A Life of Yes Ch. 07-08

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Double Penetration

Chapter Seven: Retreat

I left England with open-ended tickets on flights down to northern, Turkish, Cyprus. I hadn’t made any arrangements at all for once I got to Cyprus. I had no idea how long I’d linger there or where I would go from there. I had no idea when–or if, sexually–I’d go from there. All I had were images of Turkish men on top of me and inside me in my mind and the need to get away from my life in London and my unsatisfactory prospects with Nigel, trying to trade incomplete sexual satisfaction for a lasting relationship that Nigel didn’t seem to be seeking. I didn’t know when I’d go back to England, or even if I’d ever go back to England. I could always go back to New York and try to reestablish the plans I’d had there. Maybe I’d go back to New York, or home, to Philadelphia. I could just stay in Cyprus, although I had no idea what I’d do there beyond latching onto some hunky Turk who would manhandle me and make me forget about anything but skipping along the clouds on a sexual high. At some point sexuality would pass my age and fitness by, though, and then where would I be?

For now, though, I wanted to live just in the moment. If I said “yes,” I wanted it to be because I wanted something not because of how others wanted to use me.

I became the free-loving character of the porn movies I had been in. Red dye was worked into my hair–not just my head hair but my pubes as well. I’d let my beard and mustache grow to just over a stubble and worked red into those as well. I was wearing the green-shaded contacts in my eyes. I had had the gecko tattoo redone on my lower belly–permanently inked this time.

I determined that I would give my body freely, seeking a man who controlled and dominated and gave me a bit of the cruel, brutal. I wanted to feel it when a man made love to me–no, when a man used me roughly for sex, when a man took his sexual pleasure on me. I got off on a man conquering me and using me for his sexual pleasure. I wanted to be lost in a man taking his wanton pleasure on my body. I wanted to fully use my body while I still had one men desired.

I didn’t stop in Istanbul to see Altan Tilki. I could keep him as a fallback plan if I found I wanted to stay in the Turkish lifestyle of manhandling dominant men. He would take care of me, I was sure, if I went to him. He’d probably even have a job for me in modeling in Istanbul. But he’d also want me to do movies, and movies was one of the aspects of my life that I was trying to shed. One thing was sure, though. If I went to him. He’d use my body as it needed to be used.

Thus, I arrived at Ercan airport on the central Cyprus Mesaoria plane with no idea where to go and what to do and no one to meet me. There were three rusting taxis outside the arrivals lounge, with three Turks leaning against one of them and having an animated conversation when I emerged and looked around me in some confusion. They broke off their conversation and all came to me at once. I addressed the hunkiest of the three, a solidly built, hirsute man in his forties who was handsome of face, muscular of body, self-confident in his strut, and with a big smile.

“Nereye gitmek istiyorsun, yakışıklı? Erol seni alacak. Çok ucuz,” he said to me.

I gave him a questioning look. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Turkish.”

“Erol asked you where you wanted to go. That he’d drive you there cheap. Any of us will, for that matter,” said one of the other drivers. They were looking at me with an assessment of what I was and what I wanted–not just from the way I was dressed and how I was holding myself but also because of which of the drivers I went to. I’d gone to hunkiest one.

“He called you handsome,” the other driver said, and laughed.

“Güzel bir Türk kadını istiyorsun. Seni Lefkosa ‘ya götürebilirsin. Çok, çok güzel,” said his friend.

“Kadın istemiyor. Adam istiyor. Birkaç yıl önce onu burada homo filmi yaparken gördüm. O horoz alır,” said the first driver, Erol, leaning in to me, leering at me, and popping his tongue in his cheek.

I looked on, bewildered, as the three laughed. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you know where you want to go or do you want me to take you where I want to take you?” the man who was identified as Erol said. “Anyway, come with me.” He took my arm and guided me to his taxi. He was taking command. Wasn’t that what I was here for?

“I don’t know where I want to go,” I said. “I’ve been here before and spent time in Girne. So, maybe I should see something else on the island.”

“Then I take you to Salamis,” he said with an “and that’s final” voice. “You must see all that we have to offer.”

When we were in the taxi, I asked, “What were you men saying back there?”

