Andreas Cantacuzino and the intern
In Greece many men still carry the weight of age-old tradition: stoicism passed down from generations that equated masculinity with silence. From village coffee shops to city boardrooms, expressing vulnerability can be seen as weakness, unbecoming of a “true man.” Strength doesn’t lie in emotional honesty. Modern Greek men face new pressures: financial uncertainty, family expectations, cultural pride and wanting to change
Stepping inside the bathroom of the cabana felt like entering the private world of someone who understood that seduction didn’t start in the bedroom, it started with perfect detail and design.
The floors of the caban were polished, ivory-hued, Calacatta marble, quarried exclusively in the Apuan Alps of Carrara, Italy. It was cool underfoot, each tile veined in elegant gold threading that shimmered beneath the glow of recessed lighting. The walls were covered in hand-laid, artisanal, Zellige tiles from Morocco, irregular enough to catch the light in unexpected ways, giving the space a quiet, flickering life of its own.
At its center stood a freestanding tub, deep, sculptural, formed from a block of Calacatta Borghini with flowing grey and gold veins.
The tub was flanked by twin vanities crafted from recycled teak, their surfaces pristine except for a precisely curated arrangement of lead crystal bottles and jars salvaged from the SS Patris that struck a reef and sank in thirty fathoms near Kea Island in 1868.
The ‘objets d’art’ caught the light like gemstones, amber oils, rose-colored toners, smoky quartz-hued elixirs. all unlabelled to outsiders, but unmistakably tailored for Andreas. Each bore the quiet weight of exclusivity and contents flown in from France.
Heavy, ostentatiously brushed gold taps twisted open with a subtle resistance, the kind that spoke of quality. The handles weren’t plated, they were solid gold. Warm to the touch, they felt like heirlooms disguised as plumbing. Even the drain covers were ornate, laser-etched with an intricate Grecian key motif. Andreas was playing with visitors, taunting them.
Above the vanities, backlit mirrors floated slightly off the wall, casting a soft halo around anyone standing before them. The reflection was always flattering, always intentional. A ventilation system purred almost inaudibly, constantly filtering and refreshing the air, carrying and dispersing the scent of vetiver, fig leaf, and something darker, perhaps frankincense or oud.
The shelving was minimal but immaculate. On them rested grooming items that bordered on the religious: shaving brushes with dark wood handles and silvertip badger bristles, razors with Damascus steel blades, tubs of thick, artisanal creams infused with bergamot. Nearby, folded linen towels, snow-white and weighty, were stacked in precise symmetry, each still warm from the hidden warming drawer beneath the counter.
In a recessed niche near the shower, the real theater began. The walk-in shower itself was framed in smoked glass, triple-jetted and digitally controlled, with settings for tropical rain, steam therapy, or waterfall cascade. Overhead, embedded speakers hummed with faint orthodox themes, shifting the room’s energy from restorative to provocative with a single touch.
Lighting could be adjusted by degrees, not just brightness, but temperature: sunrise gold, candle amber, moonlit silver. Every element obeyed a mood, not a function.
This was not a place for convenience, for taking a shower. It was a chamber where touch ruled everything, from the softness of the towels to the frictionless glide of silk bathrobes hanging on golden pegs. It was seduction without a word: ritual, privacy, immaculate design. A room that knew exactly what it was made for—and who it was meant to reveal.
The water spilled over Andreas’ shoulders in thin sheets, carving rivulets down skin worn smooth by decades of sun and salt water. Andreas stood with one hand braced against the stone wall of the shower, his breathing measured, eyes closed. The other hand was used to jerk himself a little. He didn’t shiver from the water, it was warm, but from something else: the rising pressure inside his chest, the quiet kind that didn’t roar, just tightened.
He hadn’t planned on this sort of meeting with anyone. Of all the scenarios with Tony he’d run through in his mind, how the intern might charm him, provoke him, irritate him, this wasn’t one of them. He hadn’t planned on Tony staying in his world long enough to make him feel anything at all. Here he was. Andreas had passed the fight or flight reaction an hour ago.
