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.
