He did not consider himself a good or gentle man. Three years ago he might have. But Orest Wahrhold had abandoned such self-conceptions, declared them naive and outright harmful. The world was rough, cynical and always trying to pound you hard into submission. So can a man be blamed if he mirrored that, had Orest thought. Rough and hard it was, rough and hard it will be.
Orest felt sweat crawl on his back under his shirt. He was face down in the stone and dirt on a small Greek island with the Mediterranean sun baking him. As a tall and blonde German man, the sun rays were rough on him. One had to be fully covered in white fabric to survive doing archeological work in the early summer, and still, he was miserable in his sweaty white clothes. He felt ugly in some strange way, as if he was required by edict to hide.
Dusting layers of sand off pieces of broken clay carafes and chunks of forged bronze gave Orest a lot of time to ruminate. He thought of that better world in the past, the one where he would spend a few hours every day on Delos, engrossed in the ancient designs and mysteries of that magnificent island, and then from the afternoon until midnight, he would be on Mykonos drilling magnificent boys.
Male beauty and magnificence come in different forms and materials, and an archeologist of Orest’s calibre, at least in his own estimation, would, in a good world, use his hard tools and aesthetic sensibilities probing and penetrating all that good stuff on those two neighbouring islands.
Orest’s opinion was that if a man cannot spot a pair of supreme boy buttocks behind trousers in a crowd of people, the kind of warm and tender buttocks that respond to touch so delicately and hug dicks so lovingly, then that man cannot spot different types of marble or detect a case of superior contrapposto from mere fragments. Or, for that matter, a man who cannot fiddle with a boy’s butthole at sufficient precision and knowledge so that the boy is dripping, moaning and begging for explosive sexual release, that is a man who should not be anywhere near uncovering a great site of historical significance, penetrating its layered, ancient truths.
Orest had moved between sites for a few years since he had been pushed aside. For the last six months, he was working on a small and remote island in the Aegean Sea. It was a barely known island, with very steep cliffs surrounded by currents that made the island inaccessible by boats for days, even weeks, if the weather was bad. The ancient records barely mention the place, and when they do, they are barely readable, mystical and spooky tales. Its greatest archeological fame is that Doctor Wildeman, a famous archeologist in the 19th century, went raving mad after a year on the island.
Doctor Xenakis was the current lead archaeologist on the island. He was distracted, well past his prime, and had not published anything of note. And there were Orest and Samuel as the two junior team members. On the top of a hill lived four locals, all old men, who tilled the soil as if the last few centuries of technological development had not happened. And there was a small, exclusive and very private resort with few guests and staff, maybe twenty-five persons in total.
It goes without saying that there was no bustling nightclub or half-naked gay beach where Orest could hunt for willing targets for his fat dick and insatiable sex drive.
“Orest, we have done enough for today. It will be a stormy night. Help me cover up and we can return to our cottages,” said Doctor Xenakis in his usual slow and deep voice as he scratched his beard.
It was Orest and Samuel who did most of the work to prepare for the stormy night. Doctor Xenakis was tired and had evidently lost his interest in discovery, even in the real world, it seemed. A few times, Orest had seen the aged archeologist walk up to the locals on the hill. Perhaps retirement planning for the unmarried man, Orest had thought. The sooner, the better, he added when his mood was particularly unkind to the unproductive elder.
Samuel had more spirit and strength. He was mid-twenty to late-twenty and from America and clearly smart. Orest was unsure how Samuel had ended up at this lowly dig, however. The Mediterranean had no shortage of places to uncover clay, bronze and marble, and spin narratives about hidden treasure, lost wisdom and the violent death of an era gone by.
Samuel was kind and competent, but also an introvert. It almost seemed to hurt him to speak. He was extremely humble, did not boast or self-promote. Must be hell to be an American with that personality, Orest thought, since it seemed, at least from afar, that life on that continent was a never-ending stage performance of confidence and high-decibel self-promotion. Better be born a Swede or a Finn if that’s how the roll of the personality dice ended up.
Had Orest been his old self, he might have tried to learn more of the inner life of Samuel and his perspective on life, the world and the universe. As things were presently, however, the taciturn Samuel was not good company for the evenings, so Orest spent many hours in solitude reading, ruminating and jerking off. He figured that Samuel did the same.
As a man in his late thirties, now was the time to be out there, experienced but not yet tired, compete and conquer, fight the good fight, and all that, then claim his prize in the form of amazing ass and hot boys. Orest was aware, but he felt unable to do something about it, which only added more tragedy to his ruminations and choice of reading materials.
As the wind began to shake the bushes and howl in crevices in the rock formations, Orest turned his mind to the book of the moment, Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse. There was something apt about it, a German man on the edge of lunacy, or something like that.
The men on the island could take comfort in the fact that this storm was nothing new to these lands and their aged buildings. Exact dates of construction were not well documented, but the white-painted stone and mud houses on the island were centuries old at least and had stood the test of time. Howling winds could be safely ignored and increasing darkness outside was no challenge to the candles or lightbulbs on the inside. With off-grid electricity from solar panels and batteries, hand-pumped water from deep wells and a generous stock of wax candles, the men would not have to suffer from the storm in their rooms. Unless, that is, they ventured outside for some reason.
