The Goat and the Ibex

For Robijay

There's only one place to stay round here, a taverna with rooms above. The taverna – the whole village – is set among sweet chestnut trees that rustle in the breezes that blow off the Mediterranean, and often you can hear the distant, clopping tinkle of goat-bells drifting from the mountainside.

It's late afternoon as I pick my way down a rocky cleft, the weathered orange roof tiles of the village far beneath me. Beyond them is the gorge that splits the valley. The breeze is cool, but the rocks are giving out the heat of the day's sun.

I notice a small white car – a typical hire car – parked under the olives by the taverna. A woman wearing a lavender grey top gets out of the driver's side, and despite the distance I seem to see something attractive in the way she moves. Then a male passenger gets out, and they walk to the front of the taverna and disappear under the awning. A minute later I'm among the massive trunks of the chestnuts and the village is hidden.

When I arrive at the taverna the car has gone. A pity I missed her; still, it's not as though she was on her own.

I part the hanging chains of the flyscreen in the doorway and step into the shade of the bar. Theo, the widower who owns the place, must have seen me coming through the trees, because he has a drink ready for me. The upward light reflecting off the floor gives his face the look of an elderly satyr.

I've almost finished my drink when I hear the slap of sandals from the narrow, twisting staircase in the corner of the bar. I turn, and see the woman in the lavender grey top coming down from the guest rooms. She looks to be two or three years younger than me. Supposedly an unadventurous age, but her attractive face is made enticing by a lively spark in her eyes, which the severe cut of her hair only emphasises. She nods to me and I say hello – however, she continues outside, where the mobile reception's better, and speaks on her phone. I feel faintly jealous of whoever she's speaking to, tell myself I'm being absurd, and go upstairs for a shower.

By dusk I'm seated at a table at the front of the building, on the raised verandah with its awning. Theo has just taken my order for chestnut stifado when the slim woman steps out onto the verandah.

All of the younger villagers speak good English. Theo is not young. He says to her, 'Lady!' and gestures towards me. 'Kalespera, good evening. Two people, English – sitting one table?'

He pulls out a chair for her. With good humour she accepts it, and tells me with a smile that her name is Robi. She's changed into a flimsy dress with shoulder straps like laces – too narrow to cover bra straps. Perhaps this is why she isn't wearing a bra.

We chat. She explains that her husband had taken a call about his work as they were driving across the island. He had to break their holiday for a day or so and return to the city, but she wanted to avoid the heat.

Attractive though she is, I find Robi hard to read. Her talk is genuine and engaging, and she says nothing flirtatious. But her body... Am I imagining it, or is she presenting it to my gaze? The night darkens, there is a murmur of conversation around us as villagers gather for wine and friendship, and a hanging oil lamp casts a soft pool of light on the table. When the food is finished she leans forward with her bare arms on the white tablecloth. Their honey-bronze skin glows in the lamplight, and at the same time the neckline of her dress scoops down and I can see how the tanned tops of her breasts fade downwards to creamy white. At the very tops they're lightly freckled. Erotically freckled. I try to keep my eyes on her face.

Theo brings the customary carafe of raki and two glasses to round off the meal. I ask him to make a picnic lunch for me tomorrow. As Theo places the tray on the table, Robi leans back. Keeping out of his way, of course – but she thrusts her shoulders back, and I notice the size and shape of her breasts, which are not small. My cock awakens.

Over the raki I explain that I've been taking photographs in the mountains. The landscape here has been inhabited for millennia, and there are traces of past civilisations everywhere. Tomorrow I plan to look for a spring which, according to Theo, is sacred.

The conversation flows. It's late when we head for our rooms. Robi walks ahead of me, and as we climb the narrow stair the raki gives me permission to watch her pretty bottom moving under her dress. We say a brief goodnight in the corridor, where the only light is behind her and I see her body as an outline under the gauzy fabric.

The night is warm, so once in my room I open the French windows, which give onto a little balcony. Outside I see starry sky cut by the long black spires of cypress trees. Below, the back garden drops away in paved terraces. On the second terrace is a small swimming pool, hidden by the trees except for a narrow strip of still, starlit water.

Soon I'm lying naked under a sheet. I think of Robi's body, but feel that it would be presumptuous to masturbate to her image, and fall asleep unsatisfied.

