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Aphrodite Encumbered: Book II - Flames of Tryst

Aphrodite Encumbered: Book II - Flames of Tryst

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Aphrodite Encumbered: Book II - Flames of Tryst

304 Seiten
5 Stunden
Jun 30, 2013


Zen has been a victim of fraud, when applying for a position at Caltex Oil & Gas Company. He only finds out through a friend, but it's too late, the criminals have duped him for his cash. Hana is a great Muse soothing his mind and loving him and putting him back to normality. Carl, his engineering friend falls back on Zen to support him with lifts to his mechanics that repair is beloved Opel six cylinder.Sen, a young Chinese woman befriends him during the hype of the Olympic Games online and send him a gift of special tea.Hana travels through a hard patch of supporting her ailing husband, while Zen writes poetry and turns all negatives of his profession into lyrics. Zen researches the sacred precinct of Eleusis, as it is strange to him that the second most important sanctuary in ancient Greece has been left aside without more efforts into extending excavations there. Between working lunches and business suppers, Carla and Zen keep their frail building and design businesses going. For how long? In midst of violence and everyday danger they survive within their circle of friends and the spots they frequent for entertainment. New work is sparse and between supervision jobs, Zen supports Carl, who has a mission of keeping his ageing cars on the road.Zen prepares for an investigating trip to Greece, with Hana assisting him with the selection of a hotel nearby their domicile. Zen has been heading the refurbishment of their home and Bea is afraid that he spends too much money on the renovations. Zen is adamant that he is doing the right thing.

Jun 30, 2013

Über den Autor

Z.J. Galos was born in eastern Austria. Educated in Vienna in art and architecture, he sailed for the Cape of Africa, experiencing the vastness and variety of the Southern African continent. Recently he enjoys travelling through Greece visiting its great cultural inheritance. In print also:;

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Aphrodite Encumbered - ZJ Galos







Aphrodite Encumbered

Book II

Flame of Tryst

ZJ Galos

Published by ZJ Galos at Smashword

Copyright 2013 ZJ Galos

Smashword Edition, License Notes:

Thank you for downloading the first book in a series of five sequels. If you enjoyed reading the story of a man who follows his inner call changing profession, following his dream with the help of his erotic Muse, who will captivate him like Calypso and spin him into the island of HaZe, where he feels secure and safe, even if the world around him crumbles, I am sure you will enjoy all other four sequels. I would appreciate it, if you give me your support and tell all your friends about it. Further please take a few minutes and comment on my website at:

If you wish to know more about me, visit:

Books written by ZJ Galos can also be obtained from:; Smashwords and online book retailers.

This book is about an artist and his unusual Muse.

Aphrodite Encumbered:

Book I Celestial Sparks

Book III Firestorm

Book IV Ashes

Book IV Sea and Sky

This work is dedicated to the community of mature lovers and it is Adult Reading Material.

Other books written by Z.J.Galos:

Romantic Thrillers:

The Informer

The Greek Muse

The Face


Educating Pizzy.

A Portrait of Pain and Passion.

Books are also available from the author’s website at:

aphrodite encumbered

your powers over

men and women

one armed you

conduct a symposium

with a choice of

aphrodite’s beauty

beamed over

stones of marble

you stir to sudden



"Love, like poetry is a

world, in which we confront

the impossible." Zoltan Zelan.

I worried about Hana, who might have been put-off by me through overwhelming happenings. It left us no quality time for meeting her in the intimacy of my studio. We both are keen to exchange love’s emotions through our comm.’s window in flesh and blood, mutually created to relief our stresses of an unhappy sex-life. It is of great importance to an artist to encounter a Muse. I am glad that the story of Hana continues and I can read from her messages that she had similar thoughts to mine.

"Have you not forgotten me, Zeni?

How could I have? I replied. Our banters are a warm up to love talk. Our soul-bonding through the vehicle of the Internet has been intense and mutually exciting. We both expressed desire for love at the same time. Our paths crossed on the heavens, as Venus moved through the sun. Symbolic for her foam-born sensuality, it reinforced our face-glowing touches and lustful expressions in words, followed by a brief stint of video exposure that drove our libidos to the peak. It positioned masturbation to its rightfully deserved place, as an expression of physical love for a compatible partner, in acts of continual sensuality. A pleasure of mutual touching, even if the physical distance is bridged with an electronic image that appears on the monitor, the dream-face that is transported to the PC, laptop, or hand held gizmos. The layer of resolve with perfect partners for sexual intimacy along the side lines of tradition, along hackneyed routes of marriage that has lost the lustful sparks of sexual love. Is stealthy love like premium ‘grass’ superb to all tobacco plants?

