tagGay MaleA Funeral and a Wedding

A Funeral and a Wedding

bysr71plt©

"It was good of you to come."

"I was surprised that your father wanted me here." I was sitting in the courtyard of a restored traditional Turkish home on Efeler Street, three blocks up the hill from the old walled harbor of Kyrenia, in Turkish-held Cyprus. Zeki Ceren, the son of Serhan, was looking a bit uncomfortable but also quite handsome. There was quite a bit in him of his father. I think he would have been more comfortable in this setting in a Turkish robe than in the white, almost diaphanous, cotton shirt, riding jodhpurs, and high-top black leather boots. He'd said he' been out riding before I had appeared at his doorstep. The shirt was billowy, showing his deep-tanned skin underneath, including ring piercings in his nipples, which gave me a pause in thought. The riding pants were tighter than I would think was comfortable, but they certainly left little to the imagination.

I wondered if he knew of the actual relationship between his father and me. Would we be sitting here in this lush courtyard beside a burbling fountain and drinking tea if he did? He crossed his legs slowly enough for me to think he wanted me to see the rearrangement of thigh and calve muscles—and bulge at the crotch. He couldn't know about my relationship with his father, and not be interested himself, to be teasing me like this.

"My father spoke of you often, affectionately. He hoped that you would visit him here. And now you're here."

"Yes, now I'm here, although I wish it would be under happier circumstances. The ceremony will be when, exactly?"

"Two days hence, 4:00 p.m., at Saint Andrews at the foot of this street. He'll be buried in the courtyard there. I assume you realize that he followed the British ways—those of his mother—rather than his Turkish father, or he would have had to be buried within a day of his death."

"And you wish me to have a part in the ceremony?"

"Father wished it. And it's all arranged. Saint Andrews is a small, informal church despite its very-English trappings." He gave me a flutter of his dark eyelashes over the top of his tea cup. I wondered once again what he knew and if this was a signal that he liked this situation—me being here. His father had been a professor of Middle Eastern affairs at Georgetown for two terms when I was there. We'd had an affair. I never forgot him after he returned here to northern Cyprus. It had never occurred to me that he wouldn't have forgotten about me either.

At the door, Zeki put a hand on my arm and gave me a sad smile—one nonetheless that reflected a face that, like his father's, was achingly handsome in a dark, sultry way. "I do very much appreciate you're coming. I know my father was extremely fond of you. I'm glad to have met you at last. I'm sorry I received you on an occasion such as this, seemingly frivolously in riding clothes—I was quite fond of my father and I am devastated by his death. Please plan to come back to this house after the burial. My father wanted to pass on something to you."

I could hardly criticize him for not dressing more somberly when we met. He looked downright arousing in the riding clothes. I, on the other hand, was dressed like the American tourist I was. When he'd called to ask me to come see him, I'd already driven my motorbike up to Bellapais to visit the ruins of the abbey there and to sit and luxuriate at the tavern on the city square next to the abbey entrance, the Tree of Idleness. I was in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals.

When I left the Efeler Street house it was late in the evening. Darkness came late to the Mediterranean island of Cyprus at this time of year, and it was just falling. I could have gotten on the motor scooter I was renting and driven up the road toward the mountain artists' village of Bellapais, hanging on the side of the Kyrenia Mountain range, where I was checked into the Olive Tree Villas complex, but the ancient Kyrenia harbor lured me down to the water. I could hear the music from here. I parked the motor scooter, which gave me an ominous belch when I turned it off, next to the Harbor Club. The establishment was a British-style pub sitting at the bottom of a steep cobble-stoned street and in the shadow of the hulking Kyrenia harbor castle that held down the eastern end of the harbor.

The small harbor itself was an oval, with a ring of docks and waterside open-air restaurants on the southern and western curve, the castle to the east, and a long breakwater across the northern side. A stone jetty pierced the center of the harbor, showing the original harbor had been even smaller than this one. An ancient lighthouse—really just a stone pillar supporting a basin to light a fire—rose from the end of the jetty.

