FRICTION FICTION: Crown of Thorns

[monshanjik]

CROWN OF THORNS

By Aaron Travis

(Drummer.?)

Eric lies on his back, wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts,
blindfolded, hovering somewhere above the pain that wracks his body. He
is naked except for the dog collar around his neck, and the leather
thong tied cutting-tight around the base of his genitals. His cock is
hard.

So hard it hovers above his belly, rigid and throbbing. His penis
projects into the air, untouched but not unfelt. Eric senses the sweet
aching from within, the pulsing current of constricted blood that fills
his shaft, heavy and dense as mercury. He senses the surface of his cock
like a grid of nettles, a tender, bloated envelope of flesh thatched
with thin welts along the shaft and especially about the head, where the
stiff, slender whip has stung him.

Eric gave the whip to the man earlier, explained what it was good for,
asked the man to use it on him. The man wielded it more thoroughly and
harshly than Eric could have hoped, but only after satisfying his own
ideas of what kind of pain should be put into Eric’s body.

He fixed clamps upon Eric’s nipples, fitted a gag into his mouth,
weighted his balls, whipped him with a belt as he made Eric crawl across
the floor. He bound his wrists with handcuffs and made him stand upright
to be slapped, punched and belted. He pushed him onto the bed and fucked
him, impaling Eric on his cock while he speared a dildo down Eric’s
throat, then impaling him on the dildo while he fucked his face.
Finally, when Eric was weakest, the man uncuffed him, spread his body
into an X and tied his limbs to the bedposts. Then he reached for the
whip.

Now, much later, Eric writhes upon the bed, his body suffused with pain.
It is wrapped about him like a mist of acid. His face is hot, his lips
swollen from the slapping. His ass is burning and numb from the belt,
his nipples tender from the clamps and the whip. His throat and ass are
sore and bruised within. The bed-sheets are soaked with his sweat.

Eric has not touched his cock, and the man has touched it only with the
whip.

Eric cannot see it, cannot touch it, can oily sense it; but he knows it
is stiff as wood. As he writhes upon the bed his hips define a lurid
circle, his bound and bloated cock fucks the air.

The man has left for a time. In the darkness behind the blind*fold Eric
tries to remember what the man looks like. Lean and muscular, though
less muscular than Eric; a cock bigger than Eric’s, much bigger. Eric
remembers black leather, a vest and crotchless chaps that match the
man’s darkness and make obscene display of his naked flesh. His face . .
. his voice . . . Eric cannot reassemble them out of the silent
darkness.

It does not matter. Eric has had many men like this one since his return
to the States. Some are more satisfying, more cruel and relentless than
others; some know better than others how to spit him upon their cocks,
how to bring him to the grey nadir. This one he has seen several times,
will probably see again.

But it will not stop the craving. With all these men, as the first surge
of submission and abandon begins, he imagines he is with Rezi again —
reeling from the sting of Rezi’s hand across his face — forcing his
throat onto the dense thickness of Rezi’s cock — opening his legs and
straining to hold them open as Rezi splits him with the shaft.

He had thought, when he was returned to Washington from Istanbul — or
rather, when he was sent home in disgrace — that he would learn to
forget his craving for Rezi, if not for the things Rezi did to him. But
Rezi was like the blood-red Turkish poppy. Rezi’s sweat was morphia,
Rezi’s semen was opium. Eric was the addict, and Rezi the drug. Only
pale substitutes, weak echoes of euphoria, are available to him now. The
real thing has been sealed away from him forever.

He lives in San Francisco now, in another city built on a hilly tongue
of land surrounded by sea. But often at night, hearing the foghorns,
sensing the shroud of fog and the surrounding waters, he imagines
himself returned to another life in another world. They thought they had
punished him when they exposed his weakness and expelled him from
Istanbul, naked in his humiliation; but the true punishment is that he
can never return.

1
They met when Eric was with the Agency, stationed in Istanbul. It was in
the spring of 1980, in the last months before the coup. Eric lived in a
hotel in the city, in a small room on the fifth floor that faced the
Bosphorus. The view from his terrace was spectacular and dismal. Seen
through the haze belched from the inland factories, the ornate minarets
and the vast dome of Hagia Sophia were like calcified eruptions of stone
rising above the squalor. Beyond was the Bosphorus, a dark channel of
water scalloped with tiny waves, glistening bleakly under the sun and
crawling with life — small craft and oil-streaked tugboats busy as
maggots on the water, tiny in the distance and dimly seen across the
gulf of filthy air. Beyond the Bosphorous, the far shore of
Turkey-in-Asia could only be guessed at.

Eric posed as an interpreter at the American consulate. He was fresh in
the field, little known on the circuit; officially he was simply a civil
servant, with no ties to the Agency. His real work took him across the
Bosphorus each morning, by ferry to Scutari.

His contact there was a British agent named Maple who had been serving
Her Majesty since the days of Kennedy and Khrushchev. Because he was new
and untested, Eric’s work was unexciting, largely confined to
unclassified paperwork; but because he could travel unremarked between
the city and the suburbs, he sometimes acted as a runner, carrying
packets of information from contact to consulate.

On these excursions he dressed informally, wearing sun*glasses and white
summer suits without a tie. Because of his dress, the locals sometimes
assumed he was Italian. More often, because of his blond hair, they took
him for a German or Swede.

One morning, on the deck of the ancient steam-powered ferry, he noticed
a man dressed in dirty khakis and a workshirt dusted with soot. The man
was a Turk. He stood alone at the stern, smoking a cigarette. His hair
was dark and wiry, cut very short. The ragged ends of his mustache
curled around the corners of his mouth. His thick upper lip was drawn
back slightly, revealing a row of large white teeth with a gap in the
middle. His jaw was cleanshaven and dark with the shadow of his beard.

The Turk’s chest and shoulders were massive. At first, Eric thought he
was short and stocky. Then a passenger in a business suit joined the
Turk at the stern, and Eric saw the man’s stature in perspective. He was
tall, well over six feet. He was not stocky. He was broad with muscle.

Eric strolled toward the stern. He stopped a few yards away from the
Turk and the businessman and lit a cigarette. He pretended to watch the
traffic on the water. When his eyes passed the Turk, they lingered.

The big man leaned on one elbow against the railing. He looked to Eric
like some sort of magnificent animal, relaxing in the sunlight. When he
raised the cigarette to his lips, his bicep contracted and filled the
loose sleeve of his shirt.

The shirt was soaked with sweat. In the brisk breeze, it snapped about
the Turk’s waist and molded itself to his torso. His chest rose hard and
high below his collarbone; there was a deep cleft between the muscles.
Below his pectorals, his belly was like a curved shield ribbed with
muscle. Through the thin wet cloth, Eric could see the man’s nipples,
the indentation of his navel, the mat of wiry hair that covered his
chest.

The smaller man was talking to the Turk and fidgeting, shifting
nervously from foot to foot. The Turk looked bored, and faintly amused.
The small man finished whatever he was saying and looked up at the Turk
expectantly. The Turk did not answer. He did not look at the man. He
smiled thinly, curling his upper lip to show the gap between his front
teeth. Then he casually raised his arms above his head and stretched.
His chest expanded and his waist contracted to an oval so compact Eric
imagined he could fit his hands around it.

The man in the business suit stared openly and moistened his lips. Eric
realized that the man was propositioning the Turk, and theTurk was
teasing him, displaying his magnificent body while ignoring the man’s
presence.

The Turk tensed his shoulders. The muscles rose in knots around his
neck. Then he relaxed and dropped his arms to his sides. He was still
smiling. There was something obscenely presumptuous about his smile,
cloyingly sweet with disgust and pity. If a man ever looked at me that
way, Eric thought, I’d kill him.

The man in the suit reacted differently. Need erupted like a tattoo
across his face. He dropped his eyes to the Turk’s crotch and reached to
touch him there.

The Turk allowed the man to grope him for a moment, then picked the
man’s hands away. He cupped his own hand over the mound that projected
from his pants like a pair of clenched fists. He ran his other hand
luxuriously over his chest and belly, as if it were the most natural
thing in the world to touch and admire himself in front of another man.

The smaller man grew more agitated. Eric watched his hands open and
clench. He spoke again. Eric could not make out the words, blown away by
the wind, but he could hear the tone of the man’s voice — barely
controlled, servile, pathetic.

Eric shared the man’s embarrassment. His face turned hot and the back of
his hands prickled. The man in the suit fell silent. The Turk still had
not looked at him. The man bit his lip and turned away, then turned
back. He opened his mouth to speak, but there was no sound. The Turk
ignored him. He ran his hands slowly over his chest and stretched again.
Then he brushed the man aside and left him alone at the stern.

