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Big Tits

From Rome I sailed east across the Mediterranean on a small merchant ship that took on a limited number of passengers. In booking the voyage, my travel agent, Peter Phillips, had said that these vessels plying the inner seas of Europe were every bit as comfortable and accommodating as the cruise lines were—and a good bit cheaper. He said that, with fewer passengers aboard, it was easier to get to know them. He proved to be right about that, and I’m glad he’d remembered how little I liked to fly and avoided it whenever possible. He also made side remarks about the male-male sex that could be easily found among fit sailors on these vessels, saying, “They spend so much time at sea with just each other for entertainment, and some of them go to sea just because of that,” but I was so worn out in that department from Rome that I, initially, at least, didn’t give that a thought for two days outbound from Italy.

What the slower progress across the Mediterranean did for me was that it gave me time to think. The last six months had been such a whirlwind of momentous decisions and hurried planning that I hadn’t had time to think about what I was doing, and every time I paused for a breath and to weigh my options, Peter was there with his own form of answers and I just gave in to them. Here, on the freighter, I had all the time in the world to review what I was sailing toward and the new lifestyle I was being propelled into.

Peter had pumped me for what I wanted to do and where I wanted to do it in the wake of my split from Caroline.

“I really do enjoy running the B and a second one, in the mountainous area inland from Kusadasi, would, I thought, make a great mountain retreat and short-term rental property—once it no longer wasn’t a mere gutted stone shell. The third property, larger and in the old town of Kusadasi itself, needed updating, but I could live there while it was being turned into an eight-bedroom, luxury guest house. That would be my answer to a B&B to run.

And why Kusadasi? It not only was on the Turkish resort coast but it also was the cruise tour port town giving access to the biblically significant ruined city of Ephesus, which attracted tens of thousands of tourists every year. The major city of Izmir, whose inhabitants used the Kusadasi region for a retreat, lay just sixty miles to the southeast. Caroline and I had gone through Kusadasi to visit Ephesus a few years earlier, and I’d remembered how we had remarked that this would be a great, cheap place to cash in on the tourist trade if we wanted to go international with our B&B operations. It seemed only natural that this, a world away from Caroline and Cape May and my former lifestyle, would be where I would come to start a new life.

That part of what I thought about as my freighter with its passenger section steamed east across the Mediterranean became solidified in my mind. Once again taking charge where I had indecision or lacked knowledge, Peter had hooked me up with a Kusadasi lawyer and Realtor, Cemil Teke, not only to smooth me through the process of a foreign investor in Turkey but also through the renovation process on my three new properties.

“He’s gay—flamboyantly so. I met him at an international Realtor’s conference,” Peter had said. “You won’t be attracted to him or he to you for very long beyond his initiation fee, but he’ll help you in switching sides as well as in all of your setup needs. Normally, you’d have to watch him like a hawk, but we went cruising together and have an understanding, so I think he will deal with you as he would with me. You’ll need someone like him in Turkey. They are great people, but they are sharp in business.”

“What do you mean by ‘beyond his initiation fee’?” I asked, “and ‘for very long’?”

“Ah, you caught that. It shouldn’t be a big deal by the time you get to Turkey. You’ve indicated you’re interested in trying both ways although you probably want to be dominant. Teke doesn’t work with anyone he hasn’t dominated first. After that, there’s rarely anything he’ll want from you. His primary interests are in someone much younger than either you or me.”


“Fucked. As a top.”

“And you? Did he dominate you?”

“Yes. He fucked the stuffing out of me. And then he lost interest and introduced me to Ergon.”

I didn’t ask questions about Peter and Teke beyond this and polatlı escort he didn’t volunteer any more information.

When Cemil Teke’s sexual interests came into my mind, which, I gather, involved interests in those of less than legal age, even in Turkey, the other thoughts I struggled with during my voyage to Turkey came up. The depths to which I had delved into sexual activity in Rome had aroused me, but they had also frightened me. How much I enjoyed bedding young men and what I had learned in Rome to do in doing so disturbed me. Was I moving too deep into the world too fast? I couldn’t help but think that it easily could control me and make me into something I didn’t want to be. Did I really want to make a switch, or was it just my relationship with Caroline having gone south that made me think I was off women?

It was Emilee, a passenger on the freighter whose last name I didn’t learn until we disembarked, who made me question my radical decision of a change in lifestyle. She was everything in a woman that Caroline wasn’t—petite, dark, shy, and totally feminine and sensual. When we encountered each other at meals and in passing on deck, she would give me looks that sent a chill up my spine and caused my cock to harden. I couldn’t tell if she was coming on to me or just naturally sexually charged. And it didn’t matter which—she turned me on when I was in the process of concluding that women didn’t do that for me.

