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I’d barely made it through a rough day in paradise. I had paperwork up to my eyeballs, and the ambassador was being a real bear toward the Country Team. He was being crushed in a vice between Washington, the Greeks, and the Turks over the latest failure of the Cypriot settlement talks to move just when the Greeks and Turks were both teasing us with the possibility—the false possibility, as usual—of inching ahead in the decades-long struggle. And the ambassador didn’t like being put through the crusher—so he was deflecting his pain onto the members of his Country Team.
Despite the real work we each had, he had peppered us all day with petty little memos designed to irritate us all as much as his superiors and the Greeks and Turks were irritating him. This was hardly the moment I wanted to think about what brand of sedan my office could next buy.
I hadn’t planned out the evening I ultimately had, but I couldn’t face going to what was waiting for me at home. Lena was off in the States on one of her periodic shopping trips—which I didn’t begrudge her, because it was her dad who was paying for those and so much else we both enjoyed in life. I never slept alone, though, when I could avoid it, and so Marios, the actor I’d been working with in my cultural attaché capacity at the Theatro Ena, the Greek Cypriot national experimental theater housed inside one of the old gates to the ancient city fortress of Nicosia, had moved in temporarily the day Lena left.
But Marios was high strung—and quite opinionated himself on what the Americans should be doing in the current peace talks. After having had the ambassador chew on my butt all day, I was in no mood to go home and have Marios chew on my dick.
So, I avoided going home. I took up the paperwork I should have done today, putting the classified material in the vault adjacent to my office and the unclassified work in my briefcase in the hopes that it would solve its own problems overnight, and walked out to my BMW convertible, part of the reverse dowry Lena’s father had given me to marry his flighty daughter and give her instant cachet in the diplomatic community. Neither Lena nor her father cared that I was bisexual; they both were more interested in how I looked in a tuxedo beside her in the newspaper society section snapshots—and, of course, my access to diplomat status and world travel at government expense. And the arrangement was quite agreeable for both Lena and her father. She was happy with my cocksman skills with her—and her father had enjoyed taking me himself more than once since before we’d married.
I decided I’d eat dinner out and only go home later, when I was less on edge from the day and when Marios had drunk enough Cypriot brandy to be maudlin and I could use his cock for relief of my tension without being lashed by his sharp tongue as well.
But I didn’t really want to go to a Greek tavern, either. They wouldn’t be in full swing until 10:00 pm, and I’d been on TV today, in the background, as the ambassador was being subjected to a trying press conference. I found that on those days, when I then appeared in public, I was swamped by Greeks who bent my ear mercilessly about what the Americans should be doing for them and not doing for the Turks—thinking that I had something to do with the formulation of the policy since they saw me on TV. If I went to a taverna and dined virtually alone, I’d be a helpless target.
And so, I nosed the BMW toward the Ledra Palace checkpoint, the only border crossing in the city, which was divided by a UN-monitored green line no-man’s zone. I’d catch a quick meal on the Turkish side and then slip back across the border and go home to face Marios. Marios was between plays at Theatro Ena, and I was ambivalent about that. When he wasn’t working, he drank hard and could be a mean drunk; but when he was working, he worked hard and came away from the theater wrung out and not always capable of fucking the way I liked it. I tried to slip into the in-between when he was mean enough to fuck rough, which is what I liked from him, but sober enough to actually deliver it.
I had intended to drive on to Kyrenia, on the northern Mediterranean coast, as dinner by the harbor was always soothing, but the BMW was more practical—or thought it was—and parked, as if having a mind of its own, not more than a hundred yards beyond the Turkish checkpoint at the Ledra Palace crossing.
Mehmet’s was one of Lena’s favorite restaurants—and I enjoyed it too. That’s where we went for our doner kebab, that national Turkish dish of shaved roasted lamb covered with yogurt and a marinara sauce and served atop freshly baked pita bread. I’d bursa escort bayan found out about Mehmet’s from the son of the owner, who naturally enough was named Mehmet. The son, Jelal, was on the Turkish national tennis team, and I had played him in singles a couple of times in the diplomatic club league—and we were pretty even on wins and losses, which thrilled me because he was a good five years my junior and looked like he got a hell of a lot more exercise than I did.
