Turkish Delight

"Naja, sofort!" Yes. Immediately. Now!

He has to pull me open around his cock-head using his fingers, his girth is so great, which of course just emphasises that I'm opening my queer arse for a man's fat cock. Once the first inch is in, it's fine -- I happily stretch round him, easing myself up and along his pole, fuller than I've been in months. Just the thought of being so rudely penetrated, with a stranger's dick, gets me hard. When it's actually happening, filling me up -- I'm speechless.

Turns out, I'm not. Despite my panting, I manage to gasp a couple very important words. "Mehr!" More. "Nochmal!" Again!

This Ozan dude hoiks me up a few inches, letting his cock force deeper inside me as it stretches me wider around him. When I make clear I can take it, he holds my legs straight over his shoulders and buggers my brains out, doing his hardest to turn me into the sex-obsessed gaping arse-bandit I am already.

There's a splash on my side. Dan's made Kenan come, spurting his spunk all over Dan as well as soaking the bed-cover and leaving puddles on me and the cute Turkish lad. His job done, Dan sits up to enjoy watching me being fucked senseless, this thick red cock forcing me open round his hairy base, and he can tell I'm about to lose it. The crying and howling is a clue -- never asked about sound insulation here; ah well. But the real tell is how I'm fixing my calves on the man's shoulders as I force his cock into me as deep as it goes, rubbing off on him so my happy gland feels it on every single thrust.

I'm pushing against him as much as he's ramming into me, and sure it's a match made in heaven so how can I be going to hell for it?

Dan notices.

Quiet and calm, he reaches out his hand to hold my cock still, squeezing it tight at the base.

It's too much. I need to come, need to spurt all over him and these strangers, but it's too tight and I physically can't.

Which the bastard knows. He smiles, all fake innocence, and my arsehole trembles with my release at that end, seeing as I can't up front. The pulsating in my ring continues when finally, after such a prolonged sweet torture, he releases his grip and strokes, softly, up my cock and down over my suede-soft ball-sack.

Kenan bends over next to him, to take the end of my cock into his mouth. That's where his mate can't hold back, thumping into my arse as he holds my thighs tight to his hairy chest.

I can't hold back either.

I scream as I come.

Any man would have, subjected to that.

Dan catches some of my cum on his arm and drinks it. His face is already dripping from getting a facial from Kenan. He's one happy bunny, gazing at the effect the three of them have had on me. I let my heart rate slow to normal and focus on that amazing ache of feeling just-fucked.

I lie there, accepting a firm handshake from Thick Dick. Ozan, I recall, as he dresses to go. Kenan's a right flirty tart so he kisses me on the mouth, but he's now clinging onto his mate, all cute, simpering, and tight pretty arse, so I suspect it won't be the end of their night even once they're in their own bedroom. Kenan's written his phone number for us, across a card advertising Ozan's family's carpet shop.

Dan waves them off, salute for Ozan, passionate kisses for Kenan, because Dan's just as much a flirt that way. Soon as the door's bolted, he's back with me, lying in my arms.

"You're so pretty," he tells me.

"Not. Just a middle-aged slapper."

"Forgetting you ain't middle-aged yet, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that's me. Your face, all fucked out -- gorgeous. You've seen my drawings. Your cock? Made for sucking. Then your lovely little hole, stretched beyond belief? Trust me, Adrian, your arse is a marvel. Definitely a thing of beauty, your arse. Specially when it's stuffed. Modern Wonder of the World, more like."

He had a fourth beer, I can tell. He always gets verbose about my fuckability when he's drunk.

It's kinda cute.

He brushes his teeth, hauls me to the bathroom to do mine, but then we just go to sleep in the bed, still covered in sticky sweat and drying spunk.

He may love getting clean, but he loves getting dirty just as much, and I love him for it.

That next morning, Kenan isn't on duty; it's the older guy. A silver fox, in Dan's opinion. I wouldn't go quite that far myself, but I wouldn't say no if that's what Dan's gone there to ask.

It isn't. He's getting recommendations of Turkish baths. He's not looking for a brothel, but we would like one with possibly persuadable options for mutual optional extras, if you know what I mean. The silver-streaked guy clearly understands.

