Date: Tue, 26 Apr 2011 08:20:08 +0000 From: clever wag Subject: the cretan boy part 1 The Cretan boy Part One This is a story about bisexual sex between generations. If you are offended by explicit stories on this subject, or if it is illegal to do so in your country, then please stop reading now. I have not contributed stories to nifty for some time. If you like this story, you may wish to read my other stories, which I shall also now complete, called 'professors-greek-holiday' 'boy-girl-club' and 'pranging-a-perv'. They were uploaded to nifty in February, March and May of 2009. They are also on my blog 'Cleverwag's sex tales' at http://cleverwag.sensualwriter.com Comments and suggestions are always welcome. Please send to cleverwag@hotmail.com. Dave Snow YANNI Yanni Pathonakis knew he was a handsome boy. Never mind that his mother had told him so since he was a baby -- and had told everyone else. Now that he was fifteen he just knew it. He knew it every time he looked in the mirror of the bathroom of his home in Ierepetra, or at his reflection in the windows of the shops that he passed as he walked proudly through the town streets. Yanni Pathonakis knew he had a good body. He had always been a sleek slim boy, his mother would call him her `angel on earth'. She would say he had the face of an angel but he knew had the body of an angel too. Now he was fifteen his body was filling out. He knew his body looked good every time he compared it to the bodies of other boys his age, or even older boys -- when he was swimming with them in the harbour or at the public beach in Ierepetra -- or when they played games like football with their shirts off. He knew it when the girls looked at him more than the other boys. They were always shy about it and tried not to let him catch them looking, but he could always tell that they were. Even when he didn't actually see it, he could feel them looking him up and down, and sometimes he would hear them giggle but they weren't really laughing at him, they were giggling with restlessness at how good his body looked -- he could tell. Some of the other boys -- his friends Nikos and Andreas and Stefanos and his older brother Panos and even his younger brother Ilia -- had good bodies too -- not like the boys who were already getting too fat -- but his body, he knew it, was the best of all. His shoulders were broader, his waist was slimmer, and he didn't know anybody with such good muscles as he had. His chest was smooth and solid and rounded, his arms were strong, and when he flexed them his biceps would pop up like firm little melons, his stomach was flat and tough, as if made of iron, with six solid ridges of sinewy muscle. To show how rigid his belly was he liked to let his father punch him there -- `Go on, papa, hit as hard as you like!' he'd say, and he'd feel his father's thick fist bounce against the stiff wall of flesh. Or sometimes he would arm-wrestle with his father. His father was a strong powerfully-built man himself, but he would usually lose. Yanni Pathonakis loved to see how the silky tendons in his arm strained as his palm pushed against his father's. Yanni Pathonakis was fond of looking at his body most of the time. Every morning the first thing he did after slipping out of bed was to gaze at it in the cracked bathroom mirror -- to let his eyes travel up and down his young torso. Sometimes he wondered if this was a sinful thing to do -- to be as interested in his body as he was. But he could not resist it. Papa Costas the priest had spoken in church of the sin of what he called `vanity', which he also called `self-love' -- and Yanni Path0nikis had to admit to himself that he loved his body very much. He did not only like to look at it but to touch it too -- it felt so compact and smooth. He loved the way it was rounded in some places and flat in others. He loved how soft his skin felt over the hardness of his muscles. His girlfriend Dina had soft skin too, and she was very pretty, but she didn't have tough muscles like he had. She had a nice stomach, but she didn't have ridges in it, and although her breasts were lovely -- he had only touched them twice -- and small and quite firm, not floppy and sagging like some of the women -- mostly foreign women -- he saw on the beach, they did not feel like you were touching warm metal, which was it what it felt like when he touched his own rock-solid chest. He often touched himself at night in bed, or sometimes on the beach when he wasn't being watched -- except most of the time he was being watched. How they liked looking at him! He liked to touch some parts of his body more than others. When he let his fingers run over certain bits it was as if a shock of electricity was passing through him. He sometimes tried to get Dina to touch him in these places, by guiding her hand there, but she would just giggle and ask him to kiss her. He hadn't yet put his penis into Dina -- she was frightened of that. But he liked his penis touched and to feel it grow. Dina was a little scared of it, saying it looked too big. When he was kissing Dina he would touch and rub his penis because Dina didn't want to. He liked to touch his balls too, hanging down and feeling so full. Once he asked pretty Dina to touch his balls, to squeeze them, but she just squealed. A thing he liked almost even more than touching his penis