1. Pandemos
Three years ago, our hero, a certain Richard Pratt — callow, twenty-four years old, American — journeyed from Zurich to the Mediterranean for a vacation in the sun. He was an aspiring architect, trained in Pittsburgh and blessedly near the end of a one-year stint in the Swiss office of a prestigious firm. The position had been promoted as a ‘fellowship’ but would have been more aptly labeled an internship or, more truthfully, indentured servitude or chattel slavery. By day, he worked long hours in his very own cramped, oppressive cubicle in downtown Zurich. By night, he labored in the same cubicle, even though he rented his very own cramped, oppressive flat next to a drab suburban train depot. He was entitled — it said so in his contract — to ten days of vacation and he was determined to take it. His indenture was nearly at an end, and he had already secured his next position: in New York at another prestigious firm that, he thought sourly, would exploit him with equal skill and ruthlessness. He wanted a break, preferably somewhere warm with nude or at least topless beaches. It never occurred to him that the brief vacation would alter his life more profoundly than the internship.
In mid-April he scored a screaming bargain, the fruit of grim, dogged online searches during office breaks in which he might otherwise have eaten an actual meal. A Swiss tour operator offered a limited-time web-only May promotion: eight days, seven nights, an all-inclusive stay at a five-star resort on a Greek island with stupendous Mediterranean views. One thousand euros, double occupancy, or twelve hundred single. Instantly alert, he clicked, standing by with his credit card. With each successive screen he awaited the switch, the hitch, the glitch, the lockup, the wheel of death, the telltale diversion that would reveal a scam or an illusion. To his surprise and elation, his card was accepted and charged; he had a receipt and a contract. Yes! Victory.
Only later did he learn that the resort, Pandemos, was actually in Cyprus, not Greece, but fine, it still was an island, pretty much Greek, very much Mediterranean, and indisputably warmer than Zurich. Just after purchasing non-refundable plane tickets, he was notified by the Swiss booking service that there was a problem with the Pandemos reservation and would he please get in touch. The rate was invalid. He did not respond. The offer had been rescinded. He did not respond. His contract was void. He did not respond. Finally, a live person reached him and apologized for a regrettable misunderstanding and offered a full refund. Richard refused — he intended to go to Cyprus — and threatened action in the Swiss courts if he was denied. He rebuffed a final call offering both a refund and a voucher for a supposedly superior Croatian resort. To Richard, this only confirmed that he’d scored an exceptional deal. Mistake it may have been, but it was not his mistake, nor his problem. He would not be denied.
Come May, his flights to Paphos on the west end of Cyprus were delayed but otherwise fine. Everything afterward seemed cursed. At an information kiosk in the airport, someone who spoke a little English figured out there was a bus to a certain village and — ah, wasn’t he the lucky young man! — it would run today! Probably. In a few hours, perhaps. Later, no one in the village spoke English (nor French or German) and no one admitted knowing anything about a resort. In the end, he had a dusty uphill walk next to a goat-drawn cart that carried only his suitcase. At Pandemos he was told that his room was not ready yet. This news was both infuriating and encouraging; at least the receptionist did not deny that he ought to have a room. On the other hand, it was past 7:00 pm, he was tired and, really, how about a fucking room already? He was offered a small bottle of water with the manager’s compliments and asked to wait. He missed (of course) his seating for the authentic Cypriot dinner included in his package, despite rushing to the dining room after a much-needed shower. Could he join the next seating? No, very sorry, the second seating was full, but small plates were available (for an extra charge) at the bar on the terrace.
Disgruntled, Richard exited the dining room and was brought up short by the view. It would have been arresting even without the sunset. Pandemos was, in fact, gorgeous (he had arrived via the service entrance). It clung to the mountainside above the distant water, its many small buildings tucked cannily into a natural amphitheater commanding the sea. My God, Richard thought, how could there be such a view? The Mediterranean was tranquil, but its surface shimmered in transitions from turquoise to azure to deep purple as the blazing orange sun sank. Rocks, trees and bushes between him and the sea absorbed the sun’s last glow amid scattered twinkles of light from hidden houses. Insects buzzed in an invisible chorus. Within the resort, stone walks wound among white stuccoed guest houses with tile roofs and pastel-painted doors. Small, artfully sited pools — hot tubs perhaps — glowed with submerged lights. A larger pool was unoccupied as guests gathered their belongings and retreated to their bungalows to change for the late seating.