Even at this time of the evening, dinner was only now starting to be served, but the harbor-side tables already were occupied with boisterous Turks and tourists. The area was strewn with multicolored fairy lights along the harbor wall, which illuminated various sizes of sailboats, skiffs, and yachts bobbing up and down just beyond where the edges of the tables ended. Stone building, once merchant businesses and houses rimmed the harbor, parting only a few places to give steep-slope access to the streets above. Originally, the storage and merchant floor were at ground level, facing the harbor, and the merchant's residences were in the stories above, facing back onto a higher street curving around the harbor. The attached row of houses formed the upper town's first protective wall. Now restaurants and gift shops operated out of these original ground-floor storage rooms. The tables were jammed together on the dock during warm weather, which, in Cyprus, was most of the seasons of the year, and were taken back indoors for the winter months of service.

There didn't seem to be any tables appropriate for a single diner. I circled around the harbor and then back again toward the castle without finding someplace appropriate for me to wedge myself in. On the walk back, though, a strong hand reached out, took my wrist, and arrested my progress.

"Have you lost your party, or are you looking for tablemates?"

The voice was deep, heavily accented. I looked around and sucked air in. He was a magnificent brute. Not Turkish; no definitely not Turkish. From somewhere in Scandinavia, and the same with the other men, all tall, muscular, and of military-bearing. They weren't from the officer ranks; they were much rougher and unpolished looking than that—not much more than a step above the thuggish. Serious grunt soldiers.

"I thought to have dinner in the harbor, but there doesn't seem to be any room," I answered.

"Then you aren't looking for someone you're dining with?"

"No, I'm all alone."

"I can hardly believe a handsome man can be here alone. There's room right here, if you don't mind a bit of a rough and randy crowd."

I certainly didn't mind this crowd. They were all smiles, welcoming, and giving me the eye.

"Names Magnus," the blond hunk said. "We're Norwegian, from the UN contingent patrolling the Green Line." Cyprus was divided between the Greeks in the south and the Turks in the north, and although they were starting to get along better than they did when the Turks invaded the island and occupied the north in the mid seventies, a UN force dividing them was still needed. So these were soldiers. They certainly were blond gods—heavenly fit.

"Ross Tagert here," I answered. "From Philadelphia, in the United States."

"Ah, the city of brotherly love. How great is that?" Magnus answered.

Magnus introduced me to the two nearest to where I sat, Filip and Oscar. Both were all grins. Magnus was all touchy feely as well. I made no effort to fend him off. Seeing the spitting image of my old lover Serhan Ceren in his son, Zeki, just a few years younger than I was, had brought up my juices of arousal. I actually wasn't here in Cyprus just to have a part in Serhan's funeral. I also was escaping myself in the States, where I increasingly was finding it difficult to keep the expression of my preferences separate from my professional life. There were times when I almost felt like exploding. I'd come to the Mediterranean for what I planned to be an extensive vacation to free myself for the bonds of responsibility, if only for a short time.

We got into a conversation enough for them to ascertain that I was American, in my late twenties—as they all were—and staying at a bungalow holiday complex called the Olive Tree on the Mustafa Catagay Road up the side of the mountains toward Bellapais. Their questions were suggestive enough, as well, not causing me to blush or rankle, for them to ascertain my preferences—which obviously matched theirs, although I got the impression that their leanings could go either way as long as they were satisfied. Magnus placed his hand where there could be no doubt, and I let it rest there.

They were on a two-day furlough from their Green Line base in the western sector of the divided capital of Nicosia, in the center of the island. They'd been deployed "too long" and hadn't "had any" for "too long." I gauged their virility to mean they hadn't had any since earlier that afternoon. They were staying right here at the western end of the harbor in the old Dome Hotel. They'd spent the day roaming the Turkish side of the island on their motorbikes as far away as the ancient city of Salamis on the eastern coast. They were thirsty as hell and obviously were doing something about that. They got off onto sports in their discussions and didn't delve any more into my background while we were at dinner, which was just fine to me.

After dinner, we went up to the upper-story bar at the Harbor Club and lined up across the bar. I was next to the far wall, with Magnus on the stool next to me. He gave me dreamy looks while we drank beer and I gave them back. He had a hand on the small of my back, and when I leaned in to him to ask him how long they were deployed in Cyprus, which was for another six months, my hand went to the small of his back too. The muscle was hard even there. He had the build of a bodybuilder and was a good five inches taller than I was.

