An American in Budapest Ch 05

A ski trip where Peter's sons fall for Milos

The title of course suggests there is a lot of back-story to this adventure in previous chapters. I'll try to make this reasonably stand-alone, but reading earlier chapters will give some further character development. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. © 2024 Brunosden. All rights reserved.

Peter and Milos had survived the three day visit of the Countess. There wasn't really any doubt. Their relationship was becoming more and more solid every day. They were still comfortable roommates with benefits. But most probably much more. A week-long ski vacation was about to begin.

(A bit of recap for new comers, or a reminder for fans....)

Peter's divorce had been finalized, the early Easter season had come and gone, and both were looking forward to a spring ski vacation in Vermont with Peter's boys. The incredibly busy winter in which they had been advising potential buyers of Hungarian privatized industrial assets was easing just a bit. The bureaucrats were getting a second wind—the third round of announcements was about two weeks away.

Peter was running the new Budapest office of a large US law firm. The office had grown to 8 under his direction. He was a partner, an M&A lawyer, a New England blue-blood, recently-divorced, tall (6-4) blonde model look-alike—and as of a few weeks ago, thanks in part to Milos, he was an out-of-the-closet gay—at least in Budapest. His life had been thoroughly shaken in the last year. He had gone from Puritan macho (hetero) alpha to sensual, receptive mostly-bottom for a wild young aristocrat. He had morphed from sterile, unapproachable shark to sultry blonde surfer look-alike. In his dreams, Peter often pictured Milos as the rakish Lord Byron whose portrait he had seen as a boy at the Boston MOFA. And, he was beginning to realize how attractive he was as a sex object.

Milos was Hungarian, a principal in an exclusive Central European private bank—also working on the acquisition of privatized assets—typically mostly commercial or residential properties as opposed to Peter's clients' interest in industrial opportunities. Milos was the bad boy scion of a noble family—his father probably the last Count Franz Milos von Haffenburger. He was about 5-11 with swarthy sensual good looks. He had a dancer-gymnast's body and what was probably one of the largest (if not the longest) cocks in Budapest. He was definitely a man of the world; that is, a man of pleasure in all its guises.

Peter and Milos were runners and had met during regular morning distance runs. Milos had inherited the ancestral estate that bordered the park from a grandfather since his folks were now firmly attached to Munich society. They were attracted to one another. Milos was the predator and seduced. Peter reacted reluctantly, but inevitably. And now, after a few tentative months, they are living in the estate together.

*******

Peter was anxious to spend a week with his two sons (now 8 and 10) and had planned a ski vacation. Milos had offered the family lodge in St Moritz, but getting two unaccompanied minors through immigration in the modern era of child-napping was nearly impossible. So they had decided on Vermont—Stowe. This was Peter's first introduction of Milos—and what would probably be his first de facto acknowledgement of his gayness to family. He was really tense about the whole idea. And it was Milos' first experience with American skiing and family.

Milos professed to be an expert skier and Peter had no reason to doubt. Milos had taken him shopping and insisted that Peter have state-of-the-art equipment and clothing. Peter had balked at matching outfits and at anything that suggested flashy style or "couple-dom", but he had agreed to electric blue parkas and ski pants. As to the latter, Milos refused to permit Peter to buy the typical "one-size-larger" that he usually chose. Thus, the ski-pants emphasized his long legs, runner's thighs and bubble butt. The outlined crotch didn't do much to hide what was behind the insulated spandex either. Peter was a little embarrassed to be so "stylish", but Milos was insistent.

It was their last night in Buda—their flight left at 10 the next day. Milos was pretty sure that Peter would not permit PDAs in front of his sons, and it was even possible that Peter would require that they sleep separately at the ski lodge. So Milos was pumped for a night of sexual release. His intention was to "save up" or maybe even to make it impossible for Peter to keep away from him during the vacation.

He had been home for several hours, doing the last minute "stuff" and was really horny when Peter got home. So, Milos started even before dinner. Peter changed and poured his drink. Both guys were in their now typical winter-time after-work outfits—sweat hoodies (Milos really liked the Harvard gift from Peter and wore it often) over tees and with sweat-shorts. (Milos had insisted on new après-ski "lounging outfits"—in velour. But they were packed, and Milos had convinced Peter to leave his trademark hoodies in Buda.)

