An American in Budapest Ch 03

An American In Budapest Ch 03

Peter and Milos Try It Out Together

These are new fictional characters for me, although some of the situations are based on experience. Let me know what you think. I strongly suggest you skim Ch 01 and Ch 02 before this one. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. © 2024 Brunosden. All rights reserved.

After the incredible night together and Peter's first breakfast at the villa, Peter and Milos parted. Peter drove to the hotel, filled a briefcase with urgent matters, grabbed his primitive laptop, and added running clothes and a few office outfits. He wasn't going to broadcast his new "sleep-over invitation with repeated walks of shame into the office. (He was always sharp, and the receptionist always commented on his tie or suit.) And somehow, Peter expected that he'd be spending quite a few overnights Chez Milos. He wore a grin throughout. No guilt. No recriminations. No regrets. Although it wasn't really a fait accompli, he knew Chris was gone. So he had already decided that he needed to take care of Peter Jefferson--and Milos might be an interesting partner in that project. He was already visualizing a long term experience, perhaps even for the rest of his time in Budapest.

He returned to the villa, but left his stuff in the BMW. He still harbored a few doubts and wanted the chance for a fast getaway if necessary. Or if Milos had had second thoughts about the invitation.

They had a great run--Peter taking off for the last few miles to really stretch and push. Milos was correct. Living with him in the villa would take an hour or more off each day that Peter ran--just leave the villa, cross the tree-lined boulevard and start running. But somehow, Peter thought maybe he'd "lose" more than an hour a day in bed if he moved! An hour in bed with Milos or an hour in a taxi in early morning traffic--what a choice? Duh....

They went up to shower, and as they passed the room next to his, Milos opened the door and walked in. "This is yours if you decide to stay. Even if you don't, go ahead and put your stuff in the closet. I'll have anything you don't like removed tomorrow. Just point it out to me. You can change here after we run." But Peter hung back just a bit, thinking, "Fuck, he was moving fast. Maybe a little too." He realized that Milos was not into delayed gratification. He saw what he wanted. He went after it. And he usually succeeded in taking it. He intended to learn from that.

Unlike the quick morning shower, this was a long sensual affair in Milos' newly created, oversized spa. Multiple heads, rain showers, massaging jets. Even a douche wand. The works. Peter pulled him in and hugged. "Thanks for everything, Milos. This is all great. You should see my hotel shower--in the tub with a plastic curtain!" He grabbed shampoo and began to suds the black curls. Milos rinsed and did the same for Peter--although Peter had to bend over because of his height--pushing his ass our in the process. "Now let me wash your back. Turn around, hands on the wall, legs apart."

Peter proceeded to soap his back. By then, Peter was already hard. So he bent over him and wrapped around to wash his chest and underarms, discovering that Milos was ticklish there. All the while his long cock was sliding up and down the crevice. Then he spent a little longer than necessary handling his nipples. It turns out Milos was pretty sensitive there too. Milos squirmed and pushed his ass back into Peter's gut. Peter reached down and took possession of the monster. It was heavy and vibrating already as it began to engorge. Then Peter backed off and scrubbed his butt, especially the crevice. His finger repeated grazed his rim, and each time Milos pushed his ass back up into Peter's gut. So he inserted and touched deep inside.

Milos was pretty obvious. He had promised Peter a fuck, and he wanted it soon, maybe even now. He rarely had issued such an option to a partner, particularly one that he'd only known a short time. Finally Peter gave up, grabbed his shaft, now rock hard, soaped his balls and spun him around. Even un-groomed and soaking wet, Milos took Peter's breath away. He was so beautifully built and so incredibly sexy. Water droplets from the rain shower cast sparkles over his dark skin, dribbling over bulging muscles. Those black curls hid lusty dark eyes. Sultry lips. A big heavy dick nicely framed by the manscaped pubes. Fuck he was beautiful.

Peter had decided. He was going to prove to Milos that he was definitely a worthy partner. He wanted this guy so badly. And he wanted Milos to beg for it.

They dried and headed for the bed. "For the first time, I want to take you from behind. I'm not sure I can hold back long enough to give you what you deserve if I'm staring into that handsome face, Milos. Let's start with you on your belly, legs over the side and spread."

"Your wish is my command, my Yankee Doodle."

