Date: Tue, 13 Sep 2011 15:10:04 +0000
From: clever wag <cleverwag@hotmail.com>
Subject: the cretan boy 4

The Cretan Boy

Part Four

This is a story about sex between a beautiful boy on the threshold of
manhood and a much older woman and a much older man. If such subject-matter
offends you, or if it is illegal to read such material in your own country,
then please stop reading now. I always welcome comments and suggestions
from readers at my email above.

I should like to add that I do not condone underage sex in reality. This is
of course a fantasy.

Sometimes I upload these stories onto my story website
http://cleverwag.sensualwriter.com.

YANNI

The boy Yanni was worried he may have done something very wrong. Had he
offended the English lady in some way? Or maybe she was just ill, or
feeling weak because of the heat. He knew how some foreigners could not
take it when it got so hot like it was today Ð the foreign women
especially, with their pale skins. They would flap their hands in front of
their faces, and sigh and say `oh it is too hot, too hot...' Perhaps where
they came from it was always cold. Yanni Pathonikis loved the heat. For him
it could never get too hot.

But after his father had shouted to him to serve other customers, and he
had started to do so, this English lady who had been looking at his body
had seemed to stagger a bit, like she was going to faint, and then she had
turned away from him and had to go and sit in the kafenion, in the
shade. She had not looked at him again, but only down at her feet, or
around the market, but never at him. So he felt a little worried, and sad,
because of course he liked being looked at Ð especially in the way the
woman had looked at him, so directly, taking in his whole body, all his
muscles, which had made him feel proud, and excited.

In fact he'd got so excited that the thing between his legs became very
hard, and he wondered if it had grown so big and hard, as it could when he
looked at himself and played with his body, or when his pretty girl Dina
touched him in places, that it might have popped up and out of the top of
the tight shorts he was wearing, and the woman had seen the thing, and
that's why she'd been shocked, maybe, and had to turn away and sit in the
kafenion. But when he looked down there he saw that although his thing was
definitely swollen and showing as a thick long shape in his shorts, it
hadn't popped out, although it still felt as if it might do any second, and
the way the tip of his thing rubbed against the rough denim of the shorts,
which he'd cut out himself from a pair of old Levi jeans he'd stolen from
another of the stalls, made him feel even bigger and harder, and so he'd
had to spend a lot of the time after the woman had turned away with his
back to everyone, all the customers, and bent over, pretending to sort
through the oranges and lemons and tomatoes at the back of the stall Ð the
ones that had got too ripe, and which his father sometimes slipped into the
customers' bags with the fresher fruit and vegetables, just to get rid of
them. `Yanni! Stupid!' his father had shouted at him again. `Serve! Serve!'

When he had turned to face the street again, and the kafenion opposite, he
saw that the woman was being talked to by an old man, who was right up
close to her, like he was whispering into her ear. He was horrible looking,
fat and wrinkly, with a big belly and a crinkly grey beard and long greasy
hair tied in a ponytail. Even though he was sunburnt, with dark skin, Yanni
could tell he was not Greek. He was probably English like the woman. Yanni
thought he had seen him before, sitting in the kafenion. In fact now that
he remembered it, the revolting old man had sat there most Saturday
mornings, ever since last summer, but usually with all the other regulars,
drinking coffee with them and playing cards and chatting, just like he was
a Greek. Obviously he could speak the language.

Once or twice, Yanni faintly recollected, he had caught the old man looking
at his body, or that's what it looked like to Yanni Ð just sneaky sort of
glances, nothing real direct, like the woman had looked at him, like she
wanted to eat him. Well Yanni didn't mind his body being looked at by
anyone really Ð even repulsive old men Ð and because his body was so good
he was used to being looked at, so that was why he hadn't paid too much
attention to the old man before, except to think how ugly he was. Sometimes
maybe he'd shown off a bit, he supposed, for the old man's benefit. Yes
just sometimes he'd maybe just casually taken his shirt off, if it was
colder and he was wearing one, or he'd opened it up a bit more so that the
old man could see his chest and his stomach. Or he'd flexed his muscles
more than usual when he thought the man was watching, pushing out his
pectorals or tightening his abdomen, or stiffening his arms so that his
biceps got bigger.

