Date: Mon, 19 Sep 2011 11:35:28 +0000
From: clever wag <cleverwag@hotmail.com>
Subject: the cretan boy 5

The Cretan Boy

Part Five

This is the fifth part of a story about explicit intergenerational sex
between a beautiful boy on the verge of manhood and a much older man and
woman. If such stories offend you, or if it is illegal to read them in your
country, please stop now. I do not condone underage sex of any kind in
reality. This is fantasy.

Comments always welcome at the email above, or on my website
http://cleverwag.sensualwriter.com

Enjoy

Dave Snow

PETER

The air conditioning in his battered old Renault had broken down years ago,
but that was all right. He wanted the interior of the car to be an inferno;
hotter even than it was outside at two o'clock on a Cretan afternoon in
August. He wanted the boy dripping. He wanted to see those exquisite
muscles soaked.

Not that the stunning little catamite (he was already thinking of Yanni as
his catamite, a pretty boy to do his every bidding) would necessarily show
up. Why should he? It was possible he'd forgotten all about Peter Forster
already. But when Peter Forster had given the boy's already hard left
nipple a tiny flick and a scratch, the obviously sensitive rascal had
clearly loved it. How he'd arched back in spite of himself, his every sinew
stretching, his every muscle tightening and bulging. How he'd gasped in
pleasure, before suppressing the gasp quickly. It had been an awe-inspiring
sight. Peter Forster was very much hoping that Yanni might be remembering
that all too brief moment of ecstasy at least.

Peter Forster had told Yanni to meet him at one end of the market street
when the stall had closed down, which would be around two o'clock or at the
latest three. He'd managed to find a spot to park his car that was close to
where Yanni would appear, if he appeared. That was an achievement in
itself. Ierepetra was a jungle of parked metal, especially on market day,
with cars crammed up against each other, and straddling the pavements and
filling just about every space available. There was a great deal of
shouting and sounding of horns men found their progress blocked by other
cars, and a fug of exhaust fumes as drivers refused to turn their engines
off to keep the air conditioning going. It was a kind of belching, steamy,
rancid hell. Peter Forster loved it. He sat in his driver's seat, drumming
his fingers on the dashboard, with the windows closed so that the inside of
the car felt like a sauna, and waited. Some men were gesticulating through
the increasingly steamed up windows, because he may well have been in the
way of someone trying to move his own car.  `Malaka!'they hollered (which
is Greek for wanker), `shift your ass!' Peter Forster wasn't going
anywhere, or not before he'd given the boy he so wanted to fuck a good long
time to turn up.

When the outstanding muscle angel eventually materialized, as instructed
(good boy), he was late, predictably (it was almost four o'clock). But then
he was, after all, Greek. He'd changed his clothes. He was wearing proper
jeans now, fashionably skinny and low cut, and a simple white short-sleeved
shirt, which of course was unbuttoned, flapping against his staggering
front torso in the small breeze that had suddenly come from nowhere. The
jeans were riding on his narrow hips, so that his steely abs and the slight
protrusion of smooth belly that led to his crotch were fully on show.

So, Peter Forster thought, the vain rapscallion deliberately puts on those
scanty cutoffs of his, and of course takes his shirt off, to serve at his
father's stall. And then when all the flirting is over, and he's had all
the women drooling, and it's time to pack up, he puts on something more
`respectable' Ð but inevitably still keeps his shirt open. He still looked
astonishing. And anyway, thought Peter Forster, once Yanni was inside the
sweltering car he'd probably take his shirt off again.  And Peter Forster
had a little something on the back seat that he'd make the boy wear: a
skimpy item of clothing that he'd bought in a gay sex shop in London.

He had other things in the boot of his car, that he'd gone home to pick up,
which he may or not have use for in due course: a pair of tight leather
shorts (waist size 28), a leather harness (chest size 42), a leather cock
ring, a leather gag, some nipple clamps attached to each other with an
adjustable thin steel chain, a vibrating black leather dildo (12 inches
long and 7 in circumference), a video camera, and his little bamboo cane.

