An American in Budapest Ch 01

An American in Budapest Ch 01

American Puritan in the City of Pleasure

I realize this is another lawyer story, but sometimes it's easier to write about the life you know (or knew). These are new fictional characters for me, although some of the situations are based on experience. Warning: the sex is a little slow in coming. But, if you make it to the end, I'm pretty sure you'll e pleased. Let me know what you think. Several chapters have already been written and are waiting for edits. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. © 2024 Brunosden. All rights reserved.

Peter Jefferson had just been offered the opportunity to head up the firm's new office in Budapest. Hungary had been free of the Soviet yoke for several years and was selling off its government-owned enterprises to the highest bidder. American companies were interested. And thus, major US law firms were rushing to serve their needs. Peter was young and already proving his worth to Black and Bluestone in New York. It was a chance that he really couldn't turn down.

Peter had done well at a small New England liberal arts school, played a little basketball there, married young (after college), starred at an Ivy law school, and joined the Manhattan "mergers and acquisitions factory" that was B&B. Eight years later he was a new partner (an unheard of trajectory in that firm), living in Brooklyn with a professional wife and two boys (7 and 9). Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. And every deal he worked on seemed to close. It wasn't magic. He was bright, aggressive and worked hard.

When Peter and Chris had arrived in New York for his first job, they had searched for and found an apartment—a "raised" basement unit under a Prospect Park brownstone—two bedrooms, enough light and access to the small back yard. It was a real find for the rent they could afford. The brownstone itself was not in great shape, but the apartment would do. Their landlords lived upstairs in the three floors above, a couple in their late 70s who had lived there forever. They were having trouble with the stairs so they mostly lived on one level, leaving the upper two floors largely unused.

The deal was clinched when Chris appeared, pregnant and carrying a tow-headed, cute 14-month old boy.

Chris was as ambitious and talented as Peter. With her graduate degree in medical science, she had supplemented their income with consulting jobs—helping Boston area scientists, mostly in the pharmaceutical world, to design their trials to permit effective computer analysis. This part time work turned into a full time consulting business which she ran mostly from home in Brooklyn. A daytime mother's helper, Alicia, assured that she have the time to do so while still being home for her two small boys.

Chris, almost from the beginning, checked in on the Millsteins, their landlords, ran errands for them, dropped off food and became generally involved in their lives. The Millsteins adored the boys and were soon considered family. Five years into the lease, it was time for Ira and Phyllis to move to assisted living. So they offered the place to Peter and Chris at a ridiculously below-market price. Peter stretched the finances, and soon they were the owner-occupants of a very desirable brownstone in an up and coming neighborhood. A few years later, it had been largely remodeled. Chris turned the basement apartment into an office, and the family spread out upstairs. But, their minimum financial requirements just to survive were staggering.

After the move upstairs, Alicia had been replaced with a full time live-in Nanny—Sheila, a recent grad of Tufts with a degree in child development, who wanted to take a few years off before pursuing graduate studies. She was attractive and articulate—perfect really, and Chris and Sheila became close friends.

The combination of B&B's expectations and the demands of an M&A practice meant that Peter worked long hours and traveled extensively. His only real down-time was spent in early morning runs, often in the dark and the cold. He was serious about running, completed several half-marathons and was training for the big one. He had to give up the pick-up basketball games. He saved some time for the boys, but there wasn't much left for Chris.

Peter had a natural runner's body: he was tall (6-4), with very long legs. He was lean, with modest but really cut muscles attributable to his training. He was blonde with "New England" watery blue eyes (that deepened into a tell-tale dark sea blue when he was excited or aroused) and pale-skinned (that turned rosy in the sun). He was the quintessential New England blue-blood (with good ancestral bones, but not wealthy), recognizably and thoroughly American. He was very attractive in that unique "sterile" mold of the elite with pronounced facial structure, thin lips and a small nose. And true to the urban legend, as an M&A lawyer, he was hung, a big long swinging dick and egg-sized balls of a conference room alpha. He was a vicious negotiator—a gladiator in disguise. He was no wimp. In his steel grey suits, he was the epitome of a human shark!