This was what Papa Costas, the priest, had called vanity Ð the sin of
self-love. But then it was from Papa Costas that Yanni had first learned
that there were some men who liked to look at beautiful boys with good
bodies too, just like girls and women did.  Papa Costas hadn't told him
this directly of course, but once, a year or so ago, Yanni had run into the
church without thinking and hadn't been wearing a shirt, and Papa Costas
had been very angry with him and had told him to leave, but then had caught
him by the arm and had said over and over again `you must never come into
church without a shirt, never ever, do you hear? It is disrespectful and a
disgrace. You must never enter a church without a shirt...' and so on and so
on, and all the time, Yanni noticed, Papa Costas couldn't keep his eyes off
his body, which hadn't filled out quite so much then, but was still good
and already more muscly than most fourteen-year-old boys, and Papa Costas
seemed to choke a bit, in his voice, as he was saying these things. From
then on, Yanni had always worn a shirt in church, but something in him made
him want to test out Papa Costas further, so he had always made sure it was
unbuttoned, either partly or sometimes fully, so that he could show off his
smooth muscled chest and tummy, and he'd always stood at the front of the
congregation so that Papa Costas could see him there, and he'd noticed that
quite often Papa Costas had found it hard to concentrate on his chanting,
and he'd stumble over his words rather a lot.

The old man in the kafenion reminded Yanni Pathonikis a bit of Papa Costas
now Ð except he was even older and fatter and uglier than any priest. And
as he spoke out of the side of his mouth into the woman's ear (the woman
still wasn't looking up), he smiled at Yanni, not with a nice smile but
with a sort of sneer, and then his eyes, which seemed to Yanni like the
eyes of a pig, an old sow, began to travel up and down his body, taking in
his chest, then across his shoulders, then down to his stomach, and even
lower.

And when he saw the old man's eyes widen as they reached his shorts, Yanni
had to look down again, because he was once more wondering if his thing was
peeking out of the top of them. But thankfully it wasn't. All the same, as
he was looking down at himself anyway, he began to inspect his body, as he
often did, but this time he was trying to be the old man's eyes, wondering
how they might be examining him from across the street.

He saw his own pectorals, so hard and round but silky soft too, moving in
and out, and gleaming with sweat. He saw that his nipples, which he liked
to rub and brush and twist sometimes, were sticking out more than usual,
like he just had played with them, and he hadn't touched them at all. One,
his left nipple, had a little sweat-droplet hanging off it. Unconsciously,
or maybe consciously, like he was thinking how it might be to have someone
touch his nipples now, even if it was a fat ugly old pig of an Englishman,
he raised his right hand to flick the droplet off. That made the nipple
harden even more, and it felt terrific. Then he gazed down at his stomach,
also moving in and out, and the hard ridges there, all six of them, three
on the left, three on the right, and they were glistening in the heat
too. With his right hand still over his left nipple, just grazing it with
his forefinger, he began to press on his abdominal muscles with his left
hand, just to check on their firmness, and maybe to imagine how it might be
to have someone else caress them, as he was doing.

He didn't think he'd mind the old man touching him, so long as he didn't do
anything else. It was a sort of revolting thought, but exciting too Ð
perhaps it was exciting just because it was so revolting.

But then he heard a gasp, and the clatter of a chair falling backwards. He
glanced up and saw the woman standing, swaying slightly. And still without
looking at him she ran off, or stumbled anyway. She seemed to be covering
her eyes with one hand while she waved the other, distractedly, as if she
was waving him away, or maybe waving the old man away, he couldn't really
tell. In less than a minute she was lost in the crowds of Ierepetra's
Saturday market, and that made Yanni Pathonikis feel very very sad.

