An American in Budapest Ch 02

An Amercian in Budapest Ch 02

Peter's Regrets?

I realize this is another lawyer story, but sometimes it's easier to write about the life you know. These are new fictional characters for me, although some of the situations are based on experience. Let me know what you think. Several chapters have already been written and are waiting for edits. I strongly suggest you skim Ch 01 before this one. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. © 2024 Brunosden. All rights reserved.

Peter's after story (weeks later, on awakening with a solid piece of wood in hand....

Fuck, I'm fucked. Or more accurately, I've been fucked. This doesn't happen to a New England Puritan boy. And absolutely not to a well-educated Brahmin. We fuck—usually women—but occasionally guys. Always in private. Always in bed. And with some level of decorum. But we don't get fucked. It is simply not in our genes.

It's been three weeks since Milos fucked me. I've avoided him—although one day I did see him running, and I speeded up to insure that we wouldn't meet. I wasn't ready to face him. He had fucked me like I had never been fucked before in my life. I had had the most intense and pleasurable encounter in my life. I was higher than I had ever been. Afterwards, I had called a cab and left his mansion during the night. He didn't even roll over when I left his bed. I'm married with two kids for Chrissakes. I've dabbled a little at the baths, but I was always the aggressor, and I always called the shots. I was the alpha. I chose the target. No strings. And I controlled the fuck. That's really the whole story: control. I was born with self-control.

Fortunately, the work load has been incredible. So I didn't have much time to think about myself.

We've got three major bids due in a week and three major US pharma companies anxious to purchase the production facilities just outside Budapest that would make them billions. We'd done all the due diligence and, contrary to what anyone thought, the Soviet-era labs and facilities were pristine and up to date. They had great value to international bidders, anxious to expand production of drugs at minimal cost. So we were left with trying to determine the scuttlebutt on what prices European competitors were willing to pay for those assets. I was working night and day, meeting every meal with potential sources of intelligence. My future might depend on the success of these bids.

Or maybe not. Maybe my future was in the hands of Milos—or at least his talented and enormous dick. The dick that my ass had sucked in and cherished. The dick that had taken me to paradise. I had met him only a few months ago. He was a running partner, and not very good at that. But, he was a sexual magnet. I had resisted his obvious advances—although I had been to Gellert with him, a definite mistake.

Then, I had thrown discretion to the wind, accepted his invitation for drinks at his home—which I knew was going to end in sex. I assumed it would be me doing the honors. But, he had fucked me. He fucked me beyond anything that I had thought possible. He was my first. Never before had I been penetrated by a dick. And never before had I been so thoroughly turned on that I had an anal orgasm—the kind that poets talk about in verse without really naming it. It's too profane—or maybe too elusive. But, it is absolutely the best. It lasted for minutes, not seconds—and left me a changed man. It involved every muscle and organ of my entire body. No man should ever die without experiencing it at least once. It will change your life. Take my word for it.

I had become a bottom and a cock-freak in just one night. I had resisted, almost didn't even accept the evening's invitation. But, deep down, I knew. And I was attracted like a fly to a spider. He was sex-personified. The most excitingly male alpha in the world. Dark, muscular, with gymnast moves and suave conversation. Thick lips, seriously seductive eyes, practiced techniques. I had thought I was an alpha. But, he proved me wrong. I'm not sure I even understood what it meant to be a total sexual alpha. He had magically seduced me, really hypnotized me, and I had succumbed. Who am I kidding? I knew almost from the first time we met that he was going to fuck me. The mystery was intense and exciting. How was he going to seduce a confident young American alpha? He wasn't even an American. But, deep down, I knew it was possible. I was his before he even tried to take me. And that troubled me. I was not that kind of guy. I plan. I choose. I determine my future. I run. And I'm in control—always.

And that is what really disturbed me. He had planned the seduction and the consummation of our incredible anal sexual time together. But, I had really allowed him to set it up. I had acquiesced before he even started. I wasn't forced to go to his home, nor to his dinner, and certainly not to his room. What did that say about me? I could not blame it all on Milos. And If I couldn't, then I had only one recourse: if I was that vulnerable to his charms, I had to avoid him.

