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I nearly didn’t spot it. It was tucked away in the corner of the square, not even a table or two outside to tell the world it was there. That was what drew me to it. The tourist in me would have called it quaint or charming, but what it said to the rest of me was Authentic. Not a great tourist trap like the Gerbeaud cafe, full of people spending more money than they feel happy with just so they can say they’ve been there; no, this was a modest, unassuming authentic Hungarian restaurant. I could hear how full it was from five yards away and as I stepped through the low wooden doorway and peered through the gloom I knew I had chosen just right. The tables were small – most seemed to be individual, taking no more than two people – and the room was full of Budapesters, eating, talking, reading the newspaper, some still with their coats on, some having a quick read of a novel in their lunch hour.

At the back of the room I could see two men in poorly-chosen ties engaged in a business discussion, beers in their hands and their lunch plates sitting on top of a pile of papers as they peered at a small laptop. The restaurant owner, a tubby man in a yellow shirt and a moustache that filled the lower half of his round face, came towards me and scanned the room. I thought at first my luck was out, but he held a finger up to me to be patient and then bent it towards a table by the window. Two women were getting their things together and leaving their tip. The owner gave me a satisfied smile as if to ask how I could ever have doubted him and ushered me towards the table. I was seated at the table before the women had left the restaurant; the owner had cleared the table in what seemed like a single movement before I had had time to take off my coat, and suddenly the menu was in my hand. He bustled off, I glanced round at the room, very pleased with what I saw – yes, this was clearly where the people of Budapest actually came to eat – and suddenly she was sitting down across the table from me.

She had dark, straight hair, dark brown eyes, and she was wearing a very smart raincoat, which she did not take off, over what looked like a very elegant navy blue dress and a large silver necklace which hung down and covered her upper chest, like something from ancient Egypt. She sat down so naturally, not even glancing at me, not indicating by so much as a smile or an inclination of the head “Do you mind if I sit here?”, that for a moment I thought I had made a mistake. Was this table reserved after all? Had the owner thought we were together? My confusion must have shown in my face because she noticed and said something. I guessed she was asking if I minded. I smiled and shook my head and returned to the menu.

The owner came over. She ordered without even looking; more hesitantly, I chose something whose name I recognised and ordered. She was looking past me, into the middle distance; I reached into my bag and took out my book. And that was when she noticed and looked at me properly.

“You’re English?” she asked – in English.


“You don’t mind me sitting here, I hope? It’s how this place works.”

“Not at all. Is that what you asked?”

“Yes.” And she smiled. I smiled back.

A brief pause. The ice had been broken. We could resume – she eating, me reading – and we would say a brief goodbye when she finished and got up to go and we would never see each other again. Or we could talk.

I caught her eye. I saw a hint of a question in it. A moment of understanding. She was thinking the same thoughts as me.

We talked.

“Are you here on holiday?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m having a week here. I’ve never been to Budapest and I thought it was time I did.”

“And how do you like it?”

“It’s a beautiful city.”

The usual stuff.

And so I learned: a) she worked for a fashion company; b) she was not from Budapest but from Szeged, to the south, but she had moved to Budapest six years ago and liked it; c) She had never been to England but she did once spend a holiday in Ireland; d) she appreciated art, she was interested in history, but most of all she loved music, particularly opera.

And with that, she got up to go. I stood up and we shook hands. She smiled, she turned, she went. She didn’t look back. I made a mental note to remember her as a beautiful woman I once had lunch with in Budapest. Another little incident to add to my experiences. And I put her out of my mind. I took out my Rough Guide and had another check of how to get up to Buda Castle Hill, finished my lunch, paid and headed out to the metro. I forgot her. Yes, really. I spent the afternoon in the old royal palace, now turned into museums, and I lost myself exploring the Budapest History Museum. By the time I took the funicular down the hill and headed back to my hotel for a shower she had completely passed from my head. I had forgotten her. Yes, really. Well, all right: almost.

And then I met her again.

