Date: Tue, 27 Jan 2009 12:36:40 +0000 From: clever wag Subject: A Professor's Greek Holiday (Part Two) This is the continuation of a story about sex between older men and boys in a fictitious part of Greece. In later stages it will contain some bisexual content too. It is in every sense a work of the imagination and a fantasy. It is 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 Otherwise...enjoy... Dave Snow 2. Of course that evening the old man had to visit the taverna at which he'd met the boy the previous night, but Paneoti wasn't there. Neither was he there the next night, or the next. The owner of the taverna, a good-looking powerfully built fellow of about forty, became more attentive, realising he'd picked up a regular. The old man noticed that all the waiters in this particular taverna were quite attractive (most with taut muscular bodies, a few more skinny and effeminate), and (perhaps disturbingly) rather young (he didn't see one who could have been over twenty, which was certainly strange). As he sat there, consciously surrounded by boys (he was hardly aware of the other diners), he began to indulge in an agreeable enough whimsy - which he'd take home to bed with him, of course, pleasuring himself with various lovely elaborations. Maybe the owner of the place, whose name was Fotis, had similar tastes to his own. Or maybe he didn't, but was simply aware that, even in this small village in a Greek backwater, there was a market, as there is anywhere in the world if you knew how to look, for gorgeous young boys. So maybe Fotis was the village pimp (maybe he didn't only pimp for men -- after all, this was Greece, the land to which lonely women came looking for love, although if they were seeking it in this little eatery, they'd have to have a taste for teenagers). Maybe all you had to do was give Fotis the nod and he'd provide you with anything you wanted -- one boy, two, or even three (a very gratifying thought). Maybe the queens of the world knew about this place, Fotis's place in Greece, where catamite delights of all variations were to he had, for a price (he wouldn't know, he wasn't a part of any kind of gay network). He'd look around the taverna now and then to check out the clientele -- sometimes, he'd noticed, there were men eating alone (but did that mean anything?). Whatever occurred, whatever arrangements were made, must have been very discreet. But maybe nothing happened at all, and such thoughts on the old man's part came merely from his fevered, hungry imagination. By the fourth night, he was desperate to see Paneoti again, and he still hadn't made an appearance. Perhaps he'd fled the village. Maybe, in his craving for fulfilment, the old man should try to forget the glorious boy and turn his attentions to another. There was one he rather liked the look of -- almost too pretty, a long-haired blonde boy (unusual in Greece), slimmer and less pronouncedly muscular than Paneoti (probably younger too), but with a lovely smooth brown chest which he liked to show off by leaving most of the buttons of his shirt undone. The old man had the wicked thought that he might take this boy and make Paneoti jealous (if he got to hear about it). At the end of the meal on that fourth night, when the taverna had emptied itself of most of its customers, Fotis the owner came and sat down at his table. It was the first time he'd done this. `You like my little restaurant?' he asked. `Of course,' said the man. `It is the best in the village, the best food, the best wine...' (and the best waiters, the old man felt like saying). `I like that you come every night,' the Greek continued, `you must like it very much'. `I do,' said the old man. `You have a drink with me?' `I'd love to,' said the man. Fotis clicked his fingers and called out a name: `Ilias!' It was the blonde boy (perhaps Fotis had noticed him eyeing him). `Brandy, you like brandy?' Fotis asked. `Very much.' Fotis barked something at the pretty boy and the boy disappeared into the kitchen. `Ilias is too young,' Fotis said (too young for what, the old man wondered), `I mean he is not good waiter, he drops things and forgets, but he is still young boy' (do you fuck him, Fotis, do you?). `How old is he?' asked the man. The question appeared to surprise the Greek. `Fifteen years, I think, why?' he asked. `No reason,' the old man quickly said. `You think I employ my boys too young?' `Not at all,' said the man. `Good,' Fotis said, `in