Lush Detour

If you’ve reached this point via Part 6, you’ll be aware that at the close of that story, I had just completed my UK armed forces initial engineering training. As an 18-year old junior electronics engineer, I was about to be deployed to my first operational unit, on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus.

It was November 1974 when I arrived, on a military transport aircraft, via the airbase at Akrotiri. At that time of year Cyprus is still relatively dry and warm, with temperatures at or just below 70-degrees; a vast change from the cold, damp UK I’d left behind.

I was met at the air terminal by my new Senior, to discover I had been allocated to work at one of the numerous signals intelligence sites on the Island. Mine was located within the Western Sovereign Base Area, close to the city of Limassol, where I should expect to serve for the next three years. With my kit dumped in the back of a Land-rover, I was transported to my Accommodation. When I was shown my pit space, my jaw hit the floor. It was indeed an absolute pit! (Though in retrospect, it was luxury when compared to some of those I would have to contend with, when deployed in active conflict zones in later years.)

Many will recall, that earlier in 1974, Turkey had invaded and occupied most of Northern Cyprus; an occupation which persists to this day. By the time I arrived, hostilities had ceased, but the fallout was still very much being felt. Mainly of course by the Cypriot population, many of whom were internally displaced, and had lost their homes, businesses, vehicles and most of their possessions!

Normally, there were many UK service families stationed on the Island. Post-invasion however, the unstable political position, and the potential for further armed conflict between the two ethnic Cypriot populations (Greek and Turkish), saw many family groups repatriated to the UK, to be replaced with single, mainly men. What this meant was that there were about four times more ‘singles’, than there was accommodation for.

As a result, my bed was located in a room, designed for six people, but with around 24-25 bodies crammed in there. Bunks were stacked three high in places, a mountaineeringt task to get in and out of, being very careful to avoid the spinning ceiling fans that were bravely trying to cool the sultry air, that had a distinct odour of sweaty bodies. Worse, I was told that for the moment, we were ‘hot bunking’; meaning when I was on shift, someone else slept on the bed, and vice versa.

There was no wardrobe space for anyone, so clothes were hung wherever there was somewhere to hang them, and most possessions had to stay in kitbags, many of which had to be stacked in corridors, to give occupants room to move around. I was told I was ‘lucky’. Some were still living in tents, pitched on sports fields. The very luckiest were those with their own offices, who could have a bed there. In short, any thoughts of bringing female company ‘home’ was a total non-starter.

Speaking of female company; it was virtually non-existent anyway. Oh, there were a few servicewomen (apparently their block was much more civilised, but it was a long time until I found that out for myself!), but the ratio of men to women was huge, and those girls who did date were long since spoken for. Apart from when required to leave the main base area for work reasons, we were confined to barracks. Even if we could mix socially with the ‘locals’, the majority of Cypriot girls were not known for being sexually available. So basically, calling anyone a ‘wanker’ at that time was not an insult, it was a statement of fact. We were all big, big wankers, for now!

A positive though, was the fact that being overseas, we got extra pay. Booze and cigarettes were duty free, albeit rationed, and the local beer, wine and brandy was cheap and plentiful. So we could mostly anaesthetise ourselves into ignoring our shit living conditions, when off duty.

Autumn became Winter, and Winter became Spring. I turned nineteen, and slowly, very slowly, things started to normalise. Some of the restrictions on our movements began to be lifted. We were allowed off base, during the day only at first, then in the evening, though strict curfews were in place, requiring us to be back on base by, first 22:00, then 23:00 and eventually, by midnight, enforced by the military police. This meant we could venture into the ‘bright lights and fleshpots’ of Limassol town. It’s a sprawling metropolis these days, but was relatively small and compact back then.

The bar and club owners, who had struggled for months, were overjoyed to have us back in circulation. They tried all sorts to attract us into their establishments. Happy hours, two-for-one drinks nights, live bands (some good and went on to be quite well known actually). But not surprisingly, the most attractive incentive, came from those bars that provided strippers.

Most of the ‘girls’ were foreign. Many from the Middle East or Eastern Europe, just out to make a bit of cash. I think it’s fair to say they were quite exploited. Generally once they had completed their activities on stage, they were expected to mix with the punters, who in turn were expected to buy them, probably fake, drinks at extortionate prices. The proceeds of course, mainly went to the bar owners not the girls themselves. But we were well paid, and it was nice to have female company, even if just to ogle and chat to. There were accounts of furtive handjobs, blowjobs and even actual fucking, in return for an appropriate ‘tip’. I couldn’t confirm these rumours were true, at first!

