Escape to Girne Ch. 01: Penance

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20

Although this stands alone as a GM espionage story, it also is a sequel to “Last Call”; This is a completed, four-chapter novella and will finish posting by 25 August 2017.

*****

“The flat above the garage is just about ready, if you want to move in there, Mr. Clarke.”

I looked up at the back corner of the old Turkish-style compound on the street above the land side of northern Cyprus’ Kyrenia Castle. I was there to view the small flat I’d asked to be readied, somewhere I could stay during the reconstruction of the old Turkish-style house. The flat was over what was just an oversized one-car garage, once a stable for assorted domestic animals, so it was very small, just sixteen by twenty feet. The garage was a bit deeper, but there was a balcony on the garden side of the flat.

The flat wasn’t much larger than a hotel room, but it was mine. There would be no hotel bill. I’d be right here for the completion of the construction on the house. A kitchen and a bath, both seven feet by eight were located side by side on the alley side of the flat, which left just enough room for a double bed, a couple of dressers, a desk, and a couple of chairs in the flat. It was reached by a staircase on the outside of the garage toward the house. Outside staircases were the tradition in old Cypriot houses. Another one rose from the porch along the back of the house to an identical covered porch above.

The flat would be a tight fit, but all of the fixtures and appliances were modern, which was saying something in the Turkish-occupied territory of northern Cyprus and in a native house of this vintage.

The house itself was quite a challenge, and I needed such a challenge to take my mind off my grief. It was an old-style courtyard house opening right onto the main street and had once had an orchard running down a slope behind it. The owner of the house and orchard had abandoned the house to someone else’s attempts to restore it and had built a new villa in the orchard. Access to both the garage and a parking pad for my house and to the garage and entrance of the former owner’s new villa was provided by a narrow alley at the side of my house.

The old house was in the shape of an L, with some sixty-five feet across on the street front and a bit more than forty feet deep at its widest. Across the front from the alley, on the first floor, was a long, narrow kitchen that would be fully modern when I was finished with it. Behind that was the cut into the lot of the parking pad, with the one-car garage in the back corner. Extending along the front from the kitchen would be a morning room, a large entrance foyer, and a formal dining room. In the arm of the L extending back to the back of the walled courtyard was a long living room. Upstairs, there would be a master bath above the kitchen, the master bedroom above the morning room, a larger bath and laundry facilities above the foyer, and then three more bedrooms—one over the dining room and two over the living room. A two-story porch faced the courtyard.

We were keeping the old Turkish-style look for the exterior as much as possible—stone and wood and stucco on the street side. But everything inside would be modern.

The restoration would cost a fortune. I didn’t care. It was my escape. It could be known to all who cared that it was my escape from a life that had turned tragic to what I hoped would be a hidden corner of the earth—the medieval harbor castle of what had been Kyrenia in the Greek period but now was Girne under the Turkish occupation.

“Would you like me to take your suitcase up to the flat?” The question came from Ergon, one of the three young Cypriot-Turkish carpenters I’d hired when I’d come briefly to Cyprus to settle on the house and hire workmen.

“Yes, please, Ergon. I’ll just sit out here in the courtyard for a bit.”

I watched him ascend the outside staircase to the flat, carrying the heavy suitcase almost effortlessly. He was a handsome young man—all three of them were. It was a trait of Cypriot-Turkish men. Young gods into their forties and then most of them quickly went to pot. Quite muscular all three of them too. They had to be to do this job. I had hired well—and carefully, being quite certain of what I was getting when I had hired them.

I had had to hire them quickly, searching for them through the old men sitting up in the abbey square at Bellapais in the mountain range above Kyrenia. I had learned from earlier residence on the island that consulting with the old men who drank coffee and brandy up there at the Tree of Idleness would be what was needed to get the workmen I needed. I needed something in particular, and the old men at the coffee house were quick to discern my needs without my having to state them openly. I imagine some of them were just a little less old when I lived in Cyprus before, knew of me, and knew what my requirements for workmen would be.

