There's a bad old joke:

Yes, I said it was bad, but I always enjoyed it, because I'm Greek - or at least part Greek. My names Killy - Killy Savaiadis. I know the Killy part sounds bad, but it's what my friends call me. It's shorted from Achille, my given name - after the great ancient Greek hero of the Trojan War.

I'm fourth generation Canadian. My great-grandparents emigrated to America before the Second World War, when my grandfather was still a baby, and eventually found their way to Vancouver, and started out with a general store, which transformed gradually into a restaurant, and then 4 more restaurants in Greater Vancouver, Victoria, and the Fraser Valley over the years. I'm ashamed to say that I speak little Greek other than a few pleasantries, and the names of dishes on the menu. I need to know those, because I now manage all 5 of the restaurants my great-grandfather and great grand-mother started, and which my father now owns, as well as one in my own name in Kelowna. I got to be manager when my papa had a stroke, a mild one, but it told him it was time to put me to work.

It's that little bit of Greek in me that makes me who I am. I guess it was in my genes that I have what some Victorian types call "The Greek Disease"; that is, I love sex with men, not women.

It's also what took me to Greece. I took over running the restaurant chain when I was 27. I spent the next three years modernizing the eateries, and starting the Kelowna outlet, both against my papa's wishes, but it paid off, enough to allow me to hire an assistant manager to look after the businesses while I took a six month trip to Greece.

My papa and mama know I am gay, and they may be third generation Canadians, but there is still enough old-world Greek in them to hope for a grandchild, and where best for me to find a wife than in Greece, land of our heritage, just as my father had - although mom was actually born in and grew up in Toronto! They sent me off on my well-deserved holiday with a list of distant relatives, none of whom we had ever met, or even corresponded with.

As I toured Greece, I actually did look up some of them. Some knew English; some didn't; but without exception they welcomed me with open arms, very noisily, and outdid each other trying to feed me more than other relatives had.

I eventually eventually made my way to Crete - the original family home. I took a ferry from Piraeus on the southern Greek peninsula across to Chania, a picturesque, whitewashed town on the north coast, found a room in a pensione, and enjoyed life for a few days just relaxing on the beaches and wandering the streets and the harbor. I particularly enjoyed the open-air market, where I bought a well-made imitation of a very sexy Greek Urn (which brings us back to my bad joke at the beginning).

It portrayed ancient Greek men fucking and sucking and otherwise buggering each other - one with what appears to be a 30-inch dildo! These Greek men were definitely into fucking other Greek men. I have included an exploded view of the vase's frieze here. 2500-year-old gay porn! It takes pride of place on my mantel today.

After a few days, I took the rickety public bus further along the island to Heraklion, and found another pensione. It was noisier and more expensive than quaint Chania, but it was close to the excavations at ancient Knossos, which I spent a full day exploring.

But the beaches here were crowded, so on my third day I took another rickety, crowded bus across to the south side of the island to go to another beach, which I thought would be less crowded.

I was proudly flaunting both my Canadian citizenship and my homosexuality that day. I wore a tight black T-shirt with the Gay canada flag on it. I'm sure you've seen one like it. It still has the red maple leaf in the centre panel, but the red side panels are replaced by the gay rainbow colors.

The bus finally arrived at my destination, a spot the landlady at the pensione had told me was a nice, quiet beach. Almost half the bud-load of passengers got of and walked down the steep slope to the beach below. I was wearing thongs with my shorts and T-shirt, but I had to take them off and pop them in my small knapsack, because the path was too slippery with loose stone.

When we reached the beach, it was hardly less crowded, much to my disappointment. Into the bargain, there were signs every few yards, in English, French, and Greek, warning of dangerous undercurrents.

However, the beach carried on around the bay, under the steep cliffs, to a point. I wandered along there, several hundred yards, with fewer and fewer people all the way. Eventually I reached a low, wire fence - about 2 feet high - which ran down the cliff, across the beach, and into the water. It had a warning in Greek, which I presumed said "Keep Out" or something like that, but I just stepped over it and continued around the point.

Here there were no more swimmers or sunbathers. I had it all to myself. It was a delightful little bay, nestled between outcrops of the rock cliffs. The only sign of human life was a white-washed villa at the top of the cliffs, with steps cut into the limestone, leading up to the top. But I was sure no-one up there would be looking down at me.

I found a nice spot in the sun, spread the towel from my knapsack, and sipped the warm Coke I had bought at a kiosk in Heraklion, and ate the bread and cheese I had bought a a delicatessen.