Eric watched as the Turk approached. The sight of the man’s body,
drawing nearer, seemed to paralyze him. For a moment, as the Turk passed
beside him, their eyes met and Eric felt completely exposed, like a
naked boy caught masturbating. The Turk smiled at him. Eric had an
impulse to speak, but his throat was frozen.

The Turk walked on. Eric turned his head, unable to take his eyes from
the man’s body. The damp shirt was stretched taut across his back,
molded to the dimpled muscles in his shoulders. His narrow hips swayed
gently as he walked. The khaki pants, loose everywhere else, were pulled
flat across his ass. The cheeks werelike a single ledge of hard rolling
muscle.

The Turk reached an opening in the deck and descended out of sight.

Eric passed the day in a state of continual excitement. His mind was on
the Turk all through his meeting with Maple. He hoped that he would see
him again on the return ferry, but the Turk did not appear on deck. From
the soot on his clothes and the breadth of his shoulders, Eric guessed
that he worked in the boiler room. He imagined the Turk stripped to the
waist, loading coal into the furnace with his strong arms, his flesh hot
from the flames and pouring sweat.

He imagined his own mouth pressed deep into the hard muscled cleft of
the Turk’s chest; his tongue lost in the mat of wiry hair, drinking up
the man’s musky sweat.

Back in the city, he went to the consulate to drop off a packet that
Maple had given him. The fantasies were like a fog around his head.
There was a briefing on new Russian naval maneuvers in the Black Sea;
Eric could not concentrate on the graphs and maps. During the slide
presentation that followed, he took advantage of the darkness to place
his hand on his lap and press discreetly against the erection that had
been there since the morning ferry ride.

After the consulate, he was free for the day. He considered going back
to the ferry. He did not go; a part of him would not admit the reality
of the obsession that had overtaken him. On his way to the hotel he
chose a meandering route that took him through the Gardens around the
Sultan Ahmel Mosque. He had heard, somewhere, that late at night the
Gardens became a cruising ground for sailors, hustlers, drug dealers,
and the underground police.

In late afternoon there were few men in the park. Most of them gave him
no more than a glance. But there was one, a heavy Turk with enormous
shoulders, who leaned provocatively against a tree and smiled at him
lewdly. Eric drew closer to the man, then turned back, shocked at
himself. His heart beat wildly as he reached the outskirts of the
Gardens. He had to rest for a moment on a bench to catch his breath.

He ate alone at the cafe across the street from his hotel. The waiter,
who knew him, asked what was wrong with the food; Eric explained that he
had no appetite that evening.

Later, alone in his room, he thought about returning to the Gardens.
Instead he took off his clothes and masturbated, thinking about the
Turk.

Other men, in Eric’s experience, had radiated the same attraction, but
never so strongly. The Turk was irresistible. It was not just his body,
the rough beauty and power scarcely concealed by the thin, damp clothing
he wore. It was the manner in which he carried himself, the image of
total self-possession he projected — and the cruel way he had teased the
man on the ferry, allowing him to touch the thing he wanted before
rejecting him. So aloof, smug, disdainful.

Eric imagined that such a man would be very rough with the few lucky
ones whose advances he chose to accept. He would know how desperately
they wanted him. He would be callous, selfish with his pleasure,
malicious. Even if he were cautious and gentle, there would be pain.
Eric had been fucked only a handful of times, in odd places on odd
occasions. He thought of the thing that bulged, obvious and huge, from
the front of the Turk’s trousers. The Turk was strong enough to force it
inside another man, willing or not. The image frightened Eric. It made
his cock grow hard.

Eric imagined it in his mouth. Years ago, on the Stanford campus — where
Eric was engaged in the studies that would later make him such a perfect
candidate for the Agency’s Turkish operations — a stranger in a men’s
room had taken Eric’s head in his hands and driven his cock all the way
down Eric’s throat. The cock, no bigger than Eric’s own, had made him
sputter and gag. The sudden violence had angered him, he had left
without satisfying the man; but for years afterward, whenever he thought
of the incident, it excited him, and he wished he had stayed. If the
stranger had been as magnetic as the Turk, would he have objected?

Eric ran his hands over his body, appreciating it, touching it, as the
Turk had touched himself. He was certainly more attractive than the
rejected man on the ferry. At twenty-seven, his face was still boyish,
cleanshaven with high cheekbones and a firm jaw. His body was lean and
smoothly muscled, shaped by the athletics of a privileged class, tennis,
racquetball, rowing. Each summer for the past eight years he had cycled
from Stanford to Monterey to visit his family, then down the coastal
highway to San Diego and back; his thighs were broad with muscle, his
buttocks round and compact. Was he what the Turk wanted?

He touched his nipples, slid his fingers down the contoured flatness of
his belly, over his hips and around to converge at the cleavage between
his cheeks.

He slipped two fingers deeper into the cleft of the opening there. His
fantasies ran wild and broke into fragments. A stranger in a toilet
stall — The Turk, glistening like molten copper in the red light of the
furnace — a heavy mass of flesh atop him, holding him down, arms and
legs outstretched — crackling of flames — pistons firing — Eric came,
sooner than he intended.

The next morning Eric arrived at the ferry tense and short of breath. He
watched for the Turk as he boarded. He circled the deck, searching for
him. Eric was not sure what he would do when he found him; he only knew
that he wanted to see the man, badly. But the Turk did not appear.

He did not see the Turk all week.

The obsession, deprived of its center, began to break, or at least to
lose focus. Eric gradually resigned himself to the likelihood that he
would never see the Turk again — or that if he did, nothing would come
of it.

But the fever continued. He locked himself in his room every evening and
masturbated all night, drawing out the pleasure for hours, pinching and
slapping his own flesh, searching for more violent fantasies.

He wanted to feel a cock in his mouth again. The last time had been
months ago, just before he was approved for entrance into the Agency. It
happened in a hotel in Washington. The young porter caught his eye in
the elevator. In his room, without a word, the dark-haired young man
opened his tight uniform trousers and showed Eric his erection, short,
blunt and very thick. Eric knelt and sucked the porter’s cock. The young
man did not move or make a sound, even when he shot.

One moment, unexpectedly, the cock in Eric’s mouth began to jerk; the
next moment the porter was filling his mouth with semen.

Afterwards, zipping his pants, the porter told him: “You suck pretty
good.” The words were flat, like a compliment that had to be given. Eric
simply nodded. He knew he had done a poor job. The young man’s cock
deserved much better. Eric had been distracted, paranoid. The Agency was
in the process of assigning his security status. He was not worried; he
had always been very discreet. But it was reckless to suck a stranger’s
cock in a room that, for all he knew, might be filled with bugs. That
was the first time Eric realized the degree of self-control — and
self-denial — he would have to practice once he was in the field and
frequently under surveillance.

He gave the porter a fifty. The young man smiled at the size of the tip
and lewdly hinted that he would be available for more:”You know, if you
get hungry, . . and you can’t find what you want on the room service
menu. . .“ Against his will, Eric told the porter that he wouldn’t be
needing his services again.

The hotel porter in Washington had given him a mouthful of come to
swallow. The come had been warm and thick. The taste had been musky and
slightly bitter. Eric wanted a man to come in his mouth again. He wanted
the Turk on the ferry to put his cock in his mouth and fill it with
come.

Eric thought of the Gardens again. Too dangerous. He would as likely
receive a knife in his back as cock down his throat. There was also the
chance of arrest by the Istanbul police. Eric would be immune from
prosecution, but the Agency would be scandalized. Expulsion would be
certain.

Over the weekend, the fire the Turk had sparked in him died to a
smoulder, more smoke than flame; exhaustion and frustration left little
room for desire. By the following Wednesday he was almost back to
normal, breathing easily, managing to keep his mind on his work. Less
and less frequently the brushfire swept through him, demanding that he
surrender to the fantasies and touch himself.

He ate breakfast in his room. He dressed in white pants and a white
jacket; the sun promised to be fierce. He walked to the Scutari ferry.
That was the day he saw the Turk again.

As before, the man stood alone at the stern, smoking a cigarette. Eric’s
pulse began to race. His breathing grew quick and shallow. The longing
returned in full force, catching him unprepared and defenceless. His
body, confused, revolted. His knees went soft and his mouth turned dry.

He drew as close to the man as possible without being obvious. He
watched from behind the inadequate concealment of a narrow wooden post.

The day was already hot. The breeze had died. The Turk tossed his
cigarette into the water and un-buttoned his shirt.

Eric clutched the post and watched as the Turk pulled the sweat-soaked
shirt from his shoulders and crumpled it into a ball. The Turk leaned
against the railing, closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the
sun warm his gleaming arms and chest. He stood facing Eric with his
knees apart and his hips pushed forward as if, Eric imagined, he were
waiting for Eric to come to him and kneel.

