Date: Thu, 28 Apr 2011 20:58:36 +0000 From: clever wag Subject: the cretan boy part two The Cretan boy Part Two This is the second part of a story about bisexual sex between a boy of 15 and an older woman and an older man. If you are offended by explicit stories on this subject, or it if is illegal to do so in you country, then please stop reading now. Comments and suggestions are always welcome. I sometimes upload my stories onto my blog 'Cleverwag's sex tales' at http://cleverwag.sensualwriter.com, where you can also post comments, or send to cleverwag@hotmail.com PETER Peter Forster sat in the small kafenion at the furthest end of the Ierepetra street market, as he regularly did for most of a Saturday morning. He knew the old men who sat there well -- because he had lived on Crete for twenty years and could speak Greek like a native, although he had only been coming to this particular kafenion relatively recently, for about a year in fact -- and only ever on Saturday mornings. Sometimes he would join in their conversations, and even in their card-games, but for the most part he just sat, and drank coffee, and watched the goings-on in and around the vegetable stalls, and in particular he would watch a boy -- serving in his father's stall, where the best vegetables were to be had. He knew the boy's name was Yanni, because that's how the family called out to him -- his brothers, and his father, and also the boy's friends, of which he seemed to have many. He had not spoken to the boy yet, and didn't think the youth had noticed him watching. He may go up to him in time, or even soon, because he was utterly in love with him. He'd been in love with the lad from the first moment he'd set eyes on him, the previous summer. Then the youth had been perhaps only fourteen years old, but already had a muscular definition that set him apart. He'd been exquisite a year ago, now, having filled out still more, he was simply divine. Peter Forster didn't think he had ever seen such a beautiful being in his life, and he'd spent a good amount of it in the company of good-looking boys and young men, because he was that way inclined. This was why he'd sit, every Saturday morning, in this particular kafenion -- just to watch this young god with absolutely immaculate musculature and dark brown glistening skin, selling vegetables. He suspected the boy didn't have a taste for men, or even boys, or not yet. But that was all right. Young Greeks, especially pretty or handsome ones, were prone to flattery, even if they were, as they might claim, thoroughly heterosexual. Peter Forster had seduced many a determinedly `straight' Adonis, with the promise and eventual provision of money of course, or of presents like a new pair of sneakers, or a fake-designer-label piece of clothing, and just the right degree of adoration, and a glass or two too many of wine, or of raki. And this boy called Yanni, he thought, had a degree of narcissism way beyond his years. He knew he was incredible. He also kept touching himself, involuntarily, or perhaps quite deliberately, scratching his fantastic chest-muscles, that perfect six-pack belly, trailing a finger over an iron-hard bicep. That meant he was excited by his own natural sensuality. And he had a pair of tight, perpetually erect, nipples -- a sign of them having been played with, pulled, twisted, probably by the boy himself. He was what Peter Forster liked to call a preener -- or a strutter -- many young Greeks were, or those who had something to show off, at any rate. The fact that this boy was so very young, but with an exceptionally chiselled body, made the way he moved and held himself, and of course touched himself, letting anyone who cared to look admire his amazing build, even more enthralling, arousing. He was assuredly showing off today. He was wearing virtually nothing -- just a tight pair of cut-off shorts. Every muscle gleamed in the heat, every sinew shifted and stretched with such grace. He was, thought Peter Forster (letting a crudeness enter his mind), simply begging to be fucked...even though he might not know it... He doubted that the boy had been fucked yet, and perhaps hadn't yet done any fucking... He'd seen Yanni at the market every Saturday, but he'd also seen him about the town, often fooling around with other boys, and a few girls (one of whom, a pretty pert little thing of about fifteen too, seemed to be closer to him than the others, and was perhaps his `girlfriend' -- she had shy batting eyes, through which she'd look at him adoringly). He'd seen him at the town beach too, in his skimpy speedos, again playing with his friends -- at football, or beach volleyball, or emerging glistening from the sea after a strong swim, always revelling in the looks he got, from other girls, and from the foreign women on the beach, old leathery hags for the most part, yearning for young male flesh. Once he'd followed him home. He knew where the boy lived -- in a cramped, unexceptional ground floor apartment in a block on the outskirts of Ierepetra, with his entire family -- two brothers, one younger and one older, both good-looking but not as wondrous as him, a handsome mother and a powerfully built father, the owner of the vegetable stall. His father was calling to him now, rebuking him: `Yanni stupid boy, you waste time talking, there are customers...!' Peter Forster had often sensed that this stall was popular not only because of the quality of its vegetables but because of the staggeringly lovely boy who worked there. Women would hover a little too lingeringly, again foreign women for the most part -- testing and fingering the produce, casting surreptitious glances at that glorious young torso. Today, he saw, there was a woman -- English, he thought, and recently arrived, judging by her paleness, perhaps in her early forties -- who had been looking at Yanni's wondrous muscles quite openly, before dropping her gaze. The boy was talking to her now, as he served her. Peter Forster couldn't hear what was being said, but he could tell she was enthralled, and barely able to utter a word -- as he chatted away, with a flirtatious sort of grin, and running his hands so seductively over his chest and stomach. YANNI Sometimes you can tell you are being looked at even before you see it and this is what Yanni Pathonakis sensed now. He was used to being looked at of course, but mostly those who looked at him did it surreptitiously, just letting their gaze flick over his glorious body before quickly glancing away. With this woman, it was as if she was drilling into him with her eyes, when he finally turned to look at her. She too looked away eventually, but only after he'd given her one of his toothy grins (he knew his smile could have an effect). She'd been