Over the Barrel

Although right to be proud, Tony wasn't a champion in either the length or girth department, so I managed to go down on him to the hilt and rise to the rim of his bulb and go down on him again in rapid succession in a reverse cowboy, which he seemed to appreciate a lot. My revolve move had him moaning. He was flat on his back on his bed in his balcony cabin, holding my waist between his hands, his legs bent, feet flat on the sheets, while, facing his feet, I gripped his knees with my hands and pumped my channel on his hard cock.

He was well into his forties, but he owned a string of gyms in Florida, he told me, and obviously made use of them himself. He was no looker, but it was nearly dark in the cabin, so looks didn't mean half as much as good musculature, vigor, a strong backswing, and a plump, hard cock did. All of these were something Tony had in sufficient quantities to provide satisfaction.

Predawn light was coming through the glass wall to the balcony as the ship glided along the Turkish coast en route to Kusadasi, the port close to the ancient ruins of Ephesus. This provided enough atmosphere to make servicing Tony interesting. He had also panned out to be well heeled. There wasn't just this seventh-level balcony cabin all to himself but there also were the two fifties laying on his nightstand that were mine for coming to his cabin and riding his cock.

We had met the previous afternoon in the ship's gym, where we both were working out. I had to keep myself in shape to keep my lacrosse scholarship to Boston College in my coming, senior year—I was on my family-paid Junior summer trip, a cruise around the eastern Mediterranean. I surmise that Tony was shopping for someone like me—a willing, hungry bottom who could use a little extra cash. We struck up a conversation and wound up spotting each other on the equipment. That's when he told me he owned gyms—after I complimented him on his cut body (I didn't add "for his age"), which is after he'd commented on mine. I didn't think much of it at the time, although I was hooking up for money now and again on the cruise, and had chalked him up as a maybe.

Late in the evening, though, as I was walking through the Schooner Bar, a hand shot out to arrest my progress and a voice said, "Hey, there, Craig. Remember me? Can I stand you a drink?"

Of course he could stand me a drink. I sat with him for a half hour, shooting the breeze about this and that, until he got around to the main proposition. I had seen that coming as soon as he asked me to sit with him. And, for a hundred bucks, here I was in his cabin, which was a whole hell of a lot nicer than my single, interior hole on deck three. He hadn't been embarrassed to ask me for sex for money and I hadn't been embarrassed about taking his money. We understood each other perfectly on that score.

"Com'ere," I heard Tony mutter, and he was running his left arm under my armpit and pulling my back into his hairy chest, getting me into a half Nelson. My legs naturally came unbent and ran down alongside his. In the same move of putting me in a half Nelson plastered to his chest, he got his legs inside mine and his calves wrapped around mine, with his ankles hooking mine. All this was managed without dislodging his cock from my passage. He then raised and spread my legs with his, fisted my cock with his right hand, and took over the stroking of his cock inside me.

Trapped against him, I writhed and moaned as he pulled my foreskin back to expose the bulb of my cock with his encasing hand, pressed his index finger into my piss slit, and worked at getting the tip of it inside me there while he was stroking my cock with his fist. I struggled against him and groaned at his eventually successful efforts to get the tip of his index finger inside me, but he was strong and held me completely prisoner to him and his play with my cock while he stroked inside my ass with his.

It wasn't that I wasn't willing, but that no one had used this technique with me before. It was strange and disconcerting—and it took all control away from me.

With a whimper and a sigh, I came for him and collapsed on top of his body. He laughed and spread my cum around on the bulb of my cock before bringing his index finger up and pushing it between my lips for me to suck while he continued to fuck my ass.

At length, he grunted, pushed me off to the side with his left hand while pulling his condom off with the right. He grabbed me by the back of the neck with his left hand and pulled my cheek down to his stomach, where my vision was taken up with the sight of him vigorously stroking his hard cock with his right hand. He gasped, tensed, and shot off his load on my cheek. Turning my body to face the balcony window, where I watched the sky become increasingly less dark and the Turkish coast slide by, Tony threw a hairy right arm over my chest, nuzzled his face into the back of my neck, and was snoring within a couple of minutes.