The repulsive old Englishman was still staring at him though, but now
directly into his eyes, and the sneering grin turned into something a bit
more friendly, although Yanni still thought it Ð what was the word for the
way it was? He couldn't think of a word, but he could describe it with more
than one. The horrible old man wanted his body, wanted not just to look,
but to feel, to stroke. That was the look Yanni had seen in the woman's
eyes too, before she disappeared. Hungry was the word.

Then the old man stood up too. He really was very fat. He bent down, his
flabby belly wobbling beneath him, to pick something up from under the
table the woman had been sitting at. It was the plastic bag with the
vegetables in it that Yanni had sold to the woman Ð the tomatoes, the
peppers, the aubergines, the lemons, the onions.

Now the old man was walking across the street holding the bag, and as he
did so he wasn't looking into Yanni's eyes any more, but down at his chest
again. Hungry.

`Hello Yanni,' he said, in Greek, even the accent sounded good, not foreign
at all.

`How you know my name?' Yanni asked.

`Everyone in Ierepetra knows your name, as your father keeps shouting it
out all the time, because you are such a bad boy...'

As the horrible pig said these last words (`bad boy', in a nasty drawl) he
continued to stare at Yanni's chest, and then his stomach again, and then
up to his chest once more, moving to right and to left and back again,
Yanni thought he saw a dribble of phlegm coming out of his fleshy mouth.

Yanni could actually feel his nipples get even harder, harder than they'd
ever felt, and he wasn't touching them any more. Yes it was disgusting the
way the man was drooling over him, concentrating on those pointy nipples
maybe, but it was also thrilling in a way...

Was he really a `bad boy' as the man had just called him, or as Papa Costas
probably thought him to be?

He'd asked his girl Dina once to touch his nipples, which she had done but
not very willingly, and once he'd asked her to pull on them and twist them,
and she'd done that too, though again not with much enthusiasm. When he'd
asked her to kiss them, and run her tongue over them, and maybe bite them,
she'd simply refused...

The man lifted the bag. `The lady you sold these to? She has left them
behind. You will have to deliver them to her...'

`Deliver? How?'

`I know where she lives, out at Aghia Galini...'

Yanni let out a protesting puff. `How I get there, it is long way...'

`Not that far in a car...'

`You think I have car...?' Yanni was becoming deliberately insolent. What he
was doing, did he but know it, and maybe he did, was being a tease,
taunting the fleshy old Englishman. He flexed his muscles just a touch,
just as he always did when he knew that his body was being appreciated.

`I can drive you there...' said the repulsive man.

`I cannot, I have to work...'

`When you finish work then. How long is that? Two more hours?' Then the
obese old man, with his hungry eyes, and his hungry dribbling mouth, leaned
closer, across the piles of fleshy multi-colored vegetables, so close that
Yanni could smell the drink on his breath.

`I can wait,' the man whispered, `I'd be willing to wait forever for you,
pretty pretty Yanni...' And very quickly, and after looking around to make
sure he wasn't seen doing it, he reached forward and snapped at Yanni's
left nipple with a chewed fingernail. That was all, and it was over in a
flash, but it was enough to make Yanni Pathonikis, Ierepetra's flawless
little muscle boy, throw his curly-haired head back and stifle a groan.


ROSE

`Describe him to me, every little detail, don't leave anything out now...'

`His hair is curly black, thick... and he has a really pretty face...'

`Screw his face. All boys that age Ð how old did you say he was...?'

`Fifteen? Sixteen? Maybe fourteen I don't know... he hasn't grown to his full
height yet anyway...'

Rose heard a soft whistling groan of pleasure at the other end of the
phone. Daphne pulled herself together. `All boys that age have pretty
faces, tell me about his body. You said he was a little muscle boy. I love
that. Tell me about his muscles...'

`Oh Daphne...' Who else could Rose, in her desperation to talk about Yanni to
someone, have called, as soon as she'd got home? No other friend of hers,
and she had few real friends, would have understood her feelings, her
longing, and would in any case have been shocked. Daphne was
unshockable. And it was Daphne after all who'd suggested this holiday in
the first place.

`Go on...'

`He's so brown it's almost like... like... mahogany...'

