“Yusuf? Yusuf Chelik. Is that really you?”
The handsome middle-aged Turkish graybeard in a gray thawb, an Arab robe, stood up from the outdoor café table on Kizilay Caddesi in the Seyhan central market area of Adana, Turkey. He was a bit flustered to see the man, accompanied by two young men, one Turkish, one obviously a gorgeous Western blond, here on the Adana streets. How he had known the man before was under much more circumspect conditions. The young man sitting at the table looked at him with some surprise, seeing the usually totally in-control Yusuf flustered.
“Sam?” he said, hesitating with the name. He had known this man of comparable age as he, but still tall, imposing, and robust, under more than one name.
“I knew you were in Adana now, but I had no idea we’d run into each other,” the man who had been called out as Sam said.
“You knew I was here?” Yusuf asked. He didn’t find that comforting. Were they still watching him? “I retired three years ago—in Cairo. I didn’t think that—”
“I’m retired now too. The world passes us by—goes on no matter how we sought to influence us,” the man who had answered to Sam said.
“Come, sit,” Yusuf said. “Have a coffee with us and tell me what brings you to Adana.” Yes, most certainly tell me what brings you here, Yusuf was thinking, although he couldn’t help letting his gaze go to the young blond man with Sam. He was absolutely beautiful. Just what Yusuf liked. Is it me you are seeking, are surveilling? Although, if the later, you probably wouldn’t have declared yourself. And how did you trace me from Cairo back to here?
“Yes, that would be welcome. We’ve been doing a lot of walking. This is my nephew, Jason”—Sam was introducing the young, blond god. “And our guide in Adana, Ahmet.” Ahmet was a beefy but quite handsome, dark-complexioned Turk. “And you are?” he asked of the young man who had been sitting with Yusuf.
“Murat. This is my son, Murat. We are in business here in Adana together,” Yusuf said. He signaled for a waiter to bring coffee as Sam and his nephew took the two empty seats at the café table with Yusuf and his son and the guide, Ahmet, sat at the neighboring table.
“I understood that you went into business here,” Sam said as the waiter hurried off for the coffee.
“Yes. My son and I are in the Oriental carpet business. Our main shop is just along the street here, with our residence behind it. What brings you to Adana?” The answer to this question was quite important to Yusuf. He had no idea whether Sam would tell him the truth. When they are worked together, truth had not been an honored commodity. Sam would not have just casually happened upon him when they both were employed in the business that brought them together.
“A bit of both,” Sam answered, with a smile. “Some business and some family outing. Like you, I couldn’t simply retire. I needed to step away, as you appeared to need as well. But I had to be employed in some way. Unlike you, I still have my hand in a bit. I consult now for Northorp-Grumman, and I was coming to Turkey anyway, so they asked me to check in on some of their interests.” Northrop-Grumman is one of the leading U.S. heavy military arms manufacturers. “I have a few appointments over the next couple of days at Inchirlik Airbase.”
Inchirlik was a Turkish airbase not far from where the men were seated. It was much more than Turkish, though. It also hosted squadrons of U.S. and UK air force planes and flyers engaged in all sorts of missions in the Middle East, some of them clandestine.
“Ahmet here is a mechanic for jets from several countries at the airbase. He’s been leant to us to acclimate ourselves to the city. We’re staying at the Hilton across the river from here toward the airbase.”
“A jet mechanic at the airbase?” Yusuf asked, with new interest, tearing his scrutiny away from the beautiful young mid-twenties American sitting next to him. “Do you hear that, Murat? You should strike up a friendship with this young man.” And then, as an explanation for Sam, he said, “Murat isn’t all that interested in carpets. He would like to be a jet mechanic too. He has many friends at the airbase.”
Yes, I just bet he does, Sam thought, but he took the opportunity to get a good look at the young man claiming to be Yusuf’s son. Murat was about the same age as Jason, in his mid-twenties. In contrast to Jason’s blondness, Murat was dark, sultry—and, in Sam’s eyes sexy. The one thing Sam and Yusuf had in common beyond the avocation they once had shared, if not always for the same masters, was that they were both power tops and had a fetish for sexy, young, submissive men. Sam had seen Yusuf’s attraction to Jason immediately, but his own attract to Murat had been just as immediate.
Beyond this, Sam’s discerning eye had seen that the young men had reciprocated the interest in kind. That was just fine with Sam.
“You said you were indulging in family travel as well,” Yusuf said.
“Yes. My nephew here, Jason, is in seminary, in a summer break between two years at St. John Paul II minor seminary in Washington, D.C. He’s preparing to be a Catholic priest.”
“Is he?” the Muslim Yusuf said, giving Jason a closer look, if that had been possible. Jason smiled back.