To Orest, there were such reasons, however. Although this was no island with the pleasures of Mykonos, beautiful Greek beaches with chiseled chests and perky butts, or late-night dance floors, there was one peculiar feature of the island that a man with Orest’s predilections could not help but lust for.
A few months ago, Orest had returned from the dig to his dwelling to collect a reference book to analyze a strangely shaped piece of bronze he had unearthed. When he did, he had seen three handsome young men walk up the stairs from the harbour and head towards the buildings of the resort. Any handsome young man was worth paying attention to, even more so in Orest’s sex-deprived state. However, what made Orest’s trousers strain precariously tight around his crotch was that the three young men wore nothing but sandals and the tiniest of loincloths.
The thin fabric barely covered their dicks and left their buttocks fully exposed. It was just the most delicate pieces of smooth, firm and naturally tanned boy booty on display. Though Orest was separated from the triple by at least a hundred metres, the wind carried their fresh scent all the way to Orest. Their bodies looked a bit moist, probably from a quick swim in the ocean, so the memory of the salty taste of licking an ocean-stroked boy roiled inside Orest’s mind.
It was quite clear these boys were part of the resort, not guests, but more likely creatures for the guests, Orest concluded. It began to make sense why the resort was so secluded.
He had met the proprietor of the place a few times. Monsieur Martin was a real snob, who had informed Orest and Samuel upon their arrival that only for their early breakfasts were they allowed at the resort, because the guests’ luxury experience included privacy and that meant to be free from interaction with common men. The snark in the voice when these words were spoken could make cream curdle.
“Doctor Xenakis, what is up with that resort? Has it been here for as long as you’ve been here? Who owns it?” Orest had asked when he returned to the dig with the reference book. He had taken a minute extra to jerk off before going back to the dig that time. Inside his mind had images of the three sweet butts replayed and meaty fantasies of plowing them good and savagely had conquered his mind.
“It has been there. Island traditions. The island holds it. But do not mind," Doctor Xenakis said in his halting English, his face turned away. That was all he ever said about the place.
Do not mind it? Forget that! Orest had been deprived of the joys of bending over horny, pliable boys on Greek beaches when the idiots in charge had banished him to the least fruitful dig on the most desolate island. To learn that there were three, likely more, beautiful pleasure boys nearby meant the hunt was on. This was not a choice or an option to be arrived at following rational cost-benefit analysis. It was fucking duty. Beautiful boys and their asses demanded the most tender and loving care by men. Orest was a man. Therefore, Orest was going to lovingly care for the beautiful boys. Quod erat demonstrandum.
This was the reason Orest was going to leave his comfortable dwelling during the storm. In order to approach his targets in the resort without running afoul of the rules of Monsieur Martin, Orest had spent every night of very many weeks doing what he does very well. Observe, carefully uncover, analyze and infer where to delicately apply his tools next.
With binoculars, a pair of excellent shoes and clothing that matched the tanned sandstone, Orest had climbed and explored the rocks in the evenings and nights. His efforts had paid off, and he had found narrow ledges, crevices and two tree crowns, from which he could look into the resort. He could watch without being seen, and from his hiding spots and careful inspection, draw several conclusions and begin formulating a plan.
It was voyeurism in one sense. But it was voyeurism with the purpose of physical encounters. Most things in the world are at a distance from each other, physical or otherwise. The human senses and mind are equipped to close some distances and make an approach possible. Men’s determination is almost always aimed at closing some distances in the most general sense. So Orest’s physically demanding efforts along the rugged cliffs and pointed vegetation were very manly efforts. He was closing distances, little by little, and if done well, warm and snug penetration was in the near future. He needed a moaning boy wrapped around his dick soon.
The binoculars that stormy night revealed something so sweet and wild, Orest instantly zipped open his pants to let out his dick. In one of the rooms, there were six completely butt-naked boys of stellar quality and beauty joined by one body part of the other to a wild and bouncy sex act with a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Dick riding, toe sucking, ass gobbling, nipple fiddling, balls tugging, buttocks spanking fun from end to end. The boys were eager, athletic, and beaming with joy and focused on their action.
Orest recognized each of the boys. He was by now confident he had identified and mentally catalogued each of the eighteen boys who were part of the resort, six boys per guest. There was curly-blonde-rosy-cheeks-guy, who was by all appearances constantly aroused and radiating boyish heat. Orest could tell from looks alone that the ass of that boy would be so warm and cozy to hug and squeeze. The boy was presently getting his ass squeezed and nipples licked as he stood on his knees on the bed next to the man.
There was egyptian-beauty-straight-up-dick-boy, who had those horny brown eyes and perfect facial features that for thousands of years, no doubt, would have earned him and boys like him the place of Pharaoh’s favourite boy toy. His rather small but always hard dick was bobbing along as he was expertly riding the man’s dick.