Tony had all the calm of the imaginary quiet guy from next door. He wasn’t pushy. He didn’t come with declarations or pleas. That’s what made him dangerous to Andreas. His presence didn’t demand attention; it earned it. There was a steadiness there in Tony that pierced through Andreas’ layers of control more than lust or flattery ever could.
Andreas kept his eyes trained on the stone tiles, jaw tight. Despite the intense luxury, the engineered privacy, thick walls, jamming devices, and heavy security, he couldn’t shake the feeling of exposure to the world. Not just the physical, but the cultural world. Greek men could be so precious about their masculinity and Andreas feared being seen as Πούστης (Poústis) or a poofter. Greek was full of insulting words for Gay men and in moments of weakness, Andreas could hear them all directed towards him.
If anyone found out about him and another man. If a single photo made it into the wrong inbox, he knew exactly what would happen.
Andreas knew his name would sit in bold at the top of a hundred Greek gossip sites and half a dozen political broadsheets. Cantacuzino Shame. From Shipping Tycoon to Tabloid Scandal. They wouldn’t print photos of the cabana or the soft way Tony had touched him, they’d print headlines about corruption, abuse of power, age difference, arrogance. They’d make him a predator, a relic of a Europe that people loved to ridicule. A cautionary tale in linen trousers.
He imagined the smirks, the radio chatter, the jokes whispered in Greek cafés over coffee. Of course the rich guy went for a kid. These types always do. It wouldn’t matter that Tony was legal, consenting, even fully in control. Greek masculinity wasn’t about nuance. It was about optics. Andreas had spent forty years mastering his.
Andreas wasn’t ashamed of being attracted to Tony. He was ashamed that it mattered so much. That this moment, this hunger, felt different. Softer. Riskier.
People often mistook Andreas for a sexually dominant man. He wasn’t as hypermasculine, cold or authoritarian as they imagined although Andreas let them think he was. Misperceptions sometimes kept things simple. That mask had cracks now that both amused and terrified Andreas.
He turned slightly under the shower water and caught Tony’s profile through the haze. The boy, no, the man, stood steady, rinsing his hair, not watching, not waiting. Just being. Tony had slipped into the bathroom quietly and stood under a shower head.
God help him, Andreas wanted Tony. Not just his body, though that would’ve been easier. He wanted his attention. His laughter. His patience and that, he realized, was the real danger. Not the cameras. Not the headlines.
The wanting.
Tony had stepped into the shower with the kind of horny boldness he’d worn like a second skin. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t glance back for permission. Tony adjusted the water to warm, and let it pour over him like a new skin. The cascade hit his shoulders, ran down his chest, and carved paths over his stomach in slow, steady flows. At first, it felt familiar. Comforting. Control disguised as sensuality. That early confidence didn’t last.
Tony’s boldness in the pool when he had exposed himself had softened into something quieter now. His eyes stayed trained on the tiled wall ahead, gaze fixed just slightly above the line of the soap shelf. His jaw was locked, muscles fluttering there like something unsettled beneath the skin. Two feet away, Andreas stood beneath his own stream of water, silent, steady, almost reverent in the way he leaned into the wall masturbating. The sound of both showers echoed gently between them, a rhythmic pulse that only made the distance feel more acute.
Tony knew this type, or at least, he thought he did. He'd seen men like Andreas before encountered after conferences, board meetings or even vacations. They were reserved, commanding, draped in wealth and Mediterranean masculinity like it was custom-tailored. They were always in control. Always decisive. Always gone in the morning. There was usually a driver waiting, neatly folded high denomination banknotes tucked under the phone, and silence. Not cruelty. Not even dishonesty. Just absence. The first time a guy did a ‘cash and dash’, Tony was left feeling like a hustler. Maybe sexual partners actually thought he was a hustler but at least they left €500 notes.
Tony’s uncles had been like the archetypal Mediterranean man. Men with booming laughter who talked about loyalty and family but slipped away when the wives weren’t looking. They loved their sons, disciplined their daughters, and expected silence from everyone else. Tony had watched, young, quiet, observant. He’d learned how to exist around men like that, Tony learned to be charming, unbothered, and easy to walk away from.
Tony assumed when he met Andreas that he knew what was to come. A billionaire who was used to getting what he wanted, curious but cautious, seeking novelty dressed up as discretion. Now, under the shower, Tony looked at Andreas and he wasn’t so sure.