The bar was not busy and indeed was unattended as the bartender circulated among tables by the pool, collecting used glassware. She was friendly, chatting with guests as they left for their rooms. With a few she spoke Greek, with others a charmingly accented English. Richard took a seat at an empty table.
When the bartender returned with her tray of glasses, he lifted a hand to signal her. She ignored him, so he waited for her to unload her tray and fill the dishwasher before signaling again. When she could no longer avoid him, she came to the table and awaited an order. Richard had no idea what to order and couldn’t discover a menu. As he searched for one — on the table, in her hand, in her apron pocket — she asked impatiently, “Well?” The charming accent was gone. He tried to engage her in the decision, but she was unhelpful. He wound up with a brandy sour and a dish of nuts and olives. Eventually he signed a chit showing no room number and went to bed still hungry.
His tiny room had one small, high, awning window without a view and a narrow twin bed with a thin mattress, but Richard slept surprisingly well — exhaustion, he supposed — and rose the next morning keen to explore the resort, the local area, perhaps Cyprus itself. Breakfast first, and it was good: strong hot coffee, juice, fruit, cheese, and bread. Pandemos bordered parklands; in the lobby, there was a map of nearby walks and trails with the best views marked. He returned a couple of hours later sweaty but invigorated and carried a coffee onto the terrace to the same table he’d occupied the previous evening. Other guests gradually appeared, some from a late breakfast, some from their rooms (they had in-room coffee that he had not). As the sun rose higher, he opened his laptop to inventory the day’s emergencies.
The bar opened at 10:30 with the same young bartender. Yawning, she piled fruit on a counter, dragged over a blender and, after some peeling, cutting and chopping, began processing the fruit with ice and other ingredients. She filled a row of glasses, garnished each with a slice of fruit and a sprig of mint, set them on a tray and began to serve the guests collecting around the pool. Richard was not served. Not sure if he was being snubbed or merely overlooked, he hailed the bartender. “Hello, Miss? What are those? Can I get one?”
She could not deny that she had plenty, so placed one on his table. She was pretty, he thought, but rude. Pointedly he said, “Thank you,” as she left to clean her blender. The next time she walked by his table, Richard smiled and said, “So what do people do here? What’s exciting?”
Her reply was deadpan, “I hear copulation is popular.”
Was she joking? Coming on to him? Making fun of him? “I’m Richard,” he said politely, hoping she would reciprocate.
“I know that, Mr. Pratt. And you can forget about it. I’m a lesbian.” She shot him a simpering smile. “But who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky — all those women are hoping to get pregnant.” She gestured at the pool.
“Excuse me?” He was genuinely surprised.
“Didn’t you look at our website? Don’t you read your e-mail? Look around, genius!” She pointed at the wall behind the bar. A small office-like space sat in the corner next to a door. Above it and all over the wall behind the bar were snapshots he hadn’t noticed. Most were of babies, a few of smiling pregnant women.
“Your web page is in Greek,” he said defensively.
“Not if you click on the itty-bitty British flag,” she said, as though explaining it to a child. “Most people know that means ‘English.'” He continued to look blank so she spelled it out for him. “This is a FER-TIL-ITY spa. For women. Who want to get pregnant.” She pointed at his half empty glass. “You’re drinking a Mommy Smoothie. It will stimulate your ovaries,” she said drily, and turned away.
The door next to the office part of the bar opened and an older woman with thick white hair poked her head out to see who was talking. Seeing Richard, she stepped out and scowled, jabbing her finger at him while cursing in Greek.
“Hey, what’s everybody mad at me for?!” Richard protested.
The bartender instantly turned to berate him. “Because you took unfair advantage of an innocent mistake, okay? Our resident web idiot didn’t know his test page was live. He posted a daily rate instead of a weekly one, but you wouldn’t accept an apology and a refund. Oh, no! It was live for maybe ten minutes and four people hit it. You’re the only one who was an asshole. You insisted on buying a room we don’t have at a price we don’t offer. Every day you stay here we lose money.”
Richard was taken aback by the diatribe — she was obviously not just a bartender. Finally, he said, “It wasn’t my fault.”
“No, Mr. Pratt, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Is that why I have a sucky room?”
