them into my mouth, first one, then the other, and I felt her breathing quicken and her body tense and suddenly, she threw me back onto the bed and climbed on top of me. She knelt on me, pinning me to the bed and looked round for something. She reached down and picked up my tie. Then she took my arms and stretched them above my head and tied my wrists together. Brief Encounter in Budapest Pt. 01 "Now you are mine", she said. And she shuffled back down my body until she was above my cock. She stroked its shape. She looked at me. "Did you put these stockings on for you? Or for me?" she asked. "I wear them sometimes for me. But tonight I wore them for you." "Good answer." And she bent down and kissed. She kissed through my knickers. Kissing first one way, then moving her head and kissing from the other side. I stirred and twisted as I felt her hair brushing against my body. I felt her hands slowly pulling my knickers down to expose my cock and suddenly she licked it. Licked all along its length, Long licks, savouring licks, all along it and then twisting her tongue round the head at the end. She paused and looked up at me her eyes alight with delight - as they had been in the concert. Then, still with her eyes fixed on mine, she opened her mouth and sucked me in. She closed her eyes, as if savouring the flavour. Then she suddenly climbed up the bed towards me and we were kissing, her tongue, her mouth giving me the taste of my own cock. "There, John, there: taste your cock. Taste it!" She went back down, sucked me in again, then crawled back up to me, to lick the taste of my cock into my mouth. "You want to fuck me, John? You want to fuck me?" Oh God, yes. Yes, I wanted to fuck her. I couldn't even speak: I just nodded. She crawled back and sat above me, her hands on her hips. I looked up at her, the wonderful sight of her wearing my shirt, my belt. She raised herself slightly and carefully lowered herself onto my cock. She never took her eyes off me as she sank onto me and I slid into her. And as she took in the whole length of my cock, suddenly I felt her cunt muscles tighten as she gripped me hard. I looked up at her in surprise; she laughed. "I told you - you are mine!" And I knew she was in control. She released me, then tightened again. released me, and tightened. She was playing with me. And then she started to move. Gently at first, a slight rocking movement. I moved in time with her, pushing further inside her. She began to move faster, gripping my cock, as I bucked my hips and pushed upwards as hard as I could. "That's it, John, fuck me. Fuck me!!" Suddenly I thrust upwards, so hard my hips almost pushed her off. "Yes! Yes! Thrust into me! Thrust! I'm riding you!" We were bucking together now, faster and faster, her eyes wide and sparkling. Suddenly, my body shuddered and my hips erupted and I came, shooting inside her, as if I had never cum before in my life. I let out a great grunt and she cried out. We stayed there, my cock inside her, as we panted and slowly regained our breath. And the heat subsided and the moment passed and she climbed off. She took off my shirt and untied my wrists, and we lay together on the bed, our naked bodies touching. And we kissed. I stroked her hair out of her face and kissed her forehead, tenderly. She reached up and ran her fingers through my hair and she kissed my cheek. And she nestled into me, her head against my shoulder. And we lay there. "John", she said. "Yes?" "There is something else you want." "Is there?" "You know there is. You like to submit. You like to take the female role. That's fine - actually I like it. I like it very much. But it means you want something more. I do know that." So did I. I nodded. "I don't mind," she said. "Really I don't." "But I haven't any toys", I said. "I can't ask that of you." She kissed me. "John, darling, you can ask anything of me. Anything." And I knew I could. "In any case, I came prepared." She made me turn over and kneel up on the bed. I heard a sound behind me, like someone putting on surgical gloves. I looked round. Yes, that was exactly what she was doing. "You want me to fuck your arse, don't you?" "Yes," I said. "Yes, I do." "Well, I can't fuck it exactly. But I hope this will do." I faced forward. I gasped slightly as she rubbed cold lubricant on my arse and I smiled as I felt her kissing my bum gently, even lovingly. Then I felt it. The end of her finger against my arsehole. Her fingernail felt hard as she played with my opening and then slipped her finger inside. I felt the rest of her fist up against my arse as she fingered me, twisting her finger inside me, moving it in and out, in and out, pushing it further inside me. My body was alive, on fire, electrified. I gulped and gasped, and I moaned. I couldn't help myself - I moaned with sheer pleasure as I sank into the bed and gave myself up to her probing finger. And suddenly my whole body burst open as if a fireworks display had exploded within me - she had slipped a second finger inside me. And I gave in. I surrendered my whole body, every inch of it, to Frijda. As she fucked me senseless in my arse. I was in heaven. When I woke up she had gone. It was morning and I was alone in bed. My clothes