Sex Isle Exile

Shy divorcee Mark Sutton, was still licking his wounds after his acrimonious divorce. The court settlement had been crippling, but the subsequent bill from his so-called lawyers was even worse. As his job as a low-grade London banker hung in the balance, he’d applied for voluntary redundancy. Mark decided to take himself off for a solo holiday far away from miserable Covid-wracked Britain. With any luck, when he got back, there would be a P45 waiting for him on the doormat.

He’d booked a week on the Greek island of Zantos, having recently signed up with a singletons social club, whose motto brashly promised: ‘Where the fun begins for the over-50s.’ Zantos was a short ferry trip from the Ionian isle of Zakynthos. The two-hour flight out was uneventful, but ‘people watching’ on the ferry across to the little island was far more interesting. Gays easily outnumbered the hetero couples, there were a few obvious lesbian pairs and of the unattached middle-aged women only a couple seemed to Mark to offer any attraction. Perhaps there were richer pickings to be found on the island.

A five-minute drive by minibus from the little harbour, the club was based around a series of small stone-built cabins with thatched roofs, encircling a larger clubhouse, where Mark was welcomed by the club’s official ‘Meeter-and-Greeter’ – a very buxom topless Scandinavian lady named Helga. Inscribed across the front of her pink bikini bottom were the words: ‘OPEN ALL HOURS’.

“Hi Mark. You’re the only Brit staying with us this week. I do hope you can hook up with a playmate.” It was all he could do to take his eyes off her pendulous boobs, with their huge brown beckoning areolas. “I just have to check in your fellow travellers, then perhaps we could meet up on the rocks below the Beach Bar in about a quarter of an hour, so I can fill you in on what happens here on the island.” Mark agreed to the suggestion and headed off to unpack in his cabin.

Helga was as good as her word. Fifteen minutes later, he found her seated naked, buddha-like, on a small cluster of rocks, nursing a can of coke. Her discarded bikini bottom lay beside her and she made no attempt to conceal her vagina within the folds of her ample thighs. Shifting uneasily on his towel, Mark felt the tingling of an early erection. Helga smiled. “Don’t be shy, sweetie; let it all hang out – that’s why we’re here on Zantos!” She leaned forward, her huge boobs swinging out like pendulums. “Here, let me give you a hand.” Her ring-encrusted hand deftly freed his cock and brought it, semi-erect, out into the sunshine. “Nice. I do so love an uncut penis,” she observed with a smirk. “Like me to suck it for you?”

“What here?” Mark asked with alarm.


“Sure, why not? Those two are at it!” She nodded in the direction of two elderly bronzed men, openly sixty-nineing each other in the blazing sunshine. “Hey, the club motto is ‘Anything goes on Zantos’”. So saying, she buried her face in Mark’s lap, only coming up for air twice before he rocked back on his hands, vainly resisting all attempts to ejaculate. He heard her eagerly gulping and swallowing, before her smiling cum-streaked face reappeared. “Oh my, but that was quite a load you just delivered, darling!”

Though it was over in minutes – in broad daylight and on the rocks – Mark reflected on how time-consuming it had always been to get his ex-wife to fellate him. And her dismissive remarks each time at the conclusion. Helga was undoubtedly ‘to the manor born’ in the cock-sucking department. Why was it, he pondered, that the Scans (and the Dutch for that matter) were so much more relaxed about oral sex, whereas most English women he’d ever encountered found it a lude and tiresome chore.

Helga reached into her beach bag for her iPhone. “OK, so here’s what’s on the menu this week. There’s a Luminous Thong Fashion Show for you guys tonight; Face-Sitting for the Over 60s tomorrow – that usually takes place by the pool before breakfast; and our One-Tit-Out mid-week Buffet, which is always very popular with the ladies, in the evening.”

“How exactly does that work?” Mark asked.

“Simples. Guys come dressed in shorts and T-shirts, while ladies wear brightly coloured sarongs which they can hire from the club shop. It’s a self-service buffet but when they’re seated for supper, the ladies must adjust their sarongs to expose one breast for their fellow diners to enjoy. Lots of titty-stroking always ensues at the table – and since the chefs usually sneak one or two aphrodisiac herbs into the fruit salads, it isn’t long before folk are openly coupling. You’ll love it, I guarantee.” She scrolled down. “And on your last night here on the island, you’ll be able to witness our wonderful Fancy Dress Barbecue and Disco.”

Big Helga took a swig from a can of coke. “I should be getting back to Reception. We’ve got a party checking out at 3 to catch the late-afternoon flight back to Amsterdam. So, tell me, Mark, think you’re up for the big Fancy Dress barbe?”


“I’m not really sure. What do I wear?” Helga giggled. “As little as possible, darling! But some folk go to incredible lengths to make ‘nothing’ look alluring!”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well… say a woman has cute pert tits, with a nice all-over tan. She’ll maybe wrap them up in gold glitter string and decorate her nipples with silver lipstick. And just wait until Friday night if you wanna see some intricate male codpieces! There’s a jeroboam of champagne for the winner.”

“Well, now you’re talking!” Mark’s eyes lit up at the thought of free champagne.

“Hey, come to think of it, your cute uncut todger would look great covered in plaited grass and seaweed. Perhaps I’ll make one for you and we could share the fizzy if you win?”

“It’s a deal!” said Mark.


