Fantasztikus

By Robin J. Kingsley

An erotic romance develops when a 31-year-old PhD student doing research in Hungary stays at an old villa in the countryside, now an inn, where a young handyman works. Her doctoral thesis is about the way people who were controlled by the Nazis and then the Communists have managed to heal their country and live normal lives. The handyman, whose father was taken away by the Communists and never heard from again, says he is "guilty to be alive," and the PhD student sets out to cure him of that guilt with her affection. A mystery unfolds involving the hidden treasure of the villa, the wealth the old family cached as the country was being taken over by the Communists after World War II. If that precious box can be found, will it contain, in addition to the family's gold and jewels, the secret composition of Franz Liszt that was to crown his career? (130 pages)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin J. Kingsley
• Release date: Apr 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215036952

Book preview

Fantasztikus

Robin J. Kingsley

To my muse, my editor, my love...my spouse

copyright 2024 Robin J. Kingsley

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Not Only Pipe Today Not Work

Chapter 2 In the Stable

Chapter 3 Wagon Ride

Chapter 4 Auntie’s Four Lives

Chapter 5 The Villa

Chapter 6 The Piknik

Chapter 7 The Hunter's Cottage

Chapter 8 The Treasure, JY

Chapter 9 My Second Hungarian Lover

Chapter 10 No Vowels?

Chapter 11 The Kitchen

Chapter 12 The Lake

Chapter 13 In The Stable, Again

Chapter 14 The Treasure, X

Chapter 15 At the Liszt Ferenc Academy

Chapter 1

Not Only Pipe Today Not Work

The blotches and cracked plaster on the ochre walls were signs of the decrepitude of the once proud manor, now an inn with a dozen rooms for tourists. It was a great idea to rescue these grand old fin de siècle mansions in Eastern Europe that had been commandeered into becoming youth camps, offices for commissars, or dachas for the not-so-proletarian leaders of the proletarian revolution. To restore an old building that had fallen on hard times during World War II and then fell farther afterward when the Communists took over, and which was then vacant for another decade after 1989 while the new government sorted out property claims, was a lot to accomplish.

The bedroom resembled in some ways a hotel room but in significant ways did not. There was only one electrical outlet in it, and to access it required moving the chest of drawers. Redundancy is usually considered a positive safety feature, but why was there an extra wire coming out of the outlet box? Shouldn't it be connected to some other wire or at least tucked neatly away in the wall? The light switch was not next to the doorway as you entered but across the room, which I found after bumping my shin in the darkness the night before when I had checked in late. It was obvious the various electrical regulations of a modern building code had not permeated through to this rural part of Hungary.

I ended up at this old villa near the town of Sopron by majoring in Eastern European History as an undergraduate, and here I was in my thirties toiling away again getting my PhD in that subject. That choice of undergraduate majors seemed to be one of the significant ricochets in my life, sending me off in the direction of studiousness rather than fun. Why didn't I major in something light and remunerative like Cinema Studies? And why spend my junior year abroad in Russia? I had been taking a Hungarian language class, my father being Hungarian and I knew some fragments of the language, but I didn't make the cut to do a year abroad in Budapest and ended up in Moscow. I returned to the States after nine months in Russia. I call it a year and a half because a brutally cold winter in Moscow seemed to last twice that long. I was an undergraduate at the University of Michigan, and the nickname we had for Ann Arbor was Tundra Town, but its winters were a distant second to Moscow's in terms of biting cold. It felt like it bit you as soon as you went out the door wherever your skin was exposed. I ate enough caviar in Russia to last me a lifetime—I don't know through what black market channels the students got so much of the stuff. I had my fill of fish eggs back then and don't need to have caviar again, but I did enjoy the salacious thought that it reminded me of the saltiness of a man's ejaculate.

I also consumed more than enough vodka. In fact, one night I had much more than enough vodka, getting very drunk with a professor at a party at the university. Back in his office I remember how he banged me roughly as he laid me on my back on his desk, his various papers and books getting shoved off to the floor as he went at it and I scooted across his desk with each of his thrusts. Even when the telephone fell off the desk to loudly hit a chair, then did an encore cascading to the floor to crash even louder, he kept on doing me. He was short on technique but long on cock, so I remember that part of the night's festivities pleasantly and vividly, especially because it was the first time I got to play with an uncircumcised one. American guys didn’t have a chance to decide: some left-over custom not excused by any medical rationale made most of the males lose their foreskin. Can you imagine the feminine outcry if women in the US were having parts of their genitalia snipped off? The more he screwed me the more energized he became. What I don't remember is how I woke up in an apartment near the campus in bed with a guy who had a beard, whereas the professor was clean-shaven. I may well have had an invigorating effect on the professor's testosterone production, but he couldn't have sprouted all those whiskers overnight. I got up and left quickly the next morning, which was rather easy to do because I had apparently slept in my clothes, minus pants and underpants. I don't know if my panties ended up in the professor's office or this guy's apartment, but I had one fewer pair and one of the men ended up with one more trophy. That second man with the beard was naked, sprawled diagonally across the bed, solidly asleep. Damn he had a big handsome uncut dick relaxing across his belly! I took a last glance at my sleeping bedmate as I was going out the door, and for the life of me did not recognize him. I would have testified in court that I had never seen him before. I felt uncomfortably promiscuous for having sex with a man and not even remembering it, though I've had sex a time or two with guys whose names I quickly forgot or never knew. And then there was the regret at not being able to recall the pleasure. Maybe the guy whom I found sleeping next to me in the morning was an aficionado of cunnilingus and with his bushy beard had been a true delight. That embarrassment at my excessive zeal for sex, along with the world-class hangover I had that next morning and all that day and evening, were two good reasons why ever since I can't stand the taste of vodka.