Yanni was looking about him, a bit nervously; but was there also some
excited anticipation in that look, Peter Forster wondered? He let the lad
search a while longer, before parping his horn. It was with some relief, he
thought, that Yanni at last heard and saw the car. With his head down a
bit, scuttling almost, as if he didn't want to be seen (which was
understandable, and also thrilling for Peter Forster, because it gave him
an exquisite feeling as to the wrongness of what could be about to happen,
which Yanni probably understood too, if only vaguely), the boy made for
Peter Forster's rattling and coughing vehicle. Peter Forster reached over
and opened the passenger door.

`It hot,' said Yanni, in English, as he plopped his gorgeous body onto the
seat.

`Very very hot,' Peter Forster replied, in Greek, to remind the kid of his
fluency. Of course he had to gaze down at Yanni's chest, or what he could
see of it, at the panting pectorals, at the sweat dropping from them.

`Go, go, we must go,' Yanni breathed. Yes he knew this wasn't right
somehow. And yet he'd turned up, hadn't he? He must have remembered that
touch on his nipple. To remind him of it, Peter Forster lifted a finger and
scraped the tip of the same nipple, feeling it sprout up, like a little
volcano. Yanni groaned, but then said again, more insistently, `Go! Drive!
Now!' That too was exciting; the boy's fear of discovery mixed with an
equally strong resolve, and need.

Once out of town, which took a while because of the market traffic, and on
the coast road that led from Ierepetra towards the easternmost shores of
the island of Crete, Yanni relaxed; or at least a bit. He still sat fairly
straight-backed. He was streaming with sweat, like a drenched statue under
a fountain. His shirt was almost transparent with wetness. It was of course
a lovely sight, most particularly the way the thin material stuck to that
extraordinary musculature, emphasizing it superbly. Peter Forster could
scarcely keep his eyes ahead.

`So hot,' Yanni puffed again. He tried to open the window on his side, but
the handle to wind it down had come off. The only window that could be
opened was on the driver's side, and Peter Forster wasn't let any air into
the car, not just yet.

`Why don't you take your shirt off?' he of course then said, `you will be
cooler'.

Yanni needed no encouragement. He practically tore it from himself, letting
it drop into the well at his feet, like a sodden rag. At the glimpse of
that near-nakedness again, its utterly sculpted perfection, Peter Forster
almost swerved into the dusty curb, and then out into the center of the
road, causing a lorry coming in the other direction to bang its horn,
angrily.

`Christ, boy, what you're doing to me,' he muttered, in English.

Yanni of course stretched and rippled, in that way he had when someone was
admiring the way he was so fantastically made, knowing full well, it
seemed, the effect he was having on Peter Forster.

`Fuck,' said Peter Forster, in English still (but he didn't doubt that
Yanni would understand the word), `I want to eat you alive, I want to fuck
you so bad, I want to feel every part of you, I want to lick the sweat off
you...'

That was when he grabbed the stupendous boy's cock. He didn't take his eyes
off the road as he did it, he just did it, and squeezed.

`Ay!' Yanni squeaked, but he didn't slap the hand away.

It was long and thick, as hard as it could possibly be surely, like one of
those delicious fat sausages they made out here (or the good butchers did
anyway), meaty and tangy and oily. But he felt it get even harder.  This
muscle child was insatiable, capable of being thrilled beyond belief. That
the cock was big, bigger than it should have been really for a boy of
Yanni's age (developing well there clearly, along with the rest of him),
there could be no question.

But Peter Forster, much as he'd have liked right then to swing into some
side track, and to play with that polished, solid and shimmering young body
for hours, before sucking the cock on it and then fucking it mercilessly,
remembered the reason why he was driving, now quite wildly, along the road
out of Ierepetra in the direction of the eastern coast of Crete.

They were almost there. Before they reached Aghia Galini though they had to
pass through a perpetually dust-covered village called Ferma, which was one
long wide street essentially, like some hick town in a western movie. It
was here that the police liked to catch drivers with their hand-held speed
cameras, because it was so easy. They'd deliberately made it a 30-kilometer
an hour zone so they could do just that. All that was required for them,
essentially lazy bastards, was to wait and point.