It is no secret that most durable and successful marriages has partners, who seel sexual relief outside the traditional bond. The person, who has found a soulmate or a Muse, is most fortunate indeed. Creative artists seek their Muses for inspiration. I am reading up on the life of Ernst Fuchs, who had a lifelong search for his Muses. He married most of them creating a large family of sixteen children with different wives.

I have no intention of having that many children and one wife is sufficient. But if any Muse is living with one, she becomes a wife as well, although not officially. I’d have a few wives if I could afford them, for now I am seeking the truth in a lustful relationship. There are no bonds of contract, no sticks thrown across one’s feet to topple over, and there are no stones thrown but love that is pure. The crystal clarity of hot and deep emotions in the furnace that burns deep inside. Flamed up by a mate of matching emotionally, related to age, I felt that I could exchange with her any emotional want. For god’s sake, it is the paradise mankind has lost once. It is a paradise worth living for if you come across it and hold it tight with love. It’s the Blarney Stone of happiness that surpasses all other magical stones that are touched by lovers all over the world.

Love is lust. For if lust is love, then this desire of living is aiming for the peaks of one’s life. There are many peaks with Hana. The desire to exchange total lust is recurring at all times, but it requires a gentle effort to keep up. It’s not more cumbersome than walking for daily exercise. It is a natural want; a need that is enjoyed with an equally minded partner, who reacts to one’s animalistic inside. Besides she has the same zest for life as for the verbal communication that is the overture for great lovemaking.

Hana is the Muse for sex. She is Aphrodite with one arm and one side compensating with unusual sexual drive as against the other still and quiet side. I do not see her encumbered by her physical handicap, she obtained through an emergency operation!

I see Hana as a sensual woman, half-clad into loin cloth that slowly falls from her hips. Her full and ripe breasts invite me kissing them, and to play with her hardened nipples like glowing Eros on Aphrodite. As she turns, her behind is an exciting view. Kallipygos is the right expression. Aphrodite Kallipygos, the goddess of beauty and love, with the beautiful derriere that she offers me to feast upon and adore, tease and taste, explore and take her and grab her from the aspects of lust, plunge into her vulva for her juices and finally slide into the tightness of her sphincter with the same gusto. Well lubricated and with a new feeling of possessing Hana completely. I recall one of Gauguin’s statements about love and lust. Indeed!

I paint my secret desires for Hana and she responds open minded, a vessel for my lust, I describe to her. Hana’s sensuality is as much exciting during our talks that we set the scenarios for our lovemaking and experiencing our build up to a climax, with our fingers becoming the fingers of the partner, and following our soul’s desires. We are exploring pure mutual lust through communicating our instant acts. I want Hana. I write her erotic poems. I draw her constantly her with her two most prominent features: her large breasts and her beautiful bums. Hana Kallipygos.


I have seen only good things here," Gord said and grinned, his white teeth shining in the sun. His dark glasses shielded any expression. Slowly he took a box of Camel light from his pocket, fished out a cigarette with his fingers he had black hair growing on, showing some nervous movements as he held a flame to it. He offered his pack to the foreman who took one and lit up. During this pause of smoking ritual I took Jan aside. He has been placed as second builder to a team of two competing groups of hungry men, wetting their appetites on cement and plaster mixes, tile grout and paint.

This job looks terrible, I said to Gord, look at your finishes at the barbeque area, the box gutter alignment, and the ceiling soffits! The group of labourers moved from the smoking ceremony on the poolside area to the enclosed barbeque. A tin roof covered the angular shape of the roof, to which the client had reservations from the start. I like straight lines," he blasted at the builders, who followed the kink at the end of the ‘flybeam’ that pointed like an accusing finger against the new double storey building of the neighbour. The 30 degree kink made a dramatic turn at the end of a 30 metre run, supported by slender round columns. It added to the dynamic tension that made the assembled buildings tied together into a new special experience kicking new life into them.

It’s a great design, Gord mumbled offering his grin to everybody, but nobody seemed to take it. I had left the group of hanging-on builders and joined the men at the coal face of building the decorative wall, which had been the point of disgruntled conversations.

I hope you’ll accept my design, I said to Byron, our client.

Yes, he said and paused, yes! But I felt that he chanced a need to express his own taste given the opportunity at his own home. Everybody had noticed by now that his headstrong wife had the finger on the pulse of their domestic life.

Well, he rasped, I have to leave for my office now, maybe we could look at the wall later.

I’d like to offer you a water feature, Gord intercepted.

"No, no water feature, Byron mumbled, turned on his heels and rushed to his Beemer.

