Sophia's World Pt. 03

FIVE

But I must leave Sophia and her new friend to convey the news to you the reader - news you are receiving before even Sophia received it, given that she had more important matters to attend to than her mobile phone - that, little more than a month after returning to England, she would be on a plane to the group's headquarters in Tokyo. She would be part of a sizable UK delegation (numbers had not yet been confirmed, but there were likely to be 12 at the least) for what had once been a biennial event, but one which for one reason or another hadn't been held for nearly seven.

When she told husband Peter about the nine-day trip, after she had returned to her riverside home in leafy Barnes, seeing how exhausted she was, he expressed concern that her workload might catch up with her one day, if she wasn't careful to maintain a healthy work-life balance. He knew the type of dedication she brought to her work and especially to seeing that the needs of her clients, especially the high-net-worth ones, were fully met. He could see that she had been unstinting with her time and energy on the short German trip, and was naturally worried that she would overdo things on a longer trip to the Land of the Rising Sun in her desire to please her bosses on their home turf.

Meanwhile, Sophia could be certain that Peter had not let the grass grow under his feet during her absence. In her absence, it was a given that the children's Czech nanny, Myška, would have been sharing his (her!) bed when given a pink slip by her Hungarian flatmate and lover Piri. Indeed, based on past experience, Piri had possibly joined the party, and - who knows? - maybe brought along some of her Bohemian friends. Peter certainly seemed pretty chipper. But then he never looked or seemed tired. He might be out half the night with his mates or on the job all night with his stable of female admirers, but you would never know it. He'd just sleep it off the next couple of nights and everything would be as right as rain. Sophia sometimes wondered if he actually worried about anything.

That night in bed, after Sophia had caught up with news about the children (Ollie, six, and Chloe, four and a half), Peter asked her probing questions about her Frankfurt trip. Before she left, she told him that she would be going to the Frankfurt Opera, but he hadn't bought it then and he wasn't buying it now. As it happened, tickets had been bought and bank people had gone to see Manon Lescaut, but of course Sophia was not among them. Sensing, like sleep-deprived POWs facing lengthy interrogation by the Gestapo, that resistance would be futile, Sophia admitted that she had passed up a trip to the opera (which she wasn't very fond of in the first place, as Peter knew) in favour of an evening at a cabaret. (Sophia thought this sounded better than 'nightclub'.) It didn't take long for her husband to elicit the whole truth surrounding the night out. Being someone who enjoyed his vicarious pleasures as much as the next man, Peter wasn't satisfied until he had squeezed out every last detail. Being an understanding and sympathetic person too (as everyone kept reminding Sophia), he was particularly disappointed for his wife that she hadn't been able to get to know Rania a little more intimately. Maybe next time, he suggested.

Wheedling the truth about the driver Andreas out of his wife took Peter a little longer. But, as usual, his network of mates and mates' mates had already furnished him with the important details of this little tryst. (At the centre of the web was the Egyptian Seth, Peter's friend of old, who worked at the Japanese bank with Sophia and had been known to send some pretty profitable 'business' her way.) Peter seemed pretty cool with the fact that the specifications of his weaponry matched his own, and the German went right up in his estimation when Sophia recounted the hard time he had given her and the slightly sour note on which they had parted. Good for him, was Peter's verdict, much to his wife's chagrin.

Now it was time to find out what her husband had been up to while his wife was away. At first, Peter had seemed affronted that Sophia would so much as suspect that he would get up to any monkey business while she was gone, but it was really more of a ploy to turn her on than a genuine attempt on his part to pull the wool over her eyes. It all began to fall into place when Peter let it slip out in conversation that Piri's sister was visiting from Szeged in Hungary.

'Ah, I get it, a threesome with the sisters?'

'Well, not exactly.'

'You mean you took this sister out for a romantic dinner, wined and dined her and then brought her back to this bed for a quick - sorry, long - fuck?'

'Again, not exactly. Look, do you want me to tell you, or are you set on going through all the possibilities?'

'Okay, one more try. Knowing how generous, hospitable and inclusive you are, you cooked for them here and then banged all three of them before they buggered off home at dawn?'

'Did you set up hidden cameras or what?!'

