1.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Turkish men are the most masculine of all, and among them all, my hero Burak was a great champion, admired by all who knew him.
I will tell you how he came into my life. But first, this is him: A Turk, 36 years. His hair is black as coal, short on his scalp and glossy. His strong jaw is lightly bearded. He has what is called olive skin, but which turns russet brown in the sun, a heavy brow and a clipped nose. A true man’s face.
In his younger days he was a wrestler, a winner of the great wrestling matches in Turkey. But even later, as a trainer, he was as fit as in his prime. He was of optimal height, 5’10, but strong and thick with muscle. His shoulders were broad and made a V down to his trim hips, like most Turkish wrestlers. His chest was so perfect it could be displayed in a museum, with a thatch of glossy black hair that spread from the center over twin slabs of muscle, to crown his teats the color of copper pennies.
With his shirt off or raised, there are hollows, as if carved, from under his waist down into his pants. I had to look this up, and it is called the iliac furrow, or Apollo’s belt. It is common among the Turkish wrestlers, who pride themselves on their fitness.
I’d seen his manhood, which was as handsome and sturdy as the rest of him. Catching glimpses of it only, I saw it was almost as dark as his nipples, thickest in the middle, and beneath it were two dark eggs in black hair. His göt, his ass, was naturally smooth, like two pale melons. But between and under his cheeks there was downy dark hair that you would think must nest around his hole, the great mystery itself.
Now how he came into my life.
Oil wrestling, you may know, is the sacred national sport of Turkey, and Burak was a great proficient. When he was just a youth, he became a champion in the great Kırkpınar tournament, held in Edirne in Turkish Thrace since 1346.
Having made his name, he came to the US. He did this here in my city, in the Turkish community where everyone knows each other’s business, which town they came from and who is related to who.
Everyone was eager to be his host. They called him the güreşçi, the wrestler. They liked to hold fast to some of the old world, here in the US where things were so different.
Some offered him a job or handsome accommodations. Some offered their daughters in marriage, hoping he would sire strong grandsons, like a prize stallion.
My grandparents did not have great prizes to offer, but they were clever.
They had a large garage that they would convert to a gymnasium, where he could continue his training. They also had a daughter, considered the prettiest of her age. And that is how they won the honor of hosting Burak in the US.
Turkey, you may know, had long been the most secular of nations in the region, so advanced is it, and Baba was a professor of philosophy in Turkey, but here in America he was a grocery store manager.
He may have hoped Burak would marry his pretty daughter, but before that could happen, she was found to be pregnant. She birthed me and fled in shame, and I have never known her since.
I did not blame her, even years later when I sometimes overheard the Turkish men refer to me as orospu çocuğu, son of a whore.
This is how Burak came to stay in the home where my grandparents raised me.
I grew up in awe of him. Having no known father of my own I was drawn to his dark masculinity, and I thought he was the most handsome man in the world. I craved his attention, and to be near him, though he barely noticed my existence.
He was still a wrestler then, and after matches I would try to massage him, like the adult men do, rubbing oil into the ruddy skin over his muscles, and even his body hair. I liked to draw hearts with my fingertip in the rubbing oil and watch them fade into him. He had a patch of hair in the small of his back, very soft, and I thought it might be the one part of his body I knew that he didn’t, it was so faint and in a place he couldn’t see.
When he was injured, I was so distressed my grandmother said Ates dustugu yeri yakar, which means, an ember burns where it falls. She could see how even as a boy I cared for his body more than if it were my own. It offended me that anyone would do harm to his flawless form. But it gave me a funny tickled feeling as well.
With time the gymnasium that had been the car garage became his business and livelihood. There he could coach aspiring wrestlers, and train anyone interested in fitness. It was furnished with the requisite exercise equipment and a small lounge area where his customers could linger over coffee and socialize.
On the walls were photos of great wrestling champions, including Burak himself, and displayed in a frame was his kispet, his wrestling pants fashioned for him by hand from water buffalo hide.
My grandparents were too Turkish to be American, and I was too American to be Turkish. Burak immigrated young enough to be nearly equal parts. It may have made for the best of both worlds, or the worst. You may decide for yourself when I am done.
Because of his fame in the community, he had many Turkish clients, but others as well. His clients often came and went at odd hours because of their day jobs. Most came alone, some in pairs. And I thought Burak must be a good trainer, but honestly many of the men showed no sign of improvement even after many visits.
One day I watched Burak shovel around my grandparents’ home after a deep snowfall. I saw him strip out of his shirt, with his jeans riding low like wrestling pants. His muscles were swollen from the work, and the heat of his body made vapor that wafted around his torso. He picked up a handful of loose snow that he rubbed over his chest and abs and in his armpits. I could see the white crystals against his tan skin and black body hair as they caught the sunlight, then melted, running down his sides.
