It was like screwing herself with a vibrator, only better, she decided. She came again, and it was even more intense this time, the climax leaving her breathless and exhausted. She was wide-eyed, shuddering, her wet hair flying about her face and shoulders, her skin flushed and breaking out in gooseflesh under the shower spray.
She could imagine what she looked like as she made herself climax like that—an insane woman, sex mad, squatting to open up her frothing cunt as far as possible, her fingers glistening with soap lather as they went on sliding the bar of soap back and forth inside the groove of her spasming vulva. She was shameless, obscene, physically glutted. But she was satisfied! That agonizing ache in her loins was stilled at last. She could get on with her life.
She eased the soap out of her cunt, rinsed it off under the spray, and deposited it on its tray. Then she turned off the shower and reached for a towel.
Her hands still shook a little as she dried herself. That had been some come!
She pulled on her robe, wrapped another, dry towel around her head, and went into the living room. Barto was in the living room, getting ready to go to work. She joined him just in time to be treated to the sight of him standing there shirtless. God, he was a beautiful man!
Szonja was twenty-eight, and Barto was twenty-three, five years younger. Some of their friends liked to tease the couple about the difference in their ages. They called Szonja a cougar, and referred to Barto as her boy toy. In each case, it was a gross exaggeration, so no one took the mockery seriously.
Szonja looked at her husband, who was pulling on a blue-and-red plaid shirt—a Christmas gift from her, she remembered. She smiled. He might be a young man, but he was all man. He was fully mature where it counted—not just mentally, but physically and sexually. His favorite leisure time activity was fucking his wife, but pumping iron at the gym came in a close second. Bulgingly muscular, Barto looked the part of the stud he was. Truth in advertising!
He returned his wife’s glance, and her smile. “Don’t you look sexy.”
“Do I?” Szonja asked, as she began to rub her hair dry with the towel.
“Yeah. There’s a sort of glow about you, on your skin.”
“Oh, that’s just because I ran the water a little hotter than usual,” his wife said, blithely and evasively. “It got really steamy … and it felt really good.”
“It must have. You look nice and relaxed.”
“I am.” She didn’t elaborate. She and Barto kept very few secrets from each other. Still, a woman didn’t have to tell her husband everything!
“I’ve envious. I wish I could stay home tonight. Oh well, I’ve got to get going. I’m off to the wonderful world of triple X rated adult entertainment.”
“Don’t enjoy yourself too much.”
“I’ll try not to. I’ll try to stay awake, is more like it. Don’t wait up for me.”
“I won’t. But if you should happen to be feeling energetic when you get home—feel free to wake me up.”
He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“Remind me to put bar soap on the shopping list. We’re running low. And I want to make sure we get the same kind of big, fat bars—not those little, dainty ones. I like the big ones. They last longer.”
Her husband laughed. “Are you sure we’re talking about soap?”
She gave him a sly, suggestive look. “Not necessarily.”
“How about a goodbye kiss? A nice big wet one?”
“Any time, lover.”
But Barto, true to form, took advantage of her willingness. He helped himself to a lot more than just as kiss. As their lips met, he slipped his wife his tongue. Szonja was already moaning with pleasure as a result of the tongue-probing when his big, warm hand pushed her robe open in front and his palm cupped itself around the firm swell of one of her breasts. Barto stroked the nipple with his thumb, until Szonja couldn’t be certain which was stiffest—her husband’s tongue inside her mouth, his prick tucked away down one leg of his jeans, the nipple he was toying with, or her clit. And then the horny bastard put his other hand down between her legs and he began to rub the lips of her pussy, gently fingering the moist gap tucked away between the folds of hypersensitive pink flesh!
“Oh, God, Barto!” she gasped, against his mouth.
“Um,” he murmured appreciatively, as he reluctantly broke the kiss. “It looks good … it smells good … and it sure as hell feels good! Keep all of that warm for me until I get home—okay, babe?”
