FIVE
But I must leave Sophia and her new friend to convey the news to you the reader – news you are receiving before even Sophia received it, given that she had more important matters to attend to than her mobile phone – that, little more than a month after returning to England, she would be on a plane to the group’s headquarters in Tokyo. She would be part of a sizable UK delegation (numbers had not yet been confirmed, but there were likely to be 12 at the least) for what had once been a biennial event, but one which for one reason or another hadn’t been held for nearly seven.
When she told husband Peter about the nine-day trip, after she had returned to her riverside home in leafy Barnes, seeing how exhausted she was, he expressed concern that her workload might catch up with her one day, if she wasn’t careful to maintain a healthy work-life balance. He knew the type of dedication she brought to her work and especially to seeing that the needs of her clients, especially the high-net-worth ones, were fully met. He could see that she had been unstinting with her time and energy on the short German trip, and was naturally worried that she would overdo things on a longer trip to the Land of the Rising Sun in her desire to please her bosses on their home turf.
Meanwhile, Sophia could be certain that Peter had not let the grass grow under his feet during her absence. In her absence, it was a given that the children’s Czech nanny, Myška, would have been sharing his (her!) bed when given a pink slip by her Hungarian flatmate and lover Piri. Indeed, based on past experience, Piri had possibly joined the party, and – who knows? – maybe brought along some of her Bohemian friends. Peter certainly seemed pretty chipper. But then he never looked or seemed tired. He might be out half the night with his mates or on the job all night with his stable of female admirers, but you would never know it. He’d just sleep it off the next couple of nights and everything would be as right as rain. Sophia sometimes wondered if he actually worried about anything.
That night in bed, after Sophia had caught up with news about the children (Ollie, six, and Chloe, four and a half), Peter asked her probing questions about her Frankfurt trip. Before she left, she told him that she would be going to the Frankfurt Opera, but he hadn’t bought it then and he wasn’t buying it now. As it happened, tickets had been bought and bank people had gone to see Manon Lescaut, but of course Sophia was not among them. Sensing, like sleep-deprived POWs facing lengthy interrogation by the Gestapo, that resistance would be futile, Sophia admitted that she had passed up a trip to the opera (which she wasn’t very fond of in the first place, as Peter knew) in favour of an evening at a cabaret. (Sophia thought this sounded better than ‘nightclub’.) It didn’t take long for her husband to elicit the whole truth surrounding the night out. Being someone who enjoyed his vicarious pleasures as much as the next man, Peter wasn’t satisfied until he had squeezed out every last detail. Being an understanding and sympathetic person too (as everyone kept reminding Sophia), he was particularly disappointed for his wife that she hadn’t been able to get to know Rania a little more intimately. Maybe next time, he suggested.
Wheedling the truth about the driver Andreas out of his wife took Peter a little longer. But, as usual, his network of mates and mates’ mates had already furnished him with the important details of this little tryst. (At the centre of the web was the Egyptian Seth, Peter’s friend of old, who worked at the Japanese bank with Sophia and had been known to send some pretty profitable ‘business’ her way.) Peter seemed pretty cool with the fact that the specifications of his weaponry matched his own, and the German went right up in his estimation when Sophia recounted the hard time he had given her and the slightly sour note on which they had parted. Good for him, was Peter’s verdict, much to his wife’s chagrin.
Now it was time to find out what her husband had been up to while his wife was away. At first, Peter had seemed affronted that Sophia would so much as suspect that he would get up to any monkey business while she was gone, but it was really more of a ploy to turn her on than a genuine attempt on his part to pull the wool over her eyes. It all began to fall into place when Peter let it slip out in conversation that Piri’s sister was visiting from Szeged in Hungary.
‘Ah, I get it, a threesome with the sisters?’
‘Well, not exactly.’
‘You mean you took this sister out for a romantic dinner, wined and dined her and then brought her back to this bed for a quick – sorry, long – fuck?’
‘Again, not exactly. Look, do you want me to tell you, or are you set on going through all the possibilities?’
