Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t looking for romance or anything. I just didn’t want it to be so … ordinary.
‘You’re more interested in this sort of thing, then?’ The flick of one wrist somehow indicated the museum, the island of Delos and more than three thousand years of history. She had lovely hands with long fingers.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Why not? I thought, then panicked that she might call my bluff. I was really here because there isn’t much to do in Mykonos if you’re on your own, other than lie on the beach or take the half-hour crossing to Delos. ‘I mean, I don’t know that much or anything …’
She put her arm on my shoulder, riffling her fingers up the hair on the nape of my neck. My heart skipped and I froze.
‘I’ll show you around the island then,’ she said. ‘Would you like that?
‘Great,’ I said numbly. I have a very long fuse; I never react quickly to a surprise. Hey, it took me two years to get round to dumping Lee.
Her hand gripped the back of my neck. It should have freaked me out but it was weirdly reassuring. ‘I’m Phoebe.’
‘Ness.’
‘Good.’ She looked up at the statue. ‘You finished in here?’
I nodded. My heart was doing uncomfortable things under my breastbone. She released me and I followed like a lamb, with only one look back at my kouros. I consoled myself with the thought that it would only have been a disappointment to have gone round and taken a look at his front elevation; Greek statues always have teeny little dicks.
Phoebe knew her stuff. She walked me right round the ruins on the tiny island, starting with a climb up Mount Kythnos – more of a hillock really, but it was a steep incline and against the fat surface of the Aegean it looked taller than it really was. I was grateful for my straw sunhat. Below us, we could see the excavated ruins stretching from the hill to the harbour where the tourist boats waited: the theatre, the stadium, the residential districts, the many temples to gods Greek and foreign, and the sanctuary area dedicated to Apollo and Artemis, who’d been born on the island and had promised to hold it in their care. For thousands of years, Delos had flourished as a centre of pilgrimage and as a trading station.
Then she led me back through the ruins, which were a maze of mostly waist-high walls, restored in some places so that the pillars and pediments stood again. Diving into different houses, she showed me wall paintings and intricate mosaics: a god riding a leopard, gurning theatrical masks and grinning toothy dolphins. On returning to the harbour area, we visited a terrace on which stood a row of curiously slender lions. I took a photo of her leaning against one. She had her glasses back over her eyes now that we were outdoors and they made her face look masklike. I was growing dizzy from the sun, despite my hat. The light struck up off the marble roads as fiercely as from the cloudless sky overhead.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ I suggested. ‘There’s a café by the museum.’ I was enjoying the tour but all the names and dates didn’t mean much to me. I knew I wouldn’t remember most of them in 24 hours.
We cut back through the ruins. ‘You’ve got to see this,’ Phoebe said suddenly, taking my elbow and drawing me aside. ‘This is the sanctuary of Dionysus.’
I looked obediently. There wasn’t much to the temple itself; another low ruined enclosure. But out at the front were two pedestals, and on them balanced the biggest stone phalli I’d ever seen, angled like guns at the heavens. My mouth fell open, then I couldn’t help laughing.
‘Great, aren’t they?’ Phoebe waved her hand at the nearest. ‘Give me your camera; I’ll take a picture of you.’
For a moment I wondered if she’d put all this effort in just to run off with my new digital camera, then I decided I didn’t care. I handed it over and went to stand by the plinth, looking up at the monstrous stone phallus above. Balanced on its oval tightly drawn-up testes, it was thick and ridged and ready to salute. What a pity it was broken off part way up the shaft, I thought.
‘Stand against the pillar,’ Phoebe ordered, shoving her shades up her forehead once more. ‘That’s right. Smile.’ The camera clicked repeatedly as she ran off the snaps. ‘Lean back. Lift your hands over your head.’
There was no one else around. I did as she’d said, grinning cheekily, jutting my hip. My fingers brushed the marble. Wasn’t this what I’d come to Greece looking for – sun and big cocks?
‘Very nice,’ she said, squinting at the viewscreen. ‘Stick those pretty boobs out, Ness.’