It was the next morning. I had spent the morning visiting the splendidly almanbahis adresi ornate Parliament building and I wanted to sit down over a leisurely cup of something warm. It took a bit of searching but I found exactly the sort of cafe I was looking for: small, fin de siècle style, not too crowded, and, to my delight – books! The place was virtually furnished with books: on the walls, on the window seats, books to pick up, to browse through, to read. Possibly even to buy? I was in love! This was the sort of place I had been looking for since I arrived. I went in and stood for a moment, taking in the scene, almost drinking it in. I chose a small table, sat down and immediately twisted round to scan the bookshelf behind me. They books were mostly in Magyar but I saw a couple of German titles and then I spotted some French ones. I picked out a copy of Maupassant stories and was just getting into them when I sensed the waitress had come over. I looked up and it took a moment to register what I was seeing. Gone was the smart dress and raincoat; she was in a plain black top and jeans. But it was her.

“I thought it was you”, she said. “When you came in, I thought it was you.”

“Yes. It is. What are you doing here?”

“I work part-time at the office. The owner here is an old school friend. I often help her out on my day off. It all helps with the rent.” She smiled. “What can I get you?”

“I’d really like a cup of tea.”

“You’re not in England now. In Hungary you drink coffee.”

“So I have noticed. So what would you advise for someone who has never much liked coffee?”

“Really? You’ve never liked it?”

“Too bitter.”

“Leave it to me.”

She disappeared and I returned to the Maupassant. Then she came back, with two cups on a tray.

“This is free. On the home.”

I smiled.

“On the house”, I said, correcting her. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s to welcome you to Budapest. You cannot visit Budapest and not drink our coffee.” And she sat down in the chair opposite me. “So, tell me: where will you visit this afternoon?”

We talked. We talked of history, of Europe, of university days (she had read law; I had read history), of holidays, of travel, of things we hadn’t done but dreamed of doing, places we dreamed of going, things we longed to see. And then I thought it, and then I hesitated, and I thought No, I couldn’t possibly, and then I said it.

“What time do you finish? Would you like to come to the National Gallery with me?”

She looked me straight in the eye. She had understood. She didn’t even pause before saying:

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

And she did.

She came through from the back, a green and orange silk scarf tied very stylishly round her neck and wearing a very chic black leather jacket. To my surprise, she took my arm and led me out of the cafe and down to the metro. I glanced at her; she looked straight ahead. This could turn interesting.

How to describe it? It felt almost light-headed as we entered the metro and sat in the train – not crowded at 2.30 in the afternoon. She was smiling and quizzing me about my life. What history did I like? Did I know anything about Hungarian history? (yes, a bit) What books did I like? She had noticed me reading the Maupassant – did I like his work? So did she.

Her name was Frijda. A Norwegian name – her mother was Norwegian. Yes, she had been to Norway: she had relatives there. Here we are – we get off here.

Why did it feel gloriously as if we were playing truant from school? Why did it feel as if we shared a secret? Why had she come? Why was I so glad she had come? Well, that last one was obvious.

The gallery was another of the museums in the old royal palace. It was built on a grand scale – large marble staircases and high, vaulted ceilings. I dutifully admired some landscapes and seventeenth century portraits before we headed towards the impressionists. But to get there we passed through a gallery lined with dramatic portraits of Hungarian Magyars in armour or on horseback. It didn’t seem to be Frijda’s cup of tea (cup of coffee?) but somehow we both ended up standing in front of a rather dashing portrait of a hussar with a twinkle in his eye, as if he was checking out anyone who might be looking at him. We were standing side by side in front of the picture, the right, comfortable distance apart – personal space and all that – and then she said it. She didn’t move her head, she didn’t even glance towards me, but she said it.

“John, you are probably wondering if we can spend more time together after this. You hope we can get a drink. You hardly dare think that we might spend the evening together. And you are convincing yourself even now that spending the night together is just a silly dream. But it’s not. If you would like to, you can stay with me all night. And just so you know, I would like that. I would like that very much indeed.”

She never moved her head as she said it. Nor did I. Then, still looking at the painting, almanbahis adres I nodded slowly. “I would like that too”, I said. And she reached out and squeezed my hand. We headed for the museum cafe. She chose a different type of coffee; it wasn’t quite as nice as the first one. She seemed to be watching the waitresses with a professional eye, noting how well they attended to the customers. That was when I thought to look (a woman would have looked long before now): she wore no ring, but the faint indentation of one was there: she had once worn one. Divorced, then, or separated. She noticed me looking and raised an amused eyebrow.

