Lust and Love on The Island of Rhodes - Sex Stories

Lust and Love on The Island of Rhodes

... her, but didn’t care. I knew I was being exploited and wanted the wild adventure this afternoon was bringing me after so many months at sea. At the same time, I was curious about Annika and her life. I wanted to be a writer and left on the freighter to go to Paris where many of my favorite writers lived in the twenties. I was disillusioned with America, its crass commercialism and the emptiness that clashed with my idealism. I wanted to feel alive. I wanted experiences so that my stories would come out of my life. I wanted to meet people, hear their stories and spent many hours on the ship talking to the other sailors, learning who they were, what they had experienced. But now, getting drunk with Annika, I wanted to know more about this sexy, young girl, not sure how old she was. Who was she? Why was she a whore? Why was this beautiful, seductive young woman selling herself? What were her dreams and passions? What did she want for her life? At the same time, I wanted to fuck her brains out and take full advantage of what was being offered to me. Still, my writer’s mind was fascinated by life’s little twists and turns, how circumstances you never plan become events that can change your life. I wanted to know her, not just use her to satisfy my lust. She was beautiful and fascinating, and I knew if we talked and felt closer, our time in bed would be more than animalistic fucking. I took a deep drink of my wine, finished half the glass, then put it down and watched Annika do ...

... the same, holding her head back, her long, dark hair hanging over the back of the chair. I watched her swallow and finish the wine, then put her glass on the table and look at me with that sweet, but devilish smile on her lips. “I’m getting drunk. Thank you, sailor.” “So, my beautiful friend, who are you?” “Who am I?” She raised her eyebrows at my question. “What do you mean, who am I? Why do you care?” “I’m a curious person. I want to know you.” I leaned forward, looking at her surprised face. “There is not much to know. I am a simple person. I live on my father’s farm where we grow olives. I work hard. I am strong.” She paused and looked into my eyes. “But I am lonely for a man.” “Is that why Paul called you?” “Yes, Paul is my father’s friend. Very nice man and calls me sometimes to make money for me and him. Does that answer your question?” “Partly,” I answered. “But does being a whore make you less lonely.” She winced at the word and paused before answering. “No, I do not like being a whore, but we are poor so I do what I must.” We were both silent, her words resonating with acceptance and resignation. She took another deep breath and looked at me, smiled, then looked away with a flicker of sadness in her eyes. Then she turned to the doorway, “Paul, more wine.” “You speak very good English for a simple farm girl. How did you learn English?” “I go to the convent and learn English. I love to read stories,” she said. “Love stories. I like romance. I like passion.” She paused, ...