I took a long dip in the warm, blue-green Mediterranean water, then settled down to read some of a gay porn novel I had bought from another kiosk in Constitution Square in Athens: The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by J. Watson. The book sure got me horny, and there was no-one in sight, so I lay back on the towel and jerked off. Finished, I took another quick dip to wash the cum off me, took a couple of tokes from a joint I had hidden in my knapsack, then lay back to enjoy the sun. I guess I dozed off.

I awoke to someone standing over me, shouting at me in Greek. I opened my eyes with a start, and sat up abruptly. There were two men standing above me, both clad just in white, baggy Greek-style shorts. One of them was aiming a shotgun at me! The other shouted at me in Greek once more.

"Hey, cool it! " I said. "I don't understand Greek!"

"You are trespassing," he said, in perfect English. Most Greeks do speak English to some degree, but this guy even had a North American accent. "My master wants to speak to you. Come now!"

"Let me get dressed," I asked. I was stark naked.

"No," he stormed. "My friend will bring your things. Come!" He spoke rapidly in Greek to the man with the shotgun, who put the weapon down on my towel to gather my things. I saw a chance, and grabbed up my shorts and began to run. I don't know where I thought I was going, but I wasn't staying round here.

There was a loud bang behind me, and I thought , "They will kill me," but the sand beside me rippled with buckshot. I was untouched, but I knew it was hopeless and stopped running. The first man had the gun now, and kept it trained on me as he approached.

"Hands in the air," he ordered. Again he gave commands in Greek to the second man, who drew from his pockets a leather collar attached to a length of dog chain. While the first kept the shotgun trained on me, the second buckled the collar around my neck. He handed the chain to to first, who returned the shotgun to him.

During the exchange, I got a chance to size up my captor. He was a tall, dark Greek, well-tanned, with a fantastic build. His abs were well-defined and looked hard as stone. He was obviously "going commando" because a large penis was pushing out the cloth of his loose cotton shorts, as if he were getting some sort of sexual buzz from this situation.

He led me back to my clothes, and the shotgun bearer stuffed everything into my knapsack and thrust it toward me.

"Carry it!" ordered my captor. "Now walk! To the steps!" He nodded toward the steps hewn into the cliff face, climbing up to the white villa high above us.

It was a long climb up the cliffs, and though I am in good shape from regular gym visits, and from playing goalie on my soccer team, I must admit I was puffing by the time I reached the top of the cliff, where the steps opened onto a patio at the side of the villa, which perched precariously on the edge, its facade only about 3 feet back from the lip.

A young man , clad only in loose, white cotton shorts,was standing near the double doors leading to the interior of the villa. Vulnerable and naked as I was, humiliatingly held in a dog collar and chain, I still could admire his beauty.

He was anywhere between 16 and 20. It was hard to tell, but although his tanned chest was smooth, a decided treasure trail ran down his stomach, and disappeared into his shorts, promising hidden joys below.

His gorgeous grey-blue eyes caught mine, then travelled down my body to my groin and back again. He smiled knowingly. Although the glare off the white stucco of the villa was already blinding, the boy's smile was even more-so.

We passed through the double doors, into the hall.

"My master is in the throne room," said the man holding my chain. " The door to the left. Leave your bag out here. Just drop it on the floor by the door. Nikolas will look after it." I presumed Nikolas was the goon with the gun, because he picked up my knapsack and disappeared down the hall.

Emboldened by the absence of the second man and the gun, I grabbed the chain and tried to wrench it from his hands. Effortlessly, he thrust me against the wall, spun me round, pulled a nylon pull-tie from his pocket, and secured my hands behind me.

"Now behave yourself. I don't want to hurt you!"

I did as I was told, and he opened the heavy wooden door and led me into the "throne room." And he was not joking. The room had been decorated in the style of the so-called throne room at Knossos, with fresco imitation the restorations there, and even the "throne," a not very impressive one-piece stone seat with a high back. Double-glazed windows ran the full length and height of the south wall of the room, overlooking the cliff and the beach and ocean below. A low sofa sat before the window, and on the end of this sat a man., admiring his view.

He swung round when we entered. He was an older man, maybe 80, dressed in the ubiquitous white cotton shorts, nothing more. For a man his age, his body was in great shape, and darkly tanned, like his employee holding me.

"Ah, Stavros," he said. "You have brought our guest! Wonderful!"

"Guest?" I exclaimed. "Do you always treat you guests like dogs?"

Stavros gave a hard yank on my chain, as if to quiet a barking dog. I swung round and tried to knee him in the balls, but with one kick he knocked my feet from beneath me, forcing me to my knees.

