“It was good of you to come.”
“I was surprised that your father wanted me here.” I was sitting in the courtyard of a restored traditional Turkish home on Efeler Street, three blocks up the hill from the old walled harbor of Kyrenia, in Turkish-held Cyprus. Zeki Ceren, the son of Serhan, was looking a bit uncomfortable but also quite handsome. There was quite a bit in him of his father. I think he would have been more comfortable in this setting in a Turkish robe than in the white, almost diaphanous, cotton shirt, riding jodhpurs, and high-top black leather boots. He’d said he’ been out riding before I had appeared at his doorstep. The shirt was billowy, showing his deep-tanned skin underneath, including ring piercings in his nipples, which gave me a pause in thought. The riding pants were tighter than I would think was comfortable, but they certainly left little to the imagination.
I wondered if he knew of the actual relationship between his father and me. Would we be sitting here in this lush courtyard beside a burbling fountain and drinking tea if he did? He crossed his legs slowly enough for me to think he wanted me to see the rearrangement of thigh and calve muscles–and bulge at the crotch. He couldn’t know about my relationship with his father, and not be interested himself, to be teasing me like this.
“My father spoke of you often, affectionately. He hoped that you would visit him here. And now you’re here.”
“Yes, now I’m here, although I wish it would be under happier circumstances. The ceremony will be when, exactly?”
“Two days hence, 4:00 p.m., at Saint Andrews at the foot of this street. He’ll be buried in the courtyard there. I assume you realize that he followed the British ways–those of his mother–rather than his Turkish father, or he would have had to be buried within a day of his death.”
“And you wish me to have a part in the ceremony?”
“Father wished it. And it’s all arranged. Saint Andrews is a small, informal church despite its very-English trappings.” He gave me a flutter of his dark eyelashes over the top of his tea cup. I wondered once again what he knew and if this was a signal that he liked this situation–me being here. His father had been a professor of Middle Eastern affairs at Georgetown for two terms when I was there. We’d had an affair. I never forgot him after he returned here to northern Cyprus. It had never occurred to me that he wouldn’t have forgotten about me either.
At the door, Zeki put a hand on my arm and gave me a sad smile–one nonetheless that reflected a face that, like his father’s, was achingly handsome in a dark, sultry way. “I do very much appreciate you’re coming. I know my father was extremely fond of you. I’m glad to have met you at last. I’m sorry I received you on an occasion such as this, seemingly frivolously in riding clothes–I was quite fond of my father and I am devastated by his death. Please plan to come back to this house after the burial. My father wanted to pass on something to you.”
I could hardly criticize him for not dressing more somberly when we met. He looked downright arousing in the riding clothes. I, on the other hand, was dressed like the American tourist I was. When he’d called to ask me to come see him, I’d already driven my motorbike up to Bellapais to visit the ruins of the abbey there and to sit and luxuriate at the tavern on the city square next to the abbey entrance, the Tree of Idleness. I was in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals.
When I left the Efeler Street house it was late in the evening. Darkness came late to the Mediterranean island of Cyprus at this time of year, and it was just falling. I could have gotten on the motor scooter I was renting and driven up the road toward the mountain artists’ village of Bellapais, hanging on the side of the Kyrenia Mountain range, where I was checked into the Olive Tree Villas complex, but the ancient Kyrenia harbor lured me down to the water. I could hear the music from here. I parked the motor scooter, which gave me an ominous belch when I turned it off, next to the Harbor Club. The establishment was a British-style pub sitting at the bottom of a steep cobble-stoned street and in the shadow of the hulking Kyrenia harbor castle that held down the eastern end of the harbor.
The small harbor itself was an oval, with a ring of docks and waterside open-air restaurants on the southern and western curve, the castle to the east, and a long breakwater across the northern side. A stone jetty pierced the center of the harbor, showing the original harbor had been even smaller than this one. An ancient lighthouse–really just a stone pillar supporting a basin to light a fire–rose from the end of the jetty.