“Yes. He has the summer off and I thought I would take him on a biblical background trip. So much of early Christianity happened here in Turkey. We first went to Ephesus, near Izmir, where we have an airbase I had consultations at. The city is a religious pilgrimage destination for Christians like Jason. The Apostle Paul preached there and there are extensive excavations of buildings back to his time. Then we went to Tarsus, not far from here, where the Apostle Paul was born. After Adana I hope, if my consultations don’t take too long, to take Jason on to Antioch, the first place the inhabitants called themselves Christians and where the Patriarch of Asia sat.”
“That’s quite a tour. You are a lucky young man,” Yusuf said, leaning over and placing a hand on Jason’s knee. Neither Jason nor Yusuf were quick to move to relocate the hand. “Are you still highly interested in discovering the city now, or would you like to see my carpet shop and perhaps indulge in more coffee and conversation at my residence? Have you seen a traditional Turkish home? I’ve had mine restored. It isn’t far away.”
“That would be lovely, yes, thanks,” Sam said, his eyes captured by the visage of the sexy young Turk, Murat, broadcasting a signal of interest. Murat’s eyes were returning that interest.
“Perhaps you can let Ahmet return to base—after he has given Murat his contact information. Perhaps you would like to stay for dinner—to further young Jason’s introduction to our country by tasting our food and experiencing a traditional Turkish residence. We even have a few young servants who can entertain us with Turkish dancing. Murat would see that you got back to the Hilton for the night. It’s not far away.”
“That is very gracious of you,” Sam said. What he was thinking was that that wasn’t nearly as hard to maneuver as he had thought it might be.
What Yusuf was thinking was, this will give me time, I hope, to figure out what in the hell this old fox is up to. He had seen Sam’s attraction to Murat and thought that perhaps he would direct the young man to distract Sam—not only to neutralize the man having sought Yusuf out for some reason—and Yusuf was not fooled that this had been a coincidental meeting—but it might give Yusuf an opportunity to get at that highly alluring nephew of Sam’s. A Catholic priest indeed. What a waste—and what a challenge. The lad had a roving eye, though—and one turned on Yusuf, the man could discern. A Muslim graybeard debauching a young Catholic priest. What a delicious thought.
* * * *
Yusuf’s business and residence were an impressive restoration and renovation of a traditional Turkish urban residential compound for a wealthy family. The Oriental carpet shop had a forty-foot front on the busy Kizilay Caddesi, with a twenty-foot garage at the side for Yusuf’s Mercedes sedan. The shop was on the ground floor and the business’s offices and store rooms were on the floor above this. The residence was behind, with a center courtyard, with fountain, two wings running back thirty feet on either side, and the residence itself along the back, containing lounges and dining room downstairs and four bedrooms, with en suite baths on the second floor. Servants’ rooms were in the attic above that. The wall-enclosed lot extended another fifteen feet back from the residence, providing a stone terrace with a small rectangular pool, with burbling fountain, and with a line of funeral cypresses along the back wall. The buildings were in gray stone and an atmosphere of lush traditional Turkish textiles was maintained throughout.
After the visitors had been shown around the shop, the four of them, Yusuf, Murat, Sam, and Jason were settled in facing divans in the courtyard of the residence, next to the gurgling fountain, and tea and Turkish delicacies were produced and offered by a strikingly good-looking pair of young woman and man, who Yusuf said worked both in the shop and the house. Yusuf had invited Jason to sit next to him, with Sam sitting next to Murat. Both sets of men seemed to like this arrangement just fine. Giving Sam a sly look indicating that he knew Muslims weren’t supposed to drink, Yusuf added whiskey to the order, and each of the men accepted a drink—and then another—as they chatted about what had transpired, or what they wanted to say had, since Yusuf and Sam had last seen each other.
At length, the sun was dipping low, and the four had not reached any sort of an awkward stage, other than all ignoring that the leaning in and occasional touching of Yusuf and Jason and of Sam and Murat had become more frequent, with the liquor and sweets continuing. The touching had been mostly Yusuf to Jason and Murat to Sam, and it had not been rebuffed. Yusuf made a suggestion. He knew he was risking something, but he both wanted to understand better to what extent Sam showing up endangered him, and he really, really wanted to fuck this luscious young blond, Jason. He didn’t seem to mind—or to observe as infatuated as he himself was with the young American blond—that Murat obviously wanted to be fucked by Sam.
“I mentioned the possibility of you staying for dinner so that Jason can experience a traditional Turkish meal,” he said, “and I would be very pleased if you stayed. And, if so, why don’t you just stay here rather than at the Hilton for the remainder of your stay? We have the bedrooms,”—not that Yusuf wanted to use them all—“and Murat could drive you to the airbase tomorrow for your consultations and pick you up. I could see that Jason is entertained and shown more of the Turkish culture. There are some Christian shrines in the city, if he would like to see those.”
“The mechanic, Ahmet, was going to pick me up at the Hilton,” Sam said. “He works on the base, so he can drive into it.”