Before dawn the room becomes chilly. Sleep weakens its grip, and I'm disturbed by a faint splash. I sit up, and see that the room is not quite dark. I walk to the balcony to close the windows, and notice spreading ripples in the grey surface of the pool. Could the splash have been made by some wild animal drinking? I admire the delicate tint paling the margin of the clear sky.

My eye is caught by movement in the water. A figure has appeared, indistinct in the low light: a naked woman, floating on her back, rowing herself lazily with her arms. I retreat a few steps into the darkness. She's turning, placing herself in line with the gap between the trees, until she raises her head and looks towards my window. She stands up in the water, the sky glinting on her wet shoulders. Then she swims two strokes to the side of the pool, and clambers out to stand between the cypresses. Her body is a dark, feminine silhouette against the sky reflected in the pool

I hear a door open in the house next door. Light spills from it, cutting between the cypresses. Country people are early risers. The naked woman slips away among the trees.

*

Later, when I eat my breakfast on the verandah there is no sign of Robi. Theo comes to tidy a nearby table, and I ask him for directions to the spring. We walk to one corner of the verandah and he points out a series of landmarks on the mountainside. I thank him and turn to go inside, to find that Robi has been looking at us from the doorway. I wonder whether to hint that I might have seen her before dawn, but we only exchange friendly banalities.

An hour later I'm climbing the dusty, gritty mountainside, threading my way between knee-high shrubs. My backpack is stuffed with a litre of white wine in a plastic bottle and two old ice cream cartons holding tomatoes, olives, grapes, a huge chunk of oily cheese and half a loaf of barley bread – Theo's usual idea of a picnic.

The landmarks that he pointed out look different from up here. Eventually I decide that I've gone too far up and start cautiously descending. Many of the surrounding shrubs are a mass of vicious spines: it's essential to watch where I place my feet, and this is why I see nobody until I step onto a path and can glance around. Sitting on the edge of a rocky outcrop just below, her torso twisted round so that she can look up at me, is Robi. I can see down the front of her shirt to those freckles.

'Amazing views over the gorge from here,' she says, standing up. The shirt is alternating stripes of white and a more filmy white; below it she wears skimpy shorts and walking boots. Long, tanned legs fill the space between the shorts and the boots. She says, 'You went up that hillside like a mountain goat.'

'Meaning I look horny?'

She laughs. 'You looked athletic in a wiry sort of way, is what I meant. As you very well know. Did you find the spring?'

'I think I went up too far.'

'I more or less happened across it,' she says. 'It's just round the corner.' The path ahead runs at the foot of a jutting prow of rock.

'I knew it must be nearby,' I say, lamely.

The path takes us to a rocky hollow with a view of the valley and its wooded gorge. As we enter, a long lizard skims away almost at our feet and hides among the small boulders that litter the hollow. Near the back of the hollow are a few small, goat-nibbled olive trees; in front of them is the clear, deep puddle which is the spring. I look into its depths, and sunk within them see my own face gazing up at me, made lean and darkly mysterious by shadow. The water tinkles over steps cut into stone before vanishing down the slope among loose rocks. Some way below, the road curls and climbs, cut into the flanks of the mountain.

To one side of the spring are the tumbled remains of a few walls. Robi asks, 'Who built these, up here on the mountainside? Some of these stones are massive.'

'According to Theo its never been investigated. There are so many small sites like this. I'd guess that whoever built them spoke some form of ancient Greek.'

There is a sense of genius loci, and I spend a while trying to capture it with my camera. Robi goes to the mouth of the hollow and admires the view.

'That's a lovely shot,' I call to her.

She turns. 'What is?'

'No, don't turn round. I mean you. There. As a figure in the landscape. Just stand the way you were. Thank you.' The click of the shutter reverberates off the rocks. 'By the way, I'm getting thirsty, and I need to put a new card in the camera. How about we sit in the shade and drink wine?'

'I expect people drank wine here thousands of years ago,' she replies, stepping carefully over the rock-strewn ground towards me, 'so let's keep up the tradition.'

The olives trees form a bower open towards the valley. We sit on adjoining stone blocks. As I change the card, she asks whether I've always been a photographer. I explain that I trained as an artist, and painted and exhibited for a few years.

She asks, 'Did you ever draw nude models?'