'Oh, Peter, you are incorrigible. I know you're dying to tell me what happened. Go on - I'm all ears.'

And so Peter told the story of his evening with Myška, Piri and Kriszta, which I will reduce to a kind of gist to give a flavour of what was an uproarious and very special night. It all really kicked off after dinner, or perhaps I should say, with dinner, since Peter had prepared an authentic goulash, with imported Hungarian sweet paprika, beef lard, caraway seeds - the works. Piri had brought six bottles of the best Hungarian red wine she could lay hands on, and Myška had brought a dessert - a fabulous lemon meringue pie. Meanwhile, Kriszta hadn't been idle, preparing some traditional pogácsa pastries in a variety of flavours, including bacon and pumpkin seed, while the goulash was simmering away.

(God, Sophia thought, Peter's always been one for using food to lower the defences and get girls to drop their panties for him.)

After dinner, they had played a popular Hungarian card game called ulti, tweaking it so that there were forfeits for those who lost a certain number of hands. Yes, a bit like strip poker, in practice, Peter conceded, but more like 'Truth or Dare', in theory. Sophia could see where this was going - not that it was exactly something requiring a degree in astrophysics to predict. Peter explained that one unforeseen consequence of picking a game that was well known to three of the participants but unknown to the fourth (Peter himself) was that he had fared significantly worse than the others and had had to face several humiliating situations early in the evening.

The first was when he chose 'truth' and was asked if he had ever been thinking about another woman when making love to his wife. When he said, 'Only twice,' the others had of course pressed him to name the women. Peter had blushed - most out of character - which merely led to the chorus of voices asking him to name names to grow louder. Driven into a corner from which there was no escape, he said the two people concerned were with him in the room now. The revelation - such as it was - was received with whooping and hollering by the protagonists, but Kriszta remained strangely silent. (I can see where this is going, thought Sophia.)

'So you find me unattractive, Péter?' she finally said, addressing him, as she always did, after the Hungarian manner.

'No, of course not. Absolutely not!'

'I think you'd better show her, otherwise she will think your words are empty,' said Piri.

'Um, is this part of the game?'

'You still want to be playing games when the happiness of a human soul is at stake?'

'Perhaps he doesn't find her attractive?' chipped in Myška.

'Oh my God, absolutely not. No, I mean, she - you - are very attractive - indeed.'

'More words, Peter,' said Piri. 'Show her you mean it.'

Not one for letting his friends down, Peter led Kriszta to the couch, where he seated himself beside her and complimented her on her turquoise midi dress.

'You haven't looked at me all evening. Always you are looking at my sister and Myška.'

'Not at all, no. In fact, I have felt quite shy around you because, well, you know...'

'No. Tell me.'

'Well, um, because, you know -'

'You want to fuck me?'

'Well, I'm not sure if I'd have put it exactly like that, but, in a way, I suppose, given the right circumstances and, you know, the opportunity -'

'You want to fuck me upstairs, pretend I am your wife?'

'Oh, no, heaven forbid.'

'You don't like other people watching?'

'Absolutely not. I mean, sure, that's fine by me.'

'So, I think the only reason you don't touch me is because you don't find me attractive.'

'Absolutely not!'

'Then show me!'

Peter felt he was left with no option but to accede to his guest's request, leaning in to kiss her on the mouth. Hungrily, Kriszta ground her lips against his, before forcing her tongue into his not overly resistant mouth. Dispensing with any finesse, simultaneously she sought out his zipper, pulled it down and unearthed his already hard cock. The temptation proved too strong for the 27-year-old Hungarian. Binning the kiss, she moved straight to his penis and took it in her mouth, working it mercilessly and almost violently and drawing unwonted mutterings from Peter's mouth. Encouraged by his response, she almost ripped his trousers off, followed without any delay by his boxers.

'He is so, so big! My pussy wants him so bad!'