I surmised long ago that many middle-aged expatriate men settled in Cyprus to feed a particular need, casino siteleri and that there were young, randy Turkish-Cypriot men enough to respond to these needs—at a reasonable price. Not that I thought, at thirty-seven, that I’d be taken as a middle-aged British expatriate—the usual men who came to Cyprus for a very particular retirement life. I worked hard to look younger than my age. But taking the role of expatriate and restoring an old Turkish house on Cyprus obviously tossed me into that bin.

I’d always been quite careful with my hires. That’s why the loss of Peter had been such a blow. I sat in an old wicker chair in the courtyard and rummaged around in my carryon for a photograph. I placed it on my lap, mentally talking to it about what had brought me here—in retreat from the world that had been mine and Peter’s.

I had been very careful in getting here, coming here from Langley, Virginia, by a circuitous route, making the arrangements I had to make, and then traveling through Europe and even down to Bangkok and back, making sure that no one was tracking me, before coming back here to start my work in northern Cyprus.

It was unusual for an American expatriate to be restoring an old house on Cyprus. Not so unusual for a British expatriate. So, I would feign being at least Canadian, I supposed. Not being an American would be an advantage to me here, even though it was the Americans who got the best service.

Ergon came back down and walked over to my chair and went down on his haunches beside me. The other two continued their noisy work in the house. From the outside the restoration looked nearly complete. On the inside it was still quite a mess. It was a massive undertaking. When it was finished it would be far larger than I’d need—now that I was alone. But it was the house I had to buy.

“You look sad, Mr. Clarke,” Ergon said. “Was yours a bad journey?”

“It’s been a very bad journey indeed, Ergon,” I said, giving him a slight smile. He was such a handsome young man—very sensual, but in a strong, manly way. Just like Peter had been.

“That photo,” Ergon said, pointing to the one I sitting on my lap. “You and a younger man. Is that what has made you sad? Is a bad relationship what has brought you here? Has he left you?”

That took me a bit by surprise. Was I that easy to gauge? I had planned to get there eventually, but I had no idea that I was that transparent. But, of course, I had asked for a certain kind of worker. The old men at the Tree of Idleness would have told the young men what sort of worker I was looking for. I guess I knew that, and it certainly simplified the process.

“Yes, Peter has left me, Ergon,” I answered in a low voice. “But perhaps not in the way you think. He was my partner, yes—my partner in bed—but he has died. And I guess it’s true that I’m escaping here because of him.”

I wouldn’t tell Ergon how Peter died, and he didn’t ask. He put a sympathetic hand on my forearm, though, and I looked down at it and then up into his face. He was looking sad and full of sympathy, and I couldn’t prevent my eyes from brimming up in tears.

I wouldn’t tell Ergon that Peter had died a violent death—all videotaped and shared with the world. I’d been the one to send him to Syria. It was his job, of course, as it was mine, but I would have given anything not to have sent him to Syria in the guise I did. He hadn’t lasted more than two months. The failed operation had been too much for me, and I’m afraid the effect of Peter’s death on me had been quite obvious to all of those in my office at the Agency. I fled, leaving behind a formal request for a six-month sabbatical, not waiting around to see if it had been granted or not. Not really caring whether it was.

“Would you like to come up to the flat and see how we have finished it off?” Ergon asked in a soft voice. I appreciated that, but I knew Ergon wasn’t a soft person. I hadn’t wanted him to be a soft person.

Ergon’s eyes and the way he was taking control told me that we weren’t going up to the flat just to inspect it—and that I wouldn’t have to ask for what I wanted from Ergon.

He stood, bare-chested, at the side of the bed, between my spread knees, as I unzipped his tight jeans, flared out the fly, pulled out his engorging cock, and opened my mouth over the bulb of it. He placed his hands on either side of my head, running his fingers into the reddish-blond sideburns of my hair and arching his back a bit, flexing those magnificent chest muscles of his, and sighing slightly in response to what my mouth was doing to his cock.

He wasn’t gentle with me, and I hadn’t wanted him to be. He put me on all fours on the bed, covered me with his body, and fucked me hard and deep. He seemed to know that my grief could only be assuaged by rough taking. He rode me hard and long and then, as I collapsed in exhaustion with groans and grunts, he rode me down to the surface of the bed, remained mounted on my hips, and continued pounding, pounding, pounding canlı casino long after I’d ejaculated.

There was no hesitation, no false reticence. It was a straightforward fuck engaged in as naturally as any other body function.