The sunlight on the man’s trousers was dazzling. Eric stared at his
crotch and saw that the thing within was stirring, like a sun-baked
serpent straining to lift its head against the confining cloth. Eric
moved to approach him, as the other man had done before. But he could
not bear it if the Turk snubbed him.

And he knew, in that instant, that he was capable of doing what the
other had done, of degrading himself before the Turk. Eric shrank from
the possibility.

And yet, the Turk had at least allowed the man to touch him. Eric wanted
to touch...

At that moment, as Eric lost all consciousness of his own appearance and
allowed the lust to spread over his face like a damning stain, the Turk
opened his eyes and saw him.

Eric froze as he was, lips parted, eyes fixed on the Turk’s, tongue
loose and wet in his mouth. The Turk tilted his head quizzically. He
smiled faintly, revealing the space between his teeth. He moved his
hands to the front of his hips and framed his crotch, drawing the loose
material tight across his cock.

Not touching, but displaying.

After a moment, he pushed himself from the railing and walked toward
Eric.

Eric saw spots before his eyes and turned away, suddenly unable to face
the man. His shoulders turned to gooseflesh anticipating the man’s
touch. But the Turk did not touch him. Eric felt, rather than saw, the
mass of the Turk’s body pass beside him.

Eric turned and lifted his face. The Turk was descending into the hold,
looking back at him. His eyes moved up and down over Eric’s body as he
took the steps.

His legs and waist, then his massive chest and shoulders, then his face,
still watching Eric, disappeared below the deck.

Eric hesitated, knowing what he had to do but needing time to gather the
courage. At last he followed.

Into the hold. Into a narrow, winding passageway of booming metal and
dim light. Banging of steel on steel and the smells of oil and friction.
The corridor straightened. Ahead he saw a red glow. The heat from the
chamber seemed to suck him inside. Black metal framing sheets of flame.
He did not see the Turk.

He heard a sound like trickling water. He followed the sound. Around the
corner was a narrow alcove lit by a naked light bulb hung from the
ceiling. The walls were covered with crackling pale green paint. Before
a rust-stained porcelain trough littered with cigarette butts, the Turk
was standing with his pants open.

For a confused instant, Eric thought that the Turk was holding his right
forearm in his left hand. Then he realized that the thing in the Turk’s
hand was his cock. He was pissing.

The Turk smiled at the shock on Eric’s face. He took the cigarette from
his mouth and dropped it into the trough. He glanced down and aimed his
piss at the glowing tip, making it hiss and expire.

He stopped pissing then and shook his cock, spattering the porcelain
with yellow drops. He reached into his pants and pulled out his balls,
and turned toward Eric.

Eric stared, open-mouthed. The unnatural size of the Turk’s organs was
shocking.

More shocking was the way he displayed them so casually, like an open
threat.

Eric could not bear to look at them. He could not bear to look at the
Turk’s face, smiling and blank, promising nothing. He fixed his eyes on
the man’s broad chest, where the crisp short hair lay flat against the
swelling muscles. The chest loomed larger and filled his vision as the
Turk drew closer.

Then the Turk was before him. His breath, stale with tobacco, was moist
and warm on Eric’s forehead. Eric looked up. The Turk’s eyes caught his
and held them; he took a step closer. Eric felt the blunt tip of the
Turk’s cock press against his crotch.

“Deutsch?”

Eric answered in Turkish. “No. American.”

The Turk nodded slowly. “An American,” he said. Perhaps he pushed with
his hips, or perhaps his shaft grew longer, fuller; the blunt flesh
pressed harder against Eric’s crotch. The Turk tilted his head and
stared down at Eric obliquely. “Do you know what l think of Americans? I
piss on Americans.” He paused, giving Eric time to respond. Then he went
on. “I piss on them, then I fuck them.” His nostrils flared. “Do you
like to get fucked by Turkish cock?”

It was what he had wanted, exactly. The moment had arrived, unhoped for.
Eric was frozen again. Afraid of letting it happen, afraid of letting
the moment pass. Then the new sensation obliterated all his thoughts.

A flowing sheet of warmth covered his groin and seeped down his legs. It
was so unexpected and pleasurable, Eric did not question it. The Turk’s
cock, touching him there, seemed to be pouring warmth into his crotch.

Eric could hardly believe it. His wildest fantasies were out*stripped in
an instant. His only response, as the Turk continued to piss against his
crotch, was to moan and dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

The warm flow ceased and the Turk stepped back. Eric looked down at the
circle of wetness that covered the front of his trousers. The stain ran
down the inside of each leg to the knee.

“You’ve wet your pants, American.”

The Turk’s hands moved to undo the clasp of Eric’s pants. He unzipped
them and peeled the wet corners of cloth away from the clammy flesh. He
pushed them down over Eric’s hips. Eric’s cock sprang free. The pants
dropped and pooled around his feet.

The Turk stepped forward again. His cock had grown thicker, longer.
Still it drooped. The head pressed huge and round into Eric’s testicles.
The Turk began to piss again.

Eric’s face twitched and went slack, unable to hold any expression for
more than an instant. There was incredible pleasure between his thighs,
a swirling, pressing, trickling warmth around his balls like a nibbling
mouth. He listened to the frothing liquid sound and the splash of piss
on the floor below.

The flood ended. The Turk curled his upper lip.

“That’s what I think of all those wriggling American babies in your
sack. Now I’ll show you what I think of you.”

He clamped his fingers onto Eric’s hip and forced him to turn.

Eric’s feet were tangled in the wet cloth around his ankles. He fell
spinning and caught himself on the edge of the porcelain trough. The
Turk grabbed his balls from behind and forced him to raise his ass and
open his thighs. His head whirled from the smell of strong urine and
moldering cigarette butts.

There was only a moment for fear. Then the Turk was in him, all the way.
Eric opened his mouth to scream. Nausea clotted his throat. He made a
stifled, rattling sound.

The Turk pulled out. The pain flowed out to the lips of Eric’s ass.
There was a vacuum inside him, surrounded by stinging thorns, and a
strange, sweet ache.

Eric shuddered and stared into the trough. He watched a long string of
saliva drip from his mouth and slap the porcelain. Then the Turk was in
him again, all the way.

Eric clutched the rim of the trough. His knuckles turned white as the
porcelain. For a moment he wondered if it was the Turk’s cock inside
him. He had been fucked before. This is not what he had felt. It had to
be something else — a bottle, a brand, a torch...

Then the Turk began to fuck him, and Eric knew the thing in his ass was
alive.

The sensation in his bowels had no beginning or end. It was everywhere.
He was a tree of nerves inside and every spindle fed directly to his ass
and the thing that moved inside it.

It was forever. The Turk’s cock was part of him now and it would never
leave, it would be there forever, like a new organ lodged inside him.
His body fought to eject it. The cock fought back and won. The Turk did
not touch him. He fucked from the hips. His pounding was relentless.
There was no respite. The cock demanded to be inside him.

The pain was indescribable, irresistable. Eric could not bear it. He
could not fight it. The pain itself rendered him helpless. The cock
sapped all his strength, drawing it out of him with each outward stroke,
then pumping fresh pain into him with each inward rush.

Eric’s eyes wandered drunkenly over the trough, confused by the merging
whiteness of his bloodless hands, the porcelain, the cuffs of his
jacket, down to his own cock. There was no sensation there except the
feeling that was everywhere in his body, the fullness radiating from his
ass — yet his cock was hard. He had no time to wonder. Nothing was real
but the thing that moved in his ass.

At last he managed to speak. “Please,” he whispered, “please — please —”
until the word became a chant in time with the rhythm of the Turk’s
pummeling hips. He was not begging the Turk to stop. He was begging for
him to go on forever.

This was what he had wanted. It was the Turk inside him. It was the
Turk’s huge cock pumping him full of sensation.

At some uncertain point, pleasure joined the pain and then replaced it.
Eric’s cock, untouched, began to throb with feeling as if the Turk were
stroking it from within, filling it to bursting, the Turk’s cock inside
his own. Eric looked down, shaken and dizzy from the constant pounding
against his ass. He was coming. Not in spurts — the white cream poured
in a steady flow from the tip of his cock into the trough below.

Still the Turk fucked him. Suddenly he grabbed Eric’s cheeks, one in
each hand, and stopped. The cock was buried inside, motionless. Then it
throbbed and jerked. The Turk released a low, growling moan. Eric felt
the cock shudder and empty itself inside him.

Time stopped, and did not start again until the Turk began the long,
slow withdrawal. Inch after inch pulled free. An endless glistening club
removed from his bowels. Then, with a belching sound, it was gone. Eric
was empty again.

