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Kenton stood on the terrace of the rental vacation villa and watched Georgiou enter the taxi on the street down the steep incline at the base of the complex. The bullet-headed bald, yet otherwise hirsute, Greek with the physique of a wrestler didn’t turn to wave back. He just folded himself in the taxi and was gone from Kenton’s life.
Kenton hadn’t really expected more—but he had hoped. As gruff and all-business matter-of-fact as Georgiou had been, he’d filled the void in Kenton’s life since Kenton’s long-time lover, James Fendall, had chosen to die and leave Kenton in the lurch. The death had been unexpected. James had been the decision-maker, the doer, the businessman who knew how to get everything done and who wasn’t afraid of the telephone as the younger writer, Kenton, had been.
Kenton had held his own financially—his novels sold well—but he hadn’t had a clue what to do with the money—how to translate it into goods and services to support himself. James had provided all of that, including the domination and guidance in bed.
When James had had the terminal heart attack, Kenton was suddenly left on his own. There would be a considerable inheritance, but he wouldn’t be able to touch it for a year or more as it went through probate. That wasn’t a real problem. Kenton had money of his own. The real problem was how he was going to take care of himself. James’ estate was large enough that his lawyer took interest in it and in Kenton. Knowing the relationship and preferences of the couple, and knowing that Kenton was a novelist, the lawyer had not only suggested that Kenton retreat to the quietude and simpler life of some Greek island for the fall, so that he could get his life reoriented, but he also volunteered to connect Kenton with an LGBT travel agency that would handle all of the arrangements, including a guide to handle everything right up to the door of the rental villa—and to handle the client, as requested.
“Knowing how you are about decisions, I asked that your guide be a power top,” the lawyer had said, without blinking an eye.
Kenton had been leery of making such a big change, but one night after returning from James’ internment in New Orleans to the penthouse Philadelphia apartment that he and James had shared was enough to tell Kenton he couldn’t just continue here on his own. He found he had no idea how the heating or air conditioning system worked or even how to answer the main telephone console before it reverted to voicemail. It only then dawned on him how much James had taken care of, leaving Kenton to live in his own fantasy world as he spun out his mid-market gay male romance novels.
The lawyer accompanied Kenton to New York to meet with the travel agency. Kenton had remained skeptical and a bit spaced out on everything until that evening when they met for drinks with the prospective personal guide in Kenton’s New York hotel.
“This is what we do. I will take care of everything,” the guide had said, laying out documents on the cocktail table in the hotel bar. Georgiou was a muscular man in his late forties—probably five years or so older than Kenton was, who was built well enough himself, but along much trimmer lines than the guide, obviously a native Greek, was. Georgiou was definitely the take-charge, self-assured man. The way he’d put his hand on Kenton’s arm, or back, as they moved to the alcove in the bar showed aggression and assertion. Kenton couldn’t help but feel a comfort with this man that he hadn’t felt since James died. But beyond the basic comfort there was a slight nervousness at the assertiveness of the man. James had been much smoother and had put more effort into manipulating Kenton while not making Kenton feel how dependent he was. Of course, when James died, Kenton instantaneously learned how dependent he’d been—or slowly had become—all those years the two had been together.
“I have a cock of twenty centimeters and three and a half centimeters in girth,” Georgiou had told Kenton matter-of-factly, “and I can penetrate hard again in ten or fifteen minutes, depending on how attractive I find the man.”
Kenton had nearly choked on the olive in his martini. He’d never known a man as direct as this. It all seemed just to be business information to Georgiou. And centimeters always made a man sound like a superman.
“You will stay in this villa on Mykonos, a Greek island not far south of Athens, for three months,” Georgiou said, showing Kenton the brochure for a line of two-story stucco houses with terraces on a rocky mountainside. There was a swimming pool on a terrace below, and then, shown in other photos, a steep, rocky slope down to the cruise ship docks and a shoreline that snaked around the base of the mountains and the C-shaped Mykonos harbor. The town and villas perched above on the mountainside were mostly of brilliant—white stucco, with ochre- and natural rock-walled ones blended in. It was a scene of cleanliness, sunshine, and relaxation, punctuated with bougainvillea, ataşehir escort bayan hibiscus, and oleander. “It’s the best of Greece. I come from there myself. You are a beautiful man; you will find men there very soon who will service you. If you don’t, we will provide a stallion for you.”
