“We have nude beaches here on Cyprus for gay men,” the art gallery owner said as he moved around the studio couch in the photo studio behind his Nicosia gallery and fired off camera shots of me posed in the near nude on a blue silk drape. “All of them are on private property, though. I happen to have such a beach—very private—at my beach house near the airport in Larnaca. It’s on the coast outside Perivolia village. I’ll give you directions and a key to the gate. You can go there any time you wish.”
I hadn’t asked Costas Nourolias about nude beaches—or places for gay hookups, for that matter—but as we had smoked a bubble pipe together after half a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and he had just fucked me on the studio couch, I just let him ramble. He wasn’t a young man, but he was a handsome and personable one, as Cypriot men, whether Greek or Turkish, all seemed to be—until they reached seventy and then they seemed to just fall apart. He was stocky, heavy around the middle—thick, not really fat—but otherwise with good muscle tone, dark haired and hirsute, and he was hung and knew how to seduce a young man. He’d gotten my clothes off, his cock in me, and me posing for him for nude photographs easily enough. All this and I’d come to Cyprus earlier in the summer, recently married, and determined to give up the gay life. I’d managed to stay on that wagon for five weeks.
I was newly minted in the U.S. Foreign Service, in the cultural affairs area of the United States Information Service. At twenty-six, I had a fine arts MA in theater arts plus a year of teaching acting in New York under my belt before having been bought for my artist wife, Janet, by her rich father. He managed to bundle us out of the country by shepherding me through the Foreign Service exam and directly to the deputy cultural affairs position at the embassy’s American Center in Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus. Janet, who was thirty-two, had no trouble finding an art professor position at the Nicosia campus of the University of Cyprus. Janet’s daddy was getting us both out of sex scandals in New York. We’d both promised to be good in our new life.
I’d been good up to this night. My job included attending plays and going to art openings. I’d gone to such an art opening this evening presenting paintings from Costas Nourolias’s art gallery. The exhibit was being held at the Paphos Gate art center, which was inside the ancient wall the surrounded the old city. A couple of expatriate American painters were represented there as well as Greek Cypriot artists and one quite hunky Danish soldier from the UN contingent assigned to man a buffer zone between the Greeks and Turks, the line going right through the center of the old city as part of a nearly fifty-year-old war between the two for control of the island.
I was put off my guard by the hunkiness of the Dane, who was a big, beautiful, muscular bruiser, with a brilliant smile and who was introduced to me as Malte Jorgensen. We were together long enough to kindle and enjoy sexual sparks between us but not long enough to do anything about it. I had no intention of doing anything about it. I was on my best behavior, imposed by the hefty size of the monthly allowance that came through from Janet’s father. But I was drinking and had come to the opening alone—and I was getting randy for male companionship.
I was trying my best to be faithful to Janet. We fucked—I was young and trim and quite presentable and Janet fucked men. That was her part of the problem. She liked to fuck the husbands of society women in New York. But I really was too young for her, didn’t have another wife Janet could make a fool of, and, being a gay submission by nature, fucking me wasn’t as much fun as fucking someone else’s hetero husband. But Janet hadn’t come to the opening. She’d scheduled a night session at her university. I was here on my own, there were more than enough beautiful Greek Cypriot men and hunky UN soldier friends of the artist Malte Jorgensen floating around as well as free-flowing drink and, it turned out, colorful pills for temptation to set in.
The host for the evening, the gallery owner Costas Nourolias, was so charming and giving me so much attention—as well as pushing scotch and a few pills on me—that, with no idea how we had transitioned to it, I found myself alone with him at the rear of his gallery, across town from the Paphos Gate, puffing on a bubble pipe and agreeing to pose for him in the nude for photographs to be distributed only to a select subscription list. I wouldn’t be recognized. He had a blue and gold art Mardi Gras mask for me to wear that disguised my face and Roman sandals that laced up to my knees—and nothing else. I had rather distinctive reddish-blond hair, hence my nickname, Sandy, short for Sanford, but Costas assured me that, with just my wavy head hair and trimmed reddish-gold pubes showing, I wouldn’t be recognized.
“Lots of young, fit men have reddish-blond hair,” he said.
I didn’t think that was really true, but I was quite close to being drunk and he’d flattered the clothes off me. I knew this was leading to him fucking me; I would have been disappointed if it hadn’t.
He said he loved being able to see the tan lines of the Speedo I’d been wearing as I tanned under the Cypriot summer sun for the previous five weeks and was pleased, he said, that I wasn’t tattooed other than the image of red lipstick lips on the lower curve of my belly on the left, down near my groin, which we managed to hide under the blue-silk drapery on the studio couch. Costas actually liked that tattoo a lot, he claimed, and he must have, as he did sneak a few photographs with it showing and, when I had stretched out on the couch, and after he’d taken an initial group of photographs, he went down on his knees beside the couch and moved his hands over my torso as me kissed and licked the tattoo. His mouth moved from there to my cock and balls, and as high as I was on liquor and drugs—and randiness—I let him do as he liked with me.