He tried to catch his breath. He tried to stand, but when he stepped
away from the trough his back was too stiff to unbend. The bones in his
legs had disappeared. His legs could not support him. Eric sank
trembling to his hands and knees. He stared at the floor, orange-gray in
the light from the furnace.

He looked over his shoulder. The Turk was above him, hands on his hips,
breathing hard. His cock was still full and stiff. It stood straight out
from his groin, smooth and dark and impossibly huge. The Turk gave him a
smile without warmth.

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

Eric looked at the floor. “No.”

“Liar. Stand up.”

Eric rose to his feet, pulling his pants up to his waist, wanting to
cover himself. The pants were wet with piss. The Turk stepped forward
and wiped his cock on the bottom flap of Eric’s white jacket, smearing
it with brown mucus. “Which did you like best,” he said, “when I pissed
on you, or when I fucked you?”

Eric flushed and looked away.

The Turk nodded. “It doesn’t matter.” He pushed his cock inside his
trousers and closed them. Eric moaned involuntarily as the shaft
withdrew from sight. The Turk smiled. “Follow me.”

They went to a dim, small office. The Turk placed a smudged square of
yellow paper and a pencil before him on the desk. “What’s your name?”

“Eric.”

“Just Eric?”

“Eric Christie.”

“My name is Rezi. You are living in Istanbul?”

“Yes, at a hotel...”

“They have a telephone?”

“Yes.”

“Write it down.”

Eric shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t see you again like this.” Rezi
grabbed the back of Eric’s neck and pulled him to his toes. “I may want
to see you again.” He pressed Eric’s hand to his crotch. He was still
hard. Eric felt the stiffness through the cloth and the memory of it
filled his ass. “I may want to fuck you again.”

The Turk raised his hand to Eric’s face. He ran a finger, gray with
soot, over Eric’s lips. “Maybe I’ll use your mouth next time. You’d like
that, wouldn’t you?”

Eric closed his eyes and nodded.

“Alright then.” Rezi pushed him back to the desk. Eric wrote his name
and address. His hand shook so badly the script was barely legible.
While he wrote, the Turk stood behind him, pressing his fingers into the
crack of Eric’s ass.

Then the Turk sent him away.

On the deck of the ferry, Eric felt like a leper. His clothes were
rumpled and filthy, His face was smudged with dirt. His body was soaked
with sweat. There was a clamminess between his legs as if his thighs and
ass had been smeared with jelly. The stain of Rezi’s piss was dark down
the front of his pants.

He could not see Maple in this condition. He took the return ferry to
Istanbul. He kept his eyes on the water, knowing that others were
staring at him.

He wandered back to his hotel room. Hundreds of eyes followed him on the
street. He could not even walk normally. It felt as if there were still
something lodged inside his ass, huge and throbbing.

He called Maple and gave an excuse for being late. Something about an
accident on the way to the ferry. His own words sounded faltering and
false in his ears.

He showered, changed, took a later ferry to Scutari. Maple seemed
suspicious. Perhaps he was only concerned.

Back in the city, at the consulate, his superiors noticed his condition
and asked if he were sick. He told them he was not. There was a large
stack of paperwork on his desk. He shut himself in his office and lost
himself in the work. He did not leave until very late.

He returned to the hotel. There was a message for him at the front desk.
Call me tonight. Rezi.

2
Rezi Bakal lived in a ramshackle tenement building on a narrow
cobblestone street in the Stamboul district. It was there that Eric went
each night to be used and humiliated.

Knowing what Rezi did for a living, Eric was surprised by the size of
the apartment. There were two rooms and a private bath. The plaster
walls were unpainted and most of the furnishings were crude, but
scattered about the rooms were several expensive objects — a silver
cigarette lighter with obsidian inlays, an enormous bronze ashtray, a
chrome box with a few pieces of jewellery. There was also a telephone.

It was clear that Rezi accepted gifts for his favors. Eric never offered
them. Rezi never asked him for anything. Eric considered this a small
triumph in the midst of a great defeat.

Rezi was an engine, inexhaustible. Eric was the fuel. The sex would go
on for hours. Eric gave all he had. It was never enough. Rezi would use
him up. Drained completely, Eric would tear himself away, his jaw and
his ass unable to take more of Rezi’s cock. He would barely have enough
strength to return to the hotel. There he would fall into bed and sleep
until morning.

Sometimes he saw Rezi on the ferry. Rezi never took him down to the
boiler room again. On the ferry they were strangers. But after work,
Eric walked faithfully through the winding streets to the shabby
apartment and delivered his body for Rezi’s use.

Eric had always been aware of the beauty of his own body.

Locked into a life of abstinence, he had learned to find excitement in
his own flesh. There was something thrilling about the way Rezi treated
his body, as if it were a thing of ugliness, hairless and angular and
white. Eric’s cock was beneath his contempt. Rezi never touched it,
except to slap it after he had tied it painfully tight in loops of
oxhide that made the pinched flesh ache with bloated sensation. Nor
would he allow Eric to touch it. Even the act of rubbing it against the
bedsheets or the floor while Rezi fucked him was forbidden. When Eric
forgot, and his hips fell into a natural rhythm, Rezi stopped him with a
blow to the side of his head. Any reminder of its existence offended
him. It was pale, small, an insult to Rezi’s own perfect beam of dark
muscle.

When he was with Rezi, all Eric’s sensations were diverted — to his ass
and mouth, vessels for Rezi’s cock, to his nipples, which Rezi used to
teach him how simply pain could be inflicted, to his balls, on which
Rezi vented his special hatred.

It was unlikely that their seepings would ever create a child, but Rezi
hated them as if they carried the seed of the West, the fountainhead of
all the s of European blood that would poison the earth for centuries
to come. Tied with oxhide, the sack was reduced to a hard red knob,
small enough to fit in the palm of Rezi’s huge hand. His calloused
fingers closed like a five-pronged vise, five other fingers in Eric’s
mouth to gag his screams. More than once he thought that Rezi had
ruptured him at last.

Then the orgies began.

They were conceived on the night of the phone call to Ahmed, a friend of
Rezi’s who worked as a security guard at an American hotel. Eric had
just finished a long, painful evacuation in the toilet. He had not been
clean for Rezi’s cock.

The relentless pounding had compacted the waste inside him into a hard,
burning mass. It came out like lumps of caustic clay. The semen Rezi had
pumped inside him came out as well. It floated in long opalescent
ribbons, dispersed, and clouded the dark water.

Eric emerged from the toilet with trembling legs. There was a dull fire
like a rope burn in his bowels. Rezi sat in his chair. His red robe was
thrown open to show his chest, so massively muscled that the definition
showed clearly through the wiry black hair. His cock was heavy and
bloated after the long fuck. The sleek brown flesh was mottled with
mucus and oil.

The telephone was in Rezi’s hand. He looked up at Eric and continued to
speak into the phone. “Yes,” he was saying, “an American pig, with blond
hair and blue eyes. . . no cock to speak of, but his legs are always
open.”

Eric’s face grew hot. He lowered his eyes and stared at Rezi’s cock. The
drooping beam of muscle grew thicker before his eyes. Rezi’s virility
astounded him. Very soon the cock would be full, and Rezi would put it
inside him again.

“He’s in the room with me now,” Rezi said. He paused, listening.
“Naked,” he answered. “Sometimes I let him wear a strap of leather
around his little boy’s cock when he’s in my house. Otherwise I keep him
naked.”

He held the receiver away from his mouth and spoke to Eric, loudly
enough to be heard over the wire. “Come here, pig.”

Eric crossed the small room and knelt between Rezi’s legs. His eyes
stayed on the cock. The shaft, still pliant, bowed to gravity. It arched
downward and rested on the chair like a sunning serpent. Three veins ran
down the length. The cock jerked and hardened a bit; the veins meandered
beneath the flesh like rivers changing course.

Rezi laughed. “Go ahead, pig.” His voice was cloying and sweet. “Lick
it.”

Eric opened his mouth and bowed his head. He pressed his tongue against
the slick mass of flesh. Rezi purred with pleasure. “Yes, he does
whatever I tell him . . . of course. . . both — his mouth, his ass . .
.“ Rezi laughed. “When did you ever see it? Ah, that time we went naked
on the tourist beach. Those German bitches were scared out of their wits
when they saw it. I thought they would turn and run. But my little pig
isn’t afraid of it. He loves it . . . Of course it hurts him. You should
hear him squeal. But pigs like to be hurt.”

Eric tried not to hear. He stared at the base of Rezi’s shaft and licked
in broad strokes. He ached to touch himself. His cock had shriveled from
the pain of the evacuation; now it was hard again. He felt it as a
presence projected into the air, throbbing with fresh blood. He did not
dare touch it.

“What do you mean you don’t believe me? You want the pig to tell you
himself?”

