Chapter 4

In 1987, age 37, I had never seen the ocean and never been in a foreign country. My travels had all been in a small orbit around the Great Plains. I was surprised one day in Omaha when a client, the head of a faith-based charity, asked, "Would you like to go to Greece, Becky?"

"Excuse me?" I was puzzled.

"I'm serious." she said. "I'm organizing a tour for a number of our major donors to visit Christian sites in Greece. I'm calling the tour 'In the Steps of Saint Paul.' I need an assistant to help me. It will be all women."

"But I've never traveled and I know nothing about Greece."

"That doesn't matter, ' she said. "The travel agency does the logistics. What I need is somebody to help me keep thirty women contented. You're presentable. You're empathetic. You're intelligent. You can pamper them, pray with them if necessary, and with a little study you can help me explain the places we're seeing. You've read the New Testament?"

"I know it backwards and forwards. But I can't afford a trip to Greece."

"You'll go free. I can't pay you a salary but it'll be an all expense paid trip. Unfortunately, you'll have to put up with a bunch of spoiled, old women for 10 days," she laughed. "Think about it."

"I will," I responded. And I did. That night I went alone to a Greek restaurant near my hotel and ate kalamarakia (squid), melitzana salata (eggplant salad), dolmades (stuffed grape leaves), and souvlaki. That was the first Greek food I had ever eaten. I liked it. And a handsome man of Greek descent invited me to try ouzo and I drank two glasses of the cloudy, anise- flavored liquor and then we went to my room and fucked. I've had worse nights.

Next morning I telephoned my husband back home. I always sought his permission for any endeavor. He enjoyed my income too much to deny me permission. "What would you think if I went to Greece in July for two weeks?"

"Greece? We can't afford that."

"It won't cost anything. All expenses paid. I'll go to help out with a women's group following Paul's route in Greece." Our fundamentalist church doesn't believe in saints. So, he's just "Paul" to us, not "Saint Paul."

"What about the children?"

Rachel, my oldest, was seventeen and a handful. "Rachel can visit her cousins in Wichita. They've been asking for her to visit. And Stephen can stay with Uncle Tom and work on his farm. He'd like that and he'd make some money." Stephen was fourteen.

"There'll be a bunch of rich old women on this trip. The contacts won't do either of us any harm," I added.

We discussed it a while longer and he reluctantly conceded.

"Thanks, dear. I'll be home in a couple of days. Perhaps I can help with the Women's Missionary Group. Now that I'm going to be a world traveler." I laughed.

"That would be useful," he replied. "There's talk, you know, that you're ... well ... not as active as you used to be in the church."

"I'll lead the prayer meeting next Wednesday. Promise. I'll stay home all week. Love you."

"I love you too, Rebecca."

I bought a guidebook and read about Greece. It sounded enchanting and I was truly interested in Paul and the places he had visited. So, I told the woman heading the trip that I would go. "But," I asked, "Do I have to come back to the States on the airplane with you?"

She thought a moment. "No, I guess not. Once we put the members of the group on the airplane home your job is done."

"Good. I'll plan to stay on for three or four days to visit one or two of the islands. They sound wonderful."

That night I found my Greek lover again. We bought a bottle of ouzo and took it to my hotel room and drank it between orgasms and talked about what I should do in Greece.

The next morning I got up and drove home.

The trip to Greece with thirty women was a nightmare. I was on pins and needles for the whole ten days dealing with carping, tardiness, diarrhea, homesickness, penny-pinching, and general bitchiness. To be fair, most of the women were lovely, but there are always a few problem children in every group – especially if they are women of means. Those were the ones I had been chained to.

"I never promised you a rose garden," said the leader as the group got on the airplane early one morning at Athens airport to return to the U.S. "Just a free trip."

"The places we visited were interesting. I hope they all enjoyed the tour," I said cautiously.

She laughed. "They did and they loved you. You did splendidly. Nobody died. None of them got thrown in jail or lost -- or in a fistfight."

"Thank God," I looked up at the sky. "And, God, I'm really sincere about that."

"How long will you stay?"

"I have plane reservations to leave Greece in three days. But today I'm taking a flight out to the islands."