Peter was on the sofa, first Glenfiddich in hand, watching some commentator rant about the upcoming election which the Hungarian premier had allegedly already fixed. Even with the newly-set evening fire, the library was still cool. Milos noticeably shivered (which Peter ignored), stretched out on the sofa and worked his head into Peter's lap—under the frosty glass in Peter's hand. Peter tried to ignore him, pretending interest in the newsman, but Milos was not to be ignored—or deterred. He swiveled his head, used a hand to pull the waistband of the shorts aside and took Peter's soft cock inside after licking his way around the hooded head. His tongue worked the hood down and then he started a slow suck on the musky moisture inside.

"Oh fuck! Can't you let me rest for even a minute?" Milos could tell from the tone that Peter was smiling when he spoke the dismissive words. Peter was as into this as he was. And seconds later, the cock began to stiffen. Peter set the drink down and slipped his free hand inside to grasp Milos' cock. Milos jumped—and nearly bit into the soft tissue.

"Peter, that's not nice."

"Oh, you're always so hot. You'll warm my hand in just a second." Then he reached further and palmed the moist hot balls. He fondled them with his fingers, feeling the little guys practicing their frog kicks. With the drink now set aside, Milos released the dick from his mouth, swiveled and, reached up to take Peter's lips. Peter in turn reached around and drew Milos into him, chest to chest. Then holding Milos in place with one hand, the other slipped into the shorts and he began to massage the ass cheeks, squeezing them with his large strong fist, slipping fingers immediately onto the rim. Milos groaned into Peter's mouth, but cuddled deeper into Peter and widened his stance to give Peter all the access he wanted. That was Peter's invitation. Peter began his long-fingered fuck.

Less than two minutes into the connection, the motors were running and the temperature was rising. Peter had become expert at the art of finger fucking. It was one of Milos' favorite ways of starting any evening. It revved him up, then relieved him so he could prolong the main event.

Peter reached over to the table and coated three long fingers with lube. Then he returned to the task of turning Milos into a mass of seething hot jelly. It was amazing. When Milos took Peter, it was always hard, always pushing to the bottom, always forcing the maximum response. Milos was completely in control, driving both to orgasm. He was a rough, no-holds-barred top. But, when Peter started the show and quickly got fingers inside to pet his nut, Milos dissolved. His thighs pulled apart to permit access. His chute turned all moist and soft—and his cock went rigid. His prostate was large, accessible and sensitive. So his arousal was immediate. His interest was total. But Peter was persistent and slow, edging Milos carefully to prolong his pleasure. Milos loved when Peter took over and massaged him. He deepened the kiss and moved his arms around Peter, drawing them even closer together.

"Oh god, Peter. I just love it when you play with my ass. It's all yours. But, I really don't want to have to change before dinner. I'm going to blast very soon."

Peter understood. He rose from the sofa and carefully laid Milos out, pulling off the sweat shorts in one easy motion. Milos was hard and ready. Cock, dark and well placed on the launch pad like a fucking Titan missile, the largest in the arsenal. Then he dove in. The fingers returned to the chute as Peter bent to take Milos in his mouth. He continued the internal massage as his tongue teased the slit, lapping up the salty pre cum. He bobbed in time with his finger thrusts and shaft strokes, alternately sucking and swirling his tongue. Heated musk rose from his crotch. Peter breathed it in and reveled in his favorite perfume. Soon it was clear: Milos was going to blast—his first shot of the evening. The anal muscles were tightening on Peter's fingers and the first dry spasm happened. So Peter took him deeper and pressed a thumb hard on the taint. He wanted to constrict the flow, slow it up, and set up the pleasure of the passage. The convulsions began. Peter felt the tightening on his fingers, pressed even harder on the outside of the prostate. And then Milos lifted off from the sofa, his seed began the swim up the shaft and took the "long-jump" at the tip. A new Olympic sport (foot long dash and jump)! Peter felt the first blast of cream in his throat.

He loved swallowing Milos. Fuck, six months ago, the idea would have sent him running. But, now he was addicted to Milos' special brand of cum—like salted honey cream. If pushed, he'd even admit it tasted better than the scotch. It was a delicious counterpoint to the bitter scotch. And it was certainly more nutritious.

