Gree Men Are Lie This

“Greek men are like this!!” He made a fist, and held his other hand at the inside of his elbow, an implication that his dick was as big as his forearm. I looked at his bare arm, thick with muscles and veins, covered in dark skin and hair.

My friends tittered with nervous laughter and clutched their drinks a little tighter. I looked at his crotch. His baggy shirt made it impossible to tell for sure. Damn! One of my friends said the secret word we had all agreed on that meant she wanted to leave. I said the secret word that meant that I wanted to stay. In the end, after a strange conversation full of half-uttered and unsaid warnings they left.

We could have spoken plainly because it turned out that he only knew two phrases of English, “Greek men are like this!” And another one that I would hear soon enough.

He sensed that I had given them the blow off, so he bought me a drink, ‘Ouzo,” with a flavor I couldn’t place, something like candy. I let him slip his arm around me.

I never got his name, or maybe he told me and I just didn’t listen. I’m sure it was something like Nikos or Strovos or Poro. All of the men on Zankynthos Island seemed to have one of those names. All of the men on Zankynthos seemed to be gods, tall, broad with black wavy hair. They wore white shirts with lots of gold jewelry, orthodox crosses, gold coin rings, that sort of thing.

He said something, I said something, I don’t know. Around the time that the bars close in Northern Europe, all of the tourists seemed to be gone and it was just a bar full of Greek men and little old me.

Don’t get so excited, this is not a gang-bang story.

My Greek god led me out of there onto the street, where more men lined the sidewalks. I felt their eyes on me like hands. I had just finished a semester of classics,

The Iliad

and

The Metamorphoses

. I easily fell into a fantasy in which he was an ancient Greek general and I his prize. It went something like this . . .

. . .

the great general strode past his soldiers to show off his prize, the golden-haired princess from the north. Aflame with jealousy the soldiers stared at her smooth face and hands. . .

. . . you get the picture. I imagined that he had just laid siege to my home city, battered down the gate, stole all the grain and set fire to my home. To save myself from being raped by an army, I threw myself at the general. The plan worked and now he had claimed me as his own. But I had to let him do what ever he wanted to me as a trade off.

He sensed this fantasy in me, I am sure. Something in my walk, in the way I let him hang his arm around my neck, the way I followed him. He knew. Perhaps he felt it himself. As soon as we were past the late night crowds he pinned me against the wall of a closed shop with a hungry kiss, all teeth and tongue. He went for my tits, not to get me horny, but because he wanted to sink his fingers into them. I wrapped my leg around his.

We had taken one step into my hotel room when he grabbed the back of my hair and pushed me to my knees. (I would have slapped a college boy for doing this, but this was my Greek general, I had to do what he wanted.) He must have opened his pants up during the walk because there was his cock, waiting for my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t a forearm, but it took both hands and my mouth to cover it. I sucked cock like I had never sucked before. What couldn’t fit in my mouth, I stroked, I licked. When I needed to take a deep breath, I ran the tip over my tits. Then I sucked it some more.

“Fuck me,” he said. This turned out to be the other English phrase he knew. He uttered it over and over.

Still holding my hair, he pulled me over to the bed and bent me over it. I had already taken my top off while I was on my knees. Other than that, I had on a flimsy skirt and a pair of white cotton panties. He didn’t bother removing either of them. The skirt flipped up over my back. The panties got pulled to the side.

In it went, without warning. I screamed. I opened my eyes wide at the feel of that huge dick in me. Again, he uttered, “Fuck Me,” but I couldn’t really fuck back in my position. I gave all control to him, indulging in the fantasy that I had to let him have me any way he wanted.

Both hands grabbed for my hair. He twisted two handfuls into reigns and pulled back. My neck bent back, mouth opened. I felt the expanse of my throat stretch. My tits rubbed against the bedspread. He had a set of balls to match his dick, huge. They swung up against the front of my pussy. I swear they hit my clit each time because I had a total orgasm, clit and pussy at the same time. I screamed again. Thick warm cum dripped onto my inner thigh. He lunged forward, laying over me. We panted.

I felt a little deserted when he slid out of me and lay on the bed. He said something in Greek. I couldn’t understand it but he was so adamant. He repeated it again, waving his hand at me this time. I stood up and walked to the little kitchenette. Every step was like another thrust of his dick because I could still feel it in me. I flicked on the light and got a beer from the fridge.

When I brought the cold beer back to him, he was sprawled out on the middle of the bed, arms and legs spread. He seemed happy and shocked at the beer. But he waved his hand at me again. This time, I got it. He wanted me to take the rest of my clothes off. I pulled the skirt and panties off as I stood beside him. He must have taken the rest of his clothes off while I went to the kitchen because he was now completely nude except for the gold around his neck and fingers. Without his clothes, I could see that he was muscled, hairy and stroking himself into another erection.

My memory fades a little here. I know we tumbled through several positions; him on top while he held my wrists, me on top while he held my tits, another from behind, accompanied by some slaps on my ass.

Exhausted and drunk, we finally fell asleep. Sometime before dawn, he left. I woke up alone, trying to commit it all to memory, so that in boring lectures, slow traffic, and long lines, I could remember, “Greek men are like this!!”