Rezi pushed the receiver into Eric’s face. “Speak, pig.”

Eric stared up at him dumbly.

“Go ahead.” Rezi shook the phone.

Eric stared at the telephone, pretending not to understand what Rezi
wanted. He began to lick again. Rezi slapped him, the hard calloused
hand struck him across his ear and the side of his face.

“Tell Ahmed what you’re doing,” he whispered gruffly. He pressed the
receiver against Eric’s mouth and ear, numb where the hand had stung
him. Eric looked up at him, close to tears.

“Say it,” Rezi hissed. “Say you’re licking your man’s cock.”

Eric swallowed. He moved his lips soundlessly. The words finally began
with a stutter. He stopped and closed his eyes. The words rushed out.
“I’m licking my man’s cock.”

Ahmed’s breath was heavy over the phone. “What is your name?”

Eric’s heart pounded in his chest. Rezi’s cock rose to nudge his throat.
He prayed that Rezi would take the phone from him. Rezi only scowled and
told him to speak. “My name is Eric,” he whispered.

“Eric. A Nordic name. You’re blond, as Rezi says?”

“Yes.”

“And your breasts are smooth as a woman’s. Rezi says you have a woman’s
nipples; that they beg to be touched. He says you moan with pleasure
when he bites them. Is that true?”

“Yes. I suppose . . .”

Rezi jabbed a knee into Eric’s ribcage. “Effendi,” he whispered.
“Address him as your master.”

“Yes, effendi.” A trickle of sweat crept down Eric’s spine. His cock,
defined by the empty space around it, throbbed with illusory hugeness.

“How old are you?” Ahmed asked.

“Twenty-seven, effendi.”

The man’s breath grew ragged. ”And you’re naked on your knees, with your
face between his thighs?”

“Yes,” Eric flinched —”Yes, effendi.”

“I know his house. I know that chair. I can almost see the two of you.”
The disembodied voice seemed to stifle a moan. “And you’re licking him?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Let me hear it. Do it so that I can hear.”

Eric obeyed. He lapped at the flesh as loudly as he could, hoping Ahmed
would hear and be satisfied, and stop the interrogation. Rezi snarled
above him, mistaking his compliance for resistance. He slapped the other
side of Eric’s face.

Eric’s head reeled. Rezi was grinding the phone into his ear. He heard
Ahmed’s voice again.

“It’s big, isn’t it? It hangs like an arm between his thighs. I’ve never
seen it hard. It must be huge when he’s with you. When you’re like that,
naked on your knees.”

“Yes, effendi,” Eric whispered. “Rezi is huge.”

Rezi smiled above him. He pressed his cock, almost full now, against
Eric’s burning cheek.

“He says you let him put it in your ass.” Ahmed sounded skeptical.

“I do, effendi.” There was a long pause. Eric closed his eyes. Ahmed’s
breath was in his ear, heavy and metallic. The strong smell of Rezi’s
cock pressed like a mask against his face.

“Rezi, he’s a big man. He’s very proud of his cock. . . He fucks you
hard, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, effendi, very hard.” Rezi slapped him lightly with his cock.

“It must be very strange to have something so huge inside you. It must
hurt you, very badly.”

“Sometimes.. .“

A swollen vein in Eric’s ass was pulsing in time with his heart*beat. A
vein down the length of Rezi’s cock throbbed across his cheek. For an
instant the pulse in his ass and the pulse against his face were
together; then they fell out of rhythm. His heart was beating faster
than Rezi’s.

“But you like it. Rezi says you never refuse him No matter how many
times he takes you in a night. No matter how sore he makes you. So you
must like it.”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Rezi says that your ass is never empty. That it’s always full of his
come. He says he’s fucked you so much that you walk like a cowboy, with
your legs apart.”

Eric made no answer, lost in the image of himself walking home after a
night with Rezi, cramped and bowlegged, the mouth of his ass streaming
fluids.

“He says he just finished fucking you, before he called.”

“Yes, effendi.”

“And now you lick it.”

Eric gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

Ahmed gasped quietly. His voice returned at a strange pitch, amazed and
excited.

“A moment ago, there was a sound, like a crack. He slapped you across
the face, didn’t he? With his strong right arm. You know, during the
earthquake last year, I saw him hold up a wall, alone. His arms were
like steel. And he struck you.”

“Yes effendi.”

“Do you like that, when Rezi slaps you? The way you like it when he
fucks you?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“You’re a whore, do you know that?” Ahmed’s voice was suddenly cold. “A
blond American whore. You’re just what Rezi calls you. A pig.” Eric did
not answer. “Let me talk to him now.”

Eric pulled his face away from the receiver. “He’s through with me.”

Rezi lifted the phone to his ear and sat back. Then he slapped Eric
across the mouth, so hard he was knocked to the floor. Eric crouched on
the carpet, unmoving, while Rezi talked and laughed and stroked his
cock. The shaft was hard as oak now.

“You believe, huh?” Rezi smirked. “Of course you can use him sometime.
That’s why I called you.” A fresh rivulet of sweat worked its way down
Eric’s spine. He felt Rezi’s hand on his scalp, and jerked. But Rezi
only ran his fingers through his hair, almost affectionately. “When a
man finds a pig like this one, he should share with his friends, don’t
you think? Exactly, the way you share those steaks you steal from the
hotel kitchen!”

Rezi laughed loudly. He talked on for a while; Eric did not listen.
Finally Rezi said good-bye and hung up.

Rezi licked his lips. He held his cock at the base and waved it. He
smiled, showing the gap between his front teeth.

Eric crawled to him and licked his left foot. He moved his mouth over
the hard, veined flesh of Rezi’s calf, over the knee and up the wide
bridge of muscle that let to Rezi’s balls. Eric warmed the sack in his
mouth. Rezi liked to have his balls sucked, first one at a time, then
both together. He liked the sight of Eric’s face appended to the flesh
between his legs, cheeks puffed out with his testicles, holding in his
mouth the sack of fluid that would soon be emptied into his ass or his
belly. Eric pressed gently with his tongue and lips and the slick inner
surface of his cheeks, praying he would not scrape the tender flesh with
his back teeth. Rezi paid back pain a hundredfold.

Eric pulled back and let the sack slip from his mouth. It pressed hairy
and wet against his chin, then against his throat as he ran his tongue
up the broad, curved underbelly of Rezi’s cock. At the tip he pulled
away, longing to touch it but knowing he should wait. Soon enough it
would be in him, more than he could bear. He dropped his jaw and opened
his mouth as wide as he could. Rezi’s hand closed like a vise around the
back of his neck. Eric closed his eyes and caught a last breath.

Suddenly, violently, Rezi pulled Eric into his crotch, impaling his face
on the cock. The shaft met a sheath of resistance, like a sphincter; but
Rezi continued to force Eric’s throat onto his cock, inch by inch, until
the entire shaft was buried in hot, convulsing flesh. Eric’s body
twisted, heaved and submitted.

Rezi did not choose to come for a long time. There were other calls to
make. The next night, Eric met Ahmed. During the next week, he was
introduced and offered to all three of the men Rezi called that night.

None of them projected the full range of Rezi’s power; none were as big
between the legs. But they were alike enough to have been his brothers,
dark, broad-shouldered men in their thirties with thick mustaches and
smouldering eyes. They had the hard, hairy bodies of working class
Turks. Their laughter was sharp and coarse, like the barking of dogs.

Eric met them, and was taken by them, one at a time, then by all
together. The uses to which they put him, alone or together, but always
under Rezi’s amused eye, passed through many stages over the next weeks.

On the game nights, all three came to Rezi’s house.

Eric did not know the game they played. He never saw them play. The four
men sat at Rezi’s table, shuffling cards, drinking cup after cup of
black Anatolian coffee, smoking hashish and tobacco. They stripped off
their khakis and workshirts and changed into long robes tied loosely at
the waist, dressing as Rezi dressed at home. Eric would be naked,
crouching on his hands and knees beneath the table.

As they played above him, telling grim, lewd jokes and exchanging crude
insults, Eric moved from man to man. One of them would open his robe,
part his legs and reach beneath the table to wave his cock. Eric would
crawl to the offered sex, press his face between the man’s thighs and
nurse at the cock. The men soon learned how to indicate, with gentle
pressure or a pinch, what they wanted him to do — to lick the inside of
their thighs, to hold their balls in his mouth, to bow low and kiss
their feet.

Sometimes, the man he served — never Rezi, of course — would hook his
foot under Eric’s crotch, encouraging him to hold onto the man’s thigh
and rub himself against the man’s leg while he sucked. Or, while he
knelt to kiss and lick one of the men’s feet, the man behind, feeling
Eric’s ass against his knees, would reach down to push a finger into his
hole, or reach deeper to grab his cock and pry it backward like a lever,
squeezing and pulling, then releasing it to hear the sharp slap it made
against Eric’s belly, over and over. Eric’s cock was always hard for
them to play with. Bound by Rezi’s strap, untended by his own hand, it
stayed hard and aching for hours beneath the table.

When a man was finished with him, he would shove Eric’s face from his
crotch and push him on to the next man. Every fourth cock was Rezi’s.
Rezi did not like him to suck ggressively. He preferred for Eric to lick
his cock, to let it slide wet with spit over his cheeks and eyes — to
love the cock with his face, as Rezi said — then to swallow it down his
throat and hold it there as long as he could.

Sometimes, Rezi’s cock would suddenly soften in his throat. The tube
along the underbelly would fill and press down on Eric’s tongue. The men
drank coffee all through the game. Rezi pissed often.

Eric learned to swallow without pulling back to clear his throat. He
pressed his lips into the wiry hair of Rezi’s groin, and Rezi was a soft
pipe in his throat, emptying piss into his belly. Only after the cock
slid from his throat did the taste, sharp and bitter, rise in the back
of Eric’s mouth. At those times it was hard to keep from touching
himself.

The other men soon noticed that Rezi never left the table to relieve
himself.

Nothing was said, but one by one they began to make the same secret use
of him. Eric was not allowed to crawl from beneath the table until the
game was over.

Only once was a game interrupted and left unfinished. Eric had been
serving Ahmed. More than the others, Ahmed allowed him some freedom to
suck as he wished. Ahmed was the largest of the group, except for Rezi.

That night Eric was fucking his throat on Ahmed’s cock, slowly, then
faster and faster, feeling the shaft expand and watching Ahmed’s flat
belly, hard as steel, bulge and contract with growing excitement. Eric
ran his hands over his own belly, pressing his fingers into the puffy
skin around the cord that tied off his genitals, making his shaft beat
time in the air.

Ahmed reached under the table and pressed his hand against Eric’s
forehead, signalling him to stop the sucking. Ahmed gasped. His hand
withdrew, trembling. Eric tightened his lips around Ahmed’s shaft and
pushed his face all the way to the man’s belly. The cock throbbed. Ahmed
was going to come in his mouth. Eric moaned and began to swallow.

Ahmed had not been ready to come. He pushed himself away from the table,
jerking his cock out of Eric’s throat. His semen shot into Eric’s face
and hair. Ahmed snarled and held his cock at the base as if Eric had
wounded him there. He cursed loudly and slapped Eric’s face, spattering
the come that dripped from his forehead and cheeks.

Rezi was furious. He pulled Eric upright by his hair, causing him to
scrape his back against the hard edge of the table. He threw him belly
down across the tabletop. The others held him down while Rezi left the
room. He returned with a thin leather belt.

Rezi struck him across his ass and thighs, then across his shoulders.
Eric began to scream. One of the men stuffed his mouth with a sock. When
he was through, Rezi passed the belt to Ahmed, who still pouted darkly.
The game was forgotten.

They took him on the table that night. Ahmed, so angered by his
premature ejaculation, grew hard again before he passed the belt to the
next man. After they had each taken a turn at welting his backside,
Ahmed was the first to fuck him.

On all the other nights, Rezi was first. After they finished a game,
they moved into the bedroom. Rezi removed his robe and the others
watched while Eric served him. Rezi showed them how an American pig
could be made to swallow his cock whole, how pulling on Eric’s nipples
made him suck more eagerly. “It’s like a machine,” he explained. “The
harder I pull on her tits...the harder she sucks. The deeper I press my
fingernails into her nipples...the deeper she takes me down her throat.”
He showed them how he could drive his cock all the way to the balls in
Eric’s ass with a single thrust.

After Rezi, the other men took their turns. Sometimes, while Ahmed used
his mouth, the other two men would work their smaller cocks together
into his ass. After Rezi, there was room inside him for two.

Eric would be in torment while they used him. Their cocks pressed
against his bladder, swollen with the piss they had put inside him. He
ached to relieve himself. But if he released the flood on Rezi’s bed,
the punishment would be terrible. If he could relax, he might enjoy the
bursting pressure in his ass; but he had to hold himself tense. Every
new thrust battered at his control.

Sometimes he could not help himself. His body would revolt, and even as
he fought to hold it in, jets of urine would fly from his cock in
spasms, as if he were ejaculating. This amused the men, especially
Ahmed, who liked to torture him by kneading Eric’s swollen belly with
his knuckles while he used his ass.

“Come for me, pig,” Ahmed would whisper in his ear; a jet of piss would
squirt from Eric’s cock. Ahmed would laugh and fuck him harder.

Rezi liked to watch. He sat in his chair, lazily drawing on a cigarette
and stroking his hard cock. He moved his lips obscenely when Eric looked
to him for relief. Eventually the others left. Then Rezi would be ready
to take him again.

He would lead Eric, crawling because he was too weak to walk, into the
tiny bathroom. There, Rezi sat on the edge of the rust-streaked tub with
his feet inside. Eric climbed into the tub and sat on Rezi’s waiting
cock. Rezi filled his guts and left no room for the piss in his bladder.
When the impalement was complete, the piss began to flow. Rezi held
Eric’s cock, still stiff, and aimed the uncontrolled rush of urine over
Eric’s belly and chest.

Sometimes the flow was so forceful that it splashed onto his neck and
chin; and Rezi would point the pissing cock straight up and force Eric’s
face down so that the jet shot into his open mouth. Eric relaxed inside
at last, and Rezi was there, huge inside him. Then he felt a pleasure so
exquisite it was worth all the agony that came before.

After Rezi came, perhaps for the fourth time that night, Eric would
finally be allowed to touch himself. Rezi sat in his chair, tired and
glowing. Eric took his place on the floor. He drew the big cock, soft
and satisfied at last, into his mouth. He masturbated while Rezi watched
and cooed obscenities.

Often, he was too exhausted to come. He pumped his cock until his body
was glazed with sweat and his hair hung in tendrils. He stroked himself
frantically, futilely, faster and faster, unable to respond. At a
certain point — Eric came to dread the moment — his cock simply became
numb. The harder he stroked, the softer he became, until his cock
flailed limp and useless in his fist. Even as his efforts to pleasure
himself ended in anticlimax, Rezi’s cock would be stirring again in his
mouth. Then Eric would long for Rezi to use his big cock — to fuck his
throat again, or piss in his mouth — to slap his face or twist his
nipples. He needed a last, desperate burst of excitement to make his own
cock rise.

But Rezi would simply grow bored and push Eric away. He would laugh at
Eric’s soft cock, and send him home.

It was hard to sleep on the nights they used him. Eric tossed and turned
in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position for his battered body.
The inner passages of his ass, bruised by their cocks, throbbed in time
with his heart. The rough muslin sheets were like razors on his nipples.
A welter of strange tastes filled his mouth. His balls, full and heavy,
ached as if they would burst. His cock was limp, as it would remain
until the next time he stood naked before Rezi, waiting for Rezi’s hands
or Rezi’s cock to make use of him. Rezi had enslaved him. And Rezi had
unsexed him.

3
He was a fool to think that his deterioration would be invisible to the
others at the Agency. His concentration grew weak. He seldom spoke
except when necessary. He forced himself through each day, fighting a
greater and greater aculation of fatigue. His work suffered. These
things did not go unnoticed.

His immediate superior, a thin gray agent named Landers, suggested he
visit one of the doctors at the consulate. Eric procrastinated, knowing
he would have to explain the marks, faded and fresh, on his body.

Landers was an old hand at the Agency. Considering his age and his years
of service in Turkey, his position should have been much higher. Time
had borne out Eric’s first estimation of the man. Landers was an
unimpeachable mediocrity. He was the kind of agent who stabilizes early
on in a position of low authority — valuable for his loyalty and his
slow aculation of knowledge in a very narrow field. But he was
ultimately unimaginative, more ambitious than capable, and, aware
through painful experience of his limitations, jealous of younger,
brighter men. This jealousy he masked as curiosity and mock-parental
concern.

Landers liked to play the mentor; this gave him the opportunity to
exhibit his superior rank, to render advice, to pry. He spoke in a dry,
cynical Midwestern drawl that seemed to lace even the most innocent
comment with multiple insinuations.

As his obsession with Rezi grew more extreme and its consequences more
visible, Eric began to fear Landers. There were numerous small signs
that Landers suspected something. These might have been coincidental, as
meaningless in fact as they appeared on the surface. Perhaps the
frightful connections Eric saw were illusions created by his own
anxiety.