`Mmmm... I hope he's smooth...'

`Oh yes, as alabaster...'

`Mmmm...'

`And his skin has a sort of gleam to it...'

`Sweaty you mean?'

`Yes...'

`Mmmm...'

`But it's more like a permanent sheen, you know, like it was oiled....'

`Maybe he oils it, little tease...'

`Maybe...'

`So he can show off his muscles. So pray continue, tell me about his
muscles...'

`Well honestly Daphne I don't know how to describe muscles, but these were...
well, immaculate... they were so... what's the word....?

`Defined...?'

`That's it.'

`Mmmmmmmm. Six pack?'

`Oh yes, really... what's the word... ridged...'

`Rippling?'

`Yes...'

There was an even more marked groan, and what Rose thought was the rustling
of sheets. It was highly likely. Daphne rarely got out of bed on Saturdays,
or at least not until the evening, when she might, as she put it, `go
hunting'. Of course there was the distinct possibility that she wasn't
alone in her bed, because she usually wasn't. `Tiny waist I'll bet...' Daphne
rasped now.

`Oh yes, I don't know boy's measurements, but his waist is smaller than
mine...'

`How big is your waist...?'

`I'm not telling you...'

`Go on...'

`All right, twenty-eight last time I measured...'

`Rose darling have you been on a diet?'

`Out here? No of course not...'

`Well even if I believed you, which I don't, twenty-eight is pretty fucking
slim for a boy who's already got muscles. Mmmm, and his waist was smaller
than that! Mmmm... oh god... pretty little muscle boy with a tiny waist...
tapering up, I bet, to broad shoulders...'

`Very broad for a fifteen-year-old or whatever he is...'

`How broad...?'

`Daphne I didn't measure them!'

`Maybe you'll get the chance soon.'

`I wish.'

`Tell me about his chest. I love boys' chests, or at least the ones with
good muscles... No chest hair I hope...'

`No, I said.'

`Mmmm, so describe it...'

`Oh Daphne it was so... meaty... it was like two slabs of oily meat, with that
dip between them, you know... so hard and yet so soft, I mean his skin looked
so soft...'

`What about his nipples...?'

`What?'

`Don't tell me you didn't notice his nipples...'

`I suppose I did...'

`Were they big, small...?'

`Somewhere half-way I guess. Not as big as a woman's anyway...'

`Pointy?'

`Pointy?'

`Yes did they stick out...?'

`Yes, I guess they did a bit...'

`Mmmmm. That means he likes to play with them, or have someone else play
with them...'

`Really?'

`Yes. Boys with sensitive nipples are a real turn-on for me. Most black
boys have them...'

`They do...?'

`I bet your sexy little muscle boy absolutely loves having his perky pointy
little nipples licked and twisted and chewed on and bitten...'

`Oh!' Now it was Rose's turn to groan. Her own nipples were extremely
sensitive. Just a brush against them would make them harden, and often if
she was exciting herself in other ways they would harden anyway, without
being touched. They were suddenly hard now, just at the mention of Yanni's
nipples. She did now remember that Yanni's nipples, on his fantastic
well-developed chest, had been rather protuberant, as if permanently
erect. So he liked having them played with did he? She was imagining how
wonderful it would be to take one of Yanni's rigid nipples in her mouth,
take it deep and suck on it, suck it in, with her lips brushing the
coppery, silken skin of his chest, and maybe, with her other hand, twisting
and pulling his other nipple, rolling it carefully between her fingers. She
gasped at the thought, a long gasp, which Daphne heard.

`Are you wet?'

`Yes, are you?'

`Soaked, darling. Where are you? In your villa?'

`On a sunbed. There's a sort of sundeck here, right by the sea in front of
the villa, totally private... It's hellish hot here...'

`What are you wearing, if anything?'

`A bikini.'

`Oooh, Rose, is it skimpy?'

`It is rather yes...'

`Naughty reticent Rose, buying herself a skimpy bikini... I didn't think you
had it in you.'

`Neither did I. It's just about the most revealing thing I've ever bought.'