this part of the country, boys need to work, there is no much money, you understand this, even young boys.' `Yes of course,' said the man. `I give my boys good chance here, to begin on better life,' Fotis continued, `I do not take boys from this village or from the town, they are lazy...' `So where do you get them?' asked the old man, immediately wondering if the phrase `get them' might suggest to Fotis that the he was already suspecting him of being a pimp, or procurer of some sort. But Fotis blithely carried on: `From the hills and mountains, from the farms, and some are shepherd boys. These boys are better, because they work hard, they know how to work, they have worked since babies, and although poor and need jobs they are not idle and weak, they are strong...' Yes, thought the old man, and that is why the two I have seen so far have such lean taut defined young bodies, the bodies of boys who have laboured under a hot sun since they were barely out of the cradle. Young deep-tanned boy gods, smooth and sinewy. He remembered again that exciting sensation of touching, worshipping Paneoti's exceptional muscles. And now the pretty boy called Ilia had returned to the table with the two glasses of brandy. Was he imagining this, or had he undone a few more buttons on his shirt (how is it that they know that we old goats, we sad old fools, love to look at smooth young chests)? Although very slim, the boy was revealing a pair of developing pectorals and the beginnings of a ribbed stomach. Fotis shouted something at the boy, and the boy looked hurt. `I tell him he is vain boy, like a girl,' the Greek explained. He reached up and ruffled the boy's long blonde slightly curly hair. `Look at this, look at this,' he said, `like a girl. His father think this too, he is ashamed of him'. `Is he from the hills too?' asked the old man. `Yes he is Ilia, sixth son of Yanni the shepherd.' Gosh, thought the old man, somewhere up there in the hills there is a randy old goat of a shepherd spawning a clutch of sons who, if they are all as lovely as this vain and flirtatious specimen of youth, must be a very beautiful brood indeed. The old man allowed himself the pleasant prospect of perhaps one day meeting this incomparable family. `Yanni say to me I can take this boy here to work so I make him a man,' said Fotis (and I wonder how precisely you are doing that, Fotis). Then Fotis shouted at the boy again, which the old man instantly realised was an instruction, because the boy started to button up his shirt, and the old man found himself saying, before he could stop. `No, no, don't do that...', giving his desires away completely. The boy dropped his hands, leaving some of the buttons still undone. Fotis was staring at the man. Then he grinned. `Its okay,' he said, `I know this is what some men like, it is no problem.' (do you like it, Fotis, do you?). `I see you here, I think you like this, it is no problem.' (so what are you going to do about it, Fotis, provide me with this young luscious catamite to service me as I wish? How much will you charge?). The boy stood there with his hands by his side, as if awaiting another command. Then the old man thought about Paneoti, and how he still wanted him so much above any other boy, so he asked, again before he could think about what he was asking: `Where's Paneoti?' Fotis said nothing for a second or two, and then announced that Paneoti had gone away for a few days, to see his mother in the mountains. Or so he thought. Paneoti, he said, often just disappeared, and usually it was to see his mother. He didn't seem to like Paneoti much. He called him `unreliable', and a `bad boy', he didn't do as he was told (and what do you tell him to do, Fotis?). He said he didn't know when Paneoti would be back, or if he'd be back at all. He then leant forward and said in a low voice `you forget Paneoti, yes? He is no good.' Bravely, thrilled at his own courage,the old man said (for he now thought he had nothing to lose): `I quite like bad boys.' At this the boy, who was still standing there awaiting further instructions, and presumably understood what he'd just said, let out a giggle, high-pitched, like a girl. The old man stared at the boy. He realised he wanted to fuck him, desperately, immediately, and make him scream like a girl. He wanted to be fucked by Paneoti, but he wanted to fuck Ilias. What would it be like, he pondered, to have the two of them at the same time? To watch the glorious bad boy fuck this pretty little blonde shepherd kid? And then to have Paneoti fuck him while he fucked the blonde? He pictured himself between the two of them. It was almost too much to bear, thinking about it. His heart was pounding. He was sweating. He thought he might pass out again. Fotis sensed something was wrong. `Are you okay?' `Yes, yes,' the old man gasped. `You want water, I get you water,' said Fotis, and shouted another instruction at the boy, who disappeared into the kitchen once more. 