Landers asked how he spent his free time. Was Topkapi up to his
expectations — or had he been too preoccupied with the Turkish women to
play tourist? Landers warned him about venereal disease, cautioned him
about religious improprieties and the drug market. The consulate would
rescue him from any embarrassing situation, of course (for its own
sake), but it was always preferable to avoid an incident altogether. And
once, entirely out of character, Landers made a reference to the famous
oil-wrestling matches at Kirkpinar (“faggots fly all the way from the
States to see it”), followed by an obscene joke about homosexual
tourists hunting for Turkish cock at the Gardens of the Sultan Ahmel
Mosque.

Eric did not even try to hide his agitation. Rezi had stripped him of
every shell. He could pretend nothing. He moved through life naked now,
and was frequently amazed that his exposure was not obvious to everyone;
they behaved as if everything were normal, as if nothing about him had
changed. It was like walking stark naked into a crowded room,
unremarked.

But a man like Landers could smell a younger man’s vulnerability. Did he
notice the faint bruises on Eric’s cheekbone and neck, the small cut on
his lower lip? Could he tell, from Eric’s awkward gait and the slight
wince when he sat, that Rezi’s cock had been in him only a few hours
before?

Perversely, Eric began to find excitement in his own paranoia. When
Landers seemed to drop an innuendo (or as Eric imagined, to subtly
interrogate him), Eric felt himself grow loose and submissive between
his legs. He thought of Rezi, of Rezi’s cock. He allowed his thoughts to
show upon his face. He fantasized that Rezi would enter the room at that
moment, would strip and abuse him, and Eric would not resist. Landers
the gray scarecrow would grow fat with smugness — order the clerks and
agents into the room to witness the incident — order cameras to record
what could not be spoken — suspicions confirmed. They would all see him
for what he was, whimpering and groveling as Rezi slapped his face,
fucked his mouth, called him an American pig — If Landers read these
fantasies in Eric’s face, his own face was too stony and bloodless to
show it. Later, Eric would see that this fantasy had been a prophecy;
and he would spend much time considering the role he played in his own
destruction.

Then, for a short time at least, Eric had to put a stop to the nights
with Rezi.

At last, the long-expected coup was about to begin. The Soviets were
massing in the Black Sea, American naval units intensifying
reconnaissance in the Aegean.

There was a new tension in the streets — overnight, a doubling of armed
troops, chaotic interruptions in rail service, reports of bombings,
confusion, excitement. Intelligence from Ankara was sporadic. Eric
worked long hours at the consulate, far into the night. His trips to
Scutari ceased; information was being exchanged through higher channels
now.

For the first time he became genuinely interested in his work, caught up
in the manic flurry. There was simply no time for Rezi. Surprised, Eric
found himself working for long hours at a stretch without thinking of
him. At night, he left the consulate, ate at the hotel or cafe across
the street, showered in his room and went to bed. At first, there were
messages from Rezi every night. It was difficult to answer the calls, to
tell him he could not come. Rezi did not demand or taunt; he would
simply hang up.

Eric knew that Rezi was displeased; and in the taciturn way he accepted
the refusals, in the way he continued to call, Eric thought he sensed
disappointment as well. This gave him a curious feeling of power, as he
realized their affair was not as one-sided as he had imagined, or
fantasized. It was strangely disillusioning to discover that Rezi
desired him, just as he desired Rezi — and that he could say no, and
still be desired. But it also gave him a glimmer of all that Rezi had
stripped away from him, and a faltering first step out of the maze of
frenzied self-abasement in which he had lost himself since that first
day on the ferry.

Each day, while a government crumbled about him and the consulate spun
in a whirl of anxiety, Eric felt stronger, calmer. There was a sudden
but subtle change, and Rezi began to recede. Not thoughts of Rezi —
because Eric thought of him every night as he masturbated before going
to sleep. It was his craving for Rezi in the flesh, to be with him, to
feel Rezi’s cock inside him that suddenly slackened. As long as he was
occupied with useful work — as his own identity and history came back
into focus — it began to seem that Rezi had been a fantasy that had
somehow ripped through the safe fabric of his reality, had taken center
stage, had now begun to fade into fantasy again. It was almost as if the
memory of Rezi, and the truths he revealed, was enough. This saddened
Eric; but it gave him a sense of peace as well, a calmness after the
madness of the storm.

He had passed through fire, and he had survived after all.

But all this was premature. As the days dragged on, the constant tension
began to wear on him. Slowly, with a sensation of quiet horror, Eric
knew he had taken only a short respite from his need for Rezi. The
moment came when he knew that the memories would not be enough.

He still said no when Rezi called, but now he tried to keep him on the
line, said the words he knew would invite Rezi to taunt him. Rezi sensed
the change in balance and reclaimed the advantage. He might have begun
to doubt, but now he knew for certain: Eric was his. He grew abusive
when Eric continued to hesitate, called him pig, reminded him of the
same nights, of the piss he loved to drink; told him his cock was hard
and ready for Eric’s throat, slapped it against his thigh so Eric could
hear. Eric resisted more feebly now. Almost in unconscious anticipation,
he began to hoard his regained energy, still masturbating every night
but never coming, falling asleep with his erection in hand and thoughts
of Rézi in his head.

Then he saw Rezi on the ferry again.

The countryside was still in chaos, but events in Istanbul had cooled as
quickly as they had erupted. There was an important packet from Maple in
Scutari, and no one else to spare. Landers sent him on the evening
ferry. He was instructed to pick up the packet and return to his hotel,
to sleep beside the doents and bring them to the consulate in the
morning.

As soon as he stepped onto the ferry, he knew he would see Rezi. It was
a premonition as exact as his instructions for the day. On the return
trip, Rezi stood alone at the stern, taking his cigarette break.

The sun was low, sinking below the water to the west. Its orange rays
lit Rezi with a strange, lurid light, like the glow of the furnace
below. He had removed his shirt. The sweaty muscles gleamed in the harsh
twilight, massive and smooth.

The mat of dark, wiry hair between his pectorals was lit from the side,
tipped with liquid fire. He glanced up, saw Eric. They said nothing,
kept their distance. Rezi smoked his cigarette, staring. He finished it,
tossed it over the rail, approached the stairwell into the hold. He
continued to stare as he came nearer. As he passed by, Eric lowered his
eyes and shivered.

Rezi paused for a moment. His voice was almost a whisper, low and harsh.
“Tonight. I’ll have you tonight. Do you understand?”

Eric kept his eyes lowered. He found himself staring at Rezi’s crotch.
The cock was stiff as a pipe, the shaft and head defined against the
damp khaki.

“Rezi. No. . . “

Rezi moved his hand to his cock, slowly stroked it through the cloth.
“Yes. Tonight I’m going to put it in you again. I’m going to fuck you
with it all night long.” Eric stifled a moan. “And I’m going to beat
you. Do you understand? With my belt. You’ve made me wait, little pig.
You’ve made me wait too long. You’ll come to me tonight, and you’ll be
punished.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

Eric, staring at the cock, could not see Rezi’s face. He felt, rather
than saw, his smile. “Come before curfew, before midnight. You can leave
in the morning, before dawn.”

The decision was made. Eric thought no more about it. He hurried to the
hotel and climbed into bed. He would be able to catch a few hours of
sleep before the long walk to Stamboul.

When the desk clerk called to wake him, he quickly dressed. He had
almost forgotten the packet Maple had given him. He considered bringing
it with him, decided against it. The valise would be conspicuous at this
hour; if he were stopped by the military for any reason, or if he ran
into violence . . . Nor could he safely leave it with the desk clerk.

He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to midnight. There was no time to
think it through. He slid the valise beneath the mattress of his bed,
checked to see that no lumps were visible; it would have to do.

That night, Rezi kept his promise. The punishment was severe. The
beating he received, from Rezi’s belt, from his open palm and clenched
fists, was unlike anything Rezi had done to him before. It was a true
beating, relentless from midnight until early dawn.

Rezi stripped him as soon as he entered the apartment, tied his hands
behind his back and gagged him. There was reason for the gag, for Rezi
made him scream that night — as he also made him moan, whimper, weep.
Eric’s newfound feelings of independence and change vanished. He was an
object, to be punched, slapped, penetrated. Not a man, not even what
Rezi called him, a pig, but an object sculpted of flesh and pierced by
twin openings, as ass for Rezi’s pleasure, a mouth for Rezi’s relief.
All the rest was ornamentation, for Rezi to enjoy and decorate — nipples
to be mounted with clothespins, a cock to be bound and slapped, a belly
for Rezi to pummel with his fists. Rezi marked his ass and belly and
chest with red welts, and laughed to make him wrench in pain.

Rezi was more brutal that night than he had ever been. To Eric it seemed
that Rezi was reclaiming him, and he submitted himself totally. Only
later did he realize that Rezi’s fury was a summing up, a final,
frenzied farewell to what had been between them.