were folded neatly on the chair and on top was a small envelope, with "John" written on it. I opened it. "Forgive me: I have to go to work. I hope you liked last night: it was for you. Meet me in the cafe at 6.00 tonight. Tonight is for me. Kisses. Frijda." And she had added a PS: "Check out of your hotel." So I did. Brief Encounter in Budapest Pt. 02 How do you spend a day when you are waiting impatiently for the evening? When you cannot forget the night before? The only way to do it is to find something completely absorbing and let it take over for as long as you can. Normally work achieves it, but in my case I needed somewhere to go. So I turned to the Romans: I took the suburban railway out to the ruins of Aquincum, the ancient Roman capital of Pannonia, as the Romans called Hungary. It's like Pompeii, though not quite on the same scale. But here are the traces of shops and streets and a rather magnificent arena. I paid to join a guided tour of the Hercules Villa and I wandered through the high-walled baths. Roman sites have a way of taking me back to ancient times: there's always something about the Romans that gets the blood racing. I managed to put Frijda out of my mind for the morning, and I got lunch at a small cafe near the ruins. But after lunch I knew I wanted to head back into the city. I strolled down Andrassy Avenue, looking in at the very chic and expensive shops, wondering as I always do who can afford the prices and why they should choose to. I headed to the river and stood for a while at the Shoes on the Danube memorial, a poignant collection of shoes sculpted in metal, a reminder of the tragic fate of Budapest's Jewish population during the Holocaust. So I was in reflective mood as I strolled back towards the cafe. I stopped at a stall along the way and bought a bunch of flowers and I got there with a good hour to spare. I sat at the same table as before and found the volume of Maupassant stories. A woman came over to the table, blonde hair and a black blouse with jeans and an apron: presumably Frijda's schoolfriend. I nearly ordered tea, but something told me it wouldn't do, so I asked for the same coffee I had had last time. She seemed to understand. I picked up the book and allowed the time to pass. You can do that for a while, but once you pass the half past mark you start looking at your watch every couple of minutes or so. I kept looking up from the book towards the door. A few people came in, ordered coffees and sandwiches and Frijda's friend was always coming and going from the counter. Quarter to six: no sign of Frijda. Ten to: no sign, and I began to worry - had I remembered the instructions correctly? I took out her note - of course I had it on me - and checked. Yes, six o'clock. Seven minutes to. Five minutes to. Did she mean six? Or about six? Or half past six? "Don't worry; she will come." Surprised, I looked up. It was Frijda's friend, the cafe owner. "Yes", I said. "I know." "I am Kristina." "John." We shook hands. "You know, you are very lucky," she said. "Frijda is a good friend." "You've known her some time?" "We were at school together. But that's not what I mean. I mean she is a good friend to whoever is her friend. Very loyal, very loving." "That's good to hear. And am I -?" "Oh yes", she said. "You are definitely her friend." I was about to say something about how we had only known each other a couple of days, but Kristina held up her hand to stop me. "She's here. I told you." And she came in. She was in a very smart light grey business suit with a beautifully cut white blouse. It was unbuttoned to reveal a bit of cleavage and I realised that her suit included a waistcoat - is there anything more sexy than a waistcoat on a beautiful woman? She came straight over to me and kissed me on the cheek, then she turned and said something to Kristina and sat down opposite me. "So," she said, "what have you done today? I want to hear all about it." "First things first," I said, handing her the flowers. She was delighted. She smelt them and admired them and kissed me again, and then she demanded to know about my day. So I told her. I told her about the Roman ruins and immediately she started to quiz me. She wanted to know about the Romans, what they were doing in Hungary, what happened to them when they were here - I had to drag a lot of information back from the far reaches of my memory of schooldays. She seemed to love hearing it, though, and when I said I hoped I wasn't boring her, she let out a little cry. "Oh, John, you cannot know how much I love hearing this. All day long I have to deal with stupid people wanting stupid things - I have forgotten this world exists. This world of knowledge and ideas and history - and - Maupassant ..." I touched her hand. "Frijda, darling," I said, "all that is still there if you look for it." "You have to make time for it," she said. "That's the problem. I have so little time. But now I have you. Tell me about it, John. Tell me all about it." And so we talked as we finished the coffees, said goodbye to Kristina and strolled through the streets. Frijda asked me endless questions: "What happened when the Romans left?" "What did I know about the Turks?" "Poor Maria Theresa - why