Date: Sun, 11 Sep 2011 14:35:13 +0000
From: clever wag <cleverwag@hotmail.com>
Subject: the cretan boy part 3

The Cretan Boy

Part Three

My apologies for not posting for a while.

This is the story of sexual relations between a boy on the verge of manhood
and an older woman and man. If it offends you to read such tales, or if it
is illegal in your country to do so, then please stop reading now.

I sometimes post my stories on my blog, http://cleverwag.sensual.writer.com
(if you google `cleverwag' it will be the first site up!), and you can post
comments there, or post to cleverwag@hotmail.com. I always welcome
appreciation and suggestions from my readers.

With regard to my other stories here, `The Professor's Greek Holiday', `The
Boy Girl Club', and `Pranging a Perv', I hope to be able to complete all of
them soon.

In the meantime enjoy.


PETER

But now Yanni had been reprimanded by his father and having handed over the
vegetables he'd sold, in a plastic bag, he turned from the woman to attend
to the other customers, and she turned from him at the same time, in the
direction of the kafenion in which Peter Forster sat. She looked as if she
might be about to faint. She moved to the shelter of the kafenion,
stumbling a touch, and dropped into a chair, not too far from his...

She was doing her best not to show her embarrassment and confusion, but
Peter Forster could see well enough that she was breathing heavily, and
there were rivulets of sweat on her neck, on the top of what he could see
of her flat middle-aged breasts under a simply cut if slightly too flowery
dress. She was flushed, and not just from the heat. She had obviously
become as instantly enthralled by the tight little muscleboy in the market
stall as he had been for a whole year.

He looked at Yanni again. He was still turned away, sorting through some
oranges for another customer now. He'd seen how the hot kid had flirted
with the woman, incredibly aware of his own amazing loveliness, flexing
every smooth sinew on that exceptional body for her, and now a bad thought
entered his head.

He'd like to punish Yanni, he'd like to put that perfect little tease with
his perfect muscles over his knee and spank him on that pert ripe almost
too tiny muscle-hard bum -- which Yanni was showing off right now, as he
leant forward to pick the good oranges, letting those too skimpy shorts
slip down -- and maybe, thought Peter Forster, he wouldn't spank the boy
with just his hands. He had a nice bamboo cane at home which he hadn't used
in a while. The image of that sensational boy angel, all brown and gleaming
and muscled, straddled and struggling as the cane marked those exceptional,
pomegranate-round, ass cheeks, made Peter Forster hard. Just two or three
red stripes, not very deep, not so it would draw blood, but enough to make
the vain little stud not quite so perfect.

One of the reasons why Peter Forster always wore a flowing and very
loose-fitting shirt -- a kaftan you might call it -- way down to his knees
was so that he could watch boys, here in the market or at the beach, or
sometimes just in the street -- and get hard and for nobody to notice.

The woman was searching through a shoulder-bag she'd brought with her,
frantically, and showing evident frustration at not finding what she was
looking for. Peter Forster scraped his chair a bit closer to hers.


ROSE

She had to sit down, and quickly. It was the heat, it was the boy... His
name was Yanni, his father had irritably called it to him, because he was
paying her too much attention...losing custom...He'd fluttered his eyelids,
long black ones, looked down, and turned away, reluctantly. She'd had to
turn too, to get away from being that close to him, to his phenomenal young
body...

`Are you all right?' asked a gruff English voice nearby. She looked up and
to the left. A plumpish man was sitting there, with a scruffy white beard,
long white hair tied in a ponytail and the leather-brown wrinkled skin of
having spent many years in the sun. He was wearing a kind of embroidered
kaftan, loose black trousers and sandals. He must have been sixty or so.

`Yes fine -- just a little overcome by the heat...' she said.

`You should be careful...' He barked a command in Greek to a young man
standing in the doorway of the kafenion, who came scurrying
forward. `Water, I suggest, and a strong coffee?' She nodded. He gave more
instructions to the man, who moved inside.

`You're English...' he said.

`Yes... That was clever of you. Do we English stick out a mile...?'

He smiled in a not unfriendly way. `There's a certain reserve...' Then he
asked: `Been here long...or to Crete before...?'