The restaurant was directly on the Ininci Selem Caddesi, the road leading from the Turkish checkpoint around the western side of the fortress walls of Nicosia—called Lefkosa in the Turkish zone. As close to the road as the restaurant was, it still opened to the outside with large plate-glass windows, a rarity in an area where most restaurants were either inside ancient rock-walled caverns or in the open air. The glass expanse gave the restaurant’s waiters notice that I was approaching.
Jelal waved me to a table as I entered and arrived there the same moment I did with a heaping plate of doner kebab. I didn’t have to look at a menu; I never had to look at the menu at Mehmet’s. If I was eating there, I was eating the doner kebab.
“And is madam meeting you here?” Jelal asked me as he set the plate down even before I had settled in my seat.
“No, just me this evening, Jelal,” I answered. “Is that convenient for you?” The smile he gave me sent chills up my back and let me know that it, indeed, was convenient. We both knew what it meant when I dined here alone.
The proprietor, Mehmet, came from behind the cooking counter and took up a position beside the cash register and stared at me intently.
I brushed Jelal’s crotch with the back of my hand as he walked by my chair, on the side where Mehmet couldn’t see what I’d done, and I had my second chill. I could feel that he was hard.
Mehmet and his son weren’t fully Turkish, which was not all that uncommon for Turkish Cypriots. Mehmet’s family had roots in London, where they ran another Turkish restaurant, and each was the son of a Turkish Cypriot father and a British mother. In both, it made for an exotic mix, the British origin softening somewhat the rougher look and manners that were purely Turkish. Turkish men are often gorgeous in youth and ogres as they age—in both aspect and disposition. Mehmet wasn’t an ogre, though, which held promise that Jelal wouldn’t be either. Both were muscular men of tall stature, straight of spine and well-proportioned. Both had dark curly hair, but whereas Mehmet was hairy all over, Jelal was not. Both were olive skinned and handsome of face, though, and of dark, brooding, sultry looks that, in Jelal’s case, were offset arrestingly by milky blue eyes. With Jelal, it was always the eyes that attention went to—at least at first. The rest of him was very nice to look at too.
His eyes reminded me of his British connection, which then reminded me of the single other characteristic that set him apart from all of the other Turkish men I knew. But even though that image was making me tingle all over, I did what I could to control myself in the restaurant this evening—there were a good number of customers at the other tables—mostly Turkish Cypriot, as this was one of the culinary treasures residents of Lefkosa tried to keep to themselves—and there also was Mehmet, standing by the cash register, taking it all in.
I ate my meal slowly, enjoying every morsel, pairing it off with half a bottle of Chankaya wine, while Jelal buzzed around my table like a bee, attentive to my every need—and Mehmet stood at his station and observed every pass by me that Jelal made. I could not have asked for better service, and I left a tip that was, in itself, four times the cost of the doner kebab and wine.
Jelal looked at the tip and gave me a smile that made me melt. I knew, of course, as soon as the BMW stopped and parked in front of the restaurant that I wouldn’t be driving back into the Greek zone—indeed, I probably knew even before I crossed over into the Turkish zone.
Feeling full and satisfied and already beginning to sense the tension in me lessening, I climbed into the BMW, and rather than turn around and approach the Turkish checkpoint, I drove in the opposite direction, around the walls of the old city and then north, toward the Kyrenia mountains. Driving over the mountain pass and into the outskirts of the northern-coast castle harbor town of Kyrenia, I turned east and was almost immediately climbing back up the northern slope of the mountains to the old abbey village, now a den of artists and writers, of Bellapais. Here, with pretensions of being görükle escort a writer myself, I had rented the villa once occupied by the British novelist, Lawrence Durrell, as my Turkish side residence. As American cultural attaché to both of the zones, I maintained a residence on each side.
