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Chapter Five: Last Cyprus Day, at Rita’s
Rita’s-on-the-Rocks was a pool and outdoor restaurant on the coast–right on the rocks leading down to the Mediterranean waters–east of Girne. The pool and terrace area were large, the restaurant tables were set at the edge of the rocks, above the Mediterranean to the east of the pool, under latticework-supported grape vines. A two-story building set beside the enclosed pool area between the restaurant and the parking lot included a kitchen and pool changing rooms on the first floor and rooms for the waitresses and waiters who also were for rent on the second floor. Rita was a blousy British woman who floated around jollying everyone up and generally making it known that “anything goes” as long as you didn’t get violent or impinge on the pleasures of others.
Occasionally, Rita put on special days that opened the pool and restaurant to limited categories of people so that they would be comfortable doing what they liked to do in company with others doing the same. This Sunday, my last day on the island, had been designated as gay male day, with a special invitation going out to the UN soldiers. I don’t know if Kadir bribed her to declare this day as she did, but it was quite convenient for the purposes of the movie we were making that she did.
I did know that Kadir had paid two hunky Danish UN soldiers to be at Rita’s before lunch to play with me in the pool and fuck me on a pool bed for the movie camera. The muscular, blond, and quite happy young soldiers were part of the contingent protecting and monitoring the Green Line zone dividing the Greek and Turkish zones of the island that had existed for the previous twenty years since the Turkish invasion of Cyprus and occupation of the northern third of the island. They were known to be a fun-loving, boisterous, uninhibited, and hunky lot.
There were other gay men there, enjoying the freedom of a pool day, but, after being told that the movie camera would carefully avoid them–and the editing of the film would do so if the camera captured their image, they paid us little heed. The Two Danish soldiers, Neils and Johan, however, flirted with me from the outset and went into the pool when I did, playing with me and, eventually, trapping me between them and kissing and fondling me. They maneuvered me over to the shallow end of the pool, perched themselves on the rim, sans swimsuits, with their legs dangling in the water, and I went from one to the other blowing their cocks, both of which were prime cuts of meat.
I didn’t finish either one of them. I just got them gloriously hard. They pulled me out of the pool, carried me to a pool bed, and each of them fucked me, Niels in a missionary, and Johan in a doggy. Tari, on the camera, of course, caught it all and Kadir and Edric sat off to the side, watching and drinking beer.
After doing me individually, they put me between them, Niels lying on his back on the pool bed, me initially riding his cock in a cowboy, facing his face, and then Johan came in behind me, penetrated me, with his cock sliding up Niels’s, already inside me, and they fucked me in a double. After laughing and giving each other congratulatory hand slaps, the Danish soldiers left and the camera ran up and down my body, lying, face down, on the pool bed, me panting slightly, my appendages flung out akimbo, purposely leaving the impression for the camera that I had been exhausted. First Kadir and then Edric came into the photo and fucked me separately, Kadir in a slow doggy and Edric pulling me up and fucking me against a wall of the compound, my back against the fence and my knees on his hips, as he thrust up inside me. They manhandled me like I was a rag doll, continuing the impression that I was spent and couldn’t put up resistance if I wanted to.
Even one of the East European men there just for the day with his young Turkish submissive got into the act–and the movie–when he liked what he was seeing of the filming. I saw him make a deal with Kadir off to the side, in which money exchanged hands that I got a share of later. After Edric did me and returned me to the pool bed, the Slav took a turn. He was a walrus of a Slavic guy, massive and paunchy, of powerful, intimidating build, in his late forties or early fifties, and hirsute and hung. I made to rise as he approached, but he backhanded me across the face, which sent me reeling back onto the pool bed. And then he was on top of me and inside me and fucking me furiously. He slapped me a couple of more times while he was pounding my ass, and I knew the camera view would be of me being taken whether I wanted to be or not. I just lay there and took it.
He was good with the cock, and after the initial bit of struggle, I lay back, submissive to him, digging my fingernails into his hairy shoulder blades, widening my stance as much as possible to take what he had to give, panting hard, and crying out at some of the deeper thrusts. Tari declared later that the Slav had provided some of the best Bodrum Escort footage of the day and it had come across as very natural and raw. Kadir had to flag him down to get a release signed, and money went back to the Slav.
