This is a story a friend told me about something she did on holiday once. The details are mine but the gist is real enough.
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I liked to pretend I was innocent back then. It was partly some fucked up id trip – I was trying to be the person my conservative parents wanted me to be. But on the other hand it was a reaction to that: I knew my desires and I knew what I was capable of. The innocent look was a temptation to turn heads and stiffen cocks.
I’m Olivia, though most people call me Oli. It sounds tomboyish and on some days I live up to that. I’m short (but not that short), with curved hips and a small bust; hair in a severe bob. A timeless beauty. Ha.
I was in Greece when this all happened, and I was 22. It was a Girls’ holiday. Me and some university friends. They were hungover and I signed up for a sightseeing trip to the archaeological ruins. I had a feeling something good was going to happen; or maybe I set out to find trouble. Either way it was a good day.
The coach left the sleepy village early. I waited with some others under the shade of a huge tree in the tiny square, outside the closed taverna. The air already smelled like olive wood and rosemary and hot stone. It was mostly older people who were there for the trip. I was in white loose slacks, silver sandals, and a loose white spaghetti-strap silk top. I had huge sunglasses on. I had a little canvas bag with a towel and my purse. Underneath I had worn my tightest and whitest bikini that sat high on my hips and flush over my small breasts. A broad broad hat. I had a few glances. I was 100% Audrey Hepburning
I saw him as soon as I stepped up into the air conditioned darkness of the bus. The tour guide. In the front seat. He was a local. Dark skin and curly hair. A thick but trim beard. Blue eyes beneath it all. I don’t know if he saw me shudder in pleasure but his smile back at me said a lot. I took a seat half way down and glanced at him a couple more times as the coach filled up. He caught my eye again and I crossed my legs.
We made our way through the countryside – past groves of trees and round bending mountain roads that felt unsuitable for a bus of this size. All the time he narrated what we were seeing in beautifully accented English. Every now and then he looked at me and I admit I blushed. My heat was racing, half anticipation half from the steep gorges outside the window.
We stopped in a pretty village for coffee and photographs. There was a viewing point that looked back down the valley to the sea. Herds of goats were dots, the ships streaks of white on the endless blue. He walked up to me, once he had finished talking to an older couple.
‘Constantine,’ he said, by way of greeting.
‘Olivia,’ I said.
He seemed to consider this and approve of it. ‘You are here alone?’
‘On this trip,’ I said, not giving any more away. The wind pulled at my hand brim and I pulled it down, a flash of toned arm and the angle where my breast meets my chest.
He gave a little shrug, a little smile. ‘You are interested in archaeology?’
‘I’m studying history,’ I said.
He nodded, in a serious and respectful way. A way that suggested his culture respected the life of the mind.
‘Me, architecture,’ he said. ‘I will show you the best parts.’ There was a double meaning for both of us, I’m sure, but neither of I let it show. We paused at the view. ‘Would you like a photo?’
I nodded, passed him my camera. I leant with my elbows back on the railing. I hadn’t meant to but I struck a pose, looking sideways, neck on display. I turned back and as if I was going to say something, or as if I had touched a thorn, parted my lips. Just a little. A sliver of dark. The lift of a smile. He smiled. Pressed the shutter. Handed me the camera back. Our fingers touched, mine slender and paler. Someone else asked if he could take their photo and he was off.
I was distracted. The memory of that slight contact. The soft of his accent. We drove on and parked on a hilltop. There were ruins all around. Pillars and half standing walls. To one side a more recent fort. There were other coaches too and more tourists in the dusty baked yellow of the turning spot. I frowned a little. It was less magical than I had hoped. We piled out into the beating heat and chirps of cicadas.
I saw him at the entrance gate, talking to the woman in the booth. She was a vampy Greek. Long dark hair and dark make up. Skinny in a way that must look incredible in a swimsuit. I felt the heat of jealousy. Strange but there it was. There were guides on the site and Constantine pointed one to us, an older man with a grey beard who began, as soon as we were near to lecture us at length in the heat. Yes it was interesting. But damn it was hot. We followed through excavated streets and the foundations of houses, through an amphitheater and round past a line of standing pillars. I felt sweaty and abandoned. Until….
‘Hey.’ He stood behind me without me having noticed. I jumped a little.
‘Hi.’ All was forgiven. My spartan had returned.
He held up a key. ‘Want to see the new area they’re excavating?’ I pouted a little. Ok, I wasn’t quite ready to forgive him for talking to the ticket-booth goth. ‘It’s in the shade,’ he said.