That night I had a dream in which Burak was bound, his arms pulled behind his back. Snaking up his torso were two dark hands, caressing his supple flesh, exploring his form. They settled on his chest, kneading and squeezing the muscles there. He groaned and writhed, but even though he was a great wrestler he could not free himself.
The hands clasped at his chest, squeezing it as if to milk him like a common beast, causing him to moan and twist, and the lump in his pants to grow. Aggrieved that anyone would treat Burak with such indignity I thought to free him, but when I looked down at my useless arms and hands I saw they were the very ones, that it was me abusing and arousing Burak and his body.
I woke up panting in my bed. In my pajamas was the evidence of my unnatural lusts.
I could never see him the same way again after that.
I had feelings I could not name, that none of my books explained. I thought he was even more handsome than in his championship youth, having filled out a bit. His face and body and brooding were so intoxicating. Even his wrestler’s walk and poise, predatory like a black panther, were arousing. I continued to have fantasies about him, his body and what I wished he would do to me.
When my grandparents passed, Burak and I stayed in the family house. Although he had once been an honored guest, he was now the man of the household, and I the guest. I was young and had no job, no other family. It was not the last time we would trade places.
He instructed me to stay out of the gym, that it was his business, and I should be focused on school and housework. I would not be a wrestler, it seemed. As the twig is bent, so grows the tree, ağaç yaşken eğilir, it is said.
I understood my presence was bad for business. I was oddly quiet and bookish, so strange even my own mother left me.
By then I was old enough to not need a mother at all. I cleaned the house myself, and prepared meals for my Burak and myself. My grandmother left me recipes and an emergency sum of money, not so much, just a couple of thousand dollars.
I managed the house and Burak made a living to pay the bills. With his clients’ odd schedule, we often did not see each other except in passing. He was simple in his needs, easy to cook for, and satisfied with a workout and some television. We didn’t have much to talk about, and he was comfortable with silence.
In that way we were like a married couple, though there was never a sign or hope of him returning my affections.
And this is where things begin.
2.
One day I was rummaging through the recipes and other treasures my grandmother left me and discovered a key. I thought it must be a copy for Burak’s gym, because it was not like our house key. I knew that was where he worked out and sometimes showered. I wondered if he might masturbate there too, and if there might be evidence of it. I never saw any signs in his sheets or clothes and knew he must be doing it somewhere.
As I guessed, the key did open the door to the gymnasium, and I went in. I had not been there since I was 14 or so, but it did not seem much changed. There had already been work done to make it first to Burak’s personal gym and then to his business for training.
In addition to the weights and benches I recalled was a sparring ring and a punching bag, a spin bike and a rowing machine. There was still a lounging area for those who liked to linger. In addition there was a wet room, with a washing machine, a toilet and shower, the sight of which made my heart race.
Still on display were his wrestling pants, handmade for him personally. I felt my dick stiffen at the thought of him in them, his cock and balls resting in the cup, and of other wrestler’s hands reaching, grazing his manhood.
(Because Turkish wrestlers are oiled and impossible to hold onto, the common technique to get a solid grip is to reach inside to hold his pants. It is not permitted to grab the penis or testes, or to violate the anus, but one must expect them to be touched.)
I hurriedly rummaged through the hamper I found there, containing worn underwear, jockstraps, tank tops and towels. I bunched them up to my face and inhaled deeply to fill my lungs with Burak’s scent. But in that glorious moment I heard the click of an opening lock, and realized he was entering the gym.
From the wet room I could hear two voices, Burak and another man talking, and I could hear the door close behind them. I prayed they would simply not use the bathroom, but that was a slim hope. In my desperate fear I noticed a slim closet door and hoped I could hide in it, with whatever cleansers and toilet paper might be there.
But when I opened the door I saw it wasn’t a storage closet at all. It was more like a second smaller room, almost completely dark. I couldn’t find a light switch, but there were small holes in the wall facing the open gym that let in three beams of light, enough to make out a bench, and a tarp on the floor.
I pressed my face up against one of the holes in the wall to see into the gym. There was my Burak, in his navy-blue tracksuit. He was with a somewhat older man, maybe in his 50’s, and Turkish by the look of him. He wore professional clothes: a white pressed shirt, slacks and a patterned blazer. They spoke in Turkish, which I didn’t understand except for an odd word or two.
The man took off his blazer and began to undress. He had a shaved head and was well built, top heavy with a large, firm man belly. I assumed he was to put on gym gear for training, but instead, in his underwear, he sat on the sofa in the lounge area. To add to the mystery, Burak unzipped his track jacket, stripped out of it and the track pants, until he was standing there in just a jockstrap.