I essayed a jiggle, trying not to crack up. Phoebe closed in until she was right in front of me, still snapping away. Then she lowered the camera and looked me right in the eye. There was one long silent moment when I could have said something or broken her gaze. I didn’t. She leant in and kissed me full on the lips, her mouth as ripe and juicy as the tomatoes in the taverna salads. I trembled. Something hot and wet writhed inside me. Her tongue broke the seal of my lips and slipped into my mouth. I made a little noise in my throat; not protest, just surprise.
Phoebe chuckled. I could smell the suncream fragrant on her skin. I’d never kissed a girl. She was softer to the touch than a man, her lips fuller, and her tongue stirred rather than thrust. Her breasts were now brushing up against mine and there was a heavy feeling in my sex, so heavy that my legs were weakening under the strain. And now she had hold of my skirt and was drawing it up, sliding her hand up my thigh. Her fingers were cool on my burning skin. She released my mouth and pulled back a little so she could look me in the eye as those fingers found the edge of my panties. I was quivering like a leaf. I’d waxed to hell and back in preparation for the holiday, and she was finding only the softest, smoothest skin, even when she slipped a finger under the edge of the cotton.
There, over the centre line of my mound: the last tufts of pubic fluff. She stroked them up and down. She broke the seal down there too, releasing a tiny trickle of moisture as she stirred my clit. I pressed my rump to the marble, needing the support. We were in full public view. What if someone saw? I couldn’t tear my eyes from hers.
‘Good girl,’ she whispered. ‘What a lovely thing you are.’ Then she tilted her head. ‘I know somewhere we could get a drink and some lunch. Much better than the museum café. It’s on the beach, out of the way of all the tourists.’
I’d not heard there was a beach on Delos. ‘Is is far?’ I asked, my voice husky.
‘Not far.’
‘I’ve got to get back to the boat in an hour, remember,’ I said weakly. ‘You know how strict they are.’ Under Greek law people were forbidden from spending the night on Delos. I didn’t know why, just that I had a timed ticket.
Phoebe laughed at me. I noticed that she wore a necklace, a silver crescent which rested at the top of her breastbone; I wanted to touch its smooth metal. ‘We’ve got our own boat, Ness. We can get you back to Mykonos any time.’ She withdrew her hand from my knickers, flicking the elastic. ‘Come on. You might learn something new about … island life.’
Why not? I asked myself. I’d wanted something that wasn’t ordinary.
She was right about the beach, and it wasn’t far. She held my hand as we walked. My head was spinning and I didn’t pay much attention to our route, but in a few minutes we passed beyond the excavated area and over a low headland, and there in front of us was a narrow strip of sand, the dark Aegean washing up against it. Right at the far end was a taverna.
‘See? You can meet my brother. He’s staying there.’
I ran my free hand under my chin. ‘Oh … It’s so hot.’
‘It’s Greece, Ness, what did you expect? Did you bring sunscreen?’ She brushed a finger down my breastbone, awakening little tremors right through my limbs. ‘What about a paddle in the sea?’
She didn’t wait for my assent this time. Pulling me firmly in her wake, she tripped down the path to the shore. The sand was coarse underfoot, like demerara sugar, but the shallows were blue and inviting and I went with her willingly, right over my knees in the water. My pink skirt swirled around me.
‘Oh no,’ I protested, shrinking back, but she poured it over my head anyway, and it ran right through the straw hat. After the first shock, it was lovely, but I yelped.
‘Quiet.’
I froze at her peremptory tone, pouting at her from under the rat’s tails of my normally sleek hair.
‘That’s better.’ She dumped another scoop over my right shoulder and breast, drenching my clothes. I shuddered, wondering what it was that gave her the right to do this without me putting up any sort of fight, but the ache in my body answered that. Phoebe held me out at arm’s length for inspection. ‘You’re so pretty.’
I felt I should return the compliment but I was tongue-tied. The cotton of my skirt clung to my thighs so closely that I could see a dark mole on my skin through the wet fabric. My blouse had turned translucent too and the bikini top I was wearing instead of a bra was quite visible beneath. Phoebe bit her lower lip, smiling. I couldn’t see her eyes through the tinted glasses but I was sure there was a wicked glint back there. She slipped her hands up my back, under the wet top.
