My Father the Whore

This story is an entirely fictional work of adult erotic fantasy, involving consensual sexual relations between related persons.

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MY FATHER THE WHORE by Boy Mercury X

Arabic men are the most masculine of all, and my father is a champion among them.

This is not self-flattery. Regrettably, I'm only half Turkish, and too much like the softer Northern Europeans of my mother's ancestry. I will never be a man as my father.

This is he: A Turk, 36 years. His hair is black as coal and thick as lamb's wool, shorter on his head than his rough beard on a strong jaw. He has what is called olive skin, a heavy brow like the drawings of cave men almost, and a hawk nose, a true man's face.

In his younger days he was a wrestler, a champion, and though he's now a trainer he's as fit as in his prime. He's not tall, only 5'10, but strong and thick with muscle. His shoulders are broad and make a wide V down to his trim hips. His chest is so perfect it could be displayed in a museum, with a thatch of glossy black hair in the center that spreads over his abundant pecs and crown his dark brown teats, which always look hard as diamonds. He's naturally hairy and does not shave or groom it as many do now, but his gšt, his ass, is naturally smooth, like two sweet melons, though between his cheeks you would find a dark hairy nest around my father's hole, the great mystery itself. I've seen his manhood, which is equally impressive, almost as dark as his nipples, respectably long, thick in the middle, and beneath it two dark eggs in black hair. Perhaps it looks even larger because he is so small in his waist and hips.

It's natural that he stirs admiration in me for his fine form. His athleticism is well known among the Turkish community in New York. The people call him Burak the gźreşŤi, the wrestler, as if he were still winning championships. They like to hold fast to some of the old world, here in the US where things are so different.

Even my father, who is somewhat traditional despite growing up in the US, went astray. He made a baby with an American when he was barely out of high school. My mother, I'm told, was flighty and feminine enough to seduce my father. Soon after their rushed marriage she wanted to end it, not suited to life as an honorable Turkish wife. My father's parents gave her money to leave me with them, and she did.

So my father and his parents and his sisters raised me. Like everyone else in the family I called my grandfather Baba, and called my own father Father, in English, to distinguish between the two. Turkey, you may know, has long been the most secular of Arabic nations, so advanced are we, and Baba was a professor of philosophy in Turkey, but here in America he was a store manager, and his son a wrestler.

Father was more like my older brother than a father, and I idolized him. There are many photos of my father with me, he so dark and masculine and proud, and me so fair and delicate and adoring beside him with my sandy hair and honey brown eyes.

When I was very young he was still a wrestler. After matches I would try to massage him, like the men do. I was fascinated by his skin, and by his muscles and even his body hair, drawing hearts on him with my fingertips and watch them fade into him.

I must have been too small and spindly to be of any use, but he let me do it, and then would tell me how much better he felt.

When he was injured I cried. Ates dustugu yeri yakar, said my grandmother, an ember burns where it falls, to express sympathy that I felt so for Father. It offended me greatly that anyone would do harm to his flawless self, but it gave me a funny tickled feeling as well. It seemed almost an honor that others must envy his superiority so much that they would do physical damage to diminish him.

To the side of the house was the garage transformed into a gymnasium. That's where my father used to train, but it was now his business and livelihood, where my father could coach wrestlers and anyone interested in fitness. There were many Arabic customers, and increasingly others as well. It was decked out with the requisite exercise equipment and also a small lounge area where his customers could stay and socialize. Because most of his customers worked, they would come by his gym at odd hours, most often alone but sometimes in pairs or more. I think Father must be a good trainer, but honestly many of the men showed no sign of improvement even after many visits.

When my grandparents passed, my father and I stayed in the family house. I was about 12 and things changed then. Father became grim. His sisters had married and moved out, so it was just the two of us. He instructed me to stay out of the gym, that it was his business and I should be focused on schoolwork. I would not be a wrestler, it seemed, as the twig is bent, so grows the tree, ağaŤ yaşken eğilir. Though I missed physical contact with my father I was relieved to not disappoint him.

I was hurt, and assumed my presence was in some way bad for business. I was an oddity, quiet and bookish, and the absence of a mother in my life marked me as untouchable in some way. Turkish men were not comfortable with me, between my mixed ethnicity and my awkwardness. On a couple of occasions as they left the gym I heard men refer to me as orospu Ťocuğu, son of a whore.

