Kenton stood on the terrace of the rental vacation villa and watched Georgiou enter the taxi on the street down the steep incline at the base of the complex. The bullet-headed bald, yet otherwise hirsute, Greek with the physique of a wrestler didn't turn to wave back. He just folded himself in the taxi and was gone from Kenton's life.
Kenton hadn't really expected more—but he had hoped. As gruff and all-business matter-of-fact as Georgiou had been, he'd filled the void in Kenton's life since Kenton's long-time lover, James Fendall, had chosen to die and leave Kenton in the lurch. The death had been unexpected. James had been the decision-maker, the doer, the businessman who knew how to get everything done and who wasn't afraid of the telephone as the younger writer, Kenton, had been.
Kenton had held his own financially—his novels sold well—but he hadn't had a clue what to do with the money—how to translate it into goods and services to support himself. James had provided all of that, including the domination and guidance in bed.
When James had had the terminal heart attack, Kenton was suddenly left on his own. There would be a considerable inheritance, but he wouldn't be able to touch it for a year or more as it went through probate. That wasn't a real problem. Kenton had money of his own. The real problem was how he was going to take care of himself. James' estate was large enough that his lawyer took interest in it and in Kenton. Knowing the relationship and preferences of the couple, and knowing that Kenton was a novelist, the lawyer had not only suggested that Kenton retreat to the quietude and simpler life of some Greek island for the fall, so that he could get his life reoriented, but he also volunteered to connect Kenton with an LGBT travel agency that would handle all of the arrangements, including a guide to handle everything right up to the door of the rental villa—and to handle the client, as requested.
"Knowing how you are about decisions, I asked that your guide be a power top," the lawyer had said, without blinking an eye.
Kenton had been leery of making such a big change, but one night after returning from James' internment in New Orleans to the penthouse Philadelphia apartment that he and James had shared was enough to tell Kenton he couldn't just continue here on his own. He found he had no idea how the heating or air conditioning system worked or even how to answer the main telephone console before it reverted to voicemail. It only then dawned on him how much James had taken care of, leaving Kenton to live in his own fantasy world as he spun out his mid-market gay male romance novels.
The lawyer accompanied Kenton to New York to meet with the travel agency. Kenton had remained skeptical and a bit spaced out on everything until that evening when they met for drinks with the prospective personal guide in Kenton's New York hotel.
"This is what we do. I will take care of everything," the guide had said, laying out documents on the cocktail table in the hotel bar. Georgiou was a muscular man in his late forties—probably five years or so older than Kenton was, who was built well enough himself, but along much trimmer lines than the guide, obviously a native Greek, was. Georgiou was definitely the take-charge, self-assured man. The way he'd put his hand on Kenton's arm, or back, as they moved to the alcove in the bar showed aggression and assertion. Kenton couldn't help but feel a comfort with this man that he hadn't felt since James died. But beyond the basic comfort there was a slight nervousness at the assertiveness of the man. James had been much smoother and had put more effort into manipulating Kenton while not making Kenton feel how dependent he was. Of course, when James died, Kenton instantaneously learned how dependent he'd been—or slowly had become—all those years the two had been together.
"I have a cock of twenty centimeters and three and a half centimeters in girth," Georgiou had told Kenton matter-of-factly, "and I can penetrate hard again in ten or fifteen minutes, depending on how attractive I find the man."
Kenton had nearly choked on the olive in his martini. He'd never known a man as direct as this. It all seemed just to be business information to Georgiou. And centimeters always made a man sound like a superman.
"You will stay in this villa on Mykonos, a Greek island not far south of Athens, for three months," Georgiou said, showing Kenton the brochure for a line of two-story stucco houses with terraces on a rocky mountainside. There was a swimming pool on a terrace below, and then, shown in other photos, a steep, rocky slope down to the cruise ship docks and a shoreline that snaked around the base of the mountains and the C-shaped Mykonos harbor. The town and villas perched above on the mountainside were mostly of brilliant—white stucco, with ochre- and natural rock-walled ones blended in. It was a scene of cleanliness, sunshine, and relaxation, punctuated with bougainvillea, hibiscus, and oleander. "It's the best of Greece. I come from there myself. You are a beautiful man; you will find men there very soon who will service you. If you don't, we will provide a stallion for you."
There was no choice. This was the statement of where he would stay. And the agency would provide for his sexual needs, if necessary. Kenton felt comfortable with this, whereas most probably expected more input. The lawyer had done well in describing his client and his needs.
"We will fly to Athens, I will give you three-days of tour there and will bed you every night, and then a Greek cruise boat to Mykonos. Just one night cruising. Nothing fancy in a boat, but sufficient. The hotel in Athens, of course, will have a good view of the Acropolis. Five days and you will be there. I will take just carryon, so you have double baggage allowance for your three-month stay in Mykonos. Three months later I come for you, we fly to Rome for tour there, and then back to New York. I take care of everything. And I sleep in your bed and service you two times a day by contract, unless you request less."
"I don't know," Kenton said, looking at the lawyer a little dubiously.
"I take good care of you," Georgiou interjected himself into whatever the lawyer might say. "Need your passport to do documentation. I do it all. I service you expertly—in all ways."
Kenton hesitated, looking at the lawyer, who was giving him encouraging, "just go with the flow," looks.
"Give to me your room key," Georgiou said, assertively, holding out a beefy hand, the reverse side of the palm covered with curly black hair shot through with gray. "We go to your room for your passport now, yes? I take good care of you. I service you now. I fuck you good."
Kenton glanced over at the lawyer, who smiled and parroted the Greek. "Go with Georgiou. He will take good care of you. I will talk with you in the morning. Say the breakfast bar at 9:15?"
Georgiou propelled Kenton to the elevators and then down the corridor to the hotel room with a beefy hand at the small of Kenton's back. Georgiou had the room key card, maintaining complete control. Kenton felt himself falling into a comfort zone. Someone else was making all of the decisions.
Inside the hotel room, Georgiou said, "I take care of you now. I handle everything for you on trip. Take off your clothes now. I fuck you good now." And when Kenton was slow getting to that, Georgiou reached over and started pawing his clothes open. Kenton stepped away from him, and stripped himself, as, standing close to him, close enough for both of them to know that the Greek was in full control, Georgiou quickly stripped down as well.
Kenton sucked in his breath. The Greek was magnificently built. He had a great, muscular, hirsute wrestler's body for a man his age—and he was hung and in half erection. He grabbed Kenton's biceps on both sides and held the younger man at a stretch, looking his naked body up and down. Kenton could only look at the Greek's cock, which was elevating into an erection.
"You have beautiful body," the Greek said. "A dancer? A model? I could reload for penetration hard in ten minutes or less for a body like this."