`Careful, police,' said Yanni, as Peter Forster was absorbing the sweet
slightly musky scent of the boy-sweat still pouring from him.

`I know,' said Peter Forster, as he slowed down, and then contemplated the
prospect of being stopped by the police anyway, which they were quite
capable of doing, even if you were obeying the limit. What would a
quizzical policeman think, as he peered into the car to see a dirty ragged
old Englishman with the most incredibly beautiful boy in the world in the
passenger seat? That too was a thrilling notion, and Peter Forster quite
purposefully kept his hand on the boy's twitching sausage of a cock as he
drove, sedately and compliantly, through Ferma.

He'd fucked a Cretan cop once, a rookie of course, young and very willing,
at least after several shots of raki, with a pretty good body, though not
anywhere near as fine as the body that sat next to him now. He didn't think
he'd ever see, or be close to, such a splendiferous body as Yanni's again.

Having passed through Ferma, and once into the dips and curves of the
narrowing road beyond it, he nodded towards the back seat, and said to
Yanni `put that on...'

Yanni peered round, his fantastic ligaments twisting as he did so. His
every movement was arousing. `What, this?' He reached for what looked like
a tiny slip of material, but then spread it out on his thighs. It was tiny
certainly. It was a sort of tank top, of some black stretchy material with
some gold lettering on it. The letters sparkled with some glitter that had
been stuck onto them.

`Put it on I said...'

Yanni raised his phenomenal arms to slip them through the loops of the tank
top and pulled the shirt down over his head and his sodden chest. This took
some doing, as it was so tight. It was cut high so that his corrugated
abdomen could be seen, and cut so low that most of his pectorals could be
seen too. The loops just covered his stiff nipples. The glittery letters on
the front of the tank top read `FUCKABLE BOY SLUT', in English.

When Peter Forster turned to look at Yanni, as he had to, he almost drove
into a tree.


YANNI

The shirt looked good, and felt very good too. What he liked most about it
was the way it clung so tightly to his body, and especially the way the
thin straps over his shoulders rubbed against his nipples, making them jut
out even more than they usually did. It was like having them permanently
played with.

He wondered what his girl Dina would think if she saw him in it. He didn't
think she'd approve. He wondered what the other boys and girls would think
if he wore it on the beach. They'd probably say it looked funny, but they'd
be secretly quite jealous, of how it showed off his muscles. He reckoned
some of the foreign women who liked to look at him would like it a lot. But
he didn't think he'd be able to wear it at the market stall, because it had
some words on it in English, which he didn't understand but which were
almost certainly rude, because one of the words seemed to be `FUCK', and he
knew how to spell that, even in English.

He'd thought a lot about whether he should go with the horrible fat
Englishman in his car to deliver to the English woman the vegetables she'd
left behind. The man had said to him to meet him at the end of the market
street after the stall had been closed up. He'd asked the man why he should
go. Why couldn't the man go by himself? The man had said: `Because she
wants to see you, not me,' and he'd given Yanni a disgusting sort of wink
when he'd said that. And that had excited Yanni Ð because he was reminded
of how the woman had looked at his body, so hungrily, just as the man did
while he was talking to him. If he did go with the man, the man would
probably try to fondle him in the car, and even kiss him maybe with those
dribbling lips. Hmmm. But then again Yanni thought it would be good to see
the woman again. She wouldn't mind her kissing him, or have her play with
his body, even though she was old too. She would kiss him properly, he
reckoned, softly and gently maybe, but also maybe roughly, which he
wouldn't mind from a woman. He wasn't sure he wanted to be kissed by a
sweaty old pig of a man. Perhaps the man would drive him somewhere else and
they wouldn't get to Aghia Galini at all.

He'd been thinking about it all afternoon as he went on serving the
customers at the stall, although trade was slacking off then Ð which gave
him even more time to think. And what kept popping into his head all the
time was how the English pig had flicked at his nipple, so openly but also
trying to be surreptitious about it. It had felt wonderful, and also very
very wicked somehow, the speed and secrecy of it, which made it seem even
more wonderful. He'd stayed hard all afternoon because of it.