By then I was old enough to not need a mother at all. I could help clean the house myself, and began to prepare meals for my father and myself. My grandmother left me recipes and an emergency sum of money, not a lot just a couple of thousand dollars. I managed the house, and Father worked. With his odd work schedule we often did not see each other except in passing. He was simple in his needs, easy to cook for, and satisfied with a work out and some television. We didn't have that much to talk about, and he was comfortable with silence.

The older I got the more frustrated I was by my attraction to Father. I had no other outlets for my own sexuality, and he was so potent. In truth I think Father even more handsome now than when he was younger, having filled out a bit from his lean wrestling days. I often fantasized about him, his body and what I wished he would do to me.

One day I was rummaging through the box of recipes and other treasures my gradmother left me, and discovered a backup key. I was certain it must be to Father's gym, because it was not like a house key. I knew that was where Father worked out and sometimes showered, and I hoped to find his used undergear there, hoping to rub them against my own body to share his scent.

I had not been in the gym since I was 12, which gave it a strange quality. Much of it was unchanged, but there was some remodeling to convert it from his home gym to a business. This included a bathroom and shower, all along one wall, which I entered, my heart racing.

I hurriedly rummaged through the hamper I found there, containing worn underwear, jock straps and tank tops. I bunch them up to my face and inhaled deeply. But in that glorious moment I heard the click of an opening lock, and realized Father was about to enter the gym.

I could hear Father and another man, and I could hear the lock close behind them. I prayed they would simply not use the bathroom, but I knew that was desperately unlikely. I noticed a slim closet door in the bathroom, and hoped I could hide in it with the cleaners and mop and surplus toilet paper.

But when I opened the door I saw it wasn't a storage closet at all. It was a second room, about the same size as the bathroom. There was no light switch I could see, and the room was lined with black – some sort of tarp maybe? There was a built in bench and three small holes in the wall between the hidden room and the gym. I entered, and carefully closed the door behind me.

I pressed my face up against the wall, where I could see through one of the small holes into the gym. There I could see my father in his navy blue tracksuit. He was with a somewhat older man, maybe age 50 and Arabic by the look, who wore a white business shirt, slacks and a patterned blazer. They spoke a little in hushed tones. The man spoke Turkish, which I didn't understand except for an odd word or two.

The man began to undress, taking off his blazer and letting his slacks and underwear drop, but instead of putting on gym clothes, he set down on the old sofa in the social area, half dressed. Then father unzipped his track jacket, stripped out of it and the track pants, until he was standing there in just jock strap.

I couldn't understand the older man, but he said something and gestured to my father to turn around. Slowly father did just that, standing a few feet from the older man, turning in a full slow rotation. The man said something else, and Father dropped to his knees, and buried his face in the man's crotch.

His head bobbed up and down, slowly at first and then more rapidly. I could hear him chocking from time to time, as he worked the older man's cock with his mouth. I could see his beautiful body tense with each choke, and then relax again. My own dick was so hard it hurt. I had wondered for half a second if my father was in danger, being forced in some way to do this, but I also knew he was a champion wrestler and he could have taken down the other man in a heartbeat if he wished to.

After a while the man told me father to stop, and something else. Father pulled back up onto his knees, and stood up. They negotiated a bit more. Father gestured to the bathroom, and my heart raced so hard I could feel it pounding in my head. But the man said no, and stopped him

"Clean or dirty?" asked Father, running a hand between his ass cheeks.

"Pislik," said the man, or something that sounded like that, then in clear English "Dirty."

Father first took a moment to spit generously on the man's penis. He also spat into his own hand and then buried it deep between his own ass cheeks. Then he leaned over a pommel horse, spread his legs wide and waited.

The man stepped up behind Father, hiked up his shirt, jerked his own dick a few times, then began to press his cock up into Father. He began to rock back and forth and then to pump. Father grunted, and closed his eyes. But he didn't look like he was in pain at all. His body began to move with the man's motions, arching his perfect back and then meeting each thrust with a slam.

The man picked up his pace and then suddenly said "Now, now!"

He pulled out of my father and dropped back to the sofa. I could see father try to adjust from being fucked to whatever was occurring now, and he dropped to his knees again, swallowing the man's full cock that had been in his own ass just a minute before. He yanked down the jockstrap and furiously stroked his own cock, which fully erect was bigger than I'd ever seen it before.