I lay on my back on the bed, looking into his eyes as he was stretched beside me, his muscular youthful torso raised on an elbow, his free hand stroking my cock back to life. He already was in full erection again.

“It was good for you?” he asked.

“Yes it was very good,” I answered.

“Do you want—?”

“Yes, when you can.”

I heard him snort. The bedsprings creaked as he started to move his torso over mine. “First, please,” I murmured, pointing to the drawer of the night stand.

“We got all the rubbers we need right here,” he said, with another snort.

“No. In the drawer. Something else. Please.”

He laughed when he opened the drawer and saw the wrist restraints I had there.

“The headboard. Please. I’ll give you a better ride. It gives me a stronger release.”

And I did give him a better ride, with me higher in the stratosphere, as his knees under my buttocks, my legs running up his torso, and my arms stretched and spread above me, the wrists restrained to the corners of the headboard, we bounced on the bed, me jutting my pelvis up to him, my head arched back, my mouth yawning open and crying out expletives at the headboard beating against the wall with the strength of his thrusts, and counterthrusting as he pounded down into me, trying hard to pound the grief at the loss of Peter out of me.

He didn’t succeed, of course, but it was a good try. He was the first man to fuck me since Peter, and he did it expertly. My queries for the sort of workmen I wanted, even though couched in careful language, had produced just what I wanted and needed.

I slept in his arms for a few hours, exhausted by not only him but also by the month of travel to finally arrive here and from the tension of looking over my shoulders every minute of the circuitous journey.

It was dark outside and inside as well, when I woke. My wrists had been released from the restraints. Ergon was stretched behind me, both of us on our sides. He had an arm under my back, with the hand reaching around and palming my chest. The hand of his other arm was cupping my cock and balls. His own cock was inside my channel.

“You’re awake,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Was it . . . was it . . . that last fuck . . . was it as you wanted?”

“Yes, Ergon, it was just what I needed.”

“I can again . . . or Jamil and Sami are here. Out on the balcony.”

He turned my eyes toward the French doors leading out to the flat’s balcony. The doors were open. Two young, muscular men were tipped back in chairs, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.

“For the first time you might like to sample us all,” Ergon suggested.

“Yes, that would be good.”

“You want them separately or together? The old men at the coffee house. They said . . .”

I had been doubled before, so it wasn’t that difficult a decision. I did want to be punished.

“I want them both—together.”

We were on the bed and I was sitting in Sami’s lap, on his cock, crouched on bent knees. His legs were stretched out in front of him. Then I was being sandwiched between the two of them, Sami and Jamil, Jamil moving into us on his rump until his thighs lay over Sami’s. Sami was palming my pecs and leaned back, taking my torso with him and rolling up my buttocks to permit Jamil’s dick slowly to press inside my channel, sliding in on top of Sami’s.

I started to cry out at the pain and pleasure of the invasion, but Jamil leaned into me and took my lips with his in a deep kiss. One of his hands fisted my cock and began to stroke.

Ergon sat off to the side in one of the chairs, magnificently naked, watching us intently, smoking a cigarette, and drinking a beer.

I broke from the kiss and yelled a “Oh, shit. Fuck! Holy Christ!” as Sami and Jamil both began to rock in unison.

“Is it too much? Is it not what you want?” Ergon asked in a concerned voice, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Fuck, yes, it’s about to kill me. No, I don’t want it to stop!” I yelled as Sami cupped my chin with a hand and pulled my head back into the hollow of his shoulder and Jamil’s mouth once again found and fully possessed mine. The rocking that put the cocks in countermotion inside me continued unabated.

It was exactly what I wanted. I needed to be punished. I certainly had hired well this time.

* * * *

I winced, taking the hard upthrusts of Ergon’s cock, as he stood behind me in the front corner bedroom of my nearly restored Turkish house and fucked me against the wall. My arms were raised and spread, the palms pressing in the cool, moist, recently replastered wall to maintain my balance. My cheek was also pressed against the wall, and I had my eyes screwed shut against the pain-pleasure Ergon kaçak casino was providing. I was tearing up under the eyelids. He was giving me no quarter. I’d never asked any from him, my assaulter, torturer, deliverer.