There was no choice. This was the statement of where he would stay. And the agency would provide for his sexual needs, if necessary. Kenton felt comfortable with this, whereas most probably expected more input. The lawyer had done well in describing his client and his needs.
“We will fly to Athens, I will give you three-days of tour there and will bed you every night, and then a Greek cruise boat to Mykonos. Just one night cruising. Nothing fancy in a boat, but sufficient. The hotel in Athens, of course, will have a good view of the Acropolis. Five days and you will be there. I will take just carryon, so you have double baggage allowance for your three-month stay in Mykonos. Three months later I come for you, we fly to Rome for tour there, and then back to New York. I take care of everything. And I sleep in your bed and service you two times a day by contract, unless you request less.”
“I don’t know,” Kenton said, looking at the lawyer a little dubiously.
“I take good care of you,” Georgiou interjected himself into whatever the lawyer might say. “Need your passport to do documentation. I do it all. I service you expertly—in all ways.”
Kenton hesitated, looking at the lawyer, who was giving him encouraging, “just go with the flow,” looks.
“Give to me your room key,” Georgiou said, assertively, holding out a beefy hand, the reverse side of the palm covered with curly black hair shot through with gray. “We go to your room for your passport now, yes? I take good care of you. I service you now. I fuck you good.”
Kenton glanced over at the lawyer, who smiled and parroted the Greek. “Go with Georgiou. He will take good care of you. I will talk with you in the morning. Say the breakfast bar at 9:15?”
Georgiou propelled Kenton to the elevators and then down the corridor to the hotel room with a beefy hand at the small of Kenton’s back. Georgiou had the room key card, maintaining complete control. Kenton felt himself falling into a comfort zone. Someone else was making all of the decisions.
Inside the hotel room, Georgiou said, “I take care of you now. I handle everything for you on trip. Take off your clothes now. I fuck you good now.” And when Kenton was slow getting to that, Georgiou reached over and started pawing his clothes open. Kenton stepped away from him, and stripped himself, as, standing close to him, close enough for both of them to know that the Greek was in full control, Georgiou quickly stripped down as well.
Kenton sucked in his breath. The Greek was magnificently built. He had a great, muscular, hirsute wrestler’s body for a man his age—and he was hung and in half erection. He grabbed Kenton’s biceps on both sides and held the younger man at a stretch, looking his naked body up and down. Kenton could only look at the Greek’s cock, which was elevating into an erection.
“You have beautiful body,” the Greek said. “A dancer? A model? I could reload for penetration hard in ten minutes or less for a body like this.”
“A novelist,” Kenton answered nonsensically, his voice came out in a squeak of arousal. “But, yes, I was a male model when I was younger.”
“Handsome face. Good body. Nice cock. I fuck you good. Under thirty?”
“Thirty-six, actually,” Kenton said. But he was flattered.
“No matter. I forty-eight, but no worry. I eat my olive oil. I fuck like a younger man. You sign for trip, I fuck you two, three times a night, more than contract says. I stay hard good. Turn around and hold your cheeks open, please. I want to see the hole.” And then, when Kenton complied. “Ah, I fill that good.”
Kenton could readily see that the man had no trouble getting hard—and thick.
“I fuck you good. I take good care of you. It’s easier when the man has beautiful body, like you. Go down on your knees and suck me now. Then I fuck you good. I take good care of you. You will be well-fucked all the way to Mykonos. No worry about that.”
Kenton was on his knees at the end of the bed, with Georgiou covering him close from above. Georgiou was grunting, one arm wrapped around Kenton’s chest, two lube-slathered fingers of his other hand working Kenton’s anal entrance hard. Kenton, forehead to mattress, was groaning from the probing of the fingers. Once Georgiou had gotten him into the room and started giving directions, it hadn’t occurred to Kenton to object or question. James had always controlled what was going to happen. Kenton had been the total submissive with James. He just slipped into the same subservient role with Georgiou, even though Georgiou was rougher. Somehow the cruder, more demanding manner made him more submissive.
“You take big cock, yes? escort kadıköy Lawyer tell travel company you like big cock. My cock big. Very, very big.”
