Date: Sun, 11 Sep 2011 14:35:13 +0000 From: clever wag Subject: the cretan boy part 3 The Cretan Boy Part Three My apologies for not posting for a while. This is the story of sexual relations between a boy on the verge of manhood and an older woman and man. If it offends you to read such tales, or if it is illegal in your country to do so, then please stop reading now. I sometimes post my stories on my blog, http://cleverwag.sensual.writer.com (if you google `cleverwag' it will be the first site up!), and you can post comments there, or post to cleverwag@hotmail.com. I always welcome appreciation and suggestions from my readers. With regard to my other stories here, `The Professor's Greek Holiday', `The Boy Girl Club', and `Pranging a Perv', I hope to be able to complete all of them soon. In the meantime enjoy. PETER But now Yanni had been reprimanded by his father and having handed over the vegetables he'd sold, in a plastic bag, he turned from the woman to attend to the other customers, and she turned from him at the same time, in the direction of the kafenion in which Peter Forster sat. She looked as if she might be about to faint. She moved to the shelter of the kafenion, stumbling a touch, and dropped into a chair, not too far from his... She was doing her best not to show her embarrassment and confusion, but Peter Forster could see well enough that she was breathing heavily, and there were rivulets of sweat on her neck, on the top of what he could see of her flat middle-aged breasts under a simply cut if slightly too flowery dress. She was flushed, and not just from the heat. She had obviously become as instantly enthralled by the tight little muscleboy in the market stall as he had been for a whole year. He looked at Yanni again. He was still turned away, sorting through some oranges for another customer now. He'd seen how the hot kid had flirted with the woman, incredibly aware of his own amazing loveliness, flexing every smooth sinew on that exceptional body for her, and now a bad thought entered his head. He'd like to punish Yanni, he'd like to put that perfect little tease with his perfect muscles over his knee and spank him on that pert ripe almost too tiny muscle-hard bum -- which Yanni was showing off right now, as he leant forward to pick the good oranges, letting those too skimpy shorts slip down -- and maybe, thought Peter Forster, he wouldn't spank the boy with just his hands. He had a nice bamboo cane at home which he hadn't used in a while. The image of that sensational boy angel, all brown and gleaming and muscled, straddled and struggling as the cane marked those exceptional, pomegranate-round, ass cheeks, made Peter Forster hard. Just two or three red stripes, not very deep, not so it would draw blood, but enough to make the vain little stud not quite so perfect. One of the reasons why Peter Forster always wore a flowing and very loose-fitting shirt -- a kaftan you might call it -- way down to his knees was so that he could watch boys, here in the market or at the beach, or sometimes just in the street -- and get hard and for nobody to notice. The woman was searching through a shoulder-bag she'd brought with her, frantically, and showing evident frustration at not finding what she was looking for. Peter Forster scraped his chair a bit closer to hers. ROSE She had to sit down, and quickly. It was the heat, it was the boy... His name was Yanni, his father had irritably called it to him, because he was paying her too much attention...losing custom...He'd fluttered his eyelids, long black ones, looked down, and turned away, reluctantly. She'd had to turn too, to get away from being that close to him, to his phenomenal young body... `Are you all right?' asked a gruff English voice nearby. She looked up and to the left. A plumpish man was sitting there, with a scruffy white beard, long white hair tied in a ponytail and the leather-brown wrinkled skin of having spent many years in the sun. He was wearing a kind of embroidered kaftan, loose black trousers and sandals. He must have been sixty or so. `Yes fine -- just a little overcome by the heat...' she said. `You should be careful...' He barked a command in Greek to a young man standing in the doorway of the kafenion, who came scurrying forward. `Water, I suggest, and a strong coffee?' She nodded. He gave more instructions to the man, who moved inside. `You're English...' he said. `Yes... That was clever of you. Do we English stick out a mile...?' He smiled in a not unfriendly way. `There's a certain reserve...' Then he asked: `Been here long...or to Crete before...?' `No...' `Staying