Played for a Fool in Kibris

"So, you don't approve of the archaeology project I'm working with at Salamis?"

"Oh, no, that's fine. Salamis is such a good Roman site. It's good for tourism. We need to excavate enough sites to bring in the tourists and to show our rich heritage. Did you know that it was said to have been founded by the warriors returning from the sack of Troy? Or that the newer city that rose beside it after the great earthquake, Famagusta, has the most churches in it of any city that size in the Mediterranean? Or that Shakespeare's Othello was set there in the Venetian period?"

"I knew some of that," I answered, with a laugh, "but not nearly all of that." The man was amazing, a conundrum, and so appealing in his enthusiasm for his country and his mixed message on archaeological exploitation. He also was downright gorgeous and sexy.

"But I am boring you now," he said with a grin.

"No, I don't think you could ever bore me," I answered. That clutched in my throat, the various meanings of "bore" occurring to me. But maybe he didn't . . . with his impeccable English he probably did understand. There was a twinkle in his eye and he was playing with the hair on my forearm with his fingertips.

"But you are yawning."

"I could use a nap," I admitted. "I haven't slept well at all since leaving New York."

"Just as well. It's time for me to start supervising the kitchen for the evening meal. I'll take you back to your room and you can sleep until the entertainment later."

The entertainment later. "I could use some sleep," I said.

I got some inkling of what the entertainment would be later when he walked me back through the courtyard to my bedroom. He started out guiding me with a hand to the small of my back. By the time we reached the stairs up to the second level, the hand had slipped to my buttocks. I left it there. Passing the two men smoking, sipping coffee, and conversing again, I saw one grin at me and cup his crotch. Apparently, it wasn't just that Hakan had told his father I bottomed for him, but his father must have told a couple of friends as well. They were sexy-looking friends, though, despite being no younger than fifty.

* * * *

I woke to darkness and it took a few minutes to remember where I was. I went out on the balcony and looked down into the interior courtyard. The fountain was still gurgling and the glow from some hidden network of soft lighting made the lushness of the open-air space in coordination with the weathered woodwork of surrounding balconies against ocher stuccoed walls of the old mansion even more appealing than the area was in the daytime.

Mustafa's two friends were still there, still smoking, one from a gurgling bubble pipe. But the cups of sluggish Turkish coffee from earlier in the day had been replaced by Efes beer. A cooler beside them contain all of the fortification of beer they could possibly need for the evening. Mustafa was sitting with them, but he noticed that I had come out on the balcony and motioned me to come down and join them, which I did.

Mustafa's friends were Doruk and Aslan. They were roughly the same age as he was, one a retired lawyer and the other a retired doctor. They'd all gone to the English school in Nicosia—now on the other side of the line—together when the island was still unified and under English administration. They both spoke English, with a British accent, as precisely as Mustafa did, and they both were as easy to talk to—and, it seemed as interested in me in a sexual way as Mustafa had indicated in innuendo and his son, Hakan, had shown in fact.

"Is that a bubble pipe?" I asked at one point. Doruk assured me it was. "What is in it? Just tobacco?" I asked.

Doruk smiled and handed the pipe out to me. "Try it. It will take all your worries away."

I tried it, and I could see where it probably would do that if I puffed on it at any length. I only got that one puff then, though, because Mustafa spoke, as he rose from his chair.

"I suggest we go in to eat. I've reserved a table on the street for us. You may not be too hungry, Evan, but there are dishes you haven't tried that the restaurant specializes in, and my friends and I would enjoy sharing our meal with you. Afterward, we'll retire to the lounge for the entertainment."

The entertainment. There that reference was again. Of course the entertainment was me. I realized that. I was in such a mood that I didn't shrink from it, though. I was feeling melancholy because of the loss of Hakan, and the atmosphere of the house had guided me into a lazy, spinning out arousal.

