2 comments/ 10027 views/ 0 favorites My Balkan Adventure By: Pussyrider Have you ever had one of those experiences where you're watching TV and some anonymous woman comes on, not a star or anything, just a member of the public, and you find yourself thinking, "Mmm, I'd like to have a scene with her"? I suppose most people must have at least once, it's happened to me loads of times. But you don't do anything about it, do you? I mean, it'd be crazy to even try, right? So the programme moves on, and five minutes later you've forgotten the woman even exists. Only, what happens if you can't forget? I'm Richard Duxbury, and I'm a 31-year old solicitor from just outside London. Five feet eleven, slim and trim, brown hair, soft brown eyes. I'm a partner in a successful law firm and I've been single for about two years, since a long-term relationship broke up. I've always considered myself quite stable and rational. Well, I did until that night when I caught the end of a particular news broadcast. It was actually on video that I saw it. I'd been to a dinner party with my sister and her husband, and Sally had made her usual ham-fisted attempt at matchmaking, sitting me next to some vaguely pretty but terribly dreary financial consultant. I'd set the video to catch the last episode of a particularly exciting thriller series. It just happened that the news had over-run, and the end of the broadcast was on the start of my tape. I set it running, and was just about to hit fast forward when I saw her. It was a report on a tiny enclave in the Balkans which had decided to declare independence after years of conflict. Serbia was threatening all sorts of dire consequences, but in the streets and bars of the capital city of the new republic the citizens were celebrating wildly. The reporter did a few vox pops with customers in one particular bar, and the last was a woman who said in broken English that it was a great day, and how happy she was. I did a double-take when I saw her, and thought, "Wow, what a gorgeous looking woman". She looked in her mid-thirties, with sort of pinkish red hair, which hung in curls down to her shoulders; huge brown eyes; a snub nose with a few freckles; a small mouth with pouting lips; and a dimpled chin. I've always had a bit of a weakness for the baby doll type. The camera only gave a headshot of her, but she seemed to be swathed in some sort of grey fur coat. I watched my TV show -- it turned out to have a very disappointing ending -- then, on a whim, rewound the tape and had another look at my Balkan babe, as I dubbed her. She had a sweet, girlish voice, like a bell tinkling. The next evening when I got home from work, almost without thinking about it, I switched on the video tape and looked at her again. I actually found myself freezing the frame and staring at my lady. Later that night, without any plan to do so, I found myself, just for fun, checking out flights to that area of the former Yugoslavia on the Internet. I was surprised to see that one of the budget airlines actually had flights to the capital of the neighbouring republic. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to go there, but...a bit more searching, and I found that that city was only four hours by train from where my lady had been filmed. I started to get a strange excitement, as a sort of wild, silly fantasy formed in my head. Going back to the airline website I found that they only flew twice a week. For the following Tuesday -- a week to the day since I'd seen the babe -- I'd missed out on the cheap tickets, but they still had a few seats left at a reasonable price. I had another look at my fantasy girl before I went to bed then I lay in the dark, giggling to myself at the very absurdity of the idea that was forming in my head. After all, I had some leave to use up, there was nothing in the office I couldn't put aside for a few days, and I knew where to find my lady...sort of. The next day, feeling like a complete idiot I phoned the BBC. I explained to a bored telephonist what I wanted, and she put me on hold for what felt like a couple of years, then finally a girl who sounded like a bright, breezy 12-year old university graduated trilled, "News room, how can I help you?" Clearing my throat nervously, I said, "Well, I'm not sure if you can really." I explained that I'd seen Julia Field's broadcast on the independence celebrations a couple of nights earlier, and wondered if someone could ask her the name of the bar she'd filmed in. I was met by a long, uncertain silence. I added, rather lamely, "You see, I think I saw someone I know in the film, and I'd like to try and trace, er, him." When the BBC kid finally recovered, her brightness seemed a little forced. "Well, as I'm sure you'll appreciate sir, Julia's pretty busy