somewhere nice?' `Very nice. The Villa Ioannis, Aghia Galini, just along the coast...' He nodded. `I know it, lovely place, a nice private bay... Are you on your own?' `Yes...' Now he was probably thinking that she was one of those lonely middle-aged women who'd come on holiday for a fling with a young Greek. What he said next only confirmed her suspicion. `There's something more...earthy...about the Cretans I think than the Greeks from further north...more primitive...if you like...' `Is there?' asked Rose Dawson, swallowing a little. `Shall we say more...animalistic...?' `I can't say I'd noticed...' said Rose, as casually as she could. `That's why I love Crete...' said the man. `You live here...?' `Yes, for nearly thirty years on and off... Maybe it's the heat...' `I'm sorry...' `The heat -- and being so much closer to Africa - maybe that's what makes them more animalistic...' he repeated the word with a tone of almost salivating pleasure in his voice. As he did so, his eyes travelled towards the boy. Had he seen her watching him? The man was obviously gay, Rose concluded instantly, and probably lived in Crete solely to pick up boys -- boys like Yanni, pretty little muscle child in his tight shorts. Maybe he'd fucked Yanni. Maybe Yanni liked being fucked by fat old Englishmen. God, she must stop thinking like this -- these dirty thoughts. And she must stop looking at the boy -- but she couldn't help it. Now though she was only making the smallest sidelong glances. Where were her sunglasses? She scrabbled in her bag. She'd forgotten them, left them back at her house. That was a pity. If she'd had them she would have put them on, so that she could look more lingeringly without the old man seeing. `I'm so sorry I didn't mean to shock you...' she heard the man say, because she wasn't looking at him any more, but vaguely around, trying above all not to gaze at the beautiful boy -- trying, stupidly, to forget she'd ever set eyes on him, trying to take in all the other bustle in the market. The trouble was that all she could manage to see, or concentrate on, was only more boys, working in the stalls, or just lolling in the street with not much to do, and the trouble was that although many had skin as dark as nut, and some were quite handsome or pretty in their way, none was anywhere near as extraordinarily muscled or had such a perfect shape as Yanni. That almost ridiculously narrow waist, those almost ridiculously broad and meaty shoulders for so young a boy, the way they rolled when he moved. Which only made her think of him again. But she answered the man: `No I wasn't shocked....' She didn't turn to him though. She heard the scrape of his chair as he moved still closer. Why had she told him he hadn't shocked her? Was it that she actually wanted to talk about Yanni a bit longer? Was it that she wanted to find out if this flabby old pederast might actually know Yanni? Was it that she wanted to get him to tell her what it was like to touch, if he had, that dusky dusty flesh, to run your hands over that hard silky body, to feel every ridge and curve of that silky muscled torso, of those strong legs? She suspected that if this dirty old man did tell her anything like this, she may well faint. The young man whom he'd told to bring water and coffee now did so. As she offered a gasped `thank you' to him she saw he gave the older man a sly sort of look, quick but somehow conspiratorial, with even a slight grin. Then he turned the grin on her. She recognised that grin -- quite knowing, fairly vain. It was the look that most Greek men had when they were trying to pick you up. `Your first time in Ierepetra beautiful lady?' Rose could only think: here we go. It had happened to her before, this open, and rather obvious, start to a seduction, from men who hung around harbours and bars in other Greek islands, for the sole purpose, it seemed, of flirting with foreign women in order to get into bed with them. So far Rose had managed not to succumb to such advances. He was good looking enough in his way, this young man. Actually he was very good looking. He was probably in his early twenties, with piercing black eyes and a smile that flashed white teeth. He was slim but well-built. Rose found herself wondering, as she'd seen the look that had passed between him and the fat old Englishman, if the fat old Englishman had perhaps fucked him. And she had to gulp down some of the water that had been brought to her, almost the whole glass of it, in order to hide what she was convinced was a reddening of her cheeks and throat, because she was having dirty thoughts again -- only