Death in Girne

He came up onto the quay to sit with me. He was in sandals, wearing tight, white shorts, and with a Hawaiian-print shirt, open and flared to show a berry-brown, gaunt, hard-bodied torso. There was a gold ring in his right nipple. As he had approached, I pulled my black-mesh T-shirt over my head, folded it over the back of the chair next to me, and smiled. I was in shorts and sandals as well. I had silver bars in both nipples.

"American or English?" he asked.

"American."

"You are a beautiful young man. Out here all by yourself?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a manager nearby?"

So, both the signaling of my availability and his experience in these matters were quite clear. "I don't need one. I'm not on a short leash," I answered.

"You were watching me—with my boys—on my boat over there." He put a hand on my knee, and I left it there.

"Yes."

"Do you lay down for men? Do you take a man's çük—his cock?"

"It depends on the man and whether he can—and will—pay." He obviously was interested and had wanted to make sure I would bottom. He had moved fast, to gripping my cock through the material of my shorts. I was engorging for him.

"Am I such a man? Would you take my çük?"

"Yes, if circumstances were right." This was moving along briskly, which was a good thing, as it already was approaching midnight.

He said he wanted variety and he had the money. He reached in back of my head, released the band on my ponytail, and let my hair cascade down to my shoulders.

"There, perfect," he said. I knew then that we'd fuck. He felt me up under the table some more and suggested we book into the Dome.

"You don't want to invite me onto the yacht?" I asked.

"The boys would be jealous," he answered. "And there might be a bit too much sound for so near to the tables on the street."

What an inventive way to warn me that he'd be rough. It was his money; he was the one paying for the hotel room. There was an air of danger about him. I was aroused by what I saw and heard so far.

Naked—he'd undressed and fondled me; he had his shirt flared and his shorts off, showing a nice-sized erection—I walked over to the bed and lay down on my back at the foot right where I'd perched when Ilham fucked me. I spread my legs, bending them, pressing my feet into the edge of the mattress, curling my pelvis up, showing my hole to him, ready for his size. He turned from the table and walked over to me, standing between my spread legs, as I sat up on the end of the bed, cupped his buttocks, pulled him into me, and took his cock in my mouth. While I gave him head, he reached under, handed my cock, and stroked me with one hand. His other hand was gliding over my back muscles, moving closer to my buttocks as he crouched over me. He was flexible for his age, managing to get his index finger inside me.

After a while, pressing a hand to my sternum, he pushed my shoulder blades back onto the bed. He hovered over me, rolling on a condom, and slathering his shaft and my opening with lube.

"Ne kadar güzel bir vücut—Such a beautiful body," he whispered. "Do you understand Turkish? Do you know what I said?"

"Yes. Quickly, master—Usta—come into me quickly," I murmured. "Sik beni—Fuck me."

It was for pay, but I was in heat. I did this for more than money. I did this to experience la petite mort—again and again. He was a hard-bodied man. He had a hard cock. He obviously knew what he was doing.

He put himself in position at my hole, and pushed in an inch as I grimaced at the size of his mushroom cap. He moved in deeper, going in for the kill, as I arched my back and whispered, "Oh, baby, baby. Sik beni. Sik beni" He palmed my pecs, pressing my back to the mattress, and I grabbed his buttocks, holding him close to me, as he slid to the killing quick and I groaned and panted for him.

"You're so big. So deep. Gerçekten büyük. Gerçekten derin. Be good to me, baby. Sik beni!—Fuck me!" I cried out, as he took control, picked up speed, intensity, depth. He slapped me across the face, slashing one way and then the other, snapping my head back and forth. I didn't give a fuck. Panting and groaning, I arched my back and extended my arms out in a sacrificial cruciform form, clutching at the bedspread, as, grasping my throat in his hands, he drove it in, drove it in, drove it in.

He was good to me in the way I needed him to be—for me to feel it more than just lying under a john. It was a total fuck. He definitely knew what he was doing. As he pumped harder, faster, I raised and spread my legs in a V—a V for victory for him and satisfied surrender for me.

Every day a little death—la petite mort. No matter how much things change, they always stay the same.

Death at the Dome Hotel in Girne.