'Life drawing? It's a normal part of an art course,' I reply. 'It goes back to the art of ancient Greece, ultimately – if we dug here we might find a nude statue.' I'm wiggling the plastic bottle out of my backpack. 'I've taught life, too.' The bottle comes free and I peer into the pack. 'That's lucky – Theo's given me two plastic cups.' It's almost as if Theo knew. As I pour her wine into a cup, out of the corner of my eye I catch a movement of her right forearm. I pass her the cup. She takes it, and I see that her nipples have become hard, peaking the thin fabric of her top. My cock stirs and grows.

After her first mouthful of wine she says, 'When I was young and romantic I dreamed of becoming an artist's muse. Though to be honest I hadn't the faintest idea what a muse actually did. Anyway, I thought I'd start by finding an artist who needed a life model.'

'There's always a shortage of good models.'

'But what makes a good model?'

'A good model is happy with people focusing on her naked body. If she isn't, she can't pose well.'

'Well, anyway, I expect people are looking for pert young bodies for life drawing. As a muse, I must be well past my draw-by date now.'

'Not at all. Drawing can uncover beauty in a wide range of body-types. Your body is a very appealing combination of lithe and sensuous.'

Robi smiles, and for a moment doesn't know where to look. She clears her throat twice before she asks with a laugh, 'So... Bit of a naughty question, but have you ever had an erection in a life class?'

'Any embarrassment is usually the other way round.'

'How do you mean?' There's a sparkle in her eyes now. 'By the way, I notice you've dodged the question.'

'A few times I've known a female model become visibly aroused. Plumped-up nipples, glistening inner lips...'

Robi shifts her bottom slightly on her stone. 'A lot of women like to be looked at.'

'A lot of men like to look.' Our eyes meet for a moment. 'It happened once. I was the only man in a small private class. Somehow it was clear that she was aiming her nakedness at me – her body language, I suppose. Of course, I was too professional to respond, but unfortunately my penis responded with all-too-obvious enthusiasm.'

'What did the students think about that?'

'They all agreed on the stimulating atmosphere in the session.'

'I bet they did.' A moment's hesitation, and a tiny twitch of her lips before she says, 'And... what do you mean – "lithe and sensuous"?'

'Oh... Long limbs, neat waist. Round, trim bum. And yet you have generous breasts.'

She sits still, then empties her beaker with a gulp. Her cheeks are a little flushed. 'So... that's life drawing. What about life photography?'

'It's something I've always wanted to try.'

'I'm sorry, but I'm really not sure,' says Robi, and bites her lower lip. For a moment I think she's nervous, but in fact she's suppressing a smile.

'Not sure about what, Robi?'

'You know perfectly well what I'm talking about.' She breaks into a laugh. 'An artist deserves a muse, I suppose.'

'It's practically compulsory.'

'Still, maybe I'll keep my clothes on, all the same.'

I glance around the rocky hollow. 'Why don't you just go and stand the other side of the spring?'

She picks her way among the stones. 'Is this right? I don't mind taking my boots off.'

'No, I just want to see your reflection in the water. That's right. I'm going to take a few trial shots. Please face me for the moment.'

She's looking down towards the road. 'There's a car coming.'

'Look straight at the camera, please.'

Through the viewfinder I see that her mouth is a little open, and her breasts with their erect nipples rise and fall under her shirt as she breathes.

She says, 'I can hardly see you in the shade there.'

'I could be anyone, couldn't I? Watching. And lusting, perhaps. Now please turn your rear towards me. That's right. Which particular muse do you want to be? According to Hesiod there were nine.'

'It's a question of the job-description, isn't it?'

'The vacancy is for an Erato.'

'And what does the muse Erato do exactly?'

'She has a special way of stimulating an artist's talent,' I answer, checking the photos on the camera screen. 'For instance, she might pull up her shirt at the back and drop her shorts below her bottom.'

'Show my knickers? No harm in that. Like this?' Robi reveals a pair of flowered, lace-edged panties which cover three-quarters of her rear.

'You should have worn a thong.'

She laughs. 'I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd need a thong on holiday.'

'Disgraceful. A woman as attractive as you should never be without a thong. We'll have to improvise. Tuck the back part of those pretty panties in between your bum-cheeks.'

'Yes sir,' she says, adjusting the panties. 'Is this right?' She has exposed two beautiful fleshy orbs, creamy-white and inviting to the touch, now with a strip of flowery panty material ornamenting the crack between them.

'It's gorgeous but wrong. Cover more of your back and less of your thighs. And look over your shoulder at me. Good.' I raise the camera gain. 'You have a deliciously naughty smile, Robi.' Heat is building in the hollow. 'Now, the walking boots are good, but I want your shorts off.'

'Why not? I show more on the beach.' Robi undoes the shorts, slips them down her thighs, then perches her bottom on a stretch of wall which probably predates the Roman Empire. 'I think I can just about slide these off without removing my boots. I notice you're still taking pictures.'

'Undressing is tantalising. That's why life models generally undress in private. Thank you.' She has revealed the last few inches of those long, tanned legs. 'Stand up and face me, and lift the tails of your shirt to show your knickers.'

'Should I come nearer?'

'No, I'll come to you. Stand on the stone steps with just the blue distance beyond.' I emerge from the shade and crouch with the camera at panties level. With a teasing smile, she poses elegantly on the steps, her close-fitting panties hinting at the treasures within. I ask, 'Are you shaved under those knickers?'

'Um – does "landing strip" mean anything to you?'

'Perfect.'

'You're asking a lot.'

'It's this inspiration you've given me. It tells me that your landing strip would make a beautiful work of art.'

Robi laughs knowingly. 'You're talking about the inspiration that sticks up all hard sometimes.'

'Sometimes? It's rather hard right now.'

'Oh dear, how shocking. Still, perhaps it's my duty as a muse to strengthen your inspiration...' She slips one thumb into the elastic at the front of her panties.

I raise the camera. 'Now pull down that front edge just enough...'

'Mm. I'm really not sure.'

'Whatever you're comfortable with, Robi – oh.'

With a grin, she has revealed two neatly-trimmed inches of dark, curly pubic hair contrasting with an enticing triangle of milky, untanned skin. I stand up and move closer.

She lowers her gaze to the front of my trousers. 'Your inspiration is bulging rather impressively.'

'I owe this sublime inspiration only to you, my muse – swing your hips a bit to your right, there's a shadow – you and your pretty hairstyle. Now, please also pull your shirt up and give any lizards who may be watching a glimpse of navel. That's lovely.' Her stomach has a gentle curve, and her navel is sunk into the flesh just enough to suggest a pleasing softness to the touch.

'Taking a lot of pictures.'

'It's so you can choose the best.'

Robi lets the elastic snap back. 'Perhaps that's as far as I want to go. I'm basically a good girl, you know.'

'Don't worry. I'm only going for tantalising. Next, just take off your knickers.'

'My knickers! I'm appalled. What happened to tantalising?'

'Your shirt is long enough to preserve your modesty.'

'That's true.' Robi starts to pull her panties down from her hips. She sits on a large bolder to complete the process, and when she stands up, wearing only her boots and shirt, there is a small, symmetrical trace of wetness darkening the pale stone. 'What next?' she asks.

'Bum and legs. Turn round. Keep your legs together.'

Robi turns. 'Oh. Another car.'

'Pull your shirt up at the back, please. No, keep your knees together.' Robi has uncovered the whole of her legs from neat ankles to slim thighs crowned by delightful buttocks, but she is not concentrating.

'The car's stopped.'

'Robi! Pay attention.'

'Sorry, but they're getting out of the car. Three men and a woman. And anyone can see I'm only covered by a shirt. Please let me move.'

'And how does this make you feel?' I am clicking away: her pleading eyes, as she twists to look at me, are very exciting.

'Oh God. I feel it in my pussy. And it makes my nips hard as pencils. But really I mustn't. I mustn't. They might talk to people in the village.'

'I've got enough now.'

Robi turns and hurries away from the steps, stumbling and weaving over the loose rocks, her hands raised to her cheeks, her front shirt-tails fluttering and offering to reveal her pussy at any moment. She stops and laughs. 'Panic over. But Christ, I'm not feeling like a good girl now.' She is panting with excitement. 'What next?'

'Stand over the spring.'

'Like this? Still with my shirt hiding my pussy?'

'Your pussy is a tantalising suggestion of sweet cunt reflected in the water.'

She lowers her voice to a mischievous whisper. 'But my sweet cunt is sopping wet now. Don't you want a good look at it?'

'Maybe.' In truth I'm longing for a sight of her wetness, but her tone suggests that she's still only teasing. 'Now step up onto that bit of wall there. No, the bit right on the edge. I want those gorgeous breasts at eye level. Have the people gone?'