Rough Road to Happiness

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He unexpectedly finds out what he really wants.
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sabb
sabb
458 Followers

This story was written to be the final part of the Bellapais Villa story series, which is a co-operative writing venture with sr71plt, but a very different story has replaced it.

*

The island ferry from Mersin in Turkey had arrived at Kyrenia in Northern Cyprus on time, which was a rare event, and after disembarking, I took the old familiar walk along the harbour wall from the wharf to the walls of the ruined castle. The cafés across the road were already starting to fill up as I wandered lazily by, and occasionally I saw a familiar face among the patrons and nodded slightly to them.

The old town was the same, but different. Recognisable, but very changed since the first time I had been there twenty years before. And even in the last six months the mountainside behind the town had changed enough for me to notice it. Kyrenia sat nestled around the harbour as it had for centuries, with the ruins of its ancient castle, but with a back drop of modern holiday flats climbing the hill in the distance behind.

From the British Club café, a familiar voice called out to me, and I crossed the busy road to join Mustafa and embrace him. He had aged into a solid bull of a man, all heavy shoulders and thick neck and belly, the beautiful young man I had once known lost beneath the intervening years of contentment and good living. But as the body had grown, so had the humour and friendship, and we embraced with affection.

"So, you aren't too famous to come here still," he said with good humour. "Tonight you come down and I will not tell the customers I have a famous writer here," he told me confidentially, but I knew that he used the names of customers such as me shamelessly to promote his café with the tourists.

We embraced again and I smelt the familiar warm scent of him and closed my eyes and was taken back to when we had first known each other twenty years before. When I had come there to my small rented villa in Bellapais, escaping from the crowded fast-paced life of America. I had been enchanted by the romance of taking the writer Lawrence Darrell's villa for six months, interested in seeing what inspiration it might hold for me, after I had found a unique and magical voice in the novels that formed his Alexandria Quartet-books he had written while living in the villa twenty years before. And I had soon been captivated by the island's rough bareness and the moods of the sea, by the old houses and the yachts moored in the small harbours. And by the men. Always at the villa my days had been filled by the men.

Ahh, the days of drifting down to the square after lunch and sitting around ogling the local Turkish Cypriot men and letting them ogle me. Until I got that certain look and took him up to my small rented villa and let him vigorously and noisily fuck my brains out on a lounger under the sun on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean.

Or down to the square in the twilight after dinner, with those fairy lights in the olive trees around the fringe of the café's stone terrace. And, in that soft light, hearing the twittering laughter of the Mediterranean men and watching the wisps of strong Turkish tobacco smoke drifting up, as I was eyeing and being eyed. Until I got that certain look, and took him back up to the villa and let him fuck me in long, slow, sweeping strokes on the terrace under the stars.

And maybe, if he was really, really beautiful and masterful, taking him back to my bed for a night of sleep broken up with brief periods of wanton lust, waking to the feel of a hot poker at my hole and a wheedling whisper for permission at my ear. Sighing "yes" and arching back to accept the homage of his throbbing need to be deep inside me. Breakfasting on the terrace by the small pool. Then pulling him into the pool and wrapping my legs around his waist, and letting the swirling water soften the rhythmic in and outing as I threw my head back and watched the morning Mediterranean light filter through the sighing branches of the olive trees. Thinking then about my after-lunch visit to the café on the square, already assessing which eyes I would respond to that day.

Until one day, when there had been few men about and the rough handling I'd had from my man of the night before had left me wanting something different. So that a beautiful young man's big dark bedroom eyes and demure long lashes had caught my attention and my thoughts.

He was staring at me from several tables away, his eyes filled with longing in a serious brooding way, and somehow that afternoon it had been him I had taken back up the hill to my villa. And he was carrying a guitar case that I hadn't noticed had been sitting under his table. Halfway up the path I can remember being uncertain and fleetingly regretting my choice. But I knew I could go back that evening and find another man more to my taste. Bigger, stronger, rougher. The brooding young man accompanying me was only for the afternoon.