would they not allow her to be Empress?" and so on. It was as if the questions that had been in her head for years were suddenly all coming out at once. I answered as best as could, though my own knowledge was patchy, and suddenly we were at her car. "We'll pick up your bag at the hotel and then the evening is mine," she said, as we climbed in and she drove off. (Note to self: Add "Hungarians" alongside "the French" and "Italians" in your list of Craziest Drivers in the World.) We collected my bags from the hotel and then she drove us to an area outside the centre, with old, nineteenth century residence buildings and stepped streets - it reminded me a bit of Montmartre. "Where are we?" I asked. "You'll see." She took me past small shops open at the front, selling fruit and vegetables, and past the inevitable cafes and bars, to an ordinary doorway, no different from any others except for a small neon sign above it and, as we drew nearer, the sound of lively dixieland jazz. She led me inside and down a staircase and suddenly, like some American speakeasy from the twenties, it opened out into a nightclub. It was dimly lit, with small tables with lamps on them, and there was a small stage where the band sat in front of an equally small dance floor where a couple were dancing: they danced very well and obviously came regularly. Frijda sat down and immediately a waiter came over. She ordered two glasses of sparkling wine and we sat down to watch the show. It was a singer, rather good, with a Marlene Dietrich-style voice and a sternly sexy look to go with it. She sang a couple of romantic songs and then the band struck up another lively number. Frijda leapt to her feet. "Come and dance." "You don't want to dance with me. I'm a hopeless dancer." "It doesn't matter. Come and dance." So we did. And she was right - it didn't matter. I tried to follow her pattern of moves, and if it went wrong, which it quite often did, we just laughed. Some other couples joined us, and when the number ended we clapped and stayed on the floor for the next dance. And the next. And the one after that. And then the band played a slow tune. We could have resumed our seats, left the slow dance to lovers, but we didn't. We stayed on the dance floor and I took Frijda in my arms. And we let the music do the rest. We danced slowly, holding each other tightly, swaying slightly to the rhythm, deliberately, sensuously. And at the end of the number, Frijda stretched up and kissed me on the cheek. "Time to go", she said. We went to her car and she drove to her flat. It was in an old block built around a central courtyard, of the sort you find in Paris and Rome and St Petersburg and so many European cities. "I'm afraid the lift is out of order", she said, apologetically. "It's on the third floor." So we climbed the stairs, me carrying my bags, and we reached her door, she unlocked it and we walked in. She switched on the light and I got a brief impression of a corridor of books and bookshelves and suddenly her arms were around my neck and we were kissing. We kissed deeply, longingly, as if we had been waiting for this moment all our lives. Our kiss reached a natural pause, we broke off and she led me into the living room. It was small and cosy, with a sofa and a television and shelves of books, of all sizes and on all subjects, as far as I could tell with a brief glance. I noticed, though, that there were some large gaps on the shelves which she had tried to fill by placing some books on their sides. Frijda went into the small kitchen and brought out two glasses and a bottle. She gave it to me to open - a rather good German wine, I noted - I poured, and we chinked glasses and drank. I looked round the room. "You do love reading, don't you?" "Oh, yes. But you know that." "I'd guessed. What sort of thing do you read?" "See for yourself. I must leave you for a moment: supper is in the oven and I need to get changed." So I looked along her bookshelves. She had all the classic authors - Hugo, Tolstoy, Dickens - and quite a collection of French writers, Balzac, Colette, George Sand. I flicked through some large format illustrated books: there were travel books on Indonesia and Peru, a large book of photos of Paris seen from the sky, and a number of books on fashion. I looked through these - she obviously liked elegant styles in black and white. I smiled as I found exactly what I expected - a little collection of books of the designs of Coco Chanel. By now the delicious smell of meat was coming through from the kitchen, and suddenly, quite without warning, the lights dimmed. I looked round and gasped. She was wearing a corset. A dark, richly patterned corset in burgundy and black. She wore a silk dressing gown over it, with stockings and heels, and round her neck she wore a black velvet choker. It could have looked like something rather cheap and tawdry from Moulin Rouge; instead it looked almost impossibly beautiful, elegant and erotic. "Do you like it?" "Frijda, you are unbelievably beautiful. Stunning." She smiled. "It's for you," she said, "but also for me. I love it. I feel so sexy in it." "How did you lace it up?" "I've had it on all day. Waiting for this moment." And she came over to me