Date: Tue, 26 Apr 2011 08:20:08 +0000
From: clever wag <cleverwag@hotmail.com>
Subject: the cretan boy part 1

The Cretan boy 
Part One

This is a story about bisexual sex between generations. If you are offended
by explicit stories on this subject, or if it is illegal to do so in your
country, then please stop reading now.

I have not contributed stories to nifty for some time. If you like this
story, you may wish to read my other stories, which I shall also now
complete, called 'professors-greek-holiday' 'boy-girl-club' and
'pranging-a-perv'. They were uploaded to nifty in February, March and May
of 2009. They are also on my blog 'Cleverwag's sex tales' at
http://cleverwag.sensualwriter.com

Comments and suggestions are always welcome. Please send to
cleverwag@hotmail.com.

Dave Snow

YANNI


Yanni Pathonakis knew he was a handsome boy. Never mind that his mother had
told him so since he was a baby -- and had told everyone else. Now that he
was fifteen he just knew it. He knew it every time he looked in the mirror
of the bathroom of his home in Ierepetra, or at his reflection in the
windows of the shops that he passed as he walked proudly through the town
streets.

Yanni Pathonakis knew he had a good body. He had always been a sleek slim
boy, his mother would call him her `angel on earth'.  She would say he had
the face of an angel but he knew had the body of an angel too. Now he was
fifteen his body was filling out. He knew his body looked good every time
he compared it to the bodies of other boys his age, or even older boys --
when he was swimming with them in the harbour or at the public beach in
Ierepetra -- or when they played games like football with their shirts
off. He knew it when the girls looked at him more than the other boys. They
were always shy about it and tried not to let him catch them looking, but
he could always tell that they were. Even when he didn't actually see it,
he could feel them looking him up and down, and sometimes he would hear
them giggle but they weren't really laughing at him, they were giggling
with restlessness at how good his body looked -- he could tell.  Some of
the other boys -- his friends Nikos and Andreas and Stefanos and his older
brother Panos and even his younger brother Ilia -- had good bodies too --
not like the boys who were already getting too fat -- but his body, he knew
it, was the best of all. His shoulders were broader, his waist was slimmer,
and he didn't know anybody with such good muscles as he had. His chest was
smooth and solid and rounded, his arms were strong, and when he flexed them
his biceps would pop up like firm little melons, his stomach was flat and
tough, as if made of iron, with six solid ridges of sinewy muscle. To show
how rigid his belly was he liked to let his father punch him there -- `Go
on, papa, hit as hard as you like!' he'd say, and he'd feel his father's
thick fist bounce against the stiff wall of flesh. Or sometimes he would
arm-wrestle with his father. His father was a strong powerfully-built man
himself, but he would usually lose. Yanni Pathonakis loved to see how the
silky tendons in his arm strained as his palm pushed against his father's.

Yanni Pathonakis was fond of looking at his body most of the time. Every
morning the first thing he did after slipping out of bed was to gaze at it
in the cracked bathroom mirror -- to let his eyes travel up and down his
young torso. Sometimes he wondered if this was a sinful thing to do -- to
be as interested in his body as he was. But he could not resist it. Papa
Costas the priest had spoken in church of the sin of what he called
`vanity', which he also called `self-love' -- and Yanni Path0nikis had to
admit to himself that he loved his body very much.

He did not only like to look at it but to touch it too -- it felt so
compact and smooth. He loved the way it was rounded in some places and flat
in others. He loved how soft his skin felt over the hardness of his
muscles. His girlfriend Dina had soft skin too, and she was very pretty,
but she didn't have tough muscles like he had. She had a nice stomach, but
she didn't have ridges in it, and although her breasts were lovely -- he
had only touched them twice -- and small and quite firm, not floppy and
sagging like some of the women -- mostly foreign women -- he saw on the
beach, they did not feel like you were touching warm metal, which was it
what it felt like when he touched his own rock-solid chest.

He often touched himself at night in bed, or sometimes on the beach when he
wasn't being watched -- except most of the time he was being watched. How
they liked looking at him!

He liked to touch some parts of his body more than others. When he let his
fingers run over certain bits it was as if a shock of electricity was
passing through him. He sometimes tried to get Dina to touch him in these
places, by guiding her hand there, but she would just giggle and ask him to
kiss her. He hadn't yet put his penis into Dina -- she was frightened of
that. But he liked his penis touched and to feel it grow. Dina was a little
scared of it, saying it looked too big. When he was kissing Dina he would
touch and rub his penis because Dina didn't want to. He liked to touch his
balls too, hanging down and feeling so full. Once he asked pretty Dina to
touch his balls, to squeeze them, but she just squealed.