"Keep you mouth shut, asshole!" he growled, and spat on me. His spittle dribbled down my cheek and hung from my ear.

"Now, now, Steve. Be nice to our guest. By the look of your pants, I think you'd like to know him better." I glanced behind me. True enough, Stavros' shorts were really bulging now. And I must admit, the sight made my own swell a little, for all my predicament.

The old man was quick to notice.

"Our guest seems to like what he sees, Steve. Drop your pants and show him all.

I heard the rustle of Stavros' pants as they dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside. I turned my head to get a good look. Sure enough, he had a raging hard. A beautiful, large, cut cock pointed toward the heavens. If it hadn't been for Steve/Stavros' saliva dribbling down my face, I might have swung round and deep-throated him then and there.

While I was turned, I saw the door through which we had entered open, and the young man who had been on the patio slipped in to the room. He said nothing, but leaned against the wall, watching.

"Ah, Patrick, " the old man said. "Come to welcome our guest, have you?"

To me he said, "this is Patrick, my grandson. He doesn't speak, I am afraid," he added sadly. "but back to you. You know you were trespassing?" he said. "That is a very minor crime, I know, but I know we might find something more incriminating in your knapsack. Our courts are hard on drug users, and our jails are even harder on handsome young me. I know you would not enjoy them."

"You know nothing about me!" I snapped.

"I know far more than you think," he said. He gestured toward a pair of powerful binoculars on the sofa beside him. "I watched you arrive. From your T-shirt I know you are Canadian. I know you smoke marijuana, and probably have more in your knapsack. I know you are homosexual, both from your T-shirt and from your reaction to Steve's naked cock just now."

"What do you want from me?" I asked desperately.

"Nothing that you might not enjoy," he told me. "To entertain me - and Patrick, " he nodded toward his grandson, the beautiful young Greek god, "I propose a wrestling match between you and Stavros. If you win, I will have you driven to wherever you wish. If Stavros wins ... I will have you driven to wherever you wish. So you see, you cannot lose!"

The blonde boy smiled again. His eyes went again to my crotch, where me penis was fattening enough to cause my foreskin to retract.

"I see the prospect excites you," the old man said. "Do you accept?"

I glanced toward the boy. He looked me in the eye, smiled slightly, and nodded.

That was enough incentive for me.

"Yes," I agreed.

"Good! There is just one more proviso. If Stavros wins, he gets to fuck you. If you win, you can fuck him if you wish. Is that satisfactory."

I really didn't think much of my chances of winning, but I agreed anyway. Stavros' dick inside me was not such an unpleasant prospect!

"Good! Stavros, release him! Patrick, bring some oil" he commanded. As bidden, Stavros released my wrists from the nylon tie and unbuckled the collar from my neck. I couldn't help myself. My cock was rock hard now. So was Satvros' large penis. The old man handed me a tissue and indicated I should wipe my face, which I did.

Patrick returned from the kitchen with a flask oil, probably olive oil. It seemed to go with everything here on the Greek peninsula. Stavros anointed his body liberally with it and handed the flask to me, and I rubbed the scented oil all over me, including mu cock.

On the old man's command the match began. I'd like to be able to say that it was some epic bout between two classical Greek heroes, as might be seen on another Greek urn.

But if I did, it would be a lie. We wrestled briefly, and I tried to grasp him and throw him down, but each time he easily slipped from my grasp. The physical contact only served to make me hornier - and Stavros, too. I even had time to notice an impressive bulge in the blonde Patrick's shorts.

But before long, Stavros grabbed me from behind,threw an arm around my throat, and forced me to the ground, his own muscled body pressing down on top of me. In moments, he had me pinned face down and helpless, breathing heavily.

"Now I get to take my prize, eh?" he chuckled in my ear.

"I gotta admit you won it fairly," I smiled. "Enjoy it! I know I will," I added.

Stavros was not rough with me. While the old man and the young Patrick looked on, his arm still round my throat, Stavros parted my legs found my oily butt-hole with his dick head, and slowly eased his huge cock into me. Thick as it was, it did not hurt, its passage eased by the olive oil which covered us both. With one thrust, Stavros buried his cock to his pubic hairs in my bowels. I loved every inch of it inside me. I bucked upwards, wanting more. Stavros withdrew almost completely out of me, then thrust down again. I felt his knob driving deep into me. Again and again.

My own hard cock was pressed onto the rough area rug on the wooden floor, but that felt good too. Right now all that mattered was that dick pounding into me. That - and the blonde boy watching.