covering the events out there at the moment, but if you'll give me your number I'll see what I can do." I hung up in the certain knowledge that what she'd do was have a good laugh about my call with her mates then lob my number into her bin. Not that I blamed her, it couldn't be every day she got a raving madman calling the office. I chuckled bitterly to myself: I supposed I could schlep round every bar in the city, on the off-chance that I might happen to be in the right one at the exact same moment as my quarry. That evening I ran the video through frame by frame, hoping I might get a clue. No chance -- Julia had filmed her summary of the situation to camera on a hill overlooking the city centre, not outside the bar; and from what little I could see of the bar in the report it was big, dark and had lots of bottles hanging in optics -- just like a hundred bars in every city on the planet. The following day, Friday, I actually caught myself sulking over it. It was bloody ridiculous -- obviously I had no real intention of dashing to the other end of Europe to try and track down a woman I didn't know the first thing about, based on a few seconds of grainy TV footage. I decided to knock off a bit early in the afternoon, and I was actually pulling my coat on when the phone rang. I nearly ignored it, but then decided it just might be the other side in a doomed house sale I was handling. It wasn't. "Mr Duxbury? Hello, this is Tamzin at BBC News. I managed to catch Julia. She's fascinated by your story. If you do decide to go over and you find your friend she'd love to interview you, it would make a great human interest piece." I lied that, if I found who I was looking for, of course I'd let Julia know, then I waited impatiently. "Right, that bar. It's called Savo's, apparently, and it's in Cetinja Street -- just round the corner from the Grand Hotel, that's where Julia and the other journos are staying." Making a mental note to avoid the hotel like the plague I thanked her effusively and ran down the stairs to the street. On my way to the tube station, on a sudden impulse, I went into a florists and ordered a dozen roses to be sent to my informant. I didn't know her surname but, after all, how many Tamzins could there be in the BBC news room? (Actually, knowing the BBC, probably dozens!) That evening I whirled around the Internet like a dervish. I booked my air tickets, found a cheap hotel in my destination city, ordered some local currency and checked the train timetable. Then I sat and wondered what the fuck I was doing. I was on tenterhooks for the next three days. At last Tuesday came and I got up at the crack of dawn to drive up to Luton for my flight. To kill a bit of time in the terminal I bought a quart bottle of brandy in the terminal. I then spent the entire flight telling myself I was a bloody idiot for going. It wasn't until the plane landed that I realised I'd made a few serious errors in packing for the journey. For one thing, I hadn't packed a jumper. The moment I stepped from the warm air conditioned cabin onto the steps to the tarmac my blood froze in my body. I had left home on a nice, slightly cool late winter's morning. Here in the Balkans there were flurries of snow in the air and, in my jeans, sweatshirt and light jacket I thought I had literally never been so cold. I tried not to shiver in case my teeth shattered against each other! Getting to the station was easy enough -- there was a big bus outside the terminal with a picture of a train on it, and I just held out a few coins to the driver and hoped he wasn't ripping me off with the ones he took. I really started to regret not picking up a Serbo-Croat phrasebook, or whatever they spoke around there, when I came to buy my train ticket. My slow English explanation was met with a look of total incomprehension, but by pointing to my destination on a tiny map and running my finger back and forth between there and my departure point the clerk finally understood that I wanted a return ticket. I had half-expected the train to be a wheezing old puffer bought second hand after retiring from 50 years on the Indian railways; in fact, its sleek lines, cleanliness and speed put the British rail system to shame. The heating could have been better though -- I pulled two T-shirts out of my bag, squeezed them on over my sweatshirt, and still sat shivering all the way. I took just long enough to check in at my hotel, where the clerk, bless him, spoke a very clear form of English he seemed to have learnt from 1930s British stiff upper lip films, then headed off to find Cetinja Street. It was only a few minutes walk away, and I wandered staring in fascination at the scenes around me. There seemed to be heavily armed militia men everywhere, and I even saw a tank on one