"Best of luck. I hope you have appropriate swim wear," she said with a wink.

"I do."

The island of Skiathos, I learned from the tourist guide, is six miles long and three miles wide. It's covered mostly with pine forests and is one of the greenest of the many Greek islands. The only town on the island was said to ooze charm. There were many beaches, both pebble and sandy. It's a popular island for tourists, but not overrun as the airport is only suitable for small, local flights.

My plane got to Skiathos about noon and I caught a bus into town from the airport. I had made a reservation in a small and cheap hotel. I chose to stay in town rather than at the more expensive and luxurious beach hotels dotted around the island. It was hot and I was conspicuous on the bus. Everybody else, mostly young Europeans, was in holiday dress. I was wearing a modest skirt and blouse. I felt like a refugee from a tent revival.

I got off the bus at the main plaza and searched out my hotel, hauling my suitcase (this was before roller bags became common) down a rabbit warren of narrow, cobbled streets and up steep, stair-stepped walkways. Fortunately, the town was small and after asking directions a couple of times I found the hotel. It was old and inconspicuous, three stories, of whitewashed native stone with blue shutters. A marvelous purple bougainvillea curved around the signpost next to the double front door that led into a dark, narrow interior and the small front desk. I checked in with a friendly older man who spoke good English. My room was small, a double bed, a chair and dressing table, and a tiny bathroom with shower but it opened onto a terrace that looked out over a sapphire-blue sea and a town so white it hurt the eyes to see. My exhausted body collapsed into a state of total relaxation.

I decided to take a walk and have lunch before an afternoon siesta. I took off my skirt and blouse and packed them away. I put on my bikini bottom. This was the first bikini I had ever owned. It was modest, as bikinis go. I had shaved my pubic hair in anticipation of wearing it. I covered the bottom with a pair of shorts. Then I took my bra off and replaced it with the bikini top. I looked at myself critically in the mirror. I'm rather pretty, I thought. I'm average height and slender, but not skinny. My little boobs looked good in a bikini. I didn't have any cellulose and my stomach was flat. I mussed up my severe and old-fashioned hair style to look a bit more like I was on vacation, donned a pair of flip-flop sandals, and away I went – my first day alone in a foreign country. I was both frightened and excited.

The Plakes beach was near the town center, only a five minute walk from my hotel. It was small and pebbly, falling off steeply in rock ledges to the crystal clear water below. Pine trees shaded it around the edges. About a dozen women and an equal number of men were sunbathing on the rocks or swimming. Most of the women were topless. Some of them had breasts burned as brown as leather; others ranged in color from sunburned red, to rosy pink, to as white as a winding sheet. You could tell how long the women had been in Greece by the color of their tits. Mine, beneath my bikini top, which hung loosely on me, had never seen the sun and were shockingly white. I wasn't quite brave enough yet to take off my top and reveal them to the world. I sat down on a rock.

"Well, Sheila, fancy meeting you again." A young, handsome man sat down beside me on the rock. He sat his backpack down beside us. He was wearing only shorts. He wasn't tall, but he was well-muscled and bronzed from the sun. He was probably not more than 25 years old.

"We've met?"

"I said hello to you when you got off the bus."

"Oh, yes. But my name is not Sheila."

"Sheila will do. I'm Rory."

"Rory? Are you British?" His accent was not American

"You do know how to wound a man. I'm Australian."

"Sorry."

"And you're American?"

"Yes."

"How about a swim, Sheila? You look uncomfortable in all those clothes."

I looked down at my bikini top. It was too loose and it gapped open. He was staring at my nipple. "It's always the unseen that is more interesting than the seen," he commented.

"That sounds like something Plato might have said."

"Who?"

"It's too hot now to get out in the sun. I need lunch and a nap first."

"Can I join you for lunch?" He paused. "Dutch treat? I'm a bit short of the ready."

"Fine with me. I'm on a budget too."

"Good. I know a cheap place." He pulled a t-shirt out of his backpack and put it on and then shouldered the pack.

"Lead on, Rory." Well, I had found a man and, apparently, a young and nice one too. I was surprised that, with all the talent on display at the beach, he had chosen to pay attention to me.