"Friendly young men, yes? Perhaps, something. Yes, there is one bath that is welcoming to men doing all sorts in the hammam -- after getting clean and massaged, of course. I will take you, this afternoon. You are not looking to pay beyond the entry fee; I understand. The workers there, they are not for sale. But they may be friendly. Or the other customers may be friendly, too. I cannot guarantee it." He's clearly thinking we can probably charm some of the staff, no problem. "Now, do you have an appointment today to look at some of the finest carpets in all of Turkey?"

We escape the hard-sell of rugs and spend the morning shopping in the Grand Bazaar, avoiding yet more carpet-sellers in the covered alleyways. We get stocked up on spices and nuts, some jewellery for Laura and Linz, a fantastic ceramic fruit bowl that we buy because in our efforts not to, the seller had ended up chasing us down the street and making it a ridiculously cheap amount so we felt we had to, and we hit a run of leather jacket shops. I want something new, so I drag Dan in one.

Four chaps swarm to us. I try on a black blazer, which doesn't fit. Within seconds I'm being passed one in my size; when I touch the slit pockets and demur, one with better flap-protected pockets is provided. I express dissatisfaction with the buttons; they point at one with buttons I like and confirm, five minutes, can change. The price they are saying is a bit more than I'd pay, but not much. One chap is on the buttons already. Then I point at Dan.

"Get yourself a decent jacket."

"Me, in a shiny sports coat? I'd look a right poncy wanker!"

I have a think. Then a word with a guy they've grabbed from two doors down who knows German, which works better than miming with the phrasebook. "What would he look good in? Short, show off his legs and backside? Maybe brown?"

There's some muttering and considering, then he finds himself swamped by men foisting bomber jackets on him. He runs with it, pointing at the bits he objects to, stupid collar, silly belt, too tight here, loose there, until after about twenty jackets he runs out of complaints and I'm admiring my man in a soft mid-brown leather I want both to fondle him in and to rip him out of.

Next step, haggling over the price. There's a discount for Euros, and for cash, then a discount for refusing the first price. A bit of chat earns us a few more quid off if we take both, then I'm considering saying yes, when I notice the designer labels in both jackets. Versace and Prada, they claim. Aye, right.

I point, they make a token defence that I am indeed handling 100% designer goods, then they remove another ten percent with a wink. We could probably keep going, but we want our baths trip, so I agree to a bargain price similar to Primark pleather. Result. I'll have to recommend this to Laura. The chaps offer us the chance to visit a cousin's carpet warehouse -- buy quality carpets, very good price, drink tea while we look -- but we smile and decline.

Back at the hotel, we find Altan, who leads us to his 'friendly' bath-house.

It's about two-thirds of a mile away down lots of small winding side streets. We stand around the reception area together, admiring the fretwork, climbing plants and ceramic tiles, while Altan confirms a price for the full hammam service, assuring us they promise not to rip us off.

We're given locker keys on wristbands, and instructed to leave everything behind, just one cotton towel round our waists, one optionally on the shoulders or head. Then enter.

We strip off. His pink and gold body, my pale one with a hint of brown, two dark stripes of his tattoo, two white towels.

The carved hardwood doors move easily. There's a small marble-lined corridor, so we wander along to the next set of doors, less ornate, bit suffering from damp in the corners. But we can smell and feel steam already, and Dan the water-baby is grinning like mad. He's got a fetish for running water, he loves naked men, and he's on holiday about to get scrubbed and massaged. This must be his idea of heaven.

Even before two fit young men wearing short shorts and nothing else come to greet us. Both late twenties, short black bristly hair, and decorative. They hand us laminated sheets with explanations of what to expect.

Picture of a clock: "Relax 30 MIN", then pic of soap, towels and scrubbing brush next to a stick figure leaning over one covered in bubbles. Pic of buckets of water. Then arrows to a horizontal rectangle, then a stick man doing massage. Or stick man bending over the client getting a blow job off him; it's hard to tell. We get the gist.

We're led into a huge domed room, twenty yards or more across. Walls, floor and ceiling are all of white and grey marble, the giant domed ceiling containing smoky glass blocks in complex geometric patterns which let in a slightly foggy light. The only furnishing is a raised octagonal platform of marble in the centre, with a central smooth column containing a fountain that's sending warm bubbling water flowing all over. There's a wide sloping gutter round the bottom of the platform, which has a few inches of cool water in it.