One night in mid summer, with the weather now dry and sultry, temperatures in the high 80 to 90 degrees, a colleague, Chris, and I had gone into town early evening, after spending our day off at the beach. We ate our fill at one of the many popular kebab houses, which then included all the Kokenelli (a really rough red wine) you could drink. After the meal, we hit several of the bars and clubs, eventually ending up at our favourite strip bar, grabbing a table at the back of the room, ready to enjoy the show.

We sat through a couple of unexciting acts, featuring lone girls gyrating to popular tunes, and stripping down to G-string underwear, before dancing among the crowd, fondling their own breasts and teasing the blokes by moving provocatively near them, but with strictly no contact. It was arousing, especially after months of, virtually enforced celibacy, enough to raise an erection in most of us. At least it did for me. The spectacle was something to have a wank over later perhaps.

Then the ‘main act’ of the night was introduced. ‘For their first season here in Cyprus, all the way from England, the ***** Girls!’ (I’ve got no idea what they were actually called!). But English, eh? Interest piqued. To the strains of Donna Summer’s steamy song, Love to Love you Baby, six hot blonde dancers took to the stage and started their routine. It was by no means Pan’s People or Hot Gossip (IYKYK!), but that didn’t mater, no one really cared about the standard of their dancing. Almost immediately they had shed their light, sheer robes and were naked, apart from tiny thongs.

Quickly, the girls paired up, and as Donna moaned and groaned to the beat, they embraced, rubbed their tits together, fondled arses and inner thighs, and basically dry humped each other, also in time to the music. As the song reached its climax, so did the girls, simulated I have to assume. Rubbing their thong clad mounds against each other, and stroking the other’s breasts, they all “orgasmed” simultaneously, before collapsing in each others arms.

I for one, was now sporting a raging hard on, requiring careful adjustment to maintain trouser comfort. Stunned silence in the audience quickly became rousing applause, as the dancers grabbed their robes and hurried off stage, to the back rooms of the bar.

Chris and I discussed the act, marvelling at how explicit it was (it was later deemed to be too much so, even by lax Cypriot standards, and had to be toned down somewhat.) As we chatted, and as was required of them, the six girls, now dressed, albeit quite sexily, appeared from the rear of the bar. To our surprise, two of them made a beeline for our table (I guess we looked harmless enough to them among the rough looking crowd) and asked if we ‘wanted company’, to which we obviously said yes. They introduced themselves as Pip and Pat (pseudonyms, as I have absolutely no idea of their actual names now!) Pip sat next to Chris and Pat next to me! Within seconds, a waiter appeared from nowhere, and we parted with a King’s ransom for the mandatory drinks!

The pair were virtual clones of each other. Early to mid twenties, blonde (probably wigs), medium height, lithe fit dancers figures, including large, though not massive, firm looking breasts. Pat was obviously braless under her tight halter neck top, as her nipples were prominent and proudly on display. Having seen them both virtually naked just a few minutes previously, it was hard not to visualise them like that now. I’ve never been great at the ‘chat up’, and my lecherous thoughts stymied me even more than usual, this was not working out well!

Fortunately though, Chris had the gift of the gab, broke the ice and led the conversation. Where were they from in England?, Geordies it turned out. How long had they been here? How long were they staying? What made them come to Cyprus (the money!) Out of politeness, they asked about us too, but in truth they didn’t care. They were really only there because they had to be.

Another wallet shrinking round of drinks was bought, as Chris desperately tried to engage Pip, but she was being quite sullen. After a bit of probing, she admitted she was not at all happy with her situation. She didn’t mind the stripping, she was used to that. But she hadn’t realised she’d be expected, as she put it, to ‘whore herself’ on the bar floor. She wanted to go home to Newcastle, but knew that would leave her colleagues in a difficult position as contracts had been signed hiring them as a group of six, so she was sticking it out for their benefit.

Pat, on the other hand, was quite buoyant. The money was good. They would be doing stints in several locations (Nicosia, Paphos and Larnaca) in addition to Limassol, so getting a good look around the country. The beaches were great, as was the nightlife on their days off; and she could earn good “tips”. My ears pricked at that word.

With the earlier wine and the subsequent bar crawl, I was getting quite pissed by then and before I knew it I’d blurted something stupid like “Tips, what for your dancing?”. Without turning a hair, Pat replied, “Sort of. Would you like to tip me?”. I nodded, yes. Without further hesitation, she stood and headed for the front door of the bar, beckoning me to follow, which I did. So the accounts were true. Tips could buy you ‘private dance performances’!

Pat led me round to the back of the bar and into what appeared to be a storage room, crammed full with spare tables, chairs and other bar paraphernalia. Looking back, I was being insanely stupid. I could easily have been robbed, beaten or worse. But the alcohol had numbed most of my brain, and the tiny remaining sober part was now centred in my cock anyway! I got lucky; in more ways than one. A “tip” was negotiated. My wallet was well depleted by then, so the ‘dancing’ she would do was to be quite limited.