I was currently intensely occupied with legal work, but I was equally confused about who I was and where I wanted to go.

Fuck, he was a player. He probably had willing ass-cunts in most of the major cities of Europe—and certainly in Budapest. A guy who looked like that! He was the sexiest guy that I had ever met in my life. He had a title; he was rich; and he looked like that. And that cock—shit, it's unreal. It's got magic powers. Thick and dark and sinister. Fuck, I definitely needed to avoid him.

It was easy. I ignored his calls and changed my run schedule. I worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week. I didn't need that kind—his kind--of distraction at this point in my life. Little did I realize that all I was doing was starving myself—letting the hunger grow, setting myself up.

A few weeks later we (I with American clients) were celebrating at Gundel, the famous Art Nouveau eating palace in Pest. Two of our three bids were the highest, and we were in the final stages of contract. American bigwigs were in town with their wives, ostensibly to celebrate the win, but really to vacation in Budapest, which had become one of the preferred places for the jetset executives of American businesses. It was still a little wild as the Hungarians broke out of the Communist straight-jacket sterility of so many years. Closing on both deals was set for tomorrow and the next day.

Coincidentally, I thought at the time, Milos was entertaining at a table in the same restaurant. His team had won the third bid. It was German. The guys were all slick in their dark grey suits, and the female guests appeared to have been hired for the night. Throughout the night, I glanced in his direction. It seemed he was spot-lit, or maybe glowing from within. The center of the restaurant. And often, I noticed he was looking my way as well with a knowing smirk.

I was supposed to be the festive host, the triumphant gladiator, but I was on a real downer that night. So I was straining to keep up appearances. Chris had called earlier, and we had talked for a long time. I hadn't been home for two months, and it would be another month until Thanksgiving when I was due for a week at home. Chris had said that she understood how busy I was, and that a long trip to New York for a few days was not necessary. She'd take the boys to her family in Boston. We could wait until Christmas.

When I had protested that it wasn't really so long a trip, and I wanted to see the boys, she had dropped the news. "I was going to wait until Christmas. I wanted to tell you in person, but you need to know that I've found someone else. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to say to you. Sheila and I have been sleeping together. I'm happier than I've ever been in our marriage. I really don't need you to come home." I didn't know what to say. I just hung up, before I said something that I would later regret. I needed to think. I'd call her again tomorrow after I'd decided what I wanted.

And so the jubilant dinner ended early—at least for me. I begged forgiveness from the clients, explaining that I had last minute details to handle before the closing, and left, leaving a card to pay for the dinner as I did so. I needed time to think. Time for me.

(Back to the story, third person....)

The next morning, Peter realized that Milos had left a message on his phone. "It was great to see you tonight. I thought you had gone back to the States since you've disappeared. Run tomorrow?" Peter was pretty sure Milos knew that he had been in Budapest all along, but Milos was giving him an out.

Peter had altered his run day schedule to ensure that he would miss Milos. This morning was his "new" regular run day. Milos had figured it out. But, today of all days, Peter needed a run before the scheduled day-long closing. So he dressed and taxied to the Park. He was a half hour later than normal. Milos' BMW was there. Peter walked up to the car; Milos climbed out—dressed as always like the sexual predator he was. Milos was an ebony panther. With the grace and the looks and the moves of a jungle cat. Just seeing him sent a shock down Peter's spine.

They started the run with just a quick "Hello. Good to see you," and, after a short warm-up, Peter started to move ahead. Milos held back for a few seconds, then caught up. "I can't believe how good that ass looks when you are running away from me. It encourages me to catch up."

"You know I always need to run at competition speed for a part of the time. I need it."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. You've been avoiding me. I thought we had a pretty good time together. What did I do wrong?"

"I've been really busy."

"Bullshit. I know you're still running. Several of the other guys tell me that you're here every other day. So why are you avoiding me?"

"It's complicated."

"Yeah, I know. And I can't run at this pace and talk about complicated things. Let's have coffee after."

"I can't. I've got a closing later. And another tomorrow, Friday. I'm smashed with work."