The house's lounge, like the courtyard, straight out of the Arabian Nights, covered the entire upper-floor wing on the street side of the house, above the restaurant. As in my bed chamber, the ceiling was painted in intricate Arabic motif patterns and was in better shape than my bedroom ceiling was. The woodwork also was painted in green, blue, and a salmon color—a bit faded, which in the soft lighting, gave it an antique, almost decadent feel. Yes, when I thought about it, that's the feeling this place was giving me—languid decadence.

The wide-plank worn wood floors were covered by Turkish rugs, the base running in one direction and other carpets lying over those at an angle. The textiles—the window draperies; tapestries on the walls; coverings on the divans, providing most of the furniture in the room; and pillows tossed around every which way—were in vibrant colors and varied patterns that, as wild as they were, all seemed to come together in a feeling of lushness—and, again, decadence.

Each of us was assigned to a divan circling around in the one half of the room, which was more dimly lighted than the other half, where a trio of musicians was playing a distinctly Turkish-sounding music. One was a lute that Mustafa had told me when the trio was playing earlier down in the restaurant was called a baglama. This was joined in delicate intertwining harmonies by two flute-like wood-wind instruments, a zurna and a ney, as Mustafa had explained to me.

Showing me to a divan and bidding me to stretch out on it, Mustapha, who was now dressed in a robe with rich embroidery on it, as were Doruk and Aslan, placed a hand on my arm, looked down at me, and said. "We have made up a bubble pipe for you. The musicians are ones who play for special occasions in the restaurant. We wish you to have the full Turkish experience, if you are interested."

"Thank you," I answered.

"Do you know what we are about here?" he asked, looking very pointedly and perhaps a little concerned at me.

"Yes, I think so," I answered.

"And yet you wish to stay?"

"Yes."

"Here, take a few puffs on the pipe," he said. As I did, the two other Turks settled on their divans and joined me in taking swigs from their pipes. Already the smoke from the pipes was rising in the room and making me a bit giddy.

"In turn, perhaps you will be willing to entertain us, Aslan, Doruk, and me—entertain us as Hakan has told me you have been entertaining to him. He described you as blond, blue-eyed, buff, sexy, and, most important, willing. Will you do that for us? Will you be willing for me and my friends?"

"I can, yes," I said. I was intoxicated from the atmospherics and from the beer and now from whatever drugs were in the bubble pipe, but I cannot say I didn't want them to cover me—Mustafa, Doruk, and Aslan. They were all mature Turkish gods in body and had, each of them, aroused me in their conversation and their looks at me, and, as they were able, the touches of their fingers on my body.

"Can you show us your body? We believe you will be beautiful—a beautiful blond Germanic god. Here, another puff on the pipe."

I took another drag and stripped off my clothes.

"Yes, yes, you are a young god," Mustafa said. "Isn't he an Apollo?" he asked the other two Turks and both made sounds of ascent. After I was naked, he moved me to the space between the divans, and six hands reached out and caressed my body intimately. I went hard. When I was led back to and was half reclining on the divan, they stripped as well, which only required them to pull their robes over their heads. They all were naked underneath, all in magnificent erection, all olive skinned, muscular, hirsute, with dark hair shot through with gray, each a version of Zeus.

"Take another puff of the pipe and lay stretched out on the divan, on the pillows, on your back, please," Mustafa said. I did so, and all three again were crouching around the divan, touching me, letting their hands glide over curves and into crevices. I have idea which one was stroking my shaft and which was, first, fingering, and then penetrating my hole and moving the digit in and out, making me arch my back and moan.

Aslan and Doruk withdrew to their couches, and Mustafa came up on the divan, his body hovering and reversed over mine. His erection was pressed to my lips and I took it in as he, first, gave me head, and then rolled my buttocks up so that his tongue could get to my hole.

Just like that, we were having sex. I was ripe for it; at no time did a decline anything they did to or with me. We continued to have sex, the four of us, for what seemed like hours.

