Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I had formed the idea of how to get around the short leashes on the Turkish soldiers problem while I was fucking Musa on a lounge bed beside the pool at Angie on the Rocks the previous day. The Angie of the club's name was a zaftig British expatriate prostitute who had come into some money and opened a Mediterranean-side pool bar at Lapithos on the northern Cyprus coast to the west of Karavas, which itself was to the west of the picturesque medieval harbor town of Kyrenia.

I enjoyed fucking Musa. He was young, not long legal, and berry-brown, the result of a Turkish mother and Moroccan father. Nicely formed, lithe, and fully compliant. But what I enjoyed most about Musa was that others who frequented the well-fenced off pool bar enjoyed fucking Musa too and found him to be as good a listener as a lay. Angie had a great layout here. There was a nice-sized pool with a lot of terracing around it, poised on the rocks above the Mediterranean surf. Off to one side was a restaurant area under a long, covered verandah. And on the land side of that were a kitchen area and a set of small rooms, where Angie and her waiters and waitresses made extra money on their backs. The flat for Angie and her Turkish Cypriot policeman husband—the perfect spouse for a business like Angie had—was above these rooms. That the husband made extra money himself by filming the activity in the pool area below from his bedroom window and selling the videos on the streets of Istanbul was something that few knew. I knew, however, and always managed to do my fucking on lounge beds out of range of that window.

The glory for me of Musa being such a draw for others was that the pool bar was considered the exclusive domain of expatriates living in northern Cyprus and UN soldiers and the diplomatic community from Nicosia on the other side of the guarded Green Line between the Greek and Turkish zones. Diplomats could traverse this border and came here to escape the glare of the attention in Nicosia. And here they murmured of the problems of their workday as they lay on their backs and Musa rode their cocks.

Musa, one of Angie's waiters, one who specialized in taking care of the male clientele, was an asset I ran, one of my sources for information on what happened behind the scenes in Cypriot affairs and in embassies located in Cyprus. But Musa also liked the cock. And he really liked my cock, so a combination of money and attention kept Musa happy and me fed with a couple of useful reports home whenever I had a chance to go north for a swim.

On this night, Musa was comparing my cocking to that of Turkish soldiers, complementing me on taking my time and giving him as much attention as he was giving me—but, as an afterthought, saying that rough sex with a grin and no frills was nice to have occasionally too. I was agreeing with him on Turkish men in general. No one fucked with gusto and a smile like a Turkish Cypriot man did. And young Turkish Cypriot men had the bodies of gods, often pleasantly hirsute, until their late twenties, when, almost universally but not always, they quickly began to deteriorate into either a leather balloon or an emaciated bag of bones. At any age, though, they cocked with gusto and few, if any, inhibitions, all white-teeth smiles in grinning brown faces and vigorous thrusting. If you liked to be manhandled and taken hard, but not in anger, a young Turkish Cypriot man was what you wanted.

But then it hit me. He was talking about Turkish soldiers.

"You mean mainland Turkish soldiers?" I asked. Raising myself on the hands planted on either side of his chest on the lounge bed and pulling my cock up to where the bulb was lodged just inside the entrance. He was panting hard and had the heels of his feet dug into the small of my back above where my buttocks flared out.

"Oh, god, don't stop. Finish me. I almost was there," he whined, digging his fingernails into my shoulder blades.

"You mean mainland Turkish soldiers?" I asked again, more insistently. "Tell me and I'll finish you."

"Yes. Soldiers from the base on the side of the mountain below St. Hilarion."

Mainland Turkish men could be even more arousing and fulfilling than a Turkish Cypriot man if you wanted to be overpowered and taken brutally. "When were you fucked by Turkish soldiers from there? They hold their soldiers close."

"Every Tuesday afternoon. They let them out in threes occasionally. Turkish soldiers are as randy as any and they sometimes get tired of fucking each other. God, let me have the cock. I'm almost there."

"But you. How do they get to you?"

"The same three, every Tuesday. Angie has a deal with them. She supplies booze for the commander, a Colonel Erlugu, up there. He sends soldiers to pick it up. On foot. I meet them just off the road up to St. Hilarion, in a pasture. The soldiers pay me for a fuck and an extra bottle. They like Johnny Walker Red. They are tight with each other, like to talk about bodybuilding and flashy American cars while they fuck me and . . . and . . ."

"And what, Musa?"

"Oh shit, don't leave me this way. Fuck me. Oh, god, yes!"

Once, twice, three times I dove my cock deep inside him, twisted it with the revolving of my hips and pulled back up.

"And what, Musa?"

"And they fuck rough. They like to take turns doubling. It sometimes takes me to the next Tuesday to recover. But when you've been fucked by a Turkish soldier, you've been fucked. Oh yes, please, yes, like that. Yessss!"

I fucked him hard as he writhed and panted under me—and then fired off up my belly—forgetting, I hoped, anything but the fucking he had gotten.

"God, almost like a Turkish soldier," he murmured when we were done. I took it as a compliment.