4-Way Nude Capitulation

"We have nude beaches here on Cyprus for gay men," the art gallery owner said as he moved around the studio couch in the photo studio behind his Nicosia gallery and fired off camera shots of me posed in the near nude on a blue silk drape. "All of them are on private property, though. I happen to have such a beach—very private—at my beach house near the airport in Larnaca. It's on the coast outside Perivolia village. I'll give you directions and a key to the gate. You can go there any time you wish."

I hadn't asked Costas Nourolias about nude beaches—or places for gay hookups, for that matter—but as we had smoked a bubble pipe together after half a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and he had just fucked me on the studio couch, I just let him ramble. He wasn't a young man, but he was a handsome and personable one, as Cypriot men, whether Greek or Turkish, all seemed to be—until they reached seventy and then they seemed to just fall apart. He was stocky, heavy around the middle—thick, not really fat—but otherwise with good muscle tone, dark haired and hirsute, and he was hung and knew how to seduce a young man. He'd gotten my clothes off, his cock in me, and me posing for him for nude photographs easily enough. All this and I'd come to Cyprus earlier in the summer, recently married, and determined to give up the gay life. I'd managed to stay on that wagon for five weeks.

I was newly minted in the U.S. Foreign Service, in the cultural affairs area of the United States Information Service. At twenty-six, I had a fine arts MA in theater arts plus a year of teaching acting in New York under my belt before having been bought for my artist wife, Janet, by her rich father. He managed to bundle us out of the country by shepherding me through the Foreign Service exam and directly to the deputy cultural affairs position at the embassy's American Center in Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus. Janet, who was thirty-two, had no trouble finding an art professor position at the Nicosia campus of the University of Cyprus. Janet's daddy was getting us both out of sex scandals in New York. We'd both promised to be good in our new life.

I'd been good up to this night. My job included attending plays and going to art openings. I'd gone to such an art opening this evening presenting paintings from Costas Nourolias's art gallery. The exhibit was being held at the Paphos Gate art center, which was inside the ancient wall the surrounded the old city. A couple of expatriate American painters were represented there as well as Greek Cypriot artists and one quite hunky Danish soldier from the UN contingent assigned to man a buffer zone between the Greeks and Turks, the line going right through the center of the old city as part of a nearly fifty-year-old war between the two for control of the island.

I was put off my guard by the hunkiness of the Dane, who was a big, beautiful, muscular bruiser, with a brilliant smile and who was introduced to me as Malte Jorgensen. We were together long enough to kindle and enjoy sexual sparks between us but not long enough to do anything about it. I had no intention of doing anything about it. I was on my best behavior, imposed by the hefty size of the monthly allowance that came through from Janet's father. But I was drinking and had come to the opening alone—and I was getting randy for male companionship.

I was trying my best to be faithful to Janet. We fucked—I was young and trim and quite presentable and Janet fucked men. That was her part of the problem. She liked to fuck the husbands of society women in New York. But I really was too young for her, didn't have another wife Janet could make a fool of, and, being a gay submission by nature, fucking me wasn't as much fun as fucking someone else's hetero husband. But Janet hadn't come to the opening. She'd scheduled a night session at her university. I was here on my own, there were more than enough beautiful Greek Cypriot men and hunky UN soldier friends of the artist Malte Jorgensen floating around as well as free-flowing drink and, it turned out, colorful pills for temptation to set in.

The host for the evening, the gallery owner Costas Nourolias, was so charming and giving me so much attention—as well as pushing scotch and a few pills on me—that, with no idea how we had transitioned to it, I found myself alone with him at the rear of his gallery, across town from the Paphos Gate, puffing on a bubble pipe and agreeing to pose for him in the nude for photographs to be distributed only to a select subscription list. I wouldn't be recognized. He had a blue and gold art Mardi Gras mask for me to wear that disguised my face and Roman sandals that laced up to my knees—and nothing else. I had rather distinctive reddish-blond hair, hence my nickname, Sandy, short for Sanford, but Costas assured me that, with just my wavy head hair and trimmed reddish-gold pubes showing, I wouldn't be recognized.

"Lots of young, fit men have reddish-blond hair," he said.

