A Life of Yes

Chapter Seven: Retreat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, that’s true,” I admitted.

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

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

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

“I fuck you, yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I affirmed.

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Cael was almost shy in addressing me when he sought me out.

“I thought that was you at the bar last night,” he said. “Do you remember me? A couple of years ago. I’m Cael. We met at Rita’s on the Rocks.”

“We more than met at Rita’s,” I answered, giving him a smile. “My name is Lee. We were in Kibris Delight together.”

“Yes, you do remember then. I don’t think I could ever forget you.”

“Same here. And your red American car.”

“I would hope you’d remember more—”

“Yes, certainly. You were very good. It was a good way to end that movie,” I said. He touched me on the arm with a hand, tentatively, like maybe I’d jerk away. But I didn’t.

“You still look very good—very desirable after two years,” he said in a low voice. “But was that Erol Eragon I saw you with last night?”

“Yes. He had a taxi at the airport yesterday. He drove me here. I’m staying at the Salamis Bay.”

“So, you didn’t know him before? When you were here for the movie?”

“No.”

“But you are . . . with him now? He is very rough, you know.”

“Yes, I now know he is very rough. But, no, I’m not with him. He just drove me here from the airport and showed me around. He left me here, high and dry. I’ll have to find my own way to Lefkosa or Girne, I guess.”

“I have my car here. I still have the red Fairlane. I’m going back to Girne tomorrow. I could take you there, if you like.”

“That would be very nice of you,” I said. “I’d be very grateful.”

“How grateful?” he asked. “You were very good. I thought about you for some time after we’d filmed that scene in the movie.”

I had been leaning against the low altar table in the runs of the basilica. Practically no adjustment was required for me to go down on my back on the altar, for Cael to pull my T-shirt over my head and pull my shorts and briefs off my legs, and to come down between my spread thighs, to take my mouth with his for a deep, sweet kiss, and to enter me and slowly and sensually fuck me, rising and falling on my body, the two of us offering up a sacrifice to the gods of Salamis.

Cael was more lover than just a man who screwed me. He took me in waves and waves of gentle, rolling pleasure as I melded with him and rocked my pelvis against his, going with the slow pace of his cock working my channel.

It was a very nice fuck, but it wasn’t the fuck I’d come to Cyprus to get. I needed to be dominated, punished. This was sensuous sex with a Turkish hunk, but it wasn’t fully satisfying. I needed more of someone like Erol.

I hope, though, that it was satisfying the gods of Salamis.

* * * *

Cael drove me to Girne, the ancient harbor castle town on the island’s northern coast, and I checked into the Dome Hotel there where I’d walked the catwalk in a fashion show two years earlier. Cael had to go on to work a few days at Rita’s, but he said he wanted to see me again—I let him fuck me in the Dome Hotel room again when he brought me to Girne—and he said he wanted me to see the vineyard his father owned on the slopes below St. Hillarion Castle, so we made arrangements for him to come for me at the hotel two days later.

After Cael left I went to the hotel pool on the edge of the rocks by the Mediterranean and there I encountered Altan Tilki.

“So, that was you at Sulayman’s last evening, wasn’t it?” Tilki said. “I thought it might be. Do you know that Nigel is nearly sick with worry where you have gone? He’s called me a couple of times. You need to call him.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” I said, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

“You aren’t leaving him?” he asked. “Because if you are and you’ve come here to live, I can use you.” He noticed that I had reacted to the word “use.” “Is that it, Lee? Nigel doesn’t use you like you want to be used. As I remember you took it rough, that you wanted to act the innocent but be ravished. It was pure gold for the movies.”

“As I remember, you gave it rough,” I said.

“So, are you happy to see me here?” he asked. He was giving me a piercing look. I couldn’t hold his gaze and looked out into the sea.

“Yes, I’m happy to see you here,” I murmured. “And, yes, I came here to be used roughly.”

He fucked me for two hours in his hotel room. He tied me to the bed and he fucked me cruelly as he had done two years previously in Istanbul. He beat me with a leather belt and then fucked me hard. When he was done I’d been fucked, and he knew that I had been satisfied.

“Meeting you here has been fortuitous,” he said after the third fucking. “I have a business meeting with some men tomorrow. I keep a yacht here in the harbor, and I’m taking some men out for a cruise off the coast, where our meeting can’t be monitored. Tari, the videographer, will be helping me. You remember Tari, don’t you? He was the cameraman for that movie you were in for me.”

“Yes, I remember Tari,” I answered.

“And as I remember you’d lay under any man who wanted to fuck you.” When I didn’t respond to that, answering that by not demurring or disagreeing with him, he continued. “I wanted to take some talent out with us for the men to enjoy—a young man—a young man who can take it. I haven’t booked anyone yet. There’s good money in it. Would you like to go on a cruise tomorrow with me?”