A thing he liked almost even more than touching his penis and his balls was
to run his hands and fingers over his chest, sensing the way his firm
pectoral muscles rippled. He liked to flex his pectorals, watching them
grow and shrink. And he'd already noticed that when he put the palms of his
hands and his fingers onto his nipples they would sprout up hard, and this
wonderful feeling would rush through his body, and his penis would get rock
hard at the same time. It was the most exquisite sensation he'd ever
experienced. Sometimes, in front of the mirror, looking at himself, he
would pinch his nipples and twist them and pull them. Again he tried to get
Dina to do this too, guiding her hands, but she didn't seem to understand
why he wanted her to, even though she very much liked it when he did the
same thing to her nipples. When he stroked them and kissed them and even
gave them little bites she would groan and a distant look would come into
her big dark eyes. He loved Dina's hard pointed nipples, sticking up from
her firm pomegranate breasts, but he was beginning to think that he liked
his own nipples more. How very sensitive they were...!

Perhaps he was odd... perhaps he was an odd boy... perhaps other boys
didn't touch themselves in the way he did... perhaps boys weren't supposed
to have bodies and nipples that liked to be caressed and stroked in the way
he liked to do to his own body... He'd never seen his friends or his
brothers touch themselves in such a way... But he couldn't resist it...
just couldn't stop... He wondered what it would be like to have someone
else lick and suck on his nipples, as he did with Dina's...or even to pull
and twist them like he did.. How hard they got!

So Yanni Pathonakis was in love with his own body -- saw and felt how
beautiful, how perfect, it was -- much more so, he thought, than any other
body he'd seen, of a girl or a boy, or a woman or a man...And he certainly
saw no reason why he should not be proud of it...even though it might be a
sin -- the sin of vanity...

So when the sun started to shine properly in Ierepetra, at the southernmost
tip of the island of Crete, around mid-April, or sometimes earlier if the
weather felt generous, Yanni Pathonakis would choose not to wear a shirt as
he walked around the town, or on the beach -- or if it was still just a
little chilly, he would wear his shirt open so that it flapped against his
hard muscular chest and stomach, and the breeze would open up the shirt
just a bit, and he would feel that he was being watched and admired... He
loved the way the open shirt front sometimes scratched his nipples...

By late May, Yanni Pathonakis's skin was a deep nut-brown -- coppery and
silky and smooth...

On Saturday mornings he would hang about with his brothers and other boys
-- and sometimes some girls -- in Ierepetra market where his father had a
vegetable stall, selling aubergines and okra and courgettes and onions and
garlic and tomatoes, which his father would have bought wholesale from the
farmers outside the town. They were good vegetables and the stall was
popular with locals and foreigners alike. Yanni would help him sell
them. He was good at it -- often persuading the customers to buy more than
they needed. Yanni Pathonakis had a big toothy smile which always charmed
-- especially the women who came to the stall, and in particular the
foreign women; Americans, and Germans, and Swedes, and some English. He
very often didn't wear a shirt as he served them, and he would always
notice how they couldn't help looking at his muscles, even though they
tried to hide it.

He knew about the women who came to Greece to find Greek lovers --
sometimes married women, he'd heard, who just wanted a Greek man while they
were on holiday. Or a few of them came out to find a Greek to marry and
live with. Some of these women seemed very old to him, with wrinkled brown
skin and sagging breasts -- not like pretty Dina with her firm ones with
the pointy nipples.

But he still found himself excited by the way even these old women looked
at him, just letting their eyes roam up and down his meaty body. He
sometimes wondered what it would be like to let these women touch his
muscles. They certainly looked as if they would like to. They had such a
hungry look, some of them, like they looked at the vegetables on his
father's stall, as if they wanted to eat them there and then -- and it was
the same the way the looked at him, like they wanted to eat him.

But perhaps he was too young for them, he thought, because he wasn't yet
fifteen...

In July and August, when Crete was at its very hottest, and sometimes a
searing warm wind would rush down the market street, Yanni Pathonakis only
wore a pair of tight shorts which he had cut from an old pair of levi
jeans...he liked the way his tough sinewy legs looked too, and the way the
heat would make his skin glisten...almost as if he'd rubbed olive oil all
over it...


ROSE



Rose Dawson was forty-two but had been feeling much older. Her every bone
had seemed to ache and she was so very tired. Life, she reckoned, wasn't
good, and seemed to be passing her by. Her marriage, after six years of
relative contentment -- except in one area, which was a lack of children --
was becoming rocky to say the least. Her husband, she'd discovered,
although she hadn't faced him with the knowledge yet, was having an affair
with a much younger woman. It was so predictable, she thought. They'd tried
hard for kids, but with no success, and now he'd given up on her and was
screwing someone prettier and probably more fertile.