I didn't think that was really true, but I was quite close to being drunk and he'd flattered the clothes off me. I knew this was leading to him fucking me; I would have been disappointed if it hadn't.

He said he loved being able to see the tan lines of the Speedo I'd been wearing as I tanned under the Cypriot summer sun for the previous five weeks and was pleased, he said, that I wasn't tattooed other than the image of red lipstick lips on the lower curve of my belly on the left, down near my groin, which we managed to hide under the blue-silk drapery on the studio couch. Costas actually liked that tattoo a lot, he claimed, and he must have, as he did sneak a few photographs with it showing and, when I had stretched out on the couch, and after he'd taken an initial group of photographs, he went down on his knees beside the couch and moved his hands over my torso as me kissed and licked the tattoo. His mouth moved from there to my cock and balls, and as high as I was on liquor and drugs—and randiness—I let him do as he liked with me.

Greek Cypriot men of his age were startingly sexy.

I hadn't any intention when I'd agreed to come to his studio of being fucked—or at least I told myself that—but this obviously was what he liked to do with me. When he came up from sucking me off, I found he'd managed to strip off all of his clothes. He was a handsome, darkly hirsute man, stocky but solidly built. And he was hung and in full erection. As he hovered over me, he brushed the mask off my face, and came down for a kiss on the lips, his hands moved between my thighs, and ran up the inner legs there, coaxing my legs to open and raise. They did so almost on their own volition.

He came down between them on his knees, raising my pelvis with hands gripping and spreading and raising my legs. He smoothly moved into position while he still possessed my lips with his. His hands went to the hollows of my shoulders, pressing my back into the drapery covering the couch. His solid, hirsute body loomed over me, effectively trapping me under him. And then he was sliding inside me, deep, and I was pulling my face away from his, arching my head back, moaning, and digging my fingernails into his shoulder blades, as he began to move inside me, in and out, in and out.

It was not like I hadn't been there before.

He hovered over me, holding me down on the couch, and thrust inside me, as, hooking my knees on his hips I rowed with him in the fuck, crying out wantonly, "Yes, yes. Like that. Deep. Hard. Fuck me!"

I had missed this so much, and Costas was an accomplished lover, making me gasp as he stretched me in long, deep slides, giving me the measure of him, holding me still as he was deep inside me, waiting for me to stretch to him, coaxing me to let him into my soft, spongy core, which I did. By habit, the muscles of my channel walls undulated over the shaft, which Costas celebrated with low groans.

I tried to writhe under him, force him to pump me, but he held me tight. Then, with a little laugh, when I had opened to take the thickness of him, he started pumping me. I moaned as he established a rhythm and I rocked with him, in counterthrust. But as the rhythm was set, he went off cadence, causing me to groan and shudder. Then he settled down to a rhythm again, me pressing my fingertips into his shoulder blades in matching rhythm and murmuring, "Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me." He was in control, the master. I was the slave. Once fully saddled and in rhythm, he was a cruel but expert lover, relentlessly moving toward climax, taking his pleasure but ensuring I was taken care of too.

But it was quite evident that it was his need and pleasure that came first. He was, after all, a Greek man and it had been established that I was the submissive.

I gasped and arched my back as the intensity of the fuck picked up pace. I ran my hands down his back, clutching his buttocks to me, as he pounded, pounded and pounded, leveraging off his knees to thrust hard and deep. "Fuck, yes! Give it to Me! Screw me hard!" Pounding, pounding, pounding, the Greek stud fucked me to his barebacking ejaculation.

Afterward, moving about naked, his satisfied cock swinging free, he posed me, stretched out and with more than a hint of post-coital satiation, replaced the Mardi Gras mask on my face, and moved around the couch taking his photographs, murmuring, "Glorious. Such a beautiful body."

I lay there, panting, wishing he would fuck me again. But he didn't. He'd gotten his rocks off as much as he needed for the night.

I hadn't been to the Paphos Gate venue before, so I had driven to Costas's gallery, left my car there, and Costas had driven me to the ancient walls of the original city. Thus, after my photo and fuck session with Costas, I had my own means of somewhat embarrassed escape. I didn't mean to capitulate to my fetish for men this soon after I'd resolved to change my lifestyle. Costas, of course, acted like it had all been the natural thing for us to have done—as if he did this with young men several times a week. And judging from the collection of photographs on the walls of one of the more private exhibition rooms in the gallery, maybe he did. Maybe fucking me was just a pleasant blip on the screen for him. It got me to pose for him without a mention of renumeration.

