Ruby

The grey hard domed stone cobbles offered me nothing of the romance the guidebook promised. Romance is in the eye of the person who is looking on and wanting. Standing alone with pangs of wants, a full wallet, and a full belly. No one to share things with. Every one is holding hands and sauntering. I need something today. Haven’t quite decided in what guise today's stimuli will present its self. Not decided if a sexual encounter, a violent one or... is there another type? I can wait a while.


The sun lingers on the skyline as I take in the smells and sights of this mad city. You could just pass right on by, snapping and looking, snapping and chatting. Very few people actually look up and down, tourists seem to be doing just A too B, eyes transfixed into their little time out guide, lonely planet. Fucking would be if you just stuck to the hurriedly scribbled rubbish some geek has stolen from a pile of research material in Sheffield's reference Library. I will spare you my thoughts on guidebooks. I thought the title "Rough Guide" was a gritty down to earth honest type of book. Seems not, take it literally; the fucker is just a rough guide!!

Standing on the Chain bridge over looking the infamous mass of brown seething water they call the Danube. Does have a ring doesn't it. The Danube. I decide on Buda. Not my new Zen style approach to attitude you no, the little fat guy who is always smiling. No, Buda as opposed to Pest. You didn't no the city was divided by the Danube did you, it is.

Szechenyi lanchid (chain bridge) what a weird and gorgeous language. The map I have, a tourist map I might add, hasn't a fucking word of English on it at all, too boot there is a distinct lack of street signs.

I had a brief itinerary, not as brief as I envisaged. At times like this I wish I actually smoked, would like to lean against the corner of Hunyadi janos ut and Franklin u and roll a cigarette. See the smoke spiral away on the warm breeze. They were street names by the way.



Just about to treat myself to a nice little pavement café and I hear unmistakable notes of a string instrument meandering along the cold cobles. A serene mix of city and cello. Never really been one for classical strings and the like, however, I find myself like the pied pipers rats, where and who is the musician? On a small patch of browning grass an image is presented to me that will truly last me for the rest of my life. Her hair, black as night. Perfect and shiny, full and confidant. Loose, unmanaged yet perfectly suitable for the impression she was creating. A navy blue tunic with what I am sure are coat tails falling over the most perfectly proportioned thighs I have seen for several years, in fact I would go as far as saying she was physically on a par with myself. The heels of her shoe accentuate her sculptured calves. A woman playing a cello with what appears to be no skirt on, either that or it's well hitched so not to impede her ability to open her legs to allow her instrument to nestle and ease its self into position for the sounds it can create. She looks up and smiles, she slightly arches her spine and her breasts strain against her blouse, she bows the strings with precision, slowly, the notes cascade over my goose pimples. Eyes and smiles exchanged for a full minute until a crescendo, when a little frantic head and arm movement snap me from my thoughts and I think she is a twat. What an ungainly instrument for a woman. Turning to find the little café I promised myself a few minutes ago a single yellow rose lands at my left foot. Turning to discover the source of my rose, we again make full eye contact. Her hair is tussled and shadowing her face. She looks fucking smouldering. I'm thinking maybe it would be rather nice if we were to be acquainted, be nice to be accompanied to my café. Looking down onto the warm glowing easy, hard stone cobbles I decide I will introduce myself to my musician.

My hand offered "Elizabeth Fox"

She stops playing, collects her bow with her left hand and a little clatter of wood on wood, accepts my hand, slowly bends and traces the back of my hand with her relaxed lips. Her eyes closed, the moment lasts a good two weeks. Shall I scoop her hair, cup her face and kiss? Not yet. She expertly dispenses with any sensuality with a long lick of my wrist. We burst out laughing, nervously maybe, but mutual laughter all the same. I notice her thigh bicep shudder as she leans to place the cello in his hard case, plastered with stickers, some peeled some new. She can't unscrew the little wing nut that secures the instruments height adjustment spike. I kneel at her knees, naked and so perfectly smooth, I repay her with a sensual French kiss on her right knee, she accepts and gently strokes my face as I snog and mouth her glistening flesh, again we burst into fits of nervous laughter and a string of saliva embarrassingly tight ropes form my chin. With one of her tunic tails its gone. I like.

Her hand offered "Madeleine Hershel"

"My pleasure Madeleine"

"I no, mine too"

I help with the oversized instrument and am told to leave it right there, at my bemusement she tells me there is little to no street crime and he lives here. We pat him. And move away.

The reality and sensibility of what I was doing crossed my mind, I looked towards Miss Hershel, she had no need to return the look, I care not of any sensibilities.

The streets narrowed, full leafed trees over hung creating a living canopy, a sanctuary. She stopped, turned me slightly, faced me. I could feel her sweet breath on my lips.

‘I want you to meet someone, a close friend, perfection personified. They write, have a beautiful imagination, an open desire for experience, are you happy?’

‘Happy? Yes’

I was throbbing, the tips of my fingers numb yet tingling, ever pore on my body felt as though a million fairies were tickling and touching.

She led me into a slightly darker gothic passageway between two crumbling ornate old houses where, I could see the figure of someone leant against the icy cold shaded stonewall. We approached confidently my heart beating so loudly it blurred my thoughts; I was terrified I would faint.

We stood before the figure. Hooded. Male or female, I wasn’t sure, I didn’t care. Madeline expertly opened the hooded gown.

My heart stopped. My world slowed, stopped spinning, jerked occasionally. I wanted to speak. I couldn’t even exhale. The figure in the gown looked at me, I couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, just their radiance and willingness to be pleasured, to please. Her figure, an artist’s creation. Her perfectly stockinged beautifully shaped slender legs, hips and waist a creation by Michelangelo, her breasts heaving within a black lace basque, nipples obviously aroused by the texture of the lace. She closed her eyes and Madeline guided my hand to her quivering breasts. I turned my palm in anticipation. Gently, expertly fondling a complete strangers breast in fucking Budapest. Madeline was tracing her nails over her hips, her legs started to cross, her body squirming against our hands. Madeline stopped quite abruptly. She removed my hands.

‘Miss Fox, may I introduce you to my close friend and yours………. Ruby’