All the same, when he and his father had closed up the stall, Yanni didn't
go looking for the man at the end of the street immediately. Instead, after
he'd gone round the back of the stall to change out of his shorts into a
pair of skinny low-hipped Levi 502s that he'd stolen last week and a white
short-sleeved shirt that he liked because it was made of some silky
material that felt good against his muscles, he sat in the kafenion for a
time, drinking lemonade. He knew the man who served there, Giorgos, but not
very well. They'd seen each other every Saturday at the market, but they
hadn't conversed much. Giorgos was very good looking, Yanni thought,
because Yanni was always comparing himself with other boys and men, and
thinking about how their bodies matched his. Giorgos was about twenty,
Yanni reckoned, but he'd never seen his body, or not without his shirt on,
and that was the only way you could really tell if another boy, or man, had
good toned muscles.

Yanni had also seen Giorgos talking to the fat man quite a lot over the
past summer. It occurred to the boy that Giorgos and the blubbery
Englishman might be friends, or even more than friends, by which he meant,
in his mind, that they might have had sex. Yanni wasn't so innocent that he
didn't know that some men liked to have sex together, and although it was
something that repulsed him when he thought too much about it, it also,
because, being a fifteen-yea-old with an awareness of the splendor of his
own body, he did have sex on his mind most of the time, made him wonder
sometimes what it might actually be like Ð to have a man's swollen thing
inside your bottom. That, he presumed, was what sex between men was about,
because he couldn't think of where else a man might put his thing, aside
from in the mouth. That really revolted him Ð the idea of taking a man's
thing in his mouth. But he wasn't so sure that it would be quite so awful
to put his own thing into the mouth of a man, so long as the man liked his
body and wasn't really ugly Ð or if he was, then Yanni wouldn't look.

He'd been thinking about all this as he'd sat in the kafenion, and most
particularly if Giorgos had had a man's thing in his bottom, and
specifically if Giorgos had had that slobbery tubby old Englishman's thing
in his bottom, or his mouth.

The kafenion was fairly empty so Yanni smiled at Giorgos, who was standing
by the door to the inside of the kafenion, and Giorgos, sensing that Yanni
might be in the mood for a chat, came over, and returned the smile.

`Hi...'

`Hi...'

`How's things?'

`Fine. How's things with you?'

`Good'.

Close to, Yanni saw that Giorgos was very well built, like he maybe worked
out at the Ierepetra town gym, with wide shoulders, broad protruding
pectoral muscles, and a good slim waist. He was way bigger than Yanni, but
then he was at least four years older. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt
with almost no sleeves, so it showed off his arms, which had big biceps,
well defined. He had a lot of curly hair on his forearms though, and that
was also probably because he was older. He maybe had hair on his chest too,
although Yanni couldn't see that. Yanni very much hoped he'd never get hair
on his own chest. He knew it looked good smooth. If he did get hair, he'd
shave it off, he reckoned. He also hoped he wouldn't get quite so big as
Giorgos. He didn't go to the gym himself; he didn't feel he needed to.

`You've got a great body,' said Giorgos, directly and sort of
matter-of-factly. Yanni of course had his shirt open, and Giorgos was
inspecting what he could see, not in any kind of slavering way though, like
the old man had done. He was just assessing the muscles, or maybe comparing
them with his own. Nevertheless Yanni felt the thing between his legs stir
slightly, as it always did when his body was being looked at and admired.

`Hey thanks,' said Yanni, `you've got a pretty good body too'. He wasn't
sure he meant that. He was just being polite. Although Giorgos certainly
had a body he could be proud of, even if it was mostly covered by clothes
right then, except for the strong arms, Yanni still thought it just a bit
too beefy, just too large, like a bodybuilder's body, or on the way to
becoming one. He'd never understood bodybuilding, why those men seemed
always to need to get bigger and bigger and all out of proportion. It
wasn't natural. His own body, though packed with lean muscle and with no
real body fat at all, still felt natural. It was the body he'd been born
with and which had grown as he'd grown. He hadn't had to work on it to make
it look good.