The older man said things I couldn’t understand and gestured to Burak to turn around. He made a full slow rotation just a few feet from the man. The man said something else, Burak nodded and dropped to his knees between the man’s legs. He took the man’s briefs off and set them aside. And to my eternal amazement, he bowed down to put the man’s cock in his mouth.
His head bobbed up and down, slowly and then more rapidly. The older man sighed as he wrapped his hands around Burak’s head, pulling down while he thrust with his hips. I could hear Burak slurping and gagging and wondered for a moment if Burak was in danger. I wondered if he could be drugged or overpowered, forced in some way to do this. But I also knew he was a champion wrestler, and he could have beat the other man to a pulp in a heartbeat if he wished to.
After a while the man spoke again, and Burak stopped. He pulled back on his knees, and there was spit and mucous trailing from his lips. They negotiated a bit more, and Burak gestured to the bathroom, near my hiding spot. My heart raced so hard I could feel it pounding even in my head. But the man said no, and stopped him
“Clean?” asked Burak, running a hand between his ass cheeks.
“Pislik,” said the man, or something that sounded like that, then in clear English, “Dirty.”
Burak stood up and stepped over to a cabinet. There he opened a jar and scooped out a handful of a buttery substance. He applied it between his legs to his own asshole, as the man watched. Then he leaned over, holding a punching bag for support, spread his legs wide and waited.
The man rose up and stepped up behind Burak, jerked his own dick a few times, and pressed it between his ass cheeks, and then into him. The man sighed and slid his cock almost back out and then in again, and repeated this until he was thrusting. Burak closed his eyes and groaned loudly. He did not look at ease, but neither did he appear to be in pain at all. His body began to move with the man’s motions, arching his perfect back and pumping his hips back to meet each of the older man’s thrusts.
My hand was on my own dick, though I didn’t dare jerk it. It was all I could do to not cum.
The man picked up his pace and then suddenly said “Hemen, hemen!” which I took to mean Now, now!
He held Burak’s hips and pushed hard into him, trembling and huffing. He muttered something I couldn’t understand. I knew he was cumming. He thrust with all his weight so Burak had to hold tight to the punching bag to stay afoot. After a few moments the man pulled out. He stepped back and dropped to the sofa. He gestured to Burak to come closer.
Burak got down on his knees again, swallowing the full cock that had been in his own ass just moments ago. He cleaned the dirty cock with his own mouth as the man caressed his head. And as he, did he reached down into his jockstrap.
The man softly said “bütün”, and Burak continued nursing the man’s cock while he jerked his own erection. It looked bigger than I’d ever seen before. Moments later I could tell by his breathing Burak was near his own climax. And there, on his knees, with the man’s cock still in his mouth he came, spraying white ropes of cum on the floor. I gasped and came too, in my own underwear, fighting to be silent. It was the hardest I ever had in my life since my first orgasm.
Burak milked the cum out of his body, and when he was done, he looked up to the man’s face and they kissed with their tongues, very tenderly, I thought. He then used a gym towel to wipe the man’s cock, and another for his own ass. There was an exchange of money, and the man left.
I was newly terrified of being found, and as Burak entered the bathroom, I looked to be sure the door was closed behind me, and held my breath, to not be heard.
I could hear the toilet seat drop on the other side of the door. A minute later I could hear an eruption of gas and feces and the older man’s cum, as Burak emptied his bowels. This went on for maybe 10 minutes. Then I heard running water, a flush of the toilet, and the towel hamper open and close. He showered, and as he did, I crept out of the secret room. I had never in my life been more terrified to be seen, but I was not.
I ran into our house and heated dinner. When Burak arrived I could hardly look at him, for fear he knew what I’d done.
For once I was glad we often ate in silence, because what could I say?
3.
I didn’t see how I could risk sneaking in again to see if this happened more than once, but I also knew I couldn’t live without knowing more.
I used a portion of the emergency money left by my grandmother to buy a surveillance camera. It was cleverly made, very small and easy to hide. When I knew Burak would be gone for at least an hour I used the emergency key again to hide the camera there.
Though my heart was pounding hard I took a moment to look around, for more clues to what I’d witnessed.
I realized the containers I thought were for training or nutrition were something different. What I thought were waters were bottles of a gooey clear substance. A tub contained something like white butter I once assumed salve for aching muscles was instead what Burak has used in his ass when getting fucked. The thought of it made me rock hard. There were small bottles too. I opened one and sniffed and a second later my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my ears as if it were bursting through my head.
In the chest near the sofa, I found other things that amazed me. Artificial cocks, five in all, of varying lengths and sizes. There were shorter and fatter ones as well, fist sized but shaped more like bullets. There were other body parts in some material like rubber too, an ass and a vagina, with real holes that someone could fuck.