I went on the cruise. I was kept in the stateroom below the main deck. The cabin was equipped for fun and games, and I was on my back, naked, with my arms pulled over my head, my wrists bound to the headboard, and my legs spread and raised, my ankles bound to chains hanging from the ceiling over the bed. As we cruised, the men Tilki was entertaining visited the stateroom one after the other, and each moved their knees between my spread thighs and fucked me. It was a thrill for them to have the image of fucking a bound captive. That was a thrill for me too.

Some of them were cruel; one of them fisted me, trussed up in my helplessness, and the wantonness in me cried out my want and my passion for how completely he was using me. I sucked the cocks of two-thirds of them. All of them used me as a release. All of them released inside me. The man who had fisted me was the only one who was able to reach me in my core when he exchanged the fist for his cock. He was the only one who I set my pelvis in motion in coordination with his thrusts, with me calling out, “Evet, Evet!—Yes. Yes! Derin—Deeper! Make me feel it!” My cries had brought some of the other men down to watch us through the hatch into the cabin and lick their lips and pull on the shafts.

He made me feel it, deep in my core. He was old and ugly and grizzled, but like that old man at the Tree of Idleness in the Bellapais square two years earlier, he made me feel it. At the height of the fuck he just held there, laughing, while I vigorously and wantonly fucked myself on his cock, seeking and receiving a glorious release.

Afterward, in the lounge of the Dome, while Tilki, Tari, and I were having drinks and Tilki was paying me for the day outing, he said, “Did you enjoy that, Lee?”

“Yes,” I answered truthfully.

“If you aren’t going to go back to Nigel, you can come with me,” he said. “I will keep you busy and well paid.”

“It’s something to think about,” I answered.

“And perhaps to resolve in a few days?” he said. “I go back to Istanbul in a week’s time. I would like you to cancel your hotel reservations here and stay with me. I have a very nice suite here.”

“Let me think about your proposition,” I answered. “And I think it might be best if I keep my room.” I was looking at Tari, and he picked up on my signal. Tari knocked on my door at midnight, I let him in, and he fucked me until nearly dawn. Again, like Cael, it was very nice and loving, but there was no fire and cruelty in it and my core didn’t open to him and draw him inside. As he fucked me, my thoughts went to that grizzled old man on the yacht—to his fist and then his thick cock just holding steady as I fucked myself on it.

After that first reference to Nigel being distraught and wanting me to call him if Tilki ran across me, the Turkish businessman with the cruel techniques that I melted to didn’t mention Nigel again. His loyalty and regard for a colleague went only so far.

* * * *

Two mornings later Cael picked me up at the hotel and drove me up into the Kyrenia range in his vintage red Ford Fairlane convertible. I was surprised that where he was taking me was in the same area he had driven me two years previously for a picnic and a fuck, with Tari hiding in the bushes and filming us fucking on a blanket in an orchard.

“Yes, this is my father’s orchard,” Cael confirmed when we arrived there. “This is where I brought you the last time. I knew it would be private here.”

Beyond the orchard was a vineyard. I had come prepared for a romantic interlude with Cael, halfway thinking of trying to break my need for rough sex and working on having a relationship with a handsome romantic Turk like Cael. What I got was a dose of reality, though. When we walked into the vineyard, an older man was waiting for us. He was solidly built, muscular, and gray-haired hirsute. His age was indeterminable, but it was clear he was still a vigorous, strong man. He was wearing only shorts.

“This is my father, Sami,” Cael said. “He owns and works this vineyard and has done so since the family came over from the mainland after the liberation of northern Cyprus.”

“You father,” I said, sure that he would get that, since his father had gotten him, his father lay with women.

Cael laughed. “It’s all good with Turkish men,” he said. “A hole is a hole is a hole and all that’s needed is an opportunity.”

The man was smiling at me, but I knew a lustful smile when I saw one. I was already beginning to understand what this outing was about.

“He has watched the movie we made over and over again and when I told him you were back on the island, he said he wanted to meet you. He wants to lay you. You take cock so easily that I was sure you would let him cover you. He’s very good; he has a big cock. He will pay for it.”

“And that’s why you brought me up here?” I asked.

“Yes,” Cael answered, no sign of embarrassment in his voice, sure that I was an easy lay for money for anyone who wanted to cover me. I hadn’t given him any reason to think otherwise. I didn’t prove him wrong this time.

“Does he want me in the house or outside,” I asked, taking a good look at him. So far my luck had been good in Turkish Cyprus with old, grizzled, ugly men. My luck was good now too.

Sami fucked me between two rows of grape vines in a doggy position, dominating me cruelly, mounted high on my ass while I was on my hands and knees. He was an expert at cocking. And he was cruel. I opened right up for him and he spent nearly a half hour deep inside the core of me, conquering me, ravishing me, ripping all dignity out of me, making me beg for more of the cock, deeper, while he buried fingers in the hair on my head and arched me back painfully, alternating with slapping my buttocks and flanks hard and digging his dirty fingernails into my pecs. He was riding me like I was a race horse. I liked to think of myself as a thoroughbred, but I gave in to him too easily and gave him too much to justify that.