I'd wondered why he'd offered as much as a hundred bucks for the lay. Now I knew. He had some different moves than the straightforward fuck norm.

I gave him fifteen minutes of deep sleep as I stared out of the balcony window, planning my day. Ephesus, an ancient Greek city, now in Turkey, which had been a center of education and trade in the early world and figured prominently in the Bible, thanks to the Apostle Paul's letters and wanderings, was the stop for the day. We'd dock in the port of Kusadasi at 8:00 a.m., and passengers could get off the ship by 9:00. Of course a three- to five-hour excursion to the ruins at Ephesus was the main attraction at this port. Then there were shopping and bars and such in Kusadasi, and the ship would sail again at 5:00.

My parents had given me money to cover an excursion at each one of the ship's stops in the Eastern Mediterranean—the cruise started in Rome and went to Crete, Mykonos, Ephesus, Santorini, and Athens before returning to Naples and then Rome again. I had taken the money, though, and booked my own tours through a gay-friendly service. The highlight of my Mediterranean off-ship excursions was to be met by a hunky rent-boy top and shown not only some historical wonder but also the inside of a hotel room for an hour's romp in the sack. Of course I'd had to kick in quite a bit of my own money for these special tours.

Tony's generous contribution to me was going to help with the stop in Ephesus. I gingerly worked my way from under him; found my shorts, briefs, sandals, and T-shirt; picked up the two fifty-dollar bills from the nightstand that I had earned; and quietly padded out of the room. I figured I had time for a shower in my own hole of a room, a couple of hours of sleep, and breakfast before leaving the ship in search of Jamal's Tours. I'd received a photograph of Jamal, and I was looking forward to the Ephesus excursion.

* * * *

I believe both of us breathed a sigh of relief when I walked the length of the cruise ship along the large concrete square that is the cruise ships' dock in the city center of Kusadasi and caught the eye of the young man holding the "Jamal's Tours: Mr. Windsor" sign in front of him. I had received a photo of him as he had of me—a requirement of the gay tour service, which also asked a lot of intrusive questions down to my preferred role in sex (submissive) and position preferences (missionary), and whether I was cut or not (not). I'm sure we both held out the possibility that the photo we'd received wasn't genuine or, for me, that the same man wasn't available to give the tour. That had been the case on Crete, but the substitute tour guide had been just as acceptable—and possibly slightly older and larger in measurements—than the guide I'd been told I would have. The larger measurements—for me—of course, were no disappointment, and the age wasn't either. Older men tend to be more experienced, attentive, and grateful I had found.

In Jamal's case—and this was the Jamal of the photograph—he wasn't much older than I was. If he was still twenty-two, as I'd been told, he was two years older than I was. If his dimensions were anywhere close to as given or as depicted—the exchanged photos were full frontal in the nude—there was a luscious possibility that he would split me.

"Ah, Mr. Windsor," he called out when he saw me, and he gave a wolf whistle. I trusted that those around us took the whistle as an effort to get my attention, but from the grin he added to it, I like to think that it meant that he approved of what he saw.

"I am Jamal," he said, as I came up to him and he pulled me to the side. Other passengers were either hooking up with their tours or pushing through those gathered, determined to be the first ones to hit the so-called discount treasure stores of the Kusadasi tourist district. the shops started just across from the customs shed at the end of the pier.

He was every bit the swarthy, hirsute, muscular Turk of his photo. The arm of the hand he placed on my forearm to draw me to the side was covered in black, curly hair. His skin was a deep tan. He wore tight, worn jeans and an athletic muscle T-shirt split deep down the sides, showing hairy pits, and with a deep neckline, with black, curly chest hair and a thick gold-chain necklace showing. His smile was glorious in a black-bearded face with chocolate-brown, expressive eyes. He seemed filled with kinetic energy. Ready to go, like the energizer bunny. He was about two inches taller than my five eleven and maybe had twenty pounds on me—all muscle. The way his T fit showed a broad chest tapering down to a waist maybe an inch or two thicker than my well-muscled, but lither physique. His feet were bare in well-worn sandals, the toes long and slender, hairy at the joints, nails well manicured. All I had hoped for in a Turk.

