I probably shouldn't have brought my easel and paints down to the picturesque harbor of the fishing village to set up shop. I earned a bit extra painting portraits of the tourists in the Kyrenia harbor, in northern Cyprus, attracting them with my ready smile and the shocking-pink T-shirt I used to draw their attention. I have to admit I was built and looked good in a T-shirt. The pink just drew the eyes there. It was going to be an intermittently rainy day, not conducive either for tourist harbor visits or painting in the open air. I didn't need much extra money for my year of bumming around, staying a week here and two months there, but painting for small fees gave me an activity avenue while I was soaking up local culture and a means to meet interesting people--primarily men seeking young, submissive men--men whose eyes would be drawn to a good-looking, built young guy in a pink T-shirt.
When the raindrops started to fall, I gathered up my painting things and headed for a sex shop on one of the narrow cobblestoned streets leading up the steep slope into the lower village. I had been commissioned to paint murals on the walls of the peep cubicles beyond the beaded-curtained doorway into the back of the shop, and this was a good time to paint inside. "Sexy but tasteful. Not fully into the act but obviously headed there. Maybe something ancient Greek," Jabar, the fortyish gaunt-thin Turkish sex shop owner had said, and I had been letting that be my guide. Since it was a peep booth, I made my motif voyeur.
I nodded to the older man behind the counter as, carrying my supplies, I went to the back of the shop, pushed the beaded curtain aside, and entered the cubicle I had last been working on, which wasn't occupied. There were a few men--maybe four--browsing in the shop as I passed through. They were of varying ages and looks and seemed to be browsing each other as much as what was on the shelves. It was a day for indoor activity.
I was painting on a back wall around a video screen running a gay porn flick, which I didn't pay much attention to, when my eyes caught motion at the side wall. The cubicle walls had gloryholes, and a thick, brownish cock had pushed through the hole and was wagging at me. I ignored it briefly. I was there to paint, not to service gloryhole cocks. That had never been my fetish.
But the cock intrigued me--not just because of its thickness and brownish tint and that I could see a bluish vein standing out prominently snaking up the side of it, but also because it was cut, the prominent mushroom cap had a purplish tint to it, and there was a silver bead pierced into its bulb. As an artist, I noticed colors, and the contrasts here were attracting and enticing. A silver bead in its bulb--now that was attention getting.
As an active submissive, I was not above caressing and servicing an enticing cock, although I'd ever done one sticking out at me through a wall, and I turned my attention from my painting to the phallus being offered to--no, pushed at--me. I went down on my knees, caressing the cock with my hands, engorging it more. I pressed it to one cheek and then the other. Then, turning full frontal to it, I took it into my mouth, running my lips down the side of it, clicking the silver bead against my teeth and feeling, with interest, the hard metal of it rubbing on my tongue. I gave the cock head until, with a groan, I felt the man hidden on the other side of the cubicle wall tense and jerk. I pulled off the cock in time for it to cream me on my cheeks and chin. I turned my head, reaching for a paint cloth to wipe my face off. When I turned back, the shaft was gone.
It took me a few minutes to put my paints back in order. I didn't feel like any more mural painting for the day and moved out of the cubicle to the shop front. Three men were milling around in the shop, still browsing each other more than the shelves. When I appeared, they browsed me as well. I'd never had trouble attracting men to me who sought men--men who wanted to top my youth and submissive nature.
All three of the men were dark, of Mediterranean complexion, as that's where this seaside harbor village was. One was older, maybe fifty, and large of frame, with a pronounced beer belly. He wasn't either handsome or ugly, but he was dressed as a successful businessman, so would, I surmised, be good for a memorable, expensive gourmet dinner. The next-younger in appearance was a Foxy-looking man, good-looking in a slightly thuggish way, perhaps in his late thirties. He might be a manual worker or an artist, swarthy in appearance, hirsute, with a perpetual couple days' growth of beard and piercing black eyes, which seemed to take in everything around him, continually assessing and reassessing means of personal advantage. He was of similar build to me, but perhaps more muscular and cut. The third male was younger than my twenty-three and looking skittish, still in his early phase of being brave enough to come into a sex shop and on the cusp of admitting to himself that he wasn't hetero after all.
Was it him? I wondered, looking at the older man, my mind already going over the list of restaurants I might want to go to that evening. Or was it him, the furtive foxy one? Or was it the "just discovering" boy? None of them seemed the obvious possessor of the cock I had just sucked off, so it could be any of them, the contrast between how they looked in the storefront and what they hid now between their thighs giving me sexy thoughts that had not been fully satisfied by the blow job.
I was standing in front of a shelf of dildos, and my eyes went to a brown one reminiscent of the one I'd just sucked. I took it from the shelf and imagined it with a purple cap and a silver bead. The tag identified it as a rubber Shane Diesel, whoever that was, ten inches long, heavily veined, and two inches thick. I looked around to see that all three other customers in the shop were looking at me.
Was it him? Or him, or the younger one?
When I left the shop, heading up higher into the town, to my room above a wine shop on a street that fell off onto a cliff on the other side, perched above the street below it and with an unobstructed view of the harbor and sea, I had gone a short distance before I looked around. The fox stood in the shop doorway, watching me. He followed me at a distance up the hill. It was clear when I left the shop but started to rain again soon after.
In my room, I stripped off the damp shocking-pink T-shirt and draped it on the back of a desk chair. Grabbing a pack of cigarettes, I went, bare-chested, to the double glass doors and opened them to a French balcony and the sea below. Lighting up, I saw the fox below, standing against the cliff rail, drenched. His white cotton shirt clung to his muscular chest, showing that he had a heavily hirsute chest. He was a sexy devil and I felt myself stirring. He lifted his hand to show me that he had brought the Shane Diesel dildo.
As I watched, he cupped one of his hands and, holding the dildo with the other, moved the dildo back and forth in the sheathed hand. Flicking the cigarette over the balcony railing, I unzipped myself, flared my trousers, and pulled out my hardening cock. With our eyes locked, he worked the dildo and I masturbated my cock. We each could clearly see what the other was doing. At length, I could take no more. I withdrew from the window. I knew we weren't finished, though.
At the door, my trousers still flared, and my erection in my hand, I started to speak, but he put his fingers to my mouth, bidding silence. I uttered only one other thing the entire afternoon that followed.
In the room, I handed him a bath sheet as he stripped off his wet clothes. As he showered, I went to the balcony and posed there, smoking and stroking my cock, protruding from my flared trouser fly, watching the rain, and looking down into the harbor. I was aware of him back in the room and turned my head enough to see that, naked, and now more the satyr than the fox, he moved as if he knew the room. He opened the nightstand drawer and extracted the bottle of lube and a couple of packets of condoms. This was that kind of rooming house. What they supplied didn't come cheap, though.
He moved to behind me at the balcony doors, embracing me, gliding the dildo he'd brought over my bare chest, my cheeks, and under my projecting cock. He glided the dildo back up to my cheek, and I turned my head and took the phallus in my mouth, as he pushed my jeans and briefs down to the floor. Holding the dildo in front of me, he lathered it up with lube. Then he ran an arm under my waist, signaling me to bend over and spread my legs. Still standing at the French door out onto the balcony, I leaned over and grabbed the balcony railing with my hands. My legs were spread. I gasped as he worked the dildo into my ass and opened me with it.