and his balls was to run his hands and fingers over his chest, sensing the way his firm pectoral muscles rippled. He liked to flex his pectorals, watching them grow and shrink. And he'd already noticed that when he put the palms of his hands and his fingers onto his nipples they would sprout up hard, and this wonderful feeling would rush through his body, and his penis would get rock hard at the same time. It was the most exquisite sensation he'd ever experienced. Sometimes, in front of the mirror, looking at himself, he would pinch his nipples and twist them and pull them. Again he tried to get Dina to do this too, guiding her hands, but she didn't seem to understand why he wanted her to, even though she very much liked it when he did the same thing to her nipples. When he stroked them and kissed them and even gave them little bites she would groan and a distant look would come into her big dark eyes. He loved Dina's hard pointed nipples, sticking up from her firm pomegranate breasts, but he was beginning to think that he liked his own nipples more. How very sensitive they were...! Perhaps he was odd... perhaps he was an odd boy... perhaps other boys didn't touch themselves in the way he did... perhaps boys weren't supposed to have bodies and nipples that liked to be caressed and stroked in the way he liked to do to his own body... He'd never seen his friends or his brothers touch themselves in such a way... But he couldn't resist it... just couldn't stop... He wondered what it would be like to have someone else lick and suck on his nipples, as he did with Dina's...or even to pull and twist them like he did.. How hard they got! So Yanni Pathonakis was in love with his own body -- saw and felt how beautiful, how perfect, it was -- much more so, he thought, than any other body he'd seen, of a girl or a boy, or a woman or a man...And he certainly saw no reason why he should not be proud of it...even though it might be a sin -- the sin of vanity... So when the sun started to shine properly in Ierepetra, at the southernmost tip of the island of Crete, around mid-April, or sometimes earlier if the weather felt generous, Yanni Pathonakis would choose not to wear a shirt as he walked around the town, or on the beach -- or if it was still just a little chilly, he would wear his shirt open so that it flapped against his hard muscular chest and stomach, and the breeze would open up the shirt just a bit, and he would feel that he was being watched and admired... He loved the way the open shirt front sometimes scratched his nipples... By late May, Yanni Pathonakis's skin was a deep nut-brown -- coppery and silky and smooth... On Saturday mornings he would hang about with his brothers and other boys -- and sometimes some girls -- in Ierepetra market where his father had a vegetable stall, selling aubergines and okra and courgettes and onions and garlic and tomatoes, which his father would have bought wholesale from the farmers outside the town. They were good vegetables and the stall was popular with locals and foreigners alike. Yanni would help him sell them. He was good at it -- often persuading the customers to buy more than they needed. Yanni Pathonakis had a big toothy smile which always charmed -- especially the women who came to the stall, and in particular the foreign women; Americans, and Germans, and Swedes, and some English. He very often didn't wear a shirt as he served them, and he would always notice how they couldn't help looking at his muscles, even though they tried to hide it. He knew about the women who came to Greece to find Greek lovers -- sometimes married women, he'd heard, who just wanted a Greek man while they were on holiday. Or a few of them came out to find a Greek to marry and live with. Some of these women seemed very old to him, with wrinkled brown skin and sagging breasts -- not like pretty Dina with her firm ones with the pointy nipples. But he still found himself excited by the way even these old women looked at him, just letting their eyes roam up and down his meaty body. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to let these women touch his muscles. They certainly looked as if they would like to. They had such a hungry look, some of them, like they looked at the vegetables on his father's stall, as if they wanted to eat them there and then -- and it was the same the way the looked at him, like they wanted to eat him. But perhaps he was too young for them, he thought, because he wasn't yet fifteen... In July and August, when Crete was at its very hottest, and sometimes a searing warm wind would rush down the market street, Yanni Pathonakis only wore a pair of tight shorts which he had cut from an old pair of levi jeans...he liked the way his tough sinewy legs looked too, and the way the heat would make his skin glisten...almost as if he'd rubbed olive oil all over it... ROSE Rose Dawson was forty-two but had been feeling much older. Her every bone had seemed to ache and she was so very tired. Life, she reckoned, wasn't good, and seemed to be passing her by. Her marriage, after six years of relative contentment -- except in one area, which was a lack of children -- was becoming rocky to say the least. Her husband, she'd discovered, although she hadn't faced him with the knowledge yet, was having an affair with a much younger woman. It was so