On his knees, his ass generously exposed was brown-hair-blue-eye-bubble-butt-boy. The man variously fondled the fulsome ass and rubbed his finger against the boy’s hole. On top of bubble butt boy was in turn must-spank-those-alabaster-buttocks-boy, who indeed was spanked by the man when he was not engaged with bubble butt boy. It was a truly firm and full stack of boy asses.
Behind the dicker rider, down by the man’s legs and feet were narrow-waist-short-Asian-boy and cocksucker-rosy-lips-Iberian-guy. They were eagerly attending to the man’s toes in the inner thighs, moving their hard and soft boy parts over the man. Their gaze was also fixed on the dick rider as the moment he would climb off, they would take his place and let their snug and warm buttholes grip around the man in the centre.
Orest recognized the cock-hunger in the boys’ faces. It was instant-erection whenever Orest saw a boy make that face. Some boys simply must submit to the full manly force. Turning such boys into a sobbing heap of convulsing joy was therefore good, no matter what ordinary laws or mores had to say, thought Orest as he ramped up the intensity of his dick stroking.
It was art. It was also more vigorous than usual. The storm might be making the boys more feral. How could boys be this naturally wild, in synchrony with the elements? By some mental gymnastics, Orest tried to transport himself down there, into the bed with the six boys around him. He moved his hand up and down his dick at the same pace as the dicker rider down in the room.
“Feels good having a real man poking at and commanding your insides, doesn’t it, boy. You can’t live without dick inside your boypussy. Yeah, you horny little boy toy, make use of that god-given ass. You, come up here, give me that bubble butt to suck and bite on. If your ass isn’t tingling and rosy, I am doing something wrong. Get up here. The man got to eat. And you, bend over, I am going to warm up those buttocks with my palm applying tough manly love. Oh yes, whimper as much as you like, this is good for all of us, and you know that deep down.”
Orest mumbled to himself the sexual poetry he would speak to the boys if they were his to command. He tried to keep the binoculars fixed on the action down in the room, while stroking his dick, and doing his best to parry the wind gusts that pushed and shook him. This island and its rugged terrain did not make sexual pleasure, even masturbation, easy.
From his elevated and secluded position in the dark, Orest surveyed and savoured every little detail of the room and its amorous action. It was impossible not to be impressed by these boys. Their bottom boy energy and skill were far superior to the typical drunk party boy Orest had enjoyed on Mykonos. He had to know them precisely, their moves, their facial expressions, the special shapes that made their bodies distinct from all other bodies. Many weeks of spying on the fucking going on in the resort had taught Orest plenty. Yet he had not come up with a good enough plan for how to claim the boys for himself. They were kept inside the resort for most of the time.
If the world knew to appreciate the true power of man, his body and mind, then Orest would be in there, not out here, and he would command the boys properly. When did we lose appreciation of power, Orest thought angrily, and pictured in his mind landing firm slaps on a smorgasbord of spankable bottoms.
That’s when he began to cum. He thrusted his hips forward and shot lots of juice up into the air. The strong winds, however, took hold of the semen and redirected it to land on Orest’s chest, face and hair. Surprised, Orest lost balance and fell from his hiding spot. He fumbled, reached out into the dark, and managed to grab a piece of the stone wall. His pants ripped against the sharp rock, and Orest felt sharp pain in his thigh.
But he was saved at least. With his dick still wet and dangling, he hoisted himself up. He sat down on rough rock and remained still for a minute to calm himself from the excitement caused by the proximity to both sex and death.
This island fucks my careers, denies me sexual release, teases me with lusty boys at a distance, and tries to kill me, thought Orest angrily. Something was not right. As he lived now, always in conflict with the world, never allowed to actually go into battle, something drastic was bound to happen soon.
He took one last glance through the binoculars and saw how at this point all six boys were straddling the man in the bed and applied their most delicious boy parts to rub all kinds of joys into the man beneath their squeezable buttocks and grabable hard dicks. That must be the closest one can get to simultaneously penetrating six beautiful boys, Orest thought, and began to slowly move back under the cover of darkness towards his cottage.
When he returned to the illuminated and calm indoors, he surveyed the damage from his fall. He was bleeding from the leg and the pants had been badly torn. It was almost ripped all the way to his crotch. So he stripped off his pants, heated some water, and with soap cleaned the wound.
For the first time in many weeks, Orest smiled. The absurdity of it all was amusing. Almost killed from clumsily jerking off in a Mediterranean storm to visions of a frenzied boy butt orgy, with cum, blood and sweat over himself, and clothes torn from crashing into the elements. How many Greek heroes of old met such fates, guided by their dick desires? They probably weren't written about in any great epic. Maybe a stumbling buffoon in a comedy, Orest thought.
“Action! Take some fucking action!” Orest sternly commanded himself. Something had to change. Inspired change. Betterment. Release. Rebirth. Whatever it now was that men of strength, who polite society had cast aside, should do.
Tomorrow, after the storm, a change of pace and aim was called for. And, Orest added as he wrapped himself in the blanket, one of those delicious boys, one at least, many more than one preferably, most if possible, all in the best of world, was going to be his to claim, play with and turn into moaning heaps of raw sex pleasure and total joy, like all good and beautiful boys were meant for.
It had been decided.