and kissed me, running her tongue along my lips. Then she turned, looking at me coquetteishly. "Dinner first." In case you have not had the experience of dining with a beautiful woman dressed in corset and choker, let me tell you that it is every bit as arousing as it sounds. Far from being a distraction, the food becomes part of the increasingly erotic atmosphere, even if - as here - not a word is spoken about sex. We talked about Hungary, about Budapest, about London, about her dreams to visit England and how she had always wanted to see Oxford and Cambridge, and then I asked her what her favourite English books were. I was expecting her to say something like Wuthering Heights or Tess of the d'Urbervilles, so her answer surprised me. "Sherlock Holmes. I love those stories. I love the atmosphere - how I would have loved to have seen Victorian London. But above all, I love his brain. How he thinks and how he works out the solution. So clever. So logical. So sexy." It was the first time I had heard Sherlock Holmes called sexy. "Sexy?" "Oh yes. Clever men are very sexy." And she looked me in the eye. I hoped that was a compliment. She walked over and put some music on. I smiled: it was Rachmaninov's second piano concerto. The music they used for the soundtrack of Brief Encounter. Had she seen that film? I wondered. She must have done. But it hardly mattered: music doesn't come much more romantic than this. Sure enough, as soon as dinner was over - in fact, rather before it was properly over - we moved to the sofa and the moment had come. We kissed. "This is your night", I murmured in her ear. "You can have whatever you want." "Kiss my neck, darling," she said. I kissed her smooth, beautiful neck. Small kisses. Down her neck and along her shoulder. Then down her front, down her chest, along her other shoulder and back to the beautiful cleavage created by her corset. "Oh yes, John, kiss me there. Kiss me." I kissed her cleavage, first one breast, then the other. Her chest heaved and her tits seemed to be straining to burst out of her corset. I kissed them in turn, now licking them, slowly, along the contours of her breasts, my tongue like a paintbrush along a wall . She held my head tight to her chest. "Yes. Kiss them. Lick them. Lick them, John, lick them." As I licked her tits I lay her back on the sofa and she pulled me down on top of her. I moved up to kiss her mouth and she held me to her as we kissed, deeply and sensually. Her tongue was licking along my lips, then in my mouth, exploring it, making me hers. I felt her teeth on my lip, as she gave me a little playful bite. Not enough to hurt; just enough to let me know - it was what she wanted. She held a finger towards me and slipped it in my mouth. I sucked it in and ran my tongue along it. She took my hand and guided it towards her mouth. I slipped a finger into her mouth and I watched as she closed her eyes with pleasure. She sucked it, licked it, sensually, as if her whole body was aroused. Very deliberately I slipped a second finger in. She gasped and started to suck my fingers more desperately. She held my hand with both of hers and started to move my fingers in and out of her mouth, licking them, kissing them, taking them in again. I put three fingers in, and she lay back, her mouth full of my hand, giving in, letting me have my way. I put all four fingers in; her eyes closed in ecstasy. She ran her tongue along them, she sucked them into her, as if she were gagging on a large cock. She opened her eyes and looked directly into mine, utterly dependent on me and loving it. I held my fingers there just long enough and then withdrew them. She sat up and threw her arms around me. "What do you want to do to me?" she asked. "I thought this was your night." "It is. I want you to do to me whatever you want." I smiled. "Stand up." She stood up. I parted her legs and then lay down on the floor underneath her. I leaned up and kissed her thighs. I heard her sigh with pleasure as I licked her thighs and kissed her cunt through her black lacy knickers. "Wait," she said. She stood back and I watched as she slowly, deliberately, slid her knickers down her legs and stepped out of them. Then she stepped forward and stood with her legs apart. "Now try". And I sat up and licked her cunt. I licked deep inside her, savouring the taste, pushing my mouth up against her, licking, kissing... I felt her knees beginning to bend and buckle. She bent down and held my head tight against her. I found her clit and I twirled it with my tongue. "Oh John, fuck me! Fuck me now!" She lay down on the carpet and pulled me onto her. I knelt above her, undid my belt and trousers. "Let me see it. Show it to me," she gasped. I pulled my pants down (ordinary underpants this time - this was her night, remember?) and let her see my cock. She reached up and stroked it, almost reverently. She kissed it, lovingly, kissed all along its length. Then she licked it, and then she took it into her mouth, in, out, in, out, getting it as wet as she could. "Oh John, I want you. I want you in me." She lay back and, pulling me down on top of her, guided me into her. And then we paused. We lay together, my cock inside her, joined, as if we were