"Ah, gorgeous American movie star blond. And the photo doesn't do your blue eyes justice," he said as his hand didn't come off my arm when we had moved to the side of the stream of traffic. "We fuck good, yes?"

I flinched at the mention of movies, as I, indeed, had been a teenage movie actor. I was studying for a less volatile career now, but it had been the casting couch wars that had given me a heavy taste for men's cocks—and a lack of prejudice against older men, as long as they hadn't gone to seed. "I think we fuck very good," I answered. Nothing like getting down to brass tacks, which he preceded to do.

"There, unfortunately, is the need . . . up front—"

"Here is the fee," I said, handing the envelope to him. "The agency said that either euros or American dollars would be fine."

"Ah, yes, very good," he said. "You have to be back at what time?"

"The ship sails at 5:00," I answered, "so I should be back no later than 4:30."

"Such a pity," he said, giving me a big smile. "A beautiful blond man like you. Too bad we don't have a night. But, never mind. We make do with the time. We fuck good. There is time. We go for coffee. I go over the trip to Ephesus. I have hotel room for day, all in the fee. I fuck you. We go to Ephesus. We come back to hotel. I fuck you again. We be back here by 4:30 tops. Come with me, this way. We walk to café."

It sounded so bald, said like that. But it, in fact, was what I was paying for. And there was no opportunity to talk adjustment even if, after seeing him, I'd wanted to, which I didn't. He already was guiding me into the city. We had only walked a couple of blocks before he stopped at an open-air café under the canopy of trees in a square surrounded by Turkish-style buildings of five and six stories. The café was nearly deserted, this being barely 9:15 in the morning, after the pre-office coffee fixes and before the first coffee break time of the day.

Happily, there weren't others sitting near us at the café as we drank coffee and he flashed brochures and maps in front of me of the ancient ruins of the city of Ephesus. He was very expressive with his hands, and assessing with his eyes. If he hadn't received a photo of me, I think he could have described me naked after having undressed me with his eyes. He continually leaned across the table and touched me—on the arms, chest, and even on the face, with his finger tips. It was all quite arousing and if he had laid me out and fucked me right there on the café table, I wouldn't have objected.

With a hand under the table and touching me on the crotch when he had pushed the brochures aside, he said, "To be sure, you take cock, yes?"

"Yes," I answered.

"You take big cock? Thick cock?"

"Yes."

"Just being sure. Sometimes the man signing for this service has bigger eyes than his bung hole. I can't make myself smaller. Other men could take over for the fuck services."

"I want you for that service," I said, looking directly at him. He was more than touching my crotch under the table now—and I was returning the service.

"We go to the hotel now," he said, with a grin on his face.

"I hope it's not far."

"It is here, just here, on the square. The Akdenza Apartment Hotel. Not fancy, but—"

"As long as it has a bed, a shower, and a toilet, that's good enough for me."

That brought another grin and Jamal standing up from the table. "And that it has me too, yes?"

"And that it has you too, yes," I answered with a smile. There was no stinting with effervescence with this guy.

Indeed, that's pretty much all the Akdenza room had—other than a kitchenette too, but it was enough.

There wasn't much in the way of foreplay. Jamal was more of a power driver than a lover, but he did prepare me for what was, as promised, a very thick and long cock indeed. He ate me out, my butt on the end of the bed, me lying on my back, and him kneeling between my thighs, with his arms laced around them, holding them raised and spread. He had read my preference for the missionary position I assumed. There was plenty of lube and, I think, four fingers inside me before he was satisfied that I was open enough for him.

But then he did what I'd never had done before during sex. He started, standing between my thighs, with my ankles on his shoulders, by frotting our cocks, holding them together encased in one hand and stroking them hard. This I'd experienced before, but then he docked them. Using the foreskin of my uncut cock, he made the bulbs of our cocks kiss and he pulled my foreskin over his cut bulb.

I found that extraordinarily erotic, arching my back, thrusting my arms out to the side to grip gobs of bedspread, and throwing my head back to focus on the ceiling as I gasped and purred while he stroked our sheathed cock heads together until I came in a flood of cum that burbled out from our fused cocks. He quickly rolled on a rubber, plunged his cock into my ass, making me cry out and grab his shoulders, digging my nails in, as he took me hard and fast.

