The Greek Lads


I saw the again lad tonight, plucked up courage and winked at him as I passed. That, as it turned out, was all I needed to do. It is now dawn, he’s just left and I have to get this down before I forget. Not that I ever will.
I had been on the island for only one evening when I started to realise two things about the local lads. One, they were all desirable and two, they all wore really tight jeans even in July when the sun was burning hot. I had only been on the island two days when I realised a third thing: quite a few of them looked at me strangely whenever I walked by their café in the tiny, half ruined back street of the village. And then I realised another thing: I was going to have one of these lads before I left. He looked at me, I looked at him and I knew instantly.
I was staying at a friend’s apartment, he’d let me rent it for the whole month of July and I had exclusive use. A balcony overlooked a delightful view of ancient houses, a courtyard below and trees rambling down a valley to the sea about a mile away. The room off the balcony was perfectly furnished with a large sofa, wall hangings and old photographs of the island dating back at least one hundred years. Off this ‘salon’ was my bedroom; a large double bed that I hoped might see some action, a wardrobe and a table were the only things in it. And, from another door off the salon, was a short corridor leading to the front entrance, a bathroom and a small kitchen. Outside I had a courtyard with fruit trees and steps leading down to a private entrance yard, guarded by ornate metal doors. The place was private, cool in the heat of day, and comfortably warm in the evenings.

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   I’d be happy here for a month.
After recovering from my flight, it was an overnight journey finished off by a boat ride to this remote place, I spent my second day exploring the village; checking out where the cafes were, the shops and the tavernas and how far the beach was. I familiarised myself enough to be able to find my way home through the intricate maze of cobbled alleys and unlit passages that made up this village half way up a mountain. It was while doing this that I passed by the café. It was obviously the local lad’s hang-out, not a tourist in sight, pop music playing and a collection of youths hanging around at tables outside. From my quick reckie I guessed it was a place for those in their late teens, early twenties; I saw no one older than thirty as I walked by.
It was while checking it out that I noticed the looks. In the few seconds it took me to pass, look into the gloomy inside then out at the pavement tables, I noticed the strange looks. A couple of the guys stopped their heated conversation and stared at me, then they carried on chattering in their indecipherable language while cocking their heads in my direction. I was clearly a talking point and I had no idea why. Assuming it was because I was the only tourist to be staying in their neighbourhood I took no notice, nodded at them and carried on. I didn’t let myself feel intimidated, I’m 32, I work as a builder, live in London’s East End and can handle a few inhospitable foreigners if I have to. I’m also up for a bit of trade with the same kind if they’re consenting, cute, younger and gagging for it.
I doubted any of this lot were and, sighing (because they were all tanned, fit and wearing tight jeans but this was not my home turf,) I carried on back to my apartment.
As the holiday progressed I passed by the ‘Andras’ café regularly at the same time each day on my way back from the beach.

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   Each day the same lads were sat around drinking their cold coffee and playing backgammon and each day they would throw me a look. I started to make it a custom to say hello and learned the Greek word from a fellow tourist so that I could surprise them. It didn’t seem to make a difference. They still just stared blankly at me with their huge, brown eyes. Each day I sighed and each night I jacked off with one of their bodies in my mind. One in particular. A slim guy of about 19, whose eye I had caught on my first passing. He had short jet black hair, a smooth closely shaved face and a cocky grin. His torso shaped down from a worked-on chest to slim hips and the oh so tight jeans rose up in his crotch to a tantalising mound as he sat with one leg rested up on the other. He always sat apart from the others like he was some kind of outcast and that appealed to me.
I winked at him last night and made sure I walked more slowly. I’d had some wine with my lunch and the afternoon had been spent lying on the busy beach staring at men in wet trunks, straight lads with their girlfriends had posed all round me and I had flicked my hungry eyes to crotch level at any chance I got. Something about the day had made me more horny than usual and something about the day had told me that the night would be a special night. I was right.
As soon as I had winked at the slim one he winked back and flashed me a quick smile.

