The Summer of Aphrodite

by Viva Jones

  He’d wanted the Emirates, and they’d given him Cyprus. Richard looked glumly out to sea. Some holiday-makers gathered at the table in front of his, clutching a two day old Daily Mail and laughing about some mishap or other with their room key. Three children sprinted along the beach, a dog at their heels, and a Cypriot couple walked arm in arm in the opposite direction. What was he doing here? At most he dealt with mortgages, personal loans and expat bank accounts, nothing more dynamic than that. Occasionally he’d help to fund a new hotel, or re-mortgage a restaurant, but it was hardly high finance. And the worst of it was living with Anna’s scorn. His colleagues? They’d forgotten him by now, and he could handle that. But Anna? Day in, day out, he’d suffer her indignation and verbal snipes. The house wasn’t large enough, there were no servants, they lived too close to their neighbours, all of whom without exception were uninspiring and dull, his job still didn’t pay nearly enough, and why hadn’t she married her old boyfriend James, who was now making over a million a year in the City?

  Richard ordered another beer. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the best thing to do.

  ***

  On the other side of town, Tanya parked her old Golf two blocks away from the Lebanese restaurant where she was due to meet her client. She couldn’t run the risk of him seeing that old wreck - she had to look successful. Tonight, I am going to sell this house, she kept repeating, gathering her case and checking her lipstick in the wing mirror. It was a matter of pride. Mr Makhtabi’s enquiry had come in when her boss Yannakis was out choosing his wedding list with his fiancé in a department store in Nicosia. And cleverly, Tanya had made the appointment for the evening of their joint family celebration, so that he couldn’t muscle in and spoil everything.

  He didn’t trust her to do the big deals, Tanya thought, admiring her new suit in the reflection of a shop window. It was pale blue and fitted her slender body neatly, the skirt finishing just on the knee, making her look professional yet approachable, attractive but still someone to be taken seriously. She hadn’t really been able to afford it, of course, but had considered it an investment, convincing herself that it would result in more sales. Being on commission only, sales were hugely important to Tanya and her ever-troublesome bank account. The last deal she’d done had been six weeks ago, when she’d rented out number nine at Fig Tree Villas. But even then, despite Nathalie’s paying a full year’s rent in advance, she still only got her usual rate of commission, and that had only just covered what she’d owed on the previous month’s rent. She’d had to settle for paying the minimum of her credit card again, and then of course, she’d only gone and bought this new suit, making things even worse. And now her car had started stalling on her and wasn’t firing up every time. She knew she should get it serviced, but feared the bill.

  How she’d love to do a big enough house sale to wipe that debt clean. It would be like a new start. As she approached the restaurant she took a deep, calming breath. Tonight I am going to sell this house, she repeated. Tonight, I am going to sell this house.

  The Almustafa restaurant was on a street just off the sea road, and was a great night out if you enjoyed Lebanese food, which Tanya did, to a certain extent, and having a laugh with belly dancers and Arabic music. A bit pricey, so it wasn’t somewhere she went often, but it was glamorous in an over-the-top kind of way, with purple walls and brass accessories and the constant smell of smoke and Arak, the aniseed drink they loved so much which Tanya couldn’t stand. Now, in the early evening light, it looked faded and gaudy.

  She approached an Arabic-looking man sitting at a near table dressed in a Western suit - she’d been half-wondering whether he’d be in a dish-dash, or whatever they were called - and asked politely if he was Mr Makhtabi He didn’t look like the oil sheikh or prince she’d been hoping for, but was around the same age as her dad, with greying hair, a dark moustache and two gold rings on his fingers. Immediately he rose to his feet and greeted her. Having found her client, Tanya sat herself down and started producing documents and floor plans.

  The upcoming development, Odyssey Villas, Tanya explained, was an exclusive complex of twenty homes set around a lagoon-style pool, based inland towards the Troodos mountains. It was to be more upmarket and luxurious than its sister complex, Fig Tree Villas, with twenty-four hour security and its own gym, sauna and spa facilities.