I wanted to continue, but the discoveries were so shocking that it was even more important that I not be caught. I carefully left everything as I found it and went back into the house. In my bedroom I tested the surveillance camera on the old computer I used for schoolwork. Then I jerked off, imagining what Burak was doing with these things, and wondering how long he had them.
It took a few days before anything else happened, but it did.
Sometimes when I spied, I saw only Burak training in his own gym. A couple of times I saw him coaching would-be wrestlers. I saw older Turks ostensibly training, but actually just socializing. I could have kicked myself for not doing this earlier, because even just seeing him work out was more than enough to jerk off to.
One day an older man I had never seen before arrived. He took all his clothes off, and like most Turkish men, even one past his prime, he was very masculine, stocky and hairy everywhere, but his body hair had gone white. Burak stripped also and next to the older man he looked more perfectly formed than ever, his cock erect. He serviced the older man, sucking on his nipples in the midst of dense body hair, stroking the man’s cock and licking it. He then positioned himself, so the man’s cock rode up and down the center of Burak’s chest, in the thatch of dark hair between his pecs. The man enjoyed this, and before long he ejaculated on Buraks chest. Then they kissed with their tongues for a very long time. While they did, Burak stroked his own cock to orgasm. They chatted for a while, the man handed over some money, dressed and left.
Of course I came also. I was aroused by everything about Burak’s body, and to see it used by another man who I knew was not of his caliber pricked at some sense of offense. But Burak didn’t look offended. He seemed deferential.
The next visitor I did not think was Turkish. He looked like a regular American, tall and thin, unexceptional except for his cock, which was enormous. It was as big as I think a cock could be, though I haven’t seen many. Even Burak’s looked modest in comparison.
This one lay on the floor of the gym on a mat, and Burak first put a condom on the gigantic penis. It must have been a special condom to fit such a monster. Burak then smeared it with the white buttery substance from his supply. He coated every inch and then straddled the American to ease his ass onto the tower of cock. It took a long time, and maybe the American did not think Burak could do it, but he did, because he is a great Turkish wrestler who can endure any hardship.
The American fucked Burak with his huge prick stroking in and out, sometimes slow, sometimes hard, a first on his back but then in other positions. Some angles looked harder than others for Burak, but he endured them all. He was on his back, his legs pulled back being humped on like a dog when the American finally reached his climax. Burak too climaxed on his own belly, making deep animal sounds.
After the man paid and left, Burak lay on his back on the floor for some time, his hand to his hole, which I imagined ached on the surface, but even more inside. I came, imagining how the big cock had pushed Burak’s load out of him.
There were other men after this. Many were old and bald and fat and disgraced themselves by standing beside Burak’s perfect physique. Some were American. Some were harsh and others gentle. They used his ass, his tits and mouth, and some used his cock.
It was as if his magnificent body had been crafted to satisfy the appetites of men, like a woman’s, but was still somehow wholly masculine. He took their cocks regardless of their age, weight, disposition or station in life, just to be fucked, as if it were his purpose in life as much as wrestling had been.
It was funny, I supposed, that I was called orospu çocuğu, son of a whore, but it was Burak who sold himself for sex to other men for sex.
4.
To my great shock, Burak confirmed this all for me.
He sat me down into the kitchen and put the camera I’d hidden on the table before me. He knew I had been in his gym, from the very first time. I feigned innocence at first, but I stumbled on my own tongue and finally hung my head in shame.
“It’s good,” he said. “You are old enough to know.”
He was neither angry nor ashamed and said I should ask what I wanted to know about his business. Sormak ayip degil, bilmemek ayip, meaning it is not disgraceful to not know, it is disgraceful to not ask.
So I did.
He explained that other men always had a taste for him, since he was my age or so. Older wrestlers in his travels admired his physical athletic and the build of his body. In Turkey it wasn’t like in America, he said, and I didn’t understand, but that was not important.
Later, when he began to coach, it sometimes happened that a customer who came to him for fitness training would offer to make a monetary tribute for the pleasure of touching him. To illustrate his meaning, he ran one hand up his own thigh, and cupped his crotch, the other hand on his pec. From there it was just a journey of degrees until he began to take payments for more and more acts. Word spread in certain circles.
I asked who the men were, and he explained everyone had his own story. Some had long lived burdened with fantasies they wished to indulge but could not defile their wives with. A few were young men who just needed a sikmek, to fuck, because they had no wife and would not dishonor their future wife with an American prostitute. Some were American homosexuals, which he said with some disdain.
I asked about the secret room I found. That, Burak explained, was for a few select customers who did not want to touch, but wanted only to watch either Burak by himself, or with another man.
Then I asked, “Are you homosexual then?” I meant no offense. In truth my heart fluttered, at long last thinking we had this in common.