`No...'

`Staying somewhere nice?'

`Very nice. The Villa Ioannis, Aghia Galini, just along the coast...'

He nodded. `I know it, lovely place, a nice private bay... Are you on your
own?'

`Yes...' Now he was probably thinking that she was one of those lonely
middle-aged women who'd come on holiday for a fling with a young Greek.

What he said next only confirmed her suspicion.  `There's something
more...earthy...about the Cretans I think than the Greeks from further
north...more primitive...if you like...'

`Is there?' asked Rose Dawson, swallowing a little.

`Shall we say more...animalistic...?'

`I can't say I'd noticed...' said Rose, as casually as she could.

`That's why I love Crete...' said the man.

`You live here...?'

`Yes, for nearly thirty years on and off... Maybe it's the heat...'

`I'm sorry...'

`The heat -- and being so much closer to Africa - maybe that's what makes
them more animalistic...' he repeated the word with a tone of almost
salivating pleasure in his voice. As he did so, his eyes travelled towards
the boy. Had he seen her watching him? The man was obviously gay, Rose
concluded instantly, and probably lived in Crete solely to pick up boys --
boys like Yanni, pretty little muscle child in his tight shorts. Maybe he'd
fucked Yanni. Maybe Yanni liked being fucked by fat old Englishmen.

God, she must stop thinking like this -- these dirty thoughts. And she must
stop looking at the boy -- but she couldn't help it. Now though she was
only making the smallest sidelong glances. Where were her sunglasses? She
scrabbled in her bag. She'd forgotten them, left them back at her
house. That was a pity. If she'd had them she would have put them on, so
that she could look more lingeringly without the old man seeing.

`I'm so sorry I didn't mean to shock you...' she heard the man say, because
she wasn't looking at him any more, but vaguely around, trying above all
not to gaze at the beautiful boy -- trying, stupidly, to forget she'd ever
set eyes on him, trying to take in all the other bustle in the market.  The
trouble was that all she could manage to see, or concentrate on, was only
more boys, working in the stalls, or just lolling in the street with not
much to do, and the trouble was that although many had skin as dark as nut,
and some were quite handsome or pretty in their way, none was anywhere near
as extraordinarily muscled or had such a perfect shape as Yanni. That
almost ridiculously narrow waist, those almost ridiculously broad and meaty
shoulders for so young a boy, the way they rolled when he moved.  Which
only made her think of him again. But she answered the man: `No I wasn't
shocked....'

She didn't turn to him though. She heard the scrape of his chair as he
moved still closer. Why had she told him he hadn't shocked her? Was it that
she actually wanted to talk about Yanni a bit longer? Was it that she
wanted to find out if this flabby old pederast might actually know Yanni?
Was it that she wanted to get him to tell her what it was like to touch, if
he had, that dusky dusty flesh, to run your hands over that hard silky
body, to feel every ridge and curve of that silky muscled torso, of those
strong legs? She suspected that if this dirty old man did tell her anything
like this, she may well faint.

The young man whom he'd told to bring water and coffee now did so. As she
offered a gasped `thank you' to him she saw he gave the older man a sly
sort of look, quick but somehow conspiratorial, with even a slight
grin. Then he turned the grin on her. She recognised that grin -- quite
knowing, fairly vain. It was the look that most Greek men had when they
were trying to pick you up.

`Your first time in Ierepetra beautiful lady?'

Rose could only think: here we go. It had happened to her before, this
open, and rather obvious, start to a seduction, from men who hung around
harbours and bars in other Greek islands, for the sole purpose, it seemed,
of flirting with foreign women in order to get into bed with them. So far
Rose had managed not to succumb to such advances.

He was good looking enough in his way, this young man. Actually he was very
good looking. He was probably in his early twenties, with piercing black
eyes and a smile that flashed white teeth. He was slim but well-built. Rose
found herself wondering, as she'd seen the look that had passed between him
and the fat old Englishman, if the fat old Englishman had perhaps fucked
him. And she had to gulp down some of the water that had been brought to
her, almost the whole glass of it, in order to hide what she was convinced
was a reddening of her cheeks and throat, because she was having dirty
thoughts again -- only this time the images in her head were of this young
man and the fat man fucking. And there was that word popping into her brain
-- the simple hard word: not `making love' or `having sex', but `fucking'.