Greek Cypriot men of his age were startingly sexy.
I hadn’t any intention when I’d agreed to come to his studio of being fucked—or at least I told myself that—but this obviously was what he liked to do with me. When he came up from sucking me off, I found he’d managed to strip off all of his clothes. He was a handsome, darkly hirsute man, stocky but solidly built. And he was hung and in full erection. As he hovered over me, he brushed the mask off my face, and came down for a kiss on the lips, his hands moved between my thighs, and ran up the inner legs there, coaxing my legs to open and raise. They did so almost on their own volition.
He came down between them on his knees, raising my pelvis with hands gripping and spreading and raising my legs. He smoothly moved into position while he still possessed my lips with his. His hands went to the hollows of my shoulders, pressing my back into the drapery covering the couch. His solid, hirsute body loomed over me, effectively trapping me under him. And then he was sliding inside me, deep, and I was pulling my face away from his, arching my head back, moaning, and digging my fingernails into his shoulder blades, as he began to move inside me, in and out, in and out.
It was not like I hadn’t been there before.
He hovered over me, holding me down on the couch, and thrust inside me, as, hooking my knees on his hips I rowed with him in the fuck, crying out wantonly, “Yes, yes. Like that. Deep. Hard. Fuck me!”
I had missed this so much, and Costas was an accomplished lover, making me gasp as he stretched me in long, deep slides, giving me the measure of him, holding me still as he was deep inside me, waiting for me to stretch to him, coaxing me to let him into my soft, spongy core, which I did. By habit, the muscles of my channel walls undulated over the shaft, which Costas celebrated with low groans.
I tried to writhe under him, force him to pump me, but he held me tight. Then, with a little laugh, when I had opened to take the thickness of him, he started pumping me. I moaned as he established a rhythm and I rocked with him, in counterthrust. But as the rhythm was set, he went off cadence, causing me to groan and shudder. Then he settled down to a rhythm again, me pressing my fingertips into his shoulder blades in matching rhythm and murmuring, “Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me.” He was in control, the master. I was the slave. Once fully saddled and in rhythm, he was a cruel but expert lover, relentlessly moving toward climax, taking his pleasure but ensuring I was taken care of too.
But it was quite evident that it was his need and pleasure that came first. He was, after all, a Greek man and it had been established that I was the submissive.
I gasped and arched my back as the intensity of the fuck picked up pace. I ran my hands down his back, clutching his buttocks to me, as he pounded, pounded and pounded, leveraging off his knees to thrust hard and deep. “Fuck, yes! Give it to Me! Screw me hard!” Pounding, pounding, pounding, the Greek stud fucked me to his barebacking ejaculation.
Afterward, moving about naked, his satisfied cock swinging free, he posed me, stretched out and with more than a hint of post-coital satiation, replaced the Mardi Gras mask on my face, and moved around the couch taking his photographs, murmuring, “Glorious. Such a beautiful body.”
I lay there, panting, wishing he would fuck me again. But he didn’t. He’d gotten his rocks off as much as he needed for the night.
I hadn’t been to the Paphos Gate venue before, so I had driven to Costas’s gallery, left my car there, and Costas had driven me to the ancient walls of the original city. Thus, after my photo and fuck session with Costas, I had my own means of somewhat embarrassed escape. I didn’t mean to capitulate to my fetish for men this soon after I’d resolved to change my lifestyle. Costas, of course, acted like it had all been the natural thing for us to have done—as if he did this with young men several times a week. And judging from the collection of photographs on the walls of one of the more private exhibition rooms in the gallery, maybe he did. Maybe fucking me was just a pleasant blip on the screen for him. It got me to pose for him without a mention of renumeration.
When I got home, chastened at having given in to the temptation—Janet still not back from her night class at the university yet—and I pulled the set of keys and directions to his south-coast beach property Nourolias had given me, I was still high enough to have trouble remembering what they were and what I could do with them. Most important, I wasn’t fully aware of what I had just done, coming off the pledge of abstinence from sex with men that I had made in changing my lifestyle and moving to the Mediterranean.
Greek Cypriot men. Costas wasn’t young and he wasn’t trim. When he was naked, though, he had the solid, sensual presence of a hirsute Zeus. He was all power and control. He had a by-right arrogance that I hadn’t found in American men and that I was submissive to. He took what he wanted, he was confident that he could have it, and he gave full satisfaction. And he certainly could fuck. He never asked me if he could fuck me or told me he would; he just took me—and I let him.
At that point I had absolutely no intention of ever visiting the men-only nude beach I was being invited to use—not even after Nourolias told me that he let soldiers from the UN peacekeeping contingent use it.