‘Okay, one more try. Knowing how generous, hospitable and inclusive you are, you cooked for them here and then banged all three of them before they buggered off home at dawn?’
‘Did you set up hidden cameras or what?!’
‘Oh, Peter, you are incorrigible. I know you’re dying to tell me what happened. Go on – I’m all ears.’
And so Peter told the story of his evening with Myška, Piri and Kriszta, which I will reduce to a kind of gist to give a flavour of what was an uproarious and very special night. It all really kicked off after dinner, or perhaps I should say, with dinner, since Peter had prepared an authentic goulash, with imported Hungarian sweet paprika, beef lard, caraway seeds – the works. Piri had brought six bottles of the best Hungarian red wine she could lay hands on, and Myška had brought a dessert – a fabulous lemon meringue pie. Meanwhile, Kriszta hadn’t been idle, preparing some traditional pogácsa pastries in a variety of flavours, including bacon and pumpkin seed, while the goulash was simmering away.
(God, Sophia thought, Peter’s always been one for using food to lower the defences and get girls to drop their panties for him.)
After dinner, they had played a popular Hungarian card game called ulti, tweaking it so that there were forfeits for those who lost a certain number of hands. Yes, a bit like strip poker, in practice, Peter conceded, but more like ‘Truth or Dare’, in theory. Sophia could see where this was going – not that it was exactly something requiring a degree in astrophysics to predict. Peter explained that one unforeseen consequence of picking a game that was well known to three of the participants but unknown to the fourth (Peter himself) was that he had fared significantly worse than the others and had had to face several humiliating situations early in the evening.
The first was when he chose ‘truth’ and was asked if he had ever been thinking about another woman when making love to his wife. When he said, ‘Only twice,’ the others had of course pressed him to name the women. Peter had blushed – most out of character – which merely led to the chorus of voices asking him to name names to grow louder. Driven into a corner from which there was no escape, he said the two people concerned were with him in the room now. The revelation – such as it was – was received with whooping and hollering by the protagonists, but Kriszta remained strangely silent. (I can see where this is going, thought Sophia.)
‘So you find me unattractive, Péter?’ she finally said, addressing him, as she always did, after the Hungarian manner.
‘No, of course not. Absolutely not!’
‘I think you’d better show her, otherwise she will think your words are empty,’ said Piri.
‘Um, is this part of the game?’
‘You still want to be playing games when the happiness of a human soul is at stake?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t find her attractive?’ chipped in Myška.
‘Oh my God, absolutely not. No, I mean, she – you – are very attractive – indeed.’
‘More words, Peter,’ said Piri. ‘Show her you mean it.’
Not one for letting his friends down, Peter led Kriszta to the couch, where he seated himself beside her and complimented her on her turquoise midi dress.
‘You haven’t looked at me all evening. Always you are looking at my sister and Myška.’
‘Not at all, no. In fact, I have felt quite shy around you because, well, you know…’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘Well, um, because, you know -‘
‘You want to fuck me?’
‘Well, I’m not sure if I’d have put it exactly like that, but, in a way, I suppose, given the right circumstances and, you know, the opportunity -‘
‘You want to fuck me upstairs, pretend I am your wife?’
‘Oh, no, heaven forbid.’
‘You don’t like other people watching?’
‘Absolutely not. I mean, sure, that’s fine by me.’
‘So, I think the only reason you don’t touch me is because you don’t find me attractive.’
‘Absolutely not!’
‘Then show me!’
Peter felt he was left with no option but to accede to his guest’s request, leaning in to kiss her on the mouth. Hungrily, Kriszta ground her lips against his, before forcing her tongue into his not overly resistant mouth. Dispensing with any finesse, simultaneously she sought out his zipper, pulled it down and unearthed his already hard cock. The temptation proved too strong for the 27-year-old Hungarian. Binning the kiss, she moved straight to his penis and took it in her mouth, working it mercilessly and almost violently and drawing unwonted mutterings from Peter’s mouth. Encouraged by his response, she almost ripped his trousers off, followed without any delay by his boxers.
‘He is so, so big! My pussy wants him so bad!’