corner. For the first time I began, somewhat belatedly, to reflect on the sheer stupidity of parachuting into a city where the local Serbian minority had threatened bloody revenge for the independence declaration. Christ, there wasn't a single person who knew me who had any idea where I was. Savo, it turned out, was the owner of the bar, a huge guy -- probably six-feet-six and just as wide -- with a shock of grey hair and a massive bristling moustache. He didn't speak a word of English, but nodded with a wide grin when I pointed to a neon Budweiser sign. I stayed in the bar until closing time, setting a new personal record for stretching out three bottles of beer. Naturally my girl didn't show up. Julia Field did, with a group of four male colleagues. Judging by the way she was draping herself over one particular American Tarzan look-alike sporting a large video camera there wasn't much doubt where he'd be poking his lens before the night was out -- lucky bastard. They suddenly rushed out after Julia got a phone call. Finally, I dragged myself back to my digs in a steady drizzle of snow, cursing myself for a moron and trying not to think about all the money I'd spent on this bloody stupid enterprise. Good God, for all I knew the woman had just been visiting the city, had never set foot in Savo's before in her life and never would again. Even if I did see her, and approach her, she'd probably scream the place down and I'd be dragged off to some dark castle by the boys with rubber truncheons -- and who could blame her? I was aroused from my self-pitying reverie by the sound of chanting down one street, accompanied by constant whistles and an orange glow. When I got back to the hotel I switched on the TV and flicked through local versions of Millionaire, dubbed West Wing and so on, until I found CNN -- just in time to hear an account of the rioting ethnic Serb protesters a few streets away. The glow I had seen came from a burning police car. Great, I thought, switching the set off and burrowing down into my bed. At least it wasn't snowing the next morning; no, it was pissing down with icy rain like bullets. Just as I was leaving my room I remembered the brandy I'd bought in Luton, and slipped it into my pocket in the hope the odd nip would stop my blood from freezing. I took refuge in the local shopping mall, then the city museum, which had labels in rather idiosyncratic English. At noon, when Savo's opened, I was there. The bug guy grinned, pointed at me and said "Budweiser!" I was still there four hours later -- on my second bottle -- feeling thoroughly pissed off and the biggest idiot on the planet. Savo was obviously curious about me, but didn't have the linguistic skills to quiz me. Instead he just had a long muttered conversation with his regulars, with lots of half glances in my direction. I was on the verge of finally giving up my quest when, to my utter disbelief, the bar door opened -- and there she was! It was still freezing outside, but the morning rain had been replaced by a watery sun. She was still wearing the fur coat I'd seen on TV, and big sunglasses covered her eyes. She removed them as she stepped into the relative darkness of the bar. She was very pale, and her skin looked as if it needed a good moisturiser, but she was still basically my beautiful lady from the news broadcast. She was very petite, and looked tiny: even in her four-inch heels she was probably four or five inches shorter than me. Her skirt ended just above her knees, and I could see a shapely set of calves and ankles. Having finally seen her I realised I hadn't given the slightest thought to what I'd do in that eventuality. Almost by reflex, I stood and walked to the table she'd sat at, cleared my throat, and said, "Excuse me. Can I buy you a drink?" She looked up at me suspiciously. "Who you? I know you?" Then she brightened slightly. "You TV?" She started patting at her hair. I smiled and took the opportunity to sit opposite her. "No, I'm not from TV, and you don't know me, but I know you from TV." The suspicious frown was back on her face. Swallowing nervously, I said, "Look, can I get you that drink?" Her eyes narrowed as she appraised me. Then, recognising I obviously wanted to speak to her for a reason she shrugged and, over her shoulder, shouted something to Savo, flicking a finger at me. I noticed a wedding ring on her hand. Bugger, I thought, as if I'd ever had a chance with this complete stranger in the first place. Moments later the barman ambled over with another bottle of Bud and a large glass of some rich looking red wine. She took a sip then, still frowning at me, indicated her glass. "Why this? What you think I am? I look like bludnica to you, whore?" I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "No, I...look, you're