Before he flipped over and positioned, Milos looked up into Peter's face. He hadn't gelled after the shower, so his longer moist hair fell over his eyes. Peter's lips were puffy and pink--probably from all the kissing and sucking. Those two small adjustments together had transformed Peter's face from a colorless, thin-lipped buttoned-up Puritan to a sexy-as-hell sultry blonde model. Peter now was radiating the sexual magnetism that would earn him anything he wanted at the baths or the clubs. Milos thought, "Love does transform. I need to stake my claim before he discovers what a prize he is. His innocent American look is hot and sexy."

Milos bent over the edge of the bed, one leg on the floor, the other straight out on the mattress. His dick and balls were perched precariously at the edge and the leg position opened up his butt. Both arms were held over his head, seemingly in total surrender. Even without practice, he knew how to present. That's for sure.

Peter moved in, one leg on the floor, the other thrown over Milos' extended thigh. His cock landed in the cleft. He massaged some lotion into Milos muscular back, using long strokes from shoulder to glute. Then his hands hard-rolled the glutes, first squeezing the hand-holds created by the deep dimples, then slowly pulling them apart, grazing the anus with each stroke. This was all so new to Peter, but he seemed to fall into the routine.

Finally Peter bent in and his tongue touched the rim. He wondered if it always shimmered like this. This was a first; so he really didn't know. It was seemingly alive, simultaneously beckoning entrance and shutting it out. He circled once, twice, blew on it. It quivered and opened like a spring flower hit by the sun. His tongue moved inside, darting in and out, deeper and deeper. He pulled the further cheeks apart. Then his lips moved to the rim and he sucked to secure the seal as the tongue probed even farther. Milos had started the process silently and without motion. But Peter could tell that what he was doing was okay. The leg on the bed moved forward, widening the crevice and Milos began to push his ass up into Peter's face. His arms overhead were pushing into the bed. His fists were tight. He was murmuring sounds of pleasure. He wanted this. He was enjoying this. Peter was pleased that his first try was going so well.

Peter reached over, dipped a finger in the lube tub, released the lip suction and immediately plunged his long index finger inside. He found the hard spot just beyond where his tongue could reach. He tapped, scraped and then poked, adding another finger to increase the pressure. Milos shouted out, "Gut. Genau Hier. Gut. Toll." Peter kept up the stimulus, moving his fingers over the surface as Milos alternately squirmed and squeezed. Milos repeated the German phrases. (Good, Right There, Good. Really Good.) Peter had pushed him back to his native tongue. This was apparently serious stuff. Sex was not a pastime for Milos. It was his life. He lived for it and reveled in it. And he was loud, very loud. There was no secret silent sex with Milos. He was loudly letting Peter know that he was really enjoying this.

Finally, Milos hoarsely whispered. "You need to put him in, Peter. I'm getting really close." So Peter lifted Milos and stretched him over the center of the bed, placing a giant downy pillow under his gut. He scissored Milos' legs open and knelt into the vee. He lubed, positioned and applied pressure. Milos was incredibly tight. So tight that Peter felt he might lose his erection--or worse, spasm and spurt before he had plunged. He applied more pressure, splinting his long penis with a fist.

Unexpectedly, Milos lofted his ass, correcting the angle, and the head popped in, the retracted hood just at the lip, seemingly reluctant to follow, but sealing the entrance. One eye peered inside into the darkness, making sure it was okay to proceed. Milos spit out another German expletive; then repeated it more loudly (probably not a compliment, Peter thought) and pushed back harder. Peter slipped farther in and felt the hard love nut. Milos' grimace turned to a smile as the shocks of pleasure radiated within him. Peter paused again and felt the throbbing nut pushing back against his shaft. Milos wanted this. So, he crowded it and pushed back. Milos cursed in German again.

After that, it was easy. A few more rocks and Peter slipped deeply into the chute and felt bottom--but he still had several inches left. (It really wasn't a surprise; Chris had never been able to handle all of him. It was close to 9 inches.) He started the familiar push-pull, short jabs, then long strokes, scraping the nut with each stroke, going faster and harder. His balls were bouncing on Milos' sounding a soft "thwack" with each collision. He strained to achieve maximum depth. He wanted Milos to remember this fuck for a long time. Peter's eyes darkened and his skin turned red. Peter was as aroused as the delicious Hungarian under him, his trophy bottom.