“You’re divorced?” I asked.

“Nearly. The papers are coming through.”

“Has it been difficult?”

“Not as bad as it could have been. He’s been very good about it really.”

She leaned forward, looking into my eyes.

“And as for you, you are married, happily enough, but part of you wishes you weren’t,” she said.

“How can you tell that?”

“You are here for a week on your own and you are not on business. Any woman can tell that. Any woman.”

And I realised that she didn’t just mean herself.

“So,” she continued, “for these days we are both free. Starting tonight.”

And she gave me that evening’s rendezvous. Seven o’clock in front of the concert hall.

“Don’t be late”.

I was outside the concert hall, showered and changed, by a quarter to seven. At seven o’clock exactly I saw her walking slowly towards me, her hands in the pockets of her smart coat, a rather beautiful pashmina round her neck, her eyes fixed directly on mine. When she drew level she kissed me on both cheeks and then, without a word, she put her arm through mine and led me inside. “I have the tickets”, she said: “my treat.”

It was Beethoven. A couple of shorter pieces by composers I hadn’t heard of – quite good, though – and then Beethoven’s seventh symphony. And as the music gathered pace, faster, louder, more intense, I glanced at Frijda. We hadn’t touched all evening – apart from the usual kiss on both cheeks when we met at the door (usual? It’s usual for friends. We had only met the day before) – but there had been something, in the eyes, in the air, a sense of expectancy. Enjoying the music while knowing there was more to come. But now I sensed a tension, a tightening, and I looked over at Frijda. She was looking straight ahead at the orchestra, her eyes wide and bright – she was giving herself to the music, letting it fill her. She glanced towards me and saw me looking at her. And her eyes lit up in pure delight. She was in heaven.

She took my arm again as we filed out at the end. I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the topic in my mind, but it would have to be faced. She spoke first.

“Dinner, then your hotel.”

“All right.”

“This is your night,” she added; “tomorrow will be mine.”

Dinner was in a small restaurant, not unlike the cafe where we had first met. I thought having goulash might be a bit too obvious but she recommended it. She was right. I had had it in England many times but this was quite different. A much richer, deeper taste. She looked into my eyes, obviously wanting to know what I thought of it. “It’s delicious”, I told her, “much better than I have ever tasted before.” “Good”, she said; “welcome to Hungary.”

After such a wonderful dinner, I felt rather ashamed of taking Frijda to my very ordinary hotel room. It wasn’t even downmarket enough to be charming: it was a chain hotel, with standard facilities, standard furnishings, a standard colour of shirt for the staff, a standard drinks and snacks machine in the lobby and standard furniture in the rooms. When I had first arrived there was even the standard welcome message on the TV screen in the room. I opened the door and ushered her in and waved an arm apologetically around the room. She took it in with one glance. I put the little hotel room kettle on for some coffee (I was learning) and she took off her coat and sat elegantly in the one armchair. I turned round to her – and I forgot all about the coffee.

“John, this is your night. Do as you want,” she said. And, without even thinking about it, as if by instinct, almost without knowing what I was doing, I sank to my knees before her, bent down and kissed the straps of her shoes. Little kisses, almost reverent. I glanced up at her. I half expected her to look shocked or surprised, or else to have gone into stern dominatrix mode, but she did neither of these: she smiled. Kindly.

“Is that what you want, John?”

I nodded.

“Very well.” And she held out her hand. I kissed it, kissing each finger. She held out her other hand, and I kissed her fingers one by one. And she slipped a finger inside my mouth, and I was caught, like a fish on a line. She drew me in.

We kissed. Deeply, hungrily. She was holding me to her, tightly, gripping me. I kissed her neck, along her shoulder, small kisses, little licks. She purred like a cat.

“That is almanbahis adres gorgeous. Oh God, that is gorgeous.”