Pat manoeuvred me to sit on one of the spare chairs, before unbuttoning and unzipping my trousers. I lifted my arse and dropped them and my underwear to my ankles. In the cramped space, Pat worked herself to kneel between my knees and took me in hand. I was already fully erect and leaking, so she slowly started to work my foreskin up and down, spreading my natural lubricant over my engorged glans.

As she worked on my cock, Pat reached behind her neck with her other hand, undid the tie of her halter and freed her stiff nippled tits for me again. I reached out to caress her, but she brushed my hand away. I could look, but not touch. I guess I hadn’t ‘tipped’ enough for that.

I’d been so long without a woman’s touch, I knew I would probably not last too long. Had I been completely sober, I would probably have shot my load already. But the booze was numbing my senses a bit, and I was determined to hold off as long as possible to get my money’s worth! But after a few minutes of her wanking me, getting steadily faster and faster, I felt my orgasm was imminent. I suppose really I should have warned Pat, but in my brain fog, it never occurred to me. I held back, and held back, until I could no longer control what was happening, and then ejaculated explosively. My first shot hit her on the chin, causing her to lift and turn her head away. Her position and the restricted space though, prevented her from moving away and my remaining spurts landed on her bare chest and tits.

Pat was not best pleased with me for cuming on her like that, and issued a curt rebuke; though didn’t make a major issue of it. She stood and found a bundle of cloth napkins on a shelf behind her and proceeded to use a couple to wipe my cum from her breasts, in doing so, teasingly putting on another show of her assets for me, before she scooped them back into her top, tied it, and headed for the door. In retrospect, I wondered why she didn’t just aim my cock away from her after that first spurt. Perhaps she didn’t mind the pearl necklace as much as she’d said she did after all!

I sat awhile, recovering from the handjob. The first non-self induced orgasm I’d had in months. I felt chilled out and de-stressed. I must have dozed off for a while, as I woke with a start, trousers and pants still round my ankles. Looking at my watch, I realised I would soon be breaking curfew, so hurriedly sorted myself out and went back into the bar. The show was over and it was nearly empty by then. Chris was nowhere to be seen. When I spoke with him the following day, he told me he had walked Pip back to the girls’ digs, hoping to get it on with her, but she’d blown him off when they got there. Not knowing where I was he’d made his own way back to barracks.

I managed to get a taxi back myself, draining the last of my cash from my wallet. It would be a lean couple of weeks ahead, until payday. On the ride home, I reflected on the evening’s events. It was starting to dawn on me that I had just paid for a sexual favour. Pat, as Pip had so succinctly put it, was indeed “whoring herself”, as well as stripping for money. And I’m certain if I’d had the funds with me, it could have been more than a hand job. Basically, she was a prostitute, even if only a part time one.

Should I feel guilty? Why should I? Nobody was forced to do anything against their will. We were consenting adults. There was no real solicitation. A simple mutually agreeable deal was struck, and nobody got hurt! Though in the cold, sober light of the next day, I told myself I would not be doing that again. I’d put myself in a very risky situation, that could have had serious consequences. No, no more prostitutes for me. That promise didn’t last long.

The long hot summer, became an equally balmy autumn, and we continued to work hard, and play harder. The political division of the island had become tolerated, but would never be fully accepted. The risk of further hostilities had all but disappeared, and our lives started to ease further. Curfews were dropped, meaning we were free to come and go as we pleased, with a few exceptions (we definitely could not cross the ‘Green Line’ into Turkish occupied territory.) Also, accompanied posts were reintroduced, and with families returning, the demands on single accommodation started to ease. We were still overcrowded, but not as massively so as when I arrived. It also meant ‘service brats’ appeared; the teenage sons and daughters of married servicemen, but more of that later.

With the curfews lifted, the night clubs in town also extended their opening hours. It was mostly the British servicemen, and a few women, that frequented them. They tried so hard to attract more female clientele, but in the main, they were just ‘after hours’ drinking dens for us blokes. After the NAAFI and unit bars closed, we’d pile into taxis and head for town. We still occasionally frequented the strip bars, but Pip and Pat’s troupe had long since finished their run and we’re probably plying their trade back in the UK by now, or elsewhere in the world perhaps.

Late one Friday night, having spent some time in the normal haunts, three of us were sat in the strip bar nursing our drinks. The acts had finished for the night, and hadn’t been that special anyway. We were trying to decide where to go next, when out of the blue Phil, one of my drinking partners suggested, “Why don’t we see what it’s like in The Square.”