Earlier, Andreas hadn’t touched Tony in the pool. Hadn't looked over. No grazing glances, no subtle leaning in. Just quiet breathing, the kind that seemed to hold something inside. It wasn't restraint from Andreas, it was something deeper, older, more vulnerable. Andreas looked like he was jerking himself as an invitation. A sigh of his submission.
“Fuck! I hadn't seen that one as a possibility.” thought Tony.
Tony had stepped into the cabana with a familiar script in hand, he would be charming, cheeky, in control. He would engage in playful innuendo here, a teasing glance there. Something in Andreas’s stillness back at the pool, the way he hadn’t taken the bait, hadn’t moved at all, unsettled Tony. The usual rhythms weren’t working, and Tony could feel it now: the creeping recognition that maybe, just maybe, he’d misread everything.
The idea of Andreas being a bottom both frightened and thrilled Tony.
The water beat down softly, cloaking them both in a veil of mist and sound. Steam curled up from the stone floor, collecting in the corners like hesitation. Neither man moved much. Not yet.
Tony stood with the water running down his back, spine rigid, shoulders drawn tight. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, watching the rivulets slide down the tile as if it could anchor him. The boldness that had brought him into this shower with another man, an older, powerful man, had softened, caved in on itself.
“What is he playing at? When will he make his move on me?” Tony kept asking himself what was going through Andreas’ head.
Tony wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. He just didn’t know what to do next.
Momentarily the two guys kissed, briefly. It wasn’t rushed or sloppy, it had been charged with suggestion, electric with the echo of a possibility. Hands had found skin. The air had shifted. Then Andreas had said it.
“I want you to take the lead, be the man, top me.”
The words hung somewhere above the falling water, unabsorbed.
Tony hadn’t answered right away. His mind had gone still in the worst way, filled only with the distant hum of misalignment. Tony wished he hadn’t gone silent but there you have it.
Andreas, meanwhile, stood beneath his own stream of water, turned partly away revealing his back, revealing his buttocks. One hand was pressed to the wall, his head bowed slightly. The quiet distance between them felt thicker, the kind of silence that draws attention to itself. Andreas was beginning to feel judged.
Andreas thought maybe he’d misstepped. He hadn’t said it like a dare, just as a truth. Still, he saw Tony withdraw, not in body, but in spirit. A subtle shift. A shortness in breath. Now the younger man seemed all but unreachable, standing two feet away and yet impossibly distant.
“I didn’t mean to confuse you,” Andreas said, voice low, nearly lost under the rush of water. He stopped jerking himself and his right hand covered his cock involuntarily.
Tony flinched slightly at the sound. He turned his head a few degrees, not enough to meet his gaze, but enough to acknowledge it.
“I’m not confused,” Tony said, though it wasn’t entirely true. “I just didn’t think, I mean, I thought you’d be different.”
“Different how?” the mood had changed and Andreas was feeling defensive.
“Like the other older guys. I thought you’d be a top.” The words escaped before Tony could make them sound better. “The ones who take what they want. Clean break. No mess. Cash and dash”
Andreas exhaled slowly. “Do you want that from me?” Now Andreas did sound disappointed for the first time since meeting Tony as he saw Tony become a little dull.
“No.” Tony’s reply came quickly, too quickly. He added, more cautiously, “I just didn’t think I had a choice. I’m always the bottom, I never get a choice"
That landed harder than either expected. It sounded like Tony was blaming Andreas for the ills of the world.
Andreas straightened, letting the water pour down his face for a moment. “You do with me. You always did.”
Tony didn’t answer. His heart was a little too loud in his ears.
Andreas turned, not closing the space, but at least meeting Tony’s profile. “I didn’t say it because I wanted you to perform a role like an actor. I said it because I trust you.”
So Tony stood still, trying to decide if he felt seen, or simply miscast. Either way, he wasn’t walking out.
They stood in that silence, not in avoidance, not in shame, but in pause, each man learning how to breathe in the presence of the other.
