He's nineteen and just got engaged. His name is Yiannis, John in English, and he's Greek. He's not very tall, about five foot six, and he's not very slim. Stocky you could say. He has muscles from working in his dad's store from an early age and he has dark skin. His eyes are brown, round and always smiling. His eyebrows are dark and he has permanent stubble, it comes back about three hours after he shaves. When he wears a tee shirt he shows you the dark hair on his arms and sometimes you can see curls above the neckline, he's got a hairy body. When he wears shorts you can see his legs have a light covering of dark hair, all the way down to his feet which are, surprisingly, smooth. When he wears sandals you can see his toes, short and dark with well kept nails. His hands are rough on the palms, again from years of shop work, and smooth on the back, with just a little hair growing there.

The hair on his head is dark too, almost black. He keeps it short and tidy. Below it his face is young and unblemished. His lips are pink against his tan and his mouth always breaks into a welcoming grin when he sees you. His voice is deep and he has a heavy accent.

This is Yiannis.

Sometimes in summer, when I go into the store, he is behind the low counter. He is wearing a sleeveless tee shirt, showing his muscles but not showing off. He is wearing shorts, red football shorts in his favourite team's colours. The shorts are made of some kind of satin and they cling to him. When he turns to reach for something behind the counter I look at his backside. It is firm, solid like the rest of him. Two symmetrical domes wrapped in the red material, shining, smooth. I can see the division between them, the deep cut of his crack where the shorts also cling. If I use only a little of my imagination I can picture his arse without the shorts; dark, hairy, youthful and virginal.

When he turns back to face me and puts something on the counter I look at the item. It has been placed only a few centimetres in front of his groin. It is an excuse to study him as I read the label on the item carefully. I glance at his crotch. Today the shorts reveal nothing and I sigh. Yesterday there was the distinct outline of his heavy cock lying to the right. Four inches of soft, thick meat resting in the netted pouch within the shorts. I could clearly see its shape, its girth and the round ridge of the head.

I use my imagination again and again the shorts are gone. His cock hangs out, limp and smooth. Dark skin, darker where it wrinkles around his luscious pink head, only a little of it shows from the heavy cape of his hood. I see the slit, pouting. At the base of his resting cock is an impenetrable brush, a no mans land of thick curly hair, black, untidy. Beneath the flaccid meat hang his balls. One lower than the other, both globes show through the wrinkled flesh, pressing against it as his arse presses against his shorts.

He smiles at me and I look up from the counter. He asks me something in Greek, would I like anything else. Yes, I want to say, I would like you. I would like you lying naked beside me, your rough skinned fingers trailing gently down my chest. I would like to touch your nipples, circle them with my fingertips and then my tongue. I would like to taste your flesh, your lips, your penis. I would like to wet your young balls with my tongue and probe beneath them. I would like to hear you ask me to burry my face in between your arse cheeks and suck on your most private place. I would like to feel you buck and jerk at my command as I bring you to an orgasm that only another man knows how to create. And I would like to hear you whisper my name as I unload my lust inside you.

But today I will make do with imagination only. I don't need anything else from you today. By simply being there you have given me enough. For now.



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