“It’s why I had to move out of my room and why I get to sleep in Yia-yia’s office. She’s not too happy about it either. And if you think your room sucks, Mr. Pratt, I’d be more than happy to trade.”
“You don’t sound Greek.”
“I’m as Greek as fucking Athena,” she snapped. “And it’s none of your business!” Rather than reply, Richard closed his laptop and left. “Have a wonderful vacation,’ she muttered.
The bartender was Eleni Vitalis. Her father was a Greek Cypriot and her mother an American from California who fell in love with Cyprus and Eleni’s father. But also with Italy, Spain, the Cote d’Azur, Morocco…most of the Mediterranean. They lived briefly in Marseilles, then Barcelona, then Florida and had two children. After a bitter divorce in the US, Eleni’s father returned to Cyprus, her mother to California. Eleni and her brother were raised mostly in Los Angeles. As a teen, she saw her father only twice but thought he was the handsomest man in the world, pretty much what her mother had thought. Eleni returned to Miami to go to college. She wasn’t sure why; she didn’t really like Florida. There she studied Classics and Greek and did know why — she missed her father. When her father fell gravely ill, she quit school with only one and a half semesters remaining and returned to Cyprus to be with him. By then she was grown and her mother could not prevent it. She was too late; her father died before her plane had even left Miami. Nevertheless, she stayed. She met his family — her family, now — learned Greek for real, and waitressed for a couple of seasons before finishing school at the University of Cyprus.
Pandemos was the Vitalis family business. Eleni’s late father was Ari Vitalis. He and his younger brothers, Thad and Tony, had borrowed money, bought the remnants of a deserted mountain village and started a resort. It languished until their mother added her fertility clinic. Women sought Yia-yia’s help getting pregnant; by installing herself at her sons’ resort, Yia-yia brought them business. Oil wealth from the Middle East, digital wealth from Europe, and spectacular views did the rest. Each year, the brothers expanded and upgraded, and each year Pandemos became more exclusive and prosperous, its clientele wealthier. The brothers wanted to be known for luxury, not babies, but eventually embraced the theme. It became official when they added a nude statue of Aphrodite to the reception lobby. In a compromise between ‘clinic’ and ‘resort,’ Pandemos became a ‘spa’ offering fertility consultations along with massages and spring-fed soaking pools; herbs, teas, oils, and crystals; yoga and meditation; aromatherapy and special diets. All in the service of Holistic Fertility. Tony’s suggestion that they add lingerie and sex toys to the gift shop was overruled, but otherwise the brothers sold everything they could think of. Guests pampered themselves and enjoyed the incomparable setting. Those in the know understood it was Yia-yia’s service that really mattered. Yia-yia could help you get pregnant.
Eleni was technically her father’s heir and a co-owner of the resort. Practically, her uncles had no intention of granting her a passive interest in their enterprise — she would have to work for it alongside them and their mother or give it up. She was undecided about staying on — she was still considering graduate school (but what would that get her?) — and meanwhile learning the business.
After Richard left the terrace, Eleni regretted unloading on him. It was unprofessional, and despite her accusation, Pandemos would not actually lose money on his stay. Even his reduced rate would cover his meals and sticking him in her tiny room for a week cost the resort nothing. She and Yia-yia bore the inconvenience. In fact, if he drank enough, Pandemos might even come out ahead. At the early dinner seating she felt a twinge of guilt when she spied him at an obviously improvised table, by himself, without a view. She brought him a brandy sour. “On me, okay?” He looked at it, then at her, trying to interpret the gesture. “Welcome to Pandemos, Mr. Pratt. My name is Eleni Vitalis. I’m sorry I overreacted this morning.”
Richard tested the rapprochement by returning to the bar after supper. Eleni was there and not very busy. Mostly, she filled orders from the dining room that showed up on her tablet. When Richard sat down at his usual table, she caught his eye and pointed to a stool at the bar. “Promise I won’t bite,” she said.
He moved to the stool. “Dinner was good,” he said. It seemed a safe topic. “What was the stew?”
“Lamb, but the chef sneaks in some goat, and Zivania for flavor. She’s Bulgarian but trained in Athens and Lyon. She’s too good for a fertility spa in the middle of nowhere, so I’m sure we’ll lose her.”
“So this really is all about babies, huh?” Richard gestured at the resort around him. “But I see men, too.”