staring at his chest, at his hard stomach. He loved it. She was old, but she wasn't that ugly, he thought. She was probably German, or Swedish, or English, judging by her pale skin. She hadn't been out here for long, just a little red from the sun. She was wearing a flowery dress that was almost like one worn by a girl. She had long lean legs, which he liked. Her breasts under the dress didn't seem saggy, like some of the foreign women who took their tops off on the beach (which the old men and women in Ierepetra didn't approve of). But maybe they were. She was probably wearing a bra to keep them up. He didn't mind if they were. The way she'd looked at him had thrilled him -- the way it hadn't been just a hasty glimpse. She'd been drinking him in. He felt his big thing harden between his legs. It was mostly semi-hard most of the time when he was out here in the market at his father's stall, showing off his muscles, but now it was definitely getting bigger. He hoped his shorts weren't too tight. Sometimes when he was wearing them and kissing Dina at the same time his thing would get so big it would pop out over the top... `Yassoo, lady, can I help you?' he said. His English was okay, or what he'd picked up of it at school and from talking to the customers, or some of the women on the beach who he could see wanted his body. He had not given it to any of them of course. He had not yet given himself fully to Dina. Perhaps this woman would be the first he would give himself to, he was thinking. The thought suddenly popped into his brain. Yes he'd seen the hunger before -- but never as strongly as this. She would touch him in all the right places, the places he liked to touch himself -- he just knew it from the way she'd stared. ROSE Rose Dawson could scarcely speak. But the words in her head were racing: `God look how he's touching himself as he smiles at me, running his hands over his chest -- God how I'd like to do that. His hard rippling boy's chest... He's gleaming with sweat... look how the droplets of it are forming between his pectorals. When he scratches his chest those muscly globes of flesh seem to go in and out. He's breathing deeply. He's excited. He likes the way I looked at him, at his incredible torso...Oh God...now he's hitching up his tiny shorts...' Finally she managed to say: `yes, thank you, I would like some...aubergines...' `Aubergine...yes...they are good...how many?' `Five or six...and some peppers...' His quite delicate hands picked at the vegetables, checking them for ripeness, before he bagged them. `I want those hands all over me,' Rose thought, `I want that softness in his hands, those boy's hands, and the hardness of his body...' `And some tomatoes, maybe six...' Big firm fleshy tomatoes, dusty like his skin... He had to turn away to choose them, so she saw his wonderful sinewy back, broad over his curved backbone. She saw how perfect his shoulders were, smooth and silky and strong. And once again she noticed his buttocks, so small really, above his too thick thighs... The words in her head became naughtier, filthier, like her friend Daphne's did sometimes... `I want to lick that pert bum, I wonder what his balls are like, I wonder what his cock's like... hard boy cock...tough little boy arse...I wonder what it looks like bobbing up and down when he's fucking some girl...he must have a girl...some young beauty who loves being fucked by him...with a body like that he's got to be a good fuck...' `Give me some lemons, four...' It had been quite a sharp instruction, firm, commanding. Why had she said it like that? To dismiss the words in her head, maybe. `Yes madam,' the extraordinarily lovely nearly naked boy said, and he gave a little bob up and down, a sort of curtsey, almost girlish and rather cheeky. He was still grinning. To reach the onions, right at the front of the stall, he had to get quite close to her. She gazed at the way his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms moved, all in perfect synchronicity. `You are on holidays?' he asked. `Yes,' she replied. She wondered if he was already some practiced gigolo, despite his age. Perhaps he'd had many many women. She couldn't be the first one with a hunger for that awe-inspiring body. And he was showing it off like an athlete, or a ballet dancer, as someone who knew the effect it was having. God, though, how old was he? Was he seventeen yet, was he sixteen yet? He was an exquisite muscular child. Rose felt the full shock of this realisation for the first time. She'd been so drawn to his gloriousness that she hadn't really considered it until now. These were very bad thoughts she was having. She must dismiss them, pull herself together... And yet... his being so very young somehow excited her still more... `You come to Crete before?' `No, my first time...' `Is beautiful, yes...' He was casually scratching his chest again, then ran his fingers down the ridges of his meaty smooth abdomen. It seemed offhand, an unconscious gesture, but maybe it was deliberate. She nodded. It's beautiful and you are the most beautiful thing about it, she said in her head. `You are English...?' Again she nodded. `I hope my English not too bad...' `You speak it very well...' He shook his pretty head so that his tight black curls shook a little. `No no, not good...I need learn...' 'Yanni!' It was a crisp rough bark from a man, a rough looking fellow with a lot of a stubble, but dark-skinned and powerfully built, perhaps in his mid-forties. There were further snapped instructions in Greek from this fellow, to the boy, who now, with a little pout of regret on his full lips, handed over the vegetables in their bags to her. Briefly, his fingers touched the back of her hand, not deliberately, or she didn't think so, just a natural joining of flesh on flesh. God he felt hot. 'My father,' the glorious muscled angel explained, 'I must work... not talk...' Rose Dawson felt faint. What temperature was it anyway? In the lower 30s she thought. It was becoming too much - the heat, the boy, whose name was Yanni, such a beautiful name, such a beautiful beautiful boy... How was it that those muscles could glisten so? It was more than sweat... it seemed oily... like the tangy and sweet olive oil she liked to pour over everything she cooked... He gleamed and he glowed... She couldn't look at him, at his stunningly perfect body, for a second more... She turned and saw a little cafe behind her, a 'kafenion' she'd heard them called, just a few tables and chairs, with the usual array of old men, not doing very much, playing cards, fingering their rosaries, having mumbled conversations... She had to sit down... the most important thing she could think of at that moment was of the need to sit down... to be continued...