“Murat can drive you into the Inchirlik Airbase too,” Yusuf said.
“Can he?” Sam said, looking at the young man sitting beside him, and who Sam had an arm around behind his back and along the top of the back of the divan.
“Yes. We have shop space in the Base Exchange and Murat has a pass to go there. I really would like him to be able to talk to that mechanic, Ahmet, more about the job of an airplane mechanic, so perhaps they could meet while you are having your consultations.”
I just bet you want Murat to have more access to a base jet mechanic, Sam thought, but he also wanted more direct access to Murat himself, so the offer was advantageous—and it was something Sam had been working to achieve. “That sounds like a good plan, except that our luggage is at the Hilton.”
“That’s no problem,” Yusuf said. “Murat can drive you to the hotel to pack and remove your luggage and check out. You could take the time you needed. Dinner won’t be served for another three hours.”
“That sounds fine,” Sam said, giving Murat a lustful look, which he was pleased to see reciprocated. That, in fact, is perfect, he thought.
Similarly, Yusuf turned to Jason, who was looking a little hazy-eyed from the whiskey he’d had, and said, “Does that sound fine with you, son? We can discuss Turkish culture and what we do for pleasure while your uncle is gathering the luggage.”
“Yes, lovely,” Jason answered, with a smile.
Yusuf turned and gave Sam a searching look. He smiled when the man gave him a slight nod. Old times were returning. Sam had provided him with delicious young, blond Western men before—many years before—when Sam was running Yusuf in intelligence collection. Sam would know precisely how having a young man like Jason appear near him would set Yusuf’s juices going. This visit cannot have been an accident. Sam wanted something from him. The nod he just got from Sam was license for Yusuf to indulge himself with Jason. But what was it that his old intelligence handler would want from him? Yusuf had been very careful to construct a life that was out of the game. Jason obviously was an offering. Could he risk it?
He took another look at the young blond man, reclining into the corner of the sofa, a bit glazy eyed. Jason smiled at him and Yusuf smiled back.
* * * *
As Murat and Sam left, through the shop on the street, Yusuf rose and said, “This robe is hot. I will be back in a few minutes.” When he returned, he was bare-chested and wearing diaphanous billowy harem pants with an overlapping panel in front that closed with a strap around the waist. He was not a trim man nor was he young, but he was in great condition for his age, more of a Zeus in form than an Apollo. His pecs were firm and bulging, and, though his torso didn’t taper, it was hard and armor-like. He was hirsute, with swirls of salt-and-pepper, mostly salt as with his wavy head hair and his mustache and beard, on his firm torso and descending to—and mostly beyond—the waistband of the harem pants. He was solidly built, but very well-built for a man of his years. He showed no embarrassment about his conditioning in front of a young man he was trying to make—nor did he need to.
He was carrying a tray, with three glasses filled with liquid, two burgundy in color and one amber, and set that on the table in front of the sofa.
Sitting down, he said, “There, that’s more comfortable. If you wish to become more comfortable too, feel free.”
“Thank you,” Jason said, taking his jacket off and laying it, folded, on the arm of a chair beside the sofa. Underneath he was wearing a white dress shirt over tan slacks. Yusuf reached over and unbuttoned the top three buttons of Jason’s shirt, saying, “I think you can get more comfortable than that.” The young man didn’t resist. He just smiled, looking directly into Yusuf’s eyes as the elder man unbuttoned the shirt.
“There that must be cooler for you,” Yusuf said. “I must say you don’t look the part.”
“The part?” Jason asked.
“A Catholic priest. No habit or clerical collar.”
“Oh, I won’t get those until next year,” Jason said, with a laugh.
“Good, because you are a sexy young man dressed the way you are. It will be a great loss when you go into clerical robes.”
“I can’t imagine who it will be a loss to,” Jason said.
“Well, surely womankind. You will have to be celibate with women.”
“Hardly a loss.”
There was a pause, as Yusuf sat down on the sofa next to Jason. “Not a loss? You’re not saying you haven’t gone with women, are you—not a handsome young, obviously fit, young man? The women must be crawling over you. They must be lamenting that you have chosen to become a Catholic priest.”
“No, no women.”
Yusuf turned his head to look directly into Jason’s eyes. “Are you saying you go with men? Many Catholic priests do, of course.” A hand went to Jason’s knee, and Jason made no move to remove it.
“Many Catholic priests do, yes.”
“And you, perhaps? I have been casting you interested looks; I am sure you have noticed.”
“Many Catholic priests do, yes, and, yes, I have noticed your interest.”
“Has Sam told you that I cover men?”
“Yes.”
“Has he said you can let me cover you if you wish?”
“Yes. He told me I would be your type and that, if we were to see you in Adana while we were here and I wanted you, that would be fine with him. He said he felt he owed you favors for years past, although he didn’t tell me what they were for.”