`I bet you'd like to have Yanni in you...'

`God...'

`Imagine he's there now, all naked and muscly and brown and gleaming, with
his cock sticking up, looking down at you in your skimpy bikini...'

`Christ Daphne...'

`By the way, you haven't described his cock yet...'

`Daphne! I didn't see his cock! It was in a market, with hundreds of other
people!'

`I bet you checked out his crotch though. You've already said he wasn't
wearing a shirt. What did he have on? Just jeans?'

`Tight tiny shorts cut from an old pair, I think. They didn't hide much...'
Even that memory was now making Rose thrash a little on her sunbed, as she
put a hand between her legs and began to rub at the outer lips of her
vagina, which was moist as anything beneath her own virtually non-existent
bikini bottom.

`Little slut...' said Daphne. `What was his butt like? Cute and tiny I bet,
and rock hard...'

`Oh God his butt was amazing......like...like...a couple of pomegranates...'

`Mmmmmm. I'll be his cock was hard too. Could you see?'

`Yes I could see and yes he was hard...'

`Did it look big...?'

`I could certainly see a.... shape...'

`Hope you find he's a big boy when he finally fucks you...'

`He's not going to fuck me, Daphne. I might never see him again...'

`You will see him, Rose, you'll make sure of it. You'll go looking for him,
and then as sure as eggs is eggs you'll get him to fuck you... You're not
going to let this boy god escape Rose. You want him bad, like you've never
wanted anyone before...'

`God, yes... Daphne, Daphne, words can't really describe how perfect he
is. How... sensational his body is...' Rose felt a flowing within her,
juddering shocks throughout her own body...

`Might have to fly right over and check him out for myself...' said Daphne.
`Might have to have a little threesome...'

`I've met someone already who would quite like a threesome I think...'

`Who? God! Who? Some other hot young kid?' Daphne let out a little whimper
of arousal. She was probably rubbing her own pussy.

`No, an old Englishman...'

`My my! That's dirty!' And there was no sign of censure in Daphne's
voice. Far from it. She was sounding even more thrilled than before. `A
pederast? You've found yourself a pederast...!'

`I didn't find him, Daphne. He found me. He sort of slid over to me in the
market...'

`Because he'd seen you drooling over muscly little Yanni...'

`Yes... and he was sort of drooling too.'

`Dirty dirty... Maybe he's fucked Yanni already... It sounds like Yanni knows
how to tease... showing off to you like that... I love boys who tease, kind of
revealing their bodies, but also sometimes not really knowing how fucking
gorgeous they are... So what you have to do is show them how gorgeous they
are... except it sounds like Yanni knows... little whore...'

`Please don't call him a whore. He's too beautiful to be called a
whore. And no, the Englishman said he hadn't fucked Yanni...'

`Bet he wants to though... Dirty old fuck... So what have you arranged...?'

`Arranged? Nothing. Like I said, I ran off...'

`Like you said...' Daphne sighed. `Jeez Rose, go back...'

`Back?'

`To the town, whatever it's called, to the market, arrange a threesome with
this fucking fantastic kid and the dirty old guy. I did that once. The guy
was rich though, so he paid a hot boy, blonde surfer boy in Miami, all
muscle, to fuck me while he watched. Except he couldn't keep his hands off
the little stud, of course, and that was hot too, to see this fat old
pervert running his hands all over the vain little slut's muscles...Kind of
beauty and the beast, you know?'

`How... how old was the surfer boy?'

`I don't know, I didn't ask. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen? Surfers get
muscles early. God Rose he was all lean muscle, no fat on him at all...'

'Just like Yanni...' Rose murmured, and then she shouted out `No!'

And she came Ð an explosion within her more powerful than she'd experienced
for months. So intense and lengthy was it that she even dropped the phone.

`Hello? Hello?' She dimly heard Daphne's tinny voice faraway
somewhere. `Rose?'

Then she heard something else, from the landside of the villa Ð the
unmistakable crackle of wheels on gravel and the poop of a car
horn. Someone was paying her a visit...

To be continued...