The Interruption


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I couldn’t decide between the steamed fish and grilled chicken thigh. They were both similarly priced and, I imagined, a similar portion size. I settled for the chicken: the French fries swayed it. Dean was having a burger.

He seemed quiet. I rubbed his knee under the table, squeezing slightly until he met my gaze and smiled. “You OK?” I asked.

“Mmhmm. I’m fine,” he replied, covering my hand with his, “just a bit restless.”

“Ah, well that’s fine then!” I said, winking and leaning to kiss him. He met me, as he knew to do now, but still seemed reluctant. I didn’t care, though: we were on holiday! We’d never see these people again and I should be able to relax and kiss my boyfriend on our holiday if I want to.

Our meals came, and we ate eagerly until the interruption almost halfway through – a middle-aged gentleman with greying hair and a craggy face. He appeared beside our table and seemed awkward. He leant in, close enough that I could smell the freshness of his blue linen shirt and the hint of wine on his breath
“Excuse me, but ehhhh.... You boys.... You are ehhhhh.... Gay... Yes?” he said quietly in broken English, gesturing back and forth between Dean and I.

My jaw clenched and my cutlery placed firmly on the table as I prepared myself for what came next. I would not stand for homophobia; not on our holiday. I looked the tanned man in the eye and replied curtly. “Yes.”

“Ah good! Good!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together and beaming.

His reaction threw me a little. It was quite the opposite to the venom and hatefulness I usually associated with that kind of question. I was further confused when he sat himself down and attempted to shake my hand. I looked at Dean as the man shook his hand and patted him on the shoulder thanking him, and he looked just as dumbfounded.

“Thankyou, thankyou! I ask for my son, you see...” he said, turning and pointing to an olive-skinned boy sitting alone at the other side of the restaurant. “He, he tell me he is gay and I.... I don’t know!” he declared, shrugging dramatically. “We are only little island here... He has problem... I want him to experience, to know... I like... Some help... Yes? You? You help?”

My mind was reeling, overwhelmed by the passion and warmth in the man’s pleas. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed the boy when we arrived – tanned with short, dark, spiky hair and long, smooth legs that ended in brown feet in flip-flops. Now he looked horrified. And...

“He looks very young...” I said, forgetting to even pretend it wasn’t going to happen. The man’s face fell noticeably.

“Please... He is 17... 18 in only a few months...”

I was surprised. He did not look it. I looked at Dean. He shrugged. I reached under the table and grabbed his crotch. There was all the agreement I needed.

The man was looking at me, his twinkling blue eyes searching into me. It felt ridiculous to be considering this. There were endless negative outcomes to it. Such reasoning was futile, though, because my erection had already decided.

“You promise no police...?” I said to him, slowly. Deliberately. To his credit, the man looked truly offended that I’d say such a thing.

“No no! No Κύριε! Never!” he cried, clutching my hand. “I wish to pay you for this ehhhh..... This... This favour! But I am a poor man... I cannot give much...” he continued, looking genuinely crestfallen.

“No no,” I said, immediately, shaking my head firmly. “No money. I will help.” I could hardly believe what I was saying.

He grasped my hand again, thanking me at a thousand miles an hour in both English and Greek and beaming widely. I reclaimed my hand and pointed at the boy, now steadfastly averting his gaze from our general direction. “Can he come and eat? Here? With us? Your son?”

“My son.... Eat.... Ah yes! Yes yes!” he exclaimed. He called and waved him over to us and addressed him in Greek. Nearer, the boy looked no older, with a round, smooth face and wide, brown eyes. He held out his hand and said simply, “Hello.”

I introduced myself and Dean, and invited him to sit with us. He did so, nervously, and his father almost immediately made an ill-advised joke about “leaving the lovebirds” and wandered off to converse with some local men smoking beneath the veranda. It struck me that no concrete plan had been put in place regarding how, when and where this was to happen. The man had no way of knowing that our hotel was just next-door... Unless he’d seen us through the week, perhaps, coming from there... Still, did he intend to collect his son? Afterwards? Wasn’t it irresponsible to wave your son off with two complete strangers!? Foreign strangers, at that!? But then, it is somewhat irresponsible in the first place to approach strangers and ask them to sexually-educate your son, so...