The ‘deco-wall’, as I called it, had served its function already. It became the tombstone of the project, where all participants buried their bad moods and spit on the remaining wall, left with three pseudo-arches as being the culprit of all their tensions and problems.

I know what to do, Don said, his squinting eyes shifting half-closed in the late morning’s sun that started to burn the low cloud cover over Joburg. I looked at his pockmarked face, loaded with fatty tissue and swollen from excessive drinking of red rum and coke.

Let’s have coffee first, he ended the discussion,I am not part of Gord’s team, I am independent. The labourers looked at him.

Oh, I replied, admiring his attitude not to bow to the man with the fast fingers and greed for taking the lion’s share from any contract he could lay his hands on, leaving his team of builders stranded with a loss.

I know that my design for the ‘deco-wall’ had been besides interesting, also an unusual exercise, where I combined rock with riven stone slats and slots for openings, serving as an observational post for the long driveway in front of it.

Come to site in the morning, Don concluded our coffee stop, we can do it together. I am working for Byron now and not any longer for Gord. He took a drag on his Chesterfield that had burned down completely. I wondered if he enjoyed the last drag, as it became hotter toward the filter where all impurities had concentrated.

Ok Don, for me it is a piece of art, bit for the client it is a decorated wall at a price he agrees to accept. He paused and grinned mumbling some words in Afrikaans, I did not catch. He gasped.

Besides, I carried on, I am not engaging in Gord’s company politics. He nodded. We talked about his family and his projection of work.

Do you have any projects going? I told him about some of my work, which had been on halt, since I had some bad luck with my car’s engine.

Damned! he shouted. Indeed, and bad luck comes in three’s. I had to accept all within the struggle of staying alive.


Sweet hot dreams, I am coming. Hana’s SMS reaches me in a reflective mood. Since days I cannot link up to her, my monitor is grey and asleep. The storms above the southern African lands unleash a series of frightening lightning that zigzag down from the high heavens. The rolling thunder stops all conversation and I had to unplug the telephone line. I am waiting for the sermon of angry gods to pass. They must be unusually upset with the lot of Gauteng’s crowds to unleash such huge thunderbolts. All the bad deeds reported in the papers, magazines and books, come to roost in facing their anger of fire that hits down at random, singeing tall trees and turrets of buildings, which offer their conductors. Bur then, some die on the spot lifting their one iron in arrogant golfer’s mood. Others race about in their expensive metal hoods feeling superior in a Faraday’s cage, bolting down pedestrians with their racing tyres.

None of this childish arrogance appeals to me, none of the angry reactions of men feeling inferior in their secondary role of steering a sinking ship that will take preference in my work. I am in the mood of sharing my feelings with Hana and for days I crave for her words, her alto voice, and her open mind to express her want in words and to share her excitement. It’ll turn into actions of stroking each other and share a longing that matches our fantasies.

I have found a woman who shares excitement, and it has become the thunderbolt that surged through me with lightning speed, charging me up into the man I once had been. From the storms of inner boil she freed me, accepting my inflamed sexuality that I thought of being dead for many years. We do not circle around vague expressions that hide our emotions or place the fig leaf of false modesty on my rising excitement for her.

Even if I have freedom of movement in my solitary existence working alone in my studio, Hana is controlled by her hubby. She describes him as Cerberus circling around her place, when she works on her laptop. She can be herself only for a limited time, when Cerberus closes his eye and nods off during his daily sleep at siesta time. Then she becomes immediately alive connecting to me in a flash. It’s happy hour for us and I am attuned to the daily dose of love that streams from her to me, and which I bounce back to her in this cyber state of loving her. Would it be just a game of the mind, or something that would flower into intensity and sweetness, as my body feels greatly stirred already at present meetings? Would the real day to day Hana be as sweet as her image and appearance, on this milky web of pleasure and lust, where we exchange unbridled our most secret desires, and experience ways we associate digging out ongoing lustful feelings for each other? Is this the test for matching our minds, souls and bodies?

My innerness thrives of feelings and Hana is thirsty for taking them all, offering me her body. Even one-armed and one and a bit legged her fire ignites a sexuality in me that roars like the thunder above my head, unleashing a power that drown me in her honeyed delta like a rain cloud burst from heaven. I gasp for her sweet body with its flowing juices.

I am impeded since my fall off a horse I used to race like being nuts. For a price? For what? Together Hana and I complement each other, together we match and create a new being, from the renewed passion in our lives. There are no blemishes on Aphrodite of Knidos and there are no blemishes on Hermes. We engage in a Dionysian feast and it feels like heaven. We have discovered a lost paradise through this vehicle of speedy communication. Hana calls it ‘Pegasus’ loaned from the gods who listen to passionate expressions in love bridging the impossible. I am looking forward to feast again with Hana in our garden of lustful endeavours.