Even at this time of the evening, dinner was only now starting to be served, but the harbor-side tables already were occupied with boisterous Turks and tourists. The area was strewn with multicolored fairy lights along the harbor wall, which illuminated various sizes of sailboats, skiffs, and yachts bobbing up and down just beyond where the edges of the tables ended. Stone building, once merchant businesses and houses rimmed the harbor, parting only a few places to give steep-slope access to the streets above. Originally, the storage and merchant floor were at ground level, facing the harbor, and the merchant’s residences were in the stories above, facing back onto a higher street curving around the harbor. The attached row of houses formed the upper town’s first protective wall. Now restaurants and gift shops operated out of these original ground-floor storage rooms. The tables were jammed together on the dock during warm weather, which, in Cyprus, was most of the seasons of the year, and were taken back indoors for the winter months of service.
There didn’t seem to be any tables appropriate for a single diner. I circled around the harbor and then back again toward the castle without finding someplace appropriate for me to wedge myself in. On the walk back, though, a strong hand reached out, took my wrist, and arrested my progress.
“Have you lost your party, or are you looking for tablemates?”
The voice was deep, heavily accented. I looked around and sucked air in. He was a magnificent brute. Not Turkish; no definitely not Turkish. From somewhere in Scandinavia, and the same with the other men, all tall, muscular, and of military-bearing. They weren’t from the officer ranks; they were much rougher and unpolished looking than that–not much more than a step above the thuggish. Serious grunt soldiers.
“I thought to have dinner in the harbor, but there doesn’t seem to be any room,” I answered.
“Then you aren’t looking for someone you’re dining with?”
“No, I’m all alone.”
“I can hardly believe a handsome man can be here alone. There’s room right here, if you don’t mind a bit of a rough and randy crowd.”
I certainly didn’t mind this crowd. They were all smiles, welcoming, and giving me the eye.
“Names Magnus,” the blond hunk said. “We’re Norwegian, from the UN contingent patrolling the Green Line.” Cyprus was divided between the Greeks in the south and the Turks in the north, and although they were starting to get along better than they did when the Turks invaded the island and occupied the north in the mid seventies, a UN force dividing them was still needed. So these were soldiers. They certainly were blond gods–heavenly fit.
“Ross Tagert here,” I answered. “From Philadelphia, in the United States.”
“Ah, the city of brotherly love. How great is that?” Magnus answered.
Magnus introduced me to the two nearest to where I sat, Filip and Oscar. Both were all grins. Magnus was all touchy feely as well. I made no effort to fend him off. Seeing the spitting image of my old lover Serhan Ceren in his son, Zeki, just a few years younger than I was, had brought up my juices of arousal. I actually wasn’t here in Cyprus just to have a part in Serhan’s funeral. I also was escaping myself in the States, where I increasingly was finding it difficult to keep the expression of my preferences separate from my professional life. There were times when I almost felt like exploding. I’d come to the Mediterranean for what I planned to be an extensive vacation to free myself for the bonds of responsibility, if only for a short time.
We got into a conversation enough for them to ascertain that I was American, in my late twenties–as they all were–and staying at a bungalow holiday complex called the Olive Tree on the Mustafa Catagay Road up the side of the mountains toward Bellapais. Their questions were suggestive enough, as well, not causing me to blush or rankle, for them to ascertain my preferences–which obviously matched theirs, although I got the impression that their leanings could go either way as long as they were satisfied. Magnus placed his hand where there could be no doubt, and I let it rest there.
They were on a two-day furlough from their Green Line base in the western sector of the divided capital of Nicosia, in the center of the island. They’d been deployed “too long” and hadn’t “had any” for “too long.” I gauged their virility to mean they hadn’t had any since earlier that afternoon. They were staying right here at the western end of the harbor in the old Dome Hotel. They’d spent the day roaming the Turkish side of the island on their motorbikes as far away as the ancient city of Salamis on the eastern coast. They were thirsty as hell and obviously were doing something about that. They got off onto sports in their discussions and didn’t delve any more into my background while we were at dinner, which was just fine to me.