realising the full meaning of what we were doing. We weren't fucking; we were joined. We were one. She looked into my eyes, he eyes alight with questions. "John - you're in me? Tell me - you're inside me?" "I'm in you, Frijda, yes. I'm inside you." "You're fucking me, John? You're really fucking me?" "I'm fucking you, Frijda. Don't worry." "Fuck me, John. Fuck me slowly, fuck me beautifully. Make me a queen." So, very slowly to start with, I began to move. To move into her, then back a bit, then into her again. She started to move her body in response. It felt warm and safe inside her and as we moved, I had the impression not that we were two people fucking, but that we were one person, moving in harmony. We began to move faster, in perfect rhythm with each other, faster, as I thrust further into her, harder, deeper, and she gasped with each thrust. "Yes, John, yes - fuck me, oh fuck me!" Her eyes were fixed on mine, her arms round my neck, hugging me to her, I could feel my body beginning to twitch - at any moment I would cum. So I stopped. I kissed her tenderly and I withdrew. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Is something wrong?" "Nothing's wrong," I said. "But we have the whole night. Better to spread things out." She smiled. "Yes," she said, "you're right. I'll make us some coffee." "Where's the loo?" I asked. "Second on the left." But it wasn't. That was a child's bedroom, with pop star posters on the wall and toys and games all neatly arranged. The loo was in fact the first door on the left. She brought the coffee through on a tray and set it on the small table. She curled herself up on the sofa and I sat on the floor at her feet. "So," she said, "what do you make of me? What have you worked out?" "What do you mean?" "Well, I worked out about you and your marriage. What have you worked out about me?" "Apart from the obvious, you mean?" "What is obvious?" "That the divorce was your idea, that your husband still loves you but you have moved on, and that you've just decided, literally in the last few minutes, that you want to keep me in your life somehow?" She blinked. "Is all that really obvious? How?" "Observation, my dear Watson. You've obviously been in this flat some time. Your husband has taken his books off the shelves, but you haven't had time to fill the gaps. You both of you love books - those are big gaps on the shelves - and my guess is that he liked it here. Who wouldn't? But when you mentioned him to me, there was no bitterness in your voice, no anger. So he didn't run off with anyone; you just somehow fell out of love with him. And he isn't fighting you, either for the flat or for your little boy: if he were, you would have mentioned it by now. No man would let that be done to him without fighting back unless he was still in love with you. How am I doing?" "You're doing very well. What about my decision about you?" "You invited me to join you last night and then again tonight. You've had it all carefully planned - the concert, the nightclub; you even told Kristina - so you have put a lot of thought into it. Something spoke to you when we met in the restaurant and you got interested in me. My guess is that you are thinking about the possibility of coming to England, though you haven't decided yet. At any rate, you decided tonight that you I needed to know more about you, and particularly about your little boy. I'm assuming that he is with his father this week, by the way?" Frijda nodded. "Well, then", I continued, "at first you didn't want me to know about him, you wanted to keep this in a sort of unreal world, so you cleared all his things away, even from the bathroom. It's not natural for a child to be in a flat like this and not to leave things all over the place. You took it all into his room, tidied the place and shut the door. You didn't particularly want me to know you have a child. But something made you change your mind and you decided you did want me to know after all. But rather than tell me, which would have raised all sorts of questions, you made a little deliberate mistake in telling me the way to the toilet so I would find his room myself. Am I right?" She paused a moment, to catch her breath. Then she looked at me and smiled. "You really are Sherlock Holmes," she said. Brief Encounter in Budapest Pt. 02 "Well, he was English," I said. "And I'm from London too." "You're right. In just about every detail. Misha is a good man and I feel bad about leaving him, but - something just died. I knew I didn't love him. And it would have been cruel to him, to both of us, to have stayed married to him when I no longer loved him." "Did you love him once?" "Yes. Yes, I did. Very much." "Then you still do. Deep down. In some part of you. Love may shrink and disappear from view, but if it ever exists, it never quite dies." She thought about this for a moment. "You're right," she said. "Somewhere deep within me I do still love him. But I could never live with him again. I could never be his wife again. Do you mind?" "Do I mind what?" "That I still love him. Somehow." "Why should I mind?" "Because you are right - I don't want to lose you. I want to keep you in my life somehow. I don't know how - Facebook, email, whatever - but however we do it, I want you there for me. Will you be?" "You know I will." "Yes," she said, "I know you will." And with that she took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat it was small, with a large old-fashioned iron-framed bed too big for the size of the room. Frijda turned to me, suddenly coy and shy. "John", she said, "you know we said this would be my night?" "Yes." "For us to do what I like? What I want?" "Yes." "Well, there is something I want. Something I want very much. But - " "Are you embarrassed?" She nodded. "Don't be, Frijda," I said. "There's no need to be. Not with me. After all, I showed you what I like and what I want, didn't I?" She looked up at me and smiled, despite herself. "There, you see. If I could tell you that - and show you - there's nothing you need be embarrassed about with me. So tell me, what would you like." "Well," she said, slowly, "what I'd really like, what I've always wanted deep down - is this." And with that she went over to a chest of drawers and took out two long black silk scarves and handed them to me. For a moment I didn't understand. Then I looked at her and saw that her eyes were downcast, looking at the floor. And I understood. "You want me to tie you up?" She nodded. "All right." She looked up, surprised. "You don't mind?" she asked. "Why should I mind?" "Why indeed? But Misha minded. He never liked doing this sort of thing." "Do you want anything else?" She came over to me and whispered in my ear. "I want to be your whore. I want to be your slut. I want you to treat me roughly. To spank me and slap me and pull my hair. I want you to fuck me from behind like a dog. Will you do that for me, John? Will you?" "If that's what you'd like, that's what I'll do." Her eyes lit up with excitement. She lay back on the bed but I turned her round so she was face down and then I tied her wrists together, securely but not too tight, and tied them to the framework of the bed. "You thank me for that, slut." "Thank you. Thank you!" "Call me sir!" "Thank you, sir. Thank you. Please punish me, sir. Please. I'm a bad girl. I need to be punished." I slapped her bum. Her whole body jumped. "I didn't hear you thank me." "Thank you, sir. Thank you for spanking me. Please spank me again." It occurred to me that, if she really hadn't done this before, she had certainly been learning the script. I slapped her bum again. It was a slightly awkward angle as she was lying flat on the bed, so I manhandled her roughly so she was kneeling up. Then I slapped her bum again. "Thank you, sir! Oh, thank you!" If I had been experienced in spanking I could probably have gauged it and made it last, but I had only read about it so I didn't know the techniques. After a while, my hand was stinging and my arm was aching. So I gripped her bum roughly and thrust my head into it, licking her cunt from behind. "Oh YES!! Yes, do that. Please don't stop. Please. Please don't stop." I licked her and kneaded her bum cheeks like a baker kneading dough. I slapped her a bit more. "Yes!! Yes!! Do that again!" "Do that again, SIR!!" I shouted and slapped her bum harder. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm a bad girl, sir. A very bad girl. I need to be punished, sir. Please, punish me. Please?" "You don't need to be punished, you whore, you slut. You need to be fucked." "Oh yes, sir. I am a whore. A slut. A dirty cheap slut. Please fuck me. Please. I need it. I need your cock, sir. I need it in me." "Wait there, you whore." I untied her wrists and she turned round to face me. I knelt on top of her, like a wrestler. "Take my cock out, whore. And suck it." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She fumbled with the belt and zip and lowered my trousers and pants. Then she took my cock out and, without any preliminaries, opened her mouth wide and took it in. She closed her eyes in ecstasy. She pumped it in and out of her mouth and licked all along its length. "Please, sir, please put it in me. I want to feel it in my cunt, sir. My cunt is waiting for your thick cock, sir. I'm all wet for you. Please, please fuck me, sir." "Why should I?" "Because I'm your whore, sir. I'm your cheap whore. I'm a no good slut, and this is all I'm good for. To be fucked by you as often as you like. My cunt is for you, sir, all for you. Take me, take it, however you like." "Good. Get on all fours." She got up on all fours, with her bum in the air. I took off my trousers, pants and socks - they were only getting in the way - and positioned myself behind her. I gripped her hips and slid my cock into her from behind. "Oh, yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" I leaned forward and grabbed her hair. "Did I tell you to speak, whore?" "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'm a fucking bad girl, sir. I'm just a fucking whore. A fucking slut. Your fucking whore." "Yes, you fucking well are." And I thrust deep into her, pulling her head back with her hair, riding her like a horse. Thrust, thrust, another thrust. She was almost screaming now, as I pulled on her hair and fucked deep inside her. And suddenly, as I thrust even deeper inside her, my body shook and I came with a great shudder. She screamed