"I'm not taking no for an answer. No government official works on Saturday in Budapest. So, I'll be at your hotel at 7 on Saturday to pick you up. Dress casually. We need to talk." And with those words—and no chance for Peter to respond, Milos slowed and fell back. Peter didn't dare turn, but he could feel the eyes glued to his butt as he pulled away. Peter was chubbed just thinking about him. "Fuck. I'm fucked," he thought to himself yet again.

Two closings and one run later, Peter still hadn't had time to digest and respond to the call with Chris. He knew he had been neglecting her. Their marriage was practically platonic. They were roommates, not lovers. She deserved to be happy, and if living with Sheila did that, Peter was resigned to live with it. So Saturday afternoon, he called and explained that he wasn't coming home for Thanksgiving. He'd see her and the boys at Christmas. She could decide between now and then what she wanted from him and where she wanted him to stay.

Peter was still not sure what "casual" meant in Budapest. So he dressed in jeans, his tightest—which really showed off his ass and a sea blue polo that matched his eyes—at least some of the time. Peter had lost the buzz cut, allowing his hair to grow out some. So he gelled and styled into a just-fucked bedroom mop. He guessed that was casual. He slipped on loafers without socks and threw a hoodie over his shoulder as it was getting cool in the evenings. A quick look in the mirror surprised him. He looked hot. He was losing the sterile New England look. He realized he was dressing for Milos.

Milos arrived promptly and Peter hopped into his BMW. "We're going to a small taverna just outside the city limits. It's on the Duna with only a dozen tables. Good Hungarian-style food, but very casual. Really a neighborhood kind of place. I assumed you didn't want to come back to my place for dinner."

Milos had spoken all of that in a monotone, very quickly so Peter couldn't interrupt, and without making eye contact. He was being careful. It didn't matter. He was already assuming control. Peter looked over at him in his tight tee and black jeans. His eyes settled on the package which filled the crotch of the tight jeans. He knew what was in there, and he knew it had the power to make Peter do things. He was chubbed already, and he felt the drop of pre-cum.

When Milos had described this place as neighborhood, casual, he hadn't added the obvious: it was also quiet, dimly lit and fucking romantic. This wasn't a coffee to discuss what had gone wrong. It was a date, and another chance for Milos to seduce. Seconds after entering the place—the proprietor acknowledging Milos with a hug and air kisses—Peter knew or could guess what the night was going to hold. It excited him. And it fucking scared him.

They began with orders, Peter allowing Milos to do it all since the menu was in Hungarian. Then small talk. Each described the intensity of the work as the Government accelerated the divestitures. The prices were high, and the Government wanted to capitalize on the situation before the economics changed—or maybe when the bidders discovered that they hadn't bought the golden geese they had envisioned.

Peter of course realized that Milos was, in fact, a competitor—or at least an advisor to the competition. He'd have to be more careful with details of future plans.

It wasn't long before Milos realized that Peter was not there with him. He didn't look Milos in the eye. He looked out the window at the Duna as he spoke. There was no conviction in the dialogue. Each time Milos touched his hand or arm on the tabletop, Peter flinched and withdrew. There was no connection.

"All right, my dear American friend. It's time. How do you say it? Spill it. Something is wrong. Really wrong. I'll take you back to your hotel right now if that is what you want."

There was silence, a long silence, and Milos started to stand. "Sit, Milos. I'm sorry. The last few days have not been good for me. Chris is leaving me. We haven't talked details, but it is going to happen—probably at the end of the year when I go home for the holidays. She's asked me not to go home for American Thanksgiving—our biggest family holiday."

"Oh fuck. I'm sorry. Really sorry. But, you've been avoiding me for weeks. You said this just happened."

"Milos, you are too damn smart about personal matters for your own good. You are right. I have been avoiding you—even before Chris' call. Let me make it short: You terrify me. I'm an alpha, hetero, maybe bi-curious so long as I can be an anonymous no-strings top. In a few hours three weeks ago, you rearranged all my expectations." Then Peter snickered, "As well as several of my internal organs with that massive cock you've got. Milos, you fucked me like I've never been fucked in my life. Am I even still a man?"

Milos smiled at the compliment, but remained silent. Peter needed to talk.

