The Island. Erotic story

Mark Dovlatov

The story of the erotic adventures of Michael Duridomov at the Mediterranean Sea. Here everything is different: love – salty, sex —exuberant, sea – naked.

The Island

Erotic story

Mark Dovlatov

The prince trembled.

He remembered the islands, beautiful, but unintelligible,

remembered the princesses, unreal, but beautiful.

(J. Fowles, The Magus)

Photograph Roy Clarke

Cover designer Марк Довлатов

© Mark Dovlatov, 2018

© Roy Clarke, photos, 2018

© Марк Довлатов, cover design, 2018

ISBNВ 978-5-4493-3416-9

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Michail Duridomov was sitting on a deck-chair on the terrace of the second floor of a small house, which Bella and he rented on Capri for the last week of vacation, and reread “The Island” of Aldous Huxley on the tablet. He could hear Bella rattling the dishes in the kitchen: they lived in apartments to rest from hotels and people; they saw the couple living on the first floor maximum once a day, exchanged a short “Bon Journo” and did not even know what language they spoke.

On the second floor, there was aВ separate staircase, the entrance toВ the first was decorated with two ionic columns, and they called their house aВ villa. The floor was lined with ceramic tiles, it was nice toВ walk barefoot inВ the heat. InВ total there were two rooms and aВ bathroom: aВ huge living room with aВ kitchen and aВ table inВ the corner, aВ sofa and armchairs inВ the middle and an exit toВ the terrace, and aВ small bedroom with peasant-style furniture; on the walls bright copies ofВ famous paintings hung, the windows had blue shutters.

On Capri, they sailed on a ferry from Naples, where they flew by plane – it was in the morning, thick mist overlying the sea, and the rocky bulk of the island emerged from it quite unexpectedly and struck the gaze with primal savagery. Then, when they sailed around the island on a yacht, this impression only intensified: sheer cliffs descended right into the sea, sometimes intimately revealing some cave, a grotto or a stone gate.

They lived without a hotel regime: they got up when they got up, drank coffee and buns, went down to the beach, sunbathed, sailed slowly, sunbathed again, went home through the market, bought olives and tomatoes, zucchini, lettuce, pepper, finocchion, salsiccha, or a local sausage, mozzarella, gorgonzola or parmigiano reggiano, ciabatta – Italian bread, oranges and peaches. For dinner they always had a huge bowl of salad from all the vegetables that were found at home today, with olive oil, with grated cheese; Sometimes Bell made pasta, and sometimes simply ate sausage with bread, washing it all with red local wine from a paunchy bottle.

After dinner, they had a real siesta: they were lying in the bedroom behind closed shutters, without touching one another under one sheet, touching each other with their fingertips, without any purpose, until a shiver of excitement would throw them at each other, but they held back, did not hurry, they were well fed, loved each other slowly, delaying the final. They thoroughly knew the reactions of each other, withdrew at the last moment, “tormented” one another with anticipation, reveled in anticipation; they liked the game itself already more than the orgasm that loomed ahead of the rising sun – they were magicians, able to slow or even stop this sunrise. Then they slept for an hour or more, wrapped in the tart aroma of love, woke up, drank tea, took a bath, lay there for a long time, sat on the terrace looking at the sea, gathered and walked into the city. There they wandered through narrow streets, Piazzetta, went to the shops, sat in bars, listened to music, looked at people, then they looked for a new restaurant, where they had not yet been and had dinner. Ate each time something else: lasagna or risotto, pizza or pappardelle, ravioli or melanza. After dinner they could sit for