"Isn't that guy cute who just walked into the bar?" he leaned over and said into my ear, speaking over the noise of the patrons in the crowded, raucous bar. His hand went to my buttocks. I neither did anything to move his hand away nor showed any concern that he was telling me a man in the bar was cute.

"You're cute too," he said as he leaned in again. "Gotta ask. Are you just going with the flow here or are you a serious player?"

"A what?" I asked, both of us moving our heads so I could talk in his ear. My lips had brushed something on his face as we both moved. It sent a chill up my spine.

"A serious player. You get it on with men; you don't just tease talk?" This time when we were switching ears and mouths, Magnus arrested the movement when our mouths were close, and he kissed me a brushing kiss on the lips. Time stood still and our eyes met. I leaned in for a deeper kiss.

"I guess that answers that," he said, with a laugh. He took one of my hands and moved it between his thighs. He was hung and hard. "The only question that remains is whether you take cock or give it."

"It's late," I said, giving him a smile but not answering his question. "I think I need to get back up the mountain while I'm not too drunk. I just hope I'm not too drunk to remember that my rental motorbike has a red seat on it."

"Will you be in the harbor tomorrow?" he asked.

"Maybe. I have an appointment in the morning, but I could be here sometime in the afternoon."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes," I answered. "Both."

He smiled. "If you are in the harbor tomorrow, I'll take you somewhere and show you a good time," Magnus said.

"That sounds like a good possibility. I'll have to think about it. Right now, though, I've got to take a piss. Do you have any idea where . . . ah, yes, thanks." He waved me in the direction of the men's room.

When I came out, he wasn't at the bar. But he was downstairs by the bike rack when I got down there.

"Well, it was good meeting you," I said, hopping on the rental bike with the red seat. "Maybe tomorrow. I'll think about it."

"I'll treat you right," he said and then he was asking, "Something wrong with your bike?"

"Yeah, it doesn't do anything but sputter. Did this when it stopped last. It seems I'm stranded."

"You don't have to be. My bike's here. I can give you a ride up to the Olive Tree."

At the door of my cabana unit, he pulled me to him and we went into a deep kiss. "I've come all the way up here. We could pretend it's tomorrow," he said. "You gonna invite me in? You gonna take my cock?"

"Would you like to come in?" I asked with a smile.

The unit was compact. A kitchenette unit on the wall to the right where we entered and the side wall of a bathroom to the left. This opened to one room, a sofa and chair to the left and a small table and two straight chairs to the right. The queen-size bed was beyond and beyond that a wall of glass, with sliding glass doors out onto a small patio. A bit of lawn area and the terrace surrounded the communal pool beyond that.

I barely had the lights on in the living-dining area when he was pulling me to him and pressing on my shoulders, signaling that I was to go on my knees in front of him. He unzipped himself, pulled out his cock, and grabbed the back of my head between his hands. Just like that I was giving him head. His cock was huge and hard. He obviously was aching for it.

He was so ready for it that he started fucking me before I was fully ready for him. There was a short strip scene, and an interlude with me on my back at the foot of the bed, heels on his shoulders, and him eating my ass out and sucking my cock. But quickly, all too quickly, we were at the wall of glass, him standing and crouched a bit, palming and spreading my buttocks to give him maximum passage spread, and me with my fists locked behind his neck, as he bounced me up and down on his cock. In short order he had switched this to the more demanding position of turning me, facing away from him, but still holding me off the ground, my feet hooked on the meat of his calves, and my arms flung up, fists locked behind his neck, while he grabbed my waist and pulled my passage on and off his cock.

It was while I was in this position that I looked out into the pool area and saw two men, muscular but lithe, younger than I was, fucking on a lounge bed. One was lying on his back and the other one was crouched over his pelvis, feet on the ground, and rising and falling on the other guy's cock. What was arresting was that both of them had their heads turned to my unit, where, obviously with the light on in my living-dining area, they were getting a full view of the hulking and towering Magnus suspending me in front of him and fucking me. I was too far gone in the fuck to worry what they could see. They were doing it too.