Myška and Piri had sneaked around the room to get a grandstand view of the spectacle and were just settling in their chairs when Kriszta let out a yell. She had impaled herself on Peter's eight-inch monster without so much as a 'How's your father?' Peter himself looked as shocked as anyone else, and the gentleman in him knew he should do the decent thing and uncouple himself from the impetuous Hungarian. His partner was having none of it, though, forbidding him to pull out and merely readjusting her panties, which she was still wearing, if only after a fashion, given that they had been yanked to one side to allow access to Peter's club. Her intentions were clear, if not entirely honourable: she wished to ride Peter until she came. If she could bring him off at the same time, so much the better.

Everything was happening so fast, so far as Peter was concerned. One minute he's chatting to his friends, the next they're playing cards, and then suddenly he's being jumped by a borderline psychotic Hungarian. Goodness knows how her vagina felt after the assault, but his cock was chafing as if it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. Thankfully, she had now slowed down a fraction, and Peter had to admit that he was beginning to enjoy the experience, bizarre though it was. His next significant contribution to the congress was to unzip her dress and ease it down over her boobs, which were pear-shaped and somewhat droopy but attractive in their own way once you got used to them. In a way, they matched the quirky personality of their owner.

And that owner was getting ever more serious about achieving her objective - maintaining an almost metronomic tempo as she bobbed up and down on Peter's not unwilling member. The squelching that could be heard by everyone in the room indicated that comfort levels, as well as sheer arousal, had risen significantly.

'Speak to me in Hungarian,' Peter said.

'Why you want that?' Kriszta shot back at him, as if he had libelled her.

'Well,' replied Peter, struggling for words that wouldn't get him into further trouble. 'Well, I'd like to hear you speak it.'

'But, why, if you don't understand it?'

Peter seriously wondered if this woman was a sandwich short of a picnic. Did she have not a shred of romance in her? Not an iota of mystique, or appreciation for the unspoken, the mysterious? He decided to give it one more try, in language he thought she might understand.

'I want to hear you ask me to come inside you in your own language. I want you to ask me to fuck you senseless in your mother tongue.'

'Why you not say?'

And Kriszta launched a volley of Hungarian at Peter as she continued to ride his cock - now with even more manic intensity than ever. She mixed a little English into her polemic, with two of the discernible words being 'cocksucker' and, for some unknown reason, 'pudding'. Was she calling him a 'Yorkshire pudding', Peter wondered, in the same way that French people call the English 'roast beef'? Notwithstanding this and other puzzles, Peter found he was on the point of coming. Not wanting to disappoint Kriszta by anticipating her, he increased his rhythm and gave vent to an oral fusillade of his own, calling her every word he could think of that would get him suspended for life by Twitter and Instagram.

'Yes, Péter, yes! Now I come like waterfall!'

Needless to say, the card game was forgotten as the other girls got in on the act, Piri and Myška making out on an armchair before moving to the floor, where they had more room to explore, leaving Peter to contend with a Kriszta who had undergone something of a metamorphosis since their successful coupling. To say she had suddenly transformed into a sensuous seductress would be stretching things a bit, but she had become extremely amorous. The old jealousy was still there - she hated it if Peter so much as looked at her sister and her lover making love not ten feet away - but there was a new softness in her regard for her Péter, or Peti as she now called him. And with the softness, a new insistence: an insistence that he make love with her on the bed where he makes love to his wife.

'In for a penny, in for a pound,' Peter thought, as he gathered his things and led the way upstairs.

The latest member of his fan club was purring like a kitten as she slipped under the duvet and beckoned to Peti to join her.

'I have so much I want to do to you,' she said, causing Peter a brief moment of panic.

It was with some misgivings, then, that he snuggled in beside her. He thought he would wrap her in a tight embrace, on the grounds that she would be less able to wreak any havoc in this position. It would also enable him to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, which he did, but the effect was not exactly the soothing one he had planned. Instead, she began to heave and mutter in rather a disturbing manner. It was only a matter of seconds before she had once more grabbed his cock, which, in spite of all Peter's best intentions, became almost instantly erect, throbbing and pulsing under her supple fingers. Rather than bring him off, though, satisfied that she had him where she wanted him, she threw back the duvet, stretched herself out above his supine body and brought her neatly trimmed pussy to his face.

'Lick my cunt!' was her unequivocal instruction.