predictable, she thought. They'd tried hard for kids, but with no success, and now he'd given up on her and was screwing someone prettier and probably more fertile. So her oldest friend Daphne, whom she'd told about her husband's infidelity, had suggested she take herself off somewhere, for a couple of weeks, somewhere where nobody could find her -- and where she could do what she wanted, and also where she could get some colour into her pallid skin. Daphne was older than Rose, in her late forties at least, and still hadn't married or borne children, but she didn't seem to be too concerned about it. She'd had countless love affairs, mainly with entirely unsuitable and therefore exciting men. She was still having them -- and most of her lovers were much younger than her; some so very young, Rose thought, that it was almost illegal. `It's the seduction of them that's so thrilling,' Daphne would say, `oh and the fact that their bodies are so much better...' Often Rose would listen enthralled as Daphne described, usually in great detail, her latest sexual adventure. They took her all over the world -- she'd had sex with virtually every race or nationality known to man, it sometimes seemed, and according to Daphne anyway, the sex just got better and better... It was like an addiction... Rose had had lovers too of course -- or `boyfriends' or `partners' as she preferred to call them. She wasn't one for quick flings though -- she was more into `relationships' (Daphne would squirm with distaste at the word). To Rose, sex was like an adjunct, something that came with other things -- like affection, and knowing each other, and even, at times, something like love. To Daphne sex was just sex, and all the better for being just that. Not that Rose didn't enjoy sex, and often it had been what she considered to be very good indeed. But she'd only ever slept with men older than her. She'd even lost her virginity, at seventeen, to a much older man. The thought of having an affair with someone younger had occurred to her of course, especially when Daphne spoke about her own exploits, but she wasn't sure she'd ever dare to do it. Daphne had said: `get your revenge on the bastard,' meaning Rose's husband, `go somewhere hot, and fuck someone the same age as the girl he's fucking, and then come home and tell him all about it -- and when he gets all hurt and angry, which he will, you can tell him you know about him fucking someone else...See how he reacts then.' It was an alluring, in fact rather thrilling, idea... although Rose wasn't too sure how she should go about finding this person with whom she could revenge herself on her husband for his infidelity. Did you just go up to them in the street, or in a bar...? She was sure that that was how Daphne did it... Daphne had no shame... Once Daphne had said, baldly: `go fuck some kid, some boy young enough to be your son -- with a hot body...' Rose had felt intensely aroused at Daphne's almost brutal outspokenness. Daphne had first of all suggested Africa. She'd been to the coast of Kenya where she said there was a beach packed with willing and passionate beach-boys `with fantastic muscled bodies like young gods and cocks like black over-sized bananas', as she'd put it with typical frankness. She'd even told Rose (again in great detail) how on one occasion she'd had sex with five of them at the same time. Rose was pretty convinced she'd never be able to go quite that far, if she went anywhere at all... And the idea of Africa rather frightened her... although the thought of a strong young muscled black man was fairly appealing. She imagined that somehow it would make her husband even more jealous to know she'd been made love to by some young black god with muscles of iron...she'd tell him he was so flabby, so old by comparison... She'd been to Greece before and quite often -- usually with a group of friends, or sometimes with a partner, and once on her own, to the usual stamping-grounds: Athens, and to islands like Mykonos and Santorini and Paxos and Spetses. She'd been flirted with by the predictable array of Greek Lotharios, but hadn't succumbed to their rather obvious advances. In truth she hadn't fancied any of them. They'd seemed somewhat brutish to her taste. She didn't much care for drooling hairy men, even young ones. This was her first visit to Crete. What she'd seen of it so far she quite liked. She hadn't realised it would be so big -- it was more than an island, it was like a little country. You could disappear into it. It seemed scruffier, dustier, less prettified than the picture-perfect tourist islands she'd been to before, and that was instantly engaging. Or maybe it was just the part of Crete she'd chosen -- putting a finger on the map and finding somewhere as far it was possible to get from the airport at Heraklion. She'd rented a small stone-built house set all on its own on a little promontory close to a compact and uncrowded beach on the south-eastern coast of the island. Every morning she'd wake up to the sound and sight of the Libyan sea lapping, or sometimes crashing, onto the rocks below her terrace, and she could swim in glorious isolation there for an hour or so before a straggle of others might arrive to spend a day on the pebbles. Africa itself was only a hundred and fifty miles or so across the water. There were tourists in this