The light came into Antonio’s eyes. “Ah, maybe I am understanding.
“Anyway,” stressed Petros, “please, please come visit our little cruiser. You won’t regret it.”
“Oh, why not!” Antonio exclaimed with a grin, or was it an ogle, directed at the stunning young woman next to me. “What fun, honey!” he said. “Is it far from here?”
Ambrosia smiled in triumph. “Can you two manage a ten-minute walk?”
We could. And the yacht was something else. It seemed blindingly white at the dock, while a kind of golden glow from inside highlighted its sleek contours. It looked like a 60-footer, and I’d certainly never been aboard something like that. Antonio snaked his arm around my waist and pulled me close as we stepped up onto the deck behind Ambrosia and Petros.
“Don’t you feel like we just got picked up?” I whispered.
“Not at all, my sweetheart. Relax, please. When you travel these things happen.” But nothing like the main room of the yacht had ever happened to me before. The word opulence swept through my brain as we stepped into a living room that looked like it belonged high above Central Park, lavishly upholstered, cream toned sofas sunk in deep pile carpets, circular silver side tables, teak walls framing views of the sea I could only imagine given the darkness outside. Beyond the living room lay a sizeable dining alcove with a fully set table for at least eight. The couple led us to where a low glass table bore a decanter of an aqua-blue liquid. Petros filled four of the six crystal glasses there – were they expecting company? – and we raised a toast to the night.
“I am a fool for a good Curaçao,” Petros laughed. “It’s such a lovely way to begin any evening.” He invited us to follow him through the ship. The master bedroom was a symphony in blue and green curtains, with images of fabled Greek figures sketched Picasso-like on its russet walls. The bed itself would sink smaller boats, a huge mahogany thing straight out of the pages of Architectural Digest, with scrolled nautical posts and lush bedding piled on it of satin and velvet. There were two more smaller but quite lavish bedrooms, then one more stunning, modernistic stateroom that led onto the rear deck. After we were through saying “Amazing” and “Oh my goodness” and “Wow!” I turned to Petros and asked, “Isn’t this a lot for just you and…” suddenly realizing I might have stepped into it.
“Yes, and Ambrosia,” he laughed,
“And our moveable feast,” added his lady friend. “Petros’ guests are always coming and going, like an endless stream.”
“And so are the yachts!” Petros cried, both of them bursting into laughter. Antonio and I looked at each other, then a spark of understanding came into his eyes.
“Is this your business, Petros?”
“Ah, you’ve found me out! Yes, I buy and sell them, my friend.”
“He has one of the top fleets in the Mediterranean,” glowed Ambrosia, brushing a lock of hair from Petros’ forehead.
“I’ve been lucky, that’s all. Well, this is all we can see tonight. I won’t bore you with the kitchen. It’s below deck and it’s world class of course.”
“No, no,” I said quickly, “we don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’m sure you…”
“Oh, stop that talk, Gabrielle!” The night is young. You must join our little gathering of friends tonight.” And as he spoke these words we heard voices and laughter on the dock. His big hand enfolded mine and with a wink to Antonio, he led us forward. I turned to see Ambrosia and Antonio following us, her arm hooked in his.
Returning to the main room, we found two waiters had brought a cornucopia of delectable foods and spread them everywhere. Another two couples had arrived, an auburn-haired beauty with her tall, tanned escort, and a Sophia Loren look-alike with an older man who had a fit, Hemingway-esque look. This was a moveable feast indeed. As our hosts introduced us, there were welcoming smiles all around, but mingling was tricky. The room filled mainly with sounds of Greek and Italian, and even though everyone spoke kindly to us in English, even though they called me il professore Gabrielle, their level of civilization seemed so high above mine. Hemingway – his real name was Alban - was president of a French marketing firm, the redhead published a fashion magazine in Spain, and her date, another Greek guy, was a soccer player. The Loren double was apparently an actress in a Greek television mini series. Antonio honed in on the Spanish woman, leaving me to fend for myself. The ouzo was flowing freely, and soon I was imagining that the man flirting so audaciously with me really was Earnest Hemingway. He stood very close and his expensive cologne was quite disconcerting.
A waiter appeared before us with a tray of elegant tulip shaped crystal glasses. We took one each and he moved on to serve the others. Petro now clinked his with a silver spoon as he was handed an ornate looking bottle of whiskey. “All right everyone,” he announced. Here’s this evening’s special treat. I assure you it will astonish your tongues and warm your innards, in more ways than one. There was nervous laughter. He raised the bottle.
