Turkish Delight

But I'm also wanting dinner. Best resolve that one first.

We hit a restaurant our host recommended, and hand over his scribbled note, requesting a grand meal at good cost.

It's amazing. I thought the mezze at my local Moroccan was good, but this is delicate and crispy, each dip and filling full of flavour. I have to apologise that I won't be able to eat much of the meat course -- they seem to understand a mix of my German and Dan's English, but Dan stands us proud and eats all his grilled lamb and most of mine too.

Course, then we're both stuffed, so much I don't even think I could cram his cock up my arse. But there's no hurry. We're on holiday.

We sip mint tea for a while, declining the offer of them bringing out carpets for us to admire. They live up to the reputation of Turks being the most hospitable people in the world, bringing us more and more tea, offering another carpet-viewing, but finally packing our complimentary dates and lokum into a wee cardboard box. We go for another wander.

Getting to the river is an exercise in navigating across concrete dual-carriageway hell, but we find a grafittied underpass of the sort I'd avoid if I were by myself, and that together we'd have an illicit encounter in if we weren't in a foreign country. We emerge onto an embankment, from which we can admire the illuminated waterway and all the boats with their lamps going past, lighting up the clouds in the night sky.

The Bosphorus. Enabling trade between Europe and Asia for millennia.

It's beautiful. A warm breeze wafts over us, carrying scents of spices and flower-blossom.

We sit and gaze into the night for a while, holding hands that mean everything, saving the kisses for when we're back in the sanctuary of our hotel.

"What's this stuff?" Dan asks as he rummages through the take-out box for munchies.

"Lokum? Turkish Delight. The real stuff, not that chocolate-covered Fry's crap. Probably rose-water flavoured, or almond or mint..."

"Huh. Nice. Slightly crunchy jelly." He swallows the first cube of the gel sweet and selects another colour, holding it up to let the street-light shine through the transparent green. "Not bad. Couldn't have more than two, though." He offers me a bite of the second sugar-dusted chunk, which is all I want.

"Aye. Hellish sweet."

"Just like you, love."

A couple soldiers walk past, clad in that shade of green. Suddenly it's like we're back in Northern Ireland, me growing up, him in the Army a few years later.

"Life's better now, innit," he tells me, keeping my mind in the present.

I squeeze his fingers. There's no words for how much it's better.

A cab back to the hotel, and turns out it's a quiet night for us. A gentle shag, him curving round me lying on my side. Sweet spooning, the sort of sappy thing I never imagined myself doing with a man before I met him. I've found myself liking it, occasionally. We stay in place as we plan our next three days, agreeing we want to start doing the sights tomorrow.

The last of those sights, I want to be some fit men's cocks!

*

Come morning, we're well rested and up for anything. They've set up a grand buffet breakfast for us and the few other guests. But even better for my perk level is the new guy behind the front desk this morning. I nudge Dan, motion with my eyes.

"Mm-mm!" He declares approval, though his mind's more on the food this time of day. Until the desk guy comes to us to indicate all the different food options: pastries and fruit, meat and cheese, yoghurt and cereal... He offers us drinks including 'American-style' coffee, which we both go for. His name is Kenan, and he suggests we sit in the courtyard, already sunny by the fig trees.

Kenan offers to join us if we want, to 'advise' us on where to go clubbing and all. Go with, more like! He discreetly returns to the reception area to let us discuss in private.

We enjoy our meal, then, once at the nibbling stage, sipping caffeine, I nod and Dan beckons the guy back over.

Because he's really well fit. Between my age and Dan's, I reckon, glossy black hair with curls combed back, sharp angled face and glowing red-bronze skin, slim build with muscles shown off with his stonewashed probably-fake Levi's and certainly-fake Gucci belt, crisp cotton shirt unbuttoned just enough to make me desperate to rip it off him. He comes over, with just the tiniest bit of sashay to his stride that makes clear he's not just working in a gay hotel by coincidence. He's a right ride, I reckon, and Dan's clearly thinking the same. Hot as fuck.

We set out our plans for the day to him -- Topkapi Palace, then probably the Hagia Sophia. Then a lighter meal than yesterday, followed by a nightclub. Which of this list of clubs would be good for finding talent?

We have to explain 'talent' as 'good-looking friendly men'. Kenan's English is OK, far from fluent; he understands Dan way more easily than me even when I try my best London accent. I ask if he speaks German; he does, but even less than his English. Ah, well.