After dinner, we went up to the upper-story bar at the Harbor Club and lined up across the bar. I was next to the far wall, with Magnus on the stool next to me. He gave me dreamy looks while we drank beer and I gave them back. He had a hand on the small of my back, and when I leaned in to him to ask him how long they were deployed in Cyprus, which was for another six months, my hand went to the small of his back too. The muscle was hard even there. He had the build of a bodybuilder and was a good five inches taller than I was.
“Isn’t that guy cute who just walked into the bar?” he leaned over and said into my ear, speaking over the noise of the patrons in the crowded, raucous bar. His hand went to my buttocks. I neither did anything to move his hand away nor showed any concern that he was telling me a man in the bar was cute.
“You’re cute too,” he said as he leaned in again. “Gotta ask. Are you just going with the flow here or are you a serious player?”
“A what?” I asked, both of us moving our heads so I could talk in his ear. My lips had brushed something on his face as we both moved. It sent a chill up my spine.
“A serious player. You get it on with men; you don’t just tease talk?” This time when we were switching ears and mouths, Magnus arrested the movement when our mouths were close, and he kissed me a brushing kiss on the lips. Time stood still and our eyes met. I leaned in for a deeper kiss.
“I guess that answers that,” he said, with a laugh. He took one of my hands and moved it between his thighs. He was hung and hard. “The only question that remains is whether you take cock or give it.”
“It’s late,” I said, giving him a smile but not answering his question. “I think I need to get back up the mountain while I’m not too drunk. I just hope I’m not too drunk to remember that my rental motorbike has a red seat on it.”
“Will you be in the harbor tomorrow?” he asked.
“Maybe. I have an appointment in the morning, but I could be here sometime in the afternoon.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes,” I answered. “Both.”
He smiled. “If you are in the harbor tomorrow, I’ll take you somewhere and show you a good time,” Magnus said.
“That sounds like a good possibility. I’ll have to think about it. Right now, though, I’ve got to take a piss. Do you have any idea where . . . ah, yes, thanks.” He waved me in the direction of the men’s room.
When I came out, he wasn’t at the bar. But he was downstairs by the bike rack when I got down there.
“Well, it was good meeting you,” I said, hopping on the rental bike with the red seat. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll treat you right,” he said and then he was asking, “Something wrong with your bike?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t do anything but sputter. Did this when it stopped last. It seems I’m stranded.”
“You don’t have to be. My bike’s here. I can give you a ride up to the Olive Tree.”
At the door of my cabana unit, he pulled me to him and we went into a deep kiss. “I’ve come all the way up here. We could pretend it’s tomorrow,” he said. “You gonna invite me in? You gonna take my cock?”
“Would you like to come in?” I asked with a smile.
The unit was compact. A kitchenette unit on the wall to the right where we entered and the side wall of a bathroom to the left. This opened to one room, a sofa and chair to the left and a small table and two straight chairs to the right. The queen-size bed was beyond and beyond that a wall of glass, with sliding glass doors out onto a small patio. A bit of lawn area and the terrace surrounded the communal pool beyond that.
I barely had the lights on in the living-dining area when he was pulling me to him and pressing on my shoulders, signaling that I was to go on my knees in front of him. He unzipped himself, pulled out his cock, and grabbed the back of my head between his hands. Just like that I was giving him head. His cock was huge and hard. He obviously was aching for it.
He was so ready for it that he started fucking me before I was fully ready for him. There was a short strip scene, and an interlude with me on my back at the foot of the bed, heels on his shoulders, and him eating my ass out and sucking my cock. But quickly, all too quickly, we were at the wall of glass, him standing and crouched a bit, palming and spreading my buttocks to give him maximum passage spread, and me with my fists locked behind his neck, as he bounced me up and down on his cock. In short order he had switched this to the more demanding position of turning me, facing away from him, but still holding me off the ground, my feet hooked on the meat of his calves, and my arms flung up, fists locked behind his neck, while he grabbed my waist and pulled my passage on and off his cock.
It was while I was in this position that I looked out into the pool area and saw two men, muscular but lithe, younger than I was, fucking on a lounge bed. One was lying on his back and the other one was crouched over his pelvis, feet on the ground, and rising and falling on the other guy’s cock. What was arresting was that both of them had their heads turned to my unit, where, obviously with the light on in my living-dining area, they were getting a full view of the hulking and towering Magnus suspending me in front of him and fucking me. I was too far gone in the fuck to worry what they could see. They were doing it too.