Helga rose and fastened her micro mini-bikini in place. She gave him a wry smile. “They all want to ogle my vaj, but as the Club’s official Meeter-and-Greeter, I usually save that treat until after dark.”

“So, I was lucky wasn’t I?”

She stroked a stray thread of his semen from her cheek and grinned. “So was I, sweetie. See you later!”

Deciding to fill in time before supper, Mark descended the stone steps to the club’s small horse-shaped beach. Twenty or so sun loungers were arranged along the water’s edge, with only half of them occupied. There were one or two portly sleeping Germanic types with voluminous beer guts, but the majority of the sun worshippers were well-tanned naked females, either sleeping or reading paperback novels. One of them, a redhead wearing a Venetian gondolier’s straw hat set at a jaunty angle, peered over the top of her book to check him out. She smiled and slid her legs languidly over the edge of her lounger to give him a better view of her shaved vagina. She reached down and with thumb and forefinger deftly enlarged it into a pear-shaped opening, with inviting glistening labia lips. Mark was only wearing his faded denim shorts, which quickly bulged around his crotch. He paused, ankle-deep in the surf, smiled back and rubbed the palm of his hand across his erection. She placed her book on the shingle and nodded an invitation for him to approach. So, this was how silent seduction occurred on Zantos.

He stood above her, casting a shadow over her small pert breasts (it was hard to imagine that she was aged over 50, although her wrinkled face hid no secrets). “Ciao!” She patted the edge of the lounger. Mark dutifully perched on its aluminium frame. She unzipped his shorts, slipped a hand into the gap to softly grasp his penis and smiled. To reciprocate, he began fingering her slit, delighted to find it moist and accommodating. No words were exchanged. She closed her eyes, indicating that an orgasm was close. Her back arched, she gave a little whimper then sank back onto her lounger and closed her eyes, with a lovely smile on her face. The ladies on the adjoining sun beds seemed wholly unconcerned. Mark moved off, shuffling slowly through the small breaking waves.

For the evening barbecue, most guests had covered up, although one or two lesbians staunchly supported the sisterhood with bared breasts. At Helga’s suggestion, Mark worked behind the bar, though his arse was soon sore from the fondling the two gay barmen kept giving him. Around midnight, the red-headed Italian lady appeared at the bar counter. “Thank you so much for this afternoon,” she whispered. “My husband never manages to make me cum like that.”


“You are very welcome, signora. It was a pleasure.”

“Tomorrow morning I will be reading my book on the beach once more. Please join me?” She sauntered off to join a bald-headed man sitting under a tree reading Corriere della Sera.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The 50+ Club’s Friday night fancy dress barbecue and disco finale more than lived up to Mark’s expectations.

The paved area outside the central clubhouse was ringed by crimson torchlights, with around 80 eager partygoers patiently seated at small tables awaiting the arrival of the cold lobster buffet supper. It didn’t disappoint. Young topless Greek waitresses served the diners, while centre stage – in a diaphanous voile cloak – Helga directed affairs with scrupulous Scandinavian efficiency. She was joined by a gay muscular couple who danced sensuously to a bolero; as close as copulating to music as anything Mark had witnessed.

Then, to a round of applause from the assembled diners, the entire team of waiters brought on a flaming soufflé. Whether it was the erotic dancing or some concealed ingredient within the soufflé, everyone became surprisingly relaxed: blouses were unbuttoned to expose breasts and gay men openly fondled each other under the table.


Suddenly, Helga was standing beside Mark, holding the hand of the petite Italian lady from the beach. “Here’s someone who wants to say ‘hello’ Mark.” Sweeping up her cloak, the Scandinavian Mistress of Ceremonies wafted off, murmuring: “I’ll leave you two lovers to have fun.”

Mark looked around for any sign of the lady’s husband. Reading his mind, she whispered: “He’s gone to bed. Didn’t like the music!”

“Come and sit beside me,” Mark invited.

“May I sit on your lap?”

“But of course.”

She stood up and stepped closer to whisper in his ear. “I thought I might see you tonight and so I left off my panties!” The inference was obvious. The lady craved to sit on his cock.


Mark had to think quickly. With no time to retreat to the toilets to slip out of his shorts, he brazenly unhitched them under the cover of the long tablecloth, letting them drop around his ankles. He nodded for the lady to sit on his lap. There was a delicious squishing noise as, effortlessly, she lowered herself onto his erection. He clutched her tightly around her slender hips and kissed the small of her naked back. Like a polished equestrian performer, she rode his cock with slow regular movements, her hands gripping the edge of the tabletop. Their silent love-making lasted all of ten minutes, finishing with a glorious climax just as Helga returned with an opened bottle of champagne and three glasses. “Having fun?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The following morning was Mark’s scheduled departure day. Helga was waiting by the minibus. She took his hand tenderly and gazed down at his rucksack. “Sure you want to go back to London, sweetie?”

“Not really.”

“Well, why not stay on for the rest of the season? We could do with a well-hung Meeter-and-Greeter and in the evenings, you could always help out behind the bar. The pay’s not great but the sex is amazing – as I think you’ve already discovered. And new crumpet arrives every week!” Almost as an afterthought, she added: “Perhaps we could even share my cabin?”

For Mark Sutton, the City of London was light years away.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Updated: July 31, 2021 — 3:14 pm
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