Cael crouched at the end of the row, watching me being fucked totally and stroking his cock.

We said little as he drove me back to the Dome Hotel in the Girne harbor. There wasn’t much to be said. I was just a piece of ass to him, a prostitute. That was fine. I hadn’t exhibited as anything else to him. I only cared that he thought I was good at being a prostitute. His father had done me well. I had taken the pitiful amount of money he had given me afterward. I didn’t need it, but his pride had determined that he needed to offer it. But any relationship with Cael that I had been tentatively contemplating was out of the question now. If I had to give up rough sex, I wanted more in the way of companionship and regard than Cael obviously was looking forward to.

On a whim, when I got back to the hotel, I called Nigel in London. He picked up immediately.

“Where are you? Where have you gone, Lee?” he asked. “I am lost without you.” It was clear from his plaintive tone that he was being genuine.

“I’m on a vacation, Nigel,” I said. “I had some thinking to do.”

“So did I—do some thinking,” he said. “And I have been thinking. I realize how much you mean to me. I need you to come back to London, Lee. I’d like you to move in with me. I want us to be a couple.”

“I don’t know if I’d want to do movies anymore,” I said, holding my breath.

“There’s no reason you should if you don’t want to,” Nigel responded. “There’s no reason you should do anything you don’t want to do. Just come home to me. Just say yes to coming home to me.”

With that the tumblers fell into place. Fully satisfying sex was one thing, but a real relationship was so much more. That must be the life I’d been looking for—not the life I’d come to Cyprus to find. Before Altan Tilki had returned to Istanbul, I was already on a plane back to London. I had said “yes” to Nigel before I disconnected the phone.

Chapter Eight: Eight Years Later, Reset

Whoever thought up the idea of giving thirtieth-birthday parties should be shot. This is especially so in giving them for people whose livelihood depends on their youthful looks. I had been agonizing over reaching this age for over a year, which was sheer agony for one who was a men’s wear fashion model in London. My partner—my bed partner—the fashion designer, Nigel Standish, wasn’t helping a bit. His new show that he had been working feverishly on for four months and would be launching in two weeks didn’t help at all. It was fashions for “the very young,” he had told me. “You’ll understand why you won’t be on the runway this time, Lee,” he said, “although of course I’ll need you backstage to help keep order,” he’d added.

Yes, of course I understand why he wasn’t putting me on the runaway with fashions for “the very young.” What I wondered was whether he had designed the show so that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to walk the runway. And I more than understood the looks he gave the very young models he was using for the show. I had been very young myself, a performance art school student in New York ten years earlier, looking into modeling, when Nigel Standish had swept into town, stolen my virginity, put me in porn films, and, eventually, brought me back to London to work and live with him.

I wondered if he was doing this on purpose—this fashion show that took me off the runway and put young men up there who Nigel salivated over. I wondered whether he was not so subtly telling me it was over as I hit thirty. If not, his timing on a show theme was really shitty.

We’d had an understanding that, although we lived and slept together, neither of us was obligated to be monogamous. I hadn’t been for the two years I was in porn films, arranged by Nigel. I rather suspect Nigel never was, although it wasn’t something we discussed. I hadn’t been too active since I’d come back to live with him.

My birthday party at the newly open, trendy London restaurant, The Ivy, was as jolly and fake as any event in the London entertainment industry was. Everyone was kissy face and “You look marvelous, Darling,” when the affection of the kisses didn’t go to the eyes and everyone most decidedly didn’t look marvelous, which made suspect any use of the term for me, even though I thought I did still look marvelous, thank you very much.

I was feeling neglected even in the midst of all of the attention and old and vulnerable and unmarvelous in looks. This was only accentuated when Nigel didn’t show up, his excuse provided by Margo, the fashion house’s glue, who came to the party apparently only to tell me that Nigel regretted it, but “something had come up” with the show that might be a showstopper and he couldn’t leave work. She was going right back there herself. And then my sister—my four year’s younger sister, Jennifer, who had followed me to London—also just breezed through, dressed to kill, but really dressed to be laid, and was “Kiss, kiss. I’ll come by to see you tomorrow afternoon.” And then I was left with people who didn’t want to be here and to be reminded how old we all were becoming any more than I did.

And then Nigel didn’t come home that night. And, worse, when I went in to work just a few hours late the next morning, I got there in time to see Nigel and one of the new, young, American-like-I was at twenty, models, Gerald, getting out of the back of Nigel’s car at the entrance of our fashion house building. Gerald had all of the “just been fucked by the boss” glow that I remember having had back in New York when I was twenty and looking to rise in the entertainment industry and Nigel swept into town and wined and dined and laid me for my first time.

Ten years ago, when I was twenty. When I was young. When I was young enough for Nigel to want to fuck.

“It’s not what you think,” Margo said, following the line of my glare from the third-floor window down to the building’s entrance and observing the set of my jaw.’’

“What’s not what I think, Margo?” I asked through clinched teeth.