Doruk and Aslan sat on the sides of their divans, facing mine, and very attentive, stroking on their cocks, as Mustafa repositioned the two of us, both stretched out on the divan, he behind me, both of us facing Doruk and Aslan. Mustafa pushed my left knee up into my chest, rolled my pelvis toward where the others sat, to give them a full view of the copulation.

Mustafa cupped my chin with one hand, arching the back of my head into his hairy chest, palmed my belly with the other, and pulled me onto his cock, my hole turned to where the other two Turks could see him penetrate, push in thick and long, and set up a stroking motion. He fucked me at length and thoroughly, slowly stretching me to his need, the muscles of my channel rippling over his moving cock as he moved deeper and deeper into my soft core, making my spongy there, aching for and receiving his release of seed in several flows.

He came after I had, he with a series of jerks, pulling moans and sighs out of me. I had stroked myself off with my right hand and moved the left one back to grip one of his buttocks cheeks, feeling it contract and expand as he plowed and then ejaculated inside me.

After he was done and we'd both taken a couple of hits off the pipe that bubbled beside us, he rose from me, to be replaced as Aslan, turning me on my back, pulling me down to the bottom edge of the divan with a fist grip on my ankles, and standing between my spread thighs, penetrating me in the missionary position, and fucking me to his ejaculation. Then Doruk, in a doggie position, with me on all fours on the divan, and him covering my back high and fucking me like a dog with satisfied thrusts and snorts.

Mustafa again, turning me on my back, gathering me in his arms, the small of my back under his strong, muscular arm, as he lifted me there, raising my pelvis and letting my torso stream back into the pillows of he divan, while I thrust my arms out in a sacrificial "take it all" position. He thrust inside me, thick and long, going directly into my soft core and slaying me there, as I cried out and the Turkish music crescendoed. He stroked hard, with me gliding my hands down the thick knot of muscles on his hair back, down to his buttocks, and he him close to me, the cheeks clutching and releasing, as he breeded me, flowing again and again, deep inside me.

And then Aslan again, and Doruk, and back to Mustafa—and then around again and again . . . until, exhausted, I feel into a stupor, not knowing what the men did to me after that, although having the sensation of Doruk and Aslan being inside me together, Doruk under me and Aslan on top, the two rocking as one and me in between them, feeling their cocks frot each other inside my now thickly lubricated channel.

* * * *

This time when I woke, I knew I wasn't in my bed chamber. I knew I was still on the divan in the lounge, on my back. I had my arm thrown over my eyes, but I realized it was light enough to be day. I felt like I'd been plowed all night, and, as far as I could tell, I had been. There was no feeling of regret that went with that. The bubble pipe was bubbling beside me and I could barely hear the fountain down in the courtyard. The side of the lounge toward the courtyard balconies was all folding doors, and they all had been open the previous evening. They most likely still were. There was no sign that the musicians were still here.

There was a rustling near the divan, however, to tell me that there was someone else other than me here. I opened my eyes.

"Hakan," I said, in surprise. "Your father told me you were—"

"Gone. Yes, I know. I told him to tell you that. Not dead, gone. I'd gone to Salamis to help the last session of the archaeological project get packed up."

"You told me . . . and then you didn't answer my—"

"When I told my father what a great lay you were, he begged me to let him have his chance with you. He's my father. I couldn't tell him no. Does that outrage you?"

I thought about that for a few seconds. "No, it doesn't," I said. He and his father had played me for a fool—but it had been April Fool's Day and not the first time that day I'd been played for the fool. If that was what it was like to be made a fool, I volunteered for the position.

"You look irresistible on the divan like that," Hakan murmured, his voice husky. "Are you angry with me? Will you reject me, if I—?"

"No, of course I won't," I answered. But he already was running his hands up the insides of my thighs, coaxing me to open to and receive him, coming down on his knees between my legs, lifting my pelvis to his need, penetrating me, beginning the dance of the fuck . . . taking me to paradise.