When Magnus tired of these bullying positions, he sat on the bed, leaning back, and I squatted on his lap, facing away from the bed, gripping his raised and spread knees, the heels of his feet dug into the bottom edge of the mattress, and I fucked myself on his cock.

It was an athletic fuck we both enjoyed. There was no coyness. It was clear he wanted to fuck me and I was equally clear that I wanted him to fuck me—a straightforward, primeval, athletic fuck, with no reservations, complexity, conditions, or commitments. He came when he had me with my weight on my shoulders on the carpet at bottom of the bed, with my spine running up the rise of the foot of the bed and my legs jackknifed so that my toes were pressed into the carpet next to my head. He was standing over me and fucking down into my hole in reverse.

He slept the night with me in my bed, pulling me to him periodically, when he'd hardened again, and fucking me in demanding positions. I perhaps should have felt guilty at being such a slut about it—signaling as I did at the Harbor Club that he could have me, something that a man in my position in the States could not do, but I didn't. I wasn't in the States. Unconsciously, at least, I'd come here precisely to be able to do this without guilt.

"This means nothing but getting off," he declared as we reached the decision point of him leaving or staying the night. "Any expectations or entanglements and I'm out of here."

He'd already fucked me—gotten his rocks off good—so he had little to lose in just walking out.

"No expectations other than that you fuck me again during the night if you stay," I answered. He fucked me twice again.

I'd enjoyed it so much that the next morning when he sheepishly stood there holding up the spark plug he'd taken out of my motorbike the night before, I laughed with him.

"If you want, I'll be happy to go back to the harbor and fix your bike. My mates, Filip and Oscar, can help me bring it back to you."

"That's fine with me."

"It's fine with you that I bring my buddies back?"

"Yes, of course."

"You are no innocent, are you?" he asked. "You took it like a champ."

"No, I'm no innocent," I replied. "You gave it like a champ."

"Filip and Oscar have great bodies." He wasn't really changing the subject.

"I noticed," I answered.

"If they take the time and effort to bring the bike back up . . . and I feel sort of bad that I got my rocks off so great and they—"

"Yes, they can fuck me. Together if that's what gets them off." Already I felt so much freer than I was able to be in the States.

The two other Norwegian studs were more conventional than Magnus had been. Filip fucked me in a straight-on missionary, lying between my spread and raised legs and plowing me deep, and Oscar preferred the doggie fuck, me on all fours on the bed and him mounting and fucking me from behind and above. I can't say I minded being under any of them.

The three were leaving my unit, as I caught the eye of a great, sultry-looking young Turkish guy clipping a hedge. The look he gave me told me in no uncertain terms that he'd been one of the guys watching Magnus fucking me at the window the previous night while he and other guy were having at it by the pool.

* * * *

As I was turning back from waving the three hunky and grinning Norwegian UN contingent soldiers away on their bikes, the young Turkish guy lowered his hedge clippers and walked over to me. He too was wearing a grin—and nothing else but low-riding jeans and sandals without socks. I was wearing less—just low-riding cargo shorts.

"Excuse me, you're a guest here, aren't you?" he asked in heavily accented English.

"Yes. This is my room," I answered. The answer was a bit idiotic, but then so was the question. Why wouldn't he think I was checked into this room? I felt sort of tongue-tied, though, because I was quite sure that this was one of the guys who had watched me being bully fucked at my window the previous night. But then I didn't really want to let him go. He was a sultry hunk and a half himself. Dark-skinned, slim but well muscled, swarthy, mean-boy aspect with back hair, piercing black eyes, perpetual five-o'clock shadow, hirsute chest, and a knowing—and interested—look in his eyes.

The UN soldiers had let me know in no uncertain terms that as much as they'd enjoyed fucking me, they would be going back to their unit and they weren't interested in any entanglements—that we'd just had recreational, one-time fucks. And I'd let them know that that was perfectly fine with me. I hadn't come to Cyprus for commitment or drama.

"My name is Erol," the dark stud standing in front of me said. "I work here. My uncle is the manager. One of my jobs is to make guests happy. This is your first visit to Girne, isn't it?" Girne was the Turkish word for Kyrenia.

"Yes, my first visit," I answered.

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