“Nigel was just taking Gerald to the solicitors to get his contracts signed.”

“And that’s why Gerald looks all aglow,” I’d sarcastically asked. “Because he’s just signed a good contract?”

“Yes, that’s why he looks happy,” Margo had answered. “How did you feel when you signed your first long-term modeling contract?” And then, when I didn’t answer, she continued. “Nigel was here, working all night. I know, I was here too. Gerald wasn’t here. Nigel worships you, Lee. This show has us all on edge. What you need is a reset, I think.”

“If you say so,” I said. But I softened my tone. I knew that Margo was just trying to help, trying to keep everything on an even keel here and to head off any fireworks this close to the show opening. But Margo would lie for Nigel. I knew that too. Margo would open her veins and bleed out for Nigel if she thought that would keep everything on an even keel.

There was a time when I would have done that for Nigel too—and when I believed he would do that for me. Nigel was in his late fifties now, but he was still tall and elegant and slender—and commanding. He could still leave me panting in bed—when we did it, which wasn’t nearly as often now as it once had been.

But I now was thirty, and Nigel had a crop of new, young, models to work with.

* * * *

“Margo wouldn’t lie to you, Lee,” my sister, Jennifer, assured me in what she said had to be a shorter “stop by” at Nigel and my flat than she had anticipated. “I think Margo cares more about you than she does Nigel. I think it’s just bad timing on Nigel’s part to plan a show that doesn’t put you on the runway at a vulnerable time for you. Believe me, I’m beginning to feel the thirties’ jitters myself.”

Jennifer was twenty-six. This wasn’t helping. Well, it helped a bit. I accepted the Jennifer knew how I felt about this. Jennifer was gorgeous and still would be when she was thirty. But then it would be downhill from there, and Jennifer relied on her good looks just as I did. In the professions we were in, youth and good looks were everything. Jennifer had followed me from Pennsylvania via Marcel’s performance art school in New York and now was a high-class hooker. She worked for an international escort agency with a branch here in London. When she’d come, briefly, to my party the previous evening, she was on her way to a dinner and the theater with a French film director followed by the night in his hotel room. She was dressed to the nines this afternoon too. She was on her way to escort an American businessman at a cocktail party, which would conclude with fun and games in his hotel room.

I didn’t judge her. She had drifted into this the same as I had. I had even been in porn films for two years. She hadn’t gone that public, although few recognized me from those years even though I’d been a hit in such movies as the fetish double feature Kibris Delight, set in Cyprus and featuring me and a whole bunch of hunky Turks. I’d been a redhead with green eyes for those films. I was, in real life, a blond with blue eyes. My then-temporary feature that became a focal point of my bared body had been the tattoo of a gecko on my lower left belly that faded after each movie and had to be renewed for the next one. I had gotten the gecko permanently inked just as I was giving up doing porn movies, which I had always since taken as an admonishment that I wasn’t as brilliant as I once thought I was. Still every man I’d lain under since that had said he liked the tattoo.

And I’d done my share of lying down for men for pay.

“I think Nigel is telling me that we’ve had our run and that he’s moving on to something younger,” I told Jennifer. “He may not even know he’s at that point. He’s so taken up with his work that this ‘for younger men’ fashion show he’s putting on may be his unconscious way of expressing that.”

“I think he’s just insensitive, Lee. He’s a man. That happens with me. And he’s an artist. He’s tied up in his art. I don’t think he’s any less tied up with you. And even if so, it’s not the end of the world. You’re still a gorgeous hunk. You could go into movies—legitimate ones now. You have the training. You could even open a dance school. You were pulled out of dance before the interest left you. There will be life after Nigel. God, he’s nearly thirty years older than you, double your age. There will be a change sometime. Still, I think all you need is a reset. Reality is that Nigel can’t reset until after this show is past him, but you can reset right now.”

“That’s what Margo said—that we needed a reset.”

“Which brings me to why I’m here,” Jennifer said. “I can’t stay long. Cocktails and an American dick await. I didn’t have your birthday present all together last evening, so I couldn’t give it to you at the party. Here. Happy birthday, chump . . . sorry, I mean champ.” She gave me that sisterly mischievous look.

“What’s this then?” I asked. It was a thick packet of material.

“This is a reset,” she said. “You’ve always said you wanted to see Bavaria—King Ludwig’s fairytale castles there. You’re going to Bavaria next week for a long weekend. Transportation, hotels, itinerary. The works are here in this packet. All taken care of.”

“I can’t go to Bavaria next weekend, Jennifer,” I said. “The show is the week after that.”

“You aren’t on the runway for the show. You have no need to be here for it. You need a vacation from this and Nigel needs to know what it is like if you’re not here for a show.”

“But he needs me, backstage, if I’m not on the runway. He’s said so.”

“And let him actually absorb that,” she said with a cheery tilt in her voice. “That he needs you. That his need for you isn’t just an easily flipped off expression.”