'It is too hot tonight I think,' said Fotis, fanning his chest with his half-open shirt front. The old man noticed for a moment a pair of massive pectorals, only slightly hairy, on the taverna-owner. He realised he was going to have to go back to the hotel. He needed to lie down. He cursed his old heart, his age, his ill-health. He cursed his sorry desires, that they should do this to him. And before he could satisfy them too. He got up, swaying. The world was swaying about him. He started to walk away from the table. He had to get back to the hotel. It wasn't that far a walk, he might just make it. He found that he wasn't looking where he was going, he just to get out, and instead of heading for the entrance to the taverna, he swayed by mistake into the kitchen. Fotis was following him, he presumed, but he didn't see him. He saw the pretty blonde boy, staring at him, and he also saw, by the grill, cleaning up after an evening's service, another boy, whom for a second or two he thought might be Paneoti. The boy was shirtless, muscles glistening in the kitchen's sweltering heat. It wasn't Paneoti. He had an ugly face, battered and pinched, and and a gap tooth and a lazy eye. But he did have an extraordinary body, incredibly desirable, he thought. He gazed at the kitchen boy's hard beautiful chest, at his taut ribbed abdomen, at his big meaty shoulders and biceps. He wanted to lick the boy everywhere, to fondle him, to kiss him. He too had pert erect nipples. And there was so much sweat on him, so much sweat. The old man felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Fotis. `Do you want to lie down?' He did want to lie down, but he thought he'd still better try and make it out of there. And he managed it, careering through another door and into the street. He didn't look behind him as he swung along the street and through the village. He didn't doubt that he was being looked at now. Where was Paneoti? Where was his rough bad angel? He got to the hotel, stumbled up to his room, shut the windows, put the air-conditioning on, and lay down. He touched his cock. It was as hard as it had ever been. He didn't pass out, or sleep, and after a time he felt better, or better enough to enjoy a little fantasy, a waking-dream. It involved the pretty blonde boy, the muscled kitchen boy, and Fotis himself. Interestingly it didn't involve Paneoti. Was the fantasy some kind of revenge on the boy, as if it was saying look at all the fun I can have without you? The fantasy went something like this: He was sitting on his bed and there was a knock on the door. He said come in and Fotis entered the room followed by the two boys. Fotis wasn't wearing a shirt. His forty-year-old torso was extraordinarily muscular, perfectly defined, with a thin coverinf of hair on his immense chest. I have brought you Ilia and this is Stavros, you like these boys? I like them very much, said the old man. Pretty Ilia was wearing an open shirt, and Stavros, the kitchen boy with the ugly face but the wonderful body, was shirtless. His muscles gleamed, as if they'd been oiled. Tell me what you like them to do, I will translate, said Fotis. Tell Ilia to suck on Stavros' nipples, said the man. Okay, said Fotis, and he gave Ilia instructions. Ilia licked and sucked on the kitchen boy's nipples, and clearly the kitchen boy liked that a lot. He groaned and squirmed. Fotis was rubbing his own cock, which was obviously immense, under his trousers. I will do same now, said Fotis, and he pushed Ilia quite roughly out of the way, so that the pretty boy fell onto the bed by the old man's feet. Fotis started to eat at the kitchen boy's nipples, making the boy squirm and moan even more. In fact the kitchen boy was going wild. Ilia kissed the man's feet and then started to crawl up his body, like a wild little cat. He even emitted a little growl and licked his lips. He took off his shirt. His body was skinny and lean and golden, not