this time the images in her head were of this young man and the fat man fucking. And there was that word popping into her brain -- the simple hard word: not `making love' or `having sex', but `fucking'. She had absolutely never before thought it exciting to imagine two men fucking -- or in this case an old man and a much younger man fucking. The idea of sex between men had always made her feel rather queasy. It had seemed not quite right somehow. Well she was feeling distinctly queasy now -- but not because she was revolted; on the contrary, she was feeling decidedly shaky because it had become quite arousing, the picture of a handsome young Greek being adored by an ugly old Englishman, of the Englishman sucking the young man's cock, with his flabby hands all over the young man's firm body, and then worse -- of the Englishman forcing his no doubt shrivelled and ugly old cock into the young man's tight muscled ass... Oh there were those nasty nasty thoughts again, and words like `cock' and `ass'... Her friend Daphne, who'd never been revolted by any kind of sex, had once told her how she'd had a threesome with two gay men, `both gorgeous boys darling, with bodies like young gods,' and how completely thrilling it had been `to watch them such each other's big beautiful cocks and then to watch them fuck each other, and then to get them both to fuck you! Honestly darling, I don't think I've ever cum so hard or so many times in my whole life...!' But it wasn't the memory of Daphne's detailed description of what she'd got up to with these two men, or `boys' as she'd called them, that were bringing visions into Rose's head now. And Rose soon realised that the images themselves were no longer of this handsome young waiter being worshipped and fucked by the Englishman.... No of course not. What she was visualising was a perfect, but also awful, and incredibly arousing (so arousing in fact that she felt a wetness between her upper thighs, a wetness that wasn't sweat) picture of the old man fucking Yanni... the real boy god, the packed little piece of copper-brown muscle over there in the market stall... It was Yanni, the Cretan boy with a body more stunning than any she'd ever seen, the child Adonis, who'd brought these filthy imaginings into her hot brain... `You like I show you Ierepetra, lovely lady? I take you dancing...' The waiter was still leering at her, suggestively she thought, and now of course he looked merely sickening, even ugly. His salacious toothy smile seemed too blatant, too arrogant. Yanni's smile hadn't been like that (and she still hadn't dared to steal even the tiniest glance at the boy, not since she'd sat down really). Yanni's smile, or what she remembered of it, had been warm, open, even quite innocent, and so very very beautiful, just like every part of him. Perhaps the Englishman sensed her revulsion at the waiter's persistence, because he was now snapping at him in Greek, something curt and dismissive. At once the young man backed off, with a small pout, but then a conceited shrug, as if he were saying `take me or leave me, lady, there are plenty of other fish in the sea...' And no doubt there were for a good-looking, and very forward, Greek like him. Still she didn't have the courage to sneak another peek at Yanni. Still she didn't want to give away her yearning for his glorious body to the fat old pederast who'd now scraped his chair so close that he was almost touching her. And still she didn't dare to look at the old man himself. So again her eyes wandered around the rest of the market. `Peter Forster,' he muttered, almost directly into her ear. She could smell his breath -- smoky, with more than a hint of too much whisky. `Rose Dawson,' Rose managed to gasp, as if even the revelation of her own name was a giveaway as to her feelings. `I'm sorry about my pushy friend,' said Peter Forster, `but you know these Greek boys...' `I don't, as a matter of fact...' said Rose. What was she trying to hint at now? That she very much wanted to know a Greek boy...? And an amazing one in particular? She realised that against all her better impulses she was drawing this obese stranger in, despite the alcoholic fumes that came from his mouth, despite the fact that she could now even smell his sweat, putrid and pervasive -- the sweat of an old man who didn't wash very much. She wanted him to keep talking. She wanted to find out if he knew Yanni, if he had even fucked Yanni... Still more dirty, wicked thoughts... `The Cretans especially, as I said, animalistic...' `Yes,' Rose exhaled. He chuckled. `It's as if all they can think about is sex, and food