Free Pottery

I needed to get away from Avis. I normally hadn't gone with her on her buying sprees for the boutique gift shop we owned and she ran in the well-heeled Buckhead suburb of Atlanta. I tried to keep busy managing the tennis program at Georgia Tech. I'd been a top twenty professional once and still played doubles in tournaments when I could get a partner willing to chase the balls down. At nearly thirty-five I wasn't up to that anymore. I had to rely on a power backhand and placement.

That's what I taught at Georgia Tech. Power backhand and placement, and I always had a student or two willing to show me power and placement of another kind when Avis was off on her buying sprees.

For some reason I'd lost my reason and agreed to go to Greece with her in search of exotic pottery for the store. A week of her yapping and arguing with Greek merchants had given me a headache. I volunteered to canvas the northern, Turkish coast of Cyprus, alone. Getting into that enclave was such a hassle and required such a convoluted travel schedule that Avis let me go by myself.

What Avis didn't know, though, was that I had been given some very good recommendations on where to stay and what to do in Turkish Cyprus—and that ever since that Turkish exchange student, Erdiz, had shown me that masterful backstroke of his the previous summer, I had been dying to have another young Turkish man between my thighs.

I arrived in Turkish Cyprus on a plane from Istanbul, having already made reservations at a gay boutique hotel east of Kyrenia on the northern coast. I hadn't given Avis anything but a name and a number and she was so wrapped up in herself that I knew she wouldn't check the hotel out—in fact that she wouldn't try calling me at all. The hotel consisted of six separate villa-style suites cascading down the Kyrenia mountainside below the artists' enclave of Bellapais and toward the Mediterranean coast. The rooms of the hotel clustered around a series of terraces and a swimming pool.

The man at the desk when I checked in, a heavily tanned, solidly built, muscular man in his fifties with a white-toothed smile, wavy gray hair on his head, and salt and pepper hair curling at the neckline and armpits of his athletic T-shirt, asked me if I was in Cyprus on business or for pleasure. I answered, "Both, I hope."

"I assume you know what sort of hotel this is," he asked, with a guarded smile this time.

I answered that I did, that it had been recommended to me by a previous pleased guest, and that I hoped that would be the pleasure part of my trip. I added, though, that I was here to buy pottery in bulk for a boutique in the states.

He gave me a big smile, a wink, and a second, lingering look.

He had a slight, young Turkish man lead me to one of the small villas, which was one large room, with full plate glass at the end pointed to the sea and a bath on one side and small kitchenette on the other side at the opposite end, with the entrance foyer between them.

The young man walked with mincing steps in front of me. He was close to being beautiful rather than handsome. Somewhat androgynous, but arousingly so, I'm sure, for anyone aroused by such a type. This didn't really include me, though; I prefered muscle men who would use me. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and trousers that were almost transparent. He had thong briefs on underneath. And he was barefoot.

When we arrived at the villa and he'd done the obligatory instructions on what was what and how it worked, he asked me if there would be anything else he could do for me—anything at all. It was quite obvious that he was offering himself to me.

I told him that he was quite handsome, but that he wasn't really what I was looking for.

He took it well. He asked me what I was interested in, and I saw no reason not to tell him directly and in detail. I was to find that all Turkish men took it well. I was also to find that if they saw something they liked, they took it—and they usually took it well.

My first experience of that came not more than two hours later. The invitation of the swimming pool and the dark-blue sea beyond were too enticing, and I changed into a Speedo and took my sunglasses, a book, and towels out to the pool and claimed a lounger.

I was the only one there, except for an older man across the pool and one terrace down who was availing himself of the hospitality of the young bellhop who had offered himself to me, without luck. They were entwined on a lounger, with the guest—who was probably northern European and whose body was going to fat—huffing and puffing as he fucked the young Turk.

I tried to ignore them and to get interested in my book and taking the sun's rays. I hadn't been there very long, though, before the man who had checked me in—who I was to learn was the owner of the hotel—put me in the shadows by standing between me and the sun.

