4-Way Nude Capitulation

They exhausted me, and I was nearly asleep as they were finishing, laughing with each other, boasting of what we had done, I'm sure, although everything they were saying now—now after they were finished telling me in English what to do, how to position my body, whose cock to take when and where, in mouth or ass, after I'd done everything they requested of me, and after they'd all had their way with me more than once—was spoken in Danish. Now they were done with me—at least for today.

When I they were gone, I lay back on the towel, panting and moaning low, keeping my legs spread as I wasn't sure how long it would be before I could close them, feeling the cum of four men in my channel. I slept. When I woke and came out of the secret place—the fucking ground between the rocks—I found I was alone. The Danish soldiers were gone. So was the Greek youth. The sun was low over the sea. I struggled down to the water and went in, floating there until I was ready to leave the beach myself, and thinking of how gloriously satiating the afternoon with the Danish soldiers had been.

I had only one regret. This was the second time I thought I had connected with the god-like Malte Jergensen in a mutually interested "maybe," and yet we hadn't fucked. I wondered if we ever would.

* * * *

"My wife is going to Italy for a week," I said. "I'll be going to the Turkish side—west of Kyrenia. The embassy has a couple of houses there left over from an installation we had when the Turks invaded over it in 1974. I won't be able to come here for a few days."

Costas and I were stretched out on the studio couch in the photography studio behind his Nicosia art gallery. I was on my back, my legs spread and bent, my feet flat on the couch. Costas was lying between my thighs, on top of me. He was inside me. He had just ejaculated and we both were concentrating on him going flaccid inside me.

"Yes, I know where the compound is you are talking about—in Karavas," Costas said. "One of my uncles worked there—a CIA listening post—in the early 70s. You'll be near Rita-on-the-Rocks. You'll want to go there on a Wednesday."

"Rita on the what?" I asked.

"On the rocks. It's run by an English lady. It's a walled-in swimming pool and terrace restaurant right on the Mediterranean, on top of the rocks leading directly down to the sea. A restaurant-bar, with a nice, large swimming pool and with a few rooms where Rita keeps whores you can rent—both women and men."

"I don't think I need to rent a whore," I said, with a laugh. "I'm doing more of this, with you, than I should be doing. But why Wednesday?"

"Rita has special days. Wednesday is a day for men only—gay men. They can be there, using the pool, having drinks and a meal, fucking the male whore—I think she only has one at the moment—or each other. Usually each other. Turkish men and UN soldiers. The Danish men like to go there on Wednesdays. Everyone runs around in the nude. They swim in the pool or in the sea; they sun themselves; they drink and eat; and they fuck. I wish I could go. It's still hard for a Greek to go on the Turkish side. But you diplomats and the UN soldiers—"

"The Danish soldiers—that artist whose work you exhibit, Malte Jergensen—he and his friends go there on Wednesdays?"

"Yes, sometimes. When they can get leave. There isn't much for the UN soldiers to do here but fuck around. The Greeks and Turks aren't at each other now as they once were. Even interest in ethnic pogroms wears off in time."

"Yes, I think I might try out this Rita's while I'm on the other side next week," I said. "Thanks for telling me about it."

Danish UN soldiers. Malte Jergensen. I was pledged to try to stop this sort of activity, but . . .

"Shall we? Again?" Costas whispered in my ear.

"No, sorry, I don't think so," I said, rolling off from underneath him, and rising from the couch. "I really shouldn't be doing this. If they found out at the embassy . . . no, I don't think I should come here, like this again. I did want to think you for allowing me to use your beach on the southern coast, though. It wasn't more than that. I think this is enough."

And that's what I had told myself. I hadn't come back and let Costas photograph and fuck me again because I was randy and I needed it. I told myself it was just one more time because he'd told me about his private nudist beach and was letting me use it on occasions. I hadn't given the key to the gate back. I wasn't planning on giving it back. Costas hadn't asked for it back. He'd mentioned being there when I was there, but I hadn't discussed that with him. This couldn't become a regular thing.

* * * *

"Sür onu. İyi sürüyorsun!"

"I hope that's not a complaint," I said. The dark and sultry Turk was on his back on a lounge bed by the swimming pool at Rita on the Rocks and I was mounted on his hips, riding his cock in a cowboy. He was grasping my waist and giving me a grin. I didn't think that he'd be grinning and complaining at the same time, but it was all Turkish to me. We'd done quite a bit of playing and touching in the pool, both of us naked, before we'd gotten in this position.