Milos kept up a constant stream of encouraging words, mostly in German, but occasionally using the ubiquitous American four letter words of gay lovers. And the musk began to rise from his sweat. Milos was totally into this.

Peter drove and bottomed again, but kept up the pressure. And then there seemed to be a miracle. The bottom suddenly gave way and Milos' gut swallowed the last two inches. He yelped in pain, but quickly recovered. Peter's cockhead was sending waves of pleasure throughout his entire body. "Fuck, Peter. I thought it was an urban myth. There is an inner chamber. It's filled with nerves of pleasure. Only someone with a dick as long as yours could reach it. I can feel you in my throat! Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me hard. I think I love you!" Milos was obviously losing it too.

Peter felt the slipperiness of newly-added inner lube and used it to punish Milos' chute over and over. But, even with copious lube, the strength that he had put into the fuck, their heady musk and Milos' words of encouragement were drawing him to the climax. He stiffened his legs, plunged one last time. He felt the bulb inflate and the spunk moving up the shaft from his boiling balls. And then he exploded inside. Milos felt the heat and the deep infusion, squeezed his glutes to hold Peter in place and then he too felt a deep orgasm building. Milos spasmed multiple times and finally released a gusher of creamy cum. He shouted in pleasure as it hosed from his cock. Peter had definitely bred Milos, like the macho top he was. An anal orgasm for Milos on the first try! "Oh, Peter. I'm in love with that dick. And that performance! Bravo! Bravissimo!"

Peter was aglow. He knew he had "done good"--in both American and in German. Milos was going to want this again. He dropped down on top of Milos and used his arms and legs to cocoon him protectively, while his long dick kept his seed plugged inside. Peter skimmed some of Milos' cum from his dickhead and offered his fingers to Milos, pushing them between his lips--to silence him as much as to lay claim to him. Peter's head rested on Milos' shoulder and from time to time, his tongue emerged and teased the earlobe. Each time Milos breathed deeply, sucked on the fingers and wiggled his ass under Peter. Finally, Peter's lips moved to the lower part of Milos' neck where he sucked and left a deep dark mark. Peter was satisfied that this was a fuck to remember.

Ultimately, they cooled and Peter slipped out. Peter rolled off and Milos rolled into his embrace. "That was my first Peter. My first ever. But certainly not my last. You are a fucking stud, boy." With those words, he pulled Peter in and their lips met. It was not a tender moment. It was the rough smashing of two pairs of alpha lips, all consuming and violent. Milos had already grabbed Peter's ass and pulled him in tight. Peter was really surprised--Milos had never bottomed before. They had both crossed the Duna in the last few weeks. Somehow, Milos began to think that Peter's move to the villa might even come before Christmas. And maybe Peter's newly-thick lips might become permanent.

The next weeks fell into the routine that Peter and Milos had predicted. Peter spent three or four nights each week at the villa. They ran each morning after that--needing progressively more and different outfits as the mornings cooled with the onset of winter. But, even in winter Milos was stylishly attired while Peter brought out his old athletic gear: sweats and hoodies.

They slept together, taking turns. Well, not really: mostly Milos just assumed it was his house and his bed--and Peter's ass was his for the taking. Typically he pushed Peter over onto his belly and his fingers were prepping him without even a word. It just seemed right. Milos would spread Peter's legs, roll on top and begin the forceful entry. Peter always agreed without protest. He wanted that monster inside. He loved it when Milos pounded his prostate and hoped for the special moment they had previously experienced. The moment when he lost it. Or rather when Milos took it. Then they slept, under an enormous duvet, with Milos reliably spooned into Peter after fucking him to a violent orgasm.

The pressure of work was intense. Year end closings were crowding together. Unlike in New York, commercial closings did not stretch until New Year's Eve. Hungarians started Christmas with parties the week before Christmas--and that was the effective end of the business year. Peter had four more successful bids that had to close by "year end." Milos had three.