So her oldest friend Daphne, whom she'd told about her husband's
infidelity, had suggested she take herself off somewhere, for a couple of
weeks, somewhere where nobody could find her -- and where she could do what
she wanted, and also where she could get some colour into her pallid skin.

Daphne was older than Rose, in her late forties at least, and still hadn't
married or borne children, but she didn't seem to be too concerned about
it. She'd had countless love affairs, mainly with entirely unsuitable and
therefore exciting men. She was still having them -- and most of her lovers
were much younger than her; some so very young, Rose thought, that it was
almost illegal. `It's the seduction of them that's so thrilling,' Daphne
would say, `oh and the fact that their bodies are so much better...' Often
Rose would listen enthralled as Daphne described, usually in great detail,
her latest sexual adventure. They took her all over the world -- she'd had
sex with virtually every race or nationality known to man, it sometimes
seemed, and according to Daphne anyway, the sex just got better and
better... It was like an addiction...

Rose had had lovers too of course -- or `boyfriends' or `partners' as she
preferred to call them. She wasn't one for quick flings though -- she was
more into `relationships' (Daphne would squirm with distaste at the
word). To Rose, sex was like an adjunct, something that came with other
things -- like affection, and knowing each other, and even, at times,
something like love. To Daphne sex was just sex, and all the better for
being just that. Not that Rose didn't enjoy sex, and often it had been what
she considered to be very good indeed. But she'd only ever slept with men
older than her. She'd even lost her virginity, at seventeen, to a much
older man. The thought of having an affair with someone younger had
occurred to her of course, especially when Daphne spoke about her own
exploits, but she wasn't sure she'd ever dare to do it.

Daphne had said: `get your revenge on the bastard,' meaning Rose's husband,
`go somewhere hot, and fuck someone the same age as the girl he's fucking,
and then come home and tell him all about it -- and when he gets all hurt
and angry, which he will, you can tell him you know about him fucking
someone else...See how he reacts then.'

It was an alluring, in fact rather thrilling, idea... although Rose wasn't
too sure how she should go about finding this person with whom she could
revenge herself on her husband for his infidelity. Did you just go up to
them in the street, or in a bar...? She was sure that that was how Daphne
did it... Daphne had no shame...

Once Daphne had said, baldly: `go fuck some kid, some boy young enough to
be your son -- with a hot body...' Rose had felt intensely aroused at
Daphne's almost brutal outspokenness.

Daphne had first of all suggested Africa. She'd been to the coast of Kenya
where she said there was a beach packed with willing and passionate
beach-boys `with fantastic muscled bodies like young gods and cocks like
black over-sized bananas', as she'd put it with typical frankness. She'd
even told Rose (again in great detail) how on one occasion she'd had sex
with five of them at the same time. Rose was pretty convinced she'd never
be able to go quite that far, if she went anywhere at all... And the idea
of Africa rather frightened her... although the thought of a strong young
muscled black man was fairly appealing. She imagined that somehow it would
make her husband even more jealous to know she'd been made love to by some
young black god with muscles of iron...she'd tell him he was so flabby, so
old by comparison...

She'd been to Greece before and quite often -- usually with a group of
friends, or sometimes with a partner, and once on her own, to the usual
stamping-grounds: Athens, and to islands like Mykonos and Santorini and
Paxos and Spetses. She'd been flirted with by the predictable array of
Greek Lotharios, but hadn't succumbed to their rather obvious advances. In
truth she hadn't fancied any of them. They'd seemed somewhat brutish to her
taste. She didn't much care for drooling hairy men, even young ones.

This was her first visit to Crete. What she'd seen of it so far she quite
liked. She hadn't realised it would be so big -- it was more than an
island, it was like a little country. You could disappear into it. It
seemed scruffier, dustier, less prettified than the picture-perfect tourist
islands she'd been to before, and that was instantly engaging. Or maybe it
was just the part of Crete she'd chosen -- putting a finger on the map and
finding somewhere as far it was possible to get from the airport at
Heraklion. She'd rented a small stone-built house set all on its own on a
little promontory close to a compact and uncrowded beach on the
south-eastern coast of the island. Every morning she'd wake up to the sound
and sight of the Libyan sea lapping, or sometimes crashing, onto the rocks
below her terrace, and she could swim in glorious isolation there for an
hour or so before a straggle of others might arrive to spend a day on the
pebbles. Africa itself was only a hundred and fifty miles or so across the
water. There were tourists in this area as there were everywhere else in
Greece, but she didn't feel swamped by them. She had found a place, she
thought, that was still properly Greek -- or in this case Cretan -- still
real somehow.