Myška and Piri had sneaked around the room to get a grandstand view of the spectacle and were just settling in their chairs when Kriszta let out a yell. She had impaled herself on Peter’s eight-inch monster without so much as a ‘How’s your father?’ Peter himself looked as shocked as anyone else, and the gentleman in him knew he should do the decent thing and uncouple himself from the impetuous Hungarian. His partner was having none of it, though, forbidding him to pull out and merely readjusting her panties, which she was still wearing, if only after a fashion, given that they had been yanked to one side to allow access to Peter’s club. Her intentions were clear, if not entirely honourable: she wished to ride Peter until she came. If she could bring him off at the same time, so much the better.
Everything was happening so fast, so far as Peter was concerned. One minute he’s chatting to his friends, the next they’re playing cards, and then suddenly he’s being jumped by a borderline psychotic Hungarian. Goodness knows how her vagina felt after the assault, but his cock was chafing as if it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. Thankfully, she had now slowed down a fraction, and Peter had to admit that he was beginning to enjoy the experience, bizarre though it was. His next significant contribution to the congress was to unzip her dress and ease it down over her boobs, which were pear-shaped and somewhat droopy but attractive in their own way once you got used to them. In a way, they matched the quirky personality of their owner.
And that owner was getting ever more serious about achieving her objective – maintaining an almost metronomic tempo as she bobbed up and down on Peter’s not unwilling member. The squelching that could be heard by everyone in the room indicated that comfort levels, as well as sheer arousal, had risen significantly.
‘Speak to me in Hungarian,’ Peter said.
‘Why you want that?’ Kriszta shot back at him, as if he had libelled her.
‘Well,’ replied Peter, struggling for words that wouldn’t get him into further trouble. ‘Well, I’d like to hear you speak it.’
‘But, why, if you don’t understand it?’
Peter seriously wondered if this woman was a sandwich short of a picnic. Did she have not a shred of romance in her? Not an iota of mystique, or appreciation for the unspoken, the mysterious? He decided to give it one more try, in language he thought she might understand.
‘I want to hear you ask me to come inside you in your own language. I want you to ask me to fuck you senseless in your mother tongue.’
‘Why you not say?’
And Kriszta launched a volley of Hungarian at Peter as she continued to ride his cock – now with even more manic intensity than ever. She mixed a little English into her polemic, with two of the discernible words being ‘cocksucker’ and, for some unknown reason, ‘pudding’. Was she calling him a ‘Yorkshire pudding’, Peter wondered, in the same way that French people call the English ‘roast beef’? Notwithstanding this and other puzzles, Peter found he was on the point of coming. Not wanting to disappoint Kriszta by anticipating her, he increased his rhythm and gave vent to an oral fusillade of his own, calling her every word he could think of that would get him suspended for life by Twitter and Instagram.
‘Yes, Péter, yes! Now I come like waterfall!’
Needless to say, the card game was forgotten as the other girls got in on the act, Piri and Myška making out on an armchair before moving to the floor, where they had more room to explore, leaving Peter to contend with a Kriszta who had undergone something of a metamorphosis since their successful coupling. To say she had suddenly transformed into a sensuous seductress would be stretching things a bit, but she had become extremely amorous. The old jealousy was still there – she hated it if Peter so much as looked at her sister and her lover making love not ten feet away – but there was a new softness in her regard for her Péter, or Peti as she now called him. And with the softness, a new insistence: an insistence that he make love with her on the bed where he makes love to his wife.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ Peter thought, as he gathered his things and led the way upstairs.
The latest member of his fan club was purring like a kitten as she slipped under the duvet and beckoned to Peti to join her.
‘I have so much I want to do to you,’ she said, causing Peter a brief moment of panic.