“I’d have to ask him.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I’ve already cleared it with Margo. She says it’s a great idea. Nigel doesn’t know his dick from his elbow right now as taken up as he is with the show.”

I didn’t really think it was the show that had Nigel preoccupied; I believed it was Gerald. “The question is whether Gerald knows his dick?” I said.

“Even if he does—especially if he does—this is something you need right now.”

I was grateful that she didn’t try to say there was nothing going on between Nigel and Gerald. I knew the looks that went between them. Ten years ago that was Nigel and me. I knew Nigel was screwing Gerald.

“I don’t know if I could endure touring alone,” I said.

“You won’t have to,” Jennifer said. “A tour guide is included. Your initial stay is at the Sofitel Munich Bayerpost Hotel. He’ll meet you for dinner there next Friday night. And you’re booked for a contemporary dance performance in Munich that evening. The tour guide has been matched to your interests. You’ll be there Friday evening and you’ll put yourself in the tour guide’s hands for the weekend touring the castles of Bavaria.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, knowing when I’d been taken in hand.

“Don’t even mention it to Nigel this week,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered. And I didn’t.

* * * *

I saw him at the maître d’s stand at the Délice La Brassiere restaurant in the Sofitel Munich Bayerpost Hotel and knew instantly that he was here for me, although he surprised the hell out of me. Jennifer hadn’t stinted on the hotel she put me in. There was no reason to believe she’s stint on the tour guide she provided. I hadn’t given it much thought, though, and for some reason I was expecting some dumpy old East German refugee countess in a dirndl. He was gorgeous. He also was a surprise in that he was black—or at least partially black. He was tall and muscular and a light chocolate brown. His head was in a kinky-haired black buzz cut, and he could have been a mercenary soldier as much as anything else. He was only saved from being thuggish by a movie-star, ruggedly handsome face, an excellent—and expensive—sense of clothing style, and the fluid grace with which he smiled at me when the maître d’ pointed me out and he moved to my table.

“Mr. Prentise?” he asked when he was standing there before me in all his commanding elegance. He was all in black, a silky black turtleneck, long-sleeved top that conformed to his muscular chest over tailored black slacks and black loafers. His voice was a rich, silky baritone. He could have been a poet or a musician—something in performance while still being ruggedly individualistic. “No, don’t rise, please. I’ll sit,” he said as I started to get up. He put a beefy hand with, conversely, manicured nails out to take my hand and I nearly hyperventilated as his thumb went under and stroked my palm as we shook hands. In my world this was a declaration of a top to a submissive.

Had I been read that quickly? Then I remembered that Jennifer had said that the tour guide had been matched to my interests and I nearly laughed. Jennifer knew me entirely too well. I wondered if the tour guide knew of this purposeful compatibility.

“Call me Lee,” I said. “And I assume you are to be my tour guide for my weekend floating around Bavaria.”

“Yes, I am. My name is Edel. Edel Hoffer. Just call me Edel.” The accent was German, even though the English was flawless. “I am to be at your every beck and call for the next three days. You will be my only client. Feel free to let me know exactly what you want to see and do—what you like and what you like better. Do you fully understand?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. I did want to be sure.

“I work for an escort agency, a full sex-service escort agency. We were contracted through a British escort agency, so I assume you know the full range of services available to you.”

“Ah, yes, now I fully understand. It’s always good to get that pinned down.”

“Pinned down is good, yes,” he said, and we shared a knowing smile.

“And you are a native German, Edel? You know Bavaria intimately?” I asked. I, of course, was dying to ask about being both German and black.

“Ah, you mean my race, I’m sure. That I’m black,” he said, giving me a disarming smile to show me that the question was natural and not unwelcome. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a natural question. Yes, I know Bavaria . . . intimately. I specialize in intimacy.” He paused on the word, savoring it, as, with a tingling sensation down low, I savored it too. “I was born here. Third generation German. An ancestor two generations back was an emigrant from Uganda, but, yes, I am very German and I know Bavaria well. I also know some of the culture your description reveals. After dinner, we’ll go to a contemporary dance performance at the Iwanson Studiobhuhne performed by Group 95. There will be a private performance afterward we’ll take in as well. I understood you trained as a dancer in New York and danced on Broadway.”

“Yes, I did,” I answered, “although just in one short-lived production. My sister arranged this trip—and you—for my birthday. I take it she told quite a bit about my background and my likes and dislikes.”

“And your lifestyle,” Edel said, giving me a smile and a pointed look. “I know you are gay—and a submissive. If you desire, I can complement that.” And that was the beginning of an interesting and free-flowing dinner conversation as we were served a gourmet meal that befit the reputation of the hotel and of its restaurant.

Edel was subtle about it, but he handled me as if I was his female date as we took a hotel car to the theater after dinner. He guided me about with just a touch of his fingers on my arm and the small of my back—but also at moments—on my buttocks, which sent electricity through me and gave me the sensation of already being intimately possessed by him. There was no doubt that he knew how to be the complement to a submissive.