He worked harder this time than last, and when the man grunted loud and shoved his hips forward, Father contorted and you could hear him gag. I gasped and came, shooting harder and in greater quantity than any time since my first orgasm.

I thought it was over then, but the man said something more, I think "
bźtźn" and so father stayed working the man's filthy cock until it was drained.

Father used a gym towel to wipe off the man's cock, and another to wipe his own ass. There was an exchange of money, and the man left.

I was newly terrified of being found, and as Father entered the bathroom, I looked to be sure the door was closed behind me, and tried to hold my breath.

I could hear the toilet seat drop on the other side of the door. A minute later I could hear an eruption of gas and shit, as Father emptied his bowels. This went on for a while, maybe 10 minutes. Then I heard running water, a flush of the toilet, and he left, turning off the lights behind him.

I waited as long as I thought I could – maybe half an hour, but it seemed so much longer. Then I slipped out, locking the side door behind me.

I went in to begin dinner.

I knew I couldn't risk sneaking in again to watch to see if this happened again, but I also knew I couldn't live without knowing more.

With the money my grandmother left me, I used a portion to buy a surveillance webcam. It was cleverly made to replace an electrical outlet. This took a couple of fearful trips to identify the actual outlet it would replace, to be sure I could place it without being detected.

I made sure Father would be gone for at least an hour, then using the emergency key again ran the webcam from the gym. I installed the cam quickly, and though my heart was pounding hard I took a moment to look around.

In a cabinet were bottles of a gooey clear substance, and a tub of something like white butter that looked like it had been scooped out by hand. Were they salves for workouts, or something else? There were small bottles – I opened one and sniffed and a second later my heart almost pounded through my chest and I felt light headed.

In a chest I found things that made me amazed. Cocks, artificial cocks. There were five, of varying lengths and sizes. There were shorter and fatter ones as well, not cocks bit rounded.

I wanted to continue, but the discoveries were of such a shocking nature that it was even more important that I not be caught. I carefully left everything as I found it, and went back into the house. I jerked off as soon as I got to my room, imagining what my father was doing with these things, and wondering how long he had them.

It took a few days before anything real happened. Sometimes I spied Father just training in his own gym. I saw him coaching a couple of times. I saw older Turks ostensibly training, but actually just socializing. I could have kicked myself for not doing this earlier, because even just seeing Father work out was more than enough to jerk off to.

A much older man arrived. He took all his pants off, and like most Arabic men even a past his prime very masculine, hairy everywhere and stocky. Father stripped also, and his cock stood erect. He serviced the older man, sucking on his nipples in the midst of dense body hair, he stroked the man's cock and licked it. He then positioned himself so the man's cock rode up and down the center of my father's chest, between his pecs. The man enjoyed this, and before long came, his semen no doubt spraying my father. Then they kissed, for a very long time. While they did, my father stroked his own cock to orgasm. They seemed to chat for a while, before the man paid my father, dressed and left.

Of course I came also. I was aroused by everything about my father's body, and to see it used by another man who I didn't think was of Father's caliber added a sort of humiliation that increased my arousal. But Father didn't look humiliated. He seemed tender, and aroused himself.

The next visitor I did not think was Arabic. He looked like a regular American, uninteresting except for his cock, which was enormous. It was as big as I think a cock could be, though I haven't seen many. Even Father's looked boyish in comparison.

This one lay on the floor of the gym, and Father first put a condom on the gigantic penis, and it must have been a special condom to fit such a monster. Father then smeared it with the white buttery substance from his supply. He coated every inch, and then straddled the American to ease his ass onto the huge cock. It took a long time, and maybe the American did not think Father could do it, but he did, because Father is a great Turkish wrestler who can endure any pain.

The American fucked Father, his huge prick stroking in and out, sometimes slow, sometimes hard. Father never fought back, not in any position the man put him in, no matter how long. When the American finally began to reach his climax, Father too orgasmed, spraying the tarp beneath him with his precious seed.

After the man paid and left, Father lay on his back on the floor for some time, slowly stroking his hole. I didn't know if it was to comfort himself after such abuse, or if it was a longing for more

There were other men after this. Many were old and bald and fat, and disgraced themselves by standing beside Father's perfect physique. Some were American. Some were harsh and others tender. They used his ass, his tits and mouth, and some used his cock.