When it was over, he walked back to the hotel through the narrow,
dawnlit streets, shivering from the chill. The morning was surprisingly
peaceful; he did not pass a single soldier. If he hurried, he would
barely have time for an hour’s sleep before the day began.

He entered the hotel, took the lift to his floor. The room seemed
somehow different; he was too tired to imagine why. He stripped off his
clothes, hesitated for a moment as he passed the mirror and silently
gasped at the markings on his body, then threw himself on the bed.

He realized suddenly what was wrong. He scrambled off the bed and
frantically reached beneath the mattress.

The valise was gone.

4
The next 72 hours were the longest of his life. Worst was the waiting:
Waiting to gather the courage to go to the consulate, to be asked about
the valise; waiting, after they sealed him in a bare white room with a
toilet and a cot, for the questioning to begin.

He determined that he would volunteer nothing, answer every question in
the simplest terms. He would try to escape the worst; but his
interrogators seemed to know what direction to take from the very
beginning. They were the first to mention the name Rezi Akal, and when
they did, Eric felt a prickling heat over his entire body and knew he
was trapped.

His interrogators were faceless, unemotional, and completely
professional. They made no attempt to deride or humiliate him. Their
coldness told him they considered that his confession — that what he was
— was humiliation enough.

They wanted every detail. They made him strip, photographed the marks on
his body, demanded the origin of each mark. They recorded his faltering
confession, played it back for him to hear, made him repeat and expand
upon each detail.

When it was over, they seemed grimly satisfied. There was nothing he had
not told them. It was Landers who came to release him from the white
room. Eric had been sleeping on the cot in the corner, fully dressed,
when Landers shook him awake from a sea of lost dreams. Saying nothing,
Landers pointed to the wash basin.

Eric rose, splashed water on his face. Landers offered him coffee in a
paper cup. “You’re free to go now,” Landers said. His gray face revealed
nothing.

“What?”

“To return to your hotel. We’re not keeping you here any longer.”

Eric stared at the coarse grains floating on the surface of the coffee,
confused. “I thought —”

“You’re not under arrest, Christie. The intelligence you lost was of no
concern to the military, or you’d already be in their hands. This affair
will remain in-house. The consul prefers it that way. He’s conferred
with me; we’ve gone over the transcript of your interrogation. There is
no reason to suspect you of treason. You’ve been criminally negligent,
but as to your crime, that’s to be decided higher up. You’ll return to
your hotel now, and remain there. A car will arrive for you tomorrow at
noon. You’ll be flown back to Washington. They’ll take it from there.”

“Then — you want me to leave the consulate.” Eric was still confused.

“Yes. Through the kitchen and service entrance. No need to go through
the offices. Your desk has already been cleared. We’d rather you left as
inconspicuously as possible.”

Back in his hotel room, dazed, moving like an automaton, Eric paced the
floor.

He had no sense of time. Later, it was impossible for him to remember
his thoughts. Nothing was clear, really, until he threw himself on the
bed, hoping at last to sink into an unconscious retreat. There was a
lump beneath the mattress. He thought of the valise, but what he found
was a pistol with a single bullet in the chamber.

He knew who had left it, and how they intended him to use it.

They preferred that it happen here, away from the consulate. It would be
so much easier, so much cleaner for all concerned.

Throughout the afternoon and into the night he lay on the bed, the gun
nestled on the pillow beside him, pointing so that he could stare into
the dark cylinder of the barrel.

He finally slept for a time. When he awoke, in the last darkness before
dawn, he had made his decision. It would rectify everything, he thought.
It was the only possible outcome —and realizing what he was thinking, he
wondered if he was insane.

He would use the gun. But not as the Agency had intended.

He has remembered what happened next, replayed it in his head a thousand
times, It is like a dream that will turn out satisfactorily, if only he
dreams it often enough. But the outcome is always the same. The only
possible outcome. The worst possible outcome.

He is in the hotel room in Istanbul, lying on the bed beside the loaded
pistol. He rises from the bed, takes off his rumpled clothing, showers
and shaves, puts on a freshly pressed suit. He picks up the pistol.
Spreading his feet, raising the gun with both hands, he takes aim at the
mirror. The image satisfies him, makes him feel secure. He slips the
pistol beneath his belt. His buttoned coat is adequate concealment.

He leaves the hotel without incident. They are probably not even
watching; they think he is dead by now, or patiently awaiting the car to
take him to the airport. He takes a taxi to the quayside, wanting to be
sure he catches the first morning ferry. Rezi will be on it. Eric knows
his schedule by now.

What will happen afterward? For a moment, on the crowded deck, Eric
falters. Is he only compounding the disaster? Does Rezi really deserve
to die?

Yes, to both questions. Let the disaster run its course. Let Rezi
suffer, for once. It was Rezi who betrayed him. The timing was too be
perfect to be explained as coincidence. Eric does not for an instant
believe that Rezi himself is an agent. No, someone has simply used him,
someone who knew who Eric was, who knew the power Rezi had over him.
They probably paid him to do it — to make sure Eric was out of his room
that night. He was only an object to Rezi after all, a valuable toy to
be bartered for money.

Eric scans the deck, still not sure that he hasn’t been followed. When
he is certain no one is watching, he quickly descends into the hold. He
remembers the airless corridor, the booming metal, the first time. Red
heat rushes over his face, matching the coldness inside him. He enters
the boiler room. Through a maze of pipes, furry with oil and soot, he
sees Rezi, bent half-naked to feed the furnace. Perhaps, he thinks, he
can do it without detection. The sound of the engine might cover the
shot . . .

Rezi sees him now. He frowns. Eric reads the confusion on his face. Rezi
never expected to see him again. Yes, Rezi knew.

Rezi stands, then draws closer, still frowning. The shovel is in his
hands.

Before he can speak, Eric pulls the gun from his belt. This is the
moment Eric has been waiting for — the shock on Rezi’s face, the greater
shock to come when the bullet penetrates his forehead.

But Rezi only smiles, that smarmy, conceited smile Eric has come to know
so well, showing the gap between his front teeth. He draws closer, his
shoulders back and chest expanding as he begins to laugh. Eric is
paralyzed. Like an insect pinned to velvet, all his limbs are useless.
He tries to squeeze the trigger, but the only result is the strange,
embarrassing, half-stifled noise that issues from his throat. He would
like to silence Rezi’s laughter, now, forever. To drown it with a single
blast from the pistol. But Rezi is too perfect to be destroyed.

He remembers a hard, black shape erupting against the left side of his
head — the shovel, swung by Rezi’s strong arms. Eric is knocked to his
knees, the gun flies from his grasp. Rezi is over him, no longer
laughing, angry now. Eric sees the gun,, reaches for it — but Rezi’s
boot is on his hand, crushing the fingers, making him howl with pain.
Then Rezi is over him, smiling again as he points the gun at Eric’s
temple.

“Do you want it? Eh?” Rezi runs the barrel over Eric’s face. He slaps
him, and when Eric opens his mouth to cry out, Rezi thrusts the barrel
inside. Then, somehow — Eric cannot remember how, because he could not
understand it at the time — Eric is on his knees, his pants ripped
apart, his wrists held behind his back, the barrel in his mouth and
Rezi’s cock in his ass.

“You want it, don’t you?” Rezi is saying. “This is what you want!”

Perhaps Rezi intends to kill him; probably not. He will never know, for
at that moment Rezi freezes inside him as both of them realize that
someone else has entered the boiler room.

Eric turns his face, and from the corner of his eye sees that Rezi is
turning his face as well, in perfect synchronicity. Landers stands
framed in the doorway, his face lit by the orange glow.

Then Rezi begins to laugh again, a conspirator’s laugh, and he starts
fucking again, much harder. Eric looks at Lander’s gaunt face, expecting
condemnation, shock, disgust — and sees only a thin gray smile.

He will never know for certain, but he is sure it was Landers who set
him up.

Landers found out about Rezi, contacted him, bribed him; arranged for
Maple to dispatch a bogus packet, set the date for Eric’s ruin. That is
why his punishment — a reprimand and expulsion — was so mild: The packet
he lost was only a decoy, part of a test set up by Landers. Eric failed
that test, more spectacularly than even Landers could have hoped.

Istanbul is a scar on his life. In three years it has scarcely healed.
He keeps the wounds fresh by remembering. He would like to return there.
Perhaps, after three years . . . but the State Department will not allow
it. Instead, he lives in another city surrounded by sea, and searches
for men who can remind him of Rezi.

He imagines himself a slave, bound by chains of memory, as faithful as
fate will allow to the master who betrayed him. He wonders sometimes if
Rezi, too, remembers and regrets. But if Rezi is everything Eric
thought, he has long since forgotten.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!

 

[TEres321]

i really enjoyed this story. I liked the pig stuff.....