“Temur, he said he’d take you to Lefkosa, the capital, and take you to a very nice woman to play with, but I said I’d seen you here before–two years ago. You were here doing a dirty movie. I told them you didn’t want a woman. You take cock, and you take it hard–at least Demetevler Escort you did in the movie. You are here for Turkish men, is that not true?”

“Yes, that’s true,” I admitted.

“I give men cock,” Erol said, “so the other two knew that I would be your driver. They have jealous wives. I will drive you hard. We go to Salamis now. The Salamis Bay Hotel is a very nice hotel. Right next to the ancient ruins. We go to the hotel. I show you the ruins. We go to nice gay bar I know of on beach. Then we go back to the hotel and I fuck you good. I saw you in the movie. You want a man to be rough with you, yes? I can do that. I give strong fuck.”

He didn’t seem to require an answer from me, so I didn’t try to give him one. I’d already admitted that I’d come back to Turkish Cyprus for hunky Turkish men. This was why I’d come to Cyprus. I came for straightforward hung hunks who took control. I had come back to where I had been filmed in a porn movie, hadn’t I? I’d taken on the signatures of the character in that movie. At least subconsciously I was inviting men I encountered here to connect me with the character in that movie–and with what I’d let a man do with me in sex. I was inviting recognition and a short circuit to rough sex just by coming here, in the submissive character I played in rough-sex films.

And what could I say about such an itinerary? That’s what we did. As we drove east from the airport, he put his left hand on my knee–the Cypriots drive on the left–and then on my basket. Having satisfied himself that I was hard, he took my hand and placed it on his basket. He was hard too–and hung. Somehow from the way he had swaggered back in the taxi lot at the airport, I knew he would be hung.

“I fuck you, yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I affirmed.

He laughed. “I knew you would want what Erol has to give you,” he declared. “You are a slut for it.”

He was right. I had come here to be a slut for it. I was a slut for Erol. I lay down on the bed, spread my legs, elevated my tail, and took Erol’s cock.

* * * *

My chest was pressed into the mattress. My face was more like smashed into the scratchy chenille bedspread and I was having trouble breathing. But that didn’t matter to Erol. He was in back of me, inside me, crouched over me. The fingers of one of his hands were gripping the hair on the back of my head, hard, and pressing my face into the bedspread. He was slapping my bare buttocks with the other hand, making me flinch to the extent I was able to inside his control.

We’d barely gotten into the fifth-story Salamis Bay Hotel room, the furnishings sparse but with a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean to the east, toward the mainland of Turkey, when he’d forced me to my knees, unbuttoned his baggy trousers, and pushed his erect cock between my lips. He’d pulled me up by my hair and pressed me down on my belly on the bed. My right arm had been pulled into a painful hammerlock as he worked his cock inside my channel and then his left hand was pressing my face into the bedspread as he began moving inside me. He had strapped my back and buttocks with his folded belt while he fucked me. The ruins of the ancient city of Salamis, founded supposedly by the fleets returning from the sacking of Troy and mostly put under the water by an earthquake sometime between 333 and 336 A.D., could be seen from the balcony of the room and I thought he was going to take me there that afternoon. But just as Troy was laid bare, Erol was vanquishing me instead in my hotel room.

I wanted to cry out that much of what he’d seen of me in the porn movies was simulated. That I didn’t usually get fucked this roughly. But I’d come to Cyprus wanting something like this, so I didn’t say anything.

He took me up into the clouds with the strength of his cock. He worked to get his cock inside me from behind, while I whimpered and gasped for breath. He pulled out and stood and I rolled and went to sit up at the foot of the bed. But he slapped me and growled, “Burada kal. Daha fazla aç. Horoz derin alın–Stay put. Open up more. Take the cock deep!” The slap put me on my back. His left hand snaked up, grasped my throat, and choked me as he was positioning his cock with his right hand. Then the fucking started in earnest. He raised my right ankle to his left shoulder and held it there in a painful grip as he worked his cock in deep, muttering, “Bana açık. Al şunu. Al şunu!–Open to me. Take it. Take it!” as he went deeper and deeper. He was thick and I opened only slowly until I relaxed, spread open, and pulled him deep into my central core, into my gut.

“Evet! Yes. Yes. Yes!” I cried out in a voice muffled by the restricting pressure on my throat. This was where I wanted a man to work me but I rarely granted a man access. He was fucking me at the core. He laughed, pulled his cock out almost to the surface, and thrust forward. “Fuck!” I exclaimed. Then he did it again… Otele gelen escort and then again. And then he was creaming me deep with his cum.