  Tanya was too busy with her presentation to notice how his eyes roved over her body, taking in her pretty blonde hair, her slight figure and the gentle curve of her breasts. As she leant across the table to point out some feature or other on the landscape, he’d steal a glimpse of her cleavage, or a peek at her thighs. Tanya had never appreciated how attractive she was, or perhaps more importantly, how attractive her youth was. She’d always wanted to be older and more self-assured, and considered only being born in the late-eighties a huge disadvantage.

  ‘You’d get to choose your own finishings and fittings, of course,’ she continued, oblivious of Mr Makhtabi’s eyes on her breasts, ‘and we have this catalogue here to help you.’

  ‘Everything must be gold,’ he insisted with a proud laugh, his accent rich and thick, like Arabic coffee. ‘My family will accept nothing else.’

  ‘Gold is our most popular colour, at the end of the day,’ she told him with an informed smile. ‘Gold taps, bathroom fittings and what have you, people like that.’

  ‘And the garden?’ he enquired. ‘We will see our neighbours, and they us?’

  She shook her head. ‘Our landscapers are planting trees and shrubs in specific places to maintain everyone’s privacy at all costs. Security, privacy, luxury, they’re our watch words, basically.’

  Mr Makhtabi leant back, studying the architect’s drawings, as Tanya tried to read his mind. With eight bedrooms and as many bathrooms, the house was surely big enough for his needs, unless he had loads of wives, of course, but she could hardly ask that. And it was certainly grand-looking, with marble columns on either side of the door and a large balcony overhead. They liked that, the Arabs, or so Yannakis had told her.

  ‘There will be statues planted around each entrance, of course,’ she added. ‘All the Greek gods. They’ll be classic and tasteful, but at the end of the day they’ll add a certain je-ne-sais-quoi to the whole development.’

  ‘Statues? Statues are good!’ The man laughed, slapping his thigh.

  ‘Now the eight bedroomed mansion,’ she said the word carefully, trying to emphasise its grandeur, ‘that you’re looking at is Zeus. He was the great god of the Greeks, ruler of Olympus, a very grand man, basically,’ she improvised, ‘So there’ll be a statue of him by the entrance.’

  Mr Makhtabi looked at Tanya approvingly. ‘It all sounds most fitting. Come now, join me in a glass of Arak?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m driving, I’m afraid. I’ll have another Diet Coke, though.’

  ‘Leave your car and get a taxi. Come and celebrate the purchase of my new home.’

  ‘You’re going to take it?’ Tanya tried to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  ‘Only on one condition. That you come and have some champagne with me on my yacht. It’s moored out in the harbour out there.’ He nodded in its direction. ‘A beautiful girl like you should have a glass of champagne in her hands to match that beauty.’

  ‘That’s extremely kind of you, Mr Makhtabi, but I’m afraid I can’t.’ Tanya tried to sound friendly but firm. As if she’d join him on his yacht now, Tanya thought. Did he think she was born yesterday? ‘And now, if you’re going to take Zeus, may I ask you to fill out this form?’

  He leant forward and whispered, smelling of garlic and aftershave. ‘Bring your forms to my boat. I promise I will make it worth your while.’

  As much as she longed for the deal, Tanya knew better than to put herself in such a position. ‘Mr Makhtabi, I understand that you may need to think about this for a few days. Maybe dis
cuss it with your wife?’ she added pointedly. ‘So let me give you this form and you can complete it at your leisure and either post or fax it back to me. All right?’

  This was delivered with such a sweet smile that her client gave in, accepting the paperwork.

  ‘But one night,’ he added. ‘When you don’t have your car, we must celebrate this deal, it’s only right. You must see my yacht in the harbour, Leila, she’s called, after my daughter. We will have a party, and you will sample some excellent champagne.’

  ‘It sounds extremely tempting,’ Tanya said as professionally as she could, getting up. ‘But right now I’ll leave you with all the information. Here’s my business card, and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call me.’