His magnificent body existed in every part to satisfy the appetites of men, like a woman, but was wholly masculine. He took their cocks regardless of their age, weight, disposition or station in life, just to be fucked as if it were his purpose in life.

My father was an orospu, a whore. And I was, as some of his customers had said, orospu Ťocuğu, son of a whore.

To my great shock, Father confirmed this all for me.

He sat me down in the kitchen and told me he discovered my web cam, and knew I had been in his gym. I feigned innocence at first, but I stumbled on my own tongue, and finally hung my head in shame.

"It's okay," he said. "You are old enough to know."

He was neither angry or ashamed. I asked him to tell me about his business. Sormak ayip degil, bilmemek ayip, it is not disgraceful to not know, it is disgraceful to not ask.

He explained that other men always had a taste for him, since he was my age almost. After his wrestling career ended and he began as a coach, it sometimes happened a customer who came to him for fitness training would offer to pay to touch him in admiration. To illustrate his story he ran one hand up his own thigh, another cupping his pec. From there it was just a journey of degrees until he began to take payments for more and more acts. Word spread in certain circles.

I asked who the men were, and he explained every one had his own story. Some had long lived burdened with fantasies they wished to indulge. Some could not degrade their wives with their peculiar lusts. A few were young men who just needed a sikmek, to fuck, because they had no wife and would not dishonor their future wife with an American prostitute. Some were American homosexuals, which father said with some disdain.

What about the room, I asked, the secret room I found. That, Father explained, was for a few select customers who did not want to touch, but wanted to watch either Father with another man, or by himself.

Then I asked "So you are homosexual?" I meant no offense, thinking we had this in common.

But he looked more stern than ever and asked "Do I look like homosexual? Do I move like homosexual?" He mimicked mincing hand motions, and I nodded no, he did not.

He explained what he does is something between men, not for feminized American homosexuals. Men do not wrestle women, he said, and this was the same.

I considered this, and pointed out that some of his customers were Americans.

He told me this was like coaching. Something a man like him does to help a weak man be stronger, to improve, but with some pity because it is understood they will never be a true man, like my father or his peers.

I shyly said he had not had a wife since my mother, for almost my whole life, implying in another way that he might be homosexual.

With two fingers he tapped the side of my head, hard, and said "You are smart in school, but not so smart in life."

Why would he want to be tied down by a wife, telling him what to do, he asked. He was free and would live his life as a man. Bekarlik sultanliktir, he said, which means something like a bachelor is a sultan.

I told him I liked to watch, and what did that make me? He asked if I wanted to be like him, and I couldn't say yes. Even in my uncertainty about life, I did know wanted to be with him, but not to be him.

I had asked all my questions, and he answered without evasion

I told him to wait there, and I ran to the box where I kept my precious belongings. I unfolded what I needed, ran back to my father and stood before him, summoning all my courage.

I held out to him in my trembling hand the wad of the emergency money left to me my by my grandmother. Father looked at the thick curl of money in my open palm puzzled, then snorted, then laughed out loud.

"You're my new customer?" he asked, and laughed again.

He said it was stupid, that I was a dumb American boy, and that it made no sense to give him money for him to earn to give back to me. But I was firm in my resolve, and determined to wait him out.

He took the bills from my hand, folded them, put them into his back pocket, and asked what I wanted. I couldn't talk, so I tugged at the color of my own shirt and nodded with my head toward his.

I will never again see such a beautiful sight as my father raising his arms to pull the t-shirt off his perfect torso. The full meaty pecs framed by loose black hair, their rising and falling with his breathing were mesmerizing.

Without ever taking my eyes off his chest, I nervously undid my pants and reached down to grab my dick, so slick with precum. I stroked myself, just a foot away from the idol of my life. With no plan, I leaned forward to be closer, when I began to cum in furious streaks on Father's chest and shoulders. I gasped and stumbled, and Father caught me by the hips, holding me in place so until I poured out the full content of my balls on his chest.

I came to my senses, and watched Father wipe my load from his perfect chest, with the same T-shirt he'd worn. He stood up and with a muscular twist of his torso placed the money I'd paid him, all of it, in his back pocket. He never touched his own cock in the exchange.

He asked what now, and I asked if I could work for him to earn money back. To my delight he assented.

It would take a long time to earn back a worthwhile sum of money, and I only earned when Father had a customer so I could not increase my hours independently. But, damlaya damlaya gol olur, drop by drop it makes a pond. And the job was its own reward, in ways more precious than money.