Tony remained still. He could feel Andreas, but not close enough to touch. That moment between them, what had flickered and then faltered, still hovered in the mist like a question neither knew quite how to answer. Tony glanced sideways, meeting Andreas’ profile. The older man was watching the stream of water from his own spout, eyes unfocused with something, not anger but contemplation.
“I didn’t mean to pull back,” Tony said finally, his voice soft, careful.
Andreas blinked once. “I didn’t mean to throw you into anything you weren’t ready for.”
“I’m not sure it’s about being ready,” Tony admitted. “I’ve just never been asked to do that.”
Andreas turned slightly toward him now, the water trailing like threads down his torso. “To lead, to be the top?” Andreas realised that Tony was a virgin when it came to being a top.
Tony nodded. “To be the one trusted with being the top. It’s easier when I can just play the role of bottom. When I know the other guy has the map. You know what I’m like.”
Andreas gave a faint smile. “That’s what I always did from being younger. Took the map. Drew the lines.”
Tony listened, “Now you don’t want to?”
“I think I want something more mutual. Less about choreography. More about what feels real.” Tony once more heard Andreas talking about authenticity.
That landed with Tony in a way he hadn’t expected. Slowly, he stepped out from under his stream of water and into Andreas’. The water shifted slightly with the movement, splashing off their bodies in new directions.
For a long moment, they didn’t touch. Just stood there, wet, open, naked, watching each other. Then Tony lifted a hand and let it rest, gently, on Andreas’ chest. He could feel the pat on Andreas’ skin. It grounded him.
“You do realize,” Tony said, his mouth curving slightly, “you don’t make anything easy for me. I came here thinking you just wanted you to fuck me!”
“No, I didn’t realize that,” Andreas replied, “but I think I’m done making things easy for anyone.”
Tony’s hand slid down, slow and respectful, fingers brushing a line of water on Andreas before falling back to his side. Not a come-on, not yet. Just a connection to another man.
They both stayed under the stream, letting warmth do what words couldn’t. Something not quite surrender, not quite a decision, unfolded in the space between heartbeats. Still naked. Still trying to see without misreading and neither moved away.
Tony looked down at the stream of water running past his toes. “I guess I was working from a different script going back years.”
“So was I.” said Andreas “and for me, I have almost no experience with men”.
Andreas tried to exhale the tightness in his chest. Too much time had passed. He dismissed the possibility that a younger man could top him and take the lead and he realised that his own verbal cues weren’t so clear after all.
Tony swallowed. “You thought I’d lead. That I’d dominate.”
Andreas gave a wry, apologetic smile, voice barely audible. “It wasn’t personal. I just assumed. I guess I didn’t work things out at all.” Andreas felt rejected and that maybe he was way past his sell by date.
“It always is personal.”
There was no anger. No shame although Andreas now felt a huge chasm between himself and Tony like Andreas had outed himself to who knows what. Andreas was afraid. What would Tony do with the information he now had?
They finished standing under the water in silence. Not cold. Not turned away. Just still.
When Tony reached to shut off the water, Andreas did the same. They stepped from the shower, nothing had broken between them. Something had simply shifted.
The steady hum of the ceiling fan was barely noticeable beneath the weight of unspoken tension. Andreas stood by the open window, shoulders slightly hunched, not from cold, but from the unmistakable heaviness of embarrassment. His fingertips traced aimlessly along the edge of a nearby sideboard, as though seeking the right words in the grain of the wood.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he said, barely louder than the breeze rustling the linen curtain. “Wasn’t always so unsure.” Andreas was walking around naked.
Tony looked up but said nothing. He knew this wasn’t the time for quick replies.
Andreas exhaled slowly. “When I was younger, men like me didn’t have the space to ask questions. You were either solid, straight, married, tough, or you kept your desires buried so deep they only surfaced in your sleep or after three whiskeys too many.” He rubbed the back of his neck, still facing away. “Greek men, hell, even the most educated ones, are raised to treat softness like a flaw. We laugh too loud, chest bump, call each other ‘malaka’ like punctuation. It's theater. It's survival.”
He turned, leaning against the window frame. “I’ve been with women. I married one. I had a son. Did everything I was supposed to do. The few times I broke that pattern, it wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t gentle. It was rushed. Anonymous. A hotel in Frankfurt. A friend of a friend in Istanbul. I never learned how to be with a man like a human being. Not really.”