She had absolutely never before thought it exciting to imagine two men
fucking -- or in this case an old man and a much younger man fucking. The
idea of sex between men had always made her feel rather queasy. It had
seemed not quite right somehow. Well she was feeling distinctly queasy now
-- but not because she was revolted; on the contrary, she was feeling
decidedly shaky because it had become quite arousing, the picture of a
handsome young Greek being adored by an ugly old Englishman, of the
Englishman sucking the young man's cock, with his flabby hands all over the
young man's firm body, and then worse -- of the Englishman forcing his no
doubt shrivelled and ugly old cock into the young man's tight muscled
ass... Oh there were those nasty nasty thoughts again, and words like
`cock' and `ass'...

Her friend Daphne, who'd never been revolted by any kind of sex, had once
told her how she'd had a threesome with two gay men, `both gorgeous boys
darling, with bodies like young gods,' and how completely thrilling it had
been `to watch them such each other's big beautiful cocks and then to watch
them fuck each other, and then to get them both to fuck you! Honestly
darling, I don't think I've ever cum so hard or so many times in my whole
life...!'

But it wasn't the memory of Daphne's detailed description of what she'd got
up to with these two men, or `boys' as she'd called them, that were
bringing visions into Rose's head now. And Rose soon realised that the
images themselves were no longer of this handsome young waiter being
worshipped and fucked by the Englishman.... No of course not. What she was
visualising was a perfect, but also awful, and incredibly arousing (so
arousing in fact that she felt a wetness between her upper thighs, a
wetness that wasn't sweat) picture of the old man fucking Yanni... the real
boy god, the packed little piece of copper-brown muscle over there in the
market stall...

It was Yanni, the Cretan boy with a body more stunning than any she'd ever
seen, the child Adonis, who'd brought these filthy imaginings into her hot
brain...

`You like I show you Ierepetra, lovely lady? I take you dancing...'

The waiter was still leering at her, suggestively she thought, and now of
course he looked merely sickening, even ugly. His salacious toothy smile
seemed too blatant, too arrogant. Yanni's smile hadn't been like that (and
she still hadn't dared to steal even the tiniest glance at the boy, not
since she'd sat down really). Yanni's smile, or what she remembered of it,
had been warm, open, even quite innocent, and so very very beautiful, just
like every part of him.

Perhaps the Englishman sensed her revulsion at the waiter's persistence,
because he was now snapping at him in Greek, something curt and
dismissive. At once the young man backed off, with a small pout, but then a
conceited shrug, as if he were saying `take me or leave me, lady, there are
plenty of other fish in the sea...' And no doubt there were for a
good-looking, and very forward, Greek like him.

Still she didn't have the courage to sneak another peek at Yanni. Still she
didn't want to give away her yearning for his glorious body to the fat old
pederast who'd now scraped his chair so close that he was almost touching
her. And still she didn't dare to look at the old man himself. So again her
eyes wandered around the rest of the market.

`Peter Forster,' he muttered, almost directly into her ear. She could smell
his breath -- smoky, with more than a hint of too much whisky.

`Rose Dawson,' Rose managed to gasp, as if even the revelation of her own
name was a giveaway as to her feelings.

`I'm sorry about my pushy friend,' said Peter Forster, `but you know these
Greek boys...'

`I don't, as a matter of fact...' said Rose. What was she trying to hint at
now? That she very much wanted to know a Greek boy...? And an amazing one
in particular? She realised that against all her better impulses she was
drawing this obese stranger in, despite the alcoholic fumes that came from
his mouth, despite the fact that she could now even smell his sweat, putrid
and pervasive -- the sweat of an old man who didn't wash very much. She
wanted him to keep talking. She wanted to find out if he knew Yanni, if he
had even fucked Yanni... Still more dirty, wicked thoughts...

`The Cretans especially, as I said, animalistic...'

`Yes,' Rose exhaled.

He chuckled. `It's as if all they can think about is sex, and food of
course, but mainly sex...' Then he said, more seriously: `But you didn't
like him, I could tell...'