“You bet.” Szonja felt almost light-headed after Barto finally stepped away from her. Her robe gaped open in front, but she didn’t bother to close it. Let him get a good look at what would be here at home waiting for him!
He was looking at it, all right, and a lewd grin spread itself over his handsome face.
“Can I bring you anything?” he asked. “You know, from the convenience store? It’s open all night, and I’ll pass it on my way home.”
“No thanks, baby. Well, on second thought,” she added, only half-facetiously. “Maybe you can stop somewhere and find yourself a new boyfriend. Bring him home with you so we can both enjoy him.”
Barto laughed. “I may just do that.”
They had a perfect marriage. They understood each other.
Chapter Fifteen: His Not Quite So Much More Responsible Brother
“Adolar Mezey,” Istvan sputtered, incredulously.
“Yeah. What about him?” Bob asked, defiantly.
“I still can’t believe you’re associating with him.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because, baby bro, he’s a man with a disgusting reputation.”
“He’s always been nice to me.”
“Huh! I can just imagine why. I can just imagine why he’s interested in you—what he wants from you. A dumb young muscle-head like you … you’re just fresh meat, fresh beef, to a predatory older gay guy like him. He probably can’t wait to get his mouth on you.”
“Now you’re the one who’s being disgusting,” Bob said, primly. He failed to mention to his judgmental older brother that Adolar Mezey had already put his mouth on him, and that the two men’s relationship had progressed beyond that, to numerous other physical intimacies. “And, for your information, Adolar’s bisexual, not gay.”
“Same goddamn difference. Christ,” Istvan muttered. “Just being in that guy’s company … it’s as much as a man’s reputation is worth! And as for his wife—!”
“What about Adolar’s wife?”
“She’s as bad as he is. She’s nothing but a fag hag. A queer-loving slut!”
Bob winced. “You’re much too judgmental.”
“I’m right. You’ll see. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Yeah, you’re just dying to be able to say ‘I told you so,’ aren’t you?” Bob asked his brother, sourly. “God, you’re self-righteous!”
“And you,” Istvan retorted. “You’re playing with fire! So don’t come whining to me, boy, when you get burned!”
Istvan disliked quarreling with his kid brother. They’d always gotten along together well. Up until now, when Bob was showing this independent, rebellious, reckless streak, which Istvan found extremely upsetting.
Well, I suppose I can’t live the kid’s life for him, he told himself, with resignation. He’s going to have to make his own mistakes, and learn from them.
Meanwhile, Istvan was a lusty young man, who had his own life to live. And his own secrets, to which Bob wasn’t privy.
It was a Friday night in Budapest, and Istvan was doing what any respectable young college student ought to be doing at the start of his weekend. He was out on the town, trying to get laid.
He’d tried his luck in a popular downtown bar, where he’d managed to hook up on previous occasions. It was a mixed bar, patronized by both gays and straights, and it attracted the younger crowd—local college students, such as Istvan himself, and young urban professionals.
He had two beers, and he struck up c
onversations with a few people. None of these chats seemed to be headed in a direction that might end up between the sheets. Istvan entertained the possibility of ordering a third beer from the amiable bartender, but then he thought better of it. He was trying to cut down on his alcohol consumption, which could potentially jeopardize his development of his physique. He had an enviably flat, hard stomach, with hard-earned abdominal muscles, and he had no intention of exchanging that sexy look for a beer gut. And the thought of standing around in a bar all night, nursing a bottle of water or a soft drink, didn’t appeal to him. He’d be better off if he quit while he was still ahead.
Well, the weekend was still young. He could try his luck again on Saturday night. “Panic hour,” just before the bars closed on Saturday night—or more accurately, early on Sunday morning—was always a good time for cruising. Provided the guy doing the cruising, and being cruised, had enough common sense not to get too sloshed first. And provided he wasn’t too particular about whom he went home with!
