Date: Mon, 2 Mar 2009 00:25:28 +0000 From: clever wag 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...