“Yes, I like big cock,” Kenton admitted with a whimper, as a third finger entered his ass. What hadn’t the lawyer told them? And how did the lawyer know James had a big cock? Just how close had James and his lawyer been? And there was no questioning that this Greek muscleman had a big cock—an extra thick one. What did three and a half centimeters work out to in inches anyway? Something thick, for sure.
What perhaps the lawyer didn’t know was that it wasn’t always just James’ big cock Kenton took. Kenton was unbelievably elastic that way, and what James sometimes gave him—and what he missed the most—was an extra man in the bed—and inside Kenton. But it wasn’t something Kenton felt he could talk about with anyone now. It had been James’ and his secret. He wasn’t likely to experience anything like that again, he didn’t suppose.
“They call on Georgiou for you because Georgiou has extra big cock; twenty centimeters long and three and a half centimeters thick,” the Greek said, his voice full of pride. “I take good care of you. No other travel company take care of you like Georgiou take care of you.” He was taking good care of Kenton now, fingering him forcefully.
“Oh, god, oh, god, I think I’m going to come.”
“You not come yet,” Georgiou directed, and the voice of authority was recognized and accepted by Kenton’s ball sac, although it was aching for release. Kenton hadn’t been fucked since before James died. It had him on edge.
He moaned. “I need to—”
“I fuck you now,” Georgiou said, ignoring any need Kenton might want to express, pulling his fingers out, and turning Kenton to a seated position on the bed. He had a Trojan Magnum condom packet in his hand. “You must put rubber on as agreeing you want fucked. Company policy.”
With trembling hands, Kenton crowned Georgiou, who then turned him back to his knees on the bed and slowly penetrated him while Kenton huffed and moaned. When fully saddled, Georgiou grabbed Kenton’s biceps and, wham, wham, started stroking him hard and deep, as Kenton groaned and moaned under him. Half way to Georgiou’s ejaculation, the Greek reached around Kenton’s belly with a hand, grasped Kenton’s cock, and jacked him off.
Afterward, as Kenton lay on the bed and watched Georgiou get dressed, He asked. “Do you need anything else other than my passport? Shall I get that for you?”
“Don’t need anything now,” Georgiou said. “You can hand documents in at travel office when you sign papers for the trip.” And then he was gone. In the end it had all been rather perfunctory and businesslike—as was the eventual five-day trip from New York to Mykonos. But Kenton couldn’t say that Georgiou didn’t take good care of him in sexual terms—at least in numbers of ejaculations—and in terms of those twenty and three-and-a half centimeters.
But there had been no affection in any of the servicing. Thus Kenton had no reason to be surprised—and wasn’t—that Georgiou just got in the taxi at the Mykonos villa rental at the end of the trip without even a look back.
As the taxi pulled away, Kenton’s eyes lateralled to the complex swimming pool two levels lower on the mountainside, where a young Greek god in a blue Speedo was skimming the pool. He had to be in his mid twenties—tall, lithe, but well-muscled, black curly hair, pouty lips. He was gorgeous and knew he was. His forearms, thighs, and pecs were lightly dusted with black curly hair. As he skimmed the pool, he was looking back up to the terraces of the line of small villas, each with an eight-foot, bougainvillea-covered pergola outside the terrace doors. Kenton fancied the young man was looking directly at him, as if checking out the latest arrival at the complex.
Georgiou’s “you will find your own man soon enough” prediction went through Kenton’s mind. Kenton had always gone with older men, but maybe it was time to change that.
“A beautiful young man. Alas, his and my preferences are the same.” The voice was a deep baritone. Kenton turned his face to the terrace of the neighboring villa. An older man, perhaps in his late fifties, was sitting on a rough-wood, thatched-bottom village chair, a beer bottle in one hand and a cigar in the other, and was moving his gaze from the pool below to his new neighbor at the side. “His name is Panos. He works maintenance here at the vacation villas in the morning and has a charter boat down in the harbor in the afternoon and evening. He goes for 200 euros for the night.”
“He takes people out in the sea at night?” Kenton asked. He took a closer look at the man who had addressed him. He’d had a physically demanding life. He was probably shorter than Kenton and a bit grizzled, but compact, muscular but lean. His face was craggy, but full of character, his hair was wavy, dominated by gray, but once had been black, and curly black maltepe escort hair peeked out of the neckline of his T-shirt.