* * * *
All of the stars were aligning and it wasn’t that hard for me to ignore that I had pledged not to engage in casual gay sex—certainly as long as my wife, Janet, the primary interest of my father-in-law, kept the heat off by agreeing to stay away from other men. She had flown to Athens for a couple of days, taking her university art class there to go through the museums of ancient art to ferret out motifs to paint for an assignment. So, I was all alone in Nicosia for a couple of days. She’d be gone with another class the next week—to Italy this time—and for twice as long.
I didn’t have to think up an excuse while I was alone to check out Costas’s private beach on the south coast. The Fulbright Program lecture series by an American archeologist was coming to a close and he needed a ride to the airport on Saturday morning, on the southern coast of Cyprus, outside Larnaca, more than an hour’s drive away. It was natural for me to volunteer to do the airport duty.
Costas Nourolias’s private nude beach would be only some twenty minutes’ drive west along the coast from the airport—and the day dawned beautiful—clear and hot. Of course, nearly all days dawned beautiful in Cyprus.
Before I picked the professor up at the Nicosia Hilton, I tossed a couple of beach towels and a Speedo in the trunk of my BMW convertible. I remembered to take the directions to the Perivolia village and Nourolias’s beach villa and the keys to the gate there. I didn’t intend to go there after letting the professor off at the airport, of course—there were many beaches along the southern coast. But, if I took what I’d need for that beach, I could always change my mind about that later.
When I went down the wooden stairs in the back yard of the beach villa, which sat about the small crescent of sand, I could see that the beach was very private, as Costas had said it would be. A barrier of rocks on either side at the property boundaries went from the face of the small cliff the villa was perched on and into the pristine turquoise-blue water of the Mediterranean. From the top of the cliff I could see that the water was shallow for some way into the sea, with a sandy bottom.
One young man, Greek, slim and good-looking, olive-skinned and slightly hirsute was already on the beach when I arrived. A motorbike had been propped up in the parking apron by the villa, so I assumed someone was here. He was stretched out on his back, nude, wearing only sunglasses, and taking in the rays. He was on a towel high on the sand near the rocks to the east.
I nodded to him as I came down the stairs and positioned myself at the same level he was at but at the western margin of the property. I’d brought towels, but not the Speedo. I stripped down, folding my clothes and putting them to the side; stood there, looking out to sea, long enough for the young Greek to notice me and for us to gather that we wouldn’t be interacting—that we were both submissives—and then I stretched out on my back on the towel under the sun. My mission was to start making the tan lines of a Speedo disappear. Costas had said he liked to see them, but I’d feel sexier if I had a uniform tan all over.
I was surprised, but pleasantly so, when the Danish UN soldiers arrived. At the center, seeming to be their leader, was the hunky soldier and artist, Malte Jorgensen, who I had briefly met at the Paphos Gate art exhibit, noted a shared interest with, and then lost in the crowd the night Costas had photographed and fucked me. And now he was here. He smiled broadly at me as he and his soldier compatriots came down the stairs and saw that I and a young Greek already were there. They stopped briefly where the Greek youth was and chatted with him. Afterward, they came over to me.
“I saw you at the art opening in the city a couple of weeks ago, I believe,” Malte said, giving me a winning smile. He was a gorgeous Danish hunk, as were the five young men with him. They all were muscular UN soldiers at the peak of their physical conditioning—all sunny blonds. It was hard to tell one from the other, although I did think that Malte was the most handsome. “You are from the American Embassy, I believe,” he added. “Costas said you were a cultural attaché.”
“Yes, yes, I am. I saw your paintings there. Very good. Evocative.” They were nudes, both of men and women. Now that I thought of it, I think a couple of them had been done in the photography studio at Costas’s Nicosia gallery—using the same blue-silk drape Costas had fucked me on. “I’m Sanford Douglas. People call me Sandy.”
I thought Malte did a bit of double-take upon hearing my name, but it didn’t make an impression on me at the time. I was too busy watching him and the other soldiers stripping down to nothing. They all were muscular gods with all-over tans. They obviously came to this beach often. And he and the others were obviously checking me out in my altogether.
“I can see why you’d be called Sandy,” Malte said, with a grin. “These are my soldier friends—the ones who like to go with men. This is Alfred Larson, and behind him is Noah Nielsen. Over there are Alberte Jensen and Lucas Rasmussan. The one still talking with the Greek boy is Hans Niederman. We came to swim and kick the football around. Perhaps later . . .”
He left it there, called over to Niederman to join them, and all six of them ran down, in something of a military formation, to the sea, dove in, and began to cavort about. I watched them for a while, even after they’d come out of the sea and were passing the soccer ball back and forth, all of them athletic and as graceful as those who had honed their bodies for physical contact could be. At length I dozed off.
