Cypriot Doorways

I found what I was looking for fairly quickly. The Cypriot door leading into the hidden garden had been the clincher.

I felt I needed the autumn off—or at least I needed a change of scene and more mystery in my life. I had been in great demand in Savannah, but that was why I needed the autumn off. There had just been too many men. I didn't want to lose the enjoyment of it; if I did that, I'd lose my edge. And if I did that, it would all be over. I'd have to find a harder job. And any job would have been harder than laying under a man and watching him make lust to me—for the price I had specified.

The idea came to me when I posed for Sami. Sami was a Turkish Cypriot art teacher at the Savannah Institute of Art and Design. He had picked me out at a café on River Street one afternoon, saying I would be the perfect art model. He was all smiles and good humor and dark and hirsute and powerful looking, especially those strong, expressive hands of his. As we walked back to his row house on Chippewa Square, he asked me what I liked about Savannah. I told him I liked the distinctive doorways of the old Savannah town homes and the glimpses of lush gardens beyond them, hidden by the houses. Sami laughed and then started telling me about his own home, Turkish Cyprus, and how different and yet how the same it was to the feel of Savannah. And he praised me, because he thought I'd honed in on what was attracting in both—the distinctive doorways leading into lush inner gardens. He said I had an artistic eye and an appreciation for mysterious beauty.

As I knew would be the case, Sami wanted me to pose nude. He posed me on chaise lounge, stripped himself, and took up a sketch pad and three charcoal sticks that he managed to dexterously hold between the fingers of one hand and use separately. Sami had a magnificent body, but I would have gone with him just for those strong, sensitive, expressive hands. He handed me lubricant and told me to prepare myself, that he wanted to watch me do that, to see my expressions as I became aroused and open to him. He sketched while I got in the mood. He was straddling the chaise, between my knees, his throbbing tool dueling with mine as I worked the lubricant into my hole and he sketched my face in broad strokes. At his instruction, I rolled a condom on his horse-hung cock and moved its bulbous head to my pouting hole. And then he was fucking me and sketching at the same time, claiming to be delighted with the expressions of passion and lust that his cock was producing in me and that he was translating to the paper.

Afterward I asked him if all Turkish Cypriot men were as well endowed and as exuberant in the fuck as he was, and he said "Yes, every one of them."

A very few weeks later I had landed at Ercan airport in Turkish Cyprus via Istanbul and was trolling the streets of Kyrenia and Famagusta in search for just the right house. The house could be simple, but it must have a lush hidden garden separated from the world by one of those large, ornate wooden-framed double doors with the iron scrolling trim. I found just the house in Bellapais, a village enveloping an ancient, ruined abbey on the slopes of the Mountains overlooking Kyrenia and the Mediterranean to the north. The house was a basic four room, with large central hall stuccoed bungalow in some need of repair but loaded with atmosphere. But the hidden garden and its entry door were perfect.

I moved some furniture into the house, paying especial attention only to the trappings of the bedroom, which opened out into the garden by a set of weather-beaten French doors. And then I was ready for business in this change-of-pace setting. I worked by night and spent the lazy, hot afternoons lolling around in my garden. I managed to read Lawrence Durrell's entire Alexandria Quartet that autumn in addition to his Bitter Lemons, which had had its own part in luring me to this Mediterranean isle.

I was entertaining a Turkish shipping magnate, in Cyprus on a holiday from his boisterous, demanding family in Istanbul, at the Tree of Idleness restaurant overlooking the ruins of the Bellapais Abbey when I saw him. He was some sort of European. No, he was an Aussie, I discovered when I overheard him ordering a mixed grill and an Efis beer. He was drop-dead gorgeous, and he had a dangerous, mysterious air about him. He seemed to have the capability of looking right through a person and stripping them completely down. And he was doing that to me now. And he was giving me heat flashes. I don't know why, but I felt that he would be the wildest of fucks. Just by looking at him, I could see the coiled power of him, the smooth, languid movement that could explode in an instant. And his eyes were telling me he wanted me.

The Turkish shipper was haggling with me in his own subtle way. He didn't balk at the price, but he said he had to be sure the goods were worth it. So, I gave him a sample. We left the table by the balcony overlooking the abbey and moved back into the shadows, toward a back room, more closed than this one, that was used in high tourist season. There, in the doorway into the room, the Turkish shipper and I fumbled around with our clothes and he pushed me against the side of the doorway, clumsily tore open a condom packet, and lifted my hips up and settled me down on his cock. I wrapped my legs around his hips and my arms around his neck and let him slide me up and down on his hard tool. He was groaning and moaning, and I was giving him some appropriate sighing and little cries of being taken, but my eyes were glued to those of the Australian stranger, who was leaned back in his chair and swigging his Efis and giving me "that" look.