Istvan was still young enough, and still sexually inexperienced enough, to feel some lingering ambivalence and guilt about his own sexuality. He’d been to bed with both women and men. He’d enjoyed both. But Hungary could be a homophobic country, although the residents of Budapest tended to be more sophisticated and tolerant than dwellers in the provinces. Istvan’s dislike and distrust of Adolar Mezey—whom he’d never met, but who had a certain unsavory reputation—was fueled by his own misgivings about his strong attraction to other men. And specifically, to other muscle men. Istvan like them big and butch. He told himself, sometimes, that he wasn’t really gay. If he was, then he’d be attracted to effeminate guys, twinks, surely? Having an appreciation of other men’s masculine bodies—that was perfectly normal, wasn’t it?
As for his baby brother, Bob—that little muscle bitch had better not be screwing around with gay men! Istvan’s attitude toward his sibling’s possible sex life was a classic example of “Do what I say, don’t do what I do.” Istvan was cheerfully and unapologetically hypocritical.
And, this evening, he was desperately horny.
Too bad that man whore Mezey isn’t here in this bar, drinking, Istvan thought, humorously. He’d probably be happy to pick me up! I’m not so bad-looking … and from I hear, that guy isn’t too choosey. Damn! I still can’t believe that my own kid brother has some sort of a thing for that man! Just a typical young muscle pup’s crush on a well-known pro bodybuilder, I’m sure. It had better not go any further than that. That dirty sex pig Mezey had better keep his hands off my bro!
Istvan left the bar, feeling almost grateful to escape from its crowded, noisy interior and get back out in the fresh air. It was a warm, clear early summer night, with a star-studded sky overhead. Only a few wisps of clouds here and there obscured the calm beauty of the celestial display.
Istvan hadn’t been able to find a safe-looking parking spot that was closer than a few blocks away. He walked slowly, passing a couple of other bars, and also many storefronts, most of which were locked up for the night. This was a commercial district, and not a particularly upscale one, on the whole. It even had an adult video store—a “dirty bookstore,” as Istvan couldn’t help thinking of it—which looked seedy enough on the outside. Istvan had never actually set foot in the place. It was one of the few businesses on the block without a liquor license that still seemed to be open at this time of night. The smut store had the rather absurd, pretentious name A Vörös Bársony Szex Szalon [The Red Velvet Sex Salon], which suggested its owners were suffering from delusions of grandeur.
He stopped halfway down the block from the video store to look at a display of stereo equipment in an electronic store’s window. It was overpriced junk, he concluded. Istvan wasn’t even aware that a man had come up beside him on the sidewalk until the man spoke.
“Hey, kid. You got a light, son?”
Startled, Istvan jumped slightly in response. He wondered why he was feeling so restless, so twitchy, tonight. This combination of horniness and frustration was really getting to him!
He examined the man who’d approached him, coldly, suspiciously. He was about forty, Istvan estimated, and not bad looking. He was well dressed, in expensive “casual” clothes. But he had a shifty, nervous look about him. Maybe that was the inevitable by-product of accosting a stranger on a deserted street at night, even for something as innocent as a light. He smiled hopefully but a little too brightly at Istvan. His eyes darted restlessly back and forth, looking first at Istvan’s face, then to either side. It was as though he was afraid to hold the muscular young college boy’s gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. Or he was afraid the two of them were being observed by some third party.
Istvan thought, for a moment, that the man’s glance darted down to his well-packed crotch, and that it even lingered there. But he told himself that he was probably imagining things.
“Sorry,” Istvan finally said, breaking the awkward silence. “I don’t smoke.” He was careful to keep his voice polite but distant, in order to discourage further conversation.
But this dude wasn’t easily discouraged.
“I didn’t think so,” he said.
It struck Istvan as an odd remark. If the man thought Istvan didn’t smoke, then why the fuck had he asked him for a light? He didn’t seem to be surprised or disappointed—and he didn’t move away from Istvan, either.
“You look kind of athletic,” the man commented. “You’re smart not to smoke. I know smoking’s bad for me. I keep trying to quit. But …I do a lot of things that are bad for me.” There was now an insinuating tone in his voice.