Giorgos flexed a little, making his big pectorals ripple a bit under the
shirt, and even did an arm curl to make a bicep pop up even more. `You work
out...?'

`Some,' said Yanni. This was a lie, but he didn't want to make Giorgos
think he was some kind of a wimp. He even tightened his own chest muscles,
and his abdomen too, and leant back a bit so that his shirt fell a bit more
open.

`Nice pecs and abs,' said Giorgos, his eyes widening. `Good definition. For
a kid. You go to the gym?'

`No.' Yanni didn't bother to say he didn't think he needed to.

`You should. Make bigger muscles. I'll take you there if you want, show you
the weights. We could spot each other, help each other out.' As he said
this he gave Yanni what seemed like a playful punch, just above the left
`pec', then slid the fist down, grazing the nipple with it, the one the old
man had flicked. It went hard again instantly, and Yanni let out a little
hiss. He couldn't help it.

Giorgos grinned, like he knew exactly what he'd done and why he'd done it
and that Yanni liked it a lot. Maybe he'd seen the old man snap at Yanni's
nipple earlier, even though the old man had tried to hide it.

`Um....' Yanni gulped, `the old guy... who was here earlier...'

`Mr. Foster, what about him?'

`You know him...?'

`Sure I know him. He's a regular.' Giorgos's grin seemed to be widening.

`Yes but, do you....?' Yanni wanted to say `know him as in know him real
well, like maybe he's put his cock in you...' but he couldn't.

`Do I what?' Still Yanni could say nothing. Giorgos sat down next to him
then, on a rickety plastic chair on his right, and thrust a big arm over
the boy's shoulders, like they were a couple of old friends, and that's
what it would have looked like to anyone passing Ð except if they'd looked
closer they'd have seen the forefinger of Giorgos's left hand tickle
Yanni's left nipple again as he said: `Don't worry. He's a nice guy. He
looks like a fat mummy sow but he's okay. He's a generous guy. He can be a
bit rough sometimes...'

`Rough?' Yanni didn't want Giorgos to stop tickling, scratching now up and
down on the nipple. It felt so good. He very much wanted to know, though,
what Giorgos had meant by `rough'.

`Yeah, rough, you know... most of those gay old fuckers are. They like to
hurt you some. But it's not like they do it real hard Ð or if they do, then
you're strong enough to fight them off, right? With a body like yours kid...'
Giorgos now skimmed a hand over both of Yanni's pectorals, which were
panting at what he was saying, `with muscles like you've got you could
knock him out in a second...' He squeezed a pectoral, like he was assessing a
piece of fruit for ripeness at Yanni's father's stall.

`Oh...' Yanni gulped again. It was more of a moan than a gulp. He'd been
taking in what Giorgos was saying, and although he thought he should have
been repelled by it, and even frightened by the talk of being `hurt', he
also couldn't avoid feeling even more thrilled in some way, especially as
Giorgos was now furtively running a finger over the tough rope-like ridges
of his `abs'.

So it was clear that Giorgo had had sex with the plump Englishman, and
probably with a lot of other men besides. Well he did have a great body, if
you liked a guy with really big muscles, and which were going to get even
bigger, Yanni reckoned. And he sure knew how to touch another guy's
body. `So...you're gay then...?' That was a dangerous sort of question to ask
of a Greek. It was an English word, same in Greek as it was in English, and
was usually used in opprobrium, as an insult.

But Giorgos wasn't insulted. He didn't even stop grinning. `Let's say,' he
said with a wink, `I swing both ways...'

Yanni didn't know what he meant by that, or not at first, but then he
worked out that it probably meant that Giorgos liked both men and women.

`You...said... he was... generous?'

`Yeah,' Giorgos replied, quickly slipping his arm off Yanni's shoulders and
straightening. Someone had just sat down not far from them. Up to that
point the kafenion had been sleepily empty for a while. Giorgos leaned his
head towards Yanni's and whispered out of a corner of his mouth: `Make sure
he pays you, kid. Specially if he wants you to suck his dick, and
definitely if he wants to fuck you. But it's good to get them real excited
first, before you ask for money. Then they'll give it you... For BDSM you can
ask for a lot.'