After a few minutes of extreme pleasure, but pleasure that was becoming pain, Stavros began to grunt and strain, as he shot his load into me. As his juice flooded into me, and his penis began to shrink and withdraw, the pain turned again to pleasure, and I was filled with almost regret when he pulled out of me.

"Bravo!" said the old man. "Quite a performance form both of you. Stavros, take our guest to the showers. Patrick, get his knapsack and take it to him."

Stavros led the way to the showers. They were in a bath-shed on the patio we had crossed earlier. I presume they were mostly used by those returning from a dip in the sea. There were four shower heads along one wall, and wooden benches along the other. Stavros and I took showers together at adjacent shower heads, using supplied soap to get rid of the oil.

Stavros by now had become quite friendly, and even talkative. He told me I was a good fuck, that he had really enjoyed it.

I asked him about his North American accent. He explained that although he was born and raised right here on Crete, that he had gone to Chicago as a teen, and been hired by his current master who was living in Chicago at the time. He had worked for him ever since, and returned to Crete when his master did, some 15 years before. I told him he didn't look that old, and he told me he was 45. He was 15 when he went to America, he worked there for 15 years, and had been back here for another 15. He said that in the U.S. guys called him Steve rather than Stavros, so now he goes by both.

While we showered, Patrick briefly appeared with my knapsack, but after sneaking another look at my penis, disappeared back into the main building - much to my disappointment. Cleansed, I re-donned my underwear, T-shirt, shorts, and thongs, ready for a ride back to Heraklion.

When we returned, one female servant was just leaving with the oil-stained area rug we had wrestled on, having replaced it with another. Another female servant was just finishing setting up a small buffet table laden with food - cold meats, olives, pickles, figs, peppers, stuffed grape leaves, cheese, fresh bread, and such - along with small plates and forks.

The old man was still sitting on the low sofa before the wide windows in the afternoon sun.

"Ah, you are back! No hard feelings about your treatment, I hope? Surely you will accept a little light lunch before Stavros drives you back to wherever you came from? Stavros, will you leave us and get the car ready?" Satvros departed as ordered, leaving me alone with the old man. I was hoping the boy would join us, but he was not to be seen. He indicated the sofa beside himself.

"Come. Sit here. Help yourself to the food and wine - the bottle on the left is aretsina." Thank god for that. I detested Greek retsina with its strong resin taste. Aretsina -"without resin" - is more to my taste. I helped myself to a plate of food and sat beside him.

"Let me introduce myself first," he said. "My name is Aristide Savaiadis."

"Savaiadis!" I exclaimed. "That is my name! I am Achille Savaiadis!" I pronounced Achille in the Greek fashion. " But they call me Killy. My great-grandparents came from Crete. I wonder if we are related?"

He shrugged, "It's possible, I suppose, but I doubt it. There are many Savaiadis families on Crete. I do't think I have any relatives in Canada. When I emigrated to the United States at 16, I was the first of my family to do so. I started out there alone, with nothing, but had the good luck to build a business and make my fortune. I also married there, and had a son - Patrick's father."

"What was your business?" I asked.

"Imports," he told me. "Olive oil, mostly. There was a tremendous demand for it in the first part of the last century, what with all the Greek and Italian immigrants flooding into the U.S. But I branched out into other things as well.

"Stavros immigrated to the U.S. when I was well established. My wife had just died, leaving me with an infant son. Young Stavros help me raise my boy. He also became my lover. He has been with me ever since.

"Anyway, my son grew up, he went to University, he met a young Canadian woman, they fell in love, married, and moved to Toronto.

"I sold off my business, and Stavros and I moved back to Crete rich enough to last out my life and beyond.'

"Five years ago my son and daughter-in-law came for a visit, bringing their 14-year-old son to visit his grandfather for the first time. While here, they were both killed in an automobile accident, leaving their beautiful boy with me.

"There was a bit of a court battle for custody between myself and his maternal grandmother, but the courts soon decided that she was unable to support Patrick as I could.

Patrick recovered from the death of his parents fairly well. He was happy enough living here. I sent him to school at an excellent private school in Heraklion, where he won all sorts of academic awards. And he also fell in love...

"He met a boy in the grade above him at school. They became fast friends. His friend often stayed here for the weekend. I knew they we lovers. I sometimes saw them having sex on the beach below from this very window, and I knew they slept in the same bed here at night.

"Two years ago, they both went swimming at the public beach which you came from this morning. The boy was caught in an undertow. Patrick couldn't help him. The boy was sucked under. The body was never recovered.