"You like the songs, the disco music? Or the house, trance?" He goes, 'doof, doof, doof'.

We shrug. Dan will dance to anything with a bit of E inside him, or four beers, more likely. Easier to get hold of, nowadays. I'm no asset to a dance floor, so it doesn't really matter if the music is inferior to Eighties classics.

"We like..." I let my eye trail him up and down.

One raised eyebrow later, he's eyeing both of us up with clear approval, and a wee nod confirms his acceptance. He'll take us out later, to what he calls a 'dance-sex-club'. Whatever the music, how bad can that be? We declined the chance to be taken for a private tour of his father's carpet shop, given it clearly wasn't a euphemism for anything interesting.

The Topkapi is beautiful, set in exquisite gardens. We go for the tour, to get all the best info. "And this is the Harem, the area for the emperor's women." She puts the emphasis on the second syllable with a short E, explaining that there are about 100 rooms dating back to the late 1500s, more private than the other sections, with the Sultan's wives and concubines guarded by eunuchs.

Dan's not paying so much attention to the historical details, sketching ceramic tile patterns of foliage and impressions of the walls and roofs meeting, while I try to ignore my brain telling me all the fire risks inherent in the structure, and concentrate on the history. The Sultan Mehmet II and King Henry VIII would probably have got on. Or fucked or killed each other; mad egotist bastards the both of them.

The tour leaves us at this conservatory restaurant overlooking the gardens. The food looks good and it's clearly expected we'll buy lunch, so we co-operate and have a leisurely meal, Dan drawing some of the garden views and scribbling impressions of the waiters going past, while I read a couple of the guidebooks I brought with.

It's less than half a mile to the Hagia Sophia, so I suggest heading over in a bit.

"After the obligatory tea? Could you get me a mint one?" It's the best option if we don't want to rot our teeth away. "Cheers. Nice, this climate, innit?"

"Yeah." I'm smiling at him. I'm happy and I'm finally warm. It's not humid nor too dry.

"Holiday with history and posh food and that. I could get used to that."

"Good." I'm glad he's enjoying some of the same things that I like when I go abroad, in his different way.

The history of Hagia Sofia is fascinating, with many displays for me to read. I give him the highlights. Dan paces back and forth, studying how the arches and light and domes work, then selects a position and gets drawing. He'll be happy for hours, now. If the building palls, then there's the tourists to look at. I go admire the art.

All fine entertaining stuff, but eventually it's time to wander back to the hotel. I'm thinking of a quick meal, then following Kenan.

The proprietor and Kenan agree; we must try proper Turkish doner kebab. Dan tries to ask what the differences are, and merely gets that it's 'like an English kebab, only good'. "Here is a place to go." They write down what we should order.

It's a small joint like any kebab or chicken shop, with a high counter, half a dozen aluminium tables and a dozen matching chairs, and a queue, though most people are getting carry-out so we have no problem sitting down.

Crunchy veg, perfectly roasted juicy meat, chili and garlic sauce in a huge warm pitta bread. I have an ayran which surprises them -- not many tourists choose the watery salty yoghurt. But it quenches thirst brilliantly, not to mention looking and tasting like chilled creamy cum. I've never told anyone that. Dan is liking the local beer. He's relaxing, just like I wanted him to, but I'd better watch him in the club. Though I'd be vigilant anyway, in case we got slipped anything. Scamming drunk tourists is a world-wide sport, after all.

We go spruce up. Dan's got a T-shirt with extra-short sleeves that shows off his arm ink nicely. A good belt, bit of gel on his wee curls, and he's hot as fuck. I stick to a linen shirt -- can always undo it more when I get hot -- and chinos. Slicked-back hair, moisturiser, and I look OK. Kenan looks appreciative, so, job done.

Finding another bloke would be good, though. Threesomes are always a bit tricky, ensuring no-one's left out, all predictably taking turns being the one with cock at both ends. Four guys, however -- two and two in every configuration, or three and one to rest or to hold a camera -- I've had some right good nights like that.

Kenan's all slicked-back curly hair and a diamond earring, with an ironed tight shirt that's a bit risqué with mesh, rapidly hidden under a respectable blazer. He grins at us.

"It is short cab ride. Was closer, but they must -- had to -- leave that building. It is good place, men who like men can dance and everything, all night."

"Everything?" I'm thinking it, Dan says it.