When Magnus tired of these bullying positions, he sat on the bed, leaning back, and I squatted on his lap, facing away from the bed, gripping his raised and spread knees, the heels of his feet dug into the bottom edge of the mattress, and I fucked myself on his cock.
It was an athletic fuck we both enjoyed. There was no coyness. It was clear he wanted to fuck me and I was equally clear that I wanted him to fuck me–a straightforward, primeval, athletic fuck, with no reservations, complexity, conditions, or commitments. He came when he had me with my weight on my shoulders on the carpet at bottom of the bed, with my spine running up the rise of the foot of the bed and my legs jackknifed so that my toes were pressed into the carpet next to my head. He was standing over me and fucking down into my hole in reverse.
He slept the night with me in my bed, pulling me to him periodically, when he’d hardened again, and fucking me in demanding positions. I perhaps should have felt guilty at being such a slut about it–signaling as I did at the Harbor Club that he could have me, something that a man in my position in the States could not do, but I didn’t. I wasn’t in the States. Unconsciously, at least, I’d come here precisely to be able to do this without guilt.
“This means nothing but getting off,” he declared as we reached the decision point of him leaving or staying the night. “Any expectations or entanglements and I’m out of here.”
He’d already fucked me–gotten his rocks off good–so he had little to lose in just walking out.
“No expectations other than that you fuck me again during the night if you stay,” I answered. He fucked me twice again.
I’d enjoyed it so much that the next morning when he sheepishly stood there holding up the spark plug he’d taken out of my motorbike the night before, I laughed with him.
“If you want, I’ll be happy to go back to the harbor and fix your bike. My mates, Filip and Oscar, can help me bring it back to you.”
“That’s fine with me.”
“It’s fine with you that I bring my buddies back?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You are no innocent, are you?” he asked. “You took it like a champ.”
“No, I’m no innocent,” I replied. “You gave it like a champ.”
“Filip and Oscar have great bodies.” He wasn’t really changing the subject.
“I noticed,” I answered.
“If they take the time and effort to bring the bike back up . . . and I feel sort of bad that I got my rocks off so great and they–”
“Yes, they can fuck me. Together if that’s what gets them off.” Already I felt so much freer than I was able to be in the States.
The two other Norwegian studs were more conventional than Magnus had been. Filip fucked me in a straight-on missionary, lying between my spread and raised legs and plowing me deep, and Oscar preferred the doggie fuck, me on all fours on the bed and him mounting and fucking me from behind and above. I can’t say I minded being under any of them.
The three were leaving my unit, as I caught the eye of a great, sultry-looking young Turkish guy clipping a hedge. The look he gave me told me in no uncertain terms that he’d been one of the guys watching Magnus fucking me at the window the previous night while he and other guy were having at it by the pool.
* * * *
As I was turning back from waving the three hunky and grinning Norwegian UN contingent soldiers away on their bikes, the young Turkish guy lowered his hedge clippers and walked over to me. He too was wearing a grin–and nothing else but low-riding jeans and sandals without socks. I was wearing less–just low-riding cargo shorts.
“Excuse me, you’re a guest here, aren’t you?” he asked in heavily accented English.
“Yes. This is my room,” I answered. The answer was a bit idiotic, but then so was the question. Why wouldn’t he think I was checked into this room? I felt sort of tongue-tied, though, because I was quite sure that this was one of the guys who had watched me being bully fucked at my window the previous night. But then I didn’t really want to let him go. He was a sultry hunk and a half himself. Dark-skinned, slim but well muscled, swarthy, mean-boy aspect with back hair, piercing black eyes, perpetual five-o’clock shadow, hirsute chest, and a knowing–and interested–look in his eyes.
The UN soldiers had let me know in no uncertain terms that as much as they’d enjoyed fucking me, they would be going back to their unit and they weren’t interested in any entanglements–that we’d just had recreational, one-time fucks. And I’d let them know that that was perfectly fine with me. I hadn’t come to Cyprus for commitment or drama.
