Sad Eyed Lady of the Low LifebyHarryC©
Ilona sighed, blowing moist air through olive lips that were perched in the pout she had sat for hours in front of the mirror perfecting. The slender index finger of her right hand stroked the soft plane of her cheek, her pink nail polish lurid against her pale skin. When the finger reached her jaw-line, she curled it elegantly back into the arch of her hand and pushed a thick weight of brown hair back from her face and over her shoulder. All her gestures, one suspected, were like this – exquisite, effortless and utterly artificial.
She watched the man sprawled in one of the armchairs in her waiting room. He was handsome, she supposed, but not her type. His suit was rumpled, and poorly cut. His trousers were too short and rode high on his legs, revealing socks that featured crudely stitched images of Santa and Mrs. Claus. The cartoons were on the inside, so that when he jiggled his ankles it looked to Ilona as if the characters were dancing together. Each time he did this, he glanced up at Ilona, his muddy eyes looking to see, she thought, some sign of approval. When she sensed him about to look at her, she would always look away, busy herself with paper on her heavy wooden desk or tap away at the computer.
The suit jacket was too narrow for the man's shoulders, and the pockets were distended from the thick bulge of his wallet in the right and the book in the left. Catch-22, she noted. They had read a translation in school; she had though it a stupid and empty book, utterly frivolous. Not a patch on John Grisham, she had smugly told her teacher, who had just sighed, then nodded slowly. The pages were yellowed, and even from her perch she could see they were worn – not carelessly, but from frequent use.
The man's face was well constructed, but here too, he exhibited a lack of care. His short black hair was unkempt, his strong cheeks and jaw were dusted with stubble, and his blue eyes swam in dark pools. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Ilona sniffed. Maybe some women were attracted to scruffy guys, but not her.
The phone rang. She waited two rings, then picked it up and said the name of the office, her name, and then asked if she could help.
"Perhaps you could," said the familiar voice at the far end of the line. "I have this strange sensation and my penis has gone all hard. I've tried rubbing it, but that just seems to make things worse. Do you think I should speak to the doctor?"
Ilona laughed, but underneath the laughter, she felt a potent twitch of desire. Her boyfriend had been away for two weeks now and had only been able to call her during her office hours, due to the time difference. She hadn't had to use her fingers so much since she was 18, and her friend Caterina had shown her how to masturbate. Now she could feel the blood swelling her labia, feel her vagina moisten, feel her face and breasts flush.
"Can you speak?" her boyfriend asked.
Before when he had called, the office reception had been filled with waiting people, now there was just this one guy. He was from England, she recalled. Hungarian, they call us, she thought.
"I think I can," she said. "Let me find out."
"Do you speak Hungarian?" she said, in Magyar. He looked up, a quizzical expression on his face. "Hey scruffy," she tried again quickly, "would you like to see my breasts?"
He raised one eyebrow and smiled politely. Clearly he didn't understand. In English, she said, "Sorry – do you want coffee, or tea?"
He smiled, widely. "No thanks," he replied. Very cultured voice, she thought, for a man who can't buy clothes that fit. He went back to reading his book, and she told her boyfriend that they could, finally, talk.
"Oh, god I miss your pussy," he said. "I miss the way it holds my cock so firmly. I miss its heat and wetness."
"I miss your big dick," Ilona said, keeping her voice as casual as she could. "Its taste. Its soft, soft skin."
His dick was so soft, she recalled. On their first date she had jerked him off, marvelling all the while at the baby soft skin under her hands. He later told her that he never needed to use lubricant when he masturbated. He had fingered her that same night, stroking his thick middle finger in and out of her cunt, curling it to try and hit her g, diddling her clit with the tip of his index finger. "I like your bush," he had whispered, many nights later, when touching had led to actual sex.
Ilona had never shaved her pussy, as so many of her friends did. In part, this was because she did not particularly enjoy receiving oral sex; mainly, it was that she had long loved the natural lines of her pubic hair. She had spent, cumulatively, hours at the mirror, gazing and touching, tracing the neat, sparse curls from just below her taut little stomach, around and down between her legs and past her lips until the black hair met her anus, where, she had decided with jejune certainty, no-one would ever touch her. Shaving would only spoil its perfect lines, and her boyfriend loved it too, calling it the pelt he had won. His trophy.
"It's been so long since I came," Ilona said.
"Really," Tomas said. "That guy, in your office, is he... handsome?"
She laughed, affecting her deep, sexy laugh. This was a game they had played before, in bed.
Ilona purred, but quietly. Still, the guy looked over, then shrugged and went back to his book. "Very," she said.
"Big bulge at his crotch?"
"Very big," said Ilona. "Much bigger than yours."
"Take off your panties," Tomas said.