“The Macallan, 1939!” he thundered. The guests burst into applause.
“That’s a $10,000 bottle, I’d guess,” Alban whispered in my ear. Petros poured a generous measure into each snifters. Sampled, the heady aroma was beyond description. Just the fumes were enough for me.
“Here’s to love…and freedom!” he roared.
“To love and freedom!” came the echoing response. We all toasted and drank. It was like a caramel fire that infused my entire being. “Whew!” was all I could muster. Hemingway pondered briefly. “Definitely peaty, with a touch of creosote.” I nodded weakly. My head was swimming, yet I couldn’t resist another sip. I looked for Antonio. He had moved on to Ambrosia, and now I overheard him portraying himself to her as a trained classical guitarist! Here comes trouble, I thought.
“Oh, but you must play for us then!” Ambrosia exclaimed, as Antonio cast me a despairing look. I took another sip of my drink. My Hemingway seemed to be leaning in closer. He was commenting on Antonio’s fingers, how beautiful they were, obviously the hands of an artist and, he smiled, a talented lover as well. Ambrosia had rushed away and come back from one of the bedrooms with a beautifully polished, expensive-looking guitar.
“Everyone! Antonio is going to play something for us!” Antonio tried to resist the idea but failed. He took the instrument and sat down morosely in a plush armchair as the guests gathered around him. The room fell silent. Then, magically, Antonio produced a chord. And then another. So far so good. But by the third and fourth chords, the game was up. He was strumming the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Painful, and yet the guests were all polite, nodding their heads supportively, with only a few revealing condescending smiles. Mercifully, he stopped soon, to mild applause and one muffled “bravo,” and conversation resumed. I was feeling faint and sat down on the sofa, suddenly finding myself with Alban’s arm around my shoulders, his eyes gazing into mine. His cologne, a heady mix of ginger and sandalwood, enveloped me. His magnetism encompassed me. I felt the yacht swaying slightly in its moorings. A strong breeze had come up. The sound of it reminded me of the summit of the Acrocorinth and of the old woman.
I fought to recover my sense of normality. “I’m afraid Antonio embarrassed himself – he’s really not much of a guitarist.”
“Oh, don’t worry your beautiful head about it, we’re all performers here, after all. Petros and Ambrosia’s employees, so to speak. An excellent job, as far as I’m concerned. Are you and he new to the game?”
“What do you mean? Are you saying…” Strangely, I found his words funny and I giggled. One part of me thought it was wrong to laugh, but another part was amused and excited like a child at the circus, as if a marvelous show was just starting.
It had grown quieter. I glanced at the couch opposite us and saw the Sophia Loren lookalike – his woman – snuggled up close to Petros, whispering something into his ear. It’s happening again, I thought to myself. She was tickling his ear with her wet tongue. Then she began exploring it delicately. His hand wa
s grazing along her emerald dress, tracing the shape of her shapely leg beneath it.
“Ah yes, you are both quite new, aren’t you. You’re probably having the Hemingway hallucination about now, right?”
“You don’t understand, Alban. We’re really just guests. We just met them tonight.”
“Really! Then I understand your discomfort. But you’re really quite safe. Our rule is freedom, and that includes your right to abstain from…”
“My husband and I have been through some, well, extraordinary experiences since we arrived in Europe. It’s uncanny for this to be happening again. Was there something in the drink? An aphrodisiac?”
“Probably, but most of what you’re feeling is the psychic energy around you. We are lovers and freedom-seekers, we live high above the mundane lives of most people. Petros and Ambrosia are our, well, benefactors.” He began to massage my neck in a friendly way, but his touch sent a wave of desire pulsing through my body. Meanwhile, Sophia and Petros had fallen into a passionate kiss, her hand reaching desirously beneath his shirt as he brushed his gently through her hair.
“Look, my dear: most people live quite dull lives. A few have some extraordinary memories to look back on. Such occasions as tonight, and the other experiences you mention, are rare opportunities to explore your feelings, your own sensuality – and of course you are a remarkably sensual woman. I well understand why you and your Antonio were invited tonight.”