“So, you are to be a gift to me?”
“It would seem so, yes.”
“Just for old time’s sake?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“And your view of that?”
“I’m sure you have seen that I returned your looks of interest. You are a very sexy man, and I am in want.” To drive that home, Jason unbuttoned the rest of the buttons on his shirt and took that off his back. He now was also bare-chested and he was a smooth-bodied Apollo to Yusuf’s Zeus. He reclined back into the corner of the sofa, signaling his vulnerability and openness to Yusuf’s attentions. Yusuf reached over and touched one of Jason’s nipples, and Jason held. Yusuf moved his hand over to caress the other one. Jason emitted a low moan.
“And do you . . . readily?”
“When I want; as I want.”
“And you want a man’s cock inside you?”
“Yes.”
“Fucking you?”
“Yes.”
“And did he tell you what I liked—how I liked to—?”
“The drinks you have brought out?” Jason said, gesturing to the three drinks on the tray.
“Ah, so he has told you. Perhaps we need not be long in dance of the seduction.”
“True. Sam and your son may not be gone long,” Jason said. “Do you wish to tell me about the drinks and why there are three?”
“Your choice. At this point, it is all by your choice,” Yusuf said. “The two with the dark liquid are port wine. I will take one of these. The amber one is a white wine that contains a relaxing drug.”
“A relaxing drug?”
“It is harmless and only lasts for a bit more than an hour in the amount I have put in the wine. Sam has told you so much. He must have told you that my fetish was for my young men to be conscious and sensitive to the experience, but to be completely powerless—for me to exercise all control.”
“He did tell me that, yes.”
“And did he tell you that part of the need for relaxation is that I’m built unusually large—that my demands are great? You have to be completely open and spread to enjoy me.”
“Yes.”
“And what did you think—what were your emotions—about that?”
“It excited me. It made me melt.”
“If you drink that wine, I will make you melt. You will be mine for an hour to do what and as I please. You will feel and be aware of everything, but you will have no control over what is done to you. You will be stretched and taxed. So, it’s your choice. Take your pick. Even if you choose the port, we can couple. It just won’t be the same as if you give full control over to me. You will suffer. But perhaps you want to suffer.”
“An enhancement for me, then—the white wine. But what about you? You won’t enjoy any enhancement?”
“I’m an old man. I usually can manage it and hold it, but when I want to be sure, yes, I take something too. I have done so, when I left you for a few moments.” With that, Yusuf undid the knot in the sash around his waist and pulled the two overlapping panels apart. He was in long, thick, magnificent erection. He had already sheathed his shaft with a condom.
“Oh, my god,” Jason exclaimed. “Sam didn’t lie. You’re a bull.”
“I can be a god for you if you’ll be my slave,” Yusuf murmured. The fingers of the hand he had been playing with Jason’s nipples with moved down the young man’s torso, to the waistband of his trousers, undoing Jason’s belt.
Yusuf’s hand came away from Jason’s belt momentarily to take the young man’s hand and to guide his fingers to Yusuf’s erection. “Touch it.”
Jason did so. He reached over with his other hand, took up the glass with the drugged white wine in it, and drank deeply, his eyes gazing intently into Yusuf’s.
Jason lay back, spread his legs wide, and elevated his hips. He moaned deeply as, hovering over him, Yusuf grasped his huge erection and started rubbing it across the young man’s puckering hole.
“Holy shit, you’re huge!” Jason cried out at penetration.
* * * *
In the garage beside the carpet shop, after Murat and Sam had entered the Mercedes but before Murat could engage the automatic door opener, Sam reached over, clapped his hand on the back of the young Turk’s neck, and turned Murat’s face toward his. Surprising the young man, Sam took the young man’s mouth in a brutal, deep kiss. At the same time, he reached between Murat’s thighs as the young man sat behind the wheel of the car and grabbed his cock through the material. Murat already was in erection. He’d been aroused while the four of them had been sitting and drinking in the courtyard of the residence.
“Hey, man. Ne yapıyorsun?—What are you—?”
“You know what I’m doing and it’s what you want. Lay there and take it,” Sam growled.
Murat writhed under him, but Sam was too strong. He deftly undid the Turk’s belt, unzipped him, fished out the young man’s hard cock, and grasped and squeezed it. Murat managed to pull away from the kiss and yelp. Sam banged his head against the car-door window—not enough to hurt the head or break the window—but enough so that Murat knew he was being dominated.
“Relax and take it,” Sam growled. “I know you want it and you want it from me. I’m going to beat you off here. Then you’re going to drive me to the Hilton, turn the car over to a valet, come up to my room, and I’m going to fuck your lights out. You want it. Then we’re going to talk.”