"Patrick has never spoken since, nor has he shown any real interest in anything. I have taken him to the best doctors psychologists, and psychiatrists - and quacks. They have accomplished nothing."

He stopped. There was a long silence in the room before he continued.

"Why do I tell you this?" he said. "This is why." He proffered me a folded piece of note-paper.

"Patrick gave me this a few minutes ago, while you were showering."

I took the piece of note-paper and unfolded it, read what was written upon it. It contained just four words:

I didn't know what to say. The note was powerful in its simplicity. It was a cry from Patrick's two year silence. I felt almost sorry for this arrogant old man, who had held me captive, had had me chained like a dog, who had held my freedom at ransom, and who had had me raped ... well, sort of!

I said nothing.

"Will you stay with us for a few days?" Aristide asked. "I saw Patrick watching you," he said. "You are the first person or thing he has shown any interest in for two years."

I remained silent.

"I can pay you handsomely," he insisted. "I want my grandson alive again."

I finally said, "I'll stay for two nights."

"Wonderful!" he cried. "I'll put you in the bedroom adjoining Patrick's. Now Stavros will drive you back to your accommodations to collect your things."

It was by now late afternoon as Stavros and I drove across the island to the cheap hotel in Heraklion where I was staying. There was a bit of a hassle with the hotel keeper who wanted me to pay for the 5 days I had booked for, but after a few gruff words from Stavros, he settled for the two nights I had actually stayed.

On the way back, I asked Stavros what he had said to the man to change his mind.

"Oh, nothing much," he replied. "I told him I would cut his balls off and feed them to the pigs." He gave me a big grin. When Stavros smiled he was no longer the same menacing person who had captured me on the beach. I almost felt like suggesting we stop somewhere and play around some more.

"You didn't tell me Aristide was your lover," I said to him.

"We still love each other," he said, "but our sex life is almost over. He no longer gets an erection, and other medical problems prevent my fucking him, much as we both want it. A little sucking is all. I'm sure he suggested that wrestling match today just so I could get my rocks off."

"I'm glad he did," I said. "It has been a while since I had such a hot fuck."

"Me, too," he agreed, but I don't know whether he was talking about being glad, about the fuck, or about his enforced abstinence.

By the time we returned, it was nearly eight, almost time for the evening meal. Greeks tend to eat their last meal of the day much later than we do here in Canada. Restaurants often don't open till 8 PM.

Stavros showed me to the bedroom I was to sleep in, and we placed my luggage in there. He then led me to the dining room, where Aristide and Patrick were waiting for us. Patrick looked up and smiled when we entered, but still said nothing.

Welcome back, Killy," said Aristide. "I can see Patrick is glad to have you joining us." There was a shy smile on the boy's face.

I was seated opposite Patrick and got my first opportunity to take a long look at him. He was now wearing a cotton shirt atop his shorts, but his well-defined chest showed though the fabric. His skin, though tanned, was obviously naturally light, not swarthy like most Greeks. That, like his sea blue eyes, and tousled blonde hair, must have been part of his mother's heritage. Whatever, what it added up to was a young man of incredible beauty. I wanted nothing more than to hold him and kiss him.

We were served an excellent meal of roast meat, which I found out was goat, which I had never eaten before. It was served with a moussaka-like dish of baked egg-plant, and salad. The dessert which followed was, like most eastern Mediterranean desserts, far too sweet for me, but I ate it anyway.

All the time we ate, Patrick's eyes hardly left me. I, too, was having trouble not staring at him, but I didn't want to be so obvious, and made a point of looking at Aristide and Stavros whenever they spoke. But it was hard to draw my eyes away from Patrick.

During dinner, I learned that only the three men seated here with me lived in the Villa. The cook, the maids, and the goon with the gun, normally their handy-man and jack-of-all-trades, came daily from the village, about half a mile further along the road which ran past the property.

After coffee, which as American-style, not the thick, black syrup of the eastern Mediterranean counties, we all went out to the patio above the cliff, where cane furniture with stuffed cushions awaited us. Aristide smoked one of those foul Greek cigarettes and offered me one, but I declined.

We four sat in the cane chairs and looked out over the "wine-dark sea" as Homer so often called it. It was dark by now, and the stars looked exceptionally bright from here. A brightly-lit cruise ship looked tiny on the sea below, making its way east, probably to Turkey or Egypt.

Aristide told me more about his youth in the U.S. and his business enterprises, and after about an hour, he said something to the boy, and much to my disappointment, the boy left us.