It was with some misgivings, then, that he snuggled in beside her. He thought he would wrap her in a tight embrace, on the grounds that she would be less able to wreak any havoc in this position. It would also enable him to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, which he did, but the effect was not exactly the soothing one he had planned. Instead, she began to heave and mutter in rather a disturbing manner. It was only a matter of seconds before she had once more grabbed his cock, which, in spite of all Peter’s best intentions, became almost instantly erect, throbbing and pulsing under her supple fingers. Rather than bring him off, though, satisfied that she had him where she wanted him, she threw back the duvet, stretched herself out above his supine body and brought her neatly trimmed pussy to his face.
‘Lick my cunt!’ was her unequivocal instruction.
Not wishing to be accused of lacking in hospitality, Peter began working on her swollen labia, making her wait before he made a move on other areas that he could feel were crying out for attention. Each attempt to manoeuvre her clitoris into the line of fire was met with an equal and opposite adjustment by Peter and a request for her to be patient. As he expected – and indeed hoped – she began to get agitated, hurling abuse at him after her quixotic fashion. Since she was being so incorrigible, he decided that a little back-door action was in order. So, having placed a hand on each of her boyish buttocks, he slowly moved the little finger of his right hand towards her puckered hole. Her response was immediate, bucking and thrashing about, so that he had to use his most peremptory tone of voice to bring her back under control. That done, he withdrew his hand momentarily in order to lick the pinkie, and then returned it to her seemingly impenetrable trap door. It proved to be considerably less secure than its appearance suggested, as it gave way at the first application of pressure. As if coming out in sympathy, the girl’s oral orifice opened too to give a lengthy appraisal of what was being carried out below. Within seconds the finger was clenched tightly inside her tunnel and Peter turned his attention back to her magnificent pussy.
As a reward for the relative restraint she had recently been showing, Peter moved his attention – and his tongue – to her clitoris, which was almost white and shaped like an acorn. As he worked on it, it began to grow – not, of course, into an oak tree, but into a very respectably proportioned acorn. Feeling her arousal building under his multi-pronged assault, he decided to open a new front and sank the index finger of his left hand into her vagina. The combined stimuli were almost – but not quite – powerful enough to send her over the edge, but he knew what would.
‘All in good time,’ he thought, as he gathered his strength for the final thrust.
It gave him great satisfaction to keep all his balls in the air, as it were, as she continued to ride him in blissful contentment. The smallest adjustment in the position or pressure of tongue or finger would cause a commensurate response from the girl, who, Peter had decided, had merely been in need of some breaking in. For the moment, at any rate, she was like putty in his hands.
‘Time for lift-off!’ Peter thought, removing his finger from her vagina, as it was time to replace it with the muscle that Kriszta had been craving deep inside her.
First, though, Peter had in mind another replacement, that of his ring finger for the little finger in the girl’s forbidden passage. Having made that switch, he brought his tongue off her clitoris and in one fell swoop dived deep into her centre, drinking deeply at her fountainhead. Hungry for her own satisfaction, she wouldn’t let him sup for long, as she was overcome by a series of tremors that racked her body and left her limp and apparently lifeless on the bed.
But not for long. She was soon worshipping at the Englishman’s totem pole, glorying in its length, its colour, its shape and its massive girth.
‘My God!’ said Peter. ‘Don’t you ever get tired?’
By way of response, Kriszta made loud slurping noises, as she began to deepthroat her lover.
‘Oh, fuck!’ groaned Peter, already imagining throwing the girl onto the bed and fucking her without any consideration for her feelings whatsoever.
It seemed that the Hungarian couldn’t get enough of his cock. For ten minutes, she kept at it, scarcely coming up for air, using a combination of tongue, lips and teeth that brought Peter close to the edge. Obviously considering herself a failure for being unable to bring him off, Kriszta looked at Peter with doe-like eyes and asked him what she was doing wrong. When Peter reassured her that she had done a fantastic job and explained that he hardly ever came when a woman was blowing him, she smiled her gap-toothed smile and was all ready to go back to work, when Peter stopped her and said he was ready to fuck her if she wanted to be fucked.
After giving Peter a smacker on the lips, she lay down with her legs spread wide – the kind of invitation Peter always found it hard to resist.
‘Do you want it hard or gentle?’ he asked.
‘I want it very hard,’ was the unambiguous reply.
