Murat and Me as Meat Between

There’s the way their postures echo each other’s, and the matching hats in black and white, with the equally casual shirts and pants. All of it suggests Mehmet and Murat think of themselves as two halves of the same whole.

Their giving off the friendship vibe, the sexy twin vibe—there’s even a hint of bubble-gum-rapper-bad-boy. And all of it torques my engine, gets me going, the tame and taboo, the eager-beaver-welcoming-committee, plus the whole, were-so-all-set-without-you-thing, gets me started, rocks my cock.

I want to hug Mehmet.

Then I want to yank of that hat, before I rip off his shirt. I want to bare my chest, but keep my jeans on. I want our cocks to be frigging, while we lie, bellies pressed close, with me on top, and all the heavy artillery ready to pop out, and practically kissing already, like our mouths—which are all over each other—nothing but the heavy seam at our crotches to stand in the way.

I want all that, so that when we do separate, and only enough to unzip, that’s all—then everything that’s straining, leaping and raring to go, just bursts out, cannon-angled, and ready to tango.

I want Murat’s naked ass in the air with his cock at my ass, rubbing my cleft. I want to be the meat in the middle, topping Mehmet, while Murat does me. Black hat, white hat and me, reamed between, that’s what I want.

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