`Like who? Who don't I like...?'

`My friend Giorgo,' said Peter Forster. That must have been the name of the
waiter. And something in her that made her want to compare again, to see
how the grinning waiter, handsome enough, arguably very handsome, if
there'd been nobody around to compare him to, might match up to the boy for
whom there could be no comparison in the world, made her look at Yanni once
more, before she could stop herself.

Her throat now tightened so much that she could hardly draw breath. It can
only have been a few minutes since she saw him last, but now it was like
she was seeing him for the very first time. That was the way with beauty
you couldn't argue about. Yanni appeared to have no customers to attend to
just then, so he was concentrating on himself. He was turned towards her,
behind the piles of vegetables and he was looking down at his own body,
inspecting it, rather as if he was coming across it for the first time too,
and was fascinated by its incredible perfection. He was running a hand over
his smooth brawny chest, then the other over the solid ridges of his
stomach. If anything the day was getting even hotter, so his soft mahogany
skin was glistening almost like it was oiled. In fact he could have been
oiling his own phenomenal muscles. Perhaps he did that sometimes, knowing
how unbelievably glorious they looked when shiny and silky and gleaming. He
didn't glance up at her once, although she was somehow certain that he knew
she was watching him, gloating, drinking him in, every fine inch of his
wonderfulness.

`There are moments in life when you have to admit...' Peter Forster began
to whisper beside her. There was no point in hiding her fixation any more,
Rose thought. He knew who was obsessing her. So she kept on staring at
Yanni.

`Admit what?' she gulped quietly.

`That perfection like that has to be had...' There was an openly indelicate
drawl to the old man's grunting voice.

`Had in what sense? Had how...?'

`In the way Michelangelo, say, or Donatello, or Caravaggio had their
boys...'

Of course Rose knew of these artists' love of beautiful boys with
staggering bodies, and she didn't doubt that they didn't just sculpt or
paint them.

She couldn't resist the next question: `Have you...?' but neither could she
finish it.

He did it pretty quickly for her. `Fucked Yanni?' He chuckled
throatily. `No, not yet, but what a thought eh?  Would you like to see me
fuck pretty muscly Yanni, Rose? Or would you like to fuck him yourself?'

She found herself emitting a little groan. No this was so immoral... this
was so very very bad. She felt she must move, she must flee, but she seemed
to be stuck there, to a chair that was becoming increasingly wet.

`I'm presuming Giorgo is a bit too old for you, although he's only twenty,
and he does have a good body...'

She thought she should protest. Some instinct of decency, of propriety,
came to the fore. But the way in which she objected made her sound very
indecent, and only confirmed her desires. `You think I'm only in Crete so I
can fuck young boys with good bodies?' She hadn't meant to say `young', she
hadn't meant to say `fuck', and anyway Yanni's body wasn't just `good', it
was astounding.

`Why not?' said Peter Forster, `what's wrong with wanting the most
beautiful kid you've ever seen, wanting to touch him, kiss him everywhere,
have him fuck you...?'

`But... but...' she wheezed, unable to go on.

He was continuing though: `Look how he's touching himself, arousing
himself. Don't you think he knows how amazing he is? Don't you think he
needs to be touched, stroked, caressed, licked, worshipped? A boy like that
is made to be desired. Admit it, Rose, you've never wanted a kid so much in
your life...'

Now she did manage to say: `But that's just it. He's a kid...!'

And Peter Forster said, with a frightening air of casualness (she felt him
shrug): `Fifteen, I think, or probably still fourteen. Doesn't that make it
all the more... stimulating?'

Rose Dawson stood up, so quickly in fact that the chair she'd been sitting
on, or sticking to, went flying onto its back behind her. She nearly fell
with it, so whoozy was she feeling, so overcome.

She didn't look at Peter Dawson again, or even once at the most delicious
kid in the world, with his gleaming boy-muscles, as she strode away from
the kafenion, determinedly, and out of Ierepetra's Saturday market,
resolving never ever to return.

But she'd left her bag of vegetables, purchased from that very same
boy-god, under the kafenion table.


To be continued...