The main performance at the Iwanson Studiobhuhne was a four-person, two-couples dance titled “Route a le Campagne,” which was performed excellently and created an aura of sensuality. The private performance afterward for a much smaller audience, all men, after we’d had cocktails and conversation with members of the dance troupe, was a two-man piece titled “Männer Verstricht, Männer Entlassen.” The performance was explicitly sexual.

“The translation of the title is ‘Men Entangled, Men Released,’” Edel breathed in my ear as I was looking down on his hand on my knee. And, indeed, the dancers were entangled to the point of writhing on the stage flooring, and the dance ended with one hunky dancer fucking the other one in a missionary position. This was something I would have expected to see in a secreted gay nightclub rather than in a dance studio. Every nerve in my body was tingling. Every time Edel touched me I could feel and could almost hear the sizzle.

“They do it very well, nicht wahr—not true?” he whispered in my ear.

“Yes, they do,” I answered in a breathy voice.

“Perhaps we will . . .”

“Yes,” I answered. That seemed to be what my whole life was wrapped around—telling men yes.

A hotel car was summoned afterward and conveyed us back to the hotel, with Edel stealing a kiss and a grope in the backseat. Neither was crudely applied. Edel was elegant and graceful in everything he did—up to a point, when he turned into an all-consuming animal, providing two consuming forms of taking. I was later to learn that if anyone could make an art form out of the act of fucking, it was Edel.

At the door to my room, he took the key card out of my trembling hand, opened the door, closed it behind us, and took me into a close embrace. The embrace became increasingly intimate right there, standing inside the door. He bore me to the carpet as he unbuttoned and unzipped and pulled clothes off. I gasped, as in a missionary position that mimicked what we’d just seen on the stage, holding me in what was both a fully capturing and a comforting cocoon embrace, he entered me with a cock that was thicker than anything I’d had in years, and fucked me, me moving in waves of pleasure under him, right there on the floor just inside the door to my hotel room.

“Ja, Ja, Ja—Yes, yes, yes,” I murmured, transitioning to, “Oh, God, Fuck Yes!” as he demanded entry into my core and flowed in and too full possession when I surrendered to him.

The one difference with what happened on stage was that the stage sex was as much suggestive as demonstrative and was slow and theatric, although tab A did get inserted in slot B. Edel, once he was on top of me and inside me and in complete ownership of me, became aggressive, commanding, and demanding—bordering on the raw, animalistic, and brutal. It was in sharp contrast to the suave smoothness of his escorting technique and his initial possession. He overpowered me physically; pounded me hard, fast, and deep; possessed me fully; and had my throat in a chokehold, controlling my breathing, wearing me down, until I collapsed under him, opened fully to the manliness of him, and took him thick and deep. I surrendered totally to him. Jennifer couldn’t possibly have known how much more arousing to me a man was who took me that way. But after that first fuck, he could have done anything he wanted with me.

Nothing had been said. Everything was assumed—rightly. I couldn’t get enough of him

When I’d come and he’d stopped thrusting and, presumably had come himself—filling a condom bulb, although I had no idea how and when he’d managed to crown himself, he was so smooth and professional in action—he rose up from the floor and stood over me. His body was magnificent. He rolled the spent condom off his cock and I gasped. He was a chocolate brown across his god-like body, but his huge cock and low-hanging balls were jet black.

“Das war gut, sehr gut. Ich werde dich wieder auf dem Bett ficken und dann lasse ich dich schlafen. Wir werden morgen vor dem Frühstück im Fitnessraum des Hotels beginnen. Oh, I’m sorry, I was so taken with you I have forgotten to speak in English. What I said was, that was good, very good. I will fuck you again on the bed and then I'll leave you to sleep. We will start in the hotel exercise room tomorrow before breakfast.”

There was no apology for how fully and brutally he had taken me. It was as if he had known that was what I wanted most from a man. I let it go as a given that it was how I wanted it.

“I caught the gist of that,” I said. “I have studied a bit of German. Yes, Edel, that was very, very good. And you are the guide—and my master—for the weekend. You have just proven that. A morning workout will be a good idea.”

“As is a nighttime workout,” He said with a laugh as he helped me to the bed.

“Say that in German, please,” I said. “I love to hear you speak German.”

“Ich werde jetzt verdammt nochmal aus dir wieder raus ficken,” he said in that silky voice of his. Then he laughed.

“That wasn’t a direct translation,” I said. “You said something about fucking the hell of me again.”

“Yes, I did,” he said. And then he laughed again—a low, lusty, sensual laugh. “I was just checking on how well you understood German. Well enough. Ich werde dich in den Himmel ficken.”

“Ah, fucking me to both hell and heaven, is it?” I asked, smiling, although with a twitch as I viewed the size of his cock.

“I think you’ll be pleased,” he said. “I know I will be. You have a beautiful body. I will love fucking you. Ich werde dich lieben ficken. I love how you take it—how you want it so forcefully.”