But he looked sterner than ever and asked, “Do I look like a homosexual? Do I move like a homosexual?”
I nodded no, he did not.
He explained what he did was something between men, not for American homosexuals.
“Men do not wrestle women, they wrestle other men,” he said, “and this is the same.”
I considered this and pointed out that some of his customers were Americans.
He told me that was like coaching. Something a strong man like him helps a weak man, so he can learn and improve. But he said also he does this with some pity because it is understood they are only Americans and will never be true men.
I shyly said had never had a wife, I did not know if he had ever been with a woman, implying in a different way that he might be homosexual.
He cocked his head to look at me like I was an idiot.
With two fingers he tapped the side of my head, hard, and said, “You are smart in school, but not so smart in life.”
Why would he want to be tied down by a wife, telling him what to do, he asked. He was free and would live his life as a man. Bekarlik sultanliktir, he said, which means something like a bachelor is a sultan.
(It was true, I had a talent for not seeing what was obvious. How often when looking for an item right before me had my grandmother said if it was a snake, it would have bit me?)
I told him I liked to watch, and what did that make me? He asked if I wanted to be like him, and I said I didn’t know. What I wanted more was to be with him.
I had asked all my questions, and he answered without evasion
I told him to wait there, and I ran to the box where I kept my precious belongings. I took what I needed, ran back to Burak and stood before him, summoning all my courage.
I held out to him the wad of emergency money left to me by my grandmother. He looked at the thick curl of bills in my open palm puzzled. Then he snorted. And then laughed out loud.
“You’re my new client?” he asked, and laughed again.
He said it was stupid, that I was a dumb American boy, and that it made no sense for me to pay him money that he would then return to me to pay bills. But I was firm in my resolve and determined to wait him out.
He took the bills from my hand and asked what I wanted. I could hardly speak but I managed to ask with gestures that he remove his shirt.
I will never again see such a beautiful sight as Burak pulling the t-shirt up over his head for me. I saw first the soft hair on his abs, the spread from his waist up to his sides, his meaty chest with the fan of glossy black hair and russet-colored nipples, his sculpted collar bone, and then it rose up over his thick neck and strong jaw and his heavy black brow.
Without ever taking my eyes off his chest, I nervously undid my pants and reached down to grab my dick, already slick with precum. I stroked myself, just inches from the heart of my idol. With no plan, I leaned forward to be nearer to him and began to cum, streaking his black chest hair furious white streaks. I gasped and almost fell on him, but he caught me by the hips, holding me steady as I emptied my balls on him, caught up in the thatch of hair there and on his ruddy skin.
I staggered back, and watched Burak dispassionately wipe my load from his perfect chest with the same T-shirt he’d worn. He stood up and turned at the waist to more easily place the money I’d paid him — all of it — in his back pocket. He never touched his own cock in the exchange.
He asked what now, and I asked if I could work for him to earn money back.
To my delight he agreed.
5.
I began by cleaning the gym. Burak did have clients for fitness training and wrestling, and he liked the gymnasium and the sparring ring to be spotless. I worked harder at that than I ever had in cleaning our whole home.
Now that I was allowed in the gymnasium I sometimes saw him coaching those who aspired to be fit like him, or even to be wrestlers themselves.
I overheard him explain that in Turkish oil wrestling there are three ways a loser is decided. Of these, the most poetic is when a wrestler’s back is pinned to the ground by his opponent, showing belly to the stars, as they say. It is very beautiful, don’t you think?
He was an exacting but encouraging coach. I listened to his counsel, and tried to take it to heart myself, exercising when he was not there to see, to improve myself.
But what excited me more than wrestling and fitness was his other business.
I learned to help Burak prepare for his sessions, by having the correct substances ready, and tarps and towels if needed. And then to clean up afterwards, which was much more difficult. The floors might need to be washed, the fabrics cleaned, the artificial organs sanitized, the lubricants wiped off and stored. Of course, there were body fluids, which I sometimes traced my fingertip through, excited to know some came from the sweat of his back and the churning of his balls and cock.
The only thing that I did not clean was Burak’s body. He preserved that honor for himself.
With time he let me know more about his clients and customers. I learned the very first man I saw with him was an unplanned customer, which was why Burak was unprepared, and why he came home earlier than I expected. This was not typical, but it happened.
The older man I next saw after putting in the surveillance camera had long wanted a life lived solely in the company of other men but was forced into marriage to a woman at a young age. Burak’s gym was the one place on all the Earth where he felt he could be his true self. The man with the enormous penis, to my surprise, felt cursed because he could not be taken whole in the mouth, and could not even fuck women comfortably, but Burak was strong enough to do what a woman could not, granting him sexual relief.