going to think I'm mad when I tell you this, but..." And then I told her the whole story. She stared at me in total amazement, her mouth dropping open as I spoke, then, when I'd finally finished, she grinned. "Bullshit. Nobody do that. You make joke of me?" I pulled out my e-ticket from Luton and showed her it. She stared at it for a while, then her finger rested underneath the cost of the ticket. I could see she was doing a quick calculation. She looked up at me with shock in those huge eyes. "You pay this? You really fly thousand kilometre just to find me? From one minute on TV?" She took a long belt of her wine, then looked me in the face and giggled. "You right -- you crazy person." I smiled and nodded in agreement. Then, looking genuinely curious, she asked, "But why? I not...young, beautiful." Trying to look as sincere as I felt, I said, "When I saw you on TV I thought you were very beautiful. And now I've seen you for real, I know I was right." She actually blushed at that, and buried her face in her drink again. When she looked up, she gave me a soft, friendly smile. "I feel...don't know word...you make me feel special doing this crazy thing, flying so far, just for see me." I returned the warmth of her look. "And now I have. And I've seen I was right -- you're a beautiful, very lovely lady. Your husband's a lucky man." It was time to end my charade with this married stranger who was being kind to a foreign lunatic. Draining my beer glass, I began to stand, and said, "And now I will leave you in peace, sweet lady." I felt a tremor of shock run through me as her small, warm hand rested on mine. "Why you go? You come from England for see me, you see me, then you go." Astonished that she wasn't breathing a huge sigh of relief, I slowly sank back into my seat. I was vaguely aware of Savo taking a mild interest in us. My lady gave me another of her pretty smiles. "Flattered. That is word I think, I flattered you do this." We sat grinning at each other across the table. I realised her hand was still on mine. The hand with the wedding ring on it. A thought suddenly occurred to me. "I don't even know your name. I'm Rick, by the way." I thought she hadn't heard me at first. She was staring over my shoulder, not at anything, but apparently lost in thought. Then she turned her eyes to my face, looking very serious. "Like in movie, Casablanca. Mira. I am Mira. You want to come see my house Rick?" I thought I couldn't possibly have heard her right. She flicked her eyes momentarily in the direction of the bar and half-whispered, "No private here, can't talk proper. Look, I go now, you follow two minutes, I meet you at street corner." Before I could reply she was on her feet, clicking across the tiled floor on her high heels. I couldn't quite credit what had happened. I'd only known this woman for 15 minutes, for God's sake. For all I knew I could be about to be beaten to a pulp by her husband, stripped naked and dumped in a snowdrift 50 miles from civilisation. But as I watched the sway of her hips towards the door, at that moment I felt it was worth the risk. As soon as I was alone Savo tried to press another bottle of Bud on me. I made a great play of looking at my watch, shaking my head sadly and heading for the door. Just another drunk loser whose chat-up lines had fallen on deaf ears. I had a slight suspicion that Mira might have made a dash for it but, true to her word, she was on the street corner about 30 yards away. She giggled happily when I joined her and linked her arm with mine, because of the cold I told myself. "My house this way." Warning bells started to ring in my head. "And, erm, is your husband there?" She giggled again, and squeezed my arm. "My husband drive truck, right over Europe. Maybe in England right now." Yet another giggle. We walked for about 10 minutes. Although her legs were much shorter than mine, Mira twinkled along in the cold air and I had to stride out to keep pace with her. Her 'house', when we got there, turned out to be a grim 12-storey concrete block of apartments, which looked as if it had been transported there direct from Soviet Russia. Not even glancing at the lift, Mira headed straight for the stairs, stopping to my relief at only the third floor. Her apartment was small and spotlessly clean, but very cold. Mira squatted in front of a gas fire and turned it on full blast, then motioned me to a couch. I sat nervously, wondering what happened next. As the fire very slowly began to heat the room she gave me a beaming smile and said, "Drink?" I suddenly remembered my brandy and dug it out of my jacket pocket. Her smile turned positively radiant at that, and she bustled into the kitchen and returned with two glass tumblers. Dropping her fur coat on the floor and flopping down