Peter slid forward until his rampant manhood was banging on the gates of her womanhood. There being no one on duty to let him in, Peter took matters into his own hands and started to batter the gates down. Tightly closed as they were, they stood little chance against weaponry of the calibre the Englishman was equipped with. On his seventh or eighth thrust, he felt the hinges begin to buckle, an eventuality that spurred him on to even greater effort. According to the code of chivalry, it was incumbent on him to offer the chance of surrender. This being turned down, he felt no compunction in using all the force he could muster to breach the defences. And it was not long until he had forced a passage into the antechamber to the throne room. Once he had achieved that breakthrough, all hell broke loose.
Attacker and defender thrust and parried as if their life depended on it. Almost as one person, they coiled and wound, as the aggressor made his inexorable progress into the throne room, where all her treasure was kept under lock and key. Smashing that lock as if it were made of balsa wood, the knight drove home his advantage, pillaging the maiden’s box and snatching her valuables, including her most precious gem. Before he left her to return to his stronghold, he poured out upon her a libation of the most rare and precious nectar, which she was pleased to drink down to the very lees. When he thundered away on his steed, she was still lying there where he had left her spreadeagled on the floor, rejoicing that there were still such men ranging across the land in search of adventure and of love.
SEVEN
‘Another member of your burgeoning fan club,’ said Sophia, having listened to her husband’s improbable tales. ‘Perhaps you might like to introduce her to me one day, if you’re not too busy.’
‘I’m not sure she’s into women,’ replied Peter, somewhat disingenuously, as he had heard plenty of tales about her from little Myška, who had been speaking from first-hand experience.
‘Why is everything always about sex with you?’ Sophia responded, blind perhaps to her own deficiency in the same arena. ‘Anyway, she’ll be into me if I give her the green light, of that you may be certain.’
‘Okay,’ said her husband, ‘I’ll ask Myška to see if she’s free one evening and perhaps we can have supper together.’
‘You’d better check with me first, Peter. I have quite a lot on in the next few weeks.’
A date that suited everyone was arranged and it was around 8.30 one Saturday evening that the two girls pitched up, both casually dressed in T-shirt and jeans, even though the early summer evenings were, as so often in England, decidedly on the chilly side. Sophia, who was dressed a tad more formally, in a cream blouse with a black block collar and a Burgundy belted skirt, welcomed the Hungarian to her home with something of the air of the Lady of the Manor, even though she knew she had not only been there before (probably several times) but had also shared both her husband and her bed – leaving her mark on both.
‘What a funny looking woman!’ was Sophia’s first reaction on meeting Kriszta. ‘She makes Piri look positively human and rather normal.’
Besides the gap in the front teeth – a flaw, which hadn’t done Lauren Hutton, for one, any harm in her career – she was wild in a gypsy kind of way, with coal black eyes and hair that looked as if it had been shorn rather than styled. She also had a complexion that was unique in being both pallid and dark at the same time, as if she had been applying skin whitening cream for years and it was beginning to take effect. Having said all that, she had a certain something about her, in a boyish kind of way. One thing was for sure: next to her, Myška looked the epitome of femininity.
As Sophia quickly discovered, she also had only a rudimentary grasp of English, which she delivered in a staccato fashion, which reminded Sophia of the staff at her family’s local Chinese takeaway when she was a child. There was, in short, not a lot of polish to this woman, and Sophia began to doubt Peter’s story: not that he had fucked her, but that the experience had been in any way enjoyable or – she found herself smiling when she used the word to herself – loving. As far as anything romantic transpiring tonight, Sophia had to be realistic: a green light was out of the question, however much the strange girl might want her. Even an amber shade was pretty much unthinkable. Sophia could more easily imagine herself being aroused by the lollipop woman who shepherded Ollie across the road to school in the morning than by this specimen.