“My name is Erol,” the dark stud standing in front of me said. “I work here. My uncle is the manager. One of my jobs is to make guests happy. This is your first visit to Girne, isn’t it?” Girne was the Turkish word for Kyrenia.
“Yes, my first visit,” I answered.
“Maybe you would like someone to show you around. Maybe take you on a boat ride in the Mediterranean. Maybe show you the best place to swim? Maybe show you a good time.” He turned his head to look at the backs of the three UN soldiers, still visible, motoring the curvy road down into Kyrenia. He’d known what they were doing here.
“Maybe,” I answered, giving him a smile.
He turned his face back to me, a look of interest and lust in his eyes that I couldn’t have misinterpreted even if I had wanted to. “I have a friend, Onur. He works here too. We could show you a good time.” Before I could say anything, he whistled loudly and called something out in Turkish in which I discerned “Onur” had been included. Around the side of the line of rooms trotted another young hunk, undoubtedly the other guy I’d seen fucking on the bed lounger by the pool the previous night. A big grin exploded on his face when he saw me. He was as lithe and well-muscled, and great looking as Erol was, but without the five-o’clock shadow and hirsute chest.
“Me and Onur show you a good time today? Yes?”
“Maybe yes, but not this morning. I have to go out this morning. I have an appointment down in Ky– . . . down in Girne.”
“We show you a real good time, both of us,” Erol repeated. Onur was wagging his head in agreement.
“Both of you? Together.”
“If you like,” Erol said. “We’d like,” he added.
“We saw you with the big blond men in your room this morning,” Onur interjected. “Three of them.”
Lordy, he didn’t have to tell me that, I thought. I pretty much figured what he was trying to convey to me already. It might have been a bit of blackmail in case I stood them up, but I got a bit of my own back on them twenty minutes later when I was dressed and coming out of the unit to my bike, which the UN soldiers had quickly brought to rights, down into the town.
They were both standing there, waiting to see me off. Their eyes bugged out when they saw me, though. I was in my work uniform–black shirt and trousers and a clerical collar. I was going to Kyrenia to meet with the rector of Saint Andrews Anglican church to coordinate on the funeral ceremony for Serhan Ceren–one priest to another.
Learning that I was a cleric–an Episcopal priest–didn’t deter the two young Turks from showing me the good time they had in mind, but it put another bee in their bonnet.
* * * *
It was all sort of hazy in my mind and I was feeling mellow. Actually I couldn’t feel anything at all. Serhan was just getting off me, having been heavily between my legs, trapping me under him on the studio couch in his university office, and having just pulled out of me. He had a dick that was thick and long enough to tax a man, something that would be impossible not to feel. This is what told me I was in a dream. For some reason Serhan Ceren being long out of my life and dead didn’t seem to clue me into being in a fantasy. He smiled at me and I smiled back. There had been a time when guilt was mixed in with my longing in coming to Serhan’s office, as one of his students, to lie under him and to let him possess me as he did, but I obviously was long past this in this dream. When he rose from me, he turned to stand beside me, his cock in his hand. He rubbed the cock, slick from his cum on my cheek, and I turned my head and took it in my mouth.
I opened my eyes, squinting because of the glare of the unrelenting sun off the waters of the Mediterranean. Erol was kneeling beside me, rubbing his cock on my cheek. I opened my mouth to it, sucked it in, and gave him head. This wasn’t like the dream with Serhan, though–with a Turk, to be sure, but one older and chunkier than this young stud. With Erol, this was a preliminary to anal sex, not a follow up. When he was hard, he moved to the center of the boat and coaxed my thighs open and motioned for me to drape my legs over the sides of the small rowboat we were in. My shoulders were wedged into where the boat curved into the bow, and my arms were draped over the sides there. Onur was at the stern of the boat, watching us and grinning, as he rowed. Erol ran his knees under my buttocks, elevating my pelvis. Leaning over me, he groaned and I moaned as he penetrated me with his cock, worked to force it deep inside me, and began the rhythm of the fuck.