Kenan shrugs. "Everything happens. But if men have some place to go back to, to nice hotel room..."

"You want to come back to our hotel room, then?" Dan's getting right good at seduction. I say seduction -- usually we just need a look, indicate both of us, and a questioning expression does it. Men really are embarrassingly easy, most of the time. I count myself among them.

The guy blushes a wee bit, hard to see, and smiles: 'yes'.

We grin back at him, trying not to look like a brace of hungry wolves. Not too much, anyhow.

In the cab, we all go in the back, Kenan doing the small talk, next to me, his thigh pressing against mine. He's got a Turkish scent on, lots of sandalwood and musk, but not too cloying, thankfully. I'd like to inhale him all round.

We're dropped off in a side street of semi-industrial buildings and wholesale stores. As soon as the cab leaves, Kenan leads us to a run-down Victorian-plastered shop front and rings the bell thrice. A guy talks to Kenan, who is clearly vouching for us. I pull out my wallet. It's cheaper in Euros, so I pay for all of us. Then we're allowed into the main space.

It's a club. Large dance floor, smaller back room where smoking is clearly tolerated, bar, toilets. About a hundred men, mainly looking like locals; a few immigrants or tourists like us. We're getting looks, for sure, but they're not hostile or challenging; they're assessing.

"Lots of talent," Dan murmurs in my ear.

"Good bunch of rides," I agree.

"What would you like?" Kenan asks. He's giving us our drinks as he speaks, so it's obvious what he means.

I'm suddenly shy. "Dance first," I tell him, implying there will be an after.

At a point where there's a gap in the music, the DJ being about eighteen and inexperienced, Dan's had another beer or two, so he's all cheerful. He taps Kenan on the shoulder to get his attention, holds the guy under his palm, and tells him, "Done the dancing. Now, he'd like a good fat cock; I'd like you." It sounds like cheeky banter, except it's all true.

It's fairly early still, but reached that point in the evening where guys all round us are already pairing up, holding each other's arses or rubbing each other off on the dance floor. Kenan grins at Dan, sliding his hands down my boy's back. "Let me talk with some friends."

He vanishes for a moment, while we get a dance to ourselves, me standing close between Dan's thighs, hanging onto him tight, praying he doesn't get any daft ideas like lifting me over his head. By the end of the unmemorable song Kenan's returned, with a few mates.

Two of them I really like the look of, in a 'happy to have them for the night' way. We all hang out round the edge of the floor a while, and Kenan makes some introductions that no-one is listening to, because we're all just looking each other up and down. Kenan points at the taller of the guys I liked and says, "He speaks German, he work in Berlin, four years."

Well, that clinches it; I mosey round to him, and screw anyone who says German can't be a seductive language: a simple "Wie geht's? Ich steh' auf dich," and he's interested. Likes me in that way, like I just told him. Dan would say it's my blue eyes and the Irish accent that attract people. I always tell him those are fine and good, but it's the fact I'm a great fucking slutty dirtbird that makes it easy for me to pull.

The bunch of us end up on the dance floor, all pressing together, that woodsy slightly sweet scent that the Turkish men favour mixing with their sweat, and hot men, literally hot and sweaty, clean but sticky... I mean, what's not to like?

My new friend has his hand on my arse and brings his shaved-this-morning cheek close to mine as he calls into my ear, "Was wollen wir machen?"

What would I like?

I take a step back so he can see my big grin, and I let my eyes run up and down. Then I get close again and murmur in his ear. "Dein Schwanz. Dein Mund, deine Lippen." I lay my hand on his cock as I say it, then a finger on and around his mouth.

He's amenable.

I look for Dan, check he's happy. He's got Kenan burrowed in his neck already, and blows me a tiny kiss. It means, go for it.

So I start on my guy. He's well-built, tall and solid, not fat. He likes my hair to get his hands in. I copy other men around the room and get my lips on his, arms around his firm body, while he reaches down to my sweet arse, which I rub against him when I turn around, making it completely clear what I'm offering.

Dan's watching.

He loves watching me, especially when I'm getting fucked. Last time he reached over and gripped my cock so I couldn't come, the bastard.

Dan talks to Kenan, while they're getting their hands all over each other. He beckons me and my guy over.

