Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

Serhan Ceren had been a very private man and had spent much of his life outside of Cyprus, teaching at universities. Thus, there were very few people in attendance at his funeral at Saint Andrews and his internment in the church yard afterward. There were expatriate retirees and businessmen in Kyrenia who had known him, a few educated academics of mixed Turkish and European lineage, as he was, who taught at the university near Salamis on the east coast, and, of course, his house servants, who had been given the next few days off, his son told me, to have time to grieve and celebrate their employer's life.

And there was his son, Zeki, who came in a cream-colored suit that fit him like a glove.

"My father didn't like mourning or the color black," he said to me as we had a few words in the narthex before the service. "He always said he preferred the colors of life even in situations of death."

"I also recall that about him," I said. "Unfortunately, as an Episcopal priest, I am stuck with the color black and a white collar for services such as this."

"Oh, I'm quite pleased you are in clerical garb," Zeki said, as he took his hand from mine and walked up the aisle in the small stone church to take his place in front of the closed coffin. Leaning over, he whispered in my ear, "It makes my thoughts of what we might become involved in all the more arousing."

He moved away from me then, but not before squeezing one of my butt cheeks. If I ever thought I had fooled him in the level of my interest in him, I was the one who was the fool.

Seeing him in this setting made my heart ache and, I must admit, had an effect on other parts of my anatomy as well. He was so much like his father, in sensual looks and in his arousing smile, and even in the gait with which he walked, wide stanced, as if he had something unusually large between his thighs. I knew that, if he was anything like his father, he did. He was wearing a diaphanous white cotton shirt again today, and, with the deep natural tan of his three-quarters Turkish skin, his torso, hirsute, with black curly hair, and his prominent nipples, with rings in them, were easily discerned.

Halfway up the aisle, Zeki hesitated, stopped, turned, and walked back to where I was standing with the rector of Saint Andrew's.

"You do remember that you're coming back to my father's house afterward—that he left something he wanted to give to you? The house is just down the street here."

"Yes, I remember." And I certainly did. I had been wondering what Serhan could have left me. "I will be delayed, though, I'm afraid. There is more that is official that has to be done here after the internment."

"That will be perfect," he said.

I did a double take when I arrived and knocked on the double wooden doors of the traditional Turkish house. Leading straight back from the entrance door was an open-air tunnel that led back to the house's courtyard, which was faced on two sides by the L-shaped house proper—two stories, with a balconied verandah all around overlooking the courtyard. The courtyard was flagstoned, with lush tropical-plant gardens and a fountain. Divans with backs sat by the fountain, a sitting area with rattan armchairs was off to one side, and a patio table set was off the other.

This is where Zeki guided me. It's where we had been sitting, in the rattan armchairs, when I had previously visited. This time he guided me to one of the divans, though and sat beside me. What had made me do a double take at the entrance was that he had changed after coming back to the house. He now was wearing just some sort of billowy skirt affair. His torso, tanned, muscular, cut, and hirsute was bare. He was magnificent and I went hard.

He was moving fast. I was so aroused by him that I wouldn't be applying any brakes.

"I hope I'm not being too forward, but my father told me what you were to him at Georgetown University. I was surprised—but also interested, and, I must say, aroused—when I learned you were a priest."

"It doesn't disturb you that your father and I had a relationship? I would think that the son of a Muslim who was covering a priest would have concerns. Of course, I wasn't a priest at the time. I'm not even sure I intended to become one then. And your father was Muslim. I don't think it really occurred to either of us that—"

"No, it doesn't disturb me that my father fucked you. Let's call it what it is—he fucked you. He made you his fuck toy. And you wanted him to fuck you, didn't you?"

"Yes," I answered honestly.

"I want to fuck you too. Surely I have made that clear. The thought of seducing a priest arouses me and has had me nearly hyperventilating ever since I heard you were a priest. Of course, you are way beyond being seduced, but we can pretend. You want me inside you, don't you?"