He was a fine figure of a man. In fact, other than age, he was very much like what I had told the bellhop what I was interested in. He now was without his T-shirt. He was muscular, with a barrel chest, and his torso and arms were quite hairy. My tennis player, Erdiz, had been hairy too. It was part of what I enjoyed about him. Erdiz was much younger and trimmer than the man standing before me. He was also much more handsome of face. But this man had a rugged charm about him. And that ready smile. And his hands were big and his fingers long and thick. And I looked down at his toes in his open-toed sandals. They were thick and long too, and hair covered.

"I am Karamat," he said. "We met at the reception desk."

"Yes we did," I answered

"I own the hotel. I sent Musa with you to your room, but he said you were not interested—at least not in him."

"Musa is very nice," I answered. "But, no, he is not what interests me. He seems to be busy now."

We both looked over at the other lounger. Musa was on his chest, with his midsection and legs in the air. The northern European was holding Musa's legs at his side and fucking the young man like he was fucking a wheelbarrow.

"I'm not sure I've ever seen that position," I remarked, keeping my tone amused. "I certainly haven't tried it."

"You must like men inside you then," he said rather matter-of-factly. "And it's a fine position. You

should

try it."

"Yes, I do like men inside me. And maybe someday I will try that," I answered in the same vein.

He sat down on the lounger beside my thigh then, leaning over me, with his hand down beside my opposite side. "Would you like me to suck and fuck you, then? I assure you that I do it very well. Do you like Turkish men. Not boys, men."

"Yes," I said. "I like Turkish men very much. And before you ask, I like hairy men. But I've only had younger men."

"Bah. What do younger men know about fucking other men? You need to be at least fifty to do it well, to make men beg for it again."

"I've always thought that the second fuck was nicer than the first," I said. "You have your hand on my cock." And he did; he was lightly massaging my basket.

"Do you mind?"

"No. It feels good."

"Do you want to see what I fuck with?"

"Sure. Why not."

Karamat stood and dropped his shorts to the ground. I gasped at the size of him. He was in half erection. And the hair on his dark brown body was salt and pepper everywhere but on his head, which was gray, and his pubes, which were still black.

"See, my head is old, but my cock is young," he said. "The hair tells you." And then he laughed. "The best for you. My head knows what to do; my cock can still do it."

"That's nice to know."

"I suck and fuck you now, yes? I make your trip worthwhile."

I smiled and lifted my hips off the surface of the lounger. He leaned down and pulled my Speedo down my legs.

"Very nice," he said, giving what Turks must use for a wolf whistle, making a popping sound from his mouth with his plump thumb. "Many men fuck you? Your hole tight or slack?"

"Not many—and usually with weeks or months between one and the next. Tight, I would guess. Does it make a difference?"

"If slack, I have ways to tighten it up. Tight is good. You feel it good. You not afraid?" he asked. He was holding his cock and waving it at me.

"Yes, of course I'm afraid of what you're waving at me. But that's part of the enjoyment, isn't it."

"I like you. You're not shy. I give you good fuck, I think. It's always better to take it with joy," he said, with a broad smile on his face.

He fished around in the pocket of his shorts and brought out a tube of lubricant and three condom packets.

"Three?" I asked in mock shock.

"You said the second is better than the first, so we see what three is like." He was smiling again.

"We'll see about that," I said, with a laugh.

He sat back down on the lounger, opened the lubricant, and took some in his hand. Then he leaned his face over my groin, took the bulb of my cock in his mouth, and started to suck. I moaned and ran the fingers of both of my hands into his hair. I had every intention to get as much enjoyment out of this as he would give me. One of his hands went under my thighs, and I felt his lubricated fingers at my hole. He licked up and down my shaft and then took it all in—once, twice, three times. I shuddered and lifted my hips off the lounger. He had moved a finger deep inside me.

I moaned deeply. It was obvious that he could give me much enjoyment.

He came up for air and said, "Yes, very tight. I like tight. Like taking a virgin. But we loosen it up a little, I think. You enjoy it more." He took one of my legs and lifted my ankle to his shoulder and then went back to sucking the bulb of my cock and worrying my hole with his lubed finger. Then two fingers, and he was moving them in and out, finger fucking me. His tongue was flicking my piss hole, and I was groaning and writhing under him.

"Young men do this to you?" he asked when he came up for air.

"No," I answered. "They are more direct and more insistent. They focus on themselves, their own needs."