He knew I would be pleased to take it hard. Again, I wondered how he knew. And he’d said just what, at thirty, I needed to hear.

“The background on you mentioned Turkey and that you liked Turkish men,” he said. “I know how most Turkish men like to take their sex. And then something clicked. There was a black-and-white photo of you in the file. I didn’t recognize you from the color photo. But the black-and-white photo made me think of a movie . . . so I tracked a copy of the movie down, which was in color. I recognized you then, but you were redheaded in the movie.”

“Kibris Delight,” I said.

“Yes, precisely.” He leaned over and ran his fingers over my gecko tattoo, making me shudder. “Then, when I remembered how I saw you performing in the movie, I knew how you would want to be fucked.”

Mystery solved, I thought. I shivered as I lay on my back on the bed and watched him, in all his low-swinging magnificence—well, low-swinging if he weren’t on the rise again, which he was—standing at the foot of the bed as he rolled another condom on his cock. He had a cellophane baggie in which he placed the used condom and placed the baggie on the nightstand, ready for the next deposit. He was thoroughly professional. There would be no evidence left for the room attendant to know that I’d been fucked in this room—not to mention how many times. Or how forcefully.

Hovering over me on his hands and knees, trapping me under him, he made love to me with his mouth and tongue down my body from my forehead, with long stops at my mouth and my throat and my nipples and my belly button, pausing to kiss and lick the gecko tattoo, and then on to the crease on each side running under my belly curve and above the curve of the tops of my thighs.

“What I remember from the movie is you having the tattoo here—a lizard of some sort,” he murmured, his lips having paused there on my lower belly.

“At that time it was a temporary tattoo, just for the movies,” I whispered. “After I stopped making movies, I made it permanent.”

“Good. So sexy. I, like all men, I’m sure, have thought lusty thoughts of kissing you there.”

The creases led his tongue into my pubic hair and then to sucking my balls and, finally, to covering my cock as I grasped his head between my hands, writhed under him, and rocket my pelvis against his face as he relentlessly gave me head until I creamed his tonsils.

Grasping my thighs, he raised my knees to my chest, rolled my hips up, and ate my hole out until I was crying for mercy or the cock—or both. When he slid inside me, I was fully open to him despite the girth of his shaft and he glided right down into my soft core, where my muscles grasped at the cock and undulated over it, making love to it as he pumped me, slowly at first and then faster and faster. As trite as it seemed when you weren’t actually into it, he had Ravel’s “Bolero” playing on a CD machine and fucked me to the ever-quickening rhythm of the music, taking it to a crescendo, and then it automatically restarted and he did so as well, moving to a crescendo and then back and then to a crescendo, until, not being able to endure it any longer, I came up his belly. The music repeated, though, and again, until Edel too had his release. But he fucked on, taking me hard, totally.

All the time I’d had my arms flung over my head, grasping the top of the headboard and he’d been kneeling between my thighs, an arm under my waist, holding my pelvis elevated, my legs spread and bent, feet flat on the surface of the bed, using my feet for leverage in rocking up to him as he thrust down into me, keeping the ever-gathering and crashing wave rhythm of the beat of the music.

I went to sleep in his arms afterward. When I woke later, he was gone. He’d taken his baggie of used condoms with him. I dragged out of bed and pulled my laptop computer out and fired it up. I went to the Web site of my sister’s international escort agency. Sure enough, there was Edel’s page. Jennifer had bought me not only a weekend of sightseeing in Bavaria but also a weekend of “resetting” sex. I could only be grateful to her for that. The best gift ever.

I hoped she got an employee discount. But Edel was worth every euro he charged.

* * * *

The knock on my hotel room door came at 7:30 in the morning. Edel was there, decked out in his gym clothes and carrying his duffel bag for the next two days’ travels. He looked magnificent. I may have needed a morning workout to try to keep in shape. He didn’t need one.

He got one, though. As he stood in the doorway, he said, in a low tone so that he couldn’t be heard up and down the corridor. “Leg dich auf den Rücken. Öffne deine Beine für mich. Zeig mir dein Loch. Do you know what I told you to do? Last night you told me to be your master. I want to know if you will be my sex slave for the weekend.”

I shivered. “I’m not sure if I got it all. Something about laying down and opening to you. Before we go to the gym? Before we have breakfast?”

“Before we do anything else. Leg dich auf den Rücken. Öffne deine Beine für mich. Zeig mir dein Loch—Lay down on your back. Strip. Open your legs for me. Show me your hole. If you are to be my slave, you will only care about me being inside you. You won’t care about the gym or your breakfast. Do it.”

I did it. Quickly stripping, I went down on my back on the foot of the bed; grabbed my ankles, raising and spreading my legs; lifted my buttocks; and arched my back. I was gasping and groaning—“Yes! Yes! Ja! Fuck me!”—as he worked his cock inside me and fucked me hard. His cock reached into the core of me and danced as I dug my fingernails into his biceps. I was his for the asking.

