Chapter 2 – Chapter 2
They fucked again throughout the second night, Andreas's knees thrust into crease where the seat cushion met the back cushion and then again with the small of Andreas's back on the seat cushion and legs thrust up and out, as the Orient Express cleared Bucharest and streamed on to the southwest to Istanbul.
When the Express chugged into Istanbul Station at the break of the third day, Magnus offered Andreas shelter at the Turquhouse Hotel on the Golden Horn where he always booked when he was in Istanbul, but the young Greek said he must return to his masters immediately but would come for Magnus when he was needed. The squawking of a buxom European matron nearby who had never experienced a greeting of Turkish street urchins meeting the Express before drew Magnus's attention, if only for a moment. When he turned back, Andreas had disappear through the teaming crowd.
Magnus took a carriage to Turquhouse in a cloud of blue funk. Andreas had, in the short time they'd had, become a necessity to him. He knew he was walking a thin edge here, but Andreas had been just too perfect. Magnus had looked forward—almost to the point of salivating over the notion—to fucking Andreas in the comfort of a four-poster bed on steadier ground that the slightly swaying, occasionally lurching, always grinding Orient Express carriage.
In fact he was so keyed up that when the Turkish room attendant bowed and scraped at the threshold of his room and asked if there was anything at all he could do for the honored Norwegian archeologist—anything at all—and gave him "that" look, Magnus took him straight to the bath and fucked him to whimpering jelly while cleaning the dust of Eastern Europe rail beds off his body. Then he dragged the wilted Turk to the four-poster bed and fucked him again into total exhaustion.
Well satisfying, as a trip to Istanbul always was—and the room attendant would be well satisfied with what he was receiving for the service—but nothing like Magnus had dreamed of doing with Andreas.
While Magnus was attending to the Turkish attendant, Andreas was also being attended to. Across the Golden Horn, deep in the maze of Misir Carsisi, the Egyptian Bazaar, behind a second-floor latticed window in the gold souk, Andreas, hands tied off above his head on a sturdy bed poster, was receiving attention and instruction from his Russian master, Oleg Tarasov. Tarasov, a dark, sinister, hawk-billed ferret of man, loved his riding crop—especially for the red welts it could leave on the alabaster skin of a young Greek's posterior.
A short slash to Andreas's flank as Tarasov drove his cock up into the young man's canal from behind. Andreas moaned and writhed away from the lash, only to have the leather sting his other hip.
"Tell me you have the Norwegian enthralled," the Russian hissed in Greek's ear, as he pulled his pelvis back and then lunged deeply again, raising the small Greek's feet off the Turkish carpet with the force of his upward thrust.
"Yes, yes, Master," the young man answered through gasping breath. "Ahhh," he exclaimed as the riding crop lashed across his belly. "Yes, he will come when you want him."
"I will want him soon after dusk tomorrow," Tarasov whispered menacingly before he let his teeth close over Andreas's earlobe. The young man cried out in pain for him. Tarasov liked that. His cock liked that. He drove deeper up the canal. Andreas groaned at the attention. Tarasov was not very thick, but he was long, and his cock had an upward crock in it that brutalized Andreas's tender inner walls.
"You will go to him in the afternoon and make him pant for you. When you bring him back, you will take him straight to the green room. The belt will be there, along with the authentication papers for him to sign. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master. Oh, no! Owww, ahhh." Andreas was writhing against the merciless attentions of lash on flanks and cock in channel.
He cried out for supplication to the other man in the room, the squat, hirsute, and heavily muscled Turk standing inside the door, his beefy arms crossed on bulging chest and his eyes slitted in pleasure at what he saw Tarasov engaging in with the young Greek.
"Asil, please. Help. Please." It was pure desperation. Andreas knew that there was no succor to be found from the direction of Asil Hanci. Hanci was devoted to the Russian.
The bulky Turk just stood there and smiled. And Andreas's moment of insolence was rewarded with several lashes, in quick succession, across his tender flanks, the pleasure of which brought Tarasov to his climax.
"And after the Norwegian has authenticated the belt and signed the document, I want you to take him to the baths—and I want him to have his last breath there. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Master." Andreas let his body go limp, his weight dragging on the leather-bound wrists tied off high on the bed post. He had endured. It was over—for now.
But there he was wrong. As Tarasov turned to stride out of the room, he motioned to the Turk, who opened his robes as he approached Andreas, displaying a thick, thick cock in full erection and big, hairy, taut, cream-filled balls.
Tarasov shut the door behind him, and, with a slight smile moved down the corridor toward his bed chamber as the first screams from Andreas echoed off the hallway walls. He would leave this business to the Turk now. Once authenticated, Priam's Belt, the prized piece from the Priam's Treasure golden trove from the excavation of Troy, would bring a price that only the tsar could afford. Tarasov would be well on his way to the court of St. Petersburg when the Norwegian breathed his last breath in the baths of the Cagaloglu Hamami.
Later that evening the Russian gave the last instruction to Hanci before setting out on his journey to the north. "When the Greek returns from the baths, use him as you will and then kill him."
The Turk grinned from ear to ear. His two favorite past times.