‘Hey, no,’ I protested as she pulled loose the first bikini tie and my breasts swung free. ‘This isn’t a topless beach.’
‘You’re not topless.’ She transferred a hand to the nape of my neck where the second bow was. I grabbed to stop her.
‘No!’
Knotting her fingers in my hair she pulled my head back firmly. ‘Don’t,’ she said calmly, ‘be such a baby.’
I went quiescent in her arms. She pulled my bikini top out through the neck of my blouse, leaving my nipples to rub on the cotton, then tucked her trophy into the front pocket of her shorts, letting the bright-fuchsia straps hang out.
‘Better,’ she said, looking down at me.
I have boobs big enough that I really do need a bra – otherwise I jiggle wildly when I walk. Now, under the wet cotton, both orbs were quivering. My nipples were prominent and so sensitive they felt sore. Hot and cold waves of embarrassment washed up and down my body, all emanating from the cauldron that was my sex. That cauldron, neglected for too long, was simmering over and the contents were soaking my knickers.
‘Come on.’ Phoebe was amused at my obvious shame. She led me up the beach. I was raw with self-consciousness. My breasts jounced with every step and the skirt gripped my legs, displaying the contours of my bum-cheeks and the pale triangle of my panties. I was grateful that the sands were empty – or nearly so. As we passed a scattering of boulders, some lads sitting in their lee looked up and spotted us. It didn’t need the St-George’s-flag shorts to tell me that these youths were British; I could tell that from the jeering tone of their catcalls, even before I caught the words. Blood flamed in my cheeks. I stumbled, trying to hide my face. Phoebe glanced sharply at me and then at the boys with a look of chilling hauteur. Interposing herself between me and them, she put one arm around me, her hand on my buttock, and we walked on together. My embarrassment vanished at her firm touch, to be replaced by a feeling of dizzy calm. I no longer felt vulnerable. I felt owned.
By the time we reached the ramshackle taverna, my clothes were no longer dripping. I hesitated before the structure as Phoebe took the steps two at time. Old fishing nets had been draped over the wooden frame and vines were intertwined with the mesh, effectively screening the interior. Outside on the sand were a few plastic tables and chairs and an unlit charcoal grill. A dog with a curly tail took one look at us and fled. Inside, someone was playing an acoustic guitar.
‘Come on, Ness,’ Phoebe commanded.
I followed her. The space within was filled with tables and chairs. Thick sand covered the floor, but in here under the dappled shade of the netting it was cool to the feet. A dozen people were sitting around; all but one were obviously local. That one was the man playing the guitar, and the others watched him in absolute silence. Phoebe pulled out a chair at an empty table and waved me to sit next to her. I sank down and held my hat over my breasts, grateful for the shade and the anonymity. An old woman dressed all in black brought us two bottles of cola from a battered fridge and Phoebe accepted them without a glance, her attention on the guitarist at the next table.
He was worth paying attention to. Wearing only cargo pants slung very low about his hips, this was pure surfer dude; the kind of beach-bum who’d never realised that you’re supposed to give it all up at some point and get a proper job. His unruly brown hair was bleached corn-blond on top and he carried a deep tan that offset the pale-gold strands on his long shins and the muscular arms that cradled his guitar. He flashed a smile at Phoebe and I saw that his eyes were a blue like the clear Aegean shallows.
‘That’s Xander,’ she whispered to me.
God, could he sing. I don’t remember the lyrics now but I remember his voice and the sweet pain of the emotion stirred by it; a terrible hopeless longing for something forever out of reach. He switched to Greek and it made no difference; everything was carried by his tone. In moments, I felt the tears prickling in my eyes. I looked around and saw the same tears streaked down the faces of everyone in the taverna – all except Phoebe. She sat with a cool smile, tilting the cola bottle to her lips.
When he finished, it felt like the world had stopped. I wanted to applaud, but no one else moved.
‘Xander, this is Ness.’ She waved a hand at him. ‘This is my brother.’
‘Ness?’ he mused, tightening his tuning pegs. ‘Short for … ?’