`Oh,' said Yanni. What was BDSM, and how much was a lot?  Maybe Giorgos
could tell him. Yanni, like most boys, always needed money, to buy clothes
(in Yanni's case, clothes that would show off muscles best), and to stop
him from stealing them from the clothes stalls in the market.

But Giorgos had stood up now, and was walking towards the man who'd just
sat down, to serve him probably. He was shaking the man's hand, and then
they started chatting, as if Yanni wasn't there.

The old Englishman would be waiting for him at the far end of the market
street. He realized he was very late, so it was possible that the man had
given up, and gone.  But Yanni didn't think so somehow. He knew well enough
that the ugly old pig wanted him and his body very much. So maybe it wasn't
such a bad thing to keep the `gay old fucker', as Giorgos had called him,
waiting a little longer.

In any case Yanni couldn't stand up and just go like that. All that Giorgos
had said, and the way Giorgos had secretively caressed his body had made
him very hard. He needed the thing between his legs to soften, at least a
bit.

When he eventually got up and left the kafenion, he saw that Giorgos was
still talking to his customer, but he did turn round to give Yanni a quick
final wink before turning back.

As he hurried along the emptying market street Yanni cursed himself for not
asking Giorgos the question he wanted to know the answer to most Ð what it
was like to have a man's hard thing, which Giorgos had called a `dick',
inside you. Did it hurt? When Giorgos had said `hurt you some' was that
what he'd been referring to? Yanni had once tried to insert a finger into
his own anus, and although the sensation on his hands of his hard and round
and muscly buttocks had felt real good, the finger had hurt like hell. And
he imagined that even the `dick' of a flabby piece of blubber like the
Englishman would be way bigger, or fatter anyway, than his finger. But if
it hurt so much why were there some men who liked doing it, over and over
again? There must have been some sort of pleasure in it, maybe a lot of
pleasure.

He'd almost made it to the end of the street when he bumped into Agni, who
was his older brother Panos's girl. `Hi Yanni!' she trilled, `you seem in a
hurry!' She was pretty, was Agni, very pretty, kind of prettier even than
his own girl Dina. Well Panos would get a pretty girl, wouldn't he, as he
was so handsome himself (though Yanni still thought he had a better body
than Panos had)? Agni was tall and slim, a good few inches taller than
Yanni (she was eighteen), with long skinny legs and big firm brown breasts,
which she liked to show off as much as possible by always wearing low-cut
dresses, or revealing bikinis on the beach (all of which Yanni and Panos's
mother disapproved of). She was very sexy and knew it. Yanni liked that in
a girl. He sometimes thought that Dina, who was lovely in every other way,
was just too shy. Today she was wearing skin-tight jeans and a blouse
unbuttoned but tied in a knot just under her breasts so he could see all of
her stomach, which was nice and tanned and flat. He also liked Agni because
of the way she obviously liked him Ð or his body anyway. She'd always give
it sly glances when Panos was around, not so sly when he wasn't. He wasn't
there now. So today she was staring immediately at Yanni's chest. A slight
breeze had picked up so his shirt had blown fully open, shirt-tails
flapping behind him. `Mmmm, you look nice,' said Agni, with a soft murmur,
`you off to see Dina?'

`Um... yes...' said Yanni, getting hard again because of how she was drinking
him in. Maybe she saw that too.

Anyway she gave him a big smile and said: `Lucky little Dina...' Then she
leaned into him, so close that one of her breasts brushed a shoulder, and
whispered: `Maybe you need an older girl...' She gave his abs a quick rub.

`Oh...' Yanni squeaked. Now he was really hard.

But it was just flirtation because Agni giggled and flounced off. He
watched her pert girl-buttocks, almost so small they were like a boy's, in
those skin-tight jeans disappear round a corner. He liked that too about
Agni Ð how her breasts were big but her buttocks were small.

When he got to the end of the street, he was sweating profusely, even
though there was a breeze. The flapping shirt was sticking to his every
pore.

