Cock-Sucker: The Greek Invention

'When we are rutting, we are at our closest to the beasts' he smiles, 'yet when we orgasm we feel as one with the gods.'

Do you believe in magic? The next few days pass in a pleasingly intoxicating blur of sensations. I'm living-in with Frederick now. Warm days of Greek sun and vivid colour. Contrasting with the cool cultured shade of his shop with its wealth of books – poems and literature, SF and trash, then the alcove of Gay erotica. We eat salads and pasta. Drink local wines. He talks in endless skipping reels of dreams and visions. Then there's the glorious sex. He's virile. His erection continually demanding my oral and anal attentions, and it refuses to be denied. I never deny it. Over coffees I gaze into his eyes. Feeling submission. Belonging. Thinking of his millions and millions of sperms invading my body, flooding me, down from my throat meeting those swimming up from my rectum. I'm drowning in his DNA. His ingested sperm-cells are a part of me, roaring in my blood like holy wine. And it feels good. For the first time in my life I feel as though I belong. I could love this man. Was I ever in love?, well – I called it love, it felt like love.

The abrupt green geysers of cypress trees from the courtyard tower twenty-feet above the window, their ghostly rustling lending a curious commentary to everything we do. I sleep beside him. Both of us naked beneath a single sheet. His body strong and protective. In the gloom of his bedroom I crouch over him to feast on his stiff penis, meek and acquiescent to his will, yet actively seeking out its firm reassurance. Gaining my own sexual satisfaction through his release. His balls fat with the semen I ache to taste. Running my fingers through my own pubic hair, then sniffing the curious heady funk of my own arousal on them. Even standing on the terrace at twilight, looking out over the harbour and the bay, the purple glow of sunset matching the inner glow of spliffs and sex. I feel myself dominated by him, both intellectually and erotically. His will and his physicality so much stronger than my own. But more, I'm happy to accept that domination in a way that I never have before. I feel that he owns me, body and soul. And I'm content to be owned...

If I have a mental picture of how it ends now, it begins with that slow drift of dislocation. When I think of him, which I do, it's with the warmth of how it began, not how it ended. Days and nights are numbered. They were good days. But they weren't real. They were constructed on lies. Now there's not even that. At first, on that final evening, nothing seems to be out of place. When the old Greek guy enters he never even registers. He comes in, shifting around between book-stacks uneasily, until he spots Frederick some way deeper in the shade. He starts into something then, voices low, but getting higher. I glance across. Some portly rough-edged vagrant from the small poor inland farms. His arms beating the air like huge grotesque wings as his gestures become more frantic and his voice angrier. I pause uneasily, not sure what's going on. They're not speaking English, but I recognise one word, 'Spiro'. He's trying to heave Frederick aside, shoving past him towards the metal-rung stairs that climb to the studio above. Frederick's equally intent on stopping him.

Abruptly, without warning, he lashes out, sending Frederick sprawling back, crashing into shelves sending books spinning, his nose bloodied, but he recoils on an instant and they're locked together clumsily trading blows. I startle up, stride forward, and stop. The farmer's found an opening, and Frederick crashes back again, a rain of wild blows drives him back up the steps to smash the studio-door wide. This time I don't stop, I grab the farmer from behind, pinioning his arms, wrestling him back. He's strong, but I'm younger and fitter, he's already breathless. He's yelling and writhing but I drag him away, through the shop. He lands painful kicks and elbows me in the ribs but first I double him over and knee him back, then shove him out before he can recover, slamming and shooting the door-bolts behind him. I can hear him raging and pummelling the door as I go to check Frederick. He's laid out across the floor, breathing heavily, but he'll recover. He's cut and bruised, but nothing that won't heal.

It's only then I start looking around, into the studio I've seldom seen before. There's just a skylight, and that shaded off. Their struggles have dislodged mounds of folders and photo-sheets across the floor. He's only ever allowed me up here once before, and then it was tidied up into a semblance of order. The full studio gear, light-stands and back-screens. He took a series of shots of me, playful nude stuff, encouraging me, urging me as I strike increasingly erotic poses for him. Now, there are photos. Masses of them. I start fanning through. With odd, confused reactions. So these are the ones intended for the 'special clients', the 'mail-order collectors'? Guys, naked, together in erotic formations. Porn shots. Is this what he intended for me? Once he'd got me broken in? Once he tired of my exclusive use? That's what they were arguing about. That's what got that old Greek guy so riled up. Central to the photos, bending over to receive, oral and anal, in two's and three's, with a small cast of other well-hung locals, there's Spiro. His face flecked with sperm from suck-cocky. The other faces are not always visible, or recognisable, but that's hardly necessary. This one I know from the contour of cock, its shape, its feel, its aroma, its taste, intimately familiar all the way from that first encounter in the Athens bar. Anton. And at last I've found out who trained Spiro, who's pimping him. And it's a sickener. The old Farmer guy is his father, no wonder he went crazy...

Do you believe in magic? Once, I did. Now, as I'm coasting out through the open arms of the harbour, away from the port towards the vastness of sea, all I've got's this new open-ended schedule, using'Island-Hopper's Rough Guide'as my map, working my way... to wherever. Alone. What I'm leaving were good days with Anton, and Frederick. But they weren't real. They were constructed on lies. Now there's not even that. Only this chill isolation. In this agony of sadness and joy.