Thanks to his upbringing, Peter was a Puritan. He was okay in bed, but not a fiery lover. Vanilla sex a few times a week was fine for him. Deep down, if he admitted it to himself, he was curious and wanted more, but he had rarely gone beyond imagining. Chris learned to live with it. She loved Peter—and loved even more their boys and the life he provided.

Peter broke his news to Chris at dinner that night—which they always shared with their boys, although the boys were often restless after a short time and excused to handle last minute pre-bed assignments—or watch TV. She didn't respond immediately. Chris knew Peter had to take the offer—or they would soon be looking for another job. B&B paid really well and the brownstone took a big chunk. Her own business provided them with the luxuries of New York life—private school for the boys, the Nanny, winter and summer vacations and dinner out once or twice a week. The rest went into retirement savings. They couldn't live on her earnings. Both knew that.

Moving to Budapest seemed to be out of the question for her. Perhaps in a year or so, if everything worked out for Peter, and after Chris had time to investigate the chances of taking her consulting business with her. And so they decided: Peter would go, and they would try a distance marriage for a year. Chris assured him she'd be fine with Sheila, and she even hinted to Peter that he should consider himself free to find some release in Budapest. She knew men needed it sometimes. Peter thought the suggestion unusual and out of character, but let it go. He had no intention of taking her advice.

(This of course was pre-Skype, pre-ZOOM and pre-Facetime. So separation meant communication by expensive long distance phone a few times a week and in writing. Phone sex hadn't really been invented yet! The firm was still installing word processing, and Google research was in its infancy. Law libraries were still large and filled with books! It was really a very different time.)

Peter arrived in Budapest in the spring, installed himself in an apartment-hotel with full services and finalized the deal on the office space which had been pre-selected by a scout hired by the firm. The city was at the time a "black and white city"—during the Soviet era, coal-fired power, dirty trucks, buses and autos, and lack of money or desire to sand-blast meant that the old, mostly limestone, buildings had been blackened with pollution. The new regime was slowly selling buildings which were promptly sand-blasted and renovated—creating gleaming white gems among their still-dirty neighbors. Blindingly white hotel palaces stood side-by-side with the ugly "socially-acceptable" concrete and stone monstrosities of the Soviet era.

He quickly learned that the city was really two cities on either side of the Duna (the Hungarian name for the Danube): Buda, on one side, substantially elevated above the river, mostly residential except for the Cathedral, the monastery and the museums; and, Pest on the broad grid-patterned plain where commerce reigned--and where the Opera and the best restaurants were located.

The Duna was wide and, crossed by several Baroque-style bridges. One island in the river was home to the hot springs and had been turned into a spa-cum-family-outing park. And alongside the Duna were the famous Budapest baths, with a long and tortured history, mostly neglected after WWII, as decadent and bourgeois.

The air in Pest was still polluted—and so Peter rose early every other morning to run—in Buda's renamed "Liberty Park" which he reached with a short and inexpensive taxi. On other days he worked out in the hotel gym.

Within a month, the office was busy. Peter had hired an American lawyer associate, two Hungarian lawyers (really the equivalent of legal assistants in the rarefied world of M&A), and a few English-speaking secretaries. Several major pharmaceutical companies were being auctioned in the early fall—so the office was tuning up to represent potential American buyers with due diligence and the preparation of bid documents. Everything seemed to be moving just as Peter had anticipated.

Peter had met and become friends with a few fellow runners. One was an American competitor from another New York firm. He too was a de facto bachelor with family in New York. They ran together, but rarely talked. It was competitively dangerous. Another was a Hungarian businessman who, Peter later learned, was the only son of an aristocratic family which had been wealthy since well-before the Empire (that is, the Austro-Hungarian Empire). He had returned from the family's self-imposed exile in Munich to determine which of his family's assets could be "taken back" from the Government. (It had taken them as Soviet-era expropriations without compensation.) He was in fact the son of a Count.

Milos was obviously intelligent, a man of the world, ambitious and successful. He was, in many ways, Peter's opposite: he was fiery and easily excited; he was passionate about music and the arts, particularly dance; he was of medium height, and of typical Hungarian coloring—swarthy, with thick black hair with some curl, thick-lipped, muscled (probably from a gym), and black "deadly" eyes. He was gay, mostly closeted, but a totally masculine alpha.