"I told him it is time to go to bed," he explained to me. "I told him he can spend the day with you tomorrow. Maybe you two can spend some time on the beach below. "

"As long as you don't send goons with guns after us," I joked. Both Aristide and Stavros chuckled.

"Patrick loves it down there. He will sit at the water's edge for hours, just staring out. Sometimes I think he is waiting for his friend to return. Actually, I think he sees something of his friend in you. You are not unlike him. An older version, maybe."

I eventually fell asleep in that strange bedroom. I had tossed and turned for quite a while, laying naked on top of the sheets. It was a warm summer night. The only light was starlight, coming from one window, which opened onto the patio, where Aristide and Stavros still sat and smoked their black cigarettes.

On the wall opposite the one widow was a door, presumably leading the the next room, where Patrick slept. I did not try it to see if it were unlocked.

When I awoke, some time later, I did so with a start, at the realization that there was someone in bed with me. It didn't take me long to realize that it was Patrick curled up beside me. By his stillness and his regular breathing, I assumed that he was asleep, that he had crawled in with me some time before. My cock stirred at the feel of his naked body against mine, but I did not touch him, but let him lie there curled up against me. I eventually dozed off again.

When I next awoke it was in the half light of pre-dawn. I had been having a sex dream. I don't recall what it was about, but I do know I had a raging stiff, so hard that my foreskin was pulled back totally from my cock-head. I felt like I had been jerking to the edge, about to blow my load. I almost thought that Patrick may have been playing with my dick, but he appeared to be sound asleep, with an angelic smile on his face - although he did have his own hard going. Maybe he was having a sex dream, too.

He moved in his sleep, and his hand came to rest on my right breast. It was the final straw. My cock lurched and jerked, and cum rushed up the shaft and spurted all over my belly. Did I hear Patrick snicker? No, he was sound asleep. I lay there, breathing hard, my warm cum turning cold on my body.

When I awoke again, it was morning. Patrick was gone.

The room had its own half-bathroom, with shower cubicle, sink and toilet, and I used the shower to wash the dried cum from myself, then dressed in fresh shorts and T-shirt. I chose to "go commando" as we would be spending the day on the private beach below, anyway.

Dressed, the smell of coffee and bacon drew me down the hall to the dining-room. Aristide and Stavros were already seated. A warming table stood against the wall nearby. There was no sign of Patrick, but although I had done nothing, I felt somewhat guilty about the night.

"Ah, Killy!" Aristide greeted me. "You are up and about. Please help yourself to breakfast from the buffet." He motioned to the warming table.

I did as he suggested and helped myself to a mixed grill of bacon, sausage and lamb's kidneys and pan-fried potatoes and scrambled eggs. Stainless steel decanters of tea and coffee were on the table.

I settled myself down and started in on the tasty breakfast, but no sooner had I done so, but Aristide interrupted me.

"Patrick slept with you last night," he stated flatly, but I was sure it was an accusation. I said nothing.

"I looked in on him before I retired last night," he explained. "He was not in his bed. I peeked through the connecting door into your room. He was in bed with you."

Guiltily, I hastened to explain. "When I woke, he was in bed with me. I didn't ask him there. He was asleep. I let him lie. Nothing happened, I promise you!" I didn't mention that I had had an automatic orgasm. Or was it?

"Not to worry," Aristide assured me. "At least he was interested enough to find his way to your bed. That's the most interest he has shown in anything in two years. But here he comes now!"

Sure enough, Patrick, in fresh shorts and cotton top, had entered the room. He went silently to the buffet, helped himself, and returned to the table. He nodded to each of us before he sat, but said nothing. He did, however, give me a cheeky grin.

Mid-morning, Patrick and I made our way down the stone stairway to the beach below. I had brought fruit and bottled water, which the cook had given me, in my knapsack. Patrick's eyes hardly left me whatever I did.

When we reached the beach, he went and sat in the water at the very edge and stared out to sea, but often looking round to see where I was and what I was doing. I talked to him - or rather at him - all the time, commenting on the weather, the water, the sky, and all the other inconsequential things. He never responded, but once in a while, when I said something particularly inane, he would let slip a little smile.

His interest was piqued when I shed my shirt and dropped my shorts and let my cock swing free, prior to going in for a swim. I am not shy about saying that I do have quite and impressive cock. It is seven inches or more long when hard, thick, and uncut, with a very large head. He seemed very intrigued with it, but made no move to do anything other than stare, even when I stood right by his shoulder, letting it dangle before his eyes.

I took several dips that morning, but Patrick just sat, watching me or the ocean.