He saw some of his friends lolling around, with some girls, like they
usually did on Saturday afternoons, maybe discussing where everyone was
going to go tonight. Maybe `La Palma' or `Le Figaro' or `Space'. There'd
been some talk yesterday, among the boys, of them all driving up to Malia,
where the clubs were best, and where the foreign girls were `easy' Ð
especially the English ones. Whatever was decided, Yanni would be expected
to be a part of the adventure.

They hadn't yet seen him and he very much didn't want them to. He needed to
find that Englishman as quick as he could. If they saw him they'd call him
over. Worse still, if they saw him getting into a car with a revolting man
old enough to be his grandfather they'd want to know what was going on, and
there'd be a lot of probing, teasing questions. They already quite often
berated him for the way he was always keen to show off his body to `wrinkly
old women'. If they caught him now with a wrinkly old man he'd never live
it down. And they definitely (because none of them were `gay', or so they'd
firmly assert) would not approve. They might even be completely disgusted,
and drop him as a friend.

He heard the quick bark of a car-horn, then another, not like the constant
blaring of horns that was there anyway. This sound was short, firm,
insistent Ð parp, parp, parp! He looked in its direction and saw a very
run-down looking Renault, and could just make out through the windscreen,
because it was so misted up, the shape of a fat person. Head down, very
quickly, he scuttled towards the car, thinking, as he did so, that
obviously this man was not rich. He might have some problems getting money
out of him.

The shape reached over and opened the door for him. He couldn't manage to
open it from outside anyway, as the handle was off. He got in. It was like
an oven in there, like his grandmother's old bread oven which he secretly
liked to get close to when she was baking bread because it always made him
sweat and he so liked the feeling of sweat on his muscles. Except this was
a damp sort of heat, which made the sweat pour over his body even
more. Somehow it felt very very good.

`It's hot...' he gasped, in English.

`Very very hot,' said the piggy Englishman, in Greek, with a horrible
leer. He was sweating too, great pools of water staining his shirt. That
didn't look so good. Bodies needed to be good and young and muscly to have
sweat all over them.

`Go. Go. We must go!' Yanni hissed, fearing that one of his friends might
have spotted him and that might make them all run over to see who he'd got
into a car with.

But before driving off, the pig, still leering, but at his chest now,
lifted a podgy fist and scraped at Yanni's left nipple again with a
scratchy fingernail. Yanni nearly howled with the pleasure of it. He
groaned anyway, quite openly. There was no point in trying to suppress it,
to hide how he loved to be touched like that. All the same he shouted,
almost screamed, `go! Drive! Now!'

And so here he was, in the sticky front passenger seat of a crappy old car
being driven by one of the ugliest, oldest, most smelly men he'd ever seen,
and wearing a tiny tight tank-top with something dirty written on it, that
showed off all his dripping muscles, with straps that pressed on his
incredibly hard nipples, on the way to see a hungry Englishwoman who wanted
his body so bad, and who in the past few hours he'd almost forgotten about.

The man had played a bit with him, of course, on the journey. He'd even
grabbed at his thing, pressing on it hard, and then rubbing it. He'd told
Yanni to take his shirt off, which Yanni was going to do anyway, and then,
when the man had looked at his body again, and Yanni had flexed and
stretched a little so that his gleaming muscles showed better, the man had
almost swerved into a lorry coming the other way. They might both have been
killed. And when the pig had told Yanni to put the tight tank top on, and
Yanni had done so, and had become excited as his nipples sprouted up under
the straps, they could have got killed again, this time by nearly slamming
into a tree.

As they descended towards the bay of Aghia Galini and then off the road
down a steep bumpy track that led to nearer the sea, the glistening muscle
child and the filthy old man, Mr Forster said: `This must be the villa of
Rose Dawson...' Yanni hadn't heard the name before, and he looked quizzically
at the man, who explained, with another suggestive grin: `the woman who
wants you to fuck her like she's never been fucked in her life...' Then he
asked: `You will fuck her good, won't you boy?'

Yanni found himself nodding. Maybe all the fat old man was going to do was
to watch. That wouldn't be so bad. In fact it would be very exciting. Yanni
very much liked to be looked at after all. And Dina had once told him how
good his muscles looked when he was having sex with her (though afterwards
she'd seemed ashamed that she'd said such a thing). But he hoped that at
least the old man would touch him again, because he'd also very much liked
how the man had touched him, despite his being blubbery and smelly and
ancient.