After a few weeks of companioned running, Milos invited Peter to the baths. This was the second time that the invitation had been extended. Peter had admitted to himself that he was attracted to Milos, but he was so unlike any of the guys he had "gone with" at the Prospect Baths. Peter had guessed Milos was gay. Milos was an alpha, a passionate guy, most likely a take-no-prisoners top.

Peter was not oblivious to the charms and possibilities of the baths. He had on a few occasions, when Chris had taken the boys to Boston to visit parents, gone to the Prospect Baths. He was curious (he wouldn't have used the word bi-curious at the time, but he definitely was). He had fled from the first visit. Within a half hour of arrival, he had been hit-on three times. But he had gone back and been blown by an attractive young twink. Peter had never had an orgasm like that in his life. It ignited a hunger that he had never before felt—and he was afraid.

He had gone back yet a few times. Each time, he had topped young feminine-type men who praised his technique and marveled at the length of his cock and the quantity of his cum. On every occasion he had sought out a private cubicle. He definitely wasn't into public shows of sexuality. He cherished anonymity. And, each time Chris had returned with the boys, Peter had settled back into family domestic life. Doing a guy at the baths was not infidelity in his book.

Peter was a little afraid that if he rebuffed Milos again, their running dates would probably end. And he liked Milos. Milos knew Budapest as a native, and Peter thought that he might be a valuable contact at some time in the future. So he finally succumbed to Milos' charms and agreed to go.

Late Saturday afternoon, really well into the cocktail hours, Peter arrived at the Gellert Baths which resembled a railroad station in size. Everyone always thought they dated back to Roman times, but that was not correct. They had been built, along with much of modern Budapest, during the Art Nouveau 1920s on the site of a medieval spa-hospital. The hot springs were natural, and the complex was enormous. Thus they were Romanesque in structure, but with the elaborate fluid aesthetic of the later period. While often dubbed "wedding cake frosting", the style was clearly much more sensual. This was designed to be a pleasure palace as much as a health spa. The Gellert was among the first buildings refurbished after the Russians left. It was the ultimate symbol of Hungarian joie de vivre.

Milos was standing at one of the entrances, smiling in greeting. He was dressed in tight black jeans, a black tee and a short leather jacket. He had a signature move, however, which he quickly demonstrated as Peter approached. He reached up his hand with long manicured fingers and brushed his longish black hair from his eyes, flashing a welcome. He took Peter's breath away. He was incredible in that sensually seductive way. Peter looked around and realized he was over-dressed and thoroughly American with a blue blazer, pale blue button down, chinos and Sperry's. His buzz-cut blonde hair didn't do much to change the impression. He stuck out like the American he was—and this was definitely a European crowd, entirely male and obviously out for a specific kind of fun.

They entered through the west entrance which had been more or less commandeered by the Budapest gay elite on Saturday nights. The families stayed away—or went to Ste Margaret's, since at Gellert one "took the waters" nude after six. Peter realized that more than a few sets of eyes were watching his every move. He felt a little like Daniel in the Den. And almost turned around and fled.

Milos caught him however with a hand on the small of his back which drifted just a bit lower. Peter felt the shock all the way to the base of his neck. They paid and walked in. Milos had reserved lockers in the VIP section—which essentially meant they were full length, limited to eight per cubicle and with an oaken bench—but all were open to the center space where lockers were smaller. This was a very public space and very European. Personal space was just not valued. It was crowded already. Twenty guys were already nude or nearly so. Towels in each locker were for drying after a final shower, not modesty. And there were no robes in sight.

Peter looked around, smiled tentatively at Milos and walked up to his locker. Minutes later both were nude except for a colorful elastic bracelet with a key.

They stood back, legs akimbo and frankly assessed each other. (This too must be a Hungarian custom—like duelers facing each other ceremoniously before the first shot is fired.)

