The Greek Landlord

The place I had rented for two weeks was private in all respects. It was high up towards the top of an ancient village, surrounded by empty land and ruins and concealed by a walled courtyard. Just right for nude sunbathing and wandering around naked. I was taking a year out from college to explore some of the world and had gotten as far as this remote Greek island before deciding to stop for longer than just one night. As soon as I’d got off the ferry I was approached by an army of locals waving signs advertising rooms to rent and it was easy to find one I wanted. I headed straight for the only girl among the touts. Dark haired, slim and with welcoming eyes she asked me quietly if I needed somewhere to stay. She told me it was high up, away from the tourists and that it was cheap. The remoteness sounded inviting to me and I imagined her visiting to make the beds, maybe staying after to unmake them with me too, if you see what I mean.

Then she introduced me to her father and she passed me over to him as if I was a bag of shopping. Before I had a chance to flirt or even ask her name, she was back into the crowd of new arrivals touting for business again. The father grunted something at me in Greek and indicated a truck. As I started to climb up into the back with my rucksack he took my luggage from me and lifted it in as if it weighed nothing. I was mainly full of college books I had yet to read and they weighed a ton. Before he could give me the same treatment I scrambled in, afraid that if he lifted me in his grip I’d be crushed. He was at least six foot, about forty five years old I’d say judging from the flecks of grey in his moustache, but his muscles practically ripped his shirt as he manoeuvred my rucksack into the flat bed. 

I smiled as best I could, already worrying about where he was going to take me, and what he might do. I’m pretty tough, I work out and play football, but there was no way I could defend myself against the father should he turn nasty.

But I needn’t have worried. He drove me up through an enchanting village, honking his horn at the locals and waving from the cab. He seemed pleasant enough, and when we reached the house he was as charming as you could wish for. He showed me around, agreed the very low price his daughter had promised, and told me that he could always be found in the village if I needed anything.

Two days later I ran out of water. I had got to know my way around by then and had no trouble tracking him down in the village. I explained that the tap had suddenly run dry and asked what I could do about it. He told me, in broken English, that the house occasionally had this problem but it required him to come and fix it. He would come up in the afternoon, if I could manage until then. We made an arrangement that I would leave the front door open and he could let himself in. He’d only need about ten minutes to do something with the water pump outside and then he’d be off, shutting the doors behind him so I’d know he had been.

That sorted I went back to the house to collect my things for the beach. It was September, the weather was still hot and, coming from the cold climbs of North Yorkshire, I was not used to such heat. It drained my body, emptied me of moisture and, since being in Greece, had led me to understand why the locals took siestas in the hottest part of the day. By the time I’d returned to the house and packed my beach bag it was just after noon and my body was weary. The beach was a mile away and by foot, at that time of day, was a hard slog to get to and from. 

I decided that I would go later. Right then I needed a sleep. I could wake up feeling refreshed later in the afternoon and the heat would have died a little. I threw my soaked tee shirt onto the chair and flopped onto the bed. Remembering that the landlord might call I decided to keep my shorts on. He shouldn’t need to come into the bedroom but just in case…

Before long, drowsiness came over me and I felt myself drifting. Far away I could just make out the sound of birds chattering, a goat bleating somewhere on the mountain above and the occasional vehicle passing in the valley far below. Through approaching sleep my mind flashed up images of the daughter wading out of the cool sea, her hair falling long across her shoulders, water dripping from her breasts and running in little streams down her soft, naked flesh. My cock was pressing against the bed beneath me but it would have to wait until I woke up. Maybe I’d have more dreams of her as I slept and would wake with new images I could recall when I beat myself off later.

I don’t know what I dreamt about but whatever it was, it was interrupted by a sound from the next room. I didn’t jump up in panic, I knew it would only be the dad come to fix the water and allowed myself to remain in that half sleep where you know what is going on around you but couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. Almost paralysed in a numb, contented way. And then I drifted back into afternoon dreams.

I heard breathing in the room; someone was standing behind me, over me and watching me. I heard a quiet cough and ignored it. It was o.k. Only the landlord letting me know he’d finished and was leaving. I heard the rustle of material and a gentle clatter of a belt buckle. The dull thud of boots being kicked off and discarded. More breathing and then the sound of clothing being dropped to the floor.