beside me on the couch, she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her small toes, then I poured us both a generous shot. We sat silently for a minute or two, sipping the burning liquid and smiling nervously at each other like idiots. I cast my eyes around the room, and they fell on a framed photo of a smiling young man with dark blond hair. I motioned to it. "Your son?" It was a lucky guess. Mira nodded, and went misty-eyed for a moment. "Andrea. He away with army, three, four month now." Andrea looked maybe 20 in the photo, so I thought his mother must have been a little older than I'd guessed. Then she gave me another brittle smile and linked arms with me again, squeezing mine. "You come so far, " she said in wonderment, "just to see me." I noticed she was rubbing her stockinged feet together, as if they were still cold. Without really thinking about it, I bent and scooped them into my lap and started to rub them vigorously. After a moment I realised what an inappropriate thing it was to do, but Mira didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, she mewed like a cat and snuggled down into the couch, clearly enjoying my kneading her feet. My Balkan Adventure After a couple of minutes, Mira shuffled towards me, causing my hands to pass up onto her legs. I almost removed them, but instinct told me she didn't want me to. A couple more shuffles, and my hands were on her lower thighs, at the very edge of her skirt, and she was pretty much sitting on my lap, her arm around my neck. Jesus, I'd barely known her an hour! I felt her warm, brandy-scented breath on my face. Still slightly nervous of falling foul of an angry Balkan trucker, I whispered, "What about your husband?" She rested her head on my shoulder, her nose touching my neck. "Ivo not here. He like fuck, probably got girls all across Europe. And I here on my own with no-one." I turned my face towards her to say something, and she pressed her full, soft lips to mine. She broke off for a second, whispered, "You flatter me," then we kissed again, embracing each other, pulling our bodies together. It had been more than a year since I'd kissed a woman (except my sister and my mum, and that was on the cheek!), and I loved the feel of Mira's warm fleshy lips melding to mine. I felt her small tongue flicker against my lips and opened my mouth to her. We kissed more and more passionately for a good -- a very good -- five minutes. Tentatively, not wanting to blow this miracle that had happened to me, I placed my hand on her bare, freckled chest, just above the v-neck of her dress. She moaned into my mouth and pushed herself against me. Encouraged, I slipped my hand downwards. Mira wasn't wearing a bra, just a slip, and my fingers settled around a small, cool breast. I squeezed it gently, feeling a hard nipple swelling against my palm. I could feel my cock beginning to swell too. Finally we came up for air and she rested her head on my chest, hugging my neck and smiling up at me with smouldering eyes. She whispered, "Bedroom across lobby. Give me two minute, you come." As she uncurled from my lap and left the room I slumped back on the couch and took a deep breath. Things like this just didn't happen to me, not even in London, let alone a country where I didn't even speak the language. Maybe I was wrong, maybe she was a, what was the word, bludnica after all. Or maybe she was just a lonely woman, on the verge of middle age, genuinely flattered by a reasonably attractive younger man coming dashing across Europe like some latter day Sir Galahad to find her, and maybe she was as turned on by the strangeness of our encounter as I was. After I reckoned two minutes had passed I rose and slowly crossed to the bedroom. Mira lay on the bed smiling at me, her hands behind her head. She was naked, and the bedclothes were rolled down to her knees. My already aroused cock instantly sprang to full attention as I took in the sight of her. Her mink coloured hair spread across her pillow like a cloud. Her skin was almost luminous it was so pale, and the coldness of the room was making goosepimples form. She was very slim -- not an ounce of spare flesh on her. Her freckles extended onto the top of her small breasts, which were flattened against her chest, her nipples dark brown in stark contrast to her skin, like little round hazelnuts. There were tiny tufts of gingery hair in her armpits, matching the larger tuft between her thighs. Not wanting to take my eyes off her for a moment I tore off my clothes then lay beside her and pulled the bedclothes over us. Bloody hell, it was cold in that room. I slipped my arms around Mira and pulled her to me; her body felt like ice. I rubbed my hands briskly up and down her back and along her arms, incredibly aware of her hard nipples