"Righto, Sheila."

He led me to a restaurant on a narrow quiet street with outside tables shaded by a grapevine growing on an overhead trellis. In the shade of the grape vine, we ate Greek salad and octopus soaked in olive oil and crunchy bread and drank a large bottle of Amstel each. And then we each drank another bottle of Amstel. He told me about himself. He was 24, from Perth, a recent college graduate, and taking a holiday in Europe. He had to leave Skiathos next afternoon to return to Athens to catch a plane home. He had been in the islands for two weeks. He was nearly out of money. His real name wasn't Rory, of course, but I didn't ask what it was. Nor did he ask me my real name. I didn't tell him much about myself except that I was from Kansas. I was wearing a wedding ring.

I asked, "Where are you staying?"

"On the beach for the last two nights. Beneath the third pine tree on the left."

I laughed. And yawned. "I can't stay awake. I really have to take a nap."

"Could I see you later?" he asked. "That is truly a fetching top," he added. My bikini top was gapping open again.

"I need to buy one that fits." I adjusted the cloth to get my tits covered. They didn't fill out the cups. He paid half the bill for lunch after a grimace. I gestured for him to follow me. "Come on. You can stay in my room if you wish."

"I was hoping you would offer. I'll show you the town tonight. If you pay for the beer."

"Okay, but first a nap."

"I'm up for that. The sand was hard under that pine tree."

We walked a couple of blocks back to the hotel. I dropped off nearly all my money and passport in the hotel safe -- just in case he was something other than a pleasant, charming boy. I had learned from experience never to trust a man you just met – especially if he is charming. I led him up the stairs to my room. The bed was a small double. We would be cramped. It was hot in the room but a breeze came in through the double doors on the terrace.

"This is home," I said. "I have to pee." When I came out of the bathroom he was sitting on the bed. "We can share the bed – for a nap. I hope you don't snore." I pulled my shorts off and threw them on the chair. My bikini bottom, which I thought was racy when I bought it, was embarrassingly modest compared to most I had seen on Skiathos. And the top didn't fit.

"What the hell," I thought. "I want to be comfortable – and he's seen tits." I turned my back to him. "Unhook the top," I said. "I want to feel the air on my skin."

"Good idea," he answered. I slipped the bikini top over my arms threw it on the chair. I looked at myself in the mirror, and wiped away drops of sweat between my boobs. "I need a tan," I said critically.

"The white ones are best," he commented. "When they've been browned by the sun it's like chewing on a saddle bag. How about that bottom?"

"I'll leave it on. For now."

"Promises, promises,"

I lay down on the bed, put a pillow beneath my head, yawned, and stretched out. He lay beside me and put an exploratory hand on my thigh. "Not now." I said. "I really need some sleep."

"You know," he mused, his index finger tracing circles about my breasts, "You remind me of my Sunday school teacher when I was twelve years old."

"Because I'm old?" I was a bit offended – and also disconcerted because my true profession was so easily discerned.

"Because you're hot. I was in love with that teacher."

We both fell asleep.

When I woke the sun was low in the sky and it was cooler in the room. Rory was in the shower. He came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. "Hi, Sheila. Sleep well?"

He sat down beside me on the bed. He put his hand on one of my breasts and began to massage my nipple. My tits practically disappear when I lie on my back, but my nipples are large and dark brown and they get very hard when I am aroused. He kissed the nipple. "That tit is dry. It needs a little moisture."

"Sorry about that. I'll buy some suntan oil."

"I've got something that works just as well. And tastes better." He went over to his pack and pulled out a small bottle. "Olive oil. Extra virgin."

"Hmmm," I said skeptically. He poured a goodly measure of the olive oil in his cupped hand and rubbed it on my breasts. It felt like satin as his hands moved over my nipples. The towel was loose around his waist and his half-erect penis and testicles poked out. What a wonderful way to wake up! A hot afternoon with a breeze, a Greek island, and a young, handsome man.

"Ah, now they're nice tits." He licked a nipple. My nipples are extremely sensitive to the touch and I wiggled happily.