Eleni shrugged. “Some women bring their husbands, some don’t. The ones who do wear out the beds. If you believe it’s the location that’s magic — the air or water or vibes, whatever — well, then, yeah, you go for it while you’re here. Yia-yia says it doesn’t matter; you can come, get a consult, a treatment, have a nice time without your husband, then go home and wear out the bed.”
“What’s a treatment?”
She tsked and wagged a finger. “Family secrets. Only Yia-yia knows. She wants to teach me, but…” She paused to check her tablet. “Anyway, she does a bunch of things.” She poured him half a shot of dark red liquid from an unlabeled bottle. “Try that. That’s Zivania; it was in the lamb.” She would have to stop giving him free drinks but figured he should try it. The half-shot burned Richard’s throat and made his eyes water. He couldn’t speak for a moment. Eleni watched him, proud of her Zivania. “Everybody serves it, all over Cyprus, but that’s old Zivania, the real thing.” Richard thanked her once he could speak. Not long after, she closed the bar.
Then next morning he tried another of the trails after breakfast, then showered and brought his laptop to the terrace. He tried to work but found himself watching the guests — most of the women were older but attractive and some blithely shed their tops as the sun warmed the terrace. The view of the sea was just as distracting. Eleni observed him staring and remarked, “The view’s so good it makes you stupid.” She joined him gazing for a moment. “Eventually you get used to it.” Just before lunch, Yia-yia reappeared and seeing him at a table, began hectoring Eleni. Evidently, she was still annoyed. They argued. Richard hoped Eleni was defending him. After she broke off the exchange she glanced at Richard. “I told her you were okay. She says you could be a nice boy, but right now you’re still a donkey.”
“A donkey?”
“Well, ‘asshole’ is a better translation. Don’t worry, she’ll get over it.”
Richard looked over at Yia-yia and flashed his winningest smile. “I’m here for my treatment!” he called with a laugh. Eleni translated. Yia-yia shook her fist and entered the office. Moments later she returned with two glasses of liquid, one dark, the other colorless. She snatched a smoothie from Eleni, emptied half of it, then gave her an order in Greek. Eleni complied by pouring some vodka into the smoothie. Then Yia-yia dumped in the contents of her two glasses and marched over to Richard’s table. She plunked the smoothie on his table with a snarl and a Greek epithet.
Richard looked at Eleni, who translated, “She says here’s your treatment. Except she used a bad word.” Yia-yia’s dark eyes scowled at him. Eleni cautioned, “I wouldn’t drink it…” even as Richard gulped it defiantly. He had barely set the glass down and wiped his mouth before he passed out.
“I told you not to drink it,” Eleni said when Richard came to three hours later. He felt awful, as though he’d been in a fight and lost, and was hung over to boot. His body was stiff and ached if he moved; his head was worse — it throbbed whether he moved or not. He was in his room on the twin bed, naked under a sheet. The room was dim, that or his eyes were failing. “For a while there I thought we lost you,” Eleni said from a seat by the bed. “Yia-yia wouldn’t let me call an ambulance. She said by the time they got here you’d either be fine or dead. Uncle Tony even checked our insurance…not for the ambulance; in case you died.”
“What did she give me?” Richard asked weakly.
Eleni ignored the question. “Why would you drink it? What were you thinking?”
“What was she thinking?”
“Yeah, well, Yia-yia said she was sorry. She thought you wouldn’t drink it, or even if you took a sip, you’d just throw up. She examined you. She doesn’t understand why you didn’t throw up. How do you feel?” Richard moaned and closed his eyes. “No sleeping! Yia-yia said if you woke up you have to stay awake!” When Richard did not respond, she leaned over and shook him. He groaned, but his eyes fluttered open.