Don, I won’t pay you, if you do not clean up this mess! I became aggravated about his attitude avoiding supervision of his crew of black labourers, who were at best semi-skilled. His face reddened as he came closer.

They can do the work chop-chop, he replied and took a deep drag on his Chesterfield stump, but… he choked on the hot drag, smoke billowing from his mouth, but cleaning up is a problem. His face turned ashen and his cheeks and chin looked like stone chiselled by a stone mason, leaving pockmarks all over, having forgotten to smoothen-up this giant portrait in basalt. Using the right tools he could have made it much smoother, I thought. He turned addressing me.

They steal my tools everywhere. He continued with a barrage of listing shovels, hammers, chisels and water levelling gadgets that had disappeared since the duration of his last few contracts, spread all over this town of prospectors and diggers.

I wondered if I ever could motivate Don’s crew to perform a satisfactory cleaning. Don fiddled with his cigarette box. I sensed that he wanted some payment. I avoided him and walked away.

I must pay the labourers tomorrow. He lit up another Chesterfield.

How much?

Well two thousand.

I have only one thousand. He swallowed.

It’s only for labour.

Hm, I walked toward the open gate. I doubted that, but said nothing. He had composed himself and his face showed the usual slightly pink colour.

Breakfast tomorrow‘s on me. He smiled.

"OK, but please clean up. He walked about the boundary wall pointing out the mess his crew had to clean before he came back to fetch them. Since time began, architects distrusted builders, and sub-contractors hated them, and it was not different everywhere in the world, with the exception of skill levels in negotiation. However not much has been invested by the trades and government bodies into obligatory schools to teach the skills of a trade. I kept Don on hand length. In time I had made my own experiences during construction projects of all magnitudes with many builders and contractors. Having participated in a firm of renowned architects, I met excellent contracting firms and built up a good relationship with their executives. The building industry boomed only for a short while. I felt its pulse quicken and pushing our personal performance to the limit. In this time of hot supervising efforts, I did perform a one-off perfect result in project management. Handing over the new pharmaceutical factory to Janssen, I treasured the congratulations from the Managing director: A first class utility, done to specifications, within cost, and in time, as signed. Bravo! The contract is golden. Lots of praises followed about efficiency, besides the Quantity Surveyor mentioned that we did not even touch the contingency sum. Hah? I think that I should have placed a bet with him.

At the end of the works, a Pm from the USA arrived unannounced. He visited the site, but he did neither talk a lot to the builder on site, nor did he phone me. I felt it was disrespect on his side to not even have a few words about our performance status. However he spoke to the builder’s contract manager, and hearing good news he pushed off to Africa’s smartest shopping complex in Rosewood. I phoned the client’s responsible interface with me and he offered us a trip to the European headquarters of Janssen. Well that had been some compensation. Thanks to Hans. On the trip to Belgium we met with the responsible project manager for Africa and he told us about his pending visit to see the factory extension I am project managing.

He arrived a month later, with only six weeks to the handover date. As he had satisfied himself that the project was on good track and the date of finishing being realistic, I asked him for a letter commendation, as I have acted in accordance with project management principles and felt proud to have achieved it. He asked me instead for a detail of a walkway, he saw on inspecting our firm’s work, which I had designed for another major pharmaceutical company.

Maybe my impression of this man being a professional has been duped by his skill of talking. However, feeling disappointed, I wondered about these two men, being representatives of a serious world-renowned pharmaceutical company would behave with such low interest to their inspection tasks, besides the man from Belgium had an obvious disregard for accepting my top marks. I felt not only disappointed, but having been robbed of an acknowledgement for a job done 110%. However as I had local praise and acceptance, my satisfaction remained at a peak, despite the bitter taste of small-minded inspectors and clogs in the wheel of corporations who abuse their position for personal progress. They fail to recognise their appointed professional team with a certificate of excellence in project management. Maybe the work went too fast for his expectations and he had intended, as most projects are never on time, to pay another visit? I had to laugh. This is incredible for Africa, I heard his mumbling as we visited the site.

They should have paid you a bonus, my friend Dr Erad seemed upset, as we met on our Sunday track for our customary walk. You saved them a quarter of a million Rand. I nodded. He continued What would have happened if the job went wrong and you failed?

They would have shortened my fees. I said.

You should learn a lesson from this, my friend and interlocutor explained.