  She shook his hand and left the restaurant feeling light-headed. It was a deal, she was sure of it, and for Zeus, too! With her commission on the deposit alone she could pay off her rent, clear some of her credit card, get the car fixed and perhaps buy those sandals she’d spotted in the window of her favourite shoe shop!

  And now, if she hurried, she might just get back in time for Barry’s party, and some free nosh, which was better than opening a tin of spaghetti hoops any day. She rushed back to her car, which struggled but eventually came to life, and began the journey home.

  Chapter Four

  In his bedroom in number seven, Douglas was going deep. He’d learnt to meditate years ago during a stay on a Northern Indian ashram, but had since taken the practise to new dimensions, allowing himself to plunge deeper and deeper into his very core, from where he could access the secrets of the universe, and manifest anything he chose.

  Nathalie had inspired him, and her arrival on the feast day of Aphrodite struck him as highly portentous. He lay on his back on his bed, eyes closed and let himself sink to the place where he could make anything happen. “Give me the goddess,” he commanded. “Manifest the goddess for me. Aphrodite, goddess of love, beauty and pleasure, goddess of the sea, come to me in human form. Sexual desire, sexual pleasure, sexual rapture, I command them all.”

  The woman massaging his thighs now allowed her lips to caress his stiffened cock, and to glide her tongue over its tip, lapping at it like an ice-cream, and Douglas sighed. Svetlana had been quite the find. He’d stayed faithful to Ludmilla for over a year now, more out of laziness than duty, delighting in her tender thighs and marshmallow breasts, her throaty laugh and intriguing collection of tattoos, but now it was young Svetlana who’d captured his imagination. He’d spotted her on the seafront, touting her wares along the main strip, and he’d fallen for her slight frame, full lips, cheap blonde hair and come-to-bed cleavage.

  A former gymnast, she’d once performed her routine, naked, for him in his living room, and as she’d pirouetted and pranced, her pussy was like a beacon flashing in the night, and he’d catch glimpses of it and then it would be gone again, then there’d be another glimpse, followed by a dazzling display as she did the overhead splits. She was capable of positions that most humans could only dream about, and was happy to be taken in ways that made his eyes water: one leg tucked behind her neck had been a recent treat, then there was the occasion when he’d taken her with her legs straight over her head, feet touching the floor and pussy looking up to the sun, and as he’d plunged inside her he’d held onto her ankles, and when his cock slipped accidentally out of her pussy, it dived straight inside her mouth instead.

  Fucking Svetlana was like fucking a comic super hero with powers beyond those of mere mortals. She didn’t come cheap, but she cost a hell of a lot less than a wife, and was infinitely more willing and available.

  She took him wholly in her mouth now and sucked, before releasing him and teasing him with gentle licks and laps. Douglas allowed his conscious self to surface slowly.

  ‘You know what I like next,’ he told her, and she climbed onto him, so that her pussy was just above his face, and continued working on his cock, taking it deeper and deeper inside her mouth. More than anything, Douglas loved to admire Svetlana’s cunt. Waxed and hair-free, he loved its folds and contours, he loved to open her pussy lips and explore the layers, as if each one would take him on a deeper journey. Sometimes he’d give it gentle licks, but she was undemanding, and didn’t seem to care either way, so for most of the time he was happy just to admire it and inhale its delicate scent. Her arsehole, too, he loved to look at that sweet puckering, remembering the times he’d slid his cock inside, relishing the tight but intense pleasure it offered.

  Svetlana continued on his cock, her tongue coiling and uncoiling itself around his shaft, her mouth cloaking him like the softest cashmere, and he obliged her by sliding his tongue over her clitoris, then taking long laps of her pussy lips and drinking her in.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said, wanting to prolong the pleasure and delay his orgasm.

  She reached for the condom on his bedside table and rolled it onto his cock.

  ‘You want me on top?’ she asked. ‘Or take from behind?’

  He loved how direct she was, never bothering with conversation unless it was to establish his preferred position.