During all of this a very (Very!) cute Turkish waiter not any older than I was floated around serving drinks as various men were fucking me. He kept giving me friendly and interested looks. He was the waiter at my lunch with Kadir, Edric, and Tari in the grape-vine-covered restaurant by the pool as well.
As he was delivering fruit to us for desert, he leaned down, smiled at me, and said, “Benimle gezintiye cikmk ister misin?” I smiled back, but not knowing what he said, I didn’t answer him.
“He’s asking if you would like to take a ride with him,” Kadir said. “He says he saw you admiring his car in the parking lot as we came in. It’s the1956 red Ford Fairlane convertible that’s been kept in tip-top condition. It probably was one of the cars abandoned here by a Greek or foreigner six years ago, when the Turks invaded–not far from where we are now–in 1974.”
“He wants me to take a ride with him?” I asked.
“He probably wants to ride you,” Edric said. “All of the help here are prostitutes. You should go with him. It could be fun.”
“Genç arkadaşımıza binmek ister misin?” Kadir asked the waiter, who grinned and answered “Evet.”
“Kadir asked him whether he wants to fuck you, and he answered–“
“I know what he answered,” I said.
I turned and looked at Kadir. I was told the waiter’s name was Cael, that he was from Kusadasi, on the Turkish coast, the port for the Ephesus early Christian city ruins. He was gorgeous, close to my age, muscular, but not overwhelmingly so, and dark and sultry–as sexy as Edric but without the aspect of cruelty that Edric exuded. “Do you want him to screw you?” Kadir asked.
I just gave him a smile.
“Yes, go ahead, then,” Kadir said, with a smile of his own.
I went with Cael. He drove me up into the foothills of the Kyrenia Mountains below St. Hilarion Castle, occasionally turning and looking at me with moon eyes. He also reached over to touch me on the arm or thigh. We both knew why we were taking this ride.
He stopped above a Turkish military camp on the road up to St. Hilarion and turned onto a dirt road leading into an olive grove. He stopped the car, turned and smiled at me, and gestured to the backseat of the car. We necked and fondled each other there long enough for me to wonder if he was going any further. But then he did.
“Senin horoz emmek itiyorum,” he said, and when I gave him a quizzical look, he said in good-enough, but careful English, “I want to suck your cock.”
“Evet,” I answered with a smile and unzipped myself.
“O zaman seni becermek istiyorum. Then I want to fuck you.”
I answered evet to that too as I settled back into the seat underneath him.
He was an expert at the suck, taking me all the way and then coming up and embracing me as we lay across the backseat of the old convertible.
At length, he whispered to me, “I want to ride you. I want to fuck you.”
“Say it to me in Turkish again,” I whispered.
He laughed and said, “Sana binmek istiyorum. Seni becermek istiyorum.”
“That sounds beautiful,” I said. “Evet. Yes. Ride me, fuck me.” I was back to saying yes to everything. “How do you say ‘screw me’ in Turkish?”
“Lanet olsun beni,” he said, with a smile.
“Lanet olsun beni,” I said.
He didn’t do it there. He exited the car, opened the trunk, and took out a blanket, which he took into the olive grove, picking out a soft, shaded place between two trees. I followed him into the orchard. We kissed and disrobed each other as we stood, facing each other, embracing. After we were naked and he’d frotted our cocks until they were hard, he gently guided me down onto the blanket on my knees, knelt behind me, and pressed his face into the crevice of my buttocks, opening me up to him.
We made slow and languid love, him mounting my ass as I was on all fours and slowly fucking me for a while and then sitting cross-legged and bringing me down into his lap, facing him, with me sitting on his cock and him rocking me back and forth and forward and backward on the cock, working me deep with a long, throbbing cock. We each came twice as we fucked.
It hadn’t been long–while we were still in the backseat of the convertible–that I noticed that Tari was off to the side, filming the encounter. Kadir and Edric were there too, watching. So, this had all been a setup for one last fuck scene for the movie. I didn’t care. This wasn’t just fucking, this was a love scene, an appropriate way, I thought, to end the movie. Kadir admitted later that this was the type of scene, something romantic, that he liked to end all of his movies with.