I should have formulated this in a contract.

You should have, he mused, but then you would have been more consciously exposed to risk.

It never will happen like this again, besides you should have headed the client’s project. He laughed. I looked at Erad and enjoyed the serious matters to banter about.

Well, he sighed, I would have been more just. He looked serious for a moment.

Unfortunately nobody signs an agreement of this nature. I am insulted rather and I feel ridiculed. It’s part of an architect’s profession and all work is left to his own risk. He looked at me and flames of attacking injustice shot from his brown eyes.

I am a designer, educated in engineering for buildings, an artist, and a dreamer. I continued as he remained silent. "How come I should be a businessman too? I swallowed feeling the pain of having misread an opportunity, where I could have done much better.

I’ll teach you, he said. I felt as if my father would talk to me and not my best friend. Then he smiled and changed to my favourite topic of art. Do you know Cezanne? He surprised me and I smiled.


Byron has renegotiated his contract with Gord. It had to come, as soon as Byron detected Gord’s contract machinery of sub-contracting struggling builders, creaming his profits on top of their profits and labour. I will have to take out the finishes, Byron declared. I can get the tiling, doors and windows cheaper. He looked at me with his boyish grin reaching for his laptop,

Look, he said and opened the page showing a consolidation of all the quotations Gord had concocted at every addition and change compared to the original quotation. I reminded Byron that I had recommended him to sign a legally valid ‘Small Works Contract," recognized by everybody in the industry, but Gord talked him into an informal contract. I did not like it at all. As the job came from an Insurance company to Gord, who then recommended me for architectural work and the client accepted my ideas and agreed with my fees.

However, I designed for Byron well-researched extensions that became more costly as time passed and more ideas emerged for improvements. He and his wife took a liking to my designs and I could get on with them rather well and even share interests. During the working progress I developed a friendship with them and for good luck I pulled his wife into our discussions, whenever some design queries arose. The project started well off and the builders worked with such speed that it amazed us all. I tested Don’s setting out, asking for a dumpy level, but he had none. Jan did not have one either and he lacked communication with his new staff, angry and stirred, as if he had to swallow his pride having been steam-rolled by his employer Gord. However Don appeared one morning with an electronic theodolite and we agreed on the setting-out, with some corrections. O often wondered if Don could read not only working drawings, but details and sections.

I meet Don, since Byron’s dramatic changes to the contract, now regularly most mornings. From our first verbal clash, mediated by his former employer Gord, a strange friendship developed. I am trying hard motivating him to do his work of attendance and the supervision of his crew more seriously and with more effort in communication. Well, the tenacity of fusing all participants together, explaining drawings and details, and challenge them becoming more interactive, had paid off in the end. Maybe in timing our efforts had been left behind somewhat, but for teamwork it scored a huge A plus. We created together a ‘Day of hand’s-on management for the décor-wall and agreed to an extension of my original design. I am glad that we could step over the hurdle of interdependencies and improve boss-worker relationships.

Now, as Don is independent from his former boss, who he claims has never attended the job besides some site meetings, he turns into a builder I could work with. We have still to work on the attitudes of his crew cleaning up properly after their last working day on Friday’s. Jan the other builder on the job has become devious, his state of twisted man relates back to the church he is part of, a religious congregation that assembles a community of spiritually broken personalities. They are taught to face up to reality, regroup and become preachers thereby. While on the one side to assist people with emotional pain is a Christian virtue, on the other the result is still an individual, who struggles with psychological issues he cannot resolve. Jan opened up to me after some time and his favourite subject of history led to many discussions we conducted. Especially in the morning when we met after site meetings moving away from building issues and closer to our favourite interests we both projected. Jan mentioned the death of his wife at times when he felt in the mood of talking about her. He seemed to carry inside pressures of guilt about it, as he had been driving. All he had told me about the accident previously, became less and less detailed, until one day he seemed to have come over it. Then he told me that It had been a year ago.

As usually, we sat at the Stop-Café and we ate in silence our toast and mince that Don had ordered. As he appeared from the till into the courtyard, Jan clammed up again, cutting off any talk.

Don, uninterested in our discussions and talks asked the manager to turn-up the large screen TV. His main interest in watching cricket games had always been his compensation to work. The noise from the transmission overlapped Jan’s emotions into which he allowed me to have a glimpse moments ago. Jan answered a call on his cellphone, got up and walked away. Then he returned he sat down lifted his cap, and smiled.


I missed Hana physically for a week, even correspondence could not replace an instant chat.

I use the communication program Hana prefers. Updated, the jumping symbol of a grey face turns yellow and red.

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