Milos used his hands to hold Peter in place as the aftershocks deposited the last few drops, running his fingers through the fine golden strands. "That was terrific, Peter, as usual. Shall I do you?"

"I can wait. With this relief, I'm assuming you're going to want to really punish me tonight."

"Peter it's not punishment. It's the exact opposite. I love it when you lose it." Then Milos rose and kissed, welcoming the taste of his own cum on Peter's tongue. "I think I'm skipping the first course. But let's eat."

They ate mostly in silence. The staff had been dismissed for a holiday since they were going away for a week. Peter seemed to be staring at one crystal in the chandelier. "A hundred Euros for your thoughts."

"I guess there has been a good deal of inflation?"

"Your thoughts are always worth a lot to me, Peter."

"I'm trying to decide if or how I'm going to break US to the boys. I'm not even sure that Paul would know what I'm talking about. Not the sex. But the idea that two men could live together and love each other."

Milos smiled, a deep satisfied smile. A month ago, Peter would not have used that word.

"I think for this trip we are just going to be friends—at least at the start. Then, we'll play it by ear."

"I can live with that—particularly given their age—and the fact that they are probably Puritans—like you were. But, what do you think their mother has told them about her attachment to Sheila? Don't be surprised if they haven't already begun to ask questions or find their own answers to their mother's situation. It wouldn't be a large step to see us as boyfriends."

******

Milos was really good that night. He started with a tongue bath and then enjoyed a heaping course of dessert as he ate Peter to near-insanity. Within a few minutes, he was pleading for Milos to take him.

Peter preferred when Milos came from behind. It gave Milos more opportunity to control the edging. It gave Milos more depth when he pulled Peter into his lap. And it gave Peter a tad bit of privacy when he ultimately lost control. He almost always did. Milos was good, really good, producing deep down full body anal orgasms almost every time. It was easier given the enormous girth of Milos' cock—which always filled and stretched the chute. But Peter was still a little embarrassed when he lost it at the end. Milos loved to watch it in his eyes. But, Peter thought that Milos was actually peering into his soul. Even for two lovers, that was just a little too intimate. He still protected just a little bit of self. So he often pushed Milos behind and his own face into the pillow.

Milos positioned reaching around to hold Peter's cut abs, applied pressure and popped. Peter moaned, but quickly recovered and slammed back into Milos. That was the cue. Milos reached down and pulled Peter back into him, first teasing the hard nipples, then cradling the balls and stroking the shaft. He squeezed Peter close; then bottomed, filling him with the magic wand—as Peter had described it more than once. The chute expanded to accommodate the huge intruder, then lovingly caressed it. He bounced Peter on his cock, slowly, then speeded up as Peter began to respond. He could feel the tension in Peter's gut. He was getting near. The spasms started deep and hard and soon the walls of the shaft were massaging Milos, coaching his spunk to motion.

Milos knew that Peter was in another world. He was lost in a pleasure dome that Milos had created. Milos' fingers moved up the torso to tease his nipples. Peter turned his head, lust dripping from his deep blue eyes, and permitted Milos to take his lips. He had lost—no he had deliberately given up control—and that act enabled him to experience the highest level of ecstasy possible. It only lasted a few seconds—it was way too intense to last any longer. He exploded and shot forward onto the silken sheets as Milos deposited his hot spunk deep inside. And, just as the pleasure peaked and began to fade, Milos pushed him forward and into the bed (and the spunk) and enveloped him with arms and legs. His mouth fell to Peter's neck and sucked a lasting mark. The progression was perfect and, now predictable: self-control, seduction, consent, arousal, intensity, release, and protection—as Peter came back to resume life. And Milos had orchestrated it all. The only evidence of their deed was the creamy spunk under Peter's chest and the dripping cream in his ass. And of course the intense aroma of testosterone that filled the air.

If anyone had asked him months before: who experienced most joy in sex—the puritan neophyte or the experienced cocksman, he would have given the wrong answer. Peter's joy was greater than he had ever witnessed. Peter had become a totally sensuous animal. And he, Milos, was responsible. He had made his bed, so to speak, and was sleeping in it!