To be frank, when they had finished their supper of chicken melts and guacamole, Sophia was all for calling it a night. She tried tipping Peter the wink, but as usual, when there was skirt around, he was basking in the attention and all the ‘your husband is so sensitive’ stuff. It was he who suggested that they watch a Canadian film called Beneath Her Mouth, which a work colleague had lent him on DVD. Peter’s groupies were of course mad keen on the idea, an enthusiasm which his wife didn’t share. Indeed, Sophia seriously considered going to bed and leaving them to watch their film and get up to whatever else they wanted to do. In the end, she thought she’d watch the first ten minutes at least and then make a decision.
What Sophia, who was occupied with her phone as Peter set things up and dimmed the lights, didn’t realise, was that while this was happening Kriszta took the place on the sofa next to Sophia recently occupied by Peter, leaving Peter to squeeze next to Myška on the armchair, with their arms around each other’s shoulders. The film turned out to be a drama about a beautiful woman who is engaged to be married who becomes conflicted about her sexuality when a butch builder arrives to carry out work on her apartment. After a bit of snogging and petting, it seems as if the woman has got the lesbian thing out of her system until one day the butch builder takes a bath with her, whips out her strap-on and converts her to the joys of queer love. This last bit happens in front of her bemused fiancé, who just happens to arrive back from work early that day to give his intended a surprise. In the end, after a bit of soul-searching, the beauty decides her future lies with women and dumps the man – who, it must be said, is both very sensitive and understanding (more so than the butch woman) – and very handsome.
‘God, Peter, that man reminds me so much of you,’ she said, as the movie moved towards its inevitable conclusion, turning round to look at him as she spoke.
It was a matter for debate whether he heard her, as he and the Czech nymph had their tongues down each other’s throats and their hands in places where they were guaranteed to be protected from the evening chill. Feeling upset and irritable, Sophia was about to rise from the sofa and take herself upstairs when she felt a hand on her knee. She really wanted the weird woman to leave her be – to leave the house in fact – but she hesitated for a moment and that hesitation proved fatal.
‘And that woman – she reminds me so much of you,’ said Kriszta, moving her hand over Sophia’s skirt up her leg to the narrow belt that acted more as adornment than anything else.
Leaving her hand there on Sophia’s waist, she turned towards her and drew her into a kiss with her hand cupping her cheek. At first, Sophia made no response, as she attempted to deal with the conundrum she faced: why should this woman who she found so plain – so unattractive even – be turning her on so much? Was life mirroring art (if you could call the pap she had just been watching art)? For in the film the builder had been, in Sophia’s view, singularly unattractive – operating well out of her league, if one was honest. But now, here was she – a beauty – on the verge (if she wasn’t careful) of being seduced by someone who looked as if she had been assembled in a laboratory. So, still she gave nothing back to the Hungarian woman – until suddenly a picture of Piri flooded her mind and everything changed.
Shifting on the sofa, she faced her seductress and started to give her what she wanted, gently and slowly at first, sensing the wildness in the other person that would most certainly be unleashed at some point. Yes, at some point, Sophia thought, but not now. They kissed with meaning but with little overt passion for several minutes, each woman bringing one hand to the face of the other, while the other hand found a place to rest on their respective waists. Sophia didn’t know why she did it – she was sure she didn’t want to do it – but suddenly she had done it. The button of the girl’s jeans was undone and the zipper was sliding down – all the way down. She didn’t mean either to do what she did next, which was to slide her hand under the hem of the girl’s panties and onto the girl’s sex. Again, it was unplanned synchronicity which saw her force one finger into the girl’s slick vulva even as she drove her tongue deep into her soft, lush mouth.
Kriszta was putty in the older woman’s hands and revelled in the unaccustomed role of playing the dominated one. But this was no game, and she was playing no role. She felt like she had not felt for many years now, for, despite her relatively young age, she had needed to fend for herself – using every edge she could find – for longer than she could remember. She hadn’t known tenderness like this with a woman since she was a teenager – and then it had been only once – and now she had found it with – of all people – this snobbish English woman.
Sophia too was surprised by the turn of events, and even more so by the change in her attitude towards Kriszta. Realising that something beyond pure animal passion was at work, she made to withdraw her finger from the girl’s pussy, but was prevented from doing so by the other’s hand.