In all, the drive up from the restaurant took just under an hour. I parked my car in the village square, near the Tree of Idleness restaurant that sat across the square from the ruins of medieval Bellapais Abbey, and walked up the steep cobble-stoned road—not more than a path, really, which is why I didn’t drive the car up it. Some people did drive to their villas higher on the hill than mine was, but none of those people were driving new BMW convertibles—and they held a death wish against the high likelihood of meeting another car coming down the narrow, winding path.
The house was dark when I reached it, but I didn’t turn on the lights. I lit an oil lamp in the great room and then candles in the bedroom and a few candles as well out on the stone terrace perched over a cliff and with a stunning view of the northern Cypriot Mediterranean Sea coast and of the harbor town of Kyrenia. I set the candles near the edge of the small pool, where the reflected light could dance on the water.
I then went to the bathroom and cleaned myself out well and took a shower. I padded out into the bedroom naked and took up a silken robe, wrapped it around myself, cinched up the sash, went to the refrigerator for a bottle of wine, and poured a glass. I went out onto the terrace and sat on the rock wall for a while, watching the lights of Kyrenia below. I knew I should go back into the great room and tuck into the paperwork I had there, but I just wasn’t in the mood. Tomorrow was Saturday. I just wouldn’t report to the office, so that the ambassador couldn’t make new, silly demands on my time. I’d work on the paperwork here in the morning before returning in the afternoon.
Marios would be furious, but fuck him. I laughed, because when Marios was furious he also was horny—and when he was horny he was a forceful lover. My staying the night here would most probably work very nicely to my benefit tomorrow afternoon—assuming he hadn’t started drinking early.
I knew it would be a long wait tonight, and when I had finished the wine and grown bored with watching the northern coastline at night, I went over to the chaise lounge beside the pool and stretched out on it on my back and dozed.
I didn’t hear the opening of the front door or the footsteps across the great room and out onto the terrace. The first that I knew he was there was when he was crouched beside the chaise lounge and unknotting the sash around my waist and brushing the robe open.
His hands were gliding over my torso and I sighed, still only half awake, as he lowered his lips to my nipples.
“You seemed tense in the restaurant,” he said. “Would you like to have a massage?”
“Yes, please. That would be very nice,” I murmured. I sat up on the chaise and shrugged the robe off my shoulders, as he pulled it out from underneath me and told me to turn over. Then, using the oil from the bottle I kept beside the chaise he began to rub me down, giving me a professional quality massage. I felt tension flowing out of my muscles, and I knew that my instincts had been right—that this was the best place for me to be tonight.
I gave a little lurch and gasp as his tongue went to my asshole. He had been kneading my butt cheeks and rolling them and pulling them apart and blowing air at my opening, so it wasn’t a great surprise that he went on to tonguing me there. Oil was dribbling down into the crease between my cheeks, and he stopped tonguing me and spent some time and effort in working oil inside the entrance to my channel. I mewed softly, knowing where this was leading.
At his command, I rolled over, and he began to massage my chest and arms and then my calves. His searching hands massaged up my thighs and he started to oil my cock and balls, and my cock hardened for him. I moaned softly.
Opening my eyes, I saw Jelal standing at the foot of the chaise. He was naked and fully aroused. His powerful body was beautiful, and I already was aching for him.
I turned my head and said, “Please, Mehmet. Will you disrobe for me as well. I want to see you both.”
Mehmet moved away from me and stood by his son as he slowly stripped off his clothes. The two, father and son, couldn’t be both more the same and more different. The same beautiful, heavily muscled and well-worked bodies. The difference was in the slimness and smoothness of skin bursa escort bayan of Jelal contrasted with the Zeus-like build and silky hairiness of Mehmet.
In one other, strategic, manner they were the same—and for my purposes, this was the most arousing feature of all.