I had already fucked Onur. The two had come to my door after I’d had lunch with the rector of St. Andrews and returned to the Olive Tree. They wanted to show me more of the island. Cyprus had great beaches and the clear, blue waters of the Mediterranean. There were private beaches nearby, very private. We rode there on one motor bike, Onur nestled in behind Erol and I behind Onur as we took the beach road to the east of Kyrenia.
They were right. There were pristine beaches that we could have all to ourselves–beaches that were ringed for privacy by rock cliffs that marched right out into the water. The one we stopped at had water deep enough beyond its rock walls that we could safely dive off the tops of the cliffs into the water. We did it again and again, laughing and touching and prodding each other as we climbed the rock. And increasingly we took our time coming back onto the beach from the water, the three of us cavorting and wrestling with each other in the surf just off the beach–embracing, kissing, and fondling.
Erol had asked me if I’d like to take a boat out into the Mediterranean–that he knew of one he could borrow just up the road from this beach. I would be very happy to be able to look back at the island from a boat, I answered, and to test out his claim that the waters of the Mediterranean were so pure here that I could clearly see the bottom even in twenty feet of water.
Would Onur and I be OK without him for a half hour or so?
Surely, we could find something to do while he was gone, I’d answered. I fucked Onur on a towel on the beach, lying on top of him with the heels of his feet rubbing the backs of my calves and his fingers lightly running across my shoulder blades as I slid in and out in his sweet channel to the tune of my light grunts and his deep sighs.
And then it was my turn to be fucked by Erol in the boat when we’d gotten out into the sea, under the rowing power of Onur, sitting in the stern of the boat and grinning at us while Erol fucked me.
“Is it really true you are a priest?” Erol asked as we sat, our legs entwined, on towels on the beach near the rowboat we’d pulled up onto the sand.
“Yes, it’s true,” I answered. “I’m an Episcopal priest. I’m an elder, though, I’m not a monk. I’ve taken no pledge of celibacy. And my preferences are known by my bishop.”
“I believe you’ve known many men,” Erol said, giving me a sharp, sideways look.
“Probably more than I should have,” I answered. I gave a laugh to soften that, but it was a dry laugh. I wasn’t proud of my weakness.
“But as a priest you can perform weddings?” Onur spoke up for the first time.
“Yes, I can,” I said.
The two looked at each other and Erol nodded his head. “Erol and I wish to be married. Our friends enjoy having wedding parties. We wish to do that too. We need someone to marry us, though. Would you marry us?”
“Marry you?” I asked, trying to hide my shock. “You’re Turkish. Aren’t you Muslims?”
“Yes, we are. We want our friends to know we are joined as much as they are to their wives. We know it will just be for show, but it will mean something to our friends and us. And we don’t want to miss having the wedding party.”
“But marriage is a commitment,” I said. “Just here today, I’ve fucked you and Erol has fucked me. That isn’t–”
“You haven’t been in Kibris long, have you?” Erol asked, with a laugh. “Being married doesn’t stop either the husband or the wife from fucking other people here. In Kibris we live to love and to enjoy ourselves to the fullest.”
He had me there. You didn’t have to be here in Cyprus–or Kibris, when you used the Turkish word for the island–to toss fidelity out the window for the sheer pleasure of it. There was quite enough of that going around in the States too. And what harm would it be to be part of their party? Everyone involved would know and accept that there was no religious sanction involved.
“I’ll think about it. I don’t know how long I’ll be here on the island.”
“We could put a party together fast,” Onur said. He was looking at me with such hopefulness in his eyes and that I almost agreed on the spot. He had been such a sweet fuck.
“I’ll think about it,” I repeated. “Perhaps we should go back now.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think we go back yet,” Erol said. His voice was low, thick, dripping in lust. His eyes read lust too.