Istvan turned away from him, to discourage him. In the reflection of the stereo shop’s plate-glass display window, he saw the man staring at him—quite openly and boldly, now. In fact, now that Istvan’s back was turned, the guy had a look on his face that was downright lustful!
Christ, he’s a cocksucker! Istvan thought. He’s cruising me! Trying to pick me up! He felt a weird mixture of revulsion and excitement. This son of a bitch wants to … I don’t know, he wants me to go someplace with him … so he can blow me!
Stunned by this revelation, Istvan simply stood there, staring into the window. A hookup in a bar was one thing. That was almost respectable, in a way. A street pickup, on the other hand, struck Istvan as quite sordid.
After a moment, the man spoke up again.
“There’s not much going on tonight, is there?” His voice was now low-pitched and intimate. “Not much in the way of action, I mean.”
Istvan shrugged. “I guess not. Excuse me—” He started to walk away—but the guy followed him.
“Were you in the bookstore?” the man asked. “You know, the dirty bookstore? I didn’t see you in there.”
“No.” Istvan continued to walk away, with the guy right in step beside him. Istvan’s heart pounded in his chest. His prick pulsated in his snug-fitting jeans, threatening to burst through the crotch seam.
“I went in there to buy another DVD,” his admirer told Istvan, heatedly. “You should’ve seen the one I bought there and took home last week. I never saw anything like it. It’s a bisexual video, two guys and a girl. One of those ones that’s made in America, you know, imported here? The two guys are big, muscular redneck types, with tattoos, and the girl is a slut with big tits. She looks like a stripper. The three of them do everything. She sucks their cocks. They lick her pussy. One of them screws her while she sucks the other guy’s dick, and then they switch. Then they take turns fucking her. She gets so turned on she tells one of them to fuck her in the ass while his buddy fucks her cunt. Then the two guys suck each other’s cocks, and one of them fucks the other up the butt while he’s fucking her. I couldn’t believe how hot it was. When I watched it with my wife, she got so turned on she let me put it in her rear end.”
Istvan turned his head and shot the man a hard, tough look that he assumed would finally scare him off.
“Yeah? So what? So you fucked your wife up the as
s. Who cares? Who gives a fuck?”
The man seemed startled by Istvan’s retorts for a moment, but he quickly recovered his composure. And Istvan had made the mistake of pausing on the sidewalk while he spoke, instead of hurrying on.
“I’m trying to talk my wife into getting into a three-way scene like that, with me and some other guy,” the married man confided. “I bet if she sees a couple more of these videos, she’ll be willing to give it a try. I bet she’d like to have a good-looking young stud like you fuck her … and I know it’d turn her on to see me playing around with another guy! Do you think you could get into that sort of a three-way scene, buddy? If so—”
“No,” Istvan said curtly, interrupting him. “I’m not interested in that kind of sick shit!”
“No? What’s the matter? Don’t you like sex? I can’t believe that. Not a good-looking young stud like you. I bet you have girls chasing after you all the time. Probably guys, too.” The married man ran his tongue quickly over his lips. “You got a girlfriend who takes care of you? Maybe even a boyfriend? Are you going to get laid tonight? Are you going to go home and get sucked off?”
Istvan just stared at the man. He couldn’t believe a guy who was almost old enough to be his father was standing there saying such things to him!
“Do you like to get sucked? Sure you do. And I’m real good at it. I swear to God I am! I love to suck cock! Listen … I’ve got my car parked right down there, in that alley. You want to go back there with me so I can give you a blow job?”
Istvan couldn’t reply. His throat felt dry and parched, and his breath was catching in his throat, while he gaped incredulously at this stranger who was propositioning him so brazenly, so recklessly. A desperate lust for Istvan’s body and cock was written all the man’s face, just as it was audible in his low, hoarse, pleading tone of voice.
Bisexual Bodybuilders Vol 2 Page 2