Many men wanted to fuck a mouth or ass without the inhibition demanded by their wives. For the ass, Burak required Americans and certain younger men to wear condoms. Most older men and those who were honored wrestlers need not, out of respect for their station, or to not insult their seed.
One asked to watch Burak fuck the artificial vagina made of some rubber like material. It was a shame he was not called on to fuck with his own cock more often, because even mounting just a toy his body was beautiful. The motion of his back and hips as he humped it was like waves; his strokes and thrusts and his ultimate climax were as if he made for nothing but to fuck.
The man stroked himself and then, after Burak’s powerful climax in the toy, came on my idol’s broad coppery back.
His clients were all different, I was learning. But Burak treated all their fantasies and desires the same, without question or disrespect.
I did not care about school anymore. I enjoyed my new job, and being so near my hero now, hoping we would grow closer. And I exercised, as I’d learned to do from observing.
With time I had gained weight and muscle. My shoulders and arms filled out. My belly was flat and there was soft but darker hair running down the center of it. I wondered if he noticed the changes, or the growing hair on my torso.
One day I was doing my biceps work and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of myself in a mirror. I was shirtless, and my pants rode low beneath my hips, like Turkish wrestler pants. I could see the beginnings of the two grooves running from my hips down into my pats. The Iliac furrow.
I was thrilled, and looked up, smiling. I was caught by surprise.
There was something in my smile that reminded me of Burak himself when he was younger. A curl of the lip and the set of the jaw. My whiskers were coming in, still downy but dark, and that enhanced the resemblance.
I found myself breathing hard and my heart roared in my ears. There was no reason I should resemble him, only foolish vanity playing on a weak heart. I shaved and did not let myself think on it again.
Burak rarely let me watch his work from the secret room, so I curtailed my masturbation, saving myself for those times when I had the honor to watch his work, rather than squandering my seed on just my imagination. Sometimes I waited weeks, with my constant erection stupefying me. I even told Burak. He said it was stupid, but I kept at it.
I learned to do the books. I made spreadsheets on the computer, transcribing from the notes Burak kept by hand of his accounts. They included the men who paid him, what they paid and when, and the services they preferred or sometimes how not to offend them. He instructed me on how to keep all of this in his clever codes, so no discernable record would exist of motives of the men who paid him, or his own actions. He sought to protect not only himself, but their reputations, if someone should find the record.
I came to see that Burak, champion though he was, did not have a head for business.
His fees did not increase with time, not even for wrestling training. And in his other business, his rates varied wildly between customers. Some of the older Turk wrestlers paid barely anything. Many who had the great honor of fucking Burak paid far less than I had to only to on his chest one time, and by my own hand.
He did nothing I could discern to build a business, depending only on his reputation among those who knew and valued his services, and their word of mouth. With the nature of his work, we could not expect many to speak of it, except in certain private settings.
It made no sense. But sometimes you cannot see the things right before your eyes, even when you only need to put two and two together.
I drew up a plan to standardize his rates for different services and to get word further afield. He was only 36 and a champion, and there was a market for such a man, and for his services. His wrestling and fitness clients should also be more of a market for his other business, and the reverse as well. One could feed the other, I was certain. There were also ways to make good money without even fucking, but just in sharing his image on compuers in short videos. This intrigued me, because even a champion can only be fucked so many times in a day, but many customers could all pay for just one video.
He scoffed when I showed him my ideas and waved them away.
He had done this long before I was involved, he said, and knew what he was doing.
I could see it would take a long time for me to build up a worthwhile sum as things were going, since my earnings were just a fraction of Burak’s. If he was not paid properly, I would be even less so. I consoled myself that the work was its own reward, in ways more precious than money to me, and that damlaya damlaya gol olur, drop by drop it makes a pond.
6.
Burak told me he would need my special assistance the following weekend, and that I could observe. He’d seen me walking around in a half stupor from saving my seed for so long, and said it was not good for a boy to abstain and that it would addle me if I did not cum soon.
On Saturday night: horror. Burak instructed me to shave the hair from his chest and armpits.
For a proper Turkish man, it is acceptable to shave body hair in this way for certain purposes, such as wrestling. In that case this would be done for him, especially for a wrestler of his stature, which may be why he permitted me to do it.
I oiled his chest and armpits and began to shave them with a razor. I regret to say my anxiety made my hands so uncertain that Burak stopped me, saying he’d do it himself rather than be cut by the hand of a fool. He blessedly did not shave the fan of soft hair on his belly, that made a seam down into his waistband.
As much as I grieved the loss of his chest and pit hair, something about the act of shaving it aroused me. My dick throbbed in my pants as I watched him do it, wash off and then examine himself in the mirror to see it was done properly. I asked how long it would take to grow back, but he answered he did not know because it was vanity to think on it.
In the shower he used a thin hose device to spay water inside his rear and then sat on the toilet to empty his bowel.