For the next couple of hours, Eleni kept Richard awake. She talked about her life — in LA, Miami, Nicosia — and tried to get him to talk about his. She talked about the resort and asked him about his work. She learned he was an architect with a job waiting for him in New York and was a little envious — she liked New York. She told him the history of Pandemos, what she knew of it. She held forth, in a colorful detour, on Yia-yia’s philosophy which, in English, boiled down to the difference between copulation and fucking. ‘Fuck’ was a transitive verb — something you did to someone: ‘he fucked her’… ‘she fucked him’ — or a vulgar epithet: ‘Fuck you!” Copulation, on the other hand, was intransitive, a joint enterprise — ‘they copulated’ — with a clear purpose: making babies. Yia-yia and Pandemos were all about making babies: copulation, and that was practically sacred. Eleni also talked about her mother [“Mom used to say her life was a Joni Mitchell song; Met a redneck on a Grecian isle who did the goat dance very well; he gave me back my smile, but he kept my camera to sell…“]; her father [“Papa hated Joni Mitchell and said he never stole anyone’s camera…”]; and her uncles [“They have me filling in for a bartender all this week, and they tell me it’s a vacation…”]. Eventually, Yia-yia returned to check on him. She was nicer than before and asked him about his orchis, which Eleni translated as ‘eggs.’ When Richard gave her a puzzled look, she clarified. “Your balls. Do they hurt?” In fact, his balls were killing him. They ached like they’d been crushed — he could hardly move without pain — but he preferred not to admit it and said only, “I’m okay.”
Two days later, almost everything felt better except his balls; they felt heavy and pendulous and still hurt like hell; his penis throbbed, too, though not painfully. Walking was out of the question, so he stayed in his room or sat by the pool. Whenever Yia-yia asked about his eggs he would say he was fine. Eleni suspected he was not, and felt guilty. After lunch she again motioned him to a seat at the bar. “Yia-yia says to stay out of the sun,” she said, and proceeded to entertain him with tidbits about the guests. “That woman with the bling? She’s from the Emirates. She could buy this place for what she spends on sunglasses and manicures, but Yia-yia doesn’t like her and says she won’t help her.” Next, she nodded towards a svelte blonde sunbathing topless next to a chubby man reading beneath an umbrella. “They’re Danish. She seems nice but hasn’t figured out she needs Yia-yia. Nice boobs, though, right? And those three over there…” she glanced towards the other side of the pool, “are regulars from Milan. This is their third season. At first, it was just two of them, sisters, who came with their husbands. Yia-yia likes them, so she told them to come back without the men and she’d be sure to help them. So this time they brought their cousin from Naples. I’m not sure if the cousin wants to get pregnant.” There also were rich Russians, Brits, Spaniards, Swedes… the guests were mostly European but very few were Greek. Eleni knew something about everyone.
The following day, Richard could finally walk again and did so after breakfast; by then his week was nearly over. Eleni approached him at lunch with a proposal. “Hey, I’m off later tonight and going dancing. Want to come? It’s all locals.”
By now, Richard liked her, but hesitated. “Why aren’t you going with a girlfriend?”
She responded simply. “If I go my myself, the men won’t leave me alone — they’re Greek, you know? And if I go with a girlfriend, it’s actually worse — they’ll hit on both of us all night. If I’m with you, they’ll leave me alone.” She told him to meet her in the lobby at 9:00; she would skip the late seating.
She was dressed in a colorful skirt and blousy white top that struck Richard as cartoonishly peasant-style but attractive nonetheless. He raised an eyebrow at the outfit and she twirled for him, saying, “Believe me — you’re the one who’s going to stick out, not me.” The dance was at a crossroads in the hills and Eleni drove them up winding paths in one of the resort’s golf carts. There was an eight-gallon cooler in back with Pandemos’s logo on the side; it was full of fruit punch sloshing in ice. Eleni was excited as she drove. “I’m popular because I bring booze,” she laughed. “Everyone chips in a euro.” Commenting on the cart, she teased Richard, “If you had known what you were doing, you could have taken our van from the airport and a cart would have brought you up from the village. You need to read your email.”
“I’ll remember that next time,” Richard said.
Eleni was indeed popular, and not just because of the punch — she could dance. The evening started inside a dim pavilion, with thirty or so people dancing, then more, but moved to a clearing outside when the pavilion got too hot. It was very dark, but the stars shone and the mosquitos had mostly retired. Someone lit a fire off to one side and brought the coolers out. The band kept changing identities as instruments were passed from one group to a succeeding one, but the music never stopped. Eleni — everyone called her Leni — hardly ever stopped dancing. She made it clear she was with the clueless American and pulled Richard out to dance with her. He tried gamely two or three times but couldn’t keep up. Once in a while she would take a break to get a drink — water more often than punch — and laughingly watch the dance, describing it to Richard, leaning in to his ear to be heard over the music. Sometime after midnight she pulled him once again into the thinning group of dancers and tried to get him moving with her. As soon as he joined her, the music slowed, and the couples fell into swaying clinches. Leni shrugged and led him by the hand to the sideline. Then the music quickened, and she pulled him back out. When the music slowed once again, she scowled, gestured at the laughing musicians, then sat down beside him. “What was that about?” Richard asked.