When I got home, chastened at having given in to the temptation—Janet still not back from her night class at the university yet—and I pulled the set of keys and directions to his south-coast beach property Nourolias had given me, I was still high enough to have trouble remembering what they were and what I could do with them. Most important, I wasn't fully aware of what I had just done, coming off the pledge of abstinence from sex with men that I had made in changing my lifestyle and moving to the Mediterranean.

Greek Cypriot men. Costas wasn't young and he wasn't trim. When he was naked, though, he had the solid, sensual presence of a hirsute Zeus. He was all power and control. He had a by-right arrogance that I hadn't found in American men and that I was submissive to. He took what he wanted, he was confident that he could have it, and he gave full satisfaction. And he certainly could fuck. He never asked me if he could fuck me or told me he would; he just took me—and I let him.

At that point I had absolutely no intention of ever visiting the men-only nude beach I was being invited to use—not even after Nourolias told me that he let soldiers from the UN peacekeeping contingent use it.

* * * *

All of the stars were aligning and it wasn't that hard for me to ignore that I had pledged not to engage in casual gay sex—certainly as long as my wife, Janet, the primary interest of my father-in-law, kept the heat off by agreeing to stay away from other men. She had flown to Athens for a couple of days, taking her university art class there to go through the museums of ancient art to ferret out motifs to paint for an assignment. So, I was all alone in Nicosia for a couple of days. She'd be gone with another class the next week—to Italy this time—and for twice as long.

I didn't have to think up an excuse while I was alone to check out Costas's private beach on the south coast. The Fulbright Program lecture series by an American archeologist was coming to a close and he needed a ride to the airport on Saturday morning, on the southern coast of Cyprus, outside Larnaca, more than an hour's drive away. It was natural for me to volunteer to do the airport duty.

Costas Nourolias's private nude beach would be only some twenty minutes' drive west along the coast from the airport—and the day dawned beautiful—clear and hot. Of course, nearly all days dawned beautiful in Cyprus.

Before I picked the professor up at the Nicosia Hilton, I tossed a couple of beach towels and a Speedo in the trunk of my BMW convertible. I remembered to take the directions to the Perivolia village and Nourolias's beach villa and the keys to the gate there. I didn't intend to go there after letting the professor off at the airport, of course—there were many beaches along the southern coast. But, if I took what I'd need for that beach, I could always change my mind about that later.

When I went down the wooden stairs in the back yard of the beach villa, which sat about the small crescent of sand, I could see that the beach was very private, as Costas had said it would be. A barrier of rocks on either side at the property boundaries went from the face of the small cliff the villa was perched on and into the pristine turquoise-blue water of the Mediterranean. From the top of the cliff I could see that the water was shallow for some way into the sea, with a sandy bottom.

One young man, Greek, slim and good-looking, olive-skinned and slightly hirsute was already on the beach when I arrived. A motorbike had been propped up in the parking apron by the villa, so I assumed someone was here. He was stretched out on his back, nude, wearing only sunglasses, and taking in the rays. He was on a towel high on the sand near the rocks to the east.

I nodded to him as I came down the stairs and positioned myself at the same level he was at but at the western margin of the property. I'd brought towels, but not the Speedo. I stripped down, folding my clothes and putting them to the side; stood there, looking out to sea, long enough for the young Greek to notice me and for us to gather that we wouldn't be interacting—that we were both submissives—and then I stretched out on my back on the towel under the sun. My mission was to start making the tan lines of a Speedo disappear. Costas had said he liked to see them, but I'd feel sexier if I had a uniform tan all over.

I was surprised, but pleasantly so, when the Danish UN soldiers arrived. At the center, seeming to be their leader, was the hunky soldier and artist, Malte Jorgensen, who I had briefly met at the Paphos Gate art exhibit, noted a shared interest with, and then lost in the crowd the night Costas had photographed and fucked me. And now he was here. He smiled broadly at me as he and his soldier compatriots came down the stairs and saw that I and a young Greek already were there. They stopped briefly where the Greek youth was and chatted with him. Afterward, they came over to me.

