Duel Speed
“Rami and Mehmet,” wheeler dealers from our Turkish branch” they want to take us to their cousin’s new restaurant—ply us with belly dancers.” I guess I’ll take Brad he gets along with those Turks.
The long fingers of his elegant hands loosely curled, the dexterous thumbs hooking, pressing into flesh on their ratchet-swivel climb up the column of my cock, as slow and relentless as Rami’s climb from grocer to international dealer—the proficiency the same that serenaded me on the Sitar, the night we met, right before he offered to massage my back, proceeding to knead each knot for a small eternity.
Taking his sweet- ass time, seduction style a la control freak—make that beautiful control freak.
I can still feel those smooth palms, see his beautiful intent face, long-lashed onyx eyes, sensitive nose, and perfectly bowed lips. I remember the exquisiteness of his touch, the torturous sound of my own moans.
Mehmet pouncing on me while I bathed in the tub, throwing off his clothes, corkscrew curls giving him an air of Quasimodo, the purple-headed log in his pants leaping like a trained dolphin in his big hands—my ass swished from under me—little more than a flash from his endearing gap-toothed smile to warn me of his intentions, so I was forced to grab an empty rod on the side of the tub, while wresting a fistful of shower curtain with my other hand, believing I was going to crack my skull on the lip of the tub—the energizing sting of those big hands taking my happily languishing cock to flag-pole stiffness in less time than it took for me to nod my happy, if overwhelmed, acquiescence when he lifted a leg over each side of the tub and planted himself between them.
That enormous cock pounding my depths, those graceful fingers milking my balls.
For those two, I’ll happily endure an evening of Chester the Molester’s ogling belly dancers, getting drunk and saying things to the waiter like,” I’d like to order two of those, one for my face and one for my lap.“
Who am I to talk?
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