area as there were everywhere else in Greece, but she didn't feel swamped by them. She had found a place, she thought, that was still properly Greek -- or in this case Cretan -- still real somehow. The nearest town to her house was called Ierepetra -- the southernmost town in Europe apparently. She'd never heard of it before. It didn't have much to recommend it to a tourist -- a modest harbour front with a few tavernas and bars, unremarkable shopping streets and squares, full of bustle and ordinary Cretans going about their busy but ordinary lives. It wasn't hilly, but simply sprawling and flat, and altogether unexceptional. Nevertheless Rose liked it. It was a proper working town -- and in late July it had a sultry dustiness to it, and a sleepy quality induced by the extreme dry heat. Rose had decided not too eat out much. She was always uncomfortable on her own in restaurants -- instantly supposing that the other diners must think there should be a reason for her isolation, some inner sadness perhaps. Well there was, but she didn't want to put her solitariness on show. In any case Rose was a good cook, and an imaginative one. She enjoyed tackling new dishes, discovering new ingredients, experimenting, even when at home and alone in London, preparing something exceptional for her sole pleasure. And she would sometimes have others to dine, and was always, she thought genuinely, congratulated on her culinary skills. So rather than risk the uncertainties of the local tavernas -- where the waiters would no doubt flirt with her, as they had done in the past in Greece, telling her that she was far more beautiful than she actually was -- she would cook for herself and shop for fresh vegetables and fruits and herbs and meats and cheeses in the shop in the village close to her house, or sometimes she'd venture further, into Ierepetra, where, on Saturdays, there was a street market. It stretched the entire length of one of the longest streets in town. It sold just about everything it was possible to sell -- clothes and shoes and cloths and utensils and trinkets and fairly useless artefacts, and also a quite phenomenal array of food. The stalls were groaning with olives and cheeses and lettuces and oranges and lemons and limes, aubergines and courgettes and courgette flowers and onions and garlic on strings, huge flagons of olive oil and vinegars and juices, great crusty loaves of bread, unidentifiable fish with shiny eyes that told you they'd just been plucked from the sea, and trays of oregano and thyme and mint and herbs and spices she did not recognise. She'd make something with aubergines tonight, she thought -- they looked so plump and dark and shiny. She would stuff them with the big gnarled beef tomatoes that grew everywhere in this part of Crete and which smelt as delicious as they tasted and drizzle them with oil and garlic and lemon juice and a few herbs -- and she might grill some peppers too, over the hot barbecue on the terrace of her villa, so that they were hard and crisp and blackened. And she'd mop up the juices with a few chunks of fresh wheaty bread and would sit and watch the sun go down over the mountains behind her little seaside home, as she drank a bottle of the very acceptable local white wine. Rose Dawson was feeling, at last, very content really as she hovered by a vegetable stall in the midday heat, considering her gastronomic options. And then it was that she saw, as she lifted her gaze from a splendid shining pile of red and green and yellow peppers, the most beautiful boy she'd ever set eyes on. He was very young. He hadn't grown to his full height yet, clearly, but his body was simply extraordinary. Most of it was on display, as he was wearing just a tight pair of shorts cut from some old frayed jeans. It was obvious at once that he liked to show it off. And why shouldn't he? He was all muscle. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him. But he wasn't buffed up like some bodybuilder. He was just a boy -- but a powerfully built one. His every tendon and sinew was clearly defined. His biceps were like little grapefruits, his chest stuck out over a ribbed stomach. His buttocks under the shorts were pert and round, like two plump aubergines side by side. His thighs and calves seemed if anything too muscular for someone so young. He was entirely smooth. His skin glistened, and seemed slightly dusty. It was almost black, like polished mahogany. He moved with such youthful, casual grace, every part of him working like some perfectly tuned living machine, as he served the stall's customers, turning this way and that, collecting up vegetables, bagging them, weighing them, handing them over. It was his body that Rose couldn't take her eyes off, for too long she thought. She eventually dragged them up and away and examined his face. He had a shock of black curly hair, and a pair of piercing brown eyes, and almost too full lips, which, she now realised, were grinning at her. She looked hurriedly away. She could hardly breathe. How was it that such exquisite male loveliness could have been created? She wanted to touch him, run her hands all over him -- such boyish toughness. How she yearned for the caress of firm young flesh. It was a wholly erotic feeling. Daphne's blunt words rang in her head: `go fuck some kid...with a hot body...' to be continued...