The Nude on the Balcony

I knelt there on the artist's couch between Rafa's spread thighs, my hands gripping his knees—moving his knees out as I buried my cock in him and moving them together as I withdrew my cockhead almost to his opening, never, though, losing purchase inside him. The young Greek man, not more than nineteen by my reckoning and as handsome as Apollo, slitted his eyes, arched his back, palmed my left pectoral with one hand, pressing his thumb into my nipple, and threw the other over his head, gripping the top of the inclined end of the burgundy velvet-covered couch to hold himself in place as I slowly plowed him.

"Eime étoimos na hýso," he whispered in a gaspy voice that ended in a deep moan.

"Yes, come for me. I want you to come. You can come now," I responded, maintaining the steady rhythm of the fuck, moving his knees apart as I pushed up into the quick of him, holding to listen for his gasp, and then moving his knees together as I withdrew and he exhaled with a raspy sound. He may be a whore, but I could feel that he had opened to me in a surrender that most whores will never give. I had taken time in preparing him. This wasn't a quick poke and release. This wasn't, I was sure, what he was used to in earning his supper.

He no doubt had thought that my primary interest was in painting him. That was important to me, yes, but what I wanted most from one of my models was fully conquered total surrender—surrender to my cock.

The trembling hand pulled back from my chest and encircled his cock. He stroked himself, emitting little gasps, arching his back, pushing his chest up. I leaned over and took his right nipple in my teeth.

"Pió dynatá, pió sklirá. Káne me na hýso!—Work me faster, harder. Bring me off!" he cried out. "Eime kavloménos. Éhis megáli poútsa, min to paratravás. Min me kánis na ypoféro—I am suffering from need. You are too big to be in me so long. Don't be cruel to me."

"Min polymilás. Kai min to rýhnis sto dráma. Dóse mou ti agórasa—Don't talk so much. And don't be so fucking dramatic. Just give me what I paid for," I growled. I reached up and slapped him across the face and covered his mouth and nose with my hand, while I continued fucking him, but I also picked up the speed of the thrusts and deepened them. He whimpered with a plaintive, muffled sound, and bucked against me, trying to regain oxygen. The bucking increased the friction, and thus the pleasure, of the fuck. However, I loosened my breath control grip. He relaxed, I slipped my thumb into his mouth, and he sucked on it, smiling at me with his eyes, while I continued fucking him.

He was such a studied slut. I would have preferred more struggle and reluctance than artifice.

My hands were gripping his knees again and he settled down to panting and moaning low. I gave him two quicker, off-rhythm thrusts and bit his nipple. With a gasp and a shudder of now genuine reaction, he came, and I felt the wetness of his ejaculate on my belly. I continued fucking him, back on rhythm, and he relaxed under me. But as he felt me tense and stiffen and grip his knees hard, he cried out again.

"Mésa mou. Xýse mésa mou!—Inside me. Come inside me!"

With a sigh, I did—not that it meant what it could—or so I thought. I was sheathed. I'd picked the Greek youth up in a male whore bar near my studio apartment, high on the hill of Fira, the capital of the Greek island of Santorini in the Mediterranean. I had no idea where he'd been before and who he'd been with. I was a fine arts painter taking a working vacation for a year in the Mediterranean. Painting nudes of young men was one of my chosen art themes, and I always painted them after I'd fucked them. Happily enough, my body had stayed firm and presentable enough that this, combined with money and a promise of eternity in oils, ensured I had no trouble convincing beautiful young men to model for me and to let me fuck them.

I was also blessed with virility. We held there, Rafa clutching me too him, murmuring, "Éla, éla. Dóse mou to. Eísai gamíkoulas!—Yes, yes. Give it to me. You are a stud!" as I tensed and jerked and spouted, tensed and jerked and spouted, tensed and jerked and spouted.

"Ah, gamóto, mai paragémises!—Oh, fuck, you're flooding me!" he cried out. But he had reached down and grasped my buttocks to him and rocked on me during the slow roll of the ejaculation, so I knew he wasn't objecting.