The mattress beneath me moved as if someone was putting weight on it and I dipped slightly to one side, and then the other. Someone was kneeling at the foot of the bed. But dreams are meant to be like this I thought; real and yet safe. New experiences happen in dreams and, because they’re not real it doesn’t matter. I drifted further into the comfort of sleep feeling only a presence behind me and security that I was in safe hands.

Hands that touched the soles of my feet and slid them to one side, parting my legs gently, and allowing cool air to explore around the tops of my legs where my football shorts hung soft and silky around my thighs. Cooling air that dried the sweat gathering behind my knees and chilled my flesh. I felt my ankles get taken in large rough skinned, wide hands that gripped just tightly enough to pin my legs to the bed. And the hands started to slide upwards, gently massaging my muscles, sending me further into nowhere land and sending shivers of pleasure through my sleeping body. They reached the back of my knees and a strong finger pressed into the flesh there. I’d never felt a sensation like that before, either asleep or awake and it felt good. A stronger, tougher finger joined it and made small circles, all the time pressing and massaging. 

And then I felt the hands slide further up until they gripped my upper legs, just below my shorts. The tips of the rough fingers slid in under the material and played on me, one after the other in a slow rhythm, pressing one at a time in sequence. The hands started kneading me there; a little more pressure was applied as they moved higher up under the material until they pressed on the bottom of my cheeks, sliding to the sides as if to feel everything that was there. The hair on the back of my legs was standing up now, something was telling me that this dream was going in the wrong direction and that I should wake up. But another part of me was being lulled, hypnotised by the gentle stroking of rough hands, sending me further into a place I’d never been before and I was enjoying it.

My shorts were being taken down. My cock, still rock hard, was pressing its circumcised head against the waste band, caught there as the shorts were dragged away. My arse lifted of its own accord, freeing my cock and allowing the shorts to be removed completely. I felt the hands start at my ankles again, slowly sliding up the back of my legs until they held one cheek apiece. There they paused, holding my arse in a strong, not to be resisted, grip. 

Something made me part my legs further. I don’t know if I did that or if the unseen dream-force moved them but they spread. And I knew that the hands were spreading the crack of my arse and opening it to the afternoon air and allowing the unseen visitor to get a full view of my flesh, my light blonde hair covering the white, smooth skin that gave way to a darker recess where my tight hole was now being watched. 

And then these big hands were on my sides, holding me by the hips as two powerful thumbs rolled and massaged my arse cheeks, pulling me open and then pushing me closed as I felt myself being lifted from the bed. This inside of my legs brushed against something else, something new. I felt coarse hairs scrape at my skin as I was pulled back and up, felt hard muscles against my inner thigh while all the time the vice like grip that controlled me allowed no resistance, and yet the grip was gentle and careful.

I realised something. Through my sleep I knew what was going on and I knew that I should wake up. But I also knew that it was too late. I stood no chance of escape even if I was awake. Asleep I could imagine that this was still a dream and that this was not happening.

But when I felt breath on my arse cheeks I knew it was happening. I kept my eyes closed and I kept still. Allowing him, as it was definitely a him, to do whatever he was going to do. It didn’t matter; I was asleep so this was not happening.

The breath suddenly became warm and moist and I felt the rough hair of a moustache above a pair of soft lips. I was being kissed, first on one side and then the other. The hands had drawn me up to a face, my balls hung free in the air and my cock stuck out into the empty space beneath me. And I felt the kisses turn to licking, a smooth, hot tongue was drooling across the light furriness of my backside, pausing now and then to kiss. And to take a gentle bite. Teeth in a powerful jaw dug into me just enough to tell me that resistance would lead to pain; compliance would result in something more rewarding. I could not resist. I knew who this was and I had seen his strength. I realised that asleep or awake I belonged to the dad now, and that was that.

My thoughts were interrupted. The mouth and the moustache had moved, centred in on my crack, right at the top. And they were now moving downwards. My heart raced, I knew where he was going. My crack was pushed wide by the rough stubbled chin and the heat from its scratching was intensified by the heat from the mouth that licked and bit as it pushed harder against me. Until I felt something press against my hole. It clamped up tight, nothing had touched it before and its reaction was instinctive. I felt something wet and hard jab at it, a tongue, but still it resisted.