We fucked in a chain. Onur was on all fours on the towels. I was crouched over him, my arms laced in to his chest, clutching his pecs, and fucking him like a dog. And Erol, in turn was standing behind me, grabbing my hips with his hands, and fucking me from the rear. Eventually, Erol readjusted his stance to where both he and I were shafting Onur’s ass together. I had had two men inside me at once before; this was my first time to share a man with another, and it was a memorable sensation. We repeated the three-way progression in my room when we returned to the Olive Tree. I told them to let me know how soon they could put a wedding party together, but that I couldn’t stay in Cyprus forever.
* * * *
Serhan Ceren had been a very private man and had spent much of his life outside of Cyprus, teaching at universities. Thus, there were very few people in attendance at his funeral at Saint Andrews and his internment in the church yard afterward. There were expatriate retirees and businessmen in Kyrenia who had known him, a few educated academics of mixed Turkish and European lineage, as he was, who taught at the university near Salamis on the east coast, and, of course, his house servants, who had been given the next few days off, his son told me, to have time to grieve and celebrate their employer’s life.
And there was his son, Zeki, who came in a cream-colored suit that fit him like a glove.
“My father didn’t like mourning or the color black,” he said to me as we had a few words in the narthex before the service. “He always said he preferred the colors of life even in situations of death.”
“I also recall that about him,” I said. “Unfortunately, as an Episcopal priest, I am stuck with the color black and a white collar for services such as this.”
“Oh, I’m quite pleased you are in clerical garb,” Zeki said, as he took his hand from mine and walked up the aisle in the small stone church to take his place in front of the closed coffin. Leaning over, he whispered in my ear, “It makes my thoughts of what we might become involved in all the more arousing.”
He moved away from me then, but not before squeezing one of my butt cheeks. If I ever thought I had fooled him in the level of my interest in him, I was the one who was the fool.
Seeing him in this setting made my heart ache and, I must admit, had an effect on other parts of my anatomy as well. He was so much like his father, in sensual looks and in his arousing smile, and even in the gait with which he walked, wide stanced, as if he had something unusually large between his thighs. I knew that, if he was anything like his father, he did. He was wearing a diaphanous white cotton shirt again today, and, with the deep natural tan of his three-quarters Turkish skin, his torso, hirsute, with black curly hair, and his prominent nipples, with rings in them, were easily discerned.
Halfway up the aisle, Zeki hesitated, stopped, turned, and walked back to where I was standing with the rector of Saint Andrew’s.
“You do remember that you’re coming back to my father’s house afterward–that he left something he wanted to give to you? The house is just down the street here.”
“Yes, I remember.” And I certainly did. I had been wondering what Serhan could have left me. “I will be delayed, though, I’m afraid. There is more that is official that has to be done here after the internment.”
“That will be perfect,” he said.
I did a double take when I arrived and knocked on the double wooden doors of the traditional Turkish house. Leading straight back from the entrance door was an open-air tunnel that led back to the house’s courtyard, which was faced on two sides by the L-shaped house proper–two stories, with a balconied verandah all around overlooking the courtyard. The courtyard was flagstoned, with lush tropical-plant gardens and a fountain. Divans with backs sat by the fountain, a sitting area with rattan armchairs was off to one side, and a patio table set was off the other.
This is where Zeki guided me. It’s where we had been sitting, in the rattan armchairs, when I had previously visited. This time he guided me to one of the divans, though and sat beside me. What had made me do a double take at the entrance was that he had changed after coming back to the house. He now was wearing just some sort of billowy skirt affair. His torso, tanned, muscular, cut, and hirsute was bare. He was magnificent and I went hard.
He was moving fast. I was so aroused by him that I wouldn’t be applying any brakes.
“I hope I’m not being too forward, but my father told me what you were to him at Georgetown University. I was surprised–but also interested, and, I must say, aroused–when I learned you were a priest.”
“It doesn’t disturb you that your father and I had a relationship? I would think that the son of a Muslim who was covering a priest would have concerns. Of course, I wasn’t a priest at the time. I’m not even sure I intended to become one then. And your father was Muslim. I don’t think it really occurred to either of us that–”
“No, it doesn’t disturb me that my father fucked you. Let’s call it what it is–he fucked you. He made you his fuck toy. And you wanted him to fuck you, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly.