It was only then that I realized that I indeed was coming inside him. The condom hadn't held. Damn cheap Greek rubbers, I thought, but there it was. It was done. And he hadn't seemed to mind. In fact, he seemed fine with it. It was all left in the hands of the gods now. Luckily, we were in Greece, where there was a god on every hill, a god that didn't blanch at men loving men. If the Christians hadn't spoiled everything centuries ago, we'd all still be fully Greek and sex with the same gender as well as with the opposite would still be natural.

I adhered to the ancient Greeks.

"Ah, re, ti poutsáras pou eísai. Kai tóso paidarás. Gemátos spérma. Páme yia éna déftero—Shit, you are big. And so virile. So full of seed. Fuck me again. Akápoto. Horís kapóta—Raw. No rubber."

Such an accomplished little whore he was. And a calculating vixen. I'd told him if I fucked him twice I'd do an extra painting of him and give it to him. That would be worth more than his fee. But he was sweet. And such a looker—a young Greek god. He would paint up a treasure.

I pulled out of him, rising up from between his legs. I stood there, beside the artist's couch, deciding what pose to put him in. The pale blue sheet under him, placed there to protect the burgundy velvet of the posing couch at the studio end of my large, one-room flat, was nicely rumpled. I would render those as luxurious folds. I painted folds well, if I did say so myself. He was nicely posed already too, stretched out there, with his legs bent and spread, his feet flat on the surface of the couch, one hand over his head, gripping the top of the curled couch arm and the other encasing his cock. His perfectly muscled torso was stretched out by the arm being flung over his head. I was already considering the shadow angles.

"Kátse akrivós étsi pós eísai. Tha se zografíso étsi. Tha xaná gamithoúme argótera—Stay there, just like that. I will paint you that way. We will fuck again later," I said.

"And you will paint one of me for me then?" Rafa said, seeking assurances.

Why did he doubt me, I wondered in slight irritation. But then I thought that his having to work the streets meant he had to be in constant concern for agreements made. Greeks were honest, even the ones on islands like Santorini, but you had to pay very close attention to what was being agreed to. They were always playing the angles for personal gain.

"Yes, little one, I will paint one for you." We had agreed how big it should be, so it could be a miniature to save oils. I did miniatures well; he would have no reason to feel slighted. I knew he was just going to sell it anyway for the money.

I picked up my robe and pulled it on, not closing it in front. I went to the easel and paints already set up and started sketching him. I had everything positioned just right—not just the beautiful, spent body of the Greek youth, but the velvet-covered couch he was on and my easel as well, so that the sunlight streaming in from the only opening to the outside, a double glass door out onto a balcony, with a gorgeous view down the levels of the Fira and to the sea, was just right.

I worked quickly, sketching in the lines of the beautiful youth's body and starting to build a foundation with the paint. I dispensed with the miniature first, that being so pleasing to the eye that I had half a notion to keep it and do another for him. I, though, realized I couldn't take that long in the painting. I had regained my libido while I was sketching him. Suspending the work, far enough along that I now could complete it without him being there, and, in erection, I moved back to the couch.

He was asleep, softly snoring. I laughed. I wasn't so old that I couldn't exhaust them in sex. I went to my bureau and took a cigarette out of an open pack there and lit it. Looking down, I saw the string of foiled condoms. I swept them up and tossed them in the wastebasket. If one was defective, the rest on the strand were suspect. I'd bought a Greek brand. It would be American or British now, while I was here. And I wouldn't need any with Rafa again—at least not today—and, with the erection I'd regained, I would be fucking him again today. What would be would be, with Rafa, now. The lad seemed to like the barebacking, and I certainly did too when I could get it. I'd have to go to the clinic next week, but the cat was out of that bag for now regardless. A small chill went up my spine at the knowledge that I could bareback him again and not do any damage that hadn't perhaps had already accidentally been done.

Rafa didn't seem to care. He was a whore. He surely had his methods of post-sex protection, when necessary.

Still in half erection, instead of going back to the canvas, for which I wasn't in the mood anymore, I went through the open glass doors out onto my balcony and took in the vista of the white-walled, with splashes of rich color, buildings spread along the top of a cliff and cascading haphazardly down the slope the town of Fira perched on to the sea beyond. What I saw was a pleasing pattern of housetops, balconies, and terraces. The streets here were so narrow and the houses so haphazardly arranged that I wouldn't be able to tell where anything was from ground level. The natives, of course, had centuries of acquired knowledge of the layout of their island and its towns.