‘Vanessa,’ I confessed. ‘But no one calls me that.’
He smiled and I felt it strike me like a kiss, leaving me tingling. It’s unfair that men like that should exist; women have no defence against them. Except, I supposed, women like Phoebe.
She rose from the table. ‘Doste mo mezedes,’ she ordered the old woman, and went to the back of the room to look in the cabinet and the fridge.
I took the opportunity to ask, ‘Are you really her brother?’ They looked nothing like one another.
‘We’re twins, actually.’ There was a twinkling almost-smile in his eyes. ‘Guess who’s the elder.’
‘Her,’ I said without hesitation.
He lifted one eyebrow teasingly, then broke into another song – something about the last apple left on the tree.
Phoebe returned with a platter of pickles, olives, cucumber slices and dips, which she dropped on my table. ‘There’s not much of a selection.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘Feyete!’ she ordered, waving at the Greeks – and without a word every one of them rose and filed out of the taverna. She followed up behind them like a sheepdog herding ewes.
I was stunned. Not just by her rudeness, but by their obedient attitude. Xander caught my expression and muted a complex instrumental improvisation long enough to explain softly, ‘Our family owns this island; the Government just rents it from us. Some of us keep some bad old habits, I suppose.’
‘Your family’s Greek?’
‘Originally. We live all over the place now.’
Shipping millionaires or something, I guessed. Men might be from Mars, but the rich are from another galaxy altogether. Over by the taverna entrance, Phoebe tugged down a swathe of netting to block the gap and the speckled gloom deepened very slightly. I shivered. My damp dress was less comfortable now.
‘Come on,’ Phoebe said, switching off a tablecloth and laying it clean side up on the sand at Xander’s feet. Taking the platter, she sat herself down picnic-style and patted the cloth next to her. I slid out from behind the table, feeling a little weird now that there were only three of us left. I felt worse when I’d sat down and she scooted behind me so that I was reclining back against her. With a snort, she snatched away the sunhat held casually at my breast. The damp cloth of my blouse still clung in places it was supposed to conceal. I squirmed inwardly. I hadn’t bargained on getting cornered by a strange man; it seemed far more risky than just going off with a girl. But, I thought naively, a woman would be o
n my side if it turned nasty – wouldn’t she?
‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ said Phoebe, and Xander nodded, his enigmatic near-smile teasing.
His fingers rippled up and down the strings of the guitar, weaving cascading tapestries of sound. Phoebe fed me the appetisers from the plate with her fingers, piece by piece. I tasted reluctantly the salty feta, juicy black olives, creamy tzatziki. I wasn’t feeling hungry. There was something creepy about the intimacy here; the way she was flirting with me in front of her brother’s steady gaze.
The trouble was, the more uneasy I felt, the hotter and wetter I grew. She traced my lips in yoghurt and I lapped at her finger. She dripped olive oil on my tongue and I tilted my head back to receive it. Each new transgression forced me to find the courage to accept it, and each act of submission made my pussy burn. I wanted to squirm my bottom on the sand. When she slid one hand up under my blouse to cup my breast, I excused it to myself by saying that Xander couldn’t actually see my naked flesh. When she pulled back my head against her shoulder and kissed me, long and wet, her tongue sliding in and out of my mouth, I told myself I shouldn’t be prudish. When she rolled up my top to expose my nipples and took those points in her fingers, pulling and pinching them until they stood up fat as pink olives, then I mumbled in my head that every tourist in Greece went topless and it didn’t mean a thing. And all the time my pussy grew plumper and more slippery until I felt like I was all writhing cunt and pleading tits.
She kissed all the strength out of me. She kissed me down to heavy, to passive, to open and empty, needing her forcefulness to fill me. When she withdrew from my mouth, my lips were slack and swollen. I made little helpless noises in my throat.
‘Let’s get this off,’ she murmured, easing my blouse over my head.
I whimpered, my eyes pleading, but I didn’t resist. What difference did it make, after all, if my breasts jutted out from beneath the bunched fabric or whether my shoulders were bared too and the blouse discarded in the sand?
Love on the Dark Side Page 10
