Date: Mon, 2 Mar 2009 00:25:28 +0000
From: clever wag <cleverwag@hotmail.com>
Subject: pranging a perv (part two)

PRANGING A PERV (part two)

This is the second part of a story about a boy's sexual realisations under
the guidance of an older man, and to some extent about the man's growing
awareness of his own true proclivities.

This second part is told from the man's point of view, as the first part
was told from the boy's. The parts will alternate in that way.

It is in every sense a work of the imagination and a fantasy. It will be
very graphic and safe sex is not practiced. If such stuff offends you or
you are not of legal age in your country please do not read it. It is your
choice.

I always welcome feedback and suggestions so feel free to email me at
cleverwag@hotmail.com

My other Nifty stories, which I am also continuing, are `A Professor's
Greek Holiday' and `The Boy Girl Club'.

I am also starting to upload these stories to my `Sensual Writer' website,
which is http://cleverwag.sensualwriter.com

Do feel free to visit it and leave comments there too.

Thank you and enjoy...

Dave Snow.


PHILIP'S STORY

About a week ago my Saab was driven into by a youth driving an old BMW...

Sometimes I take the tube home from work, but mainly I drive. I live in
Islington and work in West London, and somehow public transport, even in
these congested times, always seems to take longer. I know I know...I
should think more about global warming...

It's certainly been difficult to ignore global warming this summer. I don't
know how much hotter London can get. It hasn't rained for weeks, and every
day the sun's been beating down more and more determinedly, frying us all.

But nobody's complaining. I'm not anyway. And I do love the drive from home
to work and back, however long it takes -- especially when the weather is
like this, and I can take the roof down on my Saab. My dear old Saab, a
classic, pre-92 convertible, still going strong and relatively untroubled
after 200,000 miles...

Well, until last week, that is...

I have a choice of routes home. I can do the more obviously direct route,
which takes me from the Westway onto the Marylebone Road, the main arterial
road north of the centre of town, and stay on it through the Euston Road
and through Kings Cross and on up to Islington. But if the Marylebone Road
looks as it might be gridlocked, which it often is, I'll slip off to the
left and take a more complicated journey up through Regent's Park, then
Camden Town, up the Camden Road, and if that seems too clogged, I've worked
out a clever little route that takes me parallel to the Camden Road up Agar
Grove, then left, then right into Market Road, past the big clock tower by
the Market Council Estate, with the football pitches on the right where the
Arsenal Youth Team sometimes play, or where dads and soccer coaches
sometimes come to watch aspirant teenage football stars kicking a ball
around, then over the Holloway Road on to Drayton Park and up to my house
that way.

I love the drive because I love London. Not so much when it's cold or
raining of course... but when it's hot like it is now there's no finer city
in the world, I reckon, for all its filth and inefficiency and
dinginess. One of the great joys of driving to work when the weather's like
this is simple. As you turn left off Market Road and into York Way, you can
see the whole huge metropolis spread out before you and below you --
shimmering in the hazy sun: a busy, inventive, imaginative, packed, sexy
city, dirty, yes, smelly, polluted, but always sexy.

The heat brings out the best in me and my fellow-Londoners. Everybody seems
so happy. The misery of queuing and jostling and sitting in endless traffic
jams has lifted. It is fine to stand at bus stops and be stuck in a
motionless line of vehicles because you're outside, in the sun, with all
those other happy people.

And of course the clothes have been coming off. A little bit more each
day... At first Londoners greeted the sun cautiously, maybe shedding a
jacket, or substituting trousers for a pair of shorts. But as the heat's
continued, people have become bolder, less reluctant to reveal themselves,
and now it's come to the point where some people are wearing, or so it
seems, virtually nothing at all.

It's not too pretty a sight when those who should know better have stripped
off shamelessly -- men and women of my own age for instance. Personally
I've given up public semi-nakedness. There's a time in one's life when
one's body is best left covered. But the weather is so glorious that I've
even felt kindly towards the big-bellied men and the wobbling midriffs of
middle-aged women.

As for the younger members of the population... Well I can't deny that
seeing some of them on the way to and from work has added to the joys of
the journey. Girls these days do seem to be able to get away with wearing
less and less... Some of them are so very young too, or appear to be,
physically anyway, if not in the rather knowing manner in which they parade
their bodies. Terrifyingly youthful and flawless midriffs are everywhere.

I don't begrudge them their flaunting. It's a generational thing I guess. I
don't remember girls showing themselves quite so brazenly when I was a
teenager. Maybe they had less to show off about.

I most certainly wouldn't have walked along a London pavement without a
shirt on myself. I didn't have a bad body as a kid (actually it isn't too
bad even now, for a forty-five year old), but I know that if I'd exhibited
it in the way some of the boys on the streets do nowadays I'd have been
stared at disapprovingly and probably even been told to put my shirt back
on by some officious passer by.