  ‘Behind,’ he decided, shifting on the bed to allow her to go on all fours. He paused to admire her for a moment, her legs splayed and her buttocks open, her pussy wet and greedy. He took one, long, elaborate lick that started at her cunt and finished at the top of her crack, loving the sensation of that warm hollow under his tongue, the puckering of her arse. How clean and smooth and white she was, and more than anything, how willing.

  Then he slipped his cock inside her wet pussy, and, holding her by the waist, thrust in and out several times, still manifesting his Aphrodite. When he misjudged and his cock slipped out, he took it as a sign, and pushed it inside her arsehole instead. How deliciously tight, how unbelievably hot she felt; fucking her arse was like finding a little piece of heaven where you were least expecting it. He pushed in, slowly and deliberately, imagining that dark tunnel like a journey of intense pleasure. He leant forward to cup her silicon-hard breasts in both hands, massaging them and pinching their nipples between his fingers.

  She might have been nothing more than a sea-front prostitute, but in that moment Douglas worshipped Svetlana like one of Aphrodite’s priestesses; in fucking her arse he was paying homage to all women, and to their ability to arouse in him a sexual rapture of the deepest kind.

  He came, and as he did so he knew something magical was happening; his commands were shooting out with his cum, leaving his spirit and entering the universe, where the wheels of his fortune were beginning to turn, and as he bucked and shuddered inside her, he knew that everything and, more importantly, everyone he desired would shortly be his.

  When it was over he handed her an envelope stuffed with euros, which she took wordlessly.

  ‘Later this week?’ he enquired, to which she shrugged as if he’d asked her to pick up some dry-cleaning on his behalf. Douglas watched as she dressed and departed, walking out of the floodlit complex to where her scooter was parked. No one else was around, Douglas was pleased to note, as he liked to be discreet about such matters. He still hadn’t got a story lined up should any of the neighbours run into her, and he doubted they’d believe she was delivering pizzas.

  Perhaps it was the very thought of her discovery that made her visits all the more exciting, he wondered. That, and the fact that she didn’t give a damn. Within an hour she might be offering her arse to another man, an idea which didn’t especially please him, but which he accepted.

  With any luck, however, with the power of the universe on his side and a veritable goddess just two doors away, he wouldn’t be needing her services for much longer anyway.

  Chapter Five

  Ginnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up without a headache; it had to be the heat. She’d got off to sleep soundly that night, but had woken up at four with a raging thirst. She’d got up and
downed a glass of water and a couple of Aspirins before returning to bed, but had then heard a cat, calling outside, and had lain awake, worrying that it was getting pregnant and that she should be out there trying to catch it. Just the thought of getting up made her queasy, however, and she’d fallen into a light and disrupted sleep.

  At seven she got up, switched on the World Service, made herself some coffee and went online. Ginnie enjoyed keeping up-to-date with world events. She’d check the web several times a day, in case she missed a breaking story, and relished being the first to inform her neighbours: ‘Did you hear about the floods in Cornwall? About fifty cars got swept away!’ She’d felt particularly close to that disaster, as her grandmother had lived in the area some thirty years previously, and she could still remember their annual family visits. Likewise, she’d felt especially affected by the atrocities of September 11th, because she’d visited the Twin Towers only seven years earlier on a shopping weekend with her cousin Deirdre.

  As she sipped her coffee, an overweight tabby with a chunk missing from one ear brushed up against her bare legs.

  ‘Yes, all right, Harold, I’ll get you your breakfast, just wait a minute.’ Ginnie bent down to stroke the cat. Harold had been the most constant male in her life, when she thought about it, brought over from England where she’d got him as a kitten. He was getting on a bit now, almost fifteen and becoming increasingly cantankerous, but she still loved him more than anything in the world. Since their move to Cyprus he’d resentfully had to share her affections with two newcomers, Mr Mouse, a black and white tom who spent much of the time hiding under her bed, and Bee, a gentle tortoiseshell who’d been stung by a hornet just as Ginnie was naming her.

  Horny just hadn’t seemed proper, somehow.