‘I like,’ she said simply. ‘I like you inside me.’
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ said Sophia, casting a glance at the chair, where Peter and Myška were, as usual, lost in a world of their own.
Kriszta followed Sophia to her room. Ever the romantic, Peter had prepared candles and Sophia lit them while her lover took her clothes off and slipped into the bed.
‘Pity,’ Sophia thought. ‘I wanted to see her strip for me.’
‘I can always extend her the same courtesy,’ she reasoned, moving into the girl’s line of vision and waiting until she had her full attention, which didn’t take long.
Unused as she was to this kind of thing, she drew on the examples she had witnessed, most notably in Thailand. She knew she should not rush, that she should tease, that she should leave her gallery wanting more until there was no more left to give. She sashayed and shimmied with her hands above her head before sweeping them down over her breasts and onto her thighs. She thrust her hips forward and then her breasts, until she could feel the pressure grow on the long line of buttons that fronted her schoolmarmy blouse. With a pout, she undid the buttons on her cuffs and made a face as if berating herself for her show of immodesty. She then changed tack by turning round and jutting her backside towards her admirer, who was at this point utterly transfixed by the performance. She held the pose for some time before jiggling her buttocks in front of eyes that hadn’t blinked for what seemed like minutes.
Still with her back to the girl, she started to unbutton her blouse, reaching the midway point before turning back to face her. Kriszta could see the outline of the while lacy bra, her mind racing to visualise the beauty of the breasts that lay concealed beneath it. Leaning in towards her enrapt spectator, she challenged her to get involved – to unbutton her completely, to rip the blouse off her body. Clenching her fists and setting her teeth, Kriszta resisted the temptation to touch Sophia. Under the covers, she moved one hand to her core, which she knew could now only be satisfied by the tongue of the woman standing before her, and began, very discreetly, to touch herself. When Sophia had undone the last button before her skirt, rather than pulling up the rest of the cotton, she undid the little belt and, staring her prey full in the eyes, began to fumble with the button whose release would signify the crossing of the Rubicon – the point from beyond which there would be no return. Within a few seconds, the crossing had been made and the skirt was pooled around Sophia’s ankles, revealing her skimpy panties, from which peeped stray wisps of blonde hair. Sophia made short work of the few remaining buttons of her blouse and, tossing it to the floor, stood before Kriszta in her underwear.
Rather than proceed any further, she motioned to the girl to move over and got into bed beside her. Kriszta, she had decided, could complete the job. First, though, they joined in a long, languid kiss, Sophia seeking out the gap in her lover’s teeth and plugging it with her tongue. Soon enough, Hungarian hands found their way to the clasp of the older woman’s bra and deftly unfastened it. Pushing back the duvet so she wouldn’t miss out on the sight of the breasts being revealed, Kriszta removed the bra and took in the wondrous sight, exalting in the knowledge that she had these beauties all to herself. She noted how prominent the nipples already were and made her first vow of the evening: to make them harder and longer than they had ever been before.
Before she began to make good on her vow, she looked up at Sophia and smiled.
‘She really does look like a gypsy,’ thought Sophia, images of Carmen of operatic fame suffusing her mind.
This Carmen had no thoughts of sticking a rose between her teeth, though. Her only current interest lay in duplicate before her. Was it her imagination, or had the buds already become more swollen? Was this the effect of the chill night air or could it be the arousal that Sophia was experiencing in her presence? Kriszta put such speculations to one side as she focused all her attention on the breasts. She began with the nearest, dispensing with preliminaries and latching straight onto the nipple. A gasp escaped the lips of the Englishwoman, who was clearly taken aback by such a bold move. Encouraged, Kriszta worked it hard, meshing it between her lips and pummelling it with her tongue. Meanwhile, her hand moved to the other tit, which she massaged with increasing pressure, biding her time before she arrived at the crowning glory, at which point she moved her mouth across and lashed it with something approaching fury. Sensing Sophia’s arousal building apace, she repeated the same manoeuvre that the older woman had made on her earlier in the evening, pushing down her panties and easing a finger into her tight opening.