He didn’t wait for any sign of assent, but cruelly took the young man’s mouth with his again and started to stroke his cock off. Murat didn’t struggle long. He relaxed. Sam released him from the kiss, but he continued to grasp the back of the young man’s neck with one hand and stroke him off with the other. He pressed his forehead to Murat’s and their eyes devoured each other’s. There was no question that Murat was fine with the hand job.
A packet of tissues was embedded in the console between the seats. Sam grabbed a bunch of them and held them over Murat’s cock head to contain the inevitable spouting of cum. When it came, Murat called out “Sikme, sikme—Fuck, fuck,” jerked and came into the tissue and immediately jerked and came again. Sam pulled away and sat back into the passenger seat.
“Now, you can either go back into the house, no doubt finding your father fucking my nephew in the courtyard, or you can drive me to the Hilton, come up to my room, and I’ll give you the fuck of your life.”
Murat reached up under the rearview mirror and pushed the button that opened the garage doors to enable the Mercedes to drive, somewhat erratically, to the Hilton. Murat was trembling. How did this dominating man know that he liked it rough?
* * * *
When Jason went docile—still conscious, but floppy and humming to himself, eye’s wide, taking everything in but not moving on his own steam, Yusuf took him up in his arms and carried him into one of the lounges of the residence. There was a mattress-covered platform there covered with a richly colored Oriental rug and a mountain of pillows. Yusuf arranged the pillows so that Jason was lying in them with a few under the small of his back, raising and rolling up his pelvis.
He slowly stripped the young man, taking his time and kissing and licking and fondling as he went. Wide-eyed, Jason panted and moaned in low tones. He was laid out on his back in an open, vulnerable, sacrificial position. His arms were stretched straight out from his body and his legs were spread and bent, with his feet flat on the platform. Yusuf had inserted his hands between Jason’s closed calves and then, as his eyes captured Jason and Jason whimpered but did not resist, slowly glided the hands up the young man’s legs, parting and coaxing Jason to bend his legs. More pillows had then gone under the young man’s back to raise and roll up his hips. Jason lay there, completely open and vulnerable. He was going to be fucked, and all he could do was open his eyes wide and whimper.
The position especially aroused Yusuf. He had a fetish for debauching Christian men—a Muslim using a Christian. This was largely the reason he liked young Western, blond men. Sam knew of this fetish. Yusuf had every reason to believe now that that was why a young blond man preparing to become a Catholic priest had been brought to him as a gift.
After fully exploring the young man’s perfect, naked body with his hands, mouth, and tongue, including pushing his face between Jason’s buttocks cheeks and eating him out, opening him up, as Jason murmured, “Yes, yes, yes,” and let his ass rock against the man’s invading tongue, Yusuf went down on his knees beside Jason’s prone body. He still had the diaphanous harem pants draped from his hips, although his long, upcurved erection stood out from his groin.
He lifted something up in his hand. It was a leather phallus, with a wooden mushroom cap and two leather balls hanging down from the handle. “I promised I would show you something of Turkish culture while Sam had his consultations. This is a beginning. Do you know what this is?” It was pretty obvious what it was, but Jason didn’t answer. He’s eyes, open wide and a bit glassy, were trained on it, though.
“This is Turkish and old. It comes from the eighteenth century. They had their pleasures even then.”
Jason panted hard, and did a bit of vocalization and languid rocking of his pelvis as Yusuf slowly buried the antique leather and wood dildo up his ass to the hanging balls and worked him. He did the dildo work with one hand while stroking the young man off with the other. He didn’t stop with the phallus. As Jason groaned and gasped, the two greased leather balls, one after the other, were pressed into the young man’s ass as well. Out came the dildo and balls to be replaced with Yusuf’s greased hand, inserted up to the wrist, the hand bunched into a fist, as Jason’s pelvis rose and fell on the fist and Yusuf fucked the semiconscious young man with it.
“Oh, fuck. Shit,” Jason burbled in a weak, far-away voice as he came with Yusuf’s fist. Laughing, Yusuf pulled the fist out, moved between Jason’s spread thighs on his knees, positioned his still rock-hard cock, and thrust up inside a well-opened channel. The fuck started slow, almost tenderly. Then, as lust overtook the old goat, he grasped the young man’s hips to him and accelerated the screwing, thrusting ever more vigorously, faster, deeper.
Although weak, Jason wasn’t so immobilized that he couldn’t reach down with both arms, grasping one of Yusuf’s plump butt cheeks in each hand, and squeeze and hold Yusuf’s hips closely against his pelvis, panting and murmuring, “Shit, you’re big. Screw me hard,” as Yusuf fucked him to heaven. A Muslim heaven, though, Yusuf thought, laughing. Once again the Muslims win over the Christians. Yusuf was conquering a Catholic priest.
