Date: Mon, 19 Sep 2011 11:35:28 +0000 From: clever wag 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.