"He's saying you ride the cock good."

I jerked my head around. Malte Jergensen, the hunky Danish UN contingent soldier was standing by me, naked. He put a hand on my shoulder and smiled at me. I was so busy getting mounted on the Turk that I hadn't seen him and three of the other Danish soldiers come into the swimming pool area, establish a beachhead across the pool from where I was riding the Turk, and had gotten naked. One of the soldiers, Hans Niederman, I think, was already diving into the pool.

"He must be a mainland Turk," Malte said. Cypriot Turks speak English better than I do.

"You do well enough," I said.

"Onu seninle sürmeemin sakinasi van mi?" Malte leaned over me and asked the Turk. The man smiled and answered, "Evet, eğer alabilirse."

"Oh, iki tane alabilir," Malte answered and swung a leg over the Turk's thighs behind me.

"What was all that? And what are you doing?"

"We're going to double you," Malte said. "I asked him if I could ride you too—he and I together. He said yes, if you could handle it, and I said you knew how to handle it quite well."

"You asked him rather than me if I'd let you two double me? . . . Oh fuck. Oh, shit. FUCCCK!"

"Yes, I know what you want," Malte answered. And he was right and he was doing it. Both he and the Turk were inside me, fucking me. I rode their cocks like we were in a rodeo. Shamelessly and wantonly. At last. I had the Danish hunk's cock inside me.

Somewhere in the next half hour, the Turk had moved on, and Malte continued fucking me in a solo missionary. I couldn't have been more happy with the attention. In my view, it had taken longer to get to this point than it should have. When we were done and had taken a dip and lain side by side until we couldn't roast any more, Malte took my hand and led me over to the restaurant area, which rambled along at the top of the rocks down to the sea and was shaded by trelliswork covered by grapevines. Somehow he'd made clear to his UN soldier buddies to stay clear of us for a while, and they cavorted with each other and other men in the swimming pool.

"I want to paint you," he said after we'd ordered mixed grill and Efes beer and were sitting across a table from each other on the edge of the rocks. I had tried to slide in beside him at the table, but he'd said, "No, I want for us to talk a while." That's when he said he wanted to paint me.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," I said, remembering the paintings he had on exhibit at the Paphos Gate art opening.

"In the nude," he said.

"That's why I don't think it's a good idea," I said.

"I can't stop thinking about it. You have a beautiful body. I'll paint you from memory—or from a photograph Costas has of you; he's shown me the photographs—if you won't pose for me, but it would be better if you did. If you want to continue to be with me, you'll have to let me paint you. The need to do that will drive me mad otherwise. It's just a something painters have in their lives."

"You don't have to tell me about the compulsions of painters," I said. "I'm married to one."

"I know," Malte said.

"You know I'm married? You know my wife is a painter?"

"I know a woman with your name is an art professor at the University of Cyprus," he said. "Costas told me she was your wife."

"So, you're saying you won't fuck me again unless I pose for you in the nude. Is this why you came to Rita's today—and why the other soldiers have kept their distance? You have a compulsion to paint me? Costas told you I'd be here today?"

"I brought my paints and canvases. I want you to pose on the rocks here, with the Mediterranean in the background."

"Here? Now?"

"Yes."

He roughed in four canvases over the next two hours, with me posing on rocks in the altogether. I actually rather enjoyed it. I had no idea how the paintings would turn out, as he only sketched in the outline of my figure and of the rocks and features of the sea beyond.

"I am too anxious to have several canvases," he said. "I wish I had time with you to get colors just right. But I want more than one canvas to work with."

"How long will you be on the Turkish side?" I asked. "I'm over here for several days. My wife is on a trip to Italy."

"I know," Malte said, with a smile. But he continued on before I could comment on that. "We have a three-day furlough. We have driven here in one of the trucks. It's in the parking lot. We will sleep in that. Rita lets us eat here and use the bathrooms and showers here."

"And the rent-boy upstairs?" I asked, not being able to resist. I said it with a little smile, though, to let him know it was a joke.

"When other guys visiting the pool aren't more attractive. UN soldiers like us have no trouble finding men who will take cock."

"Like I do," I said.

"Yes, like you do."

"I'm staying at a house near here," I said. "It's owned by the American embassy—a couple of houses are on the property that we use for recreational purposes and meetings."