The kicker was that the young man she was with, a Turk named Talal, did the same for me. And when I caught them together in a remote area of the deck in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep and had left my cabin to go out to the rail to try to let the action of the waves lull me into a stupor, I found that I didn’t really know which of them I wanted more.

They both were naked, their clothes strewn on the deck around the lounge chair they were writhing on. Talal was on his back on the chair, with Emilee saddled on his cock, her head bent over, her eyes locked on his, and her luxuriant auburn hair cascading down onto her arms and back. She was palming his pecs and her pert little buttocks were rising and falling on him. As she descended, he was thrusting up, deep inside her. He was grunting in a low tone and she was sighing in a rich alto. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I wanted her riding me like she was riding Talal. But I wanted him too. I wanted to be on my back, with him riding my cock the way Emilee was riding his. When I couldn’t take the tension anymore I stole back to my cabin and masturbated to a full and satisfying ejaculation.

I was so confused. I had already broken from Cape May and was riding the waves in the eastern Mediterranean. To a great extent, my choices had already been made for me. But was it all happening too fast?

I decided even before I reached Turkey that I’d reverse in my progression to the other side—for at least a while—and take it slower until I figured out what I really wanted from a changed lifestyle. The sex in Rome had been good—the sex had been terrific. But I can’t say that it had fully satisfied me. There still was something missing. Until I figured out what that was, I decided I’d be more reserved. I’d concentrate on renovating my properties, opening my B&B, and becoming settled in a culture that was strange to me. And I’d have to figure out how my interests in photography and male nudes—and male-on-male copulation—fit into that. I still, thanks to international communications, could continue the side business I had set up for that. But how would the Turks feel about that? Peter had said that for the right accommodations—meaning money—I would have no trouble with anything I wanted to do, citing the Turkish lawyer and Realtor he was sending me to, Cemil Teke, who openly lived under conditions that would slap him in prison in the States and that, by law, should do so in Turkey as well.

That’s what Peter had told me about Teke, who certainly did seem to know how to grease palms to get my property purchased and renovations started even before I got there. Just as Peter had known how to take care of me royally in Rome, he seemed to be opening doors wide for me in Kusadasi, Turkey—maybe wider than I was prepared to walk through.

* * * *

The conditions on the wide concrete pier in the Kusadasi harbor were those pursaklar escort of chaos. A cruise ship was in and berthed on one side of the pier and our freighter was on the other. A crowd of tourists was milling around on the pier and queuing up at various meeting points for excursions. Most of them would be going thirty-five miles into the interior to the ruins of Ephesus, which once was on the coast itself but had died as an inhabited city and busy ancient port when the river at the base of the mountain valley it had been built in silted up.

I had no idea where I was going. I owned a large old stone house somewhere up the slope in the old city from here and I had trunks on board the freighter that would be delivered there, but Peter had said that Cemil Teke was to arrange for me to be picked up at the pier and that a room and bath in the house I’d bought would be prepared for me.

I disembarked at the same time that the arousing couple did.

The woman had turned to me as she came down the freighter’s gangplank and saw me standing there, small suitcase set on the ground between my legs as if I was protecting it from the mob that was swirling around me, and, fluttering her eyelashes at me, said, “Do you have a hotel to go to, Mr. . . .?”

“Cliff. Cliff Strand,” I answered.

“Emilee,” she answered. “And this is Talal. He’s familiar with Kusadasi. He’s from Izmir, which is just down the coast from here. And I have a gift shop here—in the hotel district. If you don’t have a hotel yet . . .”

If two people could look more eager than these two did that I not have a booking of my own to go to, they would be undressing me in public. Talal, young and trim, seemed to be fluttering his eyelashes at me too. At that moment I very much regretted that I hadn’t made any move to hook up with one or both of them during the voyage.

“I’m very much sorry we didn’t become better acquainted on the sail from Rome,” Emilee said.

“Thank you, but I do have some place to stay. I will be opening a small hotel here myself and my agent here has said a room there is ready for me.”

“Ah, then, we will both be Westerners in the city,” the young woman said, and the way she said it made me feel like we’d be clinging to each other—which, of course would be fine with me. “It’s not a large city and the foreigners tend to stick together here. There’s an English-speaking group that meets regularly here. Perhaps we will meet again here.”

“Yes, perhaps,” I said, but then I recalled that I supposedly had finished with women. My eyes turned to Talal.

“We would enjoy getting to know you better here in the city,” Talal said. “I would enjoy getting to know you better,” he added, and the look of interest he gave me was quite obvious. I couldn’t help but return it, and thoughts of Emilee, naked, with me, receded into thoughts of me with Talal.

“I think I would like that too,” I answered—truthfully—”I’m told the bed and breakfast I’m buying and renovating is on a street named Bozkurt Suk. Perhaps—”

“Ah, I know that street well,” Talal answered.