In the past week or two of seemingly unstoppable heat, the boys have been
stripping to the waist, or if they haven't been entirely shirtless, they've
let their shirts flap open unbuttoned. I presume that some are doing this
simply because it is hot -- but I haven't failed to notice that boys who
might not have had such obviously good bodies, by which I mean bodies that
are well-formed and attractive, are less willing to shed their tops than
the ones who must know, I suppose, how very pleasant to the eye their
bodies are. There's an arrogance there of course, an audacious vanity. And
who can blame them for knowing they look good without shirts on? I'm not
going to complain...

Life's short. Enjoy your loveliness while it lasts, girls and boys, and let
the world enjoy it too. That's what I say...

Now I have to confess, although I'm married -- I trust happily -- with
two kids myself -- Teddy who's 15 Lily who's 13, and a wife. Martha, who
I hope still loves me -- I do have a roving eye for incontestable beauty
of form.

I once considered being a painter. I have a talent for it. I've learnt that
it isn't a great talent -- not the kind that would get you noticed, that
would allow you to give up the drudge of a regular career such as the one I
now have -- but I still dabble. I always take a sketch book with me in my
briefcase wherever I go, or sometimes a camera and sketch away, or paint,
on the basis of what I might have snapped with the camera. Sometimes I just
use my imagination. It's a hobby, nothing else. I tend to paint
watercolours, or sketch in pastels, although I have tried my hand now and
then with oils.

Martha my wife says that all I ever paint is pretty people. `And what's
wrong with that?' I protest, `Isn't there enough ugliness in the world?'
She means, she explains, that I only seem to be able to paint `pretty young
people' with an emphasis on the `young'. `But you never seem to paint
things, or objects, or landscapes, do you...?' she declares. She's right. I
prefer to paint people - and pretty young people in particular. I can't see
the point in still-life painting, and if I do depict a landscape, I always
want to put a person in the foreground -- usually a pretty one.

I have two excellent subjects for my art in the form of my boy and my girl,
both of whom are getting prettier by the day. Lily is a skinny little thing
still, but she has a simply stunning face, with the deepest blue eyes
(which she gets from her mother). Teddy is becoming very handsome. I'd like
to say he gets that from me, but others will have to be the judge of
that. I've noticed that in the past year or so he's become really quite
muscular for a boy of 15. Well he's on his school's swimming team, and he
also likes to lift weights in his room. I think he's rather proud of his
developing body. During this hot summer, like the boys in the streets, he
does seem to rather like showing it off. He favours tight T-shirts on the
whole, or if he does wear a conventional shirt it's usually
unbuttoned. Often enough he doesn't wear a shirt at all.

The other day I saw him walking up the street towards the house from the
bus-stop and he wasn't wearing a shirt. He was on his way home from
school. I was watching him from my study, which is where I also do my
sketching and painting. His sinewy body was glistening a little in the
heat. I went down the kitchen where he was already raiding the fridge,
still shirtless.

`Did you travel home like that?' I asked him.

`Whaddya mean?' he said.

`I mean did you come all the way from school like that?'

`Like what?'

`Half-naked...I mean without a shirt.'

`Yeah...? Why...?'

`Even on the bus?'

`Yeah...? Why...?'

`Well I'm not sure you should really...'

`Dad!!' he groaned, nonchalantly wiping the trickles of sweat from his
chest, `it's HOT...'

I should like one day to paint him just the way he looked then. I've
sketched and painted several pictures of my darling children, almost from
the moment they were born, sometimes on their own, and sometimes together
-- but I've not yet had the nerve to ask my beloved boy to pose for me
shirtless. It would make a nice picture, and somehow I don't imagine he'd
mind too much.

To be absolutely frank I suppose I like to sketch boys more than
girls. Sometimes I base my sketches on boys I've seen in the street, or in
the parks, or at the pool. I can base them on photos I've taken (I don't
have to get too close, I have a 1000 millimetre zoom lens for the task), or
from what I've remembered they looked like. My imagination obviously plays
quite a part.

Well to be even more frank I do have a smallish collection of works that my
wife Martha hasn't seen -- or I hope she hasn't. I keep them locked in a
lower drawer of my desk. They are entirely of boys. They are definitely
works of the imagination rather than a depiction of reality, although the
boys I have seen do feature in them sometimes. I like what I produce from
my imagination to look real, if that's clear -- or as real as a sketch or
painting can be. I tend not to paint absolute fantasy. It just doesn't
excite me.