Ilona tilted her head to the side and wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder. She slipped her hands inside her short skirt, then lifted herself off her chair and tugged her panties down, making it look like she was just adjusting her skirt. She wiggled her long legs and felt a shiver along her spine as her thin, silk panties slipped down to her shoes. The man coughed, then laughed once at something in his book. Thank goodness for the modesty panel, she thought as she picked up her wet panties and dropped them casually in her handbag.
"They're off," she said into the phone. "I can feel the air-conditioning chilly on my wet cunt."
Tomas moaned. "I'm stroking my cock, baby, wishing it was your fingers slowly running over my shaft."
Ilona's hand crept back up her skirt, and with two fingers she teased through the curls of her hair and parted her lips. She began to stroke herself, slowly and carefully.
"I'm touching myself," she said. "I'm fingering my little pussy and thinking about fucking you."
"Is the guy joining in?" Tomas asked.
"Oh, yes," Ilona whispered. "He's walked over to my desk, and tugged down the fly of his trousers, and pulled out his big fat cock. I'm stroking it, and it's getting bigger and bigger. I can't close my hand around it, it's so thick."
Tomas gasped, and even over the phone she could hear him frantically masturbating, hear the almost glottal sound of his foreskin slapping against the thick, purplish head of his beautiful cock. The sound, and the little fantasy she had spun for Tomas, aroused her further, and her own fingers sped to pulse more rapidly in their delving.
"I'm lapping at the big tasty tip of this strange man's cock," Ilona said, "and he's ripped down the front of my blouse and hefted my big, round breasts out of their bra."
Tomas was almost incoherent, now, just moaning her name, and she could feel her orgasm nearing, too. It took all her will power not to gasp or moan or do any of the other things she did in all those other nights, wrapped in sweaty sheets, mouth livid ringed with smeared lipstick, fingers sticky, breasts and cunt bathed in a lover's saliva.
"My little brown nipples are hard and sharp as cut glass. He's fingering my pussy, just spreading it wide enough that his huge cock can get inside me. Oh, he's forcing it in... oh... so big. He's fucking me hard and slow... he can last all night, this stud between my legs."
Ilona's legs were spread wide behind the safety of the modesty panel, and her biceps were aching with the effort of staying still while her fingers moved so desperately on her pussy. On the phone, she heard the familiar sound of Tomas coming, and that finally brought on her orgasm, which washed over her with tidal force.
"Oh that was so hot, baby. So hot," babbled Tomas over and over. "I haven't come so hard in ages."
Ilona was short of breath, and her reply to Tomas was husky. "Me either. Come home soon, okay?"
"Yeah," said Tomas, "I'll do my best. Should be less than a week now."
"So long? Well, call me again. Can't tie up the line any more."
They disconnected, and at that moment, as if waiting for her call to finish, the man checked his watch then stood and walked over to her desk. Ilona found herself checking out his crotch, some part of her still locked in the fantasy, and found that he did actually seem to have a fairly decent package down there. Then she shook her head, and smiled professionally at him.
"This is a nice office," he said. "I think you probably redecorated it recently?"
"Yes," she said, she felt a little puzzled, and decided she needed to spend more time talking in English, if so little conversation could so easily stymie her. "We had a small fire at the beginning of the year. Nothing serious, but plenty of smoke damage."
"Yes, I rather suspected as much. Ah well," he said, "tell Adorjan that I'll see him tomorrow. Please explain to him that I'm meeting some old pals down at Darshan Udvar, and that he's welcome to join us."
Moving with easy grace, the man was through the door moments later, pausing only to laugh softly and then shake his head, muttering some brief, vaguely familiar phrase. Ilona waited a few moments then got up, smoothing her skirt down on her toned thighs, and went through the same door to reach the bathroom in the corridor where she could wash her hands.
When she walked back, she stopped at the settee to sort the cushions where the man had been sitting. Idly, she noticed that her panties were just visible in her handbag, and she reminded herself to tuck them in more securely before she left. She froze for a moment, something about her handbag seeming strange. There it was, under her desk, sitting just to the side where she could tap her feet against it, to reassure herself that she hadn't misplaced it. She remembered the man's comment on the renovation of the office, and she suddenly realised that her replacement desk didn't have a modesty panel. She felt light-headed, and she had to grab the settee to stop from falling. For a moment, she entertained the hope that he somehow hadn't seen her. Her brain, as if eager to rub it in, suddenly informed her that she didn't know the English words for redecorated or suspected or smoke damage and that that scruffy stranger had been speaking not English, but flawless, if unaccented, Magyar.
What was that phrase he had spoken, before he left? That little comment to himself on his odd little afternoon? She struggled to remember. Then...
There but for the grace of God go I.