I woke to the feel of a hand on my ankle, gliding up my leg. I opened my eyes to four of the hunks crouching around me. The other two, Malte and Hans Niederman, were over with the Greek youth. They already were fucking him—together, in a double penetration. Malte was underneath, on his buttocks, his muscular legs stretched out in front of him. He was leaning back, holding the Greek youth in his lap, facing away from him, skewered on his cock. Hans was crouched over Malte’s thighs, facing the young Greek, his cock inside the young man’s hole, running on top of Malte’s shaft. Hans was holding the Greek’s waist between his hands and Malte was holding Hans’s waist. The Greek was panting and groaning enough for me to hear. His mouth was yawning open and his eyes were bugged out, but he was taking the two cocks. The Danes were rocking back and forth, working the Greek’s channel with their cocks, and looking like they were oarsmen moving a small craft through the sea.
As I watched, the Greek lad raised and spread his perfectly formed legs in a monumental V over the crouching and undulating muscular bodies that were fucking him. The image of surrender was evocative and made me groan with arousal.
I had no more opportunity than just a few seconds to take that in before the other four Danes were on me, all running their hands over me, one opening his mouth over my cock, another pushing his cock between my lips. And it wasn’t long before they were in me.
“Yes, yes, please? You will let us have you?” one of the Danes rather belatedly asked, and I gave my consent.
“Come, come with us,” one of them said, with the four of them pulling me up from the sand and moving me toward groupings of rocks on the western side of the beach. They brought my towel with them. They carried me into a sandy, area between rock formations, with some privacy from the beach and not in view from the clifftop. All four of them fucked me there, the first by one of the hunky Danes putting me on all fours, with the other three holding me in place and stroking me with their hands—one milking my cock—while the first mounted me high on my back, gripped my waist, penetrated me, and fucked me.
Over the next hour or more all four fucked me in various positions. Two of them—Noah and Alfred, if I heard their names right—doubled me, Alfred lying on his back with me riding his cock, facing his head, and with Noah mounting me from behind and the two cocks working me to a shared ejaculation.
I denied them nothing. They all were handsome bucks and sex studs, and the taking was glorious. I’d never had so many men working me at one time—certainly not hunky Danish soldiers. I felt no guilt. It had just happened. I hadn’t come for this, or so I told myself, and it all had seemed so natural, so right, on the isolated, pristine nudist beach, a private window into the sea.
They exhausted me, and I was nearly asleep as they were finishing, laughing with each other, boasting of what we had done, I’m sure, although everything they were saying now—now after they were finished telling me in English what to do, how to position my body, whose cock to take when and where, in mouth or ass, after I’d done everything they requested of me, and after they’d all had their way with me more than once—was spoken in Danish. Now they were done with me—at least for today.
When I they were gone, I lay back on the towel, panting and moaning low, keeping my legs spread as I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I could close them, feeling the cum of four men in my channel. I slept. When I woke and came out of the secret place—the fucking ground between the rocks—I found I was alone. The Danish soldiers were gone. So was the Greek youth. The sun was low over the sea. I struggled down to the water and went in, floating there until I was ready to leave the beach myself, and thinking of how gloriously satiating the afternoon with the Danish soldiers had been.
I had only one regret. This was the second time I thought I had connected with the god-like Malte Jergensen in a mutually interested “maybe,” and yet we hadn’t fucked. I wondered if we ever would.
* * * *
“My wife is going to Italy for a week,” I said. “I’ll be going to the Turkish side—west of Kyrenia. The embassy has a couple of houses there left over from an installation we had when the Turks invaded over it in 1974. I won’t be able to come here for a few days.”
Costas and I were stretched out on the studio couch in the photography studio behind his Nicosia art gallery. I was on my back, my legs spread and bent, my feet flat on the couch. Costas was lying between my thighs, on top of me. He was inside me. He had just ejaculated and we both were concentrating on him going flaccid inside me.
“Yes, I know where the compound is you are talking about—in Karavas,” Costas said. “One of my uncles worked there—a CIA listening post—in the early 70s. You’ll be near Rita-on-the-Rocks. You’ll want to go there on a Wednesday.”
“Rita on the what?” I asked.
“On the rocks. It’s run by an English lady. It’s a walled-in swimming pool and terrace restaurant right on the Mediterranean, on top of the rocks leading directly down to the sea. A restaurant-bar, with a nice, large swimming pool and with a few rooms where Rita keeps whores you can rent—both women and men.”
“I don’t think I need to rent a whore,” I said, with a laugh. “I’m doing more of this, with you, than I should be doing. But why Wednesday?”
“Rita has special days. Wednesday is a day for men only—gay men. They can be there, using the pool, having drinks and a meal, fucking the male whore—I think she only has one at the moment—or each other. Usually each other. Turkish men and UN soldiers. The Danish men like to go there on Wednesdays. Everyone runs around in the nude. They swim in the pool or in the sea; they sun themselves; they drink and eat; and they fuck. I wish I could go. It’s still hard for a Greek to go on the Turkish side. But you diplomats and the UN soldiers—”
“The Danish soldiers—that artist whose work you exhibit, Malte Jergensen—he and his friends go there on Wednesdays?”