"Give me a little of that oil."

He poured a few drops in my hand. I pulled the towel away from his waist and grasped his penis and rubbed the oil on it with strokes that left it shining and wet and very hard in my hand. I liked this boy. He lay down beside me, his penis sticking straight up in the air. I pulled off my bikini bottom – naked now -- straddled him, filled my hand with oil and massaged him from the toes up and down his legs. As I sat on his groin, his penis slipped inside me and we both missed a breath. I froze. Not without a condom! And I didn't want him to cum. Not yet. I eased his penis out of me, oh so carefully.

"Roll over," I said. He was getting too hot, too quick. I massaged his back and shoulders and then rolled him over on his stomach again, sitting with his head between my legs. Then, hands slippery with olive oil I massaged his chest while he hunched pleasurably, his penis poking holes in the air. I reversed my position and lay down beside him and kissed him from head to groin, my hips grinding against him. I went around and around his penis, filling my mouth with olive oil, spurting it over his balls and rubbing it in with my lips and tongue. If I had taken his penis in my mouth he would have gone off in an instant -- but I wanted to make sure that this boy stayed around.

I backed off from his balls. "There's a package of condoms in my purse."

He looked at me in dismay. "Sorry," I said, ""I don't want to take a present home to my husband."

"You may have noticed that we already had a little accident."

"Yes, and that worries me. I can't take any chances."

He walked over to the chair, reached into my purse, and pulled out a package with a dozen condoms. "Wow," he said, "the woman comes prepared. You must have known you were going to meet me. This is enough for tonight," he added, "but you'll need more tomorrow."

"Big talk..." He lay down on his back and handed me the condom. I put it on very gently; I didn't want him to cum prematurely. When I was finished, he rolled over on top and impaled me. Oooh!

After ten days of abstinence and restraint while traveling with the old ladies I needed to be fucked splendidly. He employed that penis like a pilot does a joy stick, ensuring that I gasped with pleasure as he rammed it deep within me and then withdrew all but the head, forcing me to grab his hips and pull him deeper. We came together in one beautiful sexual explosion, my legs straight up in the air over his shoulders as he dug as deep as he could within me. His final spasms seemed to go on forever, one spurt after another ... matching my own. Eureka! As that old Greek -- what's his name? -- said.

It's the good feeling after sex that I like most. Rory and I lay in bed, our bodies shiny and slick from olive oil, my hand idly playing with his flaccid penis, his hand caressing my boobs. It wasn't love. I knew that from experience. But it was all the good things that go along with love: contentment, satisfaction, security, and a spiritual union that I had come to believe was what religion was all about.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. "It's after nine. The restaurants will be open."

"I'll buy you dinner."

"Good. Let's go somewhere expensive."

"No, you'll have to appreciate me for my inner qualities – not my money."

"I've appreciated those inner qualities, my little Sunday school teacher."

"Actually," I said. "I am a Sunday school teacher. And a preacher's wife."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. And don't ask any more questions."

We took a shower together. His dick got hard and in an instant we were fucking again, first in the shower and then finishing up on the bed. It was quick. We were starving.

"What to wear?" I puzzled as we got up, rummaging through my suitcase. My wardrobe was mostly skirts and blouses and sensible shoes.

"Definitely not one of these," he held up a bra. "How about one of my t-shirts?"

I tried it on. It was sleeveless and a little too large. "Isn't it too casual for wearing out at night?"

"Lady, this is a Greek island and it is summer."

"You can see my tit through the armhole," I said, looking at myself in the mirror. It looked rather nice, I thought. "Perky" would be the appropriate adjective for my tits.

"That's the idea." I put on a pair of shorts to go with the t-shirt.

We found a restaurant in the triangle where two cobbled streets met on a tiny plaza with a large pine tree in the center. We took a table outside. I ate swordfish and scordalia, a garlic sauce; he ate a gyro and French fries. We both drank beer. The life of the town flowed by us as we ate and drank. It was a collection of older Greeks, stout and conservative, and Europeans. Most of the younger Greeks, I was told, were working in the hotels and restaurants. The tourist season on Skiathos was only three months long. They worked hard in the summer.