pressing into my chest, and my stiff prick rubbing against her thigh. When I'd warmed her up a bit we kissed again, more tenderly than we had in the other room, lying on our sides. It had been so long since I'd been with a woman; but instinct took over, or maybe Mira did. Her arms around my midriff, she rolled onto her back, taking me with her. Almost before I'd realised it, my cock slipped into her, and I eased my hips forward, burying myself in her sweet hole. She closed her eyes and gasped with pleasure. Then she doubled up her sweet little legs and braced her tiny feet against my shoulders. Resting my hands flat on the bed, either side of her, I fucked her with long, smooth strokes, twitching my hips at the end of each forward thrust to drive into her that bit harder. She liked that, and gave a little anticipatory giggle each time. As we really warmed up though, she started panting rather than laughing, and I drove into her faster and with more force. It took only a couple of minutes before I shot my bolt, but I could tell Mira wasn't finished, so I carried on screwing her. I also reached one hand between our bellies, found her clit and flicked it with a finger as I rode her. When she came, it was volcanic. She roared, pushing against my shoulders with the soles of her feet, making me arch my back. I felt her pussy walls clamp on me, over and over, her hips bucked off the bed, then she stilled, smiling dazedly at me. I eased down beside her again and kissed her breast lightly, flicking the nipple with my tongue, causing her to giggle. I kissed her cheek and hugged her to me, whispering my thanks. I felt guilty about not having had a condom handy, but Mira didn't seem worried about it. We lay in silence for a while, cuddling and planting butterfly kisses on each other's faces. Then she murmured, "My Ivo, he like bull." She thrust a fist forward aggressively, illustrating her husband's style in bed. "All for him, not for me. You gentle, kind...nice." She snuggled her body more tightly into me, closing her eyes and smiling warmly. I kissed the top of the head, still not quite believing my amazing god fortune. I fell asleep in Mira's arms. I was woken after I don't know how long by a slight feeling of weight on my chest. I opened my eyes to see Mira sitting astride me, her pubes inches from my chin. The electric light hanging from the bedroom ceiling had been switched on, and shone through her hair, which formed a halo around her head. She shuffled forward an inch, and asked, "Is all right?" I smiled and reached around her, cupping her slim buttocks in my hands. "Is very all right." She giggled happily as I pulled her onto my face, her pale, freckled thighs framing my cheeks. I lapped my tongue into her hot, tight gash and flicked the tip of my nose against her clit. She immediately began to moan, and gyrated in small circles on my busy tongue. Loving her bitter-sweet flavour I screwed my face deeper into her. I felt her shift her weight back slightly, then a small, warm hand wrapped around my cock and she began to pump me, even as she rode my mouth and nose. I took a firmer grip on her bum, my fingers slipping deep between her cheeks. I began to knead her arse, my fingers massaging the soft flesh that fed into her puckered anus. She groaned louder at that, and began squirming more wildly on me, her hand racing up and down my straining cock. Then her thighs clamped to my head, she gave a howl like a banshee and I sensed new wetness flood into her vagina. I think it was the sheer pleasure I felt at her orgasm that made me cum a moment later, pumping my spunk onto her fingers. She remained sitting lightly on my face for a moment, then slowly, reluctantly it seemed, got off and cuddled up to me again. We kissed, and I knew that she would be tasting herself on my lips and tongue. When the kiss ended she pecked me on the cheek, nuzzled me and murmured happily, "Ivo never do that for me. You very sweet man, very good fuck." I felt a small swell of pride at that and pulled her tight to me. We both fell into a deep sleep after that. I was woken by a shaft of sunlight and, squinting, saw Mira standing fully dressed by the window, peering through a gap in the curtains. She turned when she heard me move, and smiled. "You stay here today, cold outside, not too safe. You stay with me again tonight?" My flight home was not until the following afternoon, and I nodded. Then I said, "But I'll need to get my things from the hotel I'm staying at." She thought for a moment. "I go to work now. Plenty of food, you eat, watch TV, when I get home we go get your things. Okay?" She leant down, kissed me briefly on the lips then left. With no key to the apartment, and no change of clothes, I didn't have a great deal of choice. I had a