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   Immediately my heart was up and pounding and I knew I’d started something. By the time I’d passed his table he was putting some coins down by his half finished coffee and standing up. I walked on. I heard him follow.
I turned right, up the steps that led to the narrow lane my apartment was in. After a few paces I heard someone coming up behind me and knew it was him. I didn’t turn back, just carried on – in case I’d misread things and he was only going home the same way. I didn’t feel threatened, it’s not that sort of place and, like I said, I can handle myself. I came up to my front doors, got the key into the metal gate and went inside. Should I leave the door open? Why not?
I climbed up the steps to the apartment and pushed open the front door. The apartment was bathed in late afternoon light, diffracted through the lace curtains, filling the corridor with a magical, pink glow. I left the front door open and went through to the salon. The French windows were open to the view and I stepped quickly out onto the balcony, hoping to see the lad standing below, waiting for me to invite him up. The alley was empty. All there was to be heard was the sound of sparrows, a far off cockerel and a slight breeze annoying the fig trees below.

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   My heart sank and I realised I’d got the whole thing wrong. He wasn’t interested in me. He was at least ten years younger and probably had a girl waiting for him somewhere. I turned back into the flat, deciding that a cold shower and a quick wank was all I needed to drive him from my mind.
The cold shower did nothing to stop the swelling in my cock and by the time I got out it was still semi hard, hanging over my filling balls and craving attention. I grabbed it in a fist and gave it two hard yanks. That was enough to get it upright and to attention. It stood out seven inches in front of me waiting for me to carry on. I left it there and padded through to the bedroom. The day’s wine had also tired me and I decided that, after all, I needed a siesta more than a wank. Heading for my bed I walked back into the salon.
He was standing in front of the window, his back to the sunset and the long white curtains shielded the light as they sighed in the breeze. His hands were on his hips and his jeans had been undone at the stud. I couldn’t make out his expression but he did not move when I came in, naked and still damp, still hard. I stopped dead still, first with shock and then with uncertainty.

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   He was in my room, he would have to be the one to make the first move.
And he did. He took one pace towards me, looked over his shoulder as if to check he was not being watched and then made another step closer. His arms rose up in a shrug and I could see his face, he smiled, broadly, and winked again. I did not move a muscle. His expression changed and he looked worried.
            ‘I should go?’ he said and his accent was heavy.
I shook my head slowly, my eyes fixed on his.
            ‘What should I do?’ he whispered and I got the impression that he really had no idea what should come next. This was new to him.
            ‘What you want,’ I whispered back. I had still not moved, my cock was still straining out for him and all I could feel was a drip of water running beneath it, gathering on my heavy scrotum. Another drip trickled, tickled and ran there while I waited. Waited and watched.
He kicked his dusty sandals off and I looked at his long, brown feet.

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   My eyes rested there a while as I heard him pull his tee shirt over his head. A crack of static, a rustle of material. My gaze darted up quickly and I saw two tufts of thick dark hair as he raised his arms over his head. He reached up, his chest tightened, defined pecs with a small V of hair between them. His arms were strong, also defined and I guessed he worked as a labourer. In a few years those arms would be strong enough to crush me in a bear hug. His head caught in the neck of the shirt which was then pulled free as his face came back into sight. He was still looking directly at me, uncertain, wanting assurance.
I raised a smile, stood my ground and stared into his deep brown eyes as, in the edge of my vision, I saw his hands fall again to his waist. I heard a zip and looked down. He undid his jeans with one slow, deliberate movement and then waited. I just stared at him, looking back at his face and raising one eyebrow. He shrugged again, asking what he should do next. I cocked my head. Whatever you want.

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He pushed his jeans down and over his hips, revealing tight white shorts. They shrouded closely their innocent secret and outlined a proportioned shaft that lay stiffening to the right. Beneath this the cotton cocooned a perfect roundness and above the waistband an eyelash thin line of hair ran up to meet the smoothness of his tanned belly. The jeans slipped lower under their own weight and his legs, strong from his 19 or so years of labour and exercise, held up the rest of his youthful body with power. Powerful yet timid. He didn’t know what to do next. I continued to drink in the sight of his body and simply waited. A moment passed, no sound but our breathing and the rustle of wildlife outside. He pushed the denim aside with a slight kick and took a step closer.
We were within two feet of each other. I could smell his soap and feel his breath. But still I did not approach. We tried to reach each other’s thoughts. He wanted me to tell him what to do next. I wanted to see what would happen.