Suddenly she took my head in her hands and kissed my face, my forehead, my cheeks, my chin – I closed my eyes and she kissed my eyelids. Suddenly she was kissing my neck. I squirmed in agonised pleasure. Then I sank to my knees again and kissed her feet, first one foot, then the other. Then I started to move up her legs. Kissing, licking, up towards her knees. As I reached her knees, she shifted to pull her dress up, as I slowly eased her knees apart. I was kissing her thighs now. Licking her thighs, as I caught the faint smell of her cunt. Kissing more daringly now, longer licks – I could hear her breathing more heavily, sense her body tensing, as my tongue licked its way slowly, slowly towards her knickers. She shifted again and eased her dress right up. I could see the top of her hold-up stockings and the lacy triangle of her knickers.

Suddenly, I licked the bare flesh of her thighs in one long lick right up to her cunt and I kissed through her knickers. Kissed and licked as if I was french kissing her cunt. And her hand came down, and I backed off, and I watched as she hooked a finger inside her knickers and pulled them to one side. And I moved in and I kissed her cunt lips. Little kisses. Little flicks of the tongue. And another flick, slipping ever so slightly inside her. And another. And another. Deeper inside her. Until my lips were touching her cunt, and my tongue was deep inside. Licking her, flicking her. And I found her clit. And I licked her clit. And I played my tongue around her clit. And I could hear her breathing getting faster, as she began to squirm in the chair. And her cunt was running with her juices. And I sank my face into her cunt and bathed my face in them. I drank her. I ate her. And she shuddered and held my head firmly in place as I licked her faster and faster, taking her clit into my mouth. And I made her cum.

She was shaking, her chest heaving, as I brought her the nasty hotel room coffee. She took it gratefully. “Thank you, John. Thank you.” She didn’t just mean for the coffee.

“Is that what you like?” she asked.

“It’s part of what I like. But not all”, I said. “I’ll show you. If you’re ready.”

She nodded.

“I’m ready”.

“You won’t mind?”

“I won’t mind anything.”

“You’re sure?”

“Believe me.”

I did.

So I slipped my shoes off and stood in front of her. I took off my tie and undid my belt. She sat and watched, interested, amused. I undid the waistband of my trousers, unzipped, and let them fall down my legs. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh,” she said. “Wow.”

I took the trousers off and the socks.

“Nice stockings”.

“Thank you”, I said. “I like them too.”

She stood up and pushed me gently towards the bed.

“I think you should be lying down.”

“There’s one thing”, I said.

“One thing?”

“Something I like.”

“All right. What is it? I don’t have toys”, she added, as if warning me off an avenue.

“I don’t need toys”, I said. And I unbuttoned my shirt and handed it to her. “I want you to wear my shirt.”

She took it.

“Real cross-dressing?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Only, I don’t have to wear your stockings – I’ve got my own.”

“And the knickers?”

“I got them in a sex shop. They’re designed for men.”

“Ah.” She understood.

I sat on the bed as she stood before me and, her eyes fixed on mine, she unbelted her dress. She reached up and unzipped it behind her. She let it fall to the floor, stepped out of it and stood before me, in her bra, knickers, stockings and shoes. I looked up at her, adoringly. She looked down at me – what was that look in her eye? A look of fondness? And suddenly, so quickly I almost missed it, she winked. And she reached behind and took off her bra. She stood for a moment, her hands on her hips, her breasts standing proud. Then she reached down, picked up the shirt, and put it on. She buttoned it from the bottom, just two or three buttons, so it showed her cleavage. Then, as if she suddenly thought of something, she held up her finger and reached down to the floor again. I wondered what it was and then I saw – she had picked up my belt. And she was fixing it wound her waist. My shirt was now her dress and it looked just fine. And then, as if she knew, still looking at me, she turned up her collar. And my eyes gave me away. And she knew it all. She knew what I liked, what I could not resist.

She moved towards me. She pulled my head towards her chest and I kissed. I kissed her cleavage, kissing desperately, kissing as if it was her mouth, kissing from sheer love of this beautiful woman who has suddenly come into my life. She pulled her shirt (her shirt? my shirt!) open and I kissed her breasts, lovingly, adoringly. I kissed her nipples, and ran my tongue over them, and drew them into my mouth, first one, then the other, and I felt her breathing quicken and her body tense and suddenly, she threw me back onto the bed and climbed on top of me. She knelt on me, pinning me to the bed and looked round for something. She reached down and picked up my tie. Then she took my arms and stretched them above my head and tied my wrists together.

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