“They think I’m your woman and want to watch you grope me in a slow dance,” she replied.
“I could do that,” Richard offered.
“As if. I gave them the Cyprus finger. Come on. We should get back.”
Even as she said it the music died, and people began calling goodnights to one another. They found the empty cooler and dragged it to where Leni had left the golf cart. “Aw, shit!!” she complained. “They took the cart.”
Richard was alarmed. “Who? Are you sure? Let’s look for it.”
“Forget it. It’s gone. A bunch of them came up from the resort, like us. They beat us to it, that’s all. Come on, we’ll have to walk.” They left the cooler by the pavilion and started downhill. Richard was tipsy and his balls were still a little tender. Leni was in high spirits talking about the dance, and Richard enjoyed listening to her. After a bit, he said, “You’re good. You dance better than the locals.”
She chuckled. “Thanks, but it’s just that I’ve spent more time in Miami clubs than they have.” Even in sandals, Leni was more sure-footed than Richard on the rutted dirt path. “This way,” she said, turning. “This is a shortcut.”
“Are you sure?” She didn’t answer but lit her phone’s flashlight for him. He asked her what was in the punch.
“Hah! Albanian vodka. It’s horrible, but it’s cheap.”
“What happened to everyone else?” It had suddenly come to him that they were alone. He stumbled along behind her, mostly silent, but occasionally asking a question. “Do you do this a lot?” She mumbled something unintelligible. “Every week, or what?” They continued, with Leni giggling now and then at his haplessness as she aimed the light in front of his feet. “Are you sure you’re a lesbian?” he asked. He had watched her dance with a lot of men, but no women. It was then she announced, “We’re here.” Richard suddenly recognized the back service entrance of Pandemos. Their golf cart was parked in the drive.
He slept late the next morning, his last full day. He had expected to be hung over but felt pretty good. As he shaved, there was knock on the door. By the time he opened it, Leni had her key out, preparing to let herself in. She blushed. “Oops, sorry. I just wondered if you were okay.” Stepping into the small room she pretended to admire it, “Love what you’ve done with the place!” Richard waved a hand; the room was hardly tidy. “How do you feel?” she asked.
He spread his arms in a hearty gesture, “Great! Never better.”
Eleni grew serious. “Yia-yia says you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Well…” She hadn’t thought about how to say it. “Yia-yia sort of told a couple of guests you could get them pregnant.” Richard’s eyes widened. “Well, not exactly pregnant. Not by you. She told them if they had sex with you first, then their husbands could get them pregnant.”
Richard stared. “You’re kidding.” Was Yia-yia making some bizarre apology? Getting him laid before he left?
Eleni turned to avoid his eyes. “I know, I know — it’s crazy.”
“But I leave tomorrow…”
Eleni bit her lip. “Yeah, well, apparently that’s okay. They said they can all do tonight.”
“What ‘all’?! Who?”
“The Italians. Yia-yia already talked to them.” Richard sank to the bed. Leni wrung her hands. “Listen, let me talk to Yia-yia. You don’t have to do this.”
At lunch the three Italian women ogled him from across the room. One of them cocked her pinkie to wave and blew a kiss. Richard didn’t see Leni again until late in the afternoon when he found her at the bar. She signaled for him to sit; she would be with him in a moment. Eventually, she came to his table and said, “Okay, here’s the thing, you don’t have to do this — obviously — but Yia-yia told me to stay out of it. She said to just give you their cottage number.” Richard didn’t know what to say. Leni continued, “So, um, twenty-nine. Eight o’clock. She said no condoms…not that we have any. She said you can’t get them pregnant, but you’ll make them fertile.” Not knowing what else to say, she left.
Richard was exceedingly nervous before dinner. He had fantasized about a vacation with casual, carefree sex but had not truly expected it to happen. He shaved again, showered again, and laid out his best clothes on the bed. They weren’t much and needed pressing, but of course there was no iron in the room. At supper, he hardly noticed what he was eating. Could this be happening? What was ‘this’, anyway? Sex with multiple women? — yes! — but women he hadn’t met, hadn’t chosen, whose names he didn’t even know? Arranged by Yia-yia, who, he suddenly recalled, was Leni’s grandmother! Studying himself in the mirror before leaving his room, he wondered nervously if this was how prostitutes felt. Was he a gigolo? He reassured himself that he was not, since he wasn’t getting paid, then immediately thought, ‘Hey, wait a second, how come I’m not getting paid? Is Yia-yia getting paid?’