"The old CIA listening station," he said, with a grin.

"Yes. The house I'm staying in has three bedrooms and all the amenities. It's not plush, but it's signed out to me. You and your friends could—"

"That would be a very good idea," Malte said. "Then I could make enough progress on the paintings so that I can finish them at the studio at school or at Costas's gallery."

"The studio at school?" I asked.

"Yes. The University of Cyprus lets me use their studios."

"And Costas does as well?"

"Yes. Costas is good to us—my soldier friends and me. You saw us at his beach house in the south."

"And I suppose it was Costas who told you I would be here today—and that I was staying at the embassy's Karavas houses." I had suggested that before and he had ducked the question. He ducked it now too.

He just smiled at me. "Are you ready to go now? Shall I tell my friends we are moving over to the old CIA listening post houses? We can get a mess of kabobs and a case of Efes from Rita to take with us."

The Danish soldiers Malte had brought with him—Alfred Larson, Lucas Rasmussen, Hans Niederman, and Noah Nielson—weren't standoffish at the Karavas house that evening. While Malte working on further developing his nude paintings of me, I spent the evening and into the night on my bed, mostly on my back but sometimes on all fours or my sides, with my legs bent and spread, and the Danish soldiers fucking me one after the other. When they had me on my back, I lifted and spread my legs in a V as they rutted between my thighs just as the Greek youth on Costas's beach had done—and for me, it meant surrender as well.

I didn't mind, but even as they were tag-teaming me, making sure I had someone's cock inside me nearly nonstop, I knew that this needed to be a one-time experience. I knew that I needed to pull back and honor my pledge to change my lifestyle and fulfill the role of a husband and responsible American Embassy employee.

But it was so glorious to have my body worshipped and used like this.

Late Wednesday night, Malte's friends found that the case of beer that had been cooling in the refrigerator and heated up kabobs were becoming more alluring than repeated rounds of dipping their shafts in my channel was and they'd retired to the living room to eat, drink beer, and otherwise carouse. I lay in bed, softly moaning and luxuriating in my wantonness. As it grew more quiet in the living room and the men either drifted off to the beds in the two bedrooms at the other side of the house or dropped off where they were in the living room, Malte came into the bedroom.

I was roused by him coming up onto the bed in the dark. I could feel that he was naked—and in erection. I still was naked as well. "I believe this is where I'm sleeping tonight," he murmured.

"Wonderful," I murmured, turning on my back, spreading my legs, and opening my arms to him. A beefy arm went under my waist and he was raising my pelvis to him. I gave a little cry as he slid inside me—thicker and longer than any of the others, and began to mine my channel deep. I lifted my knees to his hips, reached down to grip his buttocks, and took him and took him and took him. And as he came close to a finish, I raised and spread my legs in a V of total surrender.

I woke in the morning on my back on the bed, to the vision of Malte coming into the room with a food tray. He still was naked—he remained nude for the next two days that he was with me in the Karavas house. He had arrayed his four paintings, propped up on straight chairs from the dying room in an arc around the foot of the bed.

He put the tray down in front of me and I ate as he talked about the paintings. The paintings were great, but they almost made me hyperventilate. They obviously were me. This wasn't like the photos Costas Nourolias had taken of me. There was no Mardi Gras mask to give me at least that much anonymity.

"What do you think of them?" he asked. "The work went faster than I thought it would. The paint's still wet and they all need some touchup, but I think I caught you."

"Maybe too well," I said.

"What do you mean."

I didn't want to say that everything was too much me other than maybe being very kind to me in the equipment and some of the muscle tone departments, but I needed to say something. "I think I should have asked you not to include the tattoo."

"The red lip kiss on the lower belly?" he asked. He laughed. "I think it gives you personality. We would have an argument about leaving it off."

"And you'd win the argument, wouldn't you?" I asked.

"With you I'll win all of the arguments," Malte said. "You're the perfect submissive. And speaking of which . . ." I looked up. He took the tray off the bed and showed me that he had a pair of wrist restraints in his hand.

"I'm horny," he said, "And the others have gone back to Rita's. I want some."

It was a repeat, in the daylight, of our fuck the previous night—plus my wrists were tied to the headboard and I had four paintings of me in the nude on the rocks, with the Mediterranean behind me, while the big-cocked Dane knelt between my spread thighs, ran an beefy arm under my waist to raise my pelvis to a perfect thrust angle, and fucked me with the biggest cock I'd ever had.