As an undergraduate when I was studying how Russia and the former Soviet Republics were changing as the USSR dissolved, my freshman roommate had the time of her life during her semester abroad, getting romanced and, (her letters being rather explicit), getting regularly balled by a pack of Italian studs who hit on the women in the university's villa outside Florence. Blondes being a rarity in Italy, she said she had her pick of the guys. Being blonde also, I had noticed the same thing in Russia back then and also now in Hungary where I got lots of looks. Men would try to help me carry my suitcase or give me directions. Being tall also helped, because Hungarian men are a tall breed. When I was staying in Budapest using archives before I went to stay at the old villa near Sopron, I went to the massive Széchenyi Baths and Pools, acres and acres of outdoor and indoor pools, and I noticed that I also stood out because I was one of the women with shaved armpits.

Being cute and having a nice set of tits rounded out my package. I knew I was attractive; I had known that for a long time. I started to have boobs that the older guys noticed when I was in seventh grade, and by the time I was through high school my pair had matured into 38 Ds. I quickly learned that with that asset, I had my choice of any of the guys I found desirable. When you're sixteen in high school, the eighteen-year-old boys who are shaving seem like older men, and I was attracted to them. I never let them screw me. Instead, I gave some of my dates handjobs and for one guy a blowjob, or rather a number of blowjobs, because I found I had a taste for that sport and he of course never complained. He was an especially desirable older man who had a hot car and was on the varsity basketball team. He came on strong, but after I domesticated him with blowjobs, I had him wrapped around my little finger. Once when I found out he had the keys to the gym to access the weight room over the weekend, I went with him and made him open his locker and show me his jock strap, which I ended up keeping as a trophy in my drawer with my panties, showing it to a couple of my girlfriends in a sleepover to their great enjoyment. Having a girl give you a blowjob as she sits in front of your locker is no doubt a fantasy come true for an athlete, and I bet he still remembers that experience with me. I certainly do.

While my undergraduate roommate was learning Italian, I was taking Hungarian classes. Learning Hungarian, unlike learning Italian, was only of use in ordering in a restaurant if you happened to be in a country called Hungary. Yes, I could order the delectable goose fat and onion hors d’oeuvre in reasonably fluent Hungarian, but I didn't care to. I could order the rustic goulash with my command of the language, but how often do you want to eat bland and tough beef stew?

My roommate said the Italian boys fucked like stallions but needed instruction in the subtleties of cunnilingus, a subject she helpfully tutored. When are men going to learn they should only be proud of their sexual machismo when they can wield their tongues as effectively as their pricks? The young Italian guys would hang around the entrance to the courtyard of the university's foreign campus, offering rides into Firenze on their Vespas, making time with American chicks via that service. The American guys at the school abroad were meanwhile smitten by the beguiling dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-complexioned Italian gals. Because my friend's male classmates were trying to get laid with the local gals, it was only fair, she said, that she also concentrated on mating with the native stock.

Meanwhile, in Moscow, I was bundled up in ski clothing from boots to wool hat, forgoing companionship with scruffy-looking males who tried to pick me up. I had more sex with fellow American students than with the locals. In particular, I had a lot of fun in bed with a student from another university attending my same semester abroad program in Moscow. He was a big tall guy, had terrible table manners, and perhaps because he had a big dick thought he never needed to learn to use it with any finesse. I've always liked big cocks ever since I got to know his. They don't necessarily fuck better unless the guy has the skill to go with his natural advantage, but they are always such great props. I could put my mouth on the side of his long dick and play it like a flute, leaving the glans and the side of the shaft exposed to give him a nice view of the way I was chomping on his ample cock from the side. I could grab the long thing with a hand, or even two, and still leave its exciting tip on view. A man will never find you more beautiful than when he sees you looking up at him with his member in your mouth. Porn actresses wouldn't look so attractive if they weren't posing with unusually large and handsome dicks. When I sucked and stroked my classmate to a cumshot, I made sure I would let some dribble from my mouth to drip down his shaft, giving me the opportunity to pose with his penis a while longer. He was also the first man I took a shower with, the first time I discovered how luxuriously sexy it was for two bodies to get sudsed up. The photos taken with my cell phone  are  still arousing  keepsakes for me. I can't recall his name, only his nickname, derived from the fact he was from Odessa: West Texas Crude was what my girlfriends and I called him. I still have the dildo he bought me in a black market sex shop in Moscow. He knew his exact length, of course—more than woman had wanted to measure it—and got a replica of his. It was a realistic and very big dildo, and although it matched his in length and girth, and it was made of a pliable material. When you looked at it you thought it highly improbable that such an enormity could fit in your pussy or that you could get more than the glans in your mouth. I still have it, after all these years, a nice memento of that fling with a fellow-student. I’ve never told my subsequent lovers about the uncommonly large dick that is the twin of that dildo. Guys are very touchy about the size of their cocks, and disparaging comparisons can ruin their confidence.

We would frequently cut class and go to my room, and when he was done with me, the room looked like a tornado had gone through it. That big-dick Texan rated a 5 on the Fujita scale. I only found one of the pillows a week later under the bed, along with his shorts, and the bed had been somehow shoved several inches out of position. A keg of black powder could have been exploded in the next room and he would have just kept fucking away. Within the hour of the class we were skipping, his reservoir of lust and semen became fully replenished, and he proceeded to do the deed again with devastating thoroughness. Primitive yes in his lack of technique, but quite efficacious in terms of getting his women off.

The lamp next to the bed toppled over during the fracas the first time, causing him not the least distraction from what he was busy doing. The lamp was not damaged as it turned out, and if it had been, it would have been worth the experience of sex with such a focused man, a man who made it very plain you were the only thing in the world  he wanted at that moment. Of course, moments pass quickly, and by the time I saw him again and returned  his underpants, I had already heard he