The Italian women were excited, not at all nervous. After meeting with Yia-yia, they had gone straight to lunch to check out the young American and their excitement swelled. Yia-yia told them he was a virgin, which wasn’t strictly correct but pretty close, and very enticing to the more experienced women about to enjoy him. Yia-yia was a professional, after all — practically a doctor — and she had prescribed sex with this boy, effectively ordering them to do it. Of course they would do it, of course. Why would they not? It was like being told your new diet required you to eat chocolate cake. And their husbands were gone!
Their names were Michela and Sofia (the sisters) and Beatrice (the cousin). After lunch they had their hair and nails done while they talked about what to wear (they decided on swimsuits and wraps — sexy and easy to shed); about who would go first (undetermined); and whether to take turns in the lone bedroom or simply have a party in the living room (they agreed an orgy would be fun). They ordered in cocktails and a light supper while they primped and prepped, doing each other’s makeup and sampling perfumes. There also was wine, with champagne and chocolate for later — to share with the American if he wanted some, or to celebrate after their exertions.
When Richard knocked a little after eight, Sofia eagerly answered the door with the others right behind her. Richard blushed as they surrounded him in flowing, diaphanous beach wraps. They steered him into the room excitedly, with sensual touches and gestures. He started to say something, but Michela placed an elegant finger on his lips, leaned in to kiss his cheek and shushed him. No one sat. Six open palms roved his body as the women murmured to one another in Italian. First, they stroked his back and chest, like sculptors giving him shape; then hands explored his hips and legs, caressing his quads and knees and mischievously cupping his butt. Finally, one hand, then another searched out his crotch, playfully poking and squeezing his stiffening penis. The women cooed as they felt him up, mmming and ahhhing, happy with their discoveries. He felt a tongue on his neck and lips tugging his opposite earlobe as hands unbuckled his belt, and fingers slid his zipper down.
Richard was inexperienced but knew enough to forsake control and let the perfumed women have their way. They knew what they wanted (the same thing he wanted) and obviously knew what they were doing. When his trousers fell, he stepped out of them. Michela picked them up and folded them neatly before returning her attention to his body. Soon his shirt was open and lips brushed his nipples while hands fluttered about his tented boxers. Sofia whispered, “Do you have something for mia fica? — for my pussy?” — she pronounced it seductively, ‘poosey,’ as she snuck a hand inside his shorts.
As Richard’s clothes disappeared, the women slipped out of their wraps to reveal shiny one-piece, high-cut swimsuits: one Brazilian, one Japanese, one Italian. The bright, stretchy material shaped and clung to their curvy bodies. Richard was in some kind of heaven, transfixed by female forms. Tentatively, he felt for a pillowy breast. It was Michela’s and she responded happily by pulling his hand to it. Then she bared it by slipping her hand through the arm hole to shrug off half of the suit top. She did the same with the other side and cooed as she pressed her chest to his.
Beatrice was the first to shed her suit entirely, dropping it seductively on the floor and rubbing herself against him. She’d been waxed recently, and her bare pussy was damp. At least two hands were fondling him, tickling his balls, as someone licked his ear. His penis had become unbearably hard; manicured fingers teased it and tapped his oozing slit. Though Beatrice was already naked, Sofia abruptly stripped and claimed him. “Me first!” she called and straddled him on the sofa, aiming his cock at her wet box. She slid down his shaft and shimmied playfully, jiggling her breasts and raising her arms in triumph.