too muscled but still beautifully toned. Stavros was now returning the favour that Fotis had given him and was chewing on Fotis' big nipples, which made Fotis roar with pleasure. The kitchen boy's hands were all over Fotis' hard mature body. Ilia began to lick at the old man's stomach, like a kitten lapping milk. Tell me to tell him what to do, said Fotis. Tell him to lick my nipples, said the old man. Fotis did so, and the pretty slut began to lap at the old man's nipples, sometimes pinching them softly with his fingers, teasing them to exquisite hardness. Tell Stavros to fuck Ilia, the man said. Fotis pulled down Ilia's jeans. The boy was wearing a tiny black thong, like the little slut he was. Straddling the old man he swayed about with his hands over his head, giving the old man a little show. He flicked at his own little nipples. Then Fotis pulled down the thong and Ilia's cock sprang up. It was quite big for a young boy, probably about seven or eight inches. Then Fotis pushed Ilia forward, forcing the boy's mouth towards the man's chest again, and as the boy started to munch on the man's nipples once more, the old man saw his cute tiny bottom bobbing up and down. Fotis said something to Stavros, and the kitchen boy unbuckled his belt and pulled down the zip of his jeans. A thick uncut penis popped out, completely erect. It must have been nine inches long. Stavros grinned at the old man, an ugly leer, and leant on the bed and fingered the blonde boy's hole, readying him for a fuck. Ilia yelped, biting into one of the man's nipples. Christ in Heaven, thought the old man, this is just wonderful. Then Fotis got his cock out. It was the biggest the old man had ever seen -- over twelve inches, he reckoned, a horse-cock, hard as iron. Tell Ilia to suck my cock, while you fuck Stavros as he fucks Ilia, said the man. Lovely little Ilia went down on his cock, as Stavros entered the beautiful bitch, and Fotis slammed his meat into Stavros. Ilia yelped, Stavros cried out, Fotis grunted. Stavros the kitchen-boy leered again at the old man, who was gazing at his amazing body, the muscles working as he fucked the shit out of the little blonde. Fotis reached round to Stavros' chest and flicked at his hard pointed nipples. Oh fuck give me that body, said the man, clambering up as Ilia kept going at his cock, licking Stavros' hard smooth glowing perfect torso. Ilia took his mouth away from the old man's cock to scream something at Fotis. He want you to fuck him good, said Fotis, he want your cock inside him he like your cock. So the old man climbed over the prone boy and flipped him over so that he was on his back, and he entered him and started to fuck him as the boy reached up and pulled at his nipples. Tell Stavros to fuck me, cried the old man. He felt the kitchen boy's monster enter him. It was excruciating, it was amazing. Fotis moved to the edge of the bed, naked and playing with himself, watching. This very good, yes, this very very good, you like this? I fucking love it. These boys are good yes? They're fucking amazing. I get more boys for you, I have many boys, all good boys, with nice bodies, all good for fucking. Fuck Ilia, Fotis, so I can watch you fucking him as Stavros keeps fucking me. Fotis pulled Ilia away from the bed and the old man's cock and slammed the slut against a wall so that the boy yelled in pain. Then he lifted the boy up with his strong arms and made the boy ride his massive cock as he stood and fucked him. The old man watched Fotis' immaculate buttocks flexing as he fucked the kid. The boy threw his head back and howled and howled, his beautiful blond hair falling back, wet with sweat. Still fucking the old man from behind, the kitchen boy reached round and played with the man's nipples, pinching them, twisting them, biting his neck. The old man came all over the bed, in great spurts and gobs that he thought he no longer had in him. He heard Stavros groan as he felt his sperm inside him, filling him. The blond boy spurted huge gushes up onto Fotis' chest. Fotis roared as he shot up into the boy. They'd all come in perfect synchronicity. The old man slept well that night, quite pleased with the way his imagination had brought him more pleasure than he'd had in a long time. But it had been a fantasy only. The next few days of his holiday might bring him something real and therefore even more pleasurable. He was glad he'd found this little village... To be continued...