Kenan says we should go back to our hotel, our room, then he and his mate Ozan can sleep in another room when we want to sleep. It's the most civilised plan for a quick fuck I've heard in years, so I agree, squeezing Ozan's hand, then a hand on his crotch. Can't wait to get inside his trousers. Some guys are going to the back room where I can see the shadows of men kneeling, but the main dance floor is comparatively restrained. So we are, too.

Until we're back at the hotel, where Kenan argues in a forceful mutter to the kid on night duty. Presumably, 'No, my mate isn't here and isn't getting his ID photocopied and put on the official hotel records, thank you', but the kid gives in and it's upstairs to our room. I'm being slowed down on the stairs by Ozan mashing me into the wall for a grope. His meat presses into my thigh in a good advert for what's to come.

By our standards, it's not so filthy a night, not yet. Dan's been stroking up and down Kenan's back and arse most of the evening, and finally has the opportunity to open his fly in front of Kenan's hot young mouth, standing two steps above him. At home, he'd have done that on a dance floor. Kenan gives him a cheeky literal lick and a promise before shoving him up the stairs towards our room. I open the door seeing as I'm stone-cold sober, and push this Ozan guy through it.

Safe behind a locked door, this party can get started.

Hell, yeah.

Dan throws his jacket at a chair, followed by his T-shirt. Topless is his usual look, anywhere he can. His bare chest, hints of muscle on his lean body, all pale with a dusting of golden hair, his dark bands of ink on one upper arm, it's all worth looking at, but the winner is Dan's merry face that's admiring Kenan kneeling when Dan goes to sit on the bed, and then the sight when my man pulls his flies open wide... Clearly, my naughty boy has been wearing nothing underneath!

He's got me stiff as iron even before I look down at Kenan, also bare from the waist up, beautiful red-gold skin with a sheen of sweat from all the dancing. This new acquaintance is getting his sweet red mouth round my man's great long dick, generously sucking away, so obviously I approve of the guy. Can't wait to see Dan spurting all over him.

I'm not wanting to ignore his big mate who's holding me, neither.

Ozan has been stripping off. He's down to loose boxers, worn thin but who cares, because I can see the satisfactory shape of him through them. The rest of the shape of him is good too -- solid, broad-shouldered, muscular arms reaching round me. We're back to standing chest-to-chest, his generous mat of black coir hair scraping over my scarcely-haired torso, our sweaty sheens mingling. I've opened my shirt all the way down and he pushes it aside rather than pulling it off; I guess he likes that filthy feeling of working around clothes, all desperate, so I just undo my buttons and shove my trousers down to fall above my knees. Now we're touching briefs to briefs, getting damp as we leak. He tugs the front of mine down, my cock standing proud already. I get both hands on the job and wrestle his shorts out the way.

Here we go.

Cock to cock.

Burning hot contact. Gay as fuck as we each grab the other one and yank away, wanting to look but wanting our mouths all over each other too, so it's that constant dance, sneaking peeks down at where our hands are.

He's rough with me and it's wonderful, a big calloused hand taking me in hand. His cock is as thick as promised, more than I can get my thumb and forefinger round, not that my hands are that large. Still, good and fat, if not as long as Dan. Variety spices up life and all that. I rub him with my thumb, then drop down to get my mouth over him for a minute, because how could I not want such a glorious red shaft in my mouth, reeking of male sweat and leaking sticky cum already?

My jaws are stretched apart and start to ache immediately, which I love. But then I tell him, "I want to get fucked." With hand gestures, to make sure.

He's not arguing with that. In no time he's rubbered up and I'm on my back applying lube like there's no tomorrow, because it's gonna be needed for this dude. Big time.

I reach down to start stretching myself, but he takes over, fingers, then two thumbs pulling me apart, then back to more fingers. I'm still sober, so it takes a fair bit to relax my arse and get it to open wide. I may be easy, but over two inches across is still a bit of a challenge. Can't wait!

Kenan's lying on the bed beside me, now. Dan's kneeling between his legs, giving a blow job I'm right envious of, but then Dan shows off -- look, no hands! -- and reaches to tease the head of my cock.

I groan while both Dan and Ozan chuckle above me. Ozan has got the message and starts playing with my dick in his left hand, his right feeling around my arse, propped up on his left forearm.

I wonder if he's going to suggest fisting me instead, which I'm much less sure about, only because his hand's fucking enormous and I want to have more sex this week. And I want my arse filled now, not in an hour's time. But he doesn't, just lines up his squat cock against my desperate hole and asks if I'm ready.