He stayed with me for the next two days, working to refine his paintings and his fucking technique with me. The other soldiers didn't come back.

"You know you're too good—and too bad for me," I said on Friday afternoon before driving him back to Rita's to match up with his friends.

"You've told me you are trying to change—to go straighter. It's your choice. We'll be rotating to Lebanon in another couple of months, and I'm only in it for the fun—and the art models, of course."

"Of course," I said.

"I'd give you one of the paintings if you like."

"The paintings are great, but where would I be able to hang it? All I ask is that you not exhibit the two that show the tattoo—at least not anywhere in the Mediterranean or Middle East."

He didn't answer that. I probably should have pursued the matter.

When I dropped Malte off at Rita's, the Turk from Wednesday afternoon was there. His name was Ergon. I drove him back to the Karavas house and he fucked me for the next day and a half. He fucked joyously, cruelly, and with abandon. I raised my legs in a V of surrender to him again and again. I had pretty much forgotten Malte and his friends when I drove back to Nicosia on Sunday afternoon.

During the last, Sunday morning, fuck, I was justifying the trip to Rita's and Karavas as a last fling before giving this up altogether. At the moment "this" was me crawling across the threadbare living room rug of the Karavas house on all fours, a folded belt in my mouth, with Ergon on top of me holding the belt like reins, high astride my ass, fucking me from behind and above, and flicking my flanks and bare ass with a switch as he boisterously called out, "Bir cowboy gibi binmek!"

I didn't even want to try to figure out what Ergon was saying, but, as he'd rendered "cowboy" in English, I got the gist of it. Rug burn got to the palms of my hands and my knees, and I went down on my chest half way across the room, with my tail still elevated and Ergon, stretching his legs out beside mine and going up on his toes, continuing the hard-thrust fuck, riding my ass high. His hand dropped the reins and his hands glided up my arms, pushing them high above my head, grasping my wrists with his fists, nuzzling his scratching-chin face in the crook of my throat, breathing hard, riding me forever, and murmuring "Sana bin, sana bin, sana bin." This time he provided a translation in heavily accented English. "Ride you, ride you, ride you." And that's what the muscular, hirsute Turk did—ride me into paradise.

If this was to be the last fling with men, I might as well do it in total submissive surrender to a hunky Turk.

* * * *

"Yes, I already know Janet."

I was taken aback. How did the Danish UN contingent soldier Malte Jergensen know my wife? It was six weeks after our tryst at the Karavas house on the northern, Turkish Cypriot coast. I'd been good to my pledge to stay away from men in that time, although staying away had keyed me up. Janet and I were attending another art opening at Costas Nourolias's Nicosia art gallery. I had pulled up in shock and displeasure at a painting, and its artist, Malte had come over to stand by me. Costas had brought Janet over to join us.

When I gave him a confused and slightly panicked look—I already was off balance—Malte smiled and said. "The University of Cyprus. Mrs. Douglas teaches art course there, and I am permitted to use their studios to paint. I've sat in on a few of her classes."

He almost said he'd told me about using the university's studios, and I now remembered that he had told me that, but he stopped short, no doubt realizing that he shouldn't admit he'd ever talked to me before, let alone fucked me.

The four of us chatted about the artwork on display, which included several canvases by Malte, but I had trouble keeping up because of where we were standing, which was also why I was off balance. I hadn't expected to see Malte at this opening; Costas hadn't told me Malte was being exhibited. Of course, I'd tried to be careful not to let Costas know Malte and I—and some of the other Danish soldiers—had hooked up. I'd only seen Costas a couple of times since I went to his nude beach, but when I did, I didn't mention that the Danes were there as well.

What had me disconcerted was that before Malte came over to join me, I was standing, dumbfounded, in front of two paintings of me. Not only was he displaying two of the nude paintings of me posing on the rocks by the Mediterranean at Rita's, but they were the two that showed the red lips tattoo on my lower belly. People were roaming around, looking at the artwork. Many of these people were ones I routinely worked with in my cultural affairs duties. I was easily recognizable in the paintings, or so I thought. It wouldn't be for the tattoo, of course—except for Janet and Costas—but how could people walk by, looking at the paintings on the wall, with me standing there, unable to leave the spot, and not realize that was me in provocative nude poses?