“Yes, sometimes. When they can get leave. There isn’t much for the UN soldiers to do here but fuck around. The Greeks and Turks aren’t at each other now as they once were. Even interest in ethnic pogroms wears off in time.”
“Yes, I think I might try out this Rita’s while I’m on the other side next week,” I said. “Thanks for telling me about it.”
Danish UN soldiers. Malte Jergensen. I was pledged to try to stop this sort of activity, but . . .
“Shall we? Again?” Costas whispered in my ear.
“No, sorry, I don’t think so,” I said, rolling off from underneath him, and rising from the couch. “I really shouldn’t be doing this. If they found out at the embassy . . . no, I don’t think I should come here, like this again. I did want to think you for allowing me to use your beach on the southern coast, though. It wasn’t more than that. I think this is enough.”
And that’s what I had told myself. I hadn’t come back and let Costas photograph and fuck me again because I was randy and I needed it. I told myself it was just one more time because he’d told me about his private nudist beach and was letting me use it on occasions. I hadn’t given the key to the gate back. I wasn’t planning on giving it back. Costas hadn’t asked for it back. He’d mentioned being there when I was there, but I hadn’t discussed that with him. This couldn’t become a regular thing.
* * * *
“Sür onu. İyi sürüyorsun!”
“I hope that’s not a complaint,” I said. The dark and sultry Turk was on his back on a lounge bed by the swimming pool at Rita on the Rocks and I was mounted on his hips, riding his cock in a cowboy. He was grasping my waist and giving me a grin. I didn’t think that he’d be grinning and complaining at the same time, but it was all Turkish to me. We’d done quite a bit of playing and touching in the pool, both of us naked, before we’d gotten in this position.
“He’s saying you ride the cock good.”
I jerked my head around. Malte Jergensen, the hunky Danish UN contingent soldier was standing by me, naked. He put a hand on my shoulder and smiled at me. I was so busy getting mounted on the Turk that I hadn’t seen him and three of the other Danish soldiers come into the swimming pool area, establish a beachhead across the pool from where I was riding the Turk, and had gotten naked. One of the soldiers, Hans Niederman, I think, was already diving into the pool.
“He must be a mainland Turk,” Malte said. Cypriot Turks speak English better than I do.
“You do well enough,” I said.
“Onu seninle sürmeemin sakinasi van mi?” Malte leaned over me and asked the Turk. The man smiled and answered, “Evet, eğer alabilirse.”
“Oh, iki tane alabilir,” Malte answered and swung a leg over the Turk’s thighs behind me.
“What was all that? And what are you doing?”
“We’re going to double you,” Malte said. “I asked him if I could ride you too—he and I together. He said yes, if you could handle it, and I said you knew how to handle it quite well.”
“You asked him rather than me if I’d let you two double me? . . . Oh fuck. Oh, shit. FUCCCK!”
“Yes, I know what you want,” Malte answered. And he was right and he was doing it. Both he and the Turk were inside me, fucking me. I rode their cocks like we were in a rodeo. Shamelessly and wantonly. At last. I had the Danish hunk’s cock inside me.
Somewhere in the next half hour, the Turk had moved on, and Malte continued fucking me in a solo missionary. I couldn’t have been more happy with the attention. In my view, it had taken longer to get to this point than it should have. When we were done and had taken a dip and lain side by side until we couldn’t roast any more, Malte took my hand and led me over to the restaurant area, which rambled along at the top of the rocks down to the sea and was shaded by trelliswork covered by grapevines. Somehow he’d made clear to his UN soldier buddies to stay clear of us for a while, and they cavorted with each other and other men in the swimming pool.
“I want to paint you,” he said after we’d ordered mixed grill and Efes beer and were sitting across a table from each other on the edge of the rocks. I had tried to slide in beside him at the table, but he’d said, “No, I want for us to talk a while.” That’s when he said he wanted to paint me.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I said, remembering the paintings he had on exhibit at the Paphos Gate art opening.
“In the nude,” he said.
“That’s why I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said.
“I can’t stop thinking about it. You have a beautiful body. I’ll paint you from memory—or from a photograph Costas has of you; he’s shown me the photographs—if you won’t pose for me, but it would be better if you did. If you want to continue to be with me, you’ll have to let me paint you. The need to do that will drive me mad otherwise. It’s just a something painters have in their lives.”
“You don’t have to tell me about the compulsions of painters,” I said. “I’m married to one.”
“I know,” Malte said.
“You know I’m married? You know my wife is a painter?”
“I know a woman with your name is an art professor at the University of Cyprus,” he said. “Costas told me she was your wife.”