‘Oh, fuck, yes,’ Sophia grunted. ‘Fuck me, you gypsy!’
Not a woman who needed a second invitation, Kriszta slid down, got rid of the panties and drove her tongue into Sophia’s aching shaft. Like rainfall from a cloudless sky, her juices ran all over Kriszta’s chin and onto the bed. The Hungarian girl redoubled her efforts in order to bring some order to proceedings, but it was no good. The more she lapped up the juices, the more they flowed in torrents down the older woman’s legs. It was clear she needed filling – stopping up – but what was Kriszta to use? Her hand would have to do. Making a fist, she wiggled it until it was wrapped by Sophia’s tissue, then she gently pushed it home until it plopped inside her vagina. Sophia cried out in ecstasy and told the girl not to stop. Already her mind had turned to the chest of drawers where the monster dildo was kept.
With her hand deep inside Sophia, Kriszta shifted her body and offered her papaya-shaped, somewhat droopy tits to Sophia. Like a once picky eater who circumstances has reduced to someone who will happily eat anything, Sophia sucked hungrily at the bulbous flesh, drawing appreciative noises from the girl. Raking the skin with her tongue, it wasn’t long before she happened upon her nipple – a very dark brown, elongated protuberance that hinted at eastern ancestry.
‘Weren’t the gypsies originally from India?’ Sophia wondered.
The Hungarian clearly liked having her nipple attended to, as she pushed Sophia away momentarily in order to kiss her deeply, still not moving her hand from the other woman’s centre. She then fed the Englishwoman her other tit. Sophia duly obliged, but, truth be told, she had her mind on other things, namely, the gypsy’s tongue inside her yawning chasm and the feel of that giant cock pounding her cunt. So after a couple of minutes, she freed her mouth and asked Kriszta to lick her out. To say that the girl was pleased to oblige would be one of the understatements of the century.
Placing herself between Sophia’s legs, she viewed the area that had so recently been vacated by her fist and prepared herself mentally for the next step. How beautiful she looked with her lips all puffy and her pink vagina so enticing when those lips were parted! To say nothing of the dampness, which made access to all parts of her inner being so much easier and so much more enticing. And the fragrance! It was as if she were disporting herself in an aromatic arbour!
Reining in her natural impulse to dive deeply into the abysm, Kriszta savoured each moment, starting with the labia, which she kissed and licked with an ardent precision that missed not a millimetre of their surface. When she turned her attention to the inner folds, she was struck once again by the exquisite combination of flavours and aromas. She could feast here for hours, she thought. But it seemed Sophia could read her thoughts, because there was urgency in the voice that entreated her to make her come, to make her come and then fill her with the giant cock.
What was a girl to do, thought Kriszta, torn between her desire to please herself and this woman’s yearning for fulfilment. She worked out a compromise with herself, deciding to keep the blonde simmering for as long as she could before bringing her off with a shuddering orgasm. Then she would happily fuck her to kingdom come with the vast appendage which Piri had spoken of so often.
Moving a finger to Sophia’s clitoris, she began working on that while her tongue delved ever deeper into her heavenly cunt. The Englishwoman’s articulations told the Hungarian girl that she was making good progress. So did her beautifully manicured hands, which drove Kriszta’s head deeper still into her aching womanhood. Sensing that Sophia was approaching the point of no return, Kriszta took a gamble, leaving her core in order to focus on her most sensitive part.
Replacing her finger with her tongue, she assailed Sophia’s bulbous clitoris, which stood proud like a miniature penis. Thrashing it with all the might she could muster, she soon became aware of the first signs of impending orgasm, as Sophia’s breathing grew strained, her stomach muscles tensed up and her legs straightened unnaturally they way the do when you are in the dentist’s chair and sense the drill is approaching a nerve. In a sense, of course, this was exactly what was happening, as Kriszta’s instrument bombarded Sophia’s bundle of nerve endings. But if this was pain, it wasn’t the sort of pain you wanted anaesthetised. This was the kind you wanted to last for ever.