The nearest town to her house was called Ierepetra -- the southernmost town
in Europe apparently. She'd never heard of it before. It didn't have much
to recommend it to a tourist -- a modest harbour front with a few tavernas
and bars, unremarkable shopping streets and squares, full of bustle and
ordinary Cretans going about their busy but ordinary lives. It wasn't
hilly, but simply sprawling and flat, and altogether unexceptional.
Nevertheless Rose liked it. It was a proper working town -- and in late
July it had a sultry dustiness to it, and a sleepy quality induced by the
extreme dry heat.

Rose had decided not too eat out much. She was always uncomfortable on her
own in restaurants -- instantly supposing that the other diners must think
there should be a reason for her isolation, some inner sadness
perhaps. Well there was, but she didn't want to put her solitariness on
show.  In any case Rose was a good cook, and an imaginative one. She
enjoyed tackling new dishes, discovering new ingredients, experimenting,
even when at home and alone in London, preparing something exceptional for
her sole pleasure. And she would sometimes have others to dine, and was
always, she thought genuinely, congratulated on her culinary skills.

So rather than risk the uncertainties of the local tavernas -- where the
waiters would no doubt flirt with her, as they had done in the past in
Greece, telling her that she was far more beautiful than she actually was
-- she would cook for herself and shop for fresh vegetables and fruits and
herbs and meats and cheeses in the shop in the village close to her house,
or sometimes she'd venture further, into Ierepetra, where, on Saturdays,
there was a street market.

It stretched the entire length of one of the longest streets in town. It
sold just about everything it was possible to sell -- clothes and shoes and
cloths and utensils and trinkets and fairly useless artefacts, and also a
quite phenomenal array of food. The stalls were groaning with olives and
cheeses and lettuces and oranges and lemons and limes, aubergines and
courgettes and courgette flowers and onions and garlic on strings, huge
flagons of olive oil and vinegars and juices, great crusty loaves of bread,
unidentifiable fish with shiny eyes that told you they'd just been plucked
from the sea, and trays of oregano and thyme and mint and herbs and spices
she did not recognise.

She'd make something with aubergines tonight, she thought -- they looked so
plump and dark and shiny. She would stuff them with the big gnarled beef
tomatoes that grew everywhere in this part of Crete and which smelt as
delicious as they tasted and drizzle them with oil and garlic and lemon
juice and a few herbs -- and she might grill some peppers too, over the hot
barbecue on the terrace of her villa, so that they were hard and crisp and
blackened. And she'd mop up the juices with a few chunks of fresh wheaty
bread and would sit and watch the sun go down over the mountains behind her
little seaside home, as she drank a bottle of the very acceptable local
white wine.

Rose Dawson was feeling, at last, very content really as she hovered by a
vegetable stall in the midday heat, considering her gastronomic options.
And then it was that she saw, as she lifted her gaze from a splendid
shining pile of red and green and yellow peppers, the most beautiful boy
she'd ever set eyes on.

He was very young. He hadn't grown to his full height yet, clearly, but his
body was simply extraordinary. Most of it was on display, as he was wearing
just a tight pair of shorts cut from some old frayed jeans. It was obvious
at once that he liked to show it off. And why shouldn't he? He was all
muscle. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him. But he wasn't buffed up like
some bodybuilder. He was just a boy -- but a powerfully built one. His
every tendon and sinew was clearly defined. His biceps were like little
grapefruits, his chest stuck out over a ribbed stomach. His buttocks under
the shorts were pert and round, like two plump aubergines side by side. His
thighs and calves seemed if anything too muscular for someone so young. He
was entirely smooth. His skin glistened, and seemed slightly dusty. It was
almost black, like polished mahogany. He moved with such youthful, casual
grace, every part of him working like some perfectly tuned living machine,
as he served the stall's customers, turning this way and that, collecting
up vegetables, bagging them, weighing them, handing them over.

It was his body that Rose couldn't take her eyes off, for too long she
thought. She eventually dragged them up and away and examined his face. He
had a shock of black curly hair, and a pair of piercing brown eyes, and
almost too full lips, which, she now realised, were grinning at her. She
looked hurriedly away. She could hardly breathe.

How was it that such exquisite male loveliness could have been created? She
wanted to touch him, run her hands all over him -- such boyish toughness.
How she yearned for the caress of firm young flesh. It was a wholly erotic
feeling. Daphne's blunt words rang in her head: `go fuck some kid...with a
hot body...'

to be continued...