So often their nights together before the morning runs didn't start until ten or eleven. Both had eaten at the office or with colleagues in nearby restaurants so they could return to work. They were both exhausted, but fortunately, unlike sex in hetero marriages, no small talk or foreplay was needed. They showered, jumped into bed and were screwing within seconds--and asleep immediately thereafter. Getting off was painless and quick. Pillow talk was simply not necessary. Peter was relieved--he had never been really good at it anyway with Chris. He was addicted to that huge cock. All he had to do was watch Milos as he removed his trunks, and he was hard, hypnotized and ready. He wanted it inside always. He pushed a pillow in place, rolled onto his belly and lifted his ass in invitation. It still hurt; maybe it always would. Milos was just so big. But, feeling the hurt before the fullness and the release was the way it should be. At least that's what the Puritan in Peter came to believe. Pain was a small price for the pleasure of taking Milos inside. It was great, but not magic. Pay the price of admission and enjoy the ride.

The arrangement suited both, and soon was routine. Peter was becoming a near permanent bottom. And he was okay with it. Several times a week, Milos was giving him orgasms that he had only dreamed about before. But otherwise, he and Milos were equals. Dominance in bed did not translate to lifestyle.

Milos decided to visit his family in Munich for the holidays. Munich was definitely one of the Christmas cities of Europe. There were parties, dinners, balls and dances to occupy the time. So the cloying snobbery and disdainful inquisitions of his relatives could be mostly avoided. And the conservative Roman Catholicism of his parents--and most of Munich could be ignored.

They knew he was gay. They didn't approve, but there was little they could do. They had already practically disinherited him--all he really had left was the Budapest residence left to him by a grandfather who died before learning the "sordid truth" about his grandson's sexual preferences. Nevertheless, his mother paraded a series of "eligible" young "princesses" before him during the various parties. Fortunately, she hadn't yet tried to tempt him with princes. He was dashing, sexy as hell, and a bachelor. He danced, was polite, flirted mercilessly with the young girls, but went home alone. After a week, he'd had enough. And his sexual energy was bottled up and peaking.

Peter, on the other hand, left for New York on December 23. He had barely talked to Chris in weeks, but he knew Chris planned to stay in the city with the boys (and presumably with Sheila) for the holidays. She was expecting him, and, of course, wanted to talk. She had turned two of the rooms in the basement apartment into a guest suite--which for appearances, she claimed she had done for Sheila--although never really used by her.

It was a very strange and uncomfortable visit--and in fact, Peter moved to a nearby hotel on December 26. The brownstone was bedecked with a large tree; the windows held real green wreaths; the fireplace was hung with large knitted stockings. The boys were of the age where, although Santa was no longer a figure, the holiday itself was very important. They were showered with gifts--including the first round of hand-held electronic games. Peter took them ice skating at Rockefeller Center and then for hot chocolate. And Peter presided at all the major meals, taking a position at the head of the table. He didn't think the boys felt the tension. He knew Sheila had moved into their bedroom. So he assumed they knew too. He wasn't sure they even realized that he was slipping out to sleep in the basement apartment after they were tucked in on the third floor. Boys of that age are rarely aware of the interpersonal conflicts raging over them--unless there is violence.

Chris had a proposal which she presented on the day Peter was moving to the hotel. She desperately wanted to keep the brownstone, but realized she couldn't afford it. She suggested that it remained a good investment. She had spoken to a lawyer. So, she suggested moving it to a trust, which they would jointly own. If they did so before the divorce, there'd be no tax consequences. The mortgage would stay in place--and be serviced by Peter. She and Sheila would pay rent to the trust--well below market since Peter had responsibilities to house the boys anyway. This would be his "child support." When the last boy went off to college, they would sell and split the profits--or Chris would buy him out. Peter agreed--but with an amendment: Chris would move her office upstairs and the basement unit would be his whenever he was in the city to see the boys. Chris quickly agreed. She had been expecting a fight.

Peter agreed to meet all the tuition payments for the private school, and future prep school and undergraduate education. Sheila's compensation, if any, as nanny would be her responsibility. Chris got all the furniture and all of their wedding presents. Other assets--there weren't many--would be split 50/50.

Peter would get the kids for most of the summer and a weekend every month--the summer in Hungary for so long as he remained there, but the weekends, only in New York.

And they would arrange for a "friendly" no-fault divorce asap. They would wait until spring and the finalization of the divorce before breaking the news to Peter Jr. and Paul. Peter knew he had left a lot on the table, but he felt guilty and responsible.