Four naked men are lying down on one side of the platform, looking like locals. Nice toned arses to look at. Another dozen men could easily fit on the raised marble, without any risk of touching. The air's pleasantly warm on my bare white skin, but it's not hot like a sauna or steam room. A slight damp smell is hidden beneath the scents of soap and sandalwood.

The guy points at our info sheet again, to a pic of a toilet in the corner, and jabs his finger at a door in an alcove. We nod and smile. He shows us where we should lie down in this warm steamy hall. Our towels are taken and hung on hooks on the wall; no modesty round here, which is fine by us. Bare-arsed naked men, as Nature intended.

The man points us at the start of the sequence on our cards.

"Thirty minutes," Dan agrees, beaming at the lad with the most obvious 'wanna fuck?' face I've seen all week. Not that I blame him. The wee white shorts show up his warm olive-golden skin and this lush chest and firm legs. His quiet mate has pretty much the same in red-brown, slightly shorter and more muscular physique, plus thick black hair on his arms that shines with the moisture.

I'm looking at the second man as I confirm I've understood too. "Half an hour." Given the locals struggle with my accent I try to clarify, "Dreißig Minuten." And then this guy will be putting his hands all over my naked body. I give him a cheeky wee smile.

First man hears, asks and is dead relieved I speak German -- he explains neither of them know much English beyond what they learned in school, but he lived three years near Leipzig, so he can speak pretty well.

"You like my friend?"

"So far, very good," I tell him.

"You both lie down here, relax. See you soon."

Dan and the friend have just about followed this. We both recline on the warm grey marble, warm water an inch deep flowing across it, and lie on our backs watching the patterns from light coming through the small cloudy glass chunks set into the roof, flowery patterns ebbing and flowing as clouds pass over. The two masseurs push off to start soaping up two of the other men in the room, huge piles of bubbles almost hiding them before buckets of water are thrown over them to rinse them off.

I swear Dan's practically orgasming just looking at them. He's lying on his front, now, with that twist to his back that betrays he's got hard. I reach out to take his hand, sweeping through the water.

"Best idea ever, love," he tells me happily.

"Eh, best wait on your review. I hear the washing and scrubbing can be a bit painful." The chap getting soaped now is breathing heavily, and is grunting and shouting as Dan's guy attacks him with scrubbing brushes and a stack of little cloths.

"I'll bear that in mind," he says, watching closely how the client is having his arse soaped up, the guy blowing up a soaked soapy pillowcase into a balloon, then squeezing it to make another pile of white bubbles to rub into the man's dark crack before his whole arse is scrubbed hard, leaving him red and glowing. He's made to turn over, showing off his upright cock, and it's more soaping and scrubbing, mostly more gently, a cloth used to rub his face, and then a soaped cloth over his groin, getting all that black wiry hair squeaky clean, not to mention every wrinkle of soft sexy skin.

When the washcloth is removed, the guy's dick is no longer sticking up. Given Dan's love of a wank in the shower, not to mention me regularly sucking him off there, this is practically personalised porn for him.

As the guy has buckets of water poured over him, some ripples of soapy water washing around us, Dan's mouth opens in adoration. He's wanting to quickly rub one out before it's his turn, I can tell. I could help him out, but all too soon both they staff blokes are approaching us. Guess the other customers didn't pay for a massage.

Dan whimpers.

"Chill! They're clearly not going to throw you out for jizzing in their water! Let it happen."

We've been lying in the warmth for what must be the promised half-hour, not overheated nor thirsty like we'd be in a sauna. Normally I'd be a bit stiff after that long on a rock-hard floor, but the running water and air temperature seem to have prevented that. I'm up for whatever happens next.

Which is good, as my guy motions to get me to move a couple yards away from Dan, checks I'm lying comfortably on my front, and starts whacking me with his wet soapy pillowcase.

It's not comfortable. A bit painful, in fact, and I don't really go in for pain, any more. But it's not as bad as being beaten with a wet towel -- this man's clearly not trying to hurt me on purpose.

Then just as it starts to get really too much, from neck to feet for a third time, he eases off and gets to rubbing the soap in with his hands. It's more superficial but as firm as a massage, brisk vigorous strokes. More whacks over my arse and legs, then running the soft soap suds all over to soothe me. My leg hairs have never been so clean.