I only gave the Turkish shipper a taste of me, just enough to get him good and hooked. And then we moved back to the table and I wrote a time, an address, and a price on a slip of paper and gave it to him. He paid the bill and was gone, no doubt to impatiently count the hours until we met again. Then I wrote a second note and had the waiter deliver it to the Aussie at the far table, in the shadows. While he still was reading the note, I left for my bungalow with its beloved hidden garden through the Cypriot doorway.

* * *

You are waiting in the half open doorway of the courtyard, leaning against the wood frame. I am late and you are annoyed. I push you inside and kick the narrow half door closed, as I devour your mouth and you hungrily suck my tongue in to you. I push you staggering back into the courtyard until you meet the stone bench and sit down hard on it. I step up one foot either side of your hips, my package in your face as I unzip and you pull me free. I am too big and hard for you to take immediately and you splutter and gag as I force myself between your lips and fuck into your mouth. I grip your hair, as you grip my butt cheeks, you eager for the fun.

Then I jump down and pull you to your feet and we kiss as I unbutton and unzip your pants and slowly push them, and your briefs, down. You are whimpering as my hand grasps your engorging pole. It grows long and slender in my hand. We turn and I sit on the bench and pull you between my spread thighs.

My mouth is level with your belly and I suck on the pit of your belly button, as one hand spreads your legs then tugs and fondles your balls and strokes back behind them. I kiss and lick over your belly as you hold my other hand to your mouth and suck on my fingers, whimpering. I pull my hand from your mouth and you lay a hand on my shoulder to steady yourself as you lift your left foot and place it up on the bench beside me, opening yourself. And your free hand reaches back to open your crease even wider. My wet fingers have gone under your raised thigh to find your rim and as I grip the root of your cock and feed its dripping glistening cap into my mouth two of my fingers stroke around, then penetrate your rim.

You grip my head and moan, push your hips to my face, fucking me as my fingers fuck you, stroking over your spot, your hips bucking, your cock alive and quickly pumping your cream into my mouth again and again, as you cry out.

I stand and remove your loose unbuttoned shirt and tie one sleeve about your left wrist. I kiss you as I tie the other sleeve about your right wrist. I step up on the bench and pull you up, trembling, with me, then push your arms up over your head and hook the body of the shirt over the thick iron hook hanging down from a steel shaft running above the courtyard.

You moan, and your arms hang loosely bent as I step down behind you and spread your legs wide. Your rim is now convenient, easy to see, and I watch it swallow my fingers again as I lick at it. I add two fingers from the other hand and spread your rim and flick my tongue in and out. You writhe away from me, so I tie your ankles together with your pants. You are moaning for me to let you go. Instead I pull your hips back until your arms are stretched and your feet slip off the bench. You dangle squirming, your pointed toes just barely reaching the ground and I pull the bench away from you

My hands pull your cheeks apart, revealing your wet loosened rim, and I watch my tool as I feed it in. You helpless and whimpering. But wanting it this way.

* * *

At the appointed time, I was waiting once more at the doorway into my garden, wearing only a long, white, clinging caftan. I watched the Turkish shipping merchant huffing and puffing up the unevenly cobble-stoned mountain track from the abbey square. I could see the anticipation in his face, even from this distance. He looked up at me, framed in the doorway into my garden, moonlight streaming through my clinging caftan. And he gave me a broad, lustful grin.

But when he arrived, I murmured my regrets. He was clearly disappointed and began to bluster his anger, but I pointed out that he had gotten a free sample and that if both he and I were in the Tree of Idleness the next evening, I might then be in the mood again. I told him I was exhausted now, however, and that I was sure that he was a real stud, able to wear a man out, and that I wanted to be in top form for him. I was just too exhausted tonight, unfortunately. This seemed to pacify him, and he left meekly enough, proud of this affirmation of his virility and working his way back down to the glow and the sound of drunken enjoyment from the Tree of Idleness at the lower end of the mountain trail.

Then, after admiring the rustic perfection of the Cypriot door leading into my hidden garden, I slowly glided back through the lush foliage toward the French doors leading into my bedroom. I returned to my Aussie lover, not in the least too exhausted for what he had to give me.