I began by cleaning the gym. I did the books, in Excel, transcribing from the notes Father kept by hand. He instructed me keep his clever codes, so no discernable record would exist of motives of the men who paid him, or his own actions. This was private work, not intended for others.

I learned that the old man I'd seen on the webcam had long wanted a life with men, but was forced into marriage as a young boy. Father's gym was his one place in life where he felt he could be his true self. The man with the enormous penis, to my surprise, felt cursed because he could not fully penetrate most women or be taken whole in the mouth, but Father was strong enough to take what a woman could not.

So many men just wanted to fuck the mouth or ass without the inhibition necessary with their wives. For the ass, some were required to wear condoms – Americans and certain younger men. Most older men and those who were honored wrestlers were not. Maybe out of respect for their station or to not insult their seed.

Less often, Father would be called on to fuck his customers, and I envied them terribly, but pitied them too because he was so strong and vigorous mounting them, like a stallion. It was a great shame he did not mount more of them, so they would know what it is to be done properly.

From time to time Father would allow me to observe from the black room. Often this was for more complicated customers who would require more preparation or more cleaning afterwards. I had the honor of assisting with both.

In preparation Father would typically wash from the inside out, using a bulb syringe and water – I could clean the syringe, but not assist with its use. Certain men liked only certain substances for their fucking, which father would set out in advance, slick clear liquids or thicker buttery spreads, and some men wanted only a handful of spit.

I would dutifully clean the sofa, floor, tarps of these substances and the seed of my father and his customers.

Of course he had customers for fitness and wrestling too. He was only 36, his reputation was not forgotten. He was a strong but encouraging coach. I listened to his counsel, and tried to take it to heart myself.

My work for Father was not so many hours overall, but it was all I thought of, and I did not care about school anymore. I was so close to Father now, I did not care about anything else. I even curtailed my masturbation, because there were now so many opportunities I wished to save my seed for only those times when I could view Father, to honor him.

Father told me he would need my special assistance the following weekend. I did not touch my own erection in the days following, because this must be something special to save myself for.

On Saturday night, to my great shock, Father shaved his chest. It is acceptable to shave the chest and armpits for certain purposes, and it is often done for wrestling. This is not the grooming of body hair that feminized American men are inclined to, as it is manly to be natural or to remove it all for utility.

I aided him in shaving his chest, and wanted both to cry for loss of his natural hair there, but also to masturbate because his chest was almost more beautiful bare. I sniffed and asked how long would it take to grow back, but he answered he did not know because it is vanity to think on it.

He used the syringe in the bathroom to clean out his bowel, and allowed me to wash it when he done. He then allowed me to go to the hidden room, and reminded me under no circumstance should I reveal myself.

There was not one customer, but two. Brothers, I recognized them from the neighborhood. They were young first generation American, older than me but younger than Father. Not knowing their actual names, in my head I named them Elder and Younger, owing to their appearance. They played at being wrestlers, but were not disciplined like Father. They were Turks, but they embraced cheap and flashy American ways.

They began by telling Father they would like a wrestle. "Yenilen pehlivan gurese doymaz? Is it so?" asked Elder brother. This is a Turkish expression that roughly means the beaten wrestler is never satisfied with wrestling. It means he who fails will always want to try again.

Father shrugged, yes, and took the traditional starting posture with one Younger brother. But then they both were on him. When he would make a move against his opponent, the other brother would from behind grab his arm or leg, blocking his move and throwing him off balance. The brothers knew their own moves as well, not professional wrestlers like Father, but fast and strong.

This was disgraceful and disrespectful of them, but Father did not stop or resist. Not even when Younger brother, the stronger of the two, lifted Father's arms back, so Elder could run his hands over Father's torso, and lift his shirt. He cupped Father's shaved chest and then slapped his pecs.

Father dropped to his knees and the brothers unzipped their pants so he could service their cocks. They enjoyed this and spoke in disdainful tones in words I could not quite understand. He swallowed their cocks whole, repeatedly, almost panting between each.

Before long Elder told my father to drop down and do push ups. Then "Yźz." A hundred. After the hundred push ups, father stood between the brothers, and his pecs heaved like I have never seen before. Elder pawed at them and slapped them and nodded approval.