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   Tentatively he reached out a hand, smooth skin on the back, rough worked flesh on the palm. I felt it land on my chest - broader than his hairier. And then his hand slid down until it rested on my hip. I looked at his body. Taught yet pliable, strong yet uncertain. Unused. Wanting. His hand moved across and his fingers wrapped around my cock. He stared into my eyes. I did not back down. Imperceptibly I moved my legs apart, allowing my balls to hang free and his hand was quick to cup them, explore them, learn what another man felt like. I let him touch me, he was gentle, I let him explore and learn the pleasure of the first sensation of another man’s skin against his own. He knelt very slowly and finally his eyes left mine. They travelled down my body as mine had done down his until all I could see was the top of his dark head. He took my cock in his mouth.

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And then all I could feel was the heat of his eager mouth as my shaft slipped between his lips and parted that cheeky grin. But still I did not touch him. I just stood there and let him discover, let him move his head in towards my crotch, out again until the tip of my swollen penis rested behind his teeth, then in towards me again where he buried his nose into my damp flesh and sucked my breath through me. His actions grew quicker and he made small groaning noises, sounds of wonder and derision. I felt his arms wrap around my waist and his fingers dig into my taught, hairy arse muscles as he pulled me harder into him. He clawed in at my arse, getting a firmer grip as he desperately tugged me deeper into his throat. He pulled back, never letting me free, but taking a deep breath so that he could drag me into him deeper each time as he held me in his throat longer; his tongue playing around the base of my now totally swollen shaft.
Quickly I felt myself getting close. The heat, the sight of the lads in their tight denim, the wine, the youth drawing on my flesh. A few more thrusts and I’d be filling his gullet with cum. I tried to warn him by pulling back but he realised what I was doing. He read my signals and only held me tighter. He wanted me to explode inside him. His hands took one of my arse cheeks apiece and slammed me back into his face, my balls slapping up against his smooth chin, my balance almost lost. I grunted another warning and it only made him more desperate to drink me.

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   His grip tightened, his throat contracted, heat around my itching cock head, my balls rising, preparing to unload, his eyelashes brushing against my pubes.
My breathing stopped for a split second. All was silence, my heart pounded, my legs tightened and I felt myself jettison the first load into the springy softness of his throat. He drew in a breath, made a gasping sound as the second spurt hit somewhere deep within him, and then another as my groin jerked against his face. And then another load caused him to gag and I heard him swallow, spluttering as another man’s cum filled his mouth and dribbled over his lips for the first time. He sucked me still and dry, holding my red hot cock in his mouth until my pleasure was spent and the sensation started to turn to ecstatic pain.
Eventually he let me go, released me from his mouth first but continued to hold my groin against his face as he drew in my scent, licked my hairy balls with his youthful tongue and stroked the back of my legs with his rough palm. And then he stood up and away and looked back into my face. A trickle of sweat ran from my brow and into my eye and it closed instinctively in a wink. He raised a finger and brushed my closed eyelid tenderly with a thumb. And then he licked my salty sweat from it, all the time questioning me with his deep brown eyes.
His white shorts were now straining against the solid shaft that they could hardly contain. The material was pulled away from him revealing a darkness that was shadow and hair, the front of them was moist, his cock upright and primed. He was begging me to do to him what he had done to me. He turned his head towards the open door of the bedroom and indicated that he wanted us to go in.


   I shrugged, said nothing and he let out a frustrated sigh.
            ‘Please?’ he said.
I refused to reply. He turned and walked two paces towards the room. Stopped and let me view the tightness of the white shorts around his small, round arse. His back was strong, strong enough to support my weight when I would bear down on it but his hips were slim enough to allow my hands to grasp each one with my fingers almost touching around them.
            ‘Why do they look at me?’ I asked and my voice stopped him in his tracks. He made no reply so I went on. ‘When I pass your café the other young men stare at me strangely. They talk about me after I have passed, I know. ’
He turned back then and smiled apologetically. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘we talked about you. ’
            ‘What were you saying?’
He came back up to me and suddenly placed my hand over his cock. It felt warm, tender and small in my large palm, smooth under the softness of his shorts. And I knew it was mine for the taking.

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   I put my other hand on his arse and he made no objection. I knew that was mine for the taking too.
            ‘We could not decide,’ he said and looked me straight in the eye, drawing me close to his mouth.
            ‘Decide what?
            ‘We could not decide which one of us you would want. We all wanted you. You chose me. ’
            ‘You chose me,’ I reminded him.
            ‘We chose each other,’ he said and kissed me.

























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