They pulled up in front of a simple square villa made of old stone with
lots of flowers growing up it Ð bougainvillea and magnolia and vines. It
was probably an old Cretan house, but now it had been smartened up into the
sort of house that Yanni would never have gone into normally Ð a house for
tourists, all neat and clipped and newly painted and washed. There was no
sign of the woman called Rose Dawson, or not on this side of the villa
anyway.

`Get out, boy... and don't forget the vegetables.'

Well Yanni had of course entirely forgotten about the vegetables. He'd seen
them on the back seat of the car earlier, next to the curled up tank top he
was now wearing. He reached for the plastic bag.  `You go, leave me here?'
he asked tentatively.

`You've got to be joking,' said Mr Forster, with a grin that showed off
lots of dirty tobacco-stained teeth, his piggy eyes seeming to caress
Yanni's still perspiring muscles.

As he struggled with the door handle and then got out of the car, Yanni
felt dirty himself, and very bad, and just a little confused, and fearful,
but at the same time Ð he couldn't yet fully understand why Ð more aroused
than he thought he'd ever felt before; and very willing, as a kind of
sensual electricity passed through his superb young body, to discover what
might happen to him, and that delicious body, next...






ROSE

She'd quickly struggled up from her sundeck as she'd heard the scrape of
car tires on gravel and the sound of the horn. She'd panicked just a
little. She didn't yet know who it might be who'd arrived, but she didn't
think she should be seen by whoever it was in the scant bikini she'd bought
in a moment of abandon at a swimwear shop in London just before coming out
to Crete.

Daphne continued to chirrup down the dropped phone. `Rose? Rose? Are you
all right? Did you die or something?' She'd hang up eventually.

Rose walked into the cool of the villa, checking herself quickly in a wall
mirror in the living room. She looked flushed, her face was red, and not
just from the sun. Well she had just had the best orgasm she'd had in a
long time, thinking of Yanni the muscle boy looming over her on the sunbed,
and then fucking her, and her fucking him, riding him maybe while she ran
her hands and scratched with her fingers all over his astonishing young
body.

Maybe, she'd thought, Yanni the exquisite muscle boy hadn't actually fucked
anyone yet. Maybe she might teach him how to fuck.

These dirty but wonderful thoughts were still in her head as she hurried
into the bedroom, as the car horn pooped again. She found a shirt to put on
and tied a silk sarong around her waist.

Of course, she then thought to herself, there was the very real possibility
that she may never catch sight of Yanni, or at least talk to him,
again. He'd no doubt be working at the market next Saturday as usual, but
she didn't think she'd dare approach him. She'd probably have to get
vegetables from another stall. She'd have to buy some new vegetables
anyway, but from the supermarket in Ferma, which was the closest, because
she'd left the vegetables she'd bought from Yanni in the kafenion in
Ierepetra. Stupid, stupid Rose, Rose thought Ð echoing in her head what
Daphne often called her. Stupid straitlaced Rose...

In the living room again she checked once more in the mirror. God, she
looked tousled, but that was okay. She was sweating mightily too, but then
everybody must be sweating on a hot day like today.

She went to the front door. She opened it. What she saw out there, on the
gravel yard in front of the villa, was a very beaten up old car; and
standing beside it, smiling a little sheepishly and holding her bag of
vegetables, and wearing something she could only describe as cheap and
nasty, but at the same time incredibly erotic, a kind of minuscule vest,
which covered virtually nothing but which of course only enhanced every
sweat-glimmering muscle, was the boy she wanted more than any other in the
world, her Yanni.

She could only say, and aloud, as the other door of the car opened and out
stepped Peter Forster, looking as drenched in perspiration as the child,
but digusting therefore, with a huge salacious grin, words that she wasn't
used to uttering. `Jesus fucking Christ...' she heard herself yell, so loudly
that the phrase must have reverberated like thunder around the quiet bay of
Aghia Galini.