So does the fact that I like to paint pictures of near-naked, or sometimes
completely naked, young boys with good bodies -- capturing that precious
moment of flowering before they are no longer adolescent -- make me gay?
I guess it does. Although I like to think of myself as bisexual... My sex
life with Martha certainly isn't suffering. We do have wonderful sex...

When my dear old reliable Saab 900 Classic was smashed into last week at
the junction between Hart Road and Stavordale Road as I'd almost got home
by a youth in a 5-series BMW my first emotion of course was shock, and then
I felt angry, inevitably. All I saw of the boy then was a gawping face
through the BMW's windscreen. I checked myself for bodily damage and when I
saw that I was all in one piece as far as I could tell I swung my door open
and stepped out in the road. The young lad stepped out of the BMW at the
same time.

I said something like `Jesus Christ, what in God's name do you think
you're...'

I didn't even glance at the boy much at first. I was more eager to see how
badly my car had been hit. Well the passenger door was buckled, but not
irreparably I reckoned.

The boy was bobbing beside me, almost whining, saying how sorry he was. `Aw
mister I'm really sorry...I didn't see you and that...'

Then I looked at him. He was quite the most extraordinarily beautiful kid
I'd seen in a long time, and certainly during this long hot summer. I think
he was probably sixteen or seventeen. He had a quite tough-looking face,
with what appeared to be a slightly broken nose. His eyes were a searing
greeny-blue. He was pouting a little with apology but I think his lips were
luscious and full anyway. He had a shock of spiky dark hair.

His shirt, of course, was open. I don't know if our crash and his having
jumped out of his own car so rapidly had opened it even more, but it was
falling back over his shoulders, so that I could see almost all of his
chest and stomach. His dirty jeans, as is the fashion, rode low over his
hips. He had exceptional muscles for a boy of his age -- strong firm
pronounced pectorals and an abdomen that was perfectly ridged. Teddy, I've
noticed, is getting this way, with his swimming and his working out in his
room, but he hasn't become quite as defined, as toned as this boy was. His
skin was as smooth as marble and he was as brown as a berry. He was utterly
heart-stopping.

And of course I couldn't speak for a time. He was still dipping up and
down, thrusting his hands in and out of his pockets. He was just a nervous
boy really, worrying about my rage and what I was going to do. There was no
aggression there. He was obviously terrified. Clearly he shouldn't have
been driving a 5-series BMW, which he couldn't have owned.

I could only stare at the sheen of sweat on his chest.

`Mister, you not gonna report this is ya...' he said.

I said, stupidly in the circumstances because I knew he wouldn't have any
insurance, `we should exchange details for insurance purposes...'

He was waving his hands, shaking his head. I was thinking, absurdly I know,
how Michelangelo would have liked to sculpt him. And perhaps done other
things with him too...

He then told me that he worked for a garage just down the road, a place
called Bakshi Motors. I've seen it.  It's at the Holloway Road end of
Drayton Park. I pass it most days to and from work. It doesn't look to me
like the most reliable of repair centres.

I shook my head. `No, I said, `just give me your details...'

What details? Boys like this don't have any details...

He seemed understandably eager that the matter should go no further. He
even said something about Bakshi Motors mending my smashed passenger door
for free.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled little card. I
rather envied that hand, touching a hard young pectoral under the shirt. I
was looking at his nipples, tiny pointy things they were... Why are a boy's
nipples somehow so much more tantalising than a girl's, especially when
they seem to sprout as his were?

`That's all I got mister, that's the number of Bakshi Motors, honest mister
they'll do a good job...' I took the card. For a fleeting moment our
fingers touched. `It's not too bad damage, mister, I can see, we'll fix it
up good for ya, honest...'

I had to leave him. I had to pull myself away. If only for the simple
reason that my cock was stirring under my trousers, and I was hoping that
it wasn't being noticed. He wasn't looking at anything but my face,
pleadingly. I don't think he's gay, or even bisexual... But he's very very
lovely.

I walked back round my car and got in. I knew it would be useless to pursue
things further, at least as far as my injured Saab was concerned. I decided
to give him the smallest of frights though -- there was a kind of thrill
in seeing the kid's fear, and the feeling of momentary control I had over
him. I said: `You, or Bakshi Motors, will be hearing from my insurers...'
And I slipped the car into drive and sped on up Hart Road and turned right
onto Highbury Hill.

A week later, I've done nothing about getting the Saab repaired. I haven't
taken it to the place I usually go to -- which is in my opinion far too
expensive. But I do love my car -- and I think despite the 200,000 miles
she's done there's still life in the old dear yet.

I'm thinking that maybe I should put her future, for however long it may
be, in the hands of Bakshi Motors. I'm sure they're cheaper. I still have
their number.

And the summer goes on -- hotter now than it's ever been.

to be continued...