"Ah, older men like me—and soon you—know how to savor it. How to have more pleasure; but more, how to give pleasure. And you are a guest here. We work to your pleasure."

Three fingers and I was grunting and groaning. His mouth was pumping down on my shaft. Quicker and quicker. I came in a flood into his mouth.

"Sorry," I whispered. "It was too good."

"Just one," he said with a laugh. "I make you come four times. Each one better than the one before."

He lifted the hand that he'd been fingering my hole with and flashed four fingers. He slowly and with a wink inserted each finger in is mouth, in turn, and sucked them.

"Oh, god," I croaked.

"Now me. First one very businesslike. You like second, so first one just to put us both in the mood." He stood up from me, straddling the lounger and my thighs and made a show of rolling a condom on his cock and lathering it up with lube.

"First time is for conquering," he said. "Once you are mine, we make love. Or maybe you don't—"

"Stop talking and fuck me," I said. "Yes, hard and deep. Take no prisoners. Make me feel it. Use me." I spoke in a low growl that I didn't recognize as my voice.

He gave me an intense look, grabbed my ankles and spread and raised my legs, pulling my pelvis up off the lounger as well. I rolled it up. He positioned the bulb of his cock at my entrance. I grunted and groaned as he worked the bulb inside.

And then he stopped, leaving his bulb inside the entrance, while I adjusted to it and tried my best to pull it further in with the muscles of my sphincter. This was working, he slowly was moving inside.

"Ah, good. You are good at this. I think we both will take our pleasure from this," he murmured. "But you are too anxious. More pleasure if you know your need for it enough to beg for it."

I began to pant, to beg for it. I scrabbled for his nipples through the matting of hair on his chest, trying to provoke him to plunge into me. He was smiling more cruelly now.

"Shit. Fuck! Give it to me!"

"We will see if a young man can do this for you."

I cried out as he plunged down, down, down. Out and then plunge, again. I cried out again and raised my pelvis to him. When he'd bottomed this time, he held deep inside. I plaintively begged him to fuck, pulling at his body hair, raising my mouth to his nipples and sucking hard, getting my hands around on his buttocks and squeezing the meaty globes and trying to pull him deeper inside me. I beat on his chest with my fists.

God, I wanted him to fuck me hard—more than I'd ever wanted in a fuck before.

He pulled away from me, and slipped out. Then he rose up on his feet, his legs straddling the lounger, and flipped me over. He grabbed my legs, pulling me up to where only my chest and cheek were on the surface of the lounger. With a laugh, he plunged back into me with his cock, and began wheelbarrow fucking me like I had remarked on about the fat guy and androgynous bell boy across the pool. I grabbed the upper legs of the lounger, hanging on for dear life, and cried out my passion while he pumped me hard and deep, not stopping until I had come again.

Karamat let me collapse on my belly on the lounger, and he came down, full length, on top of me. He had come too. I was so absorbed in my own ejaculation that I don't know if we came together or he came first or after.

I felt him go soft inside me while he ran his hands over my body and nibbled at the hollow of my neck. He moved down my body, kissing as he went, until he was crouched behind me. He tongued and nibbled at my buttocks, and then I felt him pulling my dick and balls through my legs. I moaned, widened the stance of my legs, and came up slightly on my knees, presenting my ass to his attentions.

When he swallowed my ball sack and began to roll my balls inside his mouth, I rewarded him with another deep moan. He was holding and slow-stroking my cock with a hand.

"Do your young men give you this attention? Has anyone else done this to you after a first fuck?" he asked.

"No," I answered with a groan. He moved his mouth to my cock and then my hole. Back to my cock and then my hole. And I ejaculated for the third time.

I heard him fiddling with a condom packet, and then he was straddling my hips and riding me in long, deep, slow strokes. He had his fists pushed into my shoulder blades, bearing the weight of his body, but then he slipped them around under my chest and arched my back up to him. I turned my face toward his and we kissed for the first time. He tasted of tobacco and brandy. He was palming my chest, rubbing both nipples between thumb and forefinger, and rocking my body back and forth on his cock.

This time I felt him ejaculate into the balloon of the condom inside me, and I sighed and murmured, "Thank you. The second time was even better."

"You are a sweet fuck," he muttered back in a matter-of-fact voice. "I leave you now for a while. I have to build up again after two and there is work to be done. If you want me to finish you, stay here and I'll be back."

