It's one am. Greek time. I'm in the only bar that looked halfway attractive on that street. Pale wood, leather seats, a parrot in a cage, PCs with coin slots for expensive internet access, and seven customers. Five Germans, a shoe-gazing lad from Batley and me. A good looking Greek guy behind the bar, his business partner sat at the end of the bar tallying receipts, and the waitress. Short dark hair, bobbed at the sides and wedged at the back, skinny, with a lip ring, a big back tattoo of some kind of bird, and a Geordie accent that reeked of home, the place I'd left behind nine hours before.
It was hot, still, with no hint of a breeze off the sea. The Germans were arguing about something. The barman poured me a beer, and the waitress engaged me in conversation about whether I knew her sister who lived in Walkergate. I didn't. If she looked as good as the waitress I'd remember her. She was bored. She tried to get me into an argument about how Greek television wasn't getting customers in, and that the barman should let her play some tunes off her iPod instead.
The shoegazer wasn't impressed. He was barely conscious. I humoured her. The barman humoured me. So we got her taste in music. Black Eyed Peas. Cheryl Cole. Mary J Blige does Led Zeppelin. It was a mixture, and not all of it good. Dizzy Rascal. Lovely. Then Katy Perry. California Girls. The waitress lip syncing her way across the bar to that line about Daisy Dukes with bikinis on top. I smiled and raised my glass.
'Bet you don't Sam.' She looked confused.
'What?'
'You don't go out in Daisy Dukes with a bikini top.'
She laughed, tossed her hair, what there was of it, and smiled.
'I will, for a nice man.'
I shrugged my shoulders. Looked across the bar, at the Germans, arguing and grunting at each other, then look at the Batley shoegazer. Then back to Sam.
'Well, will I do?' She laughed and pouted.
'Where are you staying?'
An hour, two drinks and a couple of rakis later, I realised that talking to her had been no trouble at all.
I set off to my apartment, but I was smiling.

Next morning I'm walking down Beach Road and she's at the front of the bar, trying to get the breakfast trade in. I get a coffee and a feta roll, which turns out to be a croissant stuffed with creamy Greek cheese. We chat, and she tells me she's got an afternoon break. She's going to Malia beach with a mate who's got a quad bike. She writes the name of a bar and pool complex on a napkin. She scoops up the coins on the table, and walks away, humming the Katy Perry tune.

I don't do quad bikes. If I want something dangerous to flip over on me I'll screw neurotic married women. I don't do scooters either. Dermabrasion is best done with a pumice stone, not tarmac and gravel. So I hire a mountain bike, stuff the napkin in my pocket, get advice from my new found friend Yannis the barman, and set off for Malia along the Beach Road. Past the pink and purple flowers bursting out of gardens, the fields of succulent plants and the irrigation windmills. Past the dodgy supermarkets, the less than busy restaurants and the apartment complexes full of German tourists who never go past the gates.

I'm about five minutes away from where Yannis says the beach bar complex should be when Sam and her mate pass me on the quad. Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top. Bodies to die for, too. By the time I get there they're sitting under an umbrella on sun loungers, sipping lumpy Fanta lemonade. If you judge by looks alone Sam would lose out. There's a curve to her belly where her mate is washboard flat, and Sam's small boobs are no match for her mates. But while the mate has a body to die for, she has an attitude to make you want to commit murder. So I concentrate on flirting with Sam, and actually, it's fun. Every time the conversation stops we get back to the song. then my brain kicks in, and I remember Katy Perry and 'I kissed a girl.' I remind Sam and look at her mate, who's doing something complicated involving bikini straps and suntan oil. Sam's not impressed.
'I have, I would and I will, but not a girl who can't smudge her lipstick without getting strung out.' So now we're laughing like idiots, and her mate is getting stroppy about being left out.
Sam has to be back at work by nine pm. It's five thirty, but the mate wants to go back, so they decide to set off. Sam gives me the address of their apartments - she'll be by the abandoned pool on a sunbed. So off they go, on the quad, and I follow at my own pace on the bike. On the way I collect some melon and a few Mythos from the store on the corner of the lane where they live. It used to be a set of apartments for tourists; now the pool has been drained, the ground floor apartments are shuttered and workers are living on the first and second floors. Sam's the only person on the handful of sunbeds that are scattered round the pool. She's lost the Daisy Dukes, and is shimmering with suntan oil. So we sit, and she eats melon, and I drink a couple of bottles of Mythos before they get warm. By seven pm she's muttering about needing a shower, and I need a piss. We laugh, and she makes a joke about two for the price of one.I laugh, and head off for the toilet next to the shuttered bar. Sam follows me.I'm not going to say anything to rattle her. Instead I stand in the toilet stall, ignoring the missing door, and start to piss. Sam comes in and leans on the wall, watching. At first it takes a moment to start the flow, but once it starts she's watching, and I'm relieved, feeling the pressure in my bladder go down. I don't know what to say. When I've finished she smiles, nods, says 'nice cock' then turns her back. Over her shoulder she says 'I'm off all day tomorrow, come round for coffee in the morning' and then she's gone.

I call into the bar later, and she's there, at the bar, then rushing from table to table. She smiles, blows me a kiss, gets Yannis to pour me a drink. On a napkin she writes 'Apartment 27; 10:30 am, admit one.'

Guess where I am 10:30 am the next morning? Yup, sitting on her balcony, drinking coffee with her in Daisy Dukes and a tee shirt that makes clear she hasn't got a bra on. We're talking in easy phrases, about the age gap (21 years), about working abroad, about the economic situation in Greece, and about how nice feta rolls are even if the local coffee doesn't brew well without using bottled water in the kettle. Then she switches topic, and starts talking about watching me piss. I manage to not look shocked, but it's a quick change. She's got a clear mental image. She wants to sit on the toilet, in her shorts and teeshirt, and piss her shorts while a man pisses on her tee shirt and tits. She wants to suck him off afterwards. I sit there and look at her. I'm the man. Apparently older men are more grateful, more willing to adapt to her kink. I'm not going to disagree. She's right. She takes her cue from my not disagreeing. She takes the coffee pot back into the apartment, comes out with a cold litre bottle of water. We swig it down, and I sit and openly ogle her body. She doesn't mind. She runs her hands over her tummy, pulls her teeshirt up, tweaks her nipple then pulls the teshirt down again. After about fifteen minutes she stands uop, smiles, and just says 'coming?'

I follow her into the toilet, watch as she sits, slips a finger up the leg of her shorts, and starts to piss as she fingers herself. The darker stain spreads across the denim shorts. I unzip myself, fumble my erection out of my pants,and will my piss to start to flow. I end up staring at the wall, willing it to happen; I'm not even sure it has happened until I hear her gasp. As I piss, splashing her throat, her face, her arms, she gasps, and I realise she's frigging faster, trying to make her self come. I want her to come before I run out of piss, but then I realise she's got her own script. Her script is she's going to sit and suck my cock as the piss trickles down her chest and thighs. I'm not going to complain. In fact I help her along. I grab hold of the back of her head, guide my cock deeper and deeper into her mouth. She wants to lick and tongue me, to get the tip of her tongue into my foreskin. I hold her head tighter, ignore the spluttering noises, conscious of my sudden desire to add my come to the taste of my piss in her mouth.

Later, when it's done, she lies on the bed, wrapped in a towel. She's smiling. Happy. Content.
'Any silly cunt can get a fuck. That was good sex. Thanks man...' I pour her a beer, and sit on the other bed, legs apart, like I'm making space for her to get between my legs....

 

good start

 

Hope Theres more