The man arched his head back and produced a hearty laugh. “No. That’s for sleeping with him—being fucked by him, two or three times in the night, if you can take it. He’s a male prostitute. He has a very nice cock. Not as nice as mine, of course, but quite presentable, and he knows how to use it, I’m told. Probably a very interesting experience, although he and I like the same thing. I think he might not be for you, though. I heard that man who just left talking to you. He lays you, doesn’t he? You must like older men than you.”
Kenton didn’t know what to say to such a forward statement, so he simply said, “He was the guide who brought me here for the company who rented this villa for me for the season. We came from Athens—well, from New York, actually.” Kenton thought of the overnight sail from Athens in the creaking Greek cruise boat that was all small portholes, no balconies. They were in a suite, so Kenton could only feel sorry for those in the regular cabins. But it had only been for one night—and Kenton indeed had lain under Georgiou three times in the night, his legs wide spread and bent, Georgiou lying between them and deep inside him and moving for what seemed to be forever, so there was little to think or complain about concerning the amenities of the Greek ferry.
“I’m sorry if I have seemed too forward,” the man said. “but I think it’s best to know who does what, who is looking for what, here. It saves time. I’m sure you know that these villas are for gay men—and that much fucking goes on here. So, that much really is not much of an assumption. My name is Santos. I am here for the fall season.”
No, Kenton hadn’t known that the villas were exclusively for gay men. He should have known, of course, considering that that was what the company that arranged it specialized in. “My name is Kenton, although you can call me Ken. And I am here for the fall season too.”
“You are a beautiful man, but you look sad. Was that your lover leaving you just now?”
“No, that was the guide who brought me here,” Kenton repeated. “I had a long-time lover who died and I am here to recover from that.”
“But the man who just left. He was your lover too, I think.”
“Only for the days traveling here from New York.”
“But he covered you, no? You submitted to him. I think I am right about that.”
“Yes, you are right about that,” Kenton said, a tone of slight resignation in his voice. The man was going to chip away at him until his soul was naked. He somehow was sure of that.
“And what is the sexual attraction of this man, this guide of yours?”
“He has a cock twenty centimeters long and three and a half thick.” Kenton meant it to be a flippant answer, to embarrass the man from talking of such intimacies, but the man laughed and bored in with his questions.
“A good answer. A very good answer. And you must have it often, I think, big like that. And missed it when your lover died.”
“I missed it, of course,” Kenton answered. “But this man who just left, he was just part of the travel service.”
“And he walks with the assurance of a hung man. I believe the measurements you give. Your lost lover—he was hung too, I think?”
“Yes, both of them hung like bulls.” Kenton felt the layers of his privacy being stripped away. The older man—he must be Greek, as Santos was a Greek name and he had all of the physical characteristics of a Greek man—was stripping him bare. But he came across as a dominant, self-assured man. And Kenton so easily slipped into a subservient role.
“Once a man is hung, that never changes. And a good lover improves with age and experience. I, for instance, am hung like this bull you speak of, and I have considerable experience. We Greeks—it is because we eat pure olive oil, I’m told—we are still great lovers at an old age—sometimes better when old, more experienced and in tune with what the men lying under us want and need. You are a beautiful man. I would like—”
“My life is changing so much now,” Kenton broke in. “I’m not sure what I want anymore. I need some time . . .”
“But, of course. I don’t want to seem too forward. Most men come to these villas looking for companionship. For immediate sex. But I am here for the season and you are too. So there is time. When you want me to fuck you, you will come to me.”
That’s not how my psyche works, Kenton thought. Men take me; I don’t pursue them. They tell me to lie down and open my legs for them and I do. Would he do that for this forward, self-assured man if he demanded it here and now? Probably, he thought.
Santos stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray on a side table, put the empty beer bottle down, and stood. “There is, of course, a young stud like Panos down there. He’s looked up here several times, so he has noticed you now. Remember, 200 euros for a coupling with Panos. And then there is experience—for free.” He gave a low whistle, which prompted Kenton to look around to him. His fly was open and his cock was exposed. He was hung and in half erection. “As you can see, more than twenty centimeters. I can give you more than your guide gave you.”
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