Hungarian Waltz

Well, I posted this fic ages ago under a different pen name, and then ended up closing that profile... so I thought I'd put it back up, mostly just because it makes me happy. :) Hope you enjoy!


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Hungarian Waltz
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He has terrible teeth. They hurt him, he told me so, and made me write it down for him in the little book he carries around with English phrases, “my teeth hurt”, just like that so he would know how to say it to the dentist. But he couldn’t get the ‘th’ right, and he laughed at himself, his deep, rich Hungarian voice rumbling down inside me, like hands on my body. I wished that he would touch me like he talked to me.

He’s old enough to be my father, it’s disgraceful, really, but he smiles and laughs like that, so boyish and far, far too charming for either of our goods, with his bad teeth and his broken English. He plays the bass—not electric, the other kind—in a string quartet in one of the lounges on the ship. Every night I go in with my grandmother to listen to the violinist, and he stands back there and plucks those strings and makes eyes at me. Eyes! At me! Men don’t do that, I’m not the kind of girl that men look at like that, smile at like that. It got to me, he got to me, and maybe I shouldn’t be so easily swayed, maybe I should be smarter, more savvy, less easily moved by a charming grin. But damn it, I want him.

I’m not as young as he thinks I am, not as innocent. I’m not a child, I’m a woman and I know what I want from him, but maybe I am too innocent because I can’t say it. Couldn’t tell him what I wanted when he pressed soft kisses to my neck, when he danced with me, the slow roll of his body against mine feeling so good. But he’s trying to be a gentleman. The first night, he asked me to his cabin for a drink, but I backpedaled, panicked, I wasn’t prepared, didn’t even have any condoms with me, for god’s sake! Tomorrow, tomorrow, I told him. So he smiled like that and said goodnight and kissed my hand. And I went to my room and touched myself, and tried to slow my racing heart.

He thinks I’m afraid of him, and I am, I’m terrified, I’m shaking but not because I fear him or because he’s so old—or maybe it is that, I shake because he is a man, really a man and I want him so badly. I’ve only had boys, sweet, well-meaning boys but boys nonetheless, who made me take the lead as often as not, fumbling and earnest, passionate but still half the time they couldn’t even make me come.

I watch his hands on the strings of the bass, and I know that he would know how to touch me.

So I let him buy me drinks, and dance with him, and laugh with him when he can’t find the right English words, when he tries to pronounce the ‘vanilla vodka’ that we are drinking. So I have him teach me to say it in Hungarian instead, it sounds better that way, anyway. And we wander out onto the deck, me stumbling like a fool in my ridiculous shoes-- the ship is rolling with the sea and I’m more than a little drunk but I wore these four-inch heels anyway, I wanted so desperately to feel sexy tonight, I don’t feel sexy often enough. And he tells me, he tells me I’m beautiful and I don’t believe him but I like to hear him say it anyway.

The seas are so rough tonight, four—four!—hurricanes in the Pacific they say, every day the captain comes on to tell us how far away they are, nothing to worry about, but I know we’re trying to outrun them. So the seas roll and the wind is so strong, but it’s exciting, almost, romantic and a little dangerous, and those kinds of thoughts make me want to smack myself. Romance and adventure on the high seas, yeah. Idiot. And then he catches my arm as I stumble and the wind whips our hair and he kisses me, kisses my neck and my face and flicks his tongue into my mouth, presses me back against the railing and runs his hands over my body and I can feel that his cock is hard through his pants, feel how hard he’s trying not to rub it against me while I suck on his tongue. Such a gentleman.

But his body is so… big, so large and masculine, so sexy, even in his forties with a little paunch and graying hair, I can’t help it, I press my hips up against his, rub against him and he moans and clutches at me and murmurs in my ear in Hungarian. I don’t care what he’s saying, it sounds lovely anyway. And we’re both gasping, pulling back for air, and he’s grinning like that again. And I want so badly for him to take me back to his room but I can’t say it, I just can’t. And he won’t ask, not after I turned him down the night before. He’s trying to be careful, trying to be sweet. I want to smack him.

I think he’s afraid of me too, just a little, I’m too young he thinks. But he’s hungry, I can feel how hungry he is, and all I want is for him to push that hunger all the way deep into my body, I want him to open me up and show me how hungry he can be.

So we stumble back inside, it’s late now, after hours and we listen to his friend practicing the piano in the empty lounge, singing for us. And we talk, about his home, so far away, his ex-wife and two children nearly grown, barely younger than me. But it doesn’t matter, I sip vanilla vodka and all I can see in my mind is him laying me down on the bed, stripping off my silk dress and my ridiculous shoes, his large, rough hands running over my body, my breasts, his quick, confident tongue sliding over me, rubbing me, so perfect, he would know just how to touch me, just there. And he would lay down on top of me till I could barely breathe, pressing me down into the bed so heavy and hard and his breath hot in my ear, and then he would part my thighs and push his cock inside me and I would know what it was to be fucked by a man.

But he doesn’t ask. And I can’t. I can’t ask. We’re being so careful, so careful with each other. Each of us, a little bit afraid. I’m too young, he thinks. He’s wrong.

So he walks me to my door, and kisses my hand again, and I know his cock is still hard and I barely force myself to turn away and slip into my room, goodnight, goodnight. And my bed is lonely and I have to touch myself again, I have to come, before I can sleep.