I don’t remember any more of that conversation, but after a time I looked down and discovered my new Elie Tahari wrap blouse had become unwrapped. When had that happened? A warm male hand was caressing my bare midriff. My eyes followed it up along a tuxedoed arm and rediscovered Alban there with a look of desire on his face. Where was Antonio I wondered, but the answer came automatically. He must be with Ambrosia. I tried to crane my neck to see, but with my next breath I had opened my lips to receive a sizzling kiss from Alban/Hemingway. I didn’t care, his scratchy mustache and beard was inciting me. I felt his tongue in my mouth and together with the mustache it reminded me of a slippery, hairy cock and I sucked on it as his hand swept away my fragile bra and enclosed the soft skin of my breast.
What I remember of that night comes back to me in fragmented but vivid scenes. First there was Alban, my Hemingway. Moments after his lips had descended onto my breasts, I felt his warm hand slip onto my bare thigh. Involuntarily, my leg fell toward his, open to his touch. With aching slowness, his fingers crept toward the tight line of my panties and the desiring pussy within. In a daze, yet impatient, I found I had unbuckled his trousers and a big cock had sprung free into my hands. I stroked it, measuring the girth of his shaft – I could just fit my fingers around it - and when I traced the contours of its enormous head, there was sticky liquid leaking from the tip. How lovely it felt to spread it all over his cockhead and hear his low grunts of pleasure. The next image I remember was Alban on his knees before me, my skirt pushed back, the hair on his face mashed against my thighs and pussy hair, his mouth engulfing my labia, his stubby fingers probing my soft vagina while his tongue flicked at my clitoris. That was my first orgasm of many. My head had fallen back on the couch, but I began to hear moans of male pleasure quite nearby. I looked up and saw Sophia, her head resting on Petros’ muscled, hairy thigh, moving her hand along his impressive member. I watched her drop one hand between her legs, then saw her fingers re-emerge all shiny with her own juices, which she applied lovingly to Petros. Fascinated, I watched her do this repeatedly, until his cock was bathed in her erotic body oils and the smell of her juices seemed to be everywhere. As I breathed in the scent of her, Alban’s fingers moving in and out of me faster now, I came again. We both turned to watch as Sophia arose and straddled Petros and sank down, easing his well lubricated rod slowly into her. She descended just past his cockhead, then slowly rose up, then down again, her thighs taut and shapely. She knew just what she was doing, her pussy like a velvet fist pumping up and down on the most sensitive part of his prick, until finally he placed his hands on her lovely waist and firmly drove it all the way up to the hilt. Her head fell back in happiness as they both let out a passionate sigh of intense pleasure.
Then Alban rose and loomed over me and I lost sight of them. His knees leaned against the couch as he rubbed his perfectly positioned penis back and forth against my labial lips. He kept pushing himself just an inch into my hole, then letting his prick snap upward, send an electric pulse through my clitoris. I was hearing more cries of male and female pleasure throughout the room. All my fears were gone, as if I were a new person, or rather that other person again, a woman who lived for the sexual pleasure my beautiful body could provide, one who reveled in it, flaunted it, a fortunate member of a secret tribe whose members came together in secret ways, spontaneously and by magic.
Where I suddenly wondered was my Antonio? – but I knew almost before the question crossed my mind. A wave of self confidence swept over me, and before Alban could fully enter my pussy I fiercely pushed him away. He fell back with a confused look, but I grasped his hand and pulled myself up from the expensive sofa, smiling. I found Antonia and Ambrosia on the lush green carpet near the far hallway. She was ranged over him, his head lifted by a pillow to give his tongue better access to her pussy, while she played with his balls and sucked skillfully up and down on his big cock. I pulled Alban along and lay down next to my husband to watch him nuzzling and licking Ambrosia’s perfect cunt.
“There you are, darling. How does she taste?”
Antonio, startled, turned to find my face inches from his. He smiled. “Like tupelo honey, as they say.” I looked up at Alban.
“Alban, you sweet man, please eat my pussy some more. I want to watch my Antonio’s technique.”
“I’d be delighted!” The amazed tone in my Hemingway’s words showed how impressed he was by my changed attitude. Without a word, he lowered himself on me, his lips found my pussy, and I felt his tongue probing my sweetness. He rested his hips near my face, opposite from Antonio so as not to impede my view. I grabbed his pulsing staff and began stroking it as I watched Antonio.