At the villa, it was I who fucked his brains out, as he surrendered to me, lying back and lifting and opening his legs wide. His big eyes closing and the long lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he threw his head back when I entered him. His cries and whimpers satisfying my need to possess for a change. But once naked, his lithe olive-skinned body was surprisingly strong and muscular and flexible, his arms strong, his fingers long and slender and alive. And his cock was large. Large and thick. But it was my turn to fuck someone. And he was still there in the evening when I was finally exhausted and fell into a fitful sleep, wondering if I should tell him to go.

He spoke English with an English accent and told me he had been educated in England, holidaying on Cyprus with his mother's family and coming to live more permanently there only when his parents were killed. I gave little thought to who he was. But he knew who I was and seemed impressed that I could write well, though I was hardly famous then. I had only had one book published, in my native America. Not what I would have expected a young man in Turkish Cyprus to have read.

I awoke early the next morning to find him sitting on the bed, gazing at me broodingly with his guitar lying across his lap. Then his eyes dropped to the instrument, and his fingers moved to the strings as he lifted the guitar and began to play. I soon realised that he played well. And as he finished one tune and started another, I knew he played much more than well.

He soon had me riveted, and his playing became more and more complex and faster, until his hands seemed to be part of the guitar. He looked up at me then with a small smile on his lips and complete concentration on his face. And it was the look of a man in complete control of his instrument and soaring above it, and it was a look that also connected me to his music. Then his eyes dropped to watch his fingers, and it was as if some spell that joined us was broken, that he had stopped playing for me alone. Soon his playing slowed and faltered, and he set the guitar aside.

I ran my hand up his inner thigh and between his spread legs and began to stroke his partly full, long, thick cock. It was a tool that had surprised me on such a lean young man, a rod I would have wanted to feel making its way into my ass if I had thought he wanted to take and possess me. And would do it roughly. But I was the one doing the possessing with him, and as I stroked him up, I moved my mouth to his and pushed him back on the bed. He lifted his legs for me again, and when I ended the kiss, I began tonguing at his hole, which quickly loosened to my attention. Then I was holding my cock and pressing the head to his entrance and beginning another journey inside his passage. He arched back, surrendering to me again, and I reached out and stroked a hand through the trail of hair running up his belly to his pecs and pinched his nipples, making him gasp and reach for me, to pull me closer to him. But I stayed back, watching him stroking his own tool as he felt my length stuffing him deep.

His beautiful cock spouted cum, and I came myself at the sight of it, before leaning in and licking the cream from his belly and chest. Then with a deep sigh, I slipped out of him and went to shower and dress.

After that, I was hungry and needed food, and we left the villa together, with him carrying the guitar he had carefully put back into its case. He shook my hand seriously as we parted in the alleyway before we reached the village square and shyly reminded me that his name was Lawrence. Then he turned along the path that ran to the back of the village as I turned towards the café on the square among the olive trees and forgot him.

Inside Sami's café, the Tree if Idleness, the atmosphere was the same as always, but different in some way, and I was ogled by a dark young man with rough strong hands, who I found when I took him home, was very forceful and full of stamina, so that I moaned and cried out at how he was taking me as I had never been taken before.

I had to finish some research in Turkey and left on the Monday, taking the ferry back to Mersin, but a couple of weeks later I was back at the villa. On that first night, I walked down to the cafe in the soft warm air of the evening, coming upon the wonderful sight of the fairy lights in the old olive trees and welcomed by the whisper of men's voices and their quiet laughter.

The place was busy, and I settled onto a stool to ogle the men and wait for that look from one I wanted to look at me. But almost at once someone started playing the Baglama, the favourite instrument of traditional Turkish musicians, and I looked over and saw that it was him, my recent lover, Lawrence, sitting to one side alone on a chair, his look brooding and intense as he hunched over the Baglama and played some traditional melody.

He looked up at some point and saw me, and for a moment, I felt that control he had and a connection flared briefly between us, and after that his eyes frequently fixed intensely on me. All the other men's eyes were on him as he played, and I felt oddly alone as the men who usually ogled me admired him instead. But it was the music, I knew, that made them watch him. Soon one got up and sat by Lawrence and began to sing, and I listened with appreciation with the others.