* * * *
As Sam closed the hotel room door behind them, he shoved Murat to the carpet. Surprised, the young Turk went down with an “umpf,” trembling and suddenly firing on all cylinders. Sam reached down and grabbed the young man by the hair. The band on the ponytail that Murat kept shoulder length had come undone, so Sam had quite a lot of hair to grip. He hauled Murat up by the hair and slung the man toward the bedroom of the two-room suite. Murat rose and turned toward the older, bigger, more powerful man, a look of surprise—and of lust too, as Murat liked it rough—on his face. Sam backhanded him across the face, sending the young man to the floor again. Once more, he was pulled up by the hair and propelled into the bedroom.
Murat landed at the foot of the bed. Sam pulled him up by hair with one hand, but only as far as Murat going to his knees before Sam. With the other hand, Sam undid his belt buckle, unzipped himself, pulled out a champion-size erection, and growled. “Here, this is what you want. Suck it.”
Murat opened his mouth to the cock, took in as much as he could throat, and gave Sam head. He didn’t resist. He wanted to be manhandled. Sam had intuitively figured this out and was able to accommodate him.
At length, Sam pulled the young man up, reversed him, and bent him over the bed. Murat’s trousers and briefs were puddled around his ankles, and Sam hovered over his body.
Murat cried out, “Bok. Sikme. Beni öldürüyorsun—Shit. Fuck. You’re killing me.” The tone in which he said it indicated that being killed was just fine with him. He was crying it out because Sam was hovering over his back, holding his head to the mattress with one hand grasping his neck, and with the fingers of his other hand digging into the young man’s ass channel, spreading and opening him up.
Then the young Turk was crying out, “Evet. Evet! Sert sik beni! Sik beni! Bana acı çektir!—Yes. Yes! Fuck me! Screw me hard! Make me suffer!” And Sam did just that, mounted on the young man like a jockey on a racehorse, pressing his head to the mattress with one hand and bending the young man’s arm cruelly up his back with the other hand, riding him hard to the finish line.
For the second fuck, both of them were naked, Sam lying on his back on the bed, and Murat saddled on his loins, riding his cock in the cowboy position. Murat, leaning back, was using the leverage of his knees to rise and fall on the cock, and voicing his pleasure, as Sam tweaked the young man’s nipples and pounded his chest with his fists. Nothing was happening to Murat that he didn’t want. He was getting the best fuck he’d ever had from the surprising virile, vigorous, and powerful older American.
Afterward, Murat collapsed on Sam’s breast and inside the older man’s embrace, Sam’s cock still inside Murat’s anal passage, the American spy chief lowered the boom.
“You aren’t here by chance, Samir.”
Murat’s eyes flashed open and he tried to rise off Sam’s chest, but Sam held him tight.
“You aren’t Murat Chelik. You are Samir Demir. We have researched you carefully. And you aren’t Yusuf’s son. You are his asset, interacting with servicemen of all nationalities on the Inchirlik Airbase and bringing back intelligence to Yusuf for him to pass on to several of the enemy countries of mine.” Again, the young man now revealed as Samir tried to wriggle out of Sam’s embrace, but unsuccessfully.
“And I am not only an older colleague of Yusuf’s before he retired from working for the allies and turned to gathering intelligence on my country and our allies as a freelancer and selling it to anyone who will buy: the Russians, the Chinese, the Iranians, the Israelis. I am Sam Winterberry and I head up a unit of the CIA in countering such as Yusuf—and of you, until recently.”
“Until recently?” Samir managed.
“Yes. We’ve been receiving volunteered information on our own activities. We were perplexed, but we decided that someone was shipping us the same intelligence they had collected on us here at the Inchirlik Base to let us know what they had collected. Someone was voluntarily working for us. Research showed that the someone was you. How are you collecting this information, Samir? What do you do for the men you get the information from?”
“I think you know what I do,” he answered.
“We don’t want you to stop doing it, but we want you to identify the men who are giving you our secrets in exchange for your ass.”
“And, so, you have come to save me? To let me come to America and start a new life?”
“Spying isn’t that simple, Samir. We had come to help you continue what you’re doing. Continue doing it for us for five years and we’ll give you a Green Card and set up in the United States. But not until you have helped us more. We’ve gone through this elaborate scheme to distract Yusuf. We want to come and go with nothing changed in what you are doing. Some of what you collect for Yusuf, though, will be what we want to get to the Russians, Chinese, or Iranians and have them believe is true.”
“Do I have a choice?” Samir asked.
“No, of course not. From now it will be as always between you and Yusuf. He’s fucking you, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Samir answered weakly.
“That should be as always, but now you are working for me, not Yusuf. We will make it easier and safer for you to get information to us. And the information you pass on to Yusuf will be what we want you to pass on. Beware of Yusuf, though. He’s ruthless. He will kill you if he even suspects you are working for us.”
“I will be careful,” Samir murmured.