Ever passive, Richard let Sofia do the work — she ground her vulva rhythmically on his pelvis causing his cock to piston in and out of her pussy. She fucked with delight, grunting as the other two watched; Bea was touching herself. Sofia teased his nipples as she rocked on his body. Everything felt hot — his cock, her vagina, his balls. “Oh God, oh my God, it’s sooo good,” Sofia reported to the others. Very soon, Richard felt his balls boiling and the urge to thrust — to fuck this woman — overcame him. With an urgent cry, he rammed his cock home, bucking until he came. He spurted only three times but very powerfully, and to his surprise, it hurt. The tip of his penis burned as a large volume of semen shot from it. Sofia’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed and dismounted quickly. Her hand flew to her pussy and covered it. “It’s fucking boiling!” She peeked at herself then covered up again. “Ohmygod, ohmygod. Shit!” She stared at him and clamped her legs closed. Richard was oblivious; his eyes were squeezed shut, his cock burned, and his balls hurt again but somehow it felt good, amazing. What had just happened?
The other two women were intrigued but wary. What did this mean? They talked excitedly, trying to get Sofia to describe what happened. She kept repeating ‘it’s hot, oh Jesus, it’s hot’ and stared at Richard, still clutching her pussy in disbelief. Michela went to fetch a washcloth as Bea declared, “Bene…now me.”
They understood they would have to get him hard again. Normally, this would not have been a problem — they had all night, he was young, they were sexy and willing — but Richard’s testicles really hurt and he wasn’t sure he could go again. Michela and Bea were more confident now, and determined. They let him rest briefly, then finished stripping, sexily; they whispered naughty English words in his ears; they rubbed his hands over their bodies, their breasts especially — and purred; they dragged moist fragrant pussies over his legs. Eventually, very effectively, Michela began licking and sucking his cock. It took half an hour, but they succeeded. Michela resented her cousin a little for claiming the next ride on the American pene — after all, she was the one who had sucked it back to life — but she let Bea go next. Michela and Sofia watched with interest as Bea impaled herself on Richard’s cock and started bouncing.
It felt wonderful to both, and both moaned. Michela did her part by caressing Richard’s chest as she watched her cousin ride. Bea bounced, and her tits bounced, and her bottom slapped his thighs. She was wet and the exercise grew audibly sloppy before they reached their climaxes. Sofia hadn’t come on his cock, but Bea did, with a loud cry just as Richard spurted. Once again, the semen surged forcefully from his cock and both felt its heat. He grimaced, gratified by the orgasm but in pain from its aftermath: aching balls and stinging penis. “Santo cazzo! FUCK!” shouted naked Bea, so loudly that Michela worried about the neighbors. “Christo mio! It’s fucking boiling!” Like Sofia before her, Bea scrambled off Richard’s cock and stared at it, disbelieving. Richard was oblivious to the wonder that overcame the women. Bea, like Sofia, pulled the bottom half of her swimsuit on, lest the hot, mystical semen escape.
Michela needed an hour to get him ready for one last go. She was experienced and patient; the job required more than titillation — she needed to make love to him. She stroked his hair, smiling with affection, and gazed into his eyes. She asked him what he liked and, coyly, whether he thought she was pretty. How pretty? Very pretty? She whispered that he was bello, so handsome; how could a boy be so handsome? She nibbled and licked and encouraged him to kiss her chest, sighing gratefully when he sucked an engorged nipple. She petted his cock while dipping her fingers in her vagina, then touched his lips with her wet fingertips. He hardened gradually, steadily, and she finally climbed aboard.
All three women had taken him the same way, on top, astride him. Once Michela knew she had him she took her time, teasing him with Kegels in between gentle strokes and using her pussy to squeeze his swollen penis. She thought she felt his cock getting harder and hotter, just as the others had said, or maybe it was just her; she had aroused them both. She lowered her chest to his and began kissing his mouth while pumping her hips, slowly at first, then faster as they got warmer and wetter. Richard’s eventual ejaculation — his last of the night — was less violent than before, but still impressive. He groaned and clenched as his aching balls delivered a final steaming load. Michela sucked in her breath as she felt his discharge — my God, it really was hot — and then caressed him like a child, her arms about his head and neck, his face in her motherly breast. Richard was completely spent, and his balls were so sore, so fucking sore, as sore as they had been two days ago. As everyone rested, the women exchanged silent wondering glances. Finally, Richard stood and managed to get himself dressed. After accepting their thanks and tendering his own, he limped back to his room and fell into bed.
He left after breakfast the next morning. Leni and Yia-yia both bade him farewell at checkout. Yia-yia was happy and friendly; Leni was less so but bussed his cheek and suggested he leave an email address, one that he would actually read, in case they needed to get in touch. He was taken by a golf cart to the village, then by a van to the airport.
This is part one of three.