I had painted this landscape several times already and would do so again, even though everyone else and his brother had painted the cobalt-blue domes of Fira marching down white-washed terraces to the sea. I'd have no trouble finding buyers for the paintings. They could be handled openly in galleries. My paintings of young men post coitus would go to private, discerning collectors—for far more money than the landscapes brought in. Combined, they easily would pay for my sojourn in the Greek isles.

My attention went to a balcony to my right and perhaps two streets down toward the clifftop, with the blue water below. The youth was maybe the same age as Rafa—eighteen or nineteen—and, if anything, even more beautiful than Rafa was. Rafa was a dark beauty, jet-black hair, sultry, and foxlike mystery. He was less of a mystery now that I had caressed every inch of him with my hands and gotten my cock inside him. The youth on the balcony was all blond curls and sunshine. My hands and dick itched to do the same with him. My erection had waned, but upon any stimulation would be raging again.

He was naked, standing there, looking not down toward the sea as I had been doing, but up the slope, up toward me. I fancied he could see me and had been arrested by the sight of me, standing there, robe open, my naked torso showing, my cock in half erection, and nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. Even in half erection, my cock was arresting, even if I say so myself. The musculature of my torso also was quite arresting for a man my age.

My eyes latched onto his and we drank each other in. His body was so beautiful and I was going into full erection again, and I unabashedly brushed my robe more open to expose my body better, took my cock in my hand, and began stroking myself. The blond youth on the balcony did the same, and the two of us stood on our separate balconies, half a town away from each other, and stroked ourselves and feasted on each other's nudity—his perfect Michelangelo youth, mine more Zeus but still, I fancied, Michelangelo perfection—with our eyes.

Neither one of us came. I'm sure we would have—and would have been so much in synch despite the distance that we would have come off together, but, as we got close, a tall, muscular, dark-skinned and -haired man, much older than the youth but much younger than I was, came onto the balcony across the way. He was naked and in massive erection. He too was magnificent in the nude—Roman warrior magnificent. He gathered the young blond Greek god up in his arms and took him inside, off the balcony.

I could see into the chamber the young man was carried to, if only dimly because of the shadows. But I could see the man lay the youth on a bed on his stomach, climb over him, run an arm under the young man's belly and pull him up onto his hands and knees. The blond god was docile, giving over to however the man was positioning him, prepared to take whatever the man did with him. I reasoned then that he must be a whore, which didn't deter my interest in the least.

Then I could see the young man's body move rhythmically, as the man mounted and penetrated him and set up the rhythm of the fuck. The man's cock was formidable, long and thick. He didn't fuck the young man at full depth, permitting me to observe the shaft moving in and out of the passage. The youth turned his face toward the doorway, and I fancied that he was looking at me, across the stretch of the town, as the man rode and fucked him.

In erection and panting, I tossed the stub of my cigarette off the balcony, moved back inside, and slipped the robe off my shoulders.

Rafa woke as I lifted his body on the couch and turned him over onto his belly.

Half awake, he murmured, "Xaná, xaná," and I answered.

"Yes, Rafa, again. And maybe yet again, if you please me and can take care of this erection."

I mounted his ass, grasped his shoulders, holding him pressed to the couch, and, as he cried out "Nai! Nai!—Yes! Yes!" I thrust inside him and fucked the shit out of him. As requested, I fucked him Akápoto—bareback. All the time I was fucking him I was fucking the naked blond youth on the balcony in my mind and imagining what that dark-skinned stud was doing to him now. I didn't tell Rafa that, though, and he didn't take it personally. I fucked him at only half depth, as the man was doing to the blond beauty, and thus I could transport my thoughts to doing it with the blond myself. But I was fucking Rafa deep enough to make him moan.

When I was done, Rafa was lying there moaning, his arms and one leg dangling off the sides of the couch, blowing bubbles, panting lightly, and emitting a sustained, low moan.

"Me pethéneis kalá. Den tha boró na perpatíso ávrio—You are killing me good. I won't be able to walk tomorrow," he whimpered.