They were both uncut. That was almost unheard of in any Turkish area. Turkish men are almost always circumcised; there’s even a traditional coming-of-age ceremony for that in the Turkish world involving a pubescent boy, a white horse, a parade through the street, and a cleric’s sharp blade. But Mehmet and Jelal had been born in England to a British mother, and circumcision isn’t a custom there. And those mothers apparently had had stronger influence in the raising of their sons than had their fathers.
Circumcision was a Hellenic custom, but I preferred my men not to be cut because of two fetishes I had, and, as much pleasure as I got out of normal Greek and Turkish men, only Jelal and Mehmet had been able to fully satisfy me since I had been posted to Cyprus.
“Would you like Jelal first?” Mehmet asked.
“Yes, please,” I answered “You know what I want first.”
Mehmet walked over and held out his hand and helped me up from the chaise lounge, and we walked, arm in arm and arm, making little darting grabs at erect cocks and slaps on bare butts as we went into my candlelit bedroom.
I stretched out in the middle of the bed, and Jelal lay beside me on one side and Mehmet sat beside my waist on the other. I put my left arm behind Jelal’s neck and shoulders and he put his right arm under the armpit of that arm and stretched it behind my neck and fisted the wrist of my right arm, drawing my arm over my head. He was strong enough that he now had an arm hold on me that would keep my arms immobile. He moved his hip over my thigh, which spread my legs and, with his torso tilted toward me, brought our erect cocks together.
Jelal held our cocks together in one bundle and slowly stroked them. I moaned quietly and trembled, knowing what was coming, knowing that it was one of my favorite fetishes.
Mehmet was tonguing my nipples and moved his lips and tongue up into my exposed armpit. He had a hand on my balls and was rolling and pulling on them. He moved his mouth up to mine and was kissing me deeply when I shuddered at what Jelal was then doing—what unnerved and aroused me so, the main reason I paid these two four times what their doner kebabs sold for when I visited their restaurant alone—which was the signal that they were to visit me here that night in Bellapais.
Jelal was raised higher over my pelvis now and was docking our cocks—placing the bulbs of our dicks together, piss slit to piss slit and pulling his generous, uncut foreskin over my bulb until it was fully covered and our cocks were one unit. Holding the docked cocks together in his fist, Jelal started stroking them together, while friction rubbed our two glans together inside Jelal’s stretched foreskin, my hips undulated at their own volition, and I gasped and sighed and moaned. Jelal brought his face close to mine, and he and his father took turns possessing my mouth with their lips and searching tongues, and Mehmet stroked my oil-slicked torso and thighs with his free hand.
I murmured my love of what they were doing, as Jelal continued the stroking. I knew that he would not stop until I, at least, had come, and I luxuriated in the feel of being connected—docked—so intimately with him.
I did come—and so did Jelal—with our semen mixing and bloating his loose cock skin until it burbled out onto my pubic hair.
Then Mehmet laughed and drew away from me and rose off the bed. As Jelal was still holding me tight, Mehmet moved around to the foot the bed and grabbed my ankles and pulled me down to him, with Jelal releasing me and straddling my chest and rubbing my cheeks and neck with his cum-slathered cock.
Mehmet asked formally, “Me now? Do you want me now? May I fuck you, sir?”
“Yes, oh yes,” I answered, no longer a bit worried about the world of diplomacy and whether the ambassador would still be in a snit tomorrow or not. All tension and cares drained from me. “And after you, Jelal again, please. Fucking me, in one of his special positions.”
I loved Jelal’s flexible and athletic positions—but what was coming next was the other fetish that had me coming back again and again for the special doner kebabs at Mehmet’s restaurant.
Mehmet, much thicker than Jelal—much thicker than almost any man I knew, was working his cock inside my channel. I gasped and grunted at the effort, a sound that Jelal cut off by offering his cock for sucking.
And then it was happening, and I was going straight to heaven by the feel of the loose foreskin of a hard-as-steel working inside my channel, the movement of uncut skin working the walls of my channel, a sensation like no other in the world.
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