*****

The non-stop flight to New York was uneventful, but long, but the ride to the Brownstone from JFK was short. Peter went to the basement apartment and parked after delivering Milos to a nearby hotel. It was Friday afternoon. The ski trip would begin tomorrow. Peter loaded all their gear in the rented SUV. He had sent a large gift card to the Ski Haus, and the boys had been outfitted with the best. They were excited—or at least they seemed to be.

Peter dined—at a restaurant—with Chris and the boys—and Milos. Chris had insisted on adding Sheila at the last minute, but it really didn't matter. In fact, it was the distraction that Peter wanted. Chris and Sheila seemed oblivious to the connection between Peter and Milos.

And the next morning Peter loaded his sons into the SUV while it was still dark, and driven by to pick up Milos. With luck they'd be at Stowe by mid-afternoon. The first part of the trip was quiet as the boys slept on. They stopped for breakfast after a few hours of driving. Now the boys were awake and unusually ready to talk.

Milos more or less introduced himself, describing Budapest in the process. When he talked a little about his life, education and family, the boys caught on immediately. Paul was the first, "So you're a Count? As in Dracula? Where's your cape? Is Budapest in Transylvania? Do you have a castle? Does it have a moat? Do you sleep in a red velvet-lined coffin? Is there a princess imprisoned in the tower?" Milos laughed it all off, without denying anything. They were impressed—their Dad was friends with a Count. Peter was pretty sure that this inquisition was not yet finished. But, momentary silence prevailed. Peter waited for the next shoe to drop.

Paul leaned forward and pulled Peter's collar down, revealing the dark hickey. He looked over at JR with a look of wonder in his eyes. Then he sat back quietly. Peter knew exactly what Paul was thinking: the vampire was blood-letting his Dad! If only he knew! The exact reverse was true: Milos wasn't bleeding Peter, he was infusing him with life. Peter waited, but there was no more discussion.

Peter Jr. ("JR") filled his Dad in on school progress. Then, quite casually, he dropped the news. "Mom is marrying Sheila this summer. They're going to do it on the Cape where her family has a beach house. Are you going? I don't think we are invited." The innocence of the question drew silence from the front seat. Peter had not known—and he was surprised that Chris had already told the boys she was remarrying. He and Chris had carefully explained that they were no longer able to live together, but hadn't been specific about anything else. The boys were New Yorkers after all. Divorce was commonplace among their peers' parents. It didn't really seem to be a big deal. But he was really surprised that the re-marriage was also not a big deal, and it seemed that the same sex aspect was such a casual thing for them. They liked Sheila. And that was it.

Then Paul piped up. "Are you and Milos getting married this summer too? That would be rad. Can an American marry a vampire?" Peter was stunned, almost burst out in laughter, but quickly recovered.

"Marriage is a big step, Paul. I hope that Chris and Sheila will be very happy. But, I don't think I'll be able to make it for the ceremony. But, we do have lots of time together this summer. Later, I'd like to talk to you guys about where you want to go." Carefully, he had avoided any reference to Milos or their plans. He didn't want to lie with a casual statement about friendship, but he also didn't want to be specific. Milos had reached over and palmed his thigh. He smiled over at Milos who was laughing so hard inside that his dark eyes were watering. It didn't surprise Peter that Milos was obviously hard in his jeans.

Finally, Paul asked, "Can we visit the castle this summer? Milos, will you show us all your stuff? By the way, are we safe around you?"

"The answer to the visit is yes. And you are definitely safe around me. I never touch boys under 18."

Before the conversation could go any farther, Peter distracted with his favorite license plate game. And the subject was lost for the moment. And after a few more minutes, his sons were into their hand-held games.

Peter had rented a ski-in/ski-out chalet on the mountain, really part of the Stowe Lodge and connected to it by a short walking path or a regular jitney—really a large snow buggy. The hostess met them and they were all ensconced by Saturday evening. That night had always been pizza night in the Jefferson household, and so they were off to a local place. Everyone was excited.

There were three bedrooms, one filled with bunks—so the boys had their choice of various top or bottom mattresses. Both chose top. (How appropriate, Milos thought, for Peter's two sons—both were already privileged alphas-in-training.) The other two rooms were connected by a single bath—so at least for appearances, each of the guys had a separate room. The boys seemed to be oblivious to the arrangements, despite the symbolism of the ultimate choices—although they did check on the security of the lock to their room—Milos was a vampire after all.