He runs the sudsy cloth up my arse-crack -- plausible deniability that he's touching me up, but I open my legs and let the coarse fabric stroke across my cock and balls. It's intense, a mixture of pleasure and dispassionate effectiveness, on the edge of hugely erotic but not quite there.

For me, that is. Dan looks like he's thanking all the gods for the painful edge on the blows that softened his prick enough that he can lie on his front, but then the firm lathering is basically all his fantasies playing out, and he can't hold back a moan.

I laugh. These guys will have seen it all; they're not going to be offended.

The man gestures at me to turn over. He lays one soapy pillowcase over my cock in a token modesty gesture, whacks the breath out of me with another.

"Fuckin' 'ell!" I gasp.

He grins at me, raises his eyebrows all cheeky. There's a bit of token thwapping of the thing onto my chest and thighs, but then he casts it aside and rubs the bubbles all over the rest of me.

As he runs both slippery hands up my leg, he holds my gaze, I hold his. I open my legs a bit more and nod, encouraging him to do as much as he wants or is comfortable with. It's the tiniest wee shrug he gives, not overtly offering anything, but I think the way he's making his hands slide up so they end just under the towel is a little more than he might do normally.

When the bubbles get pushed over my cock, I sigh happily and there's the glimmer of a smile on him. Maybe he'll only want to tease a bit, but that's fine too -- I've got my guaranteed ride all ready to deal with my greedy cock any time. If not here, then back at the hotel.

Though I look this man up and down, meaningfully, you know what I mean. I'd lay money his square frame, with sturdy muscular chest and shoulders, fits a good fat cock. Can't really tell with those white denim shorts.

He gives a tiny crinkle at the corner of his mouth, soaps my tired feet firmly, so even being ticklish it just feels good, then comes up my legs again and rubs the soap carefully with his fingertips into that crease in between my thigh and groin, knowing exactly what he's doing to me, even before I spread my legs wide like the complete tart I am.

He doesn't touch my cock at all. Whether that's because it's being saved for later, or he has his limits, I don't care.

My guy fetches more buckets of warm water to rinse me off with, bubbles sloshing all over, then pats me down gently with some towels. Including the cock. Then there's a proper smile.

"I see you, ten minutes, for massage?"

I beam back. "Looking forward to it."

There's a moan from my man next to me. He's getting rinsed off, which explains it. Never met anyone with such an obsession for being in water. Loving that hot clear water flowing over his body, feeling the bubbles slide off him to the floor. He's probably jizzing into the water, unable to control himself. My filthy, filthy boy.

In his mind, that is. His body is squeaky clean. We couldn't be any cleaner without getting fingers up our arses! Which I'm kinda hoping for, that or anything else, but Dan's cautious in that area.

Still scared, more like. He used to open up for loads of guys, but then his last Army posting had some men in denial about their desires who treated him carelessly, and he's not enjoyed a cock there since. Not even mine; in the year we've known each other, I've worked up to a frequent finger, and that took months. He wants to get over his hang-up, get back to being a happy filled tart occasionally, even though we'll probably mostly stick to him fucking my brains out. He's got a good long cock he knows how to wield; I'm a slutty faggot who loves his hole being filled, deep, firm, and as hard as any man can go.

It's a match made in heaven, really. We're both enthusiastic cock-suckers. He can tease me with his mouth and hands for hours, better than any porn on the telly, and his reaction when I get my tongue on his hole, his golden furry buns pressing down my face -- if I can get him begging for my cock in the same way, it'll be the hottest thing in the world.

Begging and able to follow through, like he wants, that is. I've been wondering if this holiday might relax him enough to handle it. Let him have his long shower and lay back on the crisp white cotton of our hotel room bed, all magically clean and ironed and bearing no trace of what we were up to last night. Could get used to that level of service. He's looking great at the moment, in his element with this body-temperature water running all over his naked young body.

The massage is good, firm but not painful like the soaping and scrubbing were. We're still on hard marble plinths, in a side alcove, so no cushioning on the table at all; just as well it's more gentle. Dan looks like a marble statue lying there on the stone, near-prone, arse bent a little towards me, all pale and beautiful. Until his guy pushes thumbs into his arse-cheeks and he's gasping from both the pain and the pleasure of it. I don't want him tensing up or worrying, so I tell my guy quietly, "Nothing, in his arse, OK? Gar nichts, im Arsch. Keins."