"Finish me?" I murmured. "How could there be more?"

"Stay around and you'll find out," he answered. "I am Turk; there's always more."

I laughed at that—at the inference that I was some sort of project that needed to be finished well. But I stayed, on my belly, luxuriating in the pleasure I had gotten out of his mature, experienced body. And from his bull's cock.

I looked out over the pool. Musa, the small bell boy was riding the prone figure of the Northern European now. And nearby, two men were entwined on a lounger. I couldn't tell who was fucking whom. They were both Europeans and were young and thin. I decided they must be a couple, retreating here to do what they couldn't so openly do at home.

A young man was cleaning the pool. He had a gorgeously well-developed body and was wearing a skimpy black bathing suit. His body was a nutty brown, and he had a full head of black, curly hair and a Fu Man Chu mustache. He wasn't nearly as hairy as Karamat was, but there was a trace of matting under his pecs and a thin line running down to the waistband of his swim suit, which dipped down in front, permitting pubic hair to rim the waistband. When he raised his arms, though, there was a good bit of hair in his pits. His torso was tightly sculpted, and the veins popped out on his powerful arms.

I dozed, thinking of him. When I woke, not knowing why I had done so, Karamat was sitting beside me again, massaging my body with his strong hands. The Northern European and Musa were gone, as was the pool man. The young European couple were in the pool, one belly up to the side of the pool with his arms splayed out over the pool deck tiles. His partner was embracing him from behind and they were kissing—and, I presume, fucking.

"You are awake."

"Yes."

"You have not run from me."

"No."

"We know each other well now. Two fucks and we are friends. Now we will be lovers, yes?"

"Yes, please."

"I fuck you know like a Turk fucks his lover."

He stood and I watched him roll on a condom—the third one. He turned me on my side on the lounger, away from him, and then stretched out behind me. He pulled my body into his, and I turned my face to his, and we kissed, as we both explored each other's bodies to the extent that we could reach. He pulled my pelvis into his groin and reached down and pulled my calf up so that my leg was bent. I felt the knee of his leg cover my other leg and pull it back a bit.

And then he was slowly entering me—and entering, entering, entering. One of his hands went to my cock and encased it and he slow fucked and slow stroked me to my promised fourth coming, his third, and to, indeed, what was the most sensual fuck of the three.

"You must lock your door tonight," he whispered in my ear.

"Why? I've heard that Cyprus is perfectly safe."

"If you do not lock your door, you may be attacked and raped."

I didn't lock my door that night.

In the darkest of night, I felt the weight of a body on my chest. And hands encasing my head. And a hard cock presented at my mouth. As I sucked, I ran my hands up onto his chest. Nearly hairless, trim but heavily muscled. Young, virile. The cock sweet in my mouth. Rock hard, but not especially long or thick. It wasn't Karamat.

He kneed my legs spread and pushed his knees underneath my buttocks. As he entered me, he leaned down over me, and we kissed. The silky smoothness of a mustache. I tongued his chest as he pumped me and ran my tongue up into his hairy pits, sniffing and appreciating the maleness of him, his musky scent.

He came inside me and I realized he wasn't crowned. I didn't care. I wanted all of him. I regretted he had come so fast. But surprisingly he didn't soften. Young and virile. He turned me on my belly and rode my ass until we came together—me for the first time, he for the second.

Laying full length on me, he spoke for the first time, in a whisper. "Sorry. I saw you at the pool—with Karamat. I wanted you too. You did not lock your door. I begged Karamat, and he said I could have you. He told me that I was his gift to you, that he fuck you tomorrow again."

"He didn't ask me. You must be punished, I think," I whispered back. "Lay on your back, or I will complain to Karamat."

We changed positions and I rode his cock into the dawn, as he gripped and spread my buttocks with strong, pool man hands—to open me for the repeated invasion of my spread hole with his ramrod cock.

* * * *

"Pottery? You want pottery? And you want to know if I know where this piece was made?" Karamat turned the coffee mug I'd given him over and over in his hands. He was smiling a funny sort of smile. "Sure, I know this pottery. It's from Kemal's. On the coast west of Kyrenia. I'll call and have them send a man to drive you there, if pottery is what you want."