Some time after noon - i did not wear a watch - a horn or trumpet or something sounded from the top of the cliffs. Patrick picked up his towel and headed for the steps. I presumed it was a signal for lunch, pulled on my shorts and shirt, picked up my knapsack, and followed after him.

He was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs and I followed him up the climb. He would look back often, as I to make sure that I had not deserted him.

After a light lunch, apparently it was time to the Greek version of the siesta, or "hours of quiet" as they say in Greece. We all retired to our rooms. Only the servants went about their tasks.

I was still awake, lying there naked, my back to the connecting door, just a sheet over me. The slow ceiling fan was making a bit of a cool breeze.

I heard the connecting door open and close. I felt Patrick climbing in beside me. I felt his arm go round me and his hand slide down my side and stomach to my crotch. He touched my dick lightly, then grasped it. I waited for more, but there was no more, just that gentle clutching of it.

I could also feel his hard dick pressed against my back, but after a while his breathing became deep and regular, and his cock softened. He had drifted off to sleep still holding my cock!

I woke when he left my bed to return to his room, but he soon came back, fully dressed in shorts and shirt again, and carrying a towel. He looked at me pleadingly. I knew what he wanted. I pulled on my shirt and shorts, grabbed my knapsack, and headed out to once more climb down to the beach.

He led me out through the door of my room almost proudly, almost as if to say to anyone who might see "Look! I have slept with him!"

The late afternoon on the beach was much as the morning at first. I frolicked bare-balls in the waves while Patrick sat watching me and the waters. Eventually I splashed him a couple of times. He actually laughed, and soon splashed me back. Soon we were both kick-splashing each other, and his shorts and shirt were soaked, so he shed them on the beach, and soon we were frolicking and wrestling naked waist-deep n the water.

I sincerely hope Aristide and Stavros were watching from the cliffs above. From what I had been told, this was the liveliest Patrick had been for two years.

The wrestling made me very horny, and I soon had a raging hard. So did Patrick, not a huge dick, but very nice to look at. We never touched each other at all however.

Eventually our stiff dicks dropped low, and so did the afternoon sun. It dropped beyond the cliffs and left the beach in shadows. I dressed, but Patrick carried his wet clothes in his arms as we mounted the cliffs once more.

Tomorrow, I would leave.

The evening meal was another excellent meal, this time of herbed lamb.

Aristide was beaming. So was Satvros. A proud grandfather and a proud "uncle." They had both been watching us frolic in the waves this afternoon, had seen Patrick enjoying himself. They praised him - and me - lavishly, and it was easy to see tat Patrick was glowing with pleasure. But he still never spoke.

Aristide commented, "Today showed great progress. Maybe he can soon return to school to finish his studies. I had always hoped that he would go to an American - or Canadian - university. But he has yet a few courses in high-school to complete.

"I would like to see him on some such venture in the near future. I am getting older fast. I have not mentioned this before, but I have prostate cancer. It was fairly advanced before they found it. All that can be done, has been done. It is in remission right now. It could return at any time. I may still have years ahead of me, but I may only have months. I would like to see Patrick's future mapped out before then.

"As for the present, Patrick is eighteen years old.He will soon be nineteen. He has reached the age of majority here in Greece - and in several of your provinces. He is a man.

"If he wishes to sleep with you, to have sex with you, that is up to him. He doesn't need my consent, although I freely give it."

Patrick actually blushed, and glanced at me. He had not realized that his grandfather knew of his trips to my bed.

After some twilight time on the patio, Patrick took his grandfather at his word. When his grandfather suggested it was time for bed, Patrick reached out his hand to me, and led me with him, not to his room, but to mine.

The bedroom door was hardly closed behind us before we were tearing each other's meagre clothing off. Already our cocks were at full mast. Patrick flung his arms around me and pulled me hard against him. Our penises thrust into each other and we clung together. He finally slipped to his knees, and took my pole in his hand, He studied it carefully, pulling the foreskin back and forth for a bit, admiring the drop of precum which formed on the tip, before he flicked out his tongue and licked the juice from me. My whole body tremored.

He opened his mouth and closed it again around my swollen knob, his tongue working the underside. It was heavenly! His hands cradled my buttocks, pulling me into him, forcing my cock further down his throat. I struggled not to cum. Not yet! Not yet!

I pulled him to his feet, bent my head to his face, and we kissed greedily. He was not a newcomer to male love-making. He and his departed friend must have explored fully. His mouth tried to devour me.