“So, you’re saying you won’t fuck me again unless I pose for you in the nude. Is this why you came to Rita’s today—and why the other soldiers have kept their distance? You have a compulsion to paint me? Costas told you I’d be here today?”
“I brought my paints and canvases. I want you to pose on the rocks here, with the Mediterranean in the background.”
“Here? Now?”
“Yes.”
He roughed in four canvases over the next two hours, with me posing on rocks in the altogether. I actually rather enjoyed it. I had no idea how the paintings would turn out, as he only sketched in the outline of my figure and of the rocks and features of the sea beyond.
“I am too anxious to have several canvases,” he said. “I wish I had time with you to get colors just right. But I want more than one canvas to work with.”
“How long will you be on the Turkish side?” I asked. “I’m over here for several days. My wife is on a trip to Italy.”
“I know,” Malte said, with a smile. But he continued on before I could comment on that. “We have a three-day furlough. We have driven here in one of the trucks. It’s in the parking lot. We will sleep in that. Rita lets us eat here and use the bathrooms and showers here.”
“And the rent-boy upstairs?” I asked, not being able to resist. I said it with a little smile, though, to let him know it was a joke.
“When other guys visiting the pool aren’t more attractive. UN soldiers like us have no trouble finding men who will take cock.”
“Like I do,” I said.
“Yes, like you do.”
“I’m staying at a house near here,” I said. “It’s owned by the American embassy—a couple of houses are on the property that we use for recreational purposes and meetings.”
“The old CIA listening station,” he said, with a grin.
“Yes. The house I’m staying in has three bedrooms and all the amenities. It’s not plush, but it’s signed out to me. You and your friends could—”
“That would be a very good idea,” Malte said. “Then I could make enough progress on the paintings so that I can finish them at the studio at school or at Costas’s gallery.”
“The studio at school?” I asked.
“Yes. The University of Cyprus lets me use their studios.”
“And Costas does as well?”
“Yes. Costas is good to us—my soldier friends and me. You saw us at his beach house in the south.”
“And I suppose it was Costas who told you I would be here today—and that I was staying at the embassy’s Karavas houses.” I had suggested that before and he had ducked the question. He ducked it now too.
He just smiled at me. “Are you ready to go now? Shall I tell my friends we are moving over to the old CIA listening post houses? We can get a mess of kabobs and a case of Efes from Rita to take with us.”
The Danish soldiers Malte had brought with him—Alfred Larson, Lucas Rasmussen, Hans Niederman, and Noah Nielson—weren’t standoffish at the Karavas house that evening. While Malte working on further developing his nude paintings of me, I spent the evening and into the night on my bed, mostly on my back but sometimes on all fours or my sides, with my legs bent and spread, and the Danish soldiers fucking me one after the other. When they had me on my back, I lifted and spread my legs in a V as they rutted between my thighs just as the Greek youth on Costas’s beach had done—and for me, it meant surrender as well.
I didn’t mind, but even as they were tag-teaming me, making sure I had someone’s cock inside me nearly nonstop, I knew that this needed to be a one-time experience. I knew that I needed to pull back and honor my pledge to change my lifestyle and fulfill the role of a husband and responsible American Embassy employee.
But it was so glorious to have my body worshipped and used like this.
Late Wednesday night, Malte’s friends found that the case of beer that had been cooling in the refrigerator and heated up kabobs were becoming more alluring than repeated rounds of dipping their shafts in my channel was and they’d retired to the living room to eat, drink beer, and otherwise carouse. I lay in bed, softly moaning and luxuriating in my wantonness. As it grew more quiet in the living room and the men either drifted off to the beds in the two bedrooms at the other side of the house or dropped off where they were in the living room, Malte came into the bedroom.
I was roused by him coming up onto the bed in the dark. I could feel that he was naked—and in erection. I still was naked as well. “I believe this is where I’m sleeping tonight,” he murmured.
“Wonderful,” I murmured, turning on my back, spreading my legs, and opening my arms to him. A beefy arm went under my waist and he was raising my pelvis to him. I gave a little cry as he slid inside me—thicker and longer than any of the others, and began to mine my channel deep. I lifted my knees to his hips, reached down to grip his buttocks, and took him and took him and took him. And as he came close to a finish, I raised and spread my legs in a V of total surrender.
I woke in the morning on my back on the bed, to the vision of Malte coming into the room with a food tray. He still was naked—he remained nude for the next two days that he was with me in the Karavas house. He had arrayed his four paintings, propped up on straight chairs from the dying room in an arc around the foot of the bed.
He put the tray down in front of me and I ate as he talked about the paintings. The paintings were great, but they almost made me hyperventilate. They obviously were me. This wasn’t like the photos Costas Nourolias had taken of me. There was no Mardi Gras mask to give me at least that much anonymity.
“What do you think of them?” he asked. “The work went faster than I thought it would. The paint’s still wet and they all need some touchup, but I think I caught you.”
“Maybe too well,” I said.