Sam continued. “Yusuf will be distracted again tomorrow, as no doubt he is being distracted even now. You will take me for my nonexistent appointments at the base tomorrow, but we will really come here for instruction on how you are to keep in contact with us. Yusuf has blessed you to contact and, no doubt, cultivate and use the jet mechanic, Ahmet, which plays right into our hands. Ahmet is to be your handler. He’s here now. We are going to solidify our relationship with and command over you now.”
This was the cue for Ahmet to appear at the bedroom door, naked, in erection, and crowned with a condom. Samir groaned and Sam was coming alive inside Samir’s passage as Ahmet climbed up on the bed, placing his knees between Sam’s legs, approaching Samir from on top and behind, holding his erection in one hand and positioning it.
Samir gasped and cried out in surprise and pain as Ahmet’s shaft entered him and forced its way up the channel along the top of Sam’s buried cock.
“SIKME! Sikme! Sikme,” Samir called out in an every-diminishing voice laced with gasps and moans as the two me began coordinate thrusts, working the young Turk writhing between them in close coordination.
Samir moved between them in pain-passion, whimpering and gasping, but enjoying the attention and taking immensely.
* * * *
Dinner that night, featuring traditional Turkish dishes, service Turkish style, and served after 10:00 p.m., per Turkish tradition, and provided in the spirit of continuing Jason’s exposure to Turkish culture, was a success. It was served by the same good-looking young woman and man who had served them earlier in the day in the courtyard. Both were provocatively dressed in belly-dancing costumes that they would be wearing later in the evening as they danced to recorded Turkish music for them in one of the lounges and Jason’s exposure to Turkish culture continued.
“I didn’t know that Turkish men belly danced too—and could do it so well,” Sam said.
“Another introduction into traditional Turkish culture,” Yusuf answered, with a smile.
The men were on their best behavior, with all intent on not revealing how intimate they had become with another man other than the one they were originally linked to. Yusuf sat with the young man now known to Sam to be Samir, although they were keeping up pretense that he was Murat in Yusuf’s presence, and Jason sat with Sam. Both young men signaled “I am with the man I came with” by Samir servicing food to Yusuf and, after watching how Samir did it, Jason serving food to Sam.
They all watched the belly dancing, with interest, but all were careful not to get intimate with any of the others despite how sensual and suggestive the dancing was. If each of the four was watching the young man dance more than they were ogling the young woman, none commented on that.
When they went to bed, it was to the four separate bedrooms upstairs. I wasn’t long, though, before Yusuf entered Jason’s unlocked bedroom, shrugged his robe off to reveal that all he was wearing was a condom on his engorged pill-enhanced shaft, was welcomed into the bed, and was ridden by Jason into the night for as long as the pill held its power.
Sam was not unaware that Yusuf had changed bedrooms. He was pleased. All was as planned. He waited until Yusuf was well distracted with Jason before he entered Samir’s unlocked bedroom, climbed on top of the young Turk, slapped him around a bit until Samir wholly surrendered to him, and did a little fist fucking before mounting a whimpering Samir and giving him a rough fuck.
Samir was delighted. Yusuf could be cruel but not anywhere this close to fully conquering and satiating.
* * * *
Yusuf and Jason greeted each other at breakfast as if they hadn’t rolled out of the same bed in the same room earlier in the morning. They needn’t have bothered the charade. Sam and Samir had rolled out of the bed in the same room earlier and had already left for the Hilton, telling the servants they were meeting Ahmet at the Inchirlik Airbase.
“We can check out the Catholic shrines in the city,” Yusuf said, “Or . . .”
“Or what?” Jason asked.
“We could continue the exposure to traditional Turkey. We could go to a hamam and you could be introduced to the nargile and perhaps, just perhaps, I could introduce you to some true zenne.”
“Hamam? Nargile? Zenne?” Jason asked.
“A hamam is a Turkish bath, and they can be very special here in Turkey. In one I would introduce you to, like Cesme Humami, Kosk Hamami, or Girne Hamami, all fairly close by to here, you not only can experience a Turkish bath, but a massage as well and such entertainment as the nargile and the zenne?”
“And, again, the nargile and zenne?” Jason asked, with a smile.
“You have probably heard the nargile referred to as a hookah. It’s a waterpipe. The nargile is the Turkish version. You can use it to take nicotine, or hashish, or opium, or . . .”
“Or what?” Jason asked.
“Or essentially the same drug you took last night, which could prepare you to experience the zenne.”
“Ah, the zenne. The zenne at last,” Jason said.
“Yes, the zenne at last. Last night my manservant showed you that there are male belly dancers. He did nicely, I think, but he is not a professional. There are professional Turkish belly dancers. They are called zenne. There are three quite good ones at the nearby Girne Hamami. These three are at the height of their specialty.”
“The height being?”