* * * *
As they put me on a plane for Istanbul, I was humming. There was a blip when I landed in Istanbul, because the big, fat, ugly, Bodrum Escort Bayan but commanding and undeniable, Altan Tilki was there to meet me. He was ecstatic with how the filming had gone and I think more than once, as he took me to dinner and then up to his penthouse apartment on top of his hotel overlooking the Bosporus, he’d come close to offering me a permanent position in Turkey. But he must have realized that he would be cutting in on the territory of the London fashion designer, Nigel Standish, who had made me available to him. He only went as far as asking, “Would you be willing to come back to Turkey for filming if I proposed future movie possibilities with your school in New York and Nigel in London?”
I reverted to type and answered with “Yes.”
“Your plane to New York is tomorrow afternoon. There is plenty of time. Will you come upstairs with me this evening?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I will show you new sexual positions. I will fuck you as you’ve never been fucked before.”
“Say it to me in Turkish, please,” I said.
He Laughed, but he humored me. He embraced me in the back of his limousine as we cruised from the airport into the city. “Sana yeni cinsel pozisyonlar gosterecegim. Daha once hic sikismeden seni becerecek.”
“Evet,” I said, not really believing that there were any new sexual positions he could show me after the dozen or so scenes I’d done for his movie. He didn’t give me time to think about it, though, as he unzipped and freed himself and pressed my face down into his lap.
I was wrong about the positions. He showed me the Bully, him standing with me draped in front of him, my passage sheathing his cock, and his arms laced under my armpits, his fists locked behind my neck, putting me in a full Nelson, and my legs hooked on his thighs, as he bounced me up and down on his dick. And he showed me what he called the Afternoon Delight, where I was perched on the top of the bureau in his room, my ankles hooked on his shoulders, as he crouched over me, my arms thrown around his neck, and pistoned me with his thick cock. The Bully was painful with him, as the bulge of his belly in the small of my back caused me to arch my torso painfully. The Afternoon Delight allowed me to jut his pelvis forward enough that the press of his belly into mine wasn’t too oppressive.
“Do you like these positions?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said to extend my chain of “yeses” and because we’d already done them and were lying next to each other on his bed, me hoping to be able to get some sleep before having to be at the airport the next day.
“Good. We will use them in future movies. You will be well fucked.”
“Say it to me in Turkish,” I whispered.
“Iyi. Onları gelecek filmlerde kullanırız. Iyi duzusecek,” he murmured. Then he laughed, rolled over on top of me, almost smothering me, and fucked me again.
Marcel, my performance art coach, met me at the airport in New York.
“Did you have a good time?” He asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Will you do it again if they want you?”
“Yes,” I answered immediately, without reservation. My transformation was complete. I was a male whore.
Chapter Six: Two Years Later, Revelation
The scene setup was sometime in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, at an English country estate. Nothing pinned down on that except to allow for billowy white cotton shirts, their tails knotted in front at the belly, and tight breeches–cotton for me and linen for the “Master”–with laced codpieces. The hairstyle for both–mine a red that would wash out easily and the Master’s in salt-and-pepper gray denoting the late forties or early fifties–called for shoulder-length hair tied off with a ribbon in back until, in a dramatically meaningful gesture caught by the camera, the ribbon would be undone, the hair let down, and the cock inserted in the hole. The country house, nearly a castle of seventeenth-century vintage, as well as its stone-construction stable yard, was borrowed from a builder, who was turning an unmanageably large country castle turned into a former secret-agency operational headquarters into a country hotel for an Arab investor. The stable was still outfitted in a style that would represent the period. One bedroom of the mansion had been furnished appropriately.
It was to be a three-scene light BDSM film, lasting no more than forty minutes total.
The action started with me, a stable boy, coming out of the stable entrance, carrying a bucket of dirty water. I was barefoot and wearing just the brown cotton breeches and a blousy white cotton shirt, open to show my smooth, slim, but nicely muscled torso denoting an early-twenties submissive. After emptying the bucket, I looked up and out, across the rolling green pastureland, the shot cutting across the façade of the country house on a rise to the right of the picture frame. What had caught my attention was a middle-aged, very muscular man riding confidently and with command on a Escort Bodrum massive gray steed–the Master. The man was wearing tight breeches, a billowy white-cotton shirt, and shiny black riding boots. Nearly a minute of film time was spent with me, the stable boy, watching the hunky, glowering Master approach on his stallion.