“I want to fuck you too. Surely I have made that clear. The thought of seducing a priest arouses me and has had me nearly hyperventilating ever since I heard you were a priest. Of course, you are way beyond being seduced, but we can pretend. You want me inside you, don’t you?”
The baldness of that hit me like a ton of bricks. I shuddered and he took my hand in his, intertwining the fingers and leaving the middle finger free to rub the palm of my hand. A chill went up my spine. He was sitting very close to me.
“I’m sorry,” he continued. “Am I being too forward? Have I misjudged you? Your responses to me told me you were attracted to me. My father told me that you easily went under him and other men–that you enjoyed it. Am I misreading you?”
“No, you aren’t misjudging me,” I answered, my voice not much more than a croak. I moaned as one of his arms went around me and tipped me back as his lips came in to capture mine. His other hand went to my crotch, unzipped me, possessed my already-hard cock, and gently stroked it. I found that freeing his cock was just a matter of moving my hands in the folds of his diaphanous Turkish skirt. Gentle pressure on the back of my neck brought my face down to his lap, and I took the cock in my mouth and gave him head while he stroked me off.
When I sat back up, I moved to take off my collar and then would have taken off my clerical shirt, as well, but he reached out and stayed my hand. “No, I want to take you as a priest,” he whispered.
He fucked me on the divan, with me three-quarters turned on my left side, with my right leg bent and flung across my body and Zeki stretched behind me, his thick, long cock working my channel and his right hand stroking my cock while my head rested in the crook of his left arm and he pulled my face around for his kisses.
He was an expert, knowing to pay attention to my prostate to heighten my arousal but also to mine my ass deep, reaching into the core of me and pulling the maximum passion out of me. He was as thick and long as his father had been–thicker than nearly every other man I had had inside me.
Afterward we lay there, not moving, Zeki not withdrawing from me, both of us knowing that it was just a momentary rest until we had both regained our strength and ardor to move with each other like we were long-time lovers–just as I had moved with his father, Serhan.
“Was this what your father had to give to me?” I asked in a whisper. “His son? If it is, there could have been no finer gift to me. You are a god in your own right, but you remind me so much of your father that I want to cry.”
“We could cry together for my father,” Zeki murmured. “He was a romantic. He would appreciate that. He also would appreciate your calling me his gift. I appreciate that too. I’m so glad I’ve seduced you. I am sorry I said you were beyond that.”
“It didn’t take much,” I said, with a laugh.
“No, it didn’t take much,” he said. He reached up, undid my collar and removed it, pulled my shirt over my head, and moved his lips to one of my nipples as a hand clasped my cock in a loose grip, inviting me to move inside the sheathed fingers, which, moving my hips languidly, I did. “After what we just did–what you did in response–I don’t want to think of you as a priest anymore. My father said it wouldn’t take much–that you enjoyed sex immensely.”
“Your father was my first. I moved deeper into it after him.”
“Obviously,” he said, and laughed again. “But no, that’s not his gift to you. His gift is this house, and a stipend to maintain it. He hoped that you would keep the house servants on until they wished to leave.”
“This house?” I exclaimed, pulling away from him and sitting up. But he just pulled me back down into his embrace with a low laugh. “We’re not finished here,” he growled.
It was a good thing I’d given in to him so easily and quickly. He was a powerful man. I’m sure he could just take what he wanted whether or not it was granted to him. Not a problem with me. I would give him anything he wanted. “It’s a grand house. Surely you are the one who should have it.”
Zeki laughed again. “I have houses of my own and all the financial means I require. It will mean more to me that you come here from time to time–and that, when you do, you lie under me and let me have my way with you.”
“I could deny you nothing,” I answered.
“You will perhaps stay then?”
“At least for the foreseeable future,” I said. “Life has become more complicated than I really want to face in the States, and, perhaps more important, I find I have a wedding to perform here, and I don’t have a date for that yet. But if you aren’t going to be here, in this house–”
Zeki smiled down into my face, kissed me, and showed that we were about to float up to heaven again. Which we did after he spoke again. “I said I had other houses, not that I had to sleep in them rather than here–and one of them is just across the wall from this one.”
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