I decided I was over-thinking the matter, and that since it was so surreal and ridiculous it would not stand up to any degree of logical scrutiny. I focused instead on enjoying my meal and attempting to make small talk with our new friend. I did not venture into discussing the details of our impending activity, partly because it is vulgar whilst eating and partly because I suspected the language barrier would make some of the more specific conversation both difficult and awkward for him. His English was better than I expected though, so we managed. Dean, for his part, remained largely silent, only occasionally muttering agreement or something round a mouthful of burger.

We finished, paid and powered through the awkward moment when we all stood up and were each unsure who was doing what. I smiled at the boy as I reached for Dean, placing my hand on his butt and guiding him in front of me. That was that.

When we got to our room, I told him I needed a few moments to tidy inside. He got the gist and gave a thumbs up, saying, “Ah yes! I wait here for you, yes?” and smiling shyly. I nodded and went inside with Dean.

We did not really need to tidy up. I needed a moment alone with Dean simply to indulge the routine that accompanied any given situation in our relationship. He was way ahead of me, half-naked as I closed the door behind me. I chuckled and went to the case for his things.

Turning, he stood before me, short, slim, beautifully naked, proudly erect, smirking. Just four words passed between us. I said, “You’re sure?” and he replied, “Yes Sir” before kissing me softly on the lips and sinking to his knees.

I applied the leather ankles cuffs and locked them together, followed by the wrist cuffs, chaining them behind his back. Then came the tight rubber hood, pulled over his head, taking care to align the eye and mouth holes, and lastly a ballgag, fastened firmly. He knew not to interrupt me but sometimes his excitement got the better of him. I wondered where to put him for the duration of the proceedings. Kneeling in the corner facing the wall was my preference, but the floor was cold marble and subjecting him to pain was not at all the point. He was also to watch, so that ruled that out. Laying on the chez-lounge couch seemed viable, but he probably could not raise himself to come to me when called. I settled for simply sitting him on it, upright, legs parted. I knew this would feel formal and awkward to him and left him fully exposed to the gaze of our guest. Done. I went to the door and invited the boy inside, thanking him for waiting. He just smiled nervously as he brushed past me.

He saw immediately, though, Dean immobile on the sofa and took a step back, his eyes widening. I shut the door and rushed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and speaking calmly.

“No, no, no, not you. I am not going to do that to you… He likes it. OK? You understand? Not for you.”

The boy did not look entirely convinced but allowed me to guide him to the bed and sat down. Though Dean was almost behind him, he kept turning to look.

“Have you ever seen a naked boy before?” I asked him, fairly sure of the answer.

He looked at me, taken aback at my directness, shook his head then looked at his lap. I smiled.

“So… You are gay? Yes?” I said. He only nodded. “Do you speak much English?”

“A little. I am just…. Nervous…” he replied, fiddling with the drawstring of his shorts.

“That’s fine, it’s natural!” I assured him.

I was now beginning to understand the magnitude of the task I had taken on, and was unsure how to advance the situation from here. I decided I was simply overthinking it and did what I would have done in any other situation, I took control. I shifted nearer to him, put a hand on his neck and pressed my lips against his. He responded only slightly. I lingered then pulled back to look him in the eye.

“How about we get those shorts off, hm?” I said, grinning. He squirmed a little and looked at the floor. “C’moooon,” I insisted as I took his hand, stood up and pulled him with me. I kissed him again as my hands worked at the drawstring and he softened, relaxing into it.

Keen to see what kind of underwear Greek boys wore, I yanked sharply on the shorts and they slid to his knees. I stepped back and paused, shocked, confronted with a fat, white, plasticky crotch – he was wearing a nappy.