"I saw you at the art opening in the city a couple of weeks ago, I believe," Malte said, giving me a winning smile. He was a gorgeous Danish hunk, as were the five young men with him. They all were muscular UN soldiers at the peak of their physical conditioning—all sunny blonds. It was hard to tell one from the other, although I did think that Malte was the most handsome. "You are from the American Embassy, I believe," he added. "Costas said you were a cultural attaché."

"Yes, yes, I am. I saw your paintings there. Very good. Evocative." They were nudes, both of men and women. Now that I thought of it, I think a couple of them had been done in the photography studio at Costas's Nicosia gallery—using the same blue-silk drape Costas had fucked me on. "I'm Sanford Douglas. People call me Sandy."

I thought Malte did a bit of double-take upon hearing my name, but it didn't make an impression on me at the time. I was too busy watching him and the other soldiers stripping down to nothing. They all were muscular gods with all-over tans. They obviously came to this beach often. And he and the others were obviously checking me out in my altogether.

"I can see why you'd be called Sandy," Malte said, with a grin. "These are my soldier friends—the ones who like to go with men. This is Alfred Larson, and behind him is Noah Nielsen. Over there are Alberte Jensen and Lucas Rasmussan. The one still talking with the Greek boy is Hans Niederman. We came to swim and kick the football around. Perhaps later . . ."

He left it there, called over to Niederman to join them, and all six of them ran down, in something of a military formation, to the sea, dove in, and began to cavort about. I watched them for a while, even after they'd come out of the sea and were passing the soccer ball back and forth, all of them athletic and as graceful as those who had honed their bodies for physical contact could be. At length I dozed off.

I woke to the feel of a hand on my ankle, gliding up my leg. I opened my eyes to four of the hunks crouching around me. The other two, Malte and Hans Niederman, were over with the Greek youth. They already were fucking him—together, in a double penetration. Malte was underneath, on his buttocks, his muscular legs stretched out in front of him. He was leaning back, holding the Greek youth in his lap, facing away from him, skewered on his cock. Hans was crouched over Malte's thighs, facing the young Greek, his cock inside the young man's hole, running on top of Malte's shaft. Hans was holding the Greek's waist between his hands and Malte was holding Hans's waist. The Greek was panting and groaning enough for me to hear. His mouth was yawning open and his eyes were bugged out, but he was taking the two cocks. The Danes were rocking back and forth, working the Greek's channel with their cocks, and looking like they were oarsmen moving a small craft through the sea.

As I watched, the Greek lad raised and spread his perfectly formed legs in a monumental V over the crouching and undulating muscular bodies that were fucking him. The image of surrender was evocative and made me groan with arousal.

I had no more opportunity than just a few seconds to take that in before the other four Danes were on me, all running their hands over me, one opening his mouth over my cock, another pushing his cock between my lips. And it wasn't long before they were in me.

"Yes, yes, please? You will let us have you?" one of the Danes rather belatedly asked, and I gave my consent.

"Come, come with us," one of them said, with the four of them pulling me up from the sand and moving me toward groupings of rocks on the western side of the beach. They brought my towel with them. They carried me into a sandy, area between rock formations, with some privacy from the beach and not in view from the clifftop. All four of them fucked me there, the first by one of the hunky Danes putting me on all fours, with the other three holding me in place and stroking me with their hands—one milking my cock—while the first mounted me high on my back, gripped my waist, penetrated me, and fucked me.

Over the next hour or more all four fucked me in various positions. Two of them—Noah and Alfred, if I heard their names right—doubled me, Alfred lying on his back with me riding his cock, facing his head, and with Noah mounting me from behind and the two cocks working me to a shared ejaculation.

I denied them nothing. They all were handsome bucks and sex studs, and the taking was glorious. I'd never had so many men working me at one time—certainly not hunky Danish soldiers. I felt no guilt. It had just happened. I hadn't come for this, or so I told myself, and it all had seemed so natural, so right, on the isolated, pristine nudist beach, a private window into the sea.