Though he was no less muscled than before, no less a great wrestler, there was something arousing, something feminine about how he had shaved himself and prepared his ass to be fucked. It aroused me so much I was almost dizzy from it.
He allowed me to go to the hidden room and reminded me under no circumstance should I reveal myself. I was very eager about whatever was to come, having not masturbated for weeks.
On this night there was not one customer, but two. They were brothers I did not know well but recognized from the neighborhood. They were younger than Burak and older than me, and first-generation Americans. I noted earlier that men such as these, neither wholly Turk nor wholly American, can be the best of both worlds, or the worst.
Not knowing their actual names, in my head I called them Elder and Younger, owing to their appearance. They were both very muscled, bigger than Burak, though not so balanced in their forms. They had thick forearms, heavy shoulders and wide backs, and their tight jeans hugged their ample rears and packed crotches. Like their clothes and gold necklaces and bracelets, they were garish in their builds.
They began by telling Burak they would like to wrestle.
“Yenilen pehlivan gurese doymaz? Is it so?” asked Elder brother. This is a Turkish expression that roughly means the beaten wrestler is never satisfied and will always want to try again.
It was unkind to ask in this way, to speak of Burak as defeated. But Burak shrugged, yes, and took the traditional starting posture with Younger brother.
They made some feints, and then Younger brother made his move. Burak saw and deftly turned to block him, but without warning Older brother kicked his leg out from under him, throwing him off balance.
So it was two against one. They were not true wrestlers like Burak, but they knew some moves. And they were fast and strong. It was disgraceful of them to pair up against him, but he did not stop or resist. In the end Younger brother, the stronger of the two, caught Burak from behind, raising his arms up.
Even from my hiding place I could see Burak’s jaw tense. The position I thought must trigger his every wrestling instinct to free himself. He could do it, I know. Instead, he submitted. It must have taken great willpower. Elder then ran his hands over Burak’s torso, squeezing his chest muscles and then tracing his finger down the seam of fur on his belly. He said amcık. Pussy.
I regret to say my dick throbbed in my pants.
Elder told Burak to drop down and do push-ups. Then he said “Yüz.” A hundred. As the brothers watched, so did I as Burak counted out 10 push-ups in Turkish. When he was done, he rose to his feet, sweaty and somber. His pecs were swollen and his nipples more pronounced. Elder pawed at them and slapped them so they bounced and snapped back, and he nodded to show his appreciation.
They put Burak on his knees and unzipped their tight jeans. Their cocks were near fully erect, and ample. Burak slathered them with spit to lubricate them and worked one into his mouth and throat, then they turned his head to service the other. Back and forth they went, mock arguing who needed it more, as he gulped them down. He swallowed them so deeply he nearly retched. By the end, each cock was stiff and dropping streams of his spit and mucous.
They left the sparring ring to undress, and it shames me to say when the brothers stripped, I lusted after their bodies greatly. They were excessive, vulgar in comparison to Burak, but so much young adult muscle is difficult to overlook. Elder brother was taller and leaner, Younger was shorter and stockier, and they both retained their chest hair, which made Burak seem more naked.
“No condoms,” said Younger.
Burak paused but then nodded in agreement. But when he turned to get his buttery lubricant, Elder said no to that as well. Instead, he spit on his brother’s cock, and then on his own, to make his meaning clear.
Burak simply spat on his own hand and rubbed it into his hole and added his own spit to their cocks. It did not seem adequate to me.
Younger brother pulled up behind Burak, wrapped a hand around his waist to hold him in place and slid his cock straight up into him. It was quickly done, and I could see Burak steel himself afterwards, to not show his discomfort. But still, he did not resist.
Younger got his bearing and fucked Burak vigorously, holding him at the shoulder and waist. By this time, I’d seen many men fuck him in many ways, but Younger had only one way: hard and fast, invading Burak’s insides again and again.
Elder brother joined in. He grabbed at Burak’s pecs, holding and squeezing them and twisting his nipples. He said to his brother meme, which means tits and they chuckled. Burak gasped and arched his back to better take the fucking, with their hands pawing him. Even when Elder put his tongue in Burak’s violently, he accepted it, meeting it with his own rather than defend himself.
I worried he was drugged, he looked so distant and lost to the world, eyes rolling back in his head like an animal, slobbering on Elder’s shoulder whenever he did not have that brother’s tongue in his mouth.
Younger’s thrusts grew faster and shorter, and he cursed out loud, and then slammed into Burak. I knew he was cumming then, filling Burak with his seed there. He laughed and slowly pumped into Burak until he was drained and done. Even as he was pulling out, his elder brother was stroking himself, ready to take his place.