Then a beautiful man who had made forceful love to me before was giving me that look, and he rose and left the café and I met him in the dark on the cobbled lane, and we made our way together up to my villa.

He was as rough with me as he had been before, and after he had taken me on the lounger on the terrace, we went inside to the bedroom, where he pushed me back on the bed and, holding my hands high above my head, fucked down into me, his cock circling and pumping shallowly, and I was moaning and had closed my eyes, moving my hips in time with his, lost in heat. But then he stopped moving, and I felt his weight shift. I looked up and saw him backing off, pulling out of me.

"Hey, No, no. Don't stop," I cried huskily, reaching for him in confusion and then seeing someone behind him.

It was Lawrence, looking wild and angry and pulling my partner back. Pulling him away as I tried to pull him back to me.

"Hey, what's going on?" I shouted, confused.

And even in the aroused state I was in, the change in the look of Lawrence's dark eyes hit me and made me frightened.

In a moment my companion was free and pulling on his clothes in a rush. But Lawrence was gripping my ankles and jerked my body roughly down the bed. I tried to grab hold of something to stop being pulled to the floor, but Lawrence was surprisingly strong, and his big dark eyes were blazing with fury. And I couldn't get a grip on anything but the sheets.

"What are you doing?" I yelped.

"You bastard," he spat back at me.

My earlier companion was hurrying out of the door. And my feet hit the floor hard, as Lawrence gripped my upper arms tightly, his long lean fingers biting into them like steel hooks.

I was now as much frightened as confused and aimed a kick at him that landed badly. In reply, he gave my face the back of his free hand, and I cried out in shock, feeling the pain of a small cut in my lip and briefly tasting blood.

"I am a real man," he hissed, "Do you think I would have let you take me like that if I had known what you are?"

It took me a moment to understand what he was saying. "You didn't have to do anything, I didn't force you," I replied in confused helplessness.

I understood what it meant to be a real man in Turkish Cyprus, that it was acceptable to fuck and be sucked off by another man, but not to be the taken. But I was totally confused, because Lawrence had given himself to me so willingly.

He was dragging me out of the bedroom, and I struggled to pull free. To kick him, to do anything to stop whatever was going on. He was no longer the lean and gentle young man I had fucked the previous weekend. Now his eyes were black and cold, his mouth thin and cruel. And I was shocked to find he was far too strong for me.

Lawrence had dragged me through the doorway from the courtyard into my villa, where he held me by the upper arm as he pulled the wrought iron gate that I never used, closed over the entrance to the house. It banged into place with a heavy clang. Then he pushed me back against it, hard.

Anyone passing the open entrance to the courtyard could see us there. Me naked and looking out, Lawrence still dressed and hunched over, holding me there, one long, elegant hand grasping both my wrists together painfully as he reached for something. He changed hands briefly, then he had his shirt off and pushed my wrists high up, stretching me, using his extra height and power.

He pressed his body hard against mine pinning me back against the hard steel of the gate while using his shirt to tie my wrists to the fancy iron.

He was frightening me now. And I realised that if he hurt me, there was no one nearby who'd know that my screams were not the usual ones of me being well fucked.

"What are you doing?" I croaked.

He said nothing, his eyes black with anger and the knots at my wrists being tied tight. The cotton shirt jerked so that it felt like a steel band.

His body, pressed against me, was giving me other messages, though. His prick was a hard rod pressed against my lower belly and against my own hard tool. The rough manhandling and his strength and domination turning me on in spite of my growing fear. Or perhaps the fear also turning me on.

Now I was babbling, asking him why, begging him not to do this. Telling him anything I could think of to calm him. My heart beating wildly.

When he had me secured, he stepped back and dropped his pants and kicked them off, and his briefs followed. Then he grabbed both my legs, lifting them up so all my weight suddenly hung from my tied wrists. I cried out, but he just pushed my knees back to my chest and parted them.

"Oh god," I whimpered. "No, no." Suddenly wanting what I knew was coming, but afraid of what he might be capable of.