We fell back on the bed, clasped together, and writhed and squirmed, trying to be as one. We groped for each other's manhoods. I sucked his dick, a wonderful fit for my mouth, taking it down my throat to the very base. He sucked mine, taking as much as it into him as he could before he began choking. Then we were kissing and licking and sucking once more. Finally, he pushed me from him, looked at me longingly, then turned face down on the bed. I knew what he wanted, and I wanted it too.

I didn't want to hurt my wonderful youth, so I left the bed briefly to get one of the mini-tubes of lube I always carried in my shaving kit. I snapped off the end, and applied it liberally to my cock and Patrick's hole, slipping my oily finger into him. He writhed against it, telling me he wanted more.

I hovered above him, placing my engorged rod at the opening to his insides. I pushed gently, and he relaxed his muscles and pushed back onto me. His little flower bloomed and opened and swallowed in the head of my raging rod. I wanted to enter his slowly, so as not to hurt the boy, but he didn't care about that. he wanted all of me. With an upward thrust of his buttocks fe forced my whole penis deep into him. I felt its rush as it impaled him to my pubic hairs. I was as deep inside him as I could go in this position. I was almost certain I heard this mute young man whisper a satisfied "Yes!" as my weapon drove into his depths.

I lay on top of him for a moment, letting him get use to my length and girth, but he soon initiated more movement by pushing back against me. Soon we were in the middle of a pounding fuck, me trying to get even further into him, and he trying to get even more of my cock. We hammered at each other for several minutes until I could control myself no longer.

My sperm exploded into him, shooting stream after stream deep into his orifice. I collapsed on top of him for a few moments, then pulled out of him and rolled off. He turned over, bent his head to my crotch, and sucked the last vestiges of cum from my tool. Then we kissed some more.

But that was not the last time we fucked that night. We would doze for a bit, then one or the other would be hungry for more. I think I came four times that night.

In the early hours of the morning, playing once more, I realized that Patrick had not yet cum, and took my turn laying face down while he mounted me and pushed his lovely dick into my asshole. He fucked me eagerly until he came, and the we slept till morning, cradled together.

When I woke again, he was already awake, hovering over me, looking at me lovingly. I sat up a little and some of his cum dribbled from my hole. I fingered it, remembering the wonders of the night. His arm was across my waist.

"Good morning, my Cretan bull," he said, in a rather raspy, sexy voice, unused to speaking.

I was astounded. "You spoke! You can speak!" I cried. "Why have you not spoken before?

"I have had no good reason to speak," he replied solemnly. His face broke into a beaming smile. "Not until now!" He leaned forward and kissed me. "I love you," he whispered.

It had only been two days and one glorious night, but I knew it was true when I replied, "I love you, too, Patrick."

"You are my god-king," he said. "My Cretan bull."

"And you are my boy-god," I told him. "I will worship you always."

"Stay here a minute," he ordered. He went to his own room. when he returned he carried a short stole with a silver chain and clasp. On his arm he wore a velvet band. "Put this on," he ordered, handing me the stole. "My friend who died - we used to dress up in these and pretend we were ancient heroes," he told me.

He led me to a full-length mirror on the room's wardrobe and we admired ourselves: two Greek heroes.

"You know," he said, "we were fated to be together. My given name is not Patrick. It is Patroklus - and you are my Achilles."

"Let us pray that we have happier lives than those two," I said.

"Their lives were happy," he pointed out. "They found their love together. That's all that can be asked." He was a true romantic. "Let's go tell grandfather," he said.

We did take the trouble to put on some clothes before we went to breakfast with Aristide and Stavros.

All that was over a year ago now. I ended up staying with my young lover for a few more days.

Aristide was ecstatic, even more so when Patrick told him he wanted to go to University in Canada, that he wanted to live with me in Canada. I was totally agreeable to both ideas.

In the months that have passed, Aristide at that end, and I at this have managed to arrange all the details for Patrick to join me here. My parents are happy that I have found someone, even if it is a 19-year-old boy-man. At least he is Greek.

Patrick finished school, and his Grades and special entry tests for foreign students have gotten him entry in the University of British Columbia - even though he is not really a foreign student. he does have canadian citizenship. He will be studying Classical History, Anthropology, Ancient Greek, Archaeology, and other subjects which will help him - and me- to know more about our joint heritage.

It has been a long year and a bit getting all the arrangements made. I have missed him so much, even though I did fly back to Crete for a week with my young lover once, about six months ago, and I have talked with him on Skype almost every day.

But tomorrow he finally arrives in Canada. I will have my boy-god once more, and he will have his Cretan bull.

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