Elder had Burak down on his hands and knees, like a beast. He slid up into him that way. He fucked differently than his brother, withdrawing his cock much further and then driving in, muttering his pleasure as he did. Burak pulled at his own ass to let Elder’s thrusts fill him more deeply.
Younger knelt to face Burak, holding out his dick. I was surprised he was ready for more so soon, but then I saw he wasn’t. He was urinating. While his brother shoved his cock up into Burak’s guts, Younger pissed on his face. And more shocking still, my hero Burak opened his mouth to catch it there. That was when Younger took his head by the ears, and pulled it to his crotch, pissing in his mouth and forcing him to gulp it down.
He fucked Burak’s throat while his brother filled his ass, causing the great wrestler to choke and his body to buckle. Finally Elder told his brother to stop, waving him off. It was his turn. And Younger did, chucking Burak under the jaw as he slowly withdrew his cock, dripping with spit and mucus. And then Elder could fuck without distractions.
He pushed Burak down at the back of his thick neck, so his head and shoulders were pinned to the floor, his ass up. Elder was up off his knees, resting his weight against Burak at the ass, as if to get deeper into him. He fucked harder, in long strokes, his hands on Burak’s head.
“Boşalmak,” Elder grunted. Cum. “Boşalmak. Boşalmak.” Cum. Cum.
As Elder pounded his guts, Burak worked his own cock with a fist, until he began to breathe hard and then to quake. He seized up, spraying his precious seed on the mat under him as Elder’s long cock pushed it out of him.
Elder groaned Ai, ai, as Burak’s hole spasmed around his cock, milking a load out of him. He shoved in again to flood Burak’s insides with his semen. He pumped as long as he could after that, pushing Burak all the way to the floor, finished.
7.
The brothers joked as they dressed, pulling their tight clothes over their cocks still slick from Burak’s ass and mouth. They tossed some bills on the floor near him and left.
When they were gone, I ran out to his side, where my idol lay on his belly, ass up. His beautiful body was streaked with sweat and piss and cum, the way it once had been with oil, as a wrestler.
I had never seen him like this and had never otherwise dared to touch him uninvited. But this time I ran my hand over the muscles of his back. I asked if he was hurt.
He laughed at my question. He was not hurt, he said.
I saw that on the floor there were two ten-dollar bills.
They robbed us, I told Burak. And after the disrespect they showed already, this final insult was too much. We must do something, I said. But I did not know what.
“This is fair,” he said, interrupting me. “The rate is whatever they wish.”
I felt myself go red with rage, for the first time in my life. “I paid you everything I had,” I said, “Almost a thousand dollars.”
He shrugged and said, “That is what you wished.”
Then he raised himself on his hands and knees, spread his legs and raised his ass. He nodded with his head to indicate his rear.
“Take a fair deal if you wish,” he said.
In a fugue, I undid my jeans and slid them and my white briefs off. My erection was hard as a fist, and as big as either brother, at least. I reached down between Burak’s legs and found his greasy hole, sliding two fingers in and out, knowing it was full of the seed of the two brothers. I pressed my cockhead at the slick pucker and pushed into him in one thrust.
That was how I learned that no matter how hard or strong a man may be in the world, inside he is soft and yielding.
Burak immediately slid his ass back on me, taking my cock to the root. I loved how warm and silky his used rectum was, and how his muscled back worked as he ground back and forth against me. I could see how the soft hair at the small of his back was darker than it used to be, growing coarser like his chest hair. I would never see such beauty anywhere else in my life.
I spied the ten-dollar bills on the floor and was again furious. I would have worshiped and loved him freely and for the rest of my life. But he preferred to be debased by these men instead, and for a sum so paltry it was worse than nothing. I thrust harder into him, and then again. With one hand I grabbed at the dark hairs at the small of his back, feeling my orgasm rising.
Unbidden by me, words came out of my mouth. “Whore,” I said. “You fucking whore.” My voice was not that of a boy, but a man.
That was more than I could take, and I felt my cock erupt into him, flooding his bowel with his third and largest load he would take that night. I pumped into him until I thought I must be empty myself. I was glad to do it.
I could see if he was to be a whore he’d need a pimp, a procurer, a pezevenk, to manage his will, to sell him and to tally his earnings. And for that, there was no one who would do the job with greater devotion than me.
I ran my hands over the bronze landscape of his broad shoulders and back, in awe of his physical perfection. In the small of his back, slick with sweat, piss and cum, I traced a heart with my fingertip. Then I steeled myself against tenderness and slapped his strong ass as hard as I could, sending a jolt through his body.
I turned him over, his back to the ground, showing belly to the stars as they say in the great wrestling tournaments. His organ was spent but growing again. That was good,
With my cock still firm and seeding, I pushed his legs back, slid up into him and commanded, “Tekrar,” meaning again.
– END –