Haydamak (haydamak) wrote,


I had lost my way. That happens. Made a wrong turn on a circular length.
The feeling that something was amiss came when I drove past a fortress archway and statues of mythical giants, titans of the Middle-earth, which I evidently did not pass by in the morning, when I rushed one fine day on occasion from quiet, peaceful and homy Slovakia with nice-to-the-ear Slavonic speech everywhere to alien Hungarian Miskolc, following the road surrounded by poppy fields and wheat-lands with blue mountains after them.

Hungarian backcountry has a specific feature: it looks like newsreel that you watch but do not make part of it.
You see enigmatic, encrypted, long and illegible Hungarian words on street signs. You hear oral speech sounding like tape recording in reverse playback. You are disconcerted by the abundance of dark-visaged descendants of the Huns and moon-faced Ugrian blonds.

You may enjoy the environment to your heart’s content. But remember that you are only a spectator in an empty movie hall, in its fading fluorescent light. Without ticket and also without popcorn.

It was growing dark in the meantime. The spicery of dry wormwood was mixing with notes of cow manure, grippy crisp and the cool of a windy evening. I had to ask the way.

The polite but spaced out Hungarians, half-heartedly emerged from the newsreel, and only shrugged guiltily with a smile playing around the edges of their lips: far from the big cities nobody is English savvy, even slightly, and the day when I will be able to make myself understood in Hungarian is distant.

The southern night advanced quickly, small shops had drawn the blinds, rare lights twinkled in the houses because people go to bed early there. Folks dispersed like old boots. The light of street lamps sank its yellowed teeth only into empty streets.

There was practically no clear-cut border and I stopped on the road shoulder having noticed strange movement behind me.

A young girl on rollers was approaching along the footpath, disappearing in the darkness and re-emerging in the deceptive, adulterine lamp halo.

The side window scrooped as I opened it and stuck out from the realm of motor murmur into the warm and arcane Hungarian evening with singing cicadas, preparing to interrupt the graceful, smooth motion with my rude “Excuse me!”.
But it was not in the cards for me to say anything.

The girl approached without looking about her with the headgear in her ears.
She was olive-tinted, one of those Hungarian women, which hold the magmatic, fiery and purple volcano of passion behind the coldish and ostensible indifference. Their skin is of sapid tinge: coffee and milk.
Slightly aquiline nose; savage, timorous, watchful and bird-like black eyes.
Black hair, braced into a ponytail at the nape, which waffed from side to side and scattered over the shoulders in motion.

Her lower lip was a bit pursed, as is often the case with youngsters, when they stubbornly try to protect their still fragile “ego”. Her face was pretty, young and fresh.
The fire of the spring of life raged in her whole figure. It was the embodiment of an untamed mustang, a beautiful flower burst into blossom out of angular youth.
The hands and elbows were delicately shaped. The stomach flat and strong.

The girl wore a white T-shirt, which opened her shoulder blades. The outline of black bra supporting small perky breasts was seen through the shirt. Funny orange wire straight out of a cartoon ran from the headgear to the belt.
Below there were black panties that barefacedly and tightly enveloped every particular of the broad hips already spread apart.

And they were not shorts. They were expressly panties.
Black cloth almost unknitting from strain and making possible to see all bodily details: the creases fanning out on the inner side of hip, dimples above sacral bone, buttocks swaying in motion, pubis and a cave-cleft below.

Lolita, a hawkish blistering harpy, demoness, succubus. The instigation of the devil.
So much sperm and blood were hidden in that apparition! So many seething, vibrant nights. So many biblical parables. So many princes hopelessly in love, who used to climb a tower, but were ganched instead.

What grace was displayed! Unconquerable temper of nature, divine design, bright idea and lustful execution.

It was too perfect to last. The girl was pulling off, whereas I stared after her, jutted out of the window, blinking like a fool right in the middle of the roadway.
It is not the mortal’s lot to behold a living Goddess.

The long, muscular, evenly sunburnt legs springily and even a bit half-heartedly alternately thrust forward the bodily missile, like take-off paws of a fallow deer. The black ponytail danced on her shoulder blades, which were crossed by the black bands of the bra. The luring ball of the backside ended in natural folds.
The goddess glided away in one circle of lamp light, then another, until her silhouette was lost in the dark.

Someone behind me pressed the horn twice and surpassed me entering the oncoming lane. The event slightly brought my clouded mind back from torpor. But I could not collect the scattered pieces of my consciousness together to go on.

A company of youngsters suddenly emerged at the place where my succubus floated away: four guys and two girls. They rattled away merrily. The girls pantomimed something, the boys laughed loudly, one of them patted himself on the knee with half-empty plastic bottle of lemonade.

When they pulled level with me and saw my strange, bewildered look, as I can imagine it was, one of them asked something in a friendly way that, as I guessed, meant: “do you need help?”
I opened my mouth to ask the way and how to get to Slovakia, but uttered chokingly instead: “Who is she?”

The company turned their heads to where the harpy went, with whom they evidently crossed paths, and having understood everything in a flash, at least so it seemed to me, exploded with laughter all at once.

A guy with a girl winked at me, nodded in the direction of the disappeared naiade and proudly said something in Magyar meaning: there, see who we are!

“Do you speak English?” – I seemed to be slowly coming back to my usual self.
“A little bit” – it’s good to deal with the young ones after all.

They showed me the way. In an hour I was crossing the empty Hungarian-Slovak border with nailed up crossing terminals, abolished by the great and terrible European Union. In two hours I drove into a small village, stopped at a Roman Catholic church, and dropped my tired head down to sleep until morning.

But that night does no let me go. Sometimes I recollect the Hungarian Valkyrie, bacchante in black panties and that tingles my blood.
Neither before, nor after that meeting did I come across anything more chthonically sexual.
Tags: Проба пера

promo haydamak november 2, 2017 16:21 3
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Я Александр "haydamak" Бутенко, и у меня много ипостасей, писательство - одна из них. Да, я пишу книги, мне это нравится, моим читателям тоже, и я намереваюсь какое-то время делать это и впредь. Что это за книги? Рассказываю про "Если бы Конфуций был блондинкой". Мои книги возможно…
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