He didn’t apologize for taking me brutally or bareback–or for taking me at all. He hadn’t asked permission. It was doubly satisfying for me that he hadn’t. He showered while I was still lying on the bed on my back, panting, and came out of the bathroom, rubbing his curly salt-and-pepper hair with a towel but otherwise naked. He showed no embarrassment with his naked body, nor did he have any reason to. He was stocky, but he was muscular and hard as a rock. His balls hung low and his magnificent cock was in half erection still.

“Shower and dress,” he commanded. “We have time to see the front part of the ruins and there’s a taverna nearby. You’ve had Shawarma before?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but, yes, I knew the Turkish dish of shaved spit-roasted beef, chicken, or lamb. “Afterward we go to Sulayman’s. Then we come back here and I fuck you good. I watched the movie you did in Kibris more than once. I wanted you too. But you’re different. I have dreamed of my lips on that lizard tattoo.”

“They both were just for the movies then,” I said. “Just for pretend. I just had this one done more recently.” I almost also said that the rough taking in the movies wasn’t all real. Some of it was just for show. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I was afraid he’d go all tame for me.

“Lanet olsun, sadece rol yapmıyor–The fuck isn’t just pretend,” he said.

“No, it wasn’t,” I answered. “Come back to bed. Fuck me again.”

He smiled, taking my answer as a compliment of his sexual prowess and forceful technique, which he had every right to do. If he’d had any worries that I would claim he forced me, they were dispelled. He laughed at the request to return to the bed, but he clearly was pleased at the stroking of his ego. He was thoroughly the Turkish man–just what I’d decided the doctor had ordered up for me.

He was satisfied that I’d ask him for a repeat. He didn’t actually come back onto the bed and inside me. That was just as well. I was still recovering from his first assault.

The taverna was on the water and we sat outside through the sunset–going down behind us, not over the water–and feasted on pressed meat in pita bread Shawarmas, mixed grill, and fresh fruit. Beer took us into the mixed grill course and then we shared a bottle of Cankaya wine. The taverna was crowded and boisterous. Several of the patrons seemed to know Erol, and I asked him if he lived in the Salamis area. He was a bit evasive, but I got the impression that he lived in the center of the island, in the divided capital known as Lefkosa on this side of the line between the Greek and Turkish zones and Nicosia on the others. I also got the impression that he was married and had a family, but again he avoided talking about that, and as he’d very recently been fucking me, I could understand why. He took the empty wine battle back to the taxi when we left. I asked what use he had for that, but he just smiled. I had paid for everything, naturally, and did so at the club as well.

The club he took me to, Sulayman’s, was just a cleared space above the beach north of the Salamis Bay Hotel that was enclosed by a grass-webbed fence, but open to the sea. Colored lights were streamed everywhere and the music was loud. There was a long bar under a grass roof along one side. It must have been a very popular night venue for gays, as it was crowded and the dancers were wedged together in the center of the space. Gays from all over the island must have been there–and from beyond as well. I saw Cael, the waiter from Rita’s on the Rocks, with the restored vintage Ford Fairlane, who had fucked me on the hillside below St. Hillarion castle. And I saw Altan Tilki, with the cameraman for Kibris Delight, Tari. They all were in a swirl, though, and Erol kept me on a tight rein. I wasn’t even sure that they had seen me.

Here too everyone seemed to know Erol and to give him respect and deference. Turkish Cyrus was such a small, self-contained community that I could well believe that everyone knew each other–and each other’s business. It was exhilarating that knowing Erol’s preferences and activity and accepting it even though they all must know he was married and had a family was tolerated here as it was. Even being a taxi driver apparently didn’t diminish Erol as a prime, admired example of Turkish manhood. A man servicing men could live more freely here than almost anywhere else, I was coming to believe. I think it made a difference if he was a top–giving it rather than receiving it.

We were quite tipsy when we left Sulayman’s, me more than Erol apparently. As we went up in the elevator from the lobby to my fifth-floor room, I noticed that he was dragging along the empty Cankaya bottle from the taverna, but my head was swirling and I didn’t ask him why he had Balgat Escort it. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference if I had. When we got into the room, he punched me in the stomach and then took an uppercut to my chin as I was going down. When I came back into some semblance of consciousness, I was naked, on my back, on the bed, my wrists tied to the headboard and my legs spread and bent, one of my feet flat on the mattress and my other ankle on Erol’s shoulder. My briefs were stuffed in my mouth, and Erol was crouched between my thighs, humming, and fucking me with the Cankaya wine bottle.