When he reached me, it was the Master growling, “Has my wife’s carriage left yet?” and me answering, eyes cast down, that it had.
“Did I tell you what you would be doing for me today?” he said, growling and glowering again. He was a handsome brute over twice my age. As he spoke, he unlaced his shirt, took it off, and draped it in front of him. He had a massive, barrel chest and the torso of a Zeus. He was hirsute, covered with curly salt-and-pepper-shaded hair. He also was covered in swirls, curves, and angles of a primitive black tattoo pattern, completely out of character for the period, but directly centered on the interests of the target audience for the film.
“Yes, Master. Mistress’s carriage left for London an hour ago.” Dialogue was scant in the movie, only enough to set the scene and establish that the stable boy was going to be royally fucked by the Master. No attempt was made to use period dialect. We weren’t being paid for award-winning acting.
“Come here, boy,” the Master growled, and I went over close to him. He cupped my chin with one hand and ran his riding crop across my cheek with the other. He tapped my cheek with the crop. Thus, it was established that this was going to be a BDSM film.
“My boot is dirty, boy,” he said, and ten seconds was devoted to me tonguing his black leather boots as he remained in the saddle. He reached down and untied the ribbon of my ponytail as I looked up at him with my green-shade-contact eyes, and my film signature red hair cascaded down to my shoulders, signaling to the audience that I was going to be naked and writhing under the Master in, oh, about six minutes of film time.
The Master came down off the horse, pressed me down on my knees in front of him, and the next four and a half minutes were of me unlacing his codpiece, taking out his cock and giving him head, and him pulling the shirt off my back and stroking my cheeks and shoulders with his riding crop.
The scene changed to inside the stable, with me on my back on a hay bale, naked as, at the scene opening, the Master pulled my breeches off my legs. Two minutes were devoted to the Master, still in his breeches but with a magnificent erection jutting out of his open codpiece, leaning over me, kissing down my much smaller, slimmer body, flicking my body in the process with his riding crop and stroking my cock hard. He spent several key seconds kissing and tonguing the tattoo of a gecko on my lower belly–highlighting one of my signature aspects for the fan club I had accumulated over the past two years. The rest of the first ten minutes of the film, which started from my exiting the stables and seeing the horse and rider in the distance, was spent with the Master on top of me, vigorously fucking me in a missionary position. In an incongruity that the film director realized but ignored and the audience would accept, the Master reached up and undid the ribbon on my hair (again), and the camera caught the fall of the hair and went immediately to the cock penetrating the hole.
The bow to the BDSM was that he had the loop leather handle of the riding crop encasing my throat and was pulling and releasing on that, causing me to gag and writhe under him, my hands to clutch at the restraint, and my eyes to bug out as he fucked me.
Scene two opened with me draped over a saddle on a low stall fence, naked, with my wrists secured low on the fence on one side and my ankles low on the fence on the other. The Master also was naked now, his body massive, powerful, muscular. A minute and a half were devoted to the binding and my frightened, but submissive response. For two minutes he beat me on the back and buttocks with his riding crop, alternating with kneeling behind me and either milking my cock with his hands and distending and squeezing my balls to listen to me cry for mercy and to sucking me off. For the last three and a half minutes of the scene, introduced with the release of the hair ribbon and the penetration of the cock, he was mounted on my ass as I was doubled over the fence, his feet pressed into the fence on either side of my thighs, his hands grasping my waist, and riding my ass high like a jockey in a race.
I was being barebacked, which was a signature of this movie studio and director, so close shots were taken not only of me coming for the work the Master had done behind and below me, but for the Master to rise in the saddle, hand his own cock, which had slid out of me, and jacking off on the small of my back.
The impression being given was that, although the stable boy had been expected to be fucked by the master, this was rougher, more demanding than anticipated–and that maybe, just possibly, this would go farther than the young man could and would endure. Maybe these were the final moments for the stable boy. A few seconds were devoted of the stable boy looking around in panic, as if there might be help available from some quarter–help that never materialized.
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