At that, I gave in. ‘God yes…’ I offered the sweetest and most grateful smile. He led me away from the back of the tour group.
We walked across a short rise to a metal door in a low building. He unlocked it with a key he produced. He went inside down a couple of steps, into the gloom. He held out his hand and I took it and gingerly stepped inside. It was cool but it was dark.
‘Wait,’ he said. He stepped off. The door clanged shut behind me. I began to doubt whether this was a good idea. Holidaymaker goes missing headlines ran across my vision. His steps moved. And then there was a click. Lights came on. I gasped.
We were in a bath house. An empty pool was ahead of us. The floors were mosaic and painting still clung to the plaster of the walls. There were turned over wheelbarrows and planks from the dig, with tools in buckets nearby. He smiled at me. Looked at the artwork looked back. I took a moment longer to consider them. And I blushed.
They were sexual scenes, all of them. A woman in a toga leant forward to take a man’s phallus in her mouth. Two women sat beside each other legs spread. Various men stood, fit and erect. I crept beside him and took his hand, as if I needed some reassurance in this strange place.
He pulled me close to him and kissed me. I may have squealed a little. My head tilted back and my hat fell to the floor. My hands went to the curls on his head. His beard scratched pleasingly against my face. I took his side and felt the tautness of his abdomen under his linen shirt.
He was pleasingly firm. His hands went to my waist and he squeezed my arse, and at that he growled in his throat. Our hips pushed at each other. I could feel his erection and I stroked it through the material as I looked into his eyes. I like to think I still looked a little innocent. Just a little. He loosened my trousers and they whispered down my legs, leaving my in the white bikini panties.
He held me close as he rubbed my pussy through the material: long, slow, firm strokes. He explored my shape, the curve of my mound, the hardness of the hood of my clit, the heat between my thighs. I pushed my tongue into his mouth to show I liked it. I unbuttoned his trousers and put my hand in his shorts. His cock rubbed up the inside of his wrist and my fingertips tangled in his bush. I stroked it softly. He moved his hips to press his shaft into my palm.
His fingers became more urgent, pushing my panties to the side to stroke me. He licked a finger briefly and then probed my opening, feeling the first wetness and causing a lot more. I made little moans. My bag had fallen to the floor at some point and the towel had spilled out. We tumbled onto it, knees then sides, neither of us willing to stop touching.
I pushed him onto his back and straddled him. I undid his shirt and kissed his chest and his mouth. He lifted my shirt off and squeezed my breasts through the bikini top. I could see his eyes widen at how hard my nipples were, at their size in proportion to my tits. I ground on him, rubbed my pussy up and down over his cock. His fingers grabbed my hips as I coated his length.
I lifted myself, angled him and lowered myself onto him. I moaned deep as he spread me wide. He let me take him before he pulled me down onto him to take me me. He used his length and strength to fuck me. I felt deliciously helpless even though I was on top. His cock made me feel small and his hands -one in my hair the other on my ass, seemed to wrap me. I arched my back and flicked up my top so my nipples grazed his lips. He sucked them firmly and hungrily. My breath and my moan fluttered around the echoey space as I felt myself become even wetter on him. His hand was squeezing my ass, one finger grazed my asshole. I may have squealed a little. Maybe a lot. I may have given him a naughty boy sort of look. I may have clenched my pussy around his cock and sucked his neck. He fucked up into me.
‘Behind,’ I whispered to him. ‘Take me from behind.’
He repositioned me on the towel. My hips were up to him. He pulled the bikini bottoms down to my knees. My toned thighs were pressed together. He shed his trousers and mounted me smoothly, his shaft straight into my ready pussy. He was gentle for about thirty seconds. He leant over me and shafted slowly, deeply, squeezing my breasts while he whispered in Hellenic what I can only assume was filth. Then he fucked me. He took both hips and sped up. I loved it. I felt so good. His hips slapped against my ass. His thumb teased my asshole again and I started to moan louder. My thighs and hips trembled. He felt I was close and kept it up, stroke after stroke until my little pussy squeezed tight and I pressed my face against the towel and the hard floor as I did orgasm backflips in space. I think he liked it and I felt him get harder too. He pulled back and I heard him moan as he spattered my ass and thighs with cum.
We breathed hard in the cool dusty air. All around us the ancient pornography looked very pleased. We stood and dressed awkwardly. The towel did not complain as it was used for unexpected purposes. I straitened my bikini and dressed. He fixed his trousers and shirt. I gave him my number.
‘I’m here for another week,’ I said, grinning.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/8z139v/fm_lust_in_the_ancient_ruins