Young and virile and, despite having an eye on the clock, he fucked me for a while missionary style and then turned me and fucked me doggie style, crouched high on my back and pounding me hard. After resting when both of us had come, he took me again, holding me in a crab position over his prone body, my feet and palms flat on the bed at the sides of his body, his hands grasping my waist, and me again focusing my eyes on the ceiling as I showed him that I too, was athletic, by rapidly fucking myself on his up-thrust cock.

I certainly had nothing to complain about concerning that part of the Jamal's Tours service.

"Do you always fuck your clients as thoroughly as this?" I asked.

"Only the ones I can't get enough of, like you," he asked with that disarming smile of his.

I certainly couldn't complain about that. Nor did I have complaints about the tour of Ephesus. It was a little hairy getting there, as he drove an ancient Fiat that kept backfiring and giving the impression it might die at any moment. Once inside the ancient city ruins, though, which were crowded with large tours, I was grateful I was getting a personalized tour and that he was such a knowledgeable tour guide. His English diction was impeccable, even if his sentence structure left something to be desired, which is more than I could say for some of those I heard guiding bus tours that day.

His attention to me in the old city also went way beyond that of the bus tour guides. He took me into areas the other tours didn't go. He pushed me up against the back wall of a building he'd said had been a brothel and had lewd drawings of sexual positions painted on the inner walls, got both my shorts and his jeans undone and dropped to the stones, and, this time taking me into a kiss, frotted our cocks together until we both came.

"Beautiful blond," he whispered as he held me there, both of us momentarily spent. "Blond in the bush too. Natural?"

"Yes."

"You are a good lay. You are blond. Turks love blonds. We have time. I have friends nearby. You could make good money. You could go back to your ship with more money then you have paid for my tour. As many men in two hours as you can take. I can make all of the arrangements. I make sure they don't hurt you too bad. We split money equally. What do you say?"

"Thanks," I said, flattered but suddenly frightened at the thought. "But just you. You are enough. You said we'd return to the hotel before going back to the ship."

"Ah, well. Just a thought," he said as he released our cocks and stood away from me, reaching down to pull his jeans back onto his hips and stuffing his cock into the jeans. "We go for lunch first. The town of Selchuk is nearby. There is a restaurant there that serves a good Turkish mezeh. We have mezeh and drink Efes beer, then back to the hotel, I fuck you silly, and then the ship. You be happy and write me a good recommendation."

"I'll most certainly write you a good recommendation, Jamal," I said as I zipped up my shorts.

* * * *

The mezeh lunch at the open-air restaurant on the outskirts of Selchuk, giving us a panoramic view of the old fortress on top of a high mesa inside the city, was delicious. The beer was refreshing and made me a little giddy. Jamal sat close beside me, an arm possessively on top of my chair back, and explained the composition of each of the small dishes, some dozen in all, that were set on the table as a previously served, now-empty plate was taken away. Such was the ambiance and the sultry sexiness of the man beside me that each dish seemed an arousing preliminary to our return to the hotel bed at the Akdenza.

We never made it back to the Akdenza Hotel, though. The old Fiat gasped its last for now and died on the road beside a winery.

"Shit. I'll miss the sailing," I said. What I'd really miss, though, was the second coupling with Jamal in the Akdenza Hotel.

"I'm sure the car can be fixed in time, or someone from this winery can drive us back into Kusadasi," Jamal said, his voice filled with both concern and a sense of having the situation under control. "You stay with the car, and I'll go to that building over there and see what help we can get."

I got out of the car and leaned against the fender, letting my eyes cast over the fields of grapevines, while Jamal went to what proved to be the main building of the winery. I watched him come back out of the door to the building in the company of an older man—with a body that was muscular and solid that remained the interesting side of stocky. He pretty much looked like just an older version of Jamal. They stood there and discussed—or maybe argued—with flamboyant gestures for a while and then Jamal came back to the car. The other man continued standing in the doorway, lighting up a cigarette and giving me an assessing look.

"They can fix the car, they say," Jamal told me when he reached me. "And, barring that, they will drive us back into Kusadasi. But they want something from us in return to do it."

"What? I have some money with me—but not much."