"Se thélo apópse sto kreváti mou. Tha se pliróso gia ali mía méra—I want you to stay tonight, in my bed. I'll pay you for tomorrow," I said. I was standing beside the couch. I slapped him on the rump to make him gasp and inserted my finger in his ass, sliding through the cum I had deposited inside him, searching for and finding his prostate. He raised his ass to me and moaned.

"Se ikanopoíisa loipón?—So, I have pleased you? Mou eípan óti eise apaititikós. Óti tha éprepe na válo óla mou ta dinatá yia na se ikanopoiíso—I was told you would be demanding. That I would have to give you everything."

"Nai, me ikanopoíises kai me to parapáno—Yes, you have pleased me well." I didn't add that this most recent time was as a surrogate for the gorgeous blond boy across the town on the balcony. I was horny and would be perpetually horny as long as the mystery youth was on my mind.

"Tha me xaná gamíseis?—You will fuck me again?"

"Sta sígoura tha se xaná gamíso—Oh, yes, I most certainly will fuck you again, Rafa." And I would again and again in the night, as often as I felt like coupling with the sultry youth—as often as I had an erection I needed to try to assuage. I was a highly sexed man still—perhaps more so in the exercise of the libido because of the premonition that old age would not be forever in coming to me and leaving me perpetually flaccid. In my youth I fucked for pure pleasure. Now it had an edge of desperation to it.

"Tha se pliróso gia áli mía méra—OK, fine then." With a contented sigh, he lowered his rump as I withdrew my finger from his ass and he dozed off again. I had exhausted him. I would exhaust him again before the next dawn. He would earn his euros. He would receive two paintings of himself. He would sell one, but he could keep the other. I think I would do the same with larger canvases—painting two, selling one, and keeping the other. But when I looked at the one I saved, would I be seeing Rafa or the nude on the balcony?

I liked the pose so much that I renewed the easel with a new canvas and sketched out another painting of Rafa. So, someday I'd get twice the profit out of what I'd paid the young whore I'd met in a gay bar on Santorini and cajoled to model for me and lay under me and who I had unintentionally at first taken akápoto—raw—and then raw again and again, with pleasure.

All was going well until I realized that, as I had feared, I was painting Rafa's dark, straight hair in golden-blond curls. I didn't bother to correct that. Over the next several days, I had painted several other paintings from memory of and longing for the blond youth on the distant Fira balcony.

* * * *

For three days I fell into a routine, working on finishing sketches I'd started plus working on four oils of My Eros from observation, memory, and wishful thinking. I was calling the young blond youth I spied on the balcony across Fira and interacted with from afar My Eros now. Eros was the Greek god of love and attraction. My Eros certainly was attracting. There didn't seem to be a Greek god of sexual obsession, although I could certainly understand why if there were, so I settled on Eros. And the "My" was added, of course, because he had become my obsession.

He fell into my obsession without trouble, appearing nude on his balcony at nearly the same time every day, in the early morning softer light, before the Mediterranean island sun began to burn the earth and then again, in late afternoon, as the light continued, without the intensity of the middle day, but making the white-washed walls of the Greek buildings glow. I assumed the young man worked somewhere in between these two appearances. And chances were good he was working the two times a day I saw him, as well, being drawn out on my own balcony precisely on the chance we would be floating over Fira together. I thought he might be at work during those times, because five out of the six times I saw him on the balcony those days, a man, naked as the young My Eros was, appeared eventually on the balcony and drew the young god inside and fucked him on the bed near the glass doors to the balcony. And it never was the same man.

Sometimes the man was as beautiful as the young blond was, but older. On those occasions, I watched to the climax, mesmerized by the beauty of the dance of sex. Sometimes the men were old and fat and I turned away, not wanting to see the young man used by such as that. Once, at the end of the fuck, I saw the young man taking money.

I wanted to be one of those men.

It had become a routine that I would come looking for My Eros twice a day and he would be there—perhaps not right away, but if I was patient and spent my time observing the life of Fira descending down to the sea, where large cruise ships came in for a day, day after day, and the tourists came up into the town on the cable car, I would be rewarded by My Eros coming out on the balcony, naked, as I would almost be, wearing my robe but letting it flare open when he appeared, and masturbating himself in concert with me before he was drawn back into his flat. The time waiting for him wasn't wasted. I was painting oils of the much-depicted city scape of the beautiful island of Santorini at a faster rate than I ever had before in my months here.