Milos was quite obvious in his appraisal of Peter's body. Not a bit of coyness. So Peter stared back. Milos was nothing if not spectacular. He had a gymnast's body: long slim legs with well-developed thigh muscles; a narrow waist with a deep concave cut set of abs; an Adonis vee that was more pronounced than Peter had ever seen in his life; squared pecs, obviously hard with huge dark aureoles centered with eraser-type nipples; and, bulging bis and tris. He was hairless, and given his ancestry, that was the result of careful grooming. He knew Peter was assessing. He knew how good he looked. So he slowly bumped his hips forward, putting his thick, hooded cock front and center. Then he raised his arms to emphasize his chest and turned like a fashion model, flashing a tight high butt and delts that had lifted a lot of weight. Milos was definitely an actor and an exhibitionist—and a seducer. And he had not been afraid to perform in the open locker room. It was like a live porn performance.

Peter immediately felt his cock stiffening. And he felt a little fear—an emotion he rarely experienced. He was out of his comfort zone, and maybe out of his depth. This guy and this place were flashing danger signs.

Milos reached over and placing his hand on Peter's butt-cheek, moved them into the anteroom of the baths. Milos, with this gesture, was taking charge. Peter had never before allowed that to happen. He was the alpha—always. Hell, he had only been with a few guys, always selected by him. The sex had been anonymous and antiseptic.

The light was dimmer, and the air was clouded with steam with the faint odor of sulfur. Natural baths almost always have that smell.

The guys approached the first pool, the hottest, where a dozen guys were already crouching. Peter started down the stairs which were slipperier than he had expected. He lost his balance, and again Milos reached out and prevented a fall—but once again sending a shock of sexual tension deep into Peter's gut, as Milos' semi grazed his ass. Involuntarily, Peter drew in his gut which raised and positioned his equipment. They continued into the pool and crouched to submerge as a dozen sets of eyes watched their every move. Since the locker room, neither had spoken a word, but the sexual attraction between them was loud and clear.

The entire atmosphere was incredibly sensual and arousing—although there was no obvious sexual touching in the pool or on the surrounding stone benches. It was all in the eyes which missed nothing and appraised everything. All the guys were fit; most were mysteriously dark and hairy; all had eyes that penetrated to your soul. Peter was already light-headed with the possibilities, and if the truth be known, he was more than a little fearful. What had he got himself into?

They moved slowly in the hot pool, stretching legs and arms, enjoying the intense heat. But, after about ten minutes, Peter had had enough. He rose to leave for the next and cooler pool. He was pink from the heat and chubbed. Milos was right behind him, hands on Peter's hips, theoretically steadying him as he climbed—but also signaling to all the other guys in the place that Peter was his.

A few steps away was the tepid pool, much larger and obviously more social. Built-in tile benches in small alcoves surrounded the large center pool which was deep enough to stand in neck deep water. Several couples were paired off along the sides, and one guy seemed to be getting a lap dance from his lively partner. Near the center, Milos pulled Peter into him and took his lips, forcing him to open to an invading tongue. It was a first for Peter. He had never kissed a man before. He had never kissed anyone in public. In fact, he had rarely taken Chris with such aggression.

Milos' hands moved down to the back of Peter's thighs, and he pulled Peter easily into his standing lap. For balance, Peter's arms went around Milos' neck and his legs wound around Milos' waist. Their cocks, now both hard, dueled as Milos danced around on the tile floor keeping his balance—and keeping Peter clinging to his chest while his fingers played around with Peter's rim. Then, an index finger penetrated and Peter felt the electricity and nearly jumped out of the pool. Milos had obviously practiced this pas de deux before.

Peter tapped and dropped his legs to the floor, pulling away. "I can't do this here, Milos." Peter was an even deeper pink with embarrassment, or maybe he was out of breath. But, he certainly was not doing this. "It's not who I am."

Peter quickly climbed out, skipped the cold pool and headed for the showers. Milos followed closely behind, but didn't touch Peter. Soon they were both at the lockers, dry and dressing. Peter looked down and realized he was chubbed, but not embarrassingly erect. It was still quite early, but Peter was visibly upset—unusually quiet, with rosy cheeks—and his eyes were the darkest blue imaginable. Of all things! Peter realized he was afraid. Milos had opened some emotions and maybe some needs he didn't know he had. And Milos was clearly a predator, an alpha, and probably a top—all of which scared the shit out of Peter.