with delight and I collapsed onto her. There was a pause. "How was that?" I asked. "It's not over yet," she said, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "You came, but I didn't. So sit there and watch." She sat back on the bed and opened her legs. Then she turned her head to one side and took her fingers into her mouth. She sucked on her fingers as if they were my cock. Then she licked them one by one and, her eyes fixed on me, she began to stroke her cunt. Slowly at first, deliberately, but then she slipped a finger inside her cunt and began to rub more vigorously. She began to gasp as she rubbed herself more, arching her back, thrusting her fingers in and out of her cunt. "I'm cumming, John, I'm cumming!!" And with a great grunt, she collapsed on the bed, her breast heaving, her face wrapped in a huge smile. We slept together, naked, my arm around her, our bodies nestled into each other like spoons. We woke early and made love, quietly and tenderly, whispering as if we didn't want to wake the neighbours. We got up and showered together, the water falling over both of us as we held each other and kissed. Then we put on dressing gowns and had breakfast - Frijda prepared coffee, bread with ham, followed by toast with a bewildering array of jams. My flight was at lunchtime, so there was time for a stroll. She drove me over to the City Park and we walked together by the lake, in the shadow of the magnificently quirky Vajdahunyad Castle. We talked of many things, of what I would do when I got back, of the memories I would take with me, of her favourite styles of fashion, but we didn't talk of the thing we both knew we needed to. There was time for a last quick sandwich at an open air stall and then it was time to head for the airport. Frijda drove me in her car, driving more calmly now, I noticed. We drove in silence, not speaking a word in the whole journey. We reached the airport and she parked. I got my case out of the boot and she handed me my in-flight bag. We walked into the terminal and checked my case in. Then we faced it: the moment of parting. I looked at Frijda, and she raised her face to me. There were tears in her eyes. I kissed her and she held me tight. "I don't want you to go." "I know." She pulled away and looked at me. "John," she said, "when you go through that gate, just over there, and into Departures you will be home again. Security, Duty Free, cafes, the aeroplane - they are just the front garden for your home. When you go through there, you are in England." I nodded. I knew what she meant, and she was right. I reached into my inside pocket and took out a piece of paper. "This is my address. Email, mobile number, Facebook - everything. Take it." She hesitated. Then she put out her hand and gently took it from me. She put it in her handbag without even looking at it. "You will go back to your wife and your family", she said, "and you will put me out of your mind. I don't mean you'll forget me - you won't ever do that. But I will become a memory, from an unreal world that is not where you live, even though it's only two hours' flight away. Don't worry, John: it's how it should be." "I know what you mean. But it doesn't have to be quite as neat as that. You can still contact me." She shook her head. "I once promised myself that I would never be the Other Woman. My life is complicated enough, John; I don't need to complicate it further." "You won't be the Other Woman, not for me, Frijda. But we can still be close. I can still be there for you. And I will be." "I know. You will always be there for me. You are like that. You have a great capacity for love and you are always loyal to those to whom you give it. You are not the only one who is observant, Mr Sherlock Holmes," she added, with a smile. "Will you come to me? Will you contact me?" She thought for a moment, and then she seemed to make a decision. "When I need you, I will contact you. That I can promise. And I never make promises I cannot keep. I will keep your details, don't worry. Now you must go." We kissed one last time and I turned with my bags for Departures. At the entrance I turned. She was still there. She waved. And she wiped the tears from her eyes. I went through the gate. For once, the travel arrangements went smoothly. I went through Security with no problems, had time for a browse in the shops and then I made my way to the gate. It was only when I was actually in the plane that I found it. She must have slipped it into my in-flight bag when she handed it to me. It was a book in a brown paper bag. I took it out and laughed. It was the copy of Maupassant from the shelves in Kristina's cafe. I opened it and noticed a little yellow envelope tucked inside. There was a small card inside. It had a picture of a flower on it. Inside, she had written: I LOVE YOU. Kisses, F. Then I felt my eyes welling up with tears. I sat and stared at it for a while, then slipped it back in its envelope and back into the book. I wiped my eyes and was suddenly aware that someone was talking to me. "Tea or coffee, sir?" It was the stewardess, holding a small coffee pot. I looked at it for a moment and then I made my decision. "Tea, please. A good cup of English tea." END