“What do you mean.”
I didn’t want to say that everything was too much me other than maybe being very kind to me in the equipment and some of the muscle tone departments, but I needed to say something. “I think I should have asked you not to include the tattoo.”
“The red lip kiss on the lower belly?” he asked. He laughed. “I think it gives you personality. We would have an argument about leaving it off.”
“And you’d win the argument, wouldn’t you?” I asked.
“With you I’ll win all of the arguments,” Malte said. “You’re the perfect submissive. And speaking of which . . .” I looked up. He took the tray off the bed and showed me that he had a pair of wrist restraints in his hand.
“I’m horny,” he said, “And the others have gone back to Rita’s. I want some.”
It was a repeat, in the daylight, of our fuck the previous night—plus my wrists were tied to the headboard and I had four paintings of me in the nude on the rocks, with the Mediterranean behind me, while the big-cocked Dane knelt between my spread thighs, ran an beefy arm under my waist to raise my pelvis to a perfect thrust angle, and fucked me with the biggest cock I’d ever had.
He stayed with me for the next two days, working to refine his paintings and his fucking technique with me. The other soldiers didn’t come back.
“You know you’re too good—and too bad for me,” I said on Friday afternoon before driving him back to Rita’s to match up with his friends.
“You’ve told me you are trying to change—to go straighter. It’s your choice. We’ll be rotating to Lebanon in another couple of months, and I’m only in it for the fun—and the art models, of course.”
“Of course,” I said.
“I’d give you one of the paintings if you like.”
“The paintings are great, but where would I be able to hang it? All I ask is that you not exhibit the two that show the tattoo—at least not anywhere in the Mediterranean or Middle East.”
He didn’t answer that. I probably should have pursued the matter.
When I dropped Malte off at Rita’s, the Turk from Wednesday afternoon was there. His name was Ergon. I drove him back to the Karavas house and he fucked me for the next day and a half. He fucked joyously, cruelly, and with abandon. I raised my legs in a V of surrender to him again and again. I had pretty much forgotten Malte and his friends when I drove back to Nicosia on Sunday afternoon.
During the last, Sunday morning, fuck, I was justifying the trip to Rita’s and Karavas as a last fling before giving this up altogether. At the moment “this” was me crawling across the threadbare living room rug of the Karavas house on all fours, a folded belt in my mouth, with Ergon on top of me holding the belt like reins, high astride my ass, fucking me from behind and above, and flicking my flanks and bare ass with a switch as he boisterously called out, “Bir cowboy gibi binmek!”
I didn’t even want to try to figure out what Ergon was saying, but, as he’d rendered “cowboy” in English, I got the gist of it. Rug burn got to the palms of my hands and my knees, and I went down on my chest half way across the room, with my tail still elevated and Ergon, stretching his legs out beside mine and going up on his toes, continuing the hard-thrust fuck, riding my ass high. His hand dropped the reins and his hands glided up my arms, pushing them high above my head, grasping my wrists with his fists, nuzzling his scratching-chin face in the crook of my throat, breathing hard, riding me forever, and murmuring “Sana bin, sana bin, sana bin.” This time he provided a translation in heavily accented English. “Ride you, ride you, ride you.” And that’s what the muscular, hirsute Turk did—ride me into paradise.
If this was to be the last fling with men, I might as well do it in total submissive surrender to a hunky Turk.
* * * *
“Yes, I already know Janet.”
I was taken aback. How did the Danish UN contingent soldier Malte Jergensen know my wife? It was six weeks after our tryst at the Karavas house on the northern, Turkish Cypriot coast. I’d been good to my pledge to stay away from men in that time, although staying away had keyed me up. Janet and I were attending another art opening at Costas Nourolias’s Nicosia art gallery. I had pulled up in shock and displeasure at a painting, and its artist, Malte had come over to stand by me. Costas had brought Janet over to join us.
When I gave him a confused and slightly panicked look—I already was off balance—Malte smiled and said. “The University of Cyprus. Mrs. Douglas teaches art course there, and I am permitted to use their studios to paint. I’ve sat in on a few of her classes.”
He almost said he’d told me about using the university’s studios, and I now remembered that he had told me that, but he stopped short, no doubt realizing that he shouldn’t admit he’d ever talked to me before, let alone fucked me.
The four of us chatted about the artwork on display, which included several canvases by Malte, but I had trouble keeping up because of where we were standing, which was also why I was off balance. I hadn’t expected to see Malte at this opening; Costas hadn’t told me Malte was being exhibited. Of course, I’d tried to be careful not to let Costas know Malte and I—and some of the other Danish soldiers—had hooked up. I’d only seen Costas a couple of times since I went to his nude beach, but when I did, I didn’t mention that the Danes were there as well.