Before I could say anything further or more specific about meeting, a beautiful young Turkish man—an older teen, I would more think—was there at my side, pulling on my forearm and saying, “You are Mr. Strand? I have been sent by Mr. Teke to guide you from the boat.”

Giving a slight “what can you do?” smile to the two lovers who had fucked their way across the eastern Mediterranean, but alas, without my participation, I picked up my suitcase, which the young man grabbed from me and started to weave his way through the crowd on the pier to dry land. There was little I could do other than set out after him, with a half worry that I had just been pick pocketed as I was told the people of all nationalities in the Mediterranean littoral states specialized in this.

We crossed the promenade avenue following the curve of the harbor, the young man ahead of me, weaving deftly through the crowd and me following with a good deal more brushing against shoulders and muttering of “Sorry” In English. I’d learned how to say that in Turkish, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t bring up the word now.

On the other side of the street, a brick-floored central park-like area with café tables and trees spaced close together enough for their foliage sincan escort to cover the area unfolded. On the three sides of the park away from the pier older brick, stone, or stucco buildings like I’d seen in almost any Mediterranean port town, if perhaps a bit more Oriental cast to them, with shops on the ground floors, enclosed the courtyard. Sitting at one of the tables was a mountain of a man flamboyantly dressed in yellow and orange, in Arab-style dress. A red fez, such as I’d see on a stereotyped Turk in a B movie, perched on his head. It was obvious that he was wearing makeup, and, as the lad running ahead with my suitcase, tended to evidence, I surmised that this was Cemil Teke, my new lawyer and palm greaser.

I was assured I was correct as I approached, as the man turned his hooded eyes and slight, knowing smile toward me, latched onto me, undressed me with his eyes, assessed me, and settled down to some show of comfort and satisfaction that I couldn’t gauge other than to get the impression that he found me acceptable and, I gave a little shudder, malleable. Peter had told me that there would be a condition of getting help from this Turk.

The young man got to him before I did, and I heard Teke say, “You may set that down here, Envir, and fetch us coffee.” Suddenly I remembered enough Turkish to figure that out. As the young man scampered off, Teke turned his attention to me. He held out a bejeweled hand, but he didn’t rise from the seat that he overflowed. I knew if he did stand, though, that he would tower over me. I took the hand—not being sure if I should have kissed it instead—and we didn’t shake so much as Teke held my hand in his in a near-vice grip.

“Mr. Strand, is it?” he asked in elegant English. “Clifford Strand? Peter didn’t tell me that you were a beautiful man.”

What could I say to that? I ignored the last comment and simply said, “Are you Cemil Teke, then, the man who has so patiently guided me thus far in this brave—or foolish—Turkish adventure?”

“The same,” he answered, “and I have thoroughly enjoyed being part of this transition. You have selected a fine property—in fact, three good—promising—properties. And we are making fine progress on your hotel. It lies just three streets up the hill from here. Still inside the old city. We will go up there after we have had coffee and chatted a bit. Ah, Envir is back with our coffee. Please sit.”

I sat down beside Teke at the table and we chatted about my trip out from the States and our mutual acquaintance of Peter Phillips while the young man poured our coffee and then backed away from the table, sat down on the bricks on his haunches, and went blank. He was a fine-looking young man, alabaster skin and jet black hair descending to his shoulders in curls. He was short of stature, but perfectly formed. There was no way, I thought, that he could have been of age. But from what Peter had told me of Cemil Teke . . .

“You know that when Peter was here, it was I who introduced him to Ergon Seljek?”

“Yes, he told me that.”

“Ergon was a sweet young man. And a firecracker in bed. I enjoyed him for several years before passing him to Peter. I trust they are still doing well as a couple.”

“Yes, they are devoted to each other,” I answered. I did calculations in my head. Working from knowing Ergon was only twenty-four now, I decided that he must not have been any older than the young man here, Envir, when he was with Teke.

The young man was hunched down close enough to Teke that the lawyer absentmindedly reached out with one of his many-ringed hands and ran his fingers in Envir’s hair as we talked.

“You must be tired from your trip,” Teke said.

“No, I don’t feel a bit tired,” I answered. “Traveling by ship isn’t nearly as taxing as flying.”

“Ah, then, perhaps I can show you my bathhouse and you can be refreshed before we go up to your hotel . . . and there’s the seal on the contract we can take care of from the beginning. I find in watching you approach from the ship that I have great interest in that.”

I smiled wanly at him. Perhaps it was a mistake to not have arrived too tired to take care of that detail so soon. Peter had said that it would be decided in a wrestling match that I surely would lose, but Peter hadn’t told me that Teke was a man and a half—whether or not he dressed androgynously and wore makeup.

As it was I didn’t have a chance to answer directly, as Emilee and Talal were coming into the park at that point and Teke called them over and bade them sit with us. It was obvious that they knew each other. The conversation settled on how small the expatriate community was here.

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