of course, but mainly sex...' Then he said, more seriously: `But you didn't like him, I could tell...' `Like who? Who don't I like...?' `My friend Giorgo,' said Peter Forster. That must have been the name of the waiter. And something in her that made her want to compare again, to see how the grinning waiter, handsome enough, arguably very handsome, if there'd been nobody around to compare him to, might match up to the boy for whom there could be no comparison in the world, made her look at Yanni once more, before she could stop herself. Her throat now tightened so much that she could hardly draw breath. It can only have been a few minutes since she saw him last, but now it was like she was seeing him for the very first time. That was the way with beauty you couldn't argue about. Yanni appeared to have no customers to attend to just then, so he was concentrating on himself. He was turned towards her, behind the piles of vegetables and he was looking down at his own body, inspecting it, rather as if he was coming across it for the first time too, and was fascinated by its incredible perfection. He was running a hand over his smooth brawny chest, then the other over the solid ridges of his stomach. If anything the day was getting even hotter, so his soft mahogany skin was glistening almost like it was oiled. In fact he could have been oiling his own phenomenal muscles. Perhaps he did that sometimes, knowing how unbelievably glorious they looked when shiny and silky and gleaming. He didn't glance up at her once, although she was somehow certain that he knew she was watching him, gloating, drinking him in, every fine inch of his wonderfulness. `There are moments in life when you have to admit...' Peter Forster began to whisper beside her. There was no point in hiding her fixation any more, Rose thought. He knew who was obsessing her. So she kept on staring at Yanni. `Admit what?' she gulped quietly. `That perfection like that has to be had...' There was an openly indelicate drawl to the old man's grunting voice. `Had in what sense? Had how...?' `In the way Michelangelo, say, or Donatello, or Caravaggio had their boys...' Of course Rose knew of these artists' love of beautiful boys with staggering bodies, and she didn't doubt that they didn't just sculpt or paint them. She couldn't resist the next question: `Have you...?' but neither could she finish it. He did it pretty quickly for her. `Fucked Yanni?' He chuckled throatily. `No, not yet, but what a thought eh? Would you like to see me fuck pretty muscly Yanni, Rose? Or would you like to fuck him yourself?' She found herself emitting a little groan. No this was so immoral... this was so very very bad. She felt she must move, she must flee, but she seemed to be stuck there, to a chair that was becoming increasingly wet. `I'm presuming Giorgo is a bit too old for you, although he's only twenty, and he does have a good body...' She thought she should protest. Some instinct of decency, of propriety, came to the fore. But the way in which she objected made her sound very indecent, and only confirmed her desires. `You think I'm only in Crete so I can fuck young boys with good bodies?' She hadn't meant to say `young', she hadn't meant to say `fuck', and anyway Yanni's body wasn't just `good', it was astounding. `Why not?' said Peter Forster, `what's wrong with wanting the most beautiful kid you've ever seen, wanting to touch him, kiss him everywhere, have him fuck you...?' `But... but...' she wheezed, unable to go on. He was continuing though: `Look how he's touching himself, arousing himself. Don't you think he knows how amazing he is? Don't you think he needs to be touched, stroked, caressed, licked, worshipped? A boy like that is made to be desired. Admit it, Rose, you've never wanted a kid so much in your life...' Now she did manage to say: `But that's just it. He's a kid...!' And Peter Forster said, with a frightening air of casualness (she felt him shrug): `Fifteen, I think, or probably still fourteen. Doesn't that make it all the more... stimulating?' Rose Dawson stood up, so quickly in fact that the chair she'd been sitting on, or sticking to, went flying onto its back behind her. She nearly fell with it, so whoozy was she feeling, so overcome. She didn't look at Peter Dawson again, or even once at the most delicious kid in the world, with his gleaming boy-muscles, as she strode away from the kafenion, determinedly, and out of Ierepetra's Saturday market, resolving never ever to return. But she'd left her bag of vegetables, purchased from that very same boy-god, under the kafenion table. To be continued...