What had me disconcerted was that before Malte came over to join me, I was standing, dumbfounded, in front of two paintings of me. Not only was he displaying two of the nude paintings of me posing on the rocks by the Mediterranean at Rita’s, but they were the two that showed the red lips tattoo on my lower belly. People were roaming around, looking at the artwork. Many of these people were ones I routinely worked with in my cultural affairs duties. I was easily recognizable in the paintings, or so I thought. It wouldn’t be for the tattoo, of course—except for Janet and Costas—but how could people walk by, looking at the paintings on the wall, with me standing there, unable to leave the spot, and not realize that was me in provocative nude poses?
But either they didn’t or they had marvelous control.
And then there we were, the four of us, Malte, Janet, Costas, and me, standing there, discussing the paintings on exhibit, including Malte’s offerings—including the two paintings of me right there in front of us. Neither Janet nor Costas were indicating any recognition they were of me and Malte was just looking amused. I reached the point of not being able to stand there any longer, so when the other three were in an animated conversation, I looked at my empty wine glass to establish that I was leaving to refill it, and I drifted away from them. I tried to make it look like a drift, but it felt more like screaming into the night.
The disturbing surprises weren’t off, however. I moved on to a room I hadn’t been in before, and found myself standing in front of paintings that undoubtedly were of Janet. And not just of Janet, but of Janet in provocative nude poses. Of course the artist was Malte. The University of Cyprus connection. I fled from there to yet another room, one that was out of the way and known only to a limited number of Costas’s clients—the room where he showed his photographs of young men nude after coitus with him on the drapery-covered studio couch in his photography studio. I was on the wall there, too, in the nude. But at least there my face was covered by an elaborate Mardi Gras mask. I knew it was me. Costas knew it was me. But other men who had found in the room and were ogling the photographs on the wall most likely couldn’t tell it was me.
“You are the sexiest of the lot,” a voice behind me said. I turned to find Costas at my elbow.
“I’ve missed you. I’m glad you came tonight.”
“It’s my job,” I said. “People would notice and wonder if I stayed away from your openings.”
“You want to stay away from me?”
“I think it best,” I said. “I’m trying to be good—to change my lifestyle.”
“I am going down to the beach house at Perivolia the weekend after next,” Costas said. “I was hoping you might go with me—for more photos, beach time, and . . . you know.”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” I said.
“We were good together, Sandy,” he said. “We could be very good together. But I won’t push. Let me know if you change your mind. Or just come on down. I’ll be there as of Friday night. You still have the key to the gate. The other key is to the house. You haven’t returned those.”
“I meant to return them,” I said. “I don’t have them with me. I’ll—”
“I would hope you’d keep them and use them. Here’s Malte Jergensen coming now. And I see your wine glass is still empty. Let me refill that for you.”
I gave him my empty glass, and he was replaced my side by Malte.
“Those photos there are of you, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you came tonight. This next Wednesday at Rita’s perhaps?”
“I don’t think so, Malte. I’m trying to reform.”
“Pity, but just as well, I suppose. I did want you to know that our orders came through. The Danes are being rotated over to Lebanon next month.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” I said. “Listen, Malte—”
“Yes?” he answered. I almost asked him then about my wife, Janet, and the circumstances of the paintings he’d done of her, but I just couldn’t do it. Suddenly, I just couldn’t continue with any of it.
“Never mind,” I said and turned and left him there. I went back into the main gallery, gathered up Janet, said I needed to leave to work on a theater review I was writing, and we left. She didn’t object.
I suppose I didn’t really have to ask about Malte’s paintings of Janet, and I didn’t have to wonder about it for much longer. On Saturday morning of the following week, I came home early because an all-day session of student interviews for Fulbright scholarships that I was on the panel for were unexpectedly cancels. Janet assumed I’d be gone all day.
A motorbike was parked across the driveway up to the garage of my house, so I was forced to park down the street. Full-length French doors ran the length of our living room on the street side of the house. I could see the activity in there as I approached the front door, so I more surreptitiously moved to one of the glass doors and looked in.
The clothes were scattered about the living room floor. Malte and Janet were in the same position on the living room floor that the hunky Turk, murmuring, “Ride you, ride you, ride you,” had put me in on the Karavas house living room floor six weeks previously. Janet was stretched out on her belly on the floor, ample breasts pressed in the carpet, her buttocks elevated, raised by her knees pushing into the carpet. Malte was hovered over her in a push-ups position, one his toes and his hands holding Janet’s arms above her head, his fists clutching her wrists. He was fucking her in the cunt with long, slow slides.
I watched for a while—long enough to see Malte turn Janet onto her back and crouch between her thighs—and to see her long, slender legs raise and spread in a V of surrender. After that, I withdrew. This wasn’t working out. I got back in the car and drove out of Nicosia on the Larnaca Road toward the international airport. Costas was stretched out on a towel, naked, on his private beach at Perivolia.
I stripped off my clothes as I descended the wooden stairs from his villa to the beach.