Elder nodded and they all undressed. While he did this, the brothers undressed, and I am shamed to say I admired their bodies greatly. Elder brother was taller and leaner, younger was shorter and stocky, but both were impressive specimen of Turkish manhood.

Despite the brothers' disrespect Father stood equal to them and dignified. Without being instructed, he took a heaping handful of the buttery substance he used for challenging cocks. He cupped his hand under his ass, smeared it, and then seemed to shove most of the substance right into his hole. I had never seen him do this before.

"No condoms," said Younger, and Father smiled and nodded in agreement.

Standing, Younger brother pulled up behind father and slid his cock up into him hard. He fucked Father vigorously and long, while Elder helped support Father on his legs, as they shook from the force of the pummeling. Elder grabbed at Father's pecs and said meme, meaning tit. He twisted the nipples and father had shocked breaths, but arched his back.

I worried that they had drugged Father, he looked so distant and lost to the world, eyes rolling back in his head like an animal. I wondered briefly if I should run out of the hidden room to stop them, even to call the police. But I did not.

Younger bucked hard and almost roared as he came, pushing his cock up into my father to deposit his seed there. He fucked a bit more, and pulled out his spent cock, while his brother stepped up to take his place.

Elder fucked Father on hands and knees, like a pig. Father did not mind, he ran his ass up and down on Elder brother's cock, while Elder reached around to grab again at Father's tits.

Then Younger walked up to Father's face, holding out his dick, and I was surprised that he would be erect again so soon. But he wasn't. He was urinating, beginning to spray his waste on Father's face. Most shocking of all, Father arched up on his knees to wrap his lips around Younger's urinating member, and began to gulp down the piss. On some he choked and it sprayed, but otherwise he drank it, for what seemed like a very long time.

When this was done, Father let his head and shoulders rest on the floor, ass up, so Elder could continue to fuck him. "Boşalmak," said Elder. Cum. "Boşalmak. Boşalmak." Cum. Cum.

He wanted Father to climax, and Father diligently worked his own cock until he began to breathe hard and quake, and seized up as he came with Elder buried deep in him. Elder said Ai, ai, as Father's bowel went spastic around his cock, and Elder began to cum, Father's ass sucking the semen from his balls.

And then they were done. They dressed, tossed some bills on the floor near Father then left. The whole time Father lie on his belly, his ass hiked up.

I ran out to Father's side, by then his face against the ground. I asked if he was hurt, and he just laughed. He was not hurt, he said. I ran my hand over his back, now chilled with sweat and other substances.

I saw that on the floor there were two ten-dollar bills. They robbed us, I said to Father, after such disrespect to not pay Father his fair rate, but to make this final insult. We must do something, I said, but I did not know what.

"This is fair," he said. "Their rate is whatever they wish." And he laughed again.

I felt myself go red with unexpected anger. "I paid you everything I had," I said, "Over a thousand dollars."

He shrugged and said, "That is what you wished."

Then he raised himself on his knees, hiked up his ass and spread his legs. With a jerk of his head he directed me to his rear.

"Take a fair deal if you wish," he said.

In a fugue, I undid my jeans and slid them and my white briefs off. I awkwardly got down on my knees behind him, and held my erection. With my fingertips I reached down between Father's legs and found his greasy hole. Knowing it was full of the seed of the two brothers made me more confident to place the head of my dick there and begin to slide in.

No matter how hard or strong a man is, I learned, inside he is soft and yielding.

Father braced himself and slid his ass back on me. I loved how hot and slick with cum his used rectum was, and how his muscled back worked back and forth. I quivered with pleasure. I could see how the body hair at the small of his back was darker than it used to be, getting more like his chest hair. I would never see such beauty anywhere else in my life.

I saw again the ten-dollar bills on the floor, and was filled again with rage I did not understand. I knew only I would have worshipped my father, but instead he wished to be debased by these men.

Furious, I thrust harder into Father, and then again. With one hand I grabbed at the small dark hairs at the small of his back. Then the words belched out of my mouth, unbidden. "Whore," I said, in English, "you fucking whore."

The words put me over the limit, and I shot my own semen up into my father, filling him with his third and largest load that night.

I let myself drop onto him, and ran my hands over his arms and shoulder, breathing in the scent of his sweat. I slapped his strong ass, my cock still firm and seeding in him, I whispered "Bir daha," once more.

THE END