He had my legs and buttocks pulled away from the wall, with my torso arched. I had only been wearing shorts, but they were puddled on the floor below me now. I hadn’t bothered with briefs. I had known that sometime during the afternoon Ergon—or one of the other two—would be fucking me. He seemed to have taken that upon himself, to arrange to take my mind off Peter and give me something to think of other than grief. I was paying him and the other two more than enough to include their stud service.

Ergon palmed my belly to hold my buttocks jutting out, and crouched behind me, grunting and pushing up onto his toes with each brutal thrust of his cock up into my channel. He had a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth and was waving his free arm in a maneuver to counterbalance the power of his upthrusts. It had a rodeo rider look to it and was like it was all in a day’s work for him, but he was so sunny about it and he managed to convey the impression that he was enjoying it too.

I was finding the same thing with Jamil and Sami. They truly seemed to be fond of me and happy to be keeping me serviced. I’m sure the money helped, but I also was gathering that Turkish men—in addition to being hunky and hung—were happy fuckers, taking pleasure in it and treating it as natural physical exercise in an innocent animal sort of way. They certainly fucked like animals. No holding back.

I felt him shudder and jerk, give a deep grunt, and then he was covering my body close from behind and stopped thrusting, although he didn’t remove his cock from inside me immediately. I knew from when he had fucked me in the morning room, also against the wall, also when he came for me and said they wanted advice on the color I wanted the room painted, that when he did withdraw from me, he’d just roll the condom off and drop it to the floor, not to be taken up until the general cleanup at the end of the day. All so matter of fact.

I also knew that while he was still holding me there, still inside me, that he was taking a few drags on his cigarette. The butts from those also would go on the floor until they were ready to finish the floor off. I was somewhat surprised that Turkish-Cypriot men grew old enough to sit around in the Bellapais Abbey square all day, drinking and smoking at the Tree of Idleness, considering the chain smoking they did.

I’d never been fucked by a man smoking a cigarette before. It was all sort of freeing and exhilarating, though.

“Does that help you forget?” he whispered in my ear. He had asked that each time after he’d fucked me in the week I’d been here—which was too many times to count. He took his job seriously; he also seemed to be on a mission to pull me out of my grief over Peter.

But that was because I never told him the gruesome circumstances of Peter’s death. I’m sure that would have sucked the good humor right out of him.

“It doesn’t make me forget,” I answered. “But it helps make me want to live.”

“Then that will have to be enough for now,” he said, giving a shrug, pulling out of me, and taking a drag on his cigarette. I pulled up my shorts and turned and watched him zip up his jeans. He was bare-chested as well, black curly hair swirling around on his chest. I found his deeply tanned lean, but muscular and hirsute, body arousing. He indeed was good medicine for me.

“Ergon,” I said, approaching the question tentatively. “These arrangements. Are they too—”

“I like fucking you. You have a great body. Jamil and Sami think so too. If that’s what you’re—”

“I just needed to know, thanks. I didn’t want this to be something you didn’t want to do.”

He shrugged. “We would fuck men anyway. Most not with a good body and a nice hole like yours.” He continued as if we’d just been talking about the weather. “I will send Jamil and Sami to you this evening. They will make you forget everything, if only for a time.”

And indeed they would, although neither had a face as handsome or a cock as thick and long as Ergon’s, their bodies were as muscular, tanned and hirsute as his was.

“This evening I would wish for something else, Ergon. If you are free, I would like you to take me down to Effendi’s restaurant in the harbor. I will treat you to dinner and drinks. If you are free.”

“For you, Mr. Clarke, I always am free. I am yours to use for the time of this house restoration.”

And use his time and body, I intended to continue doing.

“Effendi’s Restaurant, you say. A good choice. You may not know, but the man who sold this house and who lives behind it in the new villa in the orchard, Fuad, owns and hosts at Effendi’s Restaurant.”

“That’s interesting to hear. Perhaps you can introduce me to him if he’s at the restaurant.”

“He’s always at the restaurant in the evening. I am not sure you should meet him, though. You will find him someone to be careful of, I think.”

That’s exactly what I’m counting on, I thought, as I moved toward the door of the room. “A pale green, I think.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20

Leave a Reply

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir