Gay Erotic Stories

In A Turkish Sauna Siktici Copyright 2003 "Have another drink, my friend," one man says with a smile and shiny eyes. Cat's eyes shining mystery, mystery holding the question of whether my mouth will be stuffed with hot Mediterranean dick to the point of an achingly over-extended jaw, and whether I will be ass fucked into throbbing pain. Turkish men, lots of them, in hairy, olive masculinity, their eyes gleaming eagerness at invading my pink and squishy asshole, the tight opening leading to a warm, wet heaven. We do the dance of lust: I demure, murmur confusion, struggle with the heat of my undoing. I push away my huge hairy suitors growing in number around me. The heat in their hands as they touch my fair flesh, knead my muscles into goo, stretch out the kinks in my resolve, and pull at my innocence. These behemoths whisper their intentions, dare me to discard my gentility and encourage me to rage in lust. My ear is wet from their kisses and murmurs, my skin riots in desire at their touches, and my reason flees. I take these hot men: big men, their musk filling my nostrils, their cocks leaking man juice. I suck them; they fuck me; my body becomes their fertile soil. I am shaped and molded to their wills. I want to be molded--furrowed and tilled. I was made to be used, abused if it's their wish. Bushy mustaches and beards, swinging cocks, hairy balls, fuzzy legs; dark eyes, sly smiles; acres of hairy, sweaty flesh look down at me. I want their massive cocks in my mouth and up my hole. They oblige. I want to be fucked like a man because I can take it like a man. They push gut-splitting cocks into me with brutal force, without regret. I want to be disciplined when I disobey and to be humiliated when I feign disgust. I want to be told what to do, want to be pushed beyond my limit, want to be shown the place in my mind that I refuse to see. And, I want to look up to see the seed-rain burn my face, burn my soul. I want to be branded, mark for their exclusive use and marked as their grateful soil. Then the cries echo of release, echo the ancient sweating walls, muscles strain, and balls crawl into their glistening bodies until seed-rain saturates my soil. And I love it. I want to— "My Friend?"— lie here— "Shhhhh"— and feel the rain— "Efendum!"— forever.

A sprinkle of water land on my burning lips, as a thick hand pats my face. Cold rain steams my soil.

"Here, you must have another drink." Hands are soothing my brow; the world comes into focus; and, a few bushy smiles under shiny eyes stare down at me. I try to rise.

"No, no, you must be still."

I blink. My face forms a question.

"You are in there too long, my friend."

He points to a curtained entrance. The coolness of the room is now clear. The gentle hands and caring words come from a handsome man with a taught and slim body, his muscles rise and fall like the earth in motion, deep grooves curved by life, episodes etched from many years of work in ancient steam. He sits next to me and replaces the damp cloth on my forehead with colder saturation. I smile at him; he pats my shoulder, as I hear a sigh of relief pass his lips. He says something in Turkish to the other taught-bodied men, all ranging in age from that of my brother to that of my grandfather, and they all laugh and return to the ancient sweating walls. If you liked this story, and have ideas for other stories you want me to write, email me at siktici@sbcglobal.net

Siktici