Then we went to the hotel exercise room and did a vigorous routine together. We showered in the bathroom of my room—together, lathering each other up with our hands.

“Gesicht der Wand. Hände über dem Kopf. Spreizen Sie Ihre Beine und ragen Sie Ihr Gesäss aus für mich.”

Whimpering, I did as he commanded. I faced the wall, raised my arms over my head, spread my legs, and jutted my buttocks back into his crotch. He grasped my hips, mounted me, and fucked me again. After he’d come, he stepped back, ripped the condom off his cock and tucked it away in a baggie on the bathroom counter along with the one he’d used when he first arrived in the morning, and said, “Gute. Ausgezeichnet. Du bist mein sexy Sex Slave für das Wochenende jetzt.”

With that declaration of an excellent fuck, and without my demur, I became, as he called me, his “sexy sex slave for the weekend.” The word “sexy,” the same in German as in English, zipped me into the clouds. I no longer felt like thirty was an impediment to anything.

And then we were off in a new dark blue Mercedes 300SL roadster to southwest Bavaria, in the shadow of the Bavarian alps.

“We’ll start in the east and work our way west,” he said. “We’ll stay at the Eibsee Hotel on Eibsee Lake.”

We checked into the Eibsee Hotel at the foot of the Zugspitz, the highest peak, at 9,700 feet, in the Bavarian alps. We were going to three castles built by mad king Ludwig in the late eighteenth century. He was the last of the Bavarian monarchs before he was forced into a constitutional monarchy and, eventually, got himself drowned at night in a lake. During his quarter-of-a-century reign, though, he built some of the most fantastic castles in Europe, including the storybook Neuschwanstein. We started out at Linderhof, Ludwig’s residential castle, which was more of a fantasy chateau than a castle. From there we drove up to the nearby scenic alpine village of Garmisch-Partenkirchen before going back to the hotel, where Edel bent me over the bed, mounted me, and fucked the stuffing out of me in the doggy position.

That night, Edel drove me into the largest city in the area, Fussen, and to a gay strip club called, Sciffwirtschaft, where Edel got a lap dance from one young German while he watched me being fucked right at the bar, perched on a bar stool, elbows on the bar top behind me, and my ankles on the guy’s shoulders, by another young German. I let myself be fucked in public like that because my master for the weekend told me to.

Then he drove me back to the hotel, I did a private strip for him, and I rode his cock in a cowboy on the bed.

The next day, we drove east, taking in King Ludwig’s fairytale Neuschwanstein castle, perched on a mountaintop above the Forggensee lake. And then to the palace he had built on a lake in the Chiemsee to mirror Versailles in Paris.

That night we were back at the Sofitel Munich Bayerpost Hotel and I was underneath Edel again on the bed, holding his waist between my hands, raising my pelvis to him, and as he commanded, “Gib es mir. Gib es mir. Gib mir ein Stunden Loch,” I gave it to him—gave him my hole, and in turn, cried out, “Gib es mir. Gib es mir. Gib mir Stunden dicken Schwanz!—Give it to me. Give me your big dick!” And he gave it to me—again and again—pounding me hard and deep, making me nearly forget all of the Bavarian castles I’d seen that weekend and only remembering his big, black, bull’s cock. Pounding me and pounding me and pounding me—sending me to heaven.

* * * *

When I flew back into London, there was Nigel Standish, at the airport, waiting for me with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“You didn’t tell me you were going away for the weekend. I was lost without you. There were so many times I turned around and asked Margo where you were because I needed this and that done and you are my righthand man. She just said you were off resetting, whatever that means. She also told me to think about having admitted I needed you.”

“You had Gerald to keep you warm, didn’t you?” I couldn’t hold back from saying.

“Gerald? He’s probably off being fucked by his boyfriend, Frank, or someone else. He couldn’t give me what I need. Only you can do that.”

That was music to my ears. Maybe resetting would work out after all. Still the needed vacation I had just had woke me up to the realities of the life I had chosen to live. I needed Nigel and Nigel needed me. But we were both bigger-than-life men. We had other needs as well.

“If you do want to bed Gerald, Nigel, that’s fine with me. I understand your need for younger bodies. It needn’t get in the way of the relationship the two of us have.”

“You mean that?” Nigel said, giving me a surprised look. He also looked greatly relieved. So, then I was sure. He was screwing Gerald.

But now I didn’t care. I’d come to grips with my own needs. “You’ll have to show me the schedules of coming shows,” I said. “I plan on doing more traveling in the coming months, but if you need me here for the shows, I want to be here for you.”

“Traveling? Where?”

“Germany . . . and probably Turkey, as well,” I answered, smiling at the thought of the men there who were surfacing in my head.

“We are lucky in what life has handed us, aren’t we?” Nigel asked.

“Yes, Nigel, it’s quite a yes life.”

“Are you going to leave me every few years?” Nigel asked.

“Only if you stop paying attention to me and don’t let me go on the prowl occasionally,” I answered.

- Fini -