“Ambrosia, what a find you and Petro have come up with!” I heard Arban say.
She must have lifted her head from Antonio’s rod as she cried, “Oh, oh, wait, Alban, he’s making me come!” As a woman, I knew it was my presence beside her and my surrender to her erotic plan that impelled her into the orgasm sweeping her body. But I complemented my husband anyway.
“You’re such a wonderful lover, honey. Kiss me, I want to taste that Ambrosian nectar! But put your fingers inside her so she doesn’t feel lonely.” Antonio did so, then we leaned together and our lips and tongues met as he pumped more moans of ecstasy from his lover. The taste of her in Antonio’s mouth was indeed special, a pungent, intoxicating brew I wanted to sample myself. But I had other ideas first.
“Alright, Alban, I’m ready for your cock,” I said, rolling over onto my stomach and rising up onto my knees. He grunted with satisfaction and moved to position himself. Again, I felt the warm head of his giant prick against my wet pussy and this time he didn’t miss his chance. Holding on tight to my waist, he jammed his thing deep into me and began a slow stroking. I heard Ambrosia exclaim, “What a lovely ass you’ve gotten ahold of there Alban! When I saw Gabrielle in the bar I knew I wanted to see all of it and now I have. I felt her soft hand caressing my behind, pulling my cheeks farther apart to let Alban drive deeper into me. Now I wanted to see her as well.
“Antonio, honey, don’t be so lazy – get up and let me watch you give it to Ambrosia too.”
“Good idea,” Antonio responded. He slipped back from between her slender thighs, and I heard a disappointed sigh as his cock popped out of her mouth. “Don’t worry, senorita,” he laughed, “it only gets better.” I rubbed his leg as I watched her rise up, as I had, to receive his manhood. Her derrière was gently rounded, and I instinctively reached out into the separation to brush my fingers through the fine, sparse hair that only sli
ghtly hid where her pussy lay meltingly pulsing and waiting for Antonio’s cock. I grabbed his approaching rod and wiggled around in the wet recesses of her cunt, then positioned it just right so he could slip inside of her. By now, Alban had me in a state of ecstasy. Both Ambrosia and I were crying out, as the men slammed themselves into us, but our fingers were snaked in between, separating and squeezing each others’ ass-cheeks and stimulating the sensitive parts of our cunts that lay below where the two men were pounding into our vaginas. Her touch was so skillful on my clit, so insistent, and in moments I felt a tremendous orgasm on its way. “Oh God, Ambrosia, keep doing that, I’m going to come! Harder, Alban, long strokes, Alban – oh God, I’m going over the edge!” My fingers in her cunt were flexing spasmodically, transmitting my pleasures into her body too and she began crying out, “…coming, coming, coming!” And I knew the two men could not resist the angelic sounds we gave forth and now I felt Alban spurting gobs of cum onto my back and watched as Antonio pulled out and…no!
“I’m saving it for you, baby,” he smiled, waving his wand in a casually threatening way over Ambrosia’s arched back.
“Oh hell, darling, don’t torture yourself, just let it go.” Then Antonio’s head lolled back as he stroked himself once or twice and turned his pungent prick toward me. I grabbed it as it began spouting wads of creamy cum into my open mouth – sweet it was, and I swallowed it all down and sucked him clean.
Only then did I realize that Petros and Sophia and the other couple (the Spanish redhead and the soccer player) had gathered to watch our exertions, for they burst into applause, and we all fell into helpless laughter. The others were in various states of undress, but they all still looked alluring. The waiter arrived with champagne, and it was first offered to us. Apparently, we had won a “first come, first served” contest. This all signaled a kind of break-time where refreshments were enjoyed, more conversation took place and “who-wants-who” decisions got made for the next session. The lights were soft and dim. Comfy terry-cloth robes were given out in pink or blue, each embroidered with Petros and Ambrosia's little “Love & Freedom” logos. We moved beyond mere alcohol as well. Such drinks had disappeared, replaced by sweet tropical fruit shakes or espresso coffee for those who needed a touch of sobering up. And then filled hash pipes appeared. How long had this institution been in operation, I wondered, sipping on a mango-passion fruit-protein drink. Or was it a cult of some kind? But the sophisticated manners of the revelers and the sumptuous, soothing environment washed away my concerns.
Ancient Passions (Ancient Passions Series # 1) Page 5