“The height of being a zenne, which started at the courts of Turkish sultans in the hedonist, final eras of the Ottoman Empire, was that they were courtesans of the highest order. They danced for the sultans and then they either lay down for the sultans or covered them, according to the sultan’s desire—singly or in pairs and more.”
“And the zenne at this nearby Turkish bath?”
“If you are interest in such a traditional Turkish experience—instead perhaps in learning more about the Catholic experience and presence in Adana—we would bathe and be massaged together. Then you could lie back on a divan and use the nargile, perhaps with the same drug we used last night, while the three zenne danced for you.”
“And then?” Jason asked, his voice thick with want. They had been sitting beside each other on pillows at a low table to have their breakfast, and Yusuf had been free about touching and fondling Jason as they discussed the possible activities of the day. They were both in silken robes and nothing else. At this point in the conversation, Yusuf was turned to Jason. He had an arm around the young man’s waist, and his other hand was roaming around inside Jason’s robe, flesh on flesh. Jason was sighing and swaying a bit in response to the exploration of Yusuf’s hands.
“And then the zenne will move together in fucking you on the divan, you feeling and seeing everything, but helpless, vulnerable, open to them, one behind you and inside you, one before you and inside you, and one at your head, inside you.”
“And you? You will watch?” Jason asked with a raspy voice, gasping, as the robes of both open falling off their bodies, and Yusuf stroking the young man’s shaft with a hand.
“I? I will watch them service you fully. And when they have finished inside you, they will melt away and then I will be on you, fucking you. Like this.”
Yusuf, turned to Jason, gently lowered the young man’s body to the heavily carpeted floor next to the low table. As Jason went down on his back, Yusuf ran a hand up from his calves to his thighs, coaxing the young man to open his legs to him. With a sigh, Jason did so, and Yusuf was on top of him and then inside him. And then he was moving inside the young man’s passage, in and out, forward and back. Jason hooked his knees on the older man’s hips and moved with him, panting and moaning, moving forward and back, taking the hard cock deep and then deeper.
They fucked.
They may or may not go out today to do anything Yusuf had woven as a possibility. They may just stay here all day and fuck. The luscious young, blond Westerner seemed happy with that, and Yusuf only had him, a gift from his old colleague Sam, for the rest of today and tonight. Tomorrow they were off for Antioch, with Sam’s open, vulnerable Catholic priest nephew never to be fucked by Yusuf again. But that was OK, Yusuf didn’t need these young men for more than a day or two, and this one was giving him everything.
Not far away, in Sam Winterberry’s suite at the Hilton, while Yusuf was otherwise distracted, Ahmet arrived and, after the three of them—Sam and Ahmet inside Samir—fucked, they got down to the business of how Samir’s American intelligence handler, Ahmet, would run his double agent, Samir, for the next five years without Yusuf learning that his agent had been turned.
And then they fucked again—Samir receiving each of his masters separately and then together again—in Sam Winterberry’s standard program of controlling and mastering his agents.
* * * *
Sam Winterberry, chief of the CIA’s Candy Story unit, a special operations force combining the world’s two oldest professions, spying and prostitution, in serving U.S. intelligence needs, lay on his back, propped up on pillows, puffing on a cigarette, in a room at the Hilton Istanbul Maslak, near the U.S. Consulate on Poligon Mahallesi, as his agent, not really named Jason nor really his nephew or studying to become a Catholic priest, collapsed on top of him. The wild cowboy ride on Winterberry’s long-enduring, Grade-A shaft had exhausted the young man. Winterberry had already taken him in several other positions to drive home who was the master—who commanded and gave the orders that were to be followed.
They’d left Adana that morning, transferring back to the Hilton from Yusuf’s residence and then leaving the Hilton for the airport even before Yusuf, tired finally from the almost nonstop fuck of Jason the day before. Jason, having been a recruited seasoned rent-boy, lasted longer than Yusuf did. If Yusuf became suspicious now and tried to locate Sam and his “nephew” in Antioch, he wouldn’t be able to do so. They’d returned to Istanbul to be debriefed at the CIA Station in the U.S. Consulate there before going off to their next assignments.
The operation had gone well. Jason had completely distracted Yusuf while Sam took over the Turk’s agent, Samir Demir, who wasn’t really named Murat and wasn’t really Yusuf’s son.
Samir entered Yusuf’s bedroom and quietly entered his bed, snuggling up to him. They wouldn’t fuck now. Yusuf had been worn out with the Western blond, but Samir needed to assure himself that Yusuf had no inkling that anything had changed, that Samir now worked for rather than against the Americans. Samir had originally wanted to defect to go live the American life as soon as he could get the attention of one of the Western intelligence agencies Yusuf was working against. But this was fine. He had been assured that he was safe and had better communications with the CIA now than before. It was only for five years. And Ahmet, his handler, was a real hunk. He was younger, more virile and vigorous, than Yusuf. He could fuck a whole lot better.