The baldness of that hit me like a ton of bricks. I shuddered and he took my hand in his, intertwining the fingers and leaving the middle finger free to rub the palm of my hand. A chill went up my spine. He was sitting very close to me.

"I'm sorry," he continued. "Am I being too forward? Have I misjudged you? Your responses to me told me you were attracted to me. My father told me that you easily went under him and other men—that you enjoyed it. Am I misreading you?"

"No, you aren't misjudging me," I answered, my voice not much more than a croak. I moaned as one of his arms went around me and tipped me back as his lips came in to capture mine. His other hand went to my crotch, unzipped me, possessed my already-hard cock, and gently stroked it. I found that freeing his cock was just a matter of moving my hands in the folds of his diaphanous Turkish skirt. Gentle pressure on the back of my neck brought my face down to his lap, and I took the cock in my mouth and gave him head while he stroked me off.

When I sat back up, I moved to take off my collar and then would have taken off my clerical shirt, as well, but he reached out and stayed my hand. "No, I want to take you as a priest," he whispered.

He fucked me on the divan, with me three-quarters turned on my left side, with my right leg bent and flung across my body and Zeki stretched behind me, his thick, long cock working my channel and his right hand stroking my cock while my head rested in the crook of his left arm and he pulled my face around for his kisses.

He was an expert, knowing to pay attention to my prostate to heighten my arousal but also to mine my ass deep, reaching into the core of me and pulling the maximum passion out of me. He was as thick and long as his father had been—thicker than nearly every other man I had had inside me.

Afterward we lay there, not moving, Zeki not withdrawing from me, both of us knowing that it was just a momentary rest until we had both regained our strength and ardor to move with each other like we were long-time lovers—just as I had moved with his father, Serhan.

"Was this what your father had to give to me?" I asked in a whisper. "His son? If it is, there could have been no finer gift to me. You are a god in your own right, but you remind me so much of your father that I want to cry."

"We could cry together for my father," Zeki murmured. "He was a romantic. He would appreciate that. He also would appreciate your calling me his gift. I appreciate that too. I'm so glad I've seduced you. I am sorry I said you were beyond that."

"It didn't take much," I said, with a laugh.

"No, it didn't take much," he said. He reached up, undid my collar and removed it, pulled my shirt over my head, and moved his lips to one of my nipples as a hand clasped my cock in a loose grip, inviting me to move inside the sheathed fingers, which, moving my hips languidly, I did. "After what we just did—what you did in response—I don't want to think of you as a priest anymore. My father said it wouldn't take much—that you enjoyed sex immensely."

"Your father was my first. I moved deeper into it after him."

"Obviously," he said, and laughed again. "But no, that's not his gift to you. His gift is this house, and a stipend to maintain it. He hoped that you would keep the house servants on until they wished to leave."

"This house?" I exclaimed, pulling away from him and sitting up. But he just pulled me back down into his embrace with a low laugh. "We're not finished here," he growled.

It was a good thing I'd given in to him so easily and quickly. He was a powerful man. I'm sure he could just take what he wanted whether or not it was granted to him. Not a problem with me. I would give him anything he wanted. "It's a grand house. Surely you are the one who should have it."

Zeki laughed again. "I have houses of my own and all the financial means I require. It will mean more to me that you come here from time to time—and that, when you do, you lie under me and let me have my way with you."

"I could deny you nothing," I answered.

"You will perhaps stay then?"

"At least for the foreseeable future," I said. "Life has become more complicated than I really want to face in the States, and, perhaps more important, I find I have a wedding to perform here, and I don't have a date for that yet. But if you aren't going to be here, in this house—"

Zeki smiled down into my face, kissed me, and showed that we were about to float up to heaven again. Which we did after he spoke again. "I said I had other houses, not that I had to sleep in them rather than here—and one of them is just across the wall from this one."