Then he was at my hole and he held one of my legs up with his shoulder as his fingers began to show me how far they could reach inside me, long and flexible, probing and exploring. One long one sinking deep, then two starting to stretch me and putting pressure where it had the most effect, me starting to leak juice from my cock and jerking and moaning for more. Whimpering as Lawrence added a third finger to his explorations.

I came when he added a fourth finger and had me so stretched that I was yelping that I couldn't take it any more. And I was sure I couldn't.

"I can't. I can't take it," I cried.

Then he gripped his cock and forced himself into me roughly, but, yes, just the way I liked it. My arms felt stretched beyond endurance as he entered me, but his pumping hips lifted my butt with each thrust he made into me, taking me like a wild animal in heat.

His long lashes were hooding his dark eyes as he gazed down, watching his big thick phallus moving wildly in and out of my ass. His balls slapping my butt. I moaned and rolled my hips. I wanted this. Wanted it in spite of his long fingers biting into my calves as he held them high. In spite of the pain in my stretched arms.

As he plowed me, the skin on my back was being rubbed raw against the rusty wrought iron of the old gate, but I didn't feel it. And soon I was yelping, begging him for more and ejaculating for a second time, up our bellies, my cream mingling in his trail of hair. A moment later he bottomed hard inside me, and I felt him spasm and cum, again and again, filling me.

And I moaned, "Yes. Yes. Fuck me, don't stop. Never stop."

When he was done, he withdrew from me, and as his cum trickled down my inner thigh, he opened the gate, leaving me hanging, stretched out on the pattern of wrought iron, and went behind me. My legs hung down now with my toes barely on the ground as he parted my cheeks and gripped my hips with his strong hands reaching through the wrought iron gate and entered me again, already hard enough to do it. Young and virile and in a mindless heat.

I lifted my legs, trying to ease his entry, trying to rest my feet in the curves of the iron behind me. One foot found a support, and some of the strain went from my arms. Lawrence now fucked me hard from behind, the tightness giving me a feeling of being plowed by a baseball bat. He gripped my hips and swung my body roughly back and forth as he fucked me. My own cock quickly hard again and slapping against my belly.

Then, looking across the courtyard, I saw two small boys standing wide eyed at the open doors onto the lane beyond.

"Lawrence," I said. "Kids," I was hardly able to think. "At the door."

He took a few moments to register what I was saying. Then he yelled at them and they fled, and he pumped me faster, before stopping, pulling me back onto the steel gate, and filling me again. Then he pulled out of me with a plop and a release of cum that made me groan loudly and went and closed the heavy double doors into the courtyard. Doors that had been carved a century before from heavy timber towed as a tree trunk behind a boat, all the way from Anatolia. Long before the villa had been bought by an English writer named Lawrence Durrell, my rough young lover's namesake.

He came back to me and halted in front of me, looking half angry still, but embarrassed too. The tension and fear drained out of me, and I moaned with pain, suddenly feeling my arms aching and also the grazes on my back burning painfully.

"I was in awe of you. I would have done anything to be with you," he said, which made no sense. "But I am a man," he added. "Not a girl."

"I noticed," I said, smiling weakly, completely spent and satisfied.

'Your writing," he said, "It is so moving."

The next morning Lawrence went home, promising to return. I dozed and wondered when he would come back, aroused just by the thought of him returning. But he didn't return. Instead, I was visited that afternoon by my landlady.

My lease had been for six months, and I had asked a month before if I could extend it. My landlady, Layla, had frowned. "I do not think so, but I will see. I may have an old friend returning, but he has not yet sent me a deposit," she said.

I had heard nothing from her since and had conveniently forgotten this might be my last weekend at the villa. But now Layla was at my door, saying 'I am sorry, Mr Kent. But no. The other man is an old friend who has stayed here before. A young man like you. Like all my favourite tenants. But one I have known longer, who is ill and longs to return one last time."

I understood there was more than a simple lease involved and knew my lease was up. I wanted to know how I could get in touch with Lawrence, but almost couldn't bring myself to ask.

sabb
sabb
458 Followers
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