I thrashed around in somewhat of a slow motion as I was drunk, but I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know that there was a wine bottle fucking my ass. I whimpered and groaned as best I could, trussed up and gagged as I was. The wine bottle was extracted and Erol replaced that with his bunched-up fingers up to the knuckles. The bottle had opened my up quite a bit. I calmed down and relaxed when he came up over me, hovering on top of me. He pulled the briefs out of my mouth and covered my mouth with his. I returned his kiss hungrily. He slid his cock in, deep, and fucked and breeded me in my core, blasting me with his cum. When we got to the point, I fully went with the fuck, rolling and rocking my pelvis to the rhythm of his stroking deep inside me.

“Evet, Evet,” I cried out, begging for the fuck.

When he had come and was pulling out of me, I made an effort to sit up, but he clocked me on the chin again and I blacked out. When I woke, in the morning, I no longer was bound. Erol was gone. So was the wad of Turkish lira I had exchanged at the airport. My credit cards were hidden away elsewhere, so my trip wasn’t ruined.

I’m sorry to say that I thought of Erol in terms of the loss of opportunity. He fucked me masterfully and he certainly was inventive. I wondered, with a bit of regret, where we would have gone from there sexually if he had stayed with me. This was the intense sex that I had come here to find.

I didn’t care if he was a taxi driver. I didn’t even care if he had a wife and children in Lefkosa. I only cared about the high quality of his rough fucking. If he hadn’t realized that, he was the one who lost opportunity.

* * * *

I was here in a remote area of the island, without transportation or guidance or the need to be anywhere. I had no plans to fulfill and what Erol had taken was just a bit of local cash I’d exchanged until I could get to a bank. It was no more than what I would be expected to pay him for the services he rendered to me, if he were a rent-boy–or that I would have charged a guy, since the reality is that I’d turned into a rent-boy. The hotel had banking privileges and accepted the credit cards I had, so I was easily replenished. I didn’t mention that Erol had stolen from me. That would be a serious charge here in northern Cyprus. Erol had given me what I needed the previous day even though he surely thought it had been too much. It hadn’t been.

I supposed that somehow I needed to find a way to get someplace more populated–to Lefkosa or back to Girne, with which I had some familiarity. But as long as I was here, I decided to check out the ruins of this ancient city said to have been founded by the soldiers returning from the sacking of Troy and destroyed so long ago by an earthquake. It would have been nice to have a guide, but the hotel had guidebooks. The ruins started right beyond the hotel’s terrace. I wouldn’t need transportation there. I could worry how to get to the more populated areas of the island tomorrow… or the day after that. A taxi ride to either the capital or Girne wouldn’t be expensive.

I walked into the ruins toward a well-preserved open amphitheater that was marked on the map in one of the brochures I had been given. I was well into the ruins, thinking that I was alone, when I saw Cael, the waiter from Rita’s who had taken me for a ride and ridden me in the closing scene of Kibris Delight. It was a weekday in the early fall and Salamis is off the beaten track, even for Cyprus, so I expected to be the only one in the ruins. But there he was, still as dark and sexy as he had been two years earlier. He was guiding a couple, an elderly plump woman and gangly man, whose voices carried to me and marked them as Germans. I wasn’t totally surprised, as I had seen Cael at Sulayman’s the previous evening. He saw me too and smiled, not showing a great deal of surprise either. So, he must have caught a glimpse of me at the gay bar too.

I passed them, giving the couple a nod and Cael a smile, and moved on to the amphitheater. From there I was drawn deeper into what must have been the religious center of the city. The brochure said there had been a large Christian population here, established by Paul and Barnabas on their travels across the island, and I found what had been a basilica, roofless now but still with pillared passages running along inside the side walls, a low altar on the sea side of the ruin, and a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean beyond that. Two thirds of the ancient city lay under the water that I looked over as I stood by the altar.

It was here that Cael caught up with me, having ushered the German couple on their way. And it was on the altar overlooking the sea where I lay under Cael and he fucked me.

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