long, luxurious shower, then made myself a breakfast of some kind of thick sausage and bread. I hadn't eaten in almost 24 hours, and I was ravenous. I couldn't find any English language stations on the TV, but I located the BBC World Service on a battered transistor radio and spent the day listening to that and drowsing. Mira returned in the late afternoon and together we went to my hotel and I checked out. Then we returned to her flat and she made us a very tasty meat stew. We cuddled up for a while, and naturally we began to kiss again. Gradually, lovingly, we eased each other out of our clothes, then fell to the floor, on a small sheepskin rug in front of the electric fire. Mira kissed her way down my body, and sucked my cock into her mouth. As she began to pump her lips up and down it I pulled at her body and, understanding, she squirmed around until her pussy was beside my face. Licking and stroking each other to orgasm by the warm fire was divine, then we held each other tightly and kissed, our sticky tongues mingling. We stayed there for over an hour, Mira's sheepskin coat draped over us, before I scooped her into my arms and carried her into the bedroom. Almost immediately we screwed again, this time with Mira's little legs wrapped around me and her fingernails raking across my back. Having shot off not long before I was able to last a good while, and Mira came at least twice before I finished, writhing, sighing and moaning beneath me as I pumped into her, varying the speed, strength and depth of my strokes. At one point I actually lifted up onto my hands and knees and Mira came with me, suspended above the bed by her arms and legs around me and my prick inside her. While we recovered our breath I had a good long suck on her nipples, caressing her slim body with my fingertips as she trailed her fingers through my hair. Then she sucked me off again. She didn't have an especially sophisticated technique, just running her lips up and down my dick while her tongue stroked the underside, but it felt like heaven to me and I enjoyed another thunderous release into her mouth. The next morning, as dawn peeped between the curtains, I lifted up on one elbow and looked at my lover. Her skin really did need some TLC; there were little crows feet around her eyes and mouth; but she still looked so, so beautiful to me. I kissed her eyebrow and, eyes still closed, she smiled and stroked her fingers along my cock. We were both a bit sad as we dressed, Mira for work, I for my return to the UK. She insisted on coming to the railway station with me, despite the risk of someone who knew her husband seeing us, and even though it would make her late for her job. There we just held each other for a long time, not speaking, with my nose buried in her hair. With moments to spare before my train left we pulled apart and she smiled, with tears brimming in her eyes. I suddenly thought of something, and pulled a business card out of my wallet, scribbling my home address and telephone number on the back. I handed it to her, saying rather lamely, "I'd like us to keep in touch", knowing the unlikelihood, the near impossibility of it. Then we kissed each other on the lips and I dashed onto the train. Mira stood watching me from the platform until we lost sight of each other. All the way to the airport I felt as if I might burst into tears at any moment. I'd made this journey on a whim, chasing a crazy, impossible fantasy; and to my total surprise I'd found love, a love I couldn't pursue. On the plane I slept, dreaming of creamy, freckled thighs caressing my face. I worried about Mira over the next few weeks, as Serb sabres rattled on the borders of her tiny country and internal strife brewed. Thankfully the UN and the EU brokered talks between the various sides and, like a valve being opened on a team engine, the pressure began to ease. I still thought about her every day though. I tried to phone her once, but a gruff male voice answered and I hung up. Then just the other day, out of the blue, she phoned me at work. Ivo, it seemed, had got a contract with a firm in Germany, meaning he would be away for three months at a time. Mira suspected he had a woman there. As a little girl she'd dreamed of seeing England -- Big Ben, the Queen and so on. She thought she'd love a week's holiday here in the beautiful Spring weather. But it was so far, so expensive...I delightedly took the hint, and within hours I'd tracked down a flight from her local airport. It cost rather more than my budget flight to the country next door, and involved a transfer at Cologne; but I figured it was worth it. So now I'm sitting in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow, only 20 minutes drive from my home. Mira's flights just landed, and I can't wait to see her again.