"I don't think I'm unique. My sexuality is definitely part of my personality and my self-image. I'm a fuckin' big swinging dick M&A lawyer. We fuck. We don't get fucked. And I'm a damn American prude. Fuck, Chris and I didn't even have the lights on when we made love! It was always missionary with me on top. That's the way I'm built. And in a few hours, you tore that building down. And you even branded me with that fucking hickey above the collar of my fucking white shirts!"

Again, Milos remained silent, but Peter had stopped and was sipping a little wine. "Does that mean you didn't enjoy it? You claim I'm a good judge of emotion. And you sure seemed to be into what we were doing at the time."

Peter remained silent, obviously mulling Milos' statement.

Until Milos began again. "Peter, I really like you. I think more than anyone I've ever been with. I like your innocence. And your naiveté. And fuck, that ass is good enough for Michelangelo. I don't want to end our friendship. I'd like to try again. I have no intention of diminishing your manhood. That's probably what attracted you to me in the first place. I'm looking for a masculine playmate, not a bitch. How about if you fuck me next time?"

Food arrived at that moment, and so the question wasn't answered. The food was delicious and spicy, featuring goose, of course, the great delicacy of Hungary and over-cooked root vegetables swimming in drippings. They talked casually about their lives and families. Milos was really quite funny when he described the idiosyncrasies of his extended ancestral family. He was obviously the black sheep, and not entirely welcome in their parlors in Munich. And they had vowed never again to set foot in Hungary—a vow I was later to learn that was broken often. So, he was pretty much alone—and his own man. He had to work. He needed to work to sustain his lifestyle. They had pretty much cut him off financially. Milos, to Peter, began to lose his superhuman magic as he talked about normal things.

Finally, the dessert cart was rolled up. Peter looked hard into Milos' eyes. "I guess I'm dessert. Let's head back to your place." Milos smiled, dropped some bills on the table and rose. Peter followed, not sure about his options, but definitely sure about one thing: he wanted Milos to take him, to take him hard, to make his conversion worth the tension. Milos understood. And as they moved to the car, Milos' hand moved to Peter's butt. He hadn't touched him all night. But, he guessed now that Peter had crossed the bridge.

The drive to Buda wasn't long—they were on the same side of the Duna. And minutes later, they were climbing the stairs to the bedroom of Peter's destiny.

Milos pulled Peter into an embrace immediately and together they crashed into each other. The hunger was palpable. The passion was obvious. As their lips touched and tongues dueled, they each picked up the unmistakable smell of musk, of pure male arousal. And their hard cocks were constrained obscenely in their jeans. The rides and the dinner had been pure foreplay. Milos' hands went automatically to Peter's waist to grab his cheeks, but the jeans were too tight. He couldn't slip in to feel the hot skin. Peter realized the dilemma and moved away as they tore off their clothes to expose flesh.

As before, Milos stepped behind Peter. One hand reached to the nipple, palmed the pec and squeezed, while the other cupped the balls then grasped Peter's pole. Fuck, it seemed even longer than last time. Someday he wanted to feel that inside, but not tonight. Peter had given him the green light to top again, and Milos was not one to decline such an attractive invitation. Peter moaned and pushed back into Milos' rock hard dick resting at the top of his thighs, inside the juncture, touching and teasing Peter's low hanging sack.

Peter escaped the hold, breathing heavily. He approached Milos and lifted him, carrying him to the high bed. Peter pounced on top and began to attack Milos' mouth as their cocks dueled between their guts. Peter was going to bottom again, but this time he intended to be the power bottom he had heard about. So first he wanted to show Milos some strength.

They rolled on the bed, each taking a turn on top, each grabbing ass cheeks hard and stroking steely shafts. Nipples collided and teased each other. Peter maneuvered into a 69 and took his partner's cock deep inside, using his tongue to push down the hood and wash the sensitive glans with the same rough tongue. It was a large as a small peach and stretched his lips, so he sucked on the tip drawing out the salty pre-cum. Another first for Peter. He was now also a cock-sucker—that dreaded curse of prep school hetero males. Milos pushed hard inside as Peter pulled him closer by grabbing his ass cheeks. Peter took more than half before coughing and choking. That was going to take time and practice.