Not wishing to be accused of lacking in hospitality, Peter began working on her swollen labia, making her wait before he made a move on other areas that he could feel were crying out for attention. Each attempt to manoeuvre her clitoris into the line of fire was met with an equal and opposite adjustment by Peter and a request for her to be patient. As he expected - and indeed hoped - she began to get agitated, hurling abuse at him after her quixotic fashion. Since she was being so incorrigible, he decided that a little back-door action was in order. So, having placed a hand on each of her boyish buttocks, he slowly moved the little finger of his right hand towards her puckered hole. Her response was immediate, bucking and thrashing about, so that he had to use his most peremptory tone of voice to bring her back under control. That done, he withdrew his hand momentarily in order to lick the pinkie, and then returned it to her seemingly impenetrable trap door. It proved to be considerably less secure than its appearance suggested, as it gave way at the first application of pressure. As if coming out in sympathy, the girl's oral orifice opened too to give a lengthy appraisal of what was being carried out below. Within seconds the finger was clenched tightly inside her tunnel and Peter turned his attention back to her magnificent pussy.

As a reward for the relative restraint she had recently been showing, Peter moved his attention - and his tongue - to her clitoris, which was almost white and shaped like an acorn. As he worked on it, it began to grow - not, of course, into an oak tree, but into a very respectably proportioned acorn. Feeling her arousal building under his multi-pronged assault, he decided to open a new front and sank the index finger of his left hand into her vagina. The combined stimuli were almost - but not quite - powerful enough to send her over the edge, but he knew what would.

'All in good time,' he thought, as he gathered his strength for the final thrust.

It gave him great satisfaction to keep all his balls in the air, as it were, as she continued to ride him in blissful contentment. The smallest adjustment in the position or pressure of tongue or finger would cause a commensurate response from the girl, who, Peter had decided, had merely been in need of some breaking in. For the moment, at any rate, she was like putty in his hands.

'Time for lift-off!' Peter thought, removing his finger from her vagina, as it was time to replace it with the muscle that Kriszta had been craving deep inside her.

First, though, Peter had in mind another replacement, that of his ring finger for the little finger in the girl's forbidden passage. Having made that switch, he brought his tongue off her clitoris and in one fell swoop dived deep into her centre, drinking deeply at her fountainhead. Hungry for her own satisfaction, she wouldn't let him sup for long, as she was overcome by a series of tremors that racked her body and left her limp and apparently lifeless on the bed.

But not for long. She was soon worshipping at the Englishman's totem pole, glorying in its length, its colour, its shape and its massive girth.

'My God!' said Peter. 'Don't you ever get tired?'

By way of response, Kriszta made loud slurping noises, as she began to deepthroat her lover.

'Oh, fuck!' groaned Peter, already imagining throwing the girl onto the bed and fucking her without any consideration for her feelings whatsoever.

It seemed that the Hungarian couldn't get enough of his cock. For ten minutes, she kept at it, scarcely coming up for air, using a combination of tongue, lips and teeth that brought Peter close to the edge. Obviously considering herself a failure for being unable to bring him off, Kriszta looked at Peter with doe-like eyes and asked him what she was doing wrong. When Peter reassured her that she had done a fantastic job and explained that he hardly ever came when a woman was blowing him, she smiled her gap-toothed smile and was all ready to go back to work, when Peter stopped her and said he was ready to fuck her if she wanted to be fucked.

After giving Peter a smacker on the lips, she lay down with her legs spread wide - the kind of invitation Peter always found it hard to resist.

'Do you want it hard or gentle?' he asked.

'I want it very hard,' was the unambiguous reply.

Peter slid forward until his rampant manhood was banging on the gates of her womanhood. There being no one on duty to let him in, Peter took matters into his own hands and started to batter the gates down. Tightly closed as they were, they stood little chance against weaponry of the calibre the Englishman was equipped with. On his seventh or eighth thrust, he felt the hinges begin to buckle, an eventuality that spurred him on to even greater effort. According to the code of chivalry, it was incumbent on him to offer the chance of surrender. This being turned down, he felt no compunction in using all the force he could muster to breach the defences. And it was not long until he had forced a passage into the antechamber to the throne room. Once he had achieved that breakthrough, all hell broke loose.