It was the first evening of his ten-day break and Tom Barry sat at the bar, re-reading the menu, his back to the rest of the customers, waiting for his table for one, he felt awkward and nervous, feeling as though the whole taverna were watching him.
"Stop being stupid," he tried to tell himself, "You've sat alone in hundreds of restaurants at home when you've been away on business. This is just a holiday, so no real difference, none of the people know you, so why does it matter what they may or may not be thinking?"
Two couples drifted past the bar and said goodnight in German to the Greek waiter at the doorway. He turned to look and saw their vacated tables being cleared by a waitress and prepared for the next guests, one of which he assumed would be him. There was another couple at the bar, but he was uncertain if they were waiting or just having a final drink.
That was his real problem, everywhere he looked he saw couples, and so far, all foreign couples, German, or Austrian, even Dutch, but the only English he had heard had come from his lips or the Greek waiters and waitresses when they spoke to him. The menu was predominantly written in German with the English translation underneath in small print.
It was his own fault, he should have checked closer when he booked on a whim, a bargain due to Covid. This resort had lots of spare capacity, prices were good, he had chosen the island because this was where he and his wife had come on their first holiday together and he had wanted to come back a number of years before, but she had vetoed it, now she wasn't there to complain.
Involuntarily he ran his finger over the non-existent wedding ring, the indentation was fainter, but the band of skin still showed whiter than the rest of his fingers. He had finally stopped wearing the ring three weeks before, but it still felt as though it was there. Ironically, he had come on this holiday to get space from the constant reminders of his wife and their marriage, from the people around him.
The girl behind the bar spoke, distracting him from his thoughts, she pointed at his almost empty glass.
"Oh yes, please," he replied slightly embarrassed that he had drunk so quickly, "The sun must have made me thirsty," he babbled, feeling even more uncomfortable.
She just smiled and began pouring another large beer.
"Slow down," he thought, taking a deep breath, "The last thing you want is to get pissed all alone on the first real night of your holiday."
Thirsty was not the only thing the sun had made him, he mused, it's why earlier at the beach he had needed a cooling swim, running, and diving headlong into the waves. The warning signs had designated that part of the beach as clothing optional, so for only the second time in his life, Tom had lain naked on a beach in the company of like-minded people, with no wife to complain about the unsightly male bodies.
It had been inevitable that the early travel from the U.K., combined with the heat had quickly led to him dozing off. When he woke with a start, he immediately realised he was raising a flagpole but had forgotten the Union Jack (or perhaps the Irish tricolour, in honour of his father's origins and his namesake).
Quickly rolling on to his front he had glanced around, luckily no one seemed to have a look of disgust or appreciation on their faces. As much as he would have liked to manually calm himself down, he had read the rules carefully and reasoned his nearest companions would not mistake his moan of relief when it arrived. His late wife had insisted he made enough noise to frighten a herd of elephants whenever he ejaculated, much more than any other man she had known, and apparently there had been a quite a number of them before she had settled on Tom.
Although lying on his front had reduced the affects it had not gone away completely, so he decided to try to cool off in the sea. Crossing the twenty yards of sand would have to be done quickly as a 'chubber' bouncing along would be noticed by a casual observer, hence the dash and headlong dive into the surf. The waves were surprisingly choppy for the Mediterranean and forgetting to close his eyes and mouth, the collision of face and sea water dislodged one contact lens and choked him at the same time. So, with eyes streaming he had paddled around for a few minutes recovering his poise, and vision, by which time he had drifted away from his place on the beach towards a rocky outcrop.
Not being the greatest swimmer Tom had decided to head to there and walk back to his beach spot, as he began to haul himself out Tom thought he heard a slapping noise from the other side of the outcrop. He edged around the side and found himself face-to-feet with a female body. The woman's legs were hitched up and her bum raised off the rock, Tom looked up slightly and watched as two delicate fingers splayed her pussy lips and a third circled her large swollen clitoris.
Transfixed at the sight, Tom watched as the woman's hips rocked up and down and her bum cheeks clenched as she pleasured herself. Naturally his cock regrew and stiffened in appreciation of the display, and the faint aroma of her pussy, a smell he adored. He held on to the rocky shelf with one hand and reached down to grasp his engorged cock with the other. Although he had no idea how long this woman had been masturbating Tom realised, she was close to an orgasm.
The woman's bum dropped to the towel covered rock, her stomach scrunched, and her head rose into view. Her eyes met his, her face a mixture of surprise and near ecstasy, the third finger not stopping as she groaned, "Oh god! Oh shit!"
"Sir!" A waitress said touching Tom's arm, breaking his train of thought, "Your table," she continued indicating a spot towards the rear of the taverna.
"Oh, thank you!" Tom mumbled to the short, pretty, waitress who stood beside him, then, picking up his beer he followed her through the taverna.
Consciously he tried to avoid watching the sway of her buttocks in the tight black leggings. As nice as the sight was, he didn't want to get caught staring at a another female form twice in one day. He sat at his table facing the rest of the customers now more reassured that they were more interested in their own groups than a solitary older Englishman. The waitress took his order, smiled and her buttocks swayed invitingly towards the kitchen.
As his first course arrived another couple of customers walked behind the waiter serving him, being led by the waitress with the inviting buttocks. The man sat with his back to the rest of the people in the taverna, the woman slid along the bench seat, as she settled, she looked up directly at him. Her face had a stunned look for a fleeting moment then she glanced at her partner and smiled, nodding at something he said.
Tom felt his face begin to flush, both from the booze and his recognition of the woman opposite. He was sure it was the same one, her hair pulled back in an Alice band and the dark eyes, the stunned expression the same as on the beach. Tom lowered his eyes to his plate, concentrate on your food, he told himself, she's probably as embarrassed as you are. He reached for his beer glass then changed his mind, don't gulp it down, he reminded himself, eat your food and savour the beer.
The food was good, so Tom didn't look up again until he had cleared his plate. A waiter was serving drinks to the couple, and he caught their accents when they thanked him. Definitely English, polite, and well spoken, the woman's partner obscured Tom's view so he couldn't examine the woman's face again, but she was extremely attractive he mused, even from the short time he had studied her. Late thirties, maybe even a well-preserved early forties, no older than that, about twenty years his junior.