Tony shifted slightly. He was listening, trying not to get swallowed by his own confusion. He hadn’t expected this kind of confession from a billionaire.
“So when I let you in today around the pool,” Andreas continued, “I was walking a tightrope I’ve never balanced on properly. I thought I’d prepared myself for it. Thought I knew what I wanted or what you wanted.”
He smiled, wry and tired. “Turns out I didn’t work things out too well or give you enough warning.”
Tony looked at him, eyes softening. “It’s not like I had it all figured out either.”
“You seemed so sure.” Andreas’ voice carried no accusation. Just observation. “You could have taken the lead. You were kind. Decisive. Comfortable. I guess I picked the wrong guy to do the job.”
Tony gave a short laugh. “Comfortable? Christ!. I’ve been out of my depth since I got off that fucking fishing boat and met you. I was waiting for you to fuck me!”
He ran a hand through his damp hair. “I have a reputation. Your people probably told you that much. I’m confident, yeah. Flirty, maybe too much. Hookups happen. They’re easy. Physical. No expectations.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s easy to be ‘the bottom’ when nothing really matters. I lay on a bed with my feet around my ears, big deal. I wake up with a sore ass and a few big bills on the night stand.”
Andreas studied him. He saw something beyond the bronzed surface and bright eyes. There was a flicker of vulnerability, recognition, maybe, that disarmed him.
“Today mattered?” Andreas asked.
Tony didn’t rush his answer. “Yeah. That’s what messed with me.”
A pause stretched between them, not uncomfortable now, just spacious.
“I thought I knew how to handle myself,” Tony said. “Then when things flipped and you wanted me to top, when I realized you weren’t looking to dominate, when I felt you hesitate, I didn’t know how to respond. I thought I’d misread everything.”
“I did too,” Andreas admitted. “Yeah I wanted to run when you hesitated.”
They held each other’s gaze, the edges of tension beginning to dull into something less jagged. It was Andreas who stepped forward first, slowly, like a ship approaching the edge of a dock.
Tony stood and folded into him without hesitation.
Their embrace was long, uncertain at first. Andreas’ arms circled Tony’s shoulders, not forcefully, but with intention. Tony pressed into the older man’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of breath, the solid weight of someone finally letting go of an old life. It wasn’t desire that passed between them in that moment, it was recognition.
Both had come into this encounter with preconceptions. Andreas, guided and driven by history, by masculinity carved in stone and smoke-filled bars. Tony, armed with charm and horny assumptions, mistaking control for intimacy. Now, in the quiet aftermath, the armor had slipped, and what remained was far more human.
“We both want the same thing,” Tony murmured into his shoulder.
Andreas nodded, eyes closed. “To be known. To be safe.”
“To be seen,” Tony added.
Tony pulled back just enough to look Andreas in the eye. “You’re not some predatory old guy. You’re thoughtful. Careful. Kind. That’s more disarming than anything else and yeah you want me to top, who knew?”
A flicker of gratitude crossed Andreas’ face. “You’re not just a pretty intern with a fast mouth and a faster exit. You’re real. Capable.”
They smiled, tentative, genuine and very, very Greek.
It was strange, in the end, how quickly expectations dissolved when both men allowed themselves to be more than their assigned roles. Age had nothing to do with it. Neither did experience. What mattered was that they stood, naked and uncertain, in front of someone willing to see them without artifice.
Andreas, stern, always a step removed, didn’t let go as quickly as expected. Tony, brash, guarded in his own way, surprised himself by leaning in. Just slightly. Enough. Neither spoke.
This had become something weightier, warmer. A truce. Maybe even recognition.
They’d misread each other from the start, too many assumptions piled on too quickly. Age, background, the way they held their masculine silences like weapons. One saw arrogance where there was insecurity; the other arrogance instead of self doubt. They'd each drawn their own lazy sketch and called it truth.
Andreas cleared his throat, a small sound that broke the spell. “You’re not who I thought you were,” he muttered.
Tony looked up and gave a wry smile. “Neither are you.”
They both stepped back, clearly a little embarrassed, a little uncertain.
