Abdul is a small Turkish oil wrestler assigned to wrestle the legendary heavyweight Mustafa Mounsir, but when he unexpectedly wins, Abdul is in for a treat! That’s cuz Mustafa is gonna have to bend over and take his punishment for losing, but can Abdul dish it out? Can Mustafa handle this foray into the world of Twink on Top?!
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Abdul Karademir thought this was ridiculous. He didn’t know why he agreed to it. He was a wrestler — a pehlivan, a contestant in Turkish oil wrestling — but he weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. The league he and his villagemates wrestled in didn’t have formal weight classes, but he and Mustafa Mounsir should never have been assigned to wrestle together.
It was clearly a mistake. But the other wrestlers thought it was hilarious, and they scattered around the field whooping and ululating. They cheered on Mustafa mainly, not Abdul. No cheering for the underdog here. Abdul felt tiny when he came out onto the field, while Mustafa strode out on his massive trunk-like thighs, each step seemingly as long as Abdul was tall.
“Fuck him up, Mustafa!”
“Bring that clean-shirt down!”
Abdul was not very popular, that was why they wanted to see him get his ass beaten by Mustafa. The other wrestlers were all rough machos who mostly worked for the oil rig right off the coast, near the village. They were gone for months at a time, and when they returned, they were horny, aggressive and macho. They worked with their hands, which were callused, and their broad shoulders were burnt and scarred, strapping, with tufts of unkempt hair stretching down from their necks. Abdul was the only wrestler who worked a white-collar job — he was a doctor at the clinic in the village — and he was the smallest. He was proud of his abilities as a wrestler and as a doctor, but he knew he couldn’t beat Mustafa.
Mustafa was a great big bear of a man. He was nearly six and a half feet tall. He was more than three hundred pounds of solid muscle, hair and flesh. His shoulders were so wide they looked uncomfortable, and his heavyset body had the gait of a war stallion. He could demolish three wrestlers like Abdul with his hands tied behind his back. Mustafa was the biggest wrestler for miles around, maybe in the entire province.
The whistle blew, and the match began. It happened so fast. Abdul only found out he was scheduled to wrestle Mustafa about ten minutes ago.
Abdul was nervous, though he thought he shouldn’t be, since no one expected him to win. If he could just avoid losing within the first two or three minutes, he could be proud of himself. that would be a good enough showing.
The other wrestlers hooted and hollered. They cheered Abdul on, but it was clear who they wanted to win — they wanted Abdul to wrestle hard so Mustafa would feel compelled to beat him senseless. They wanted to watch the “clean shirt” get his ass handed to him.
As they circled each other, Mustafa glared at Abdul and flashed a cruel, cocky smile. There was no chance he’d let Abdul win, no chance he’d even play around a bit so Abdul could try. Like the other wrestlers, Mustafa hated the white-collar Abdul, whose smooth skin was light-brown and unmarked by scars.
“Take him down, Mustafa!”
As Abdul gripped Mustafa’s oily chest, he remembered exactly why he had agreed to this match instead of forfeiting from the getgo. He knew he’d lose, and he’d be humiliated by it. He hadn’t agreed to wrestle because he thought he could win. He had simply dreamed of grappling with a greased-up bear like Mustafa, so he jumped at the chance.
That was because Abdul was a great admirer of the male physique. Mustafa’s physique was beyond what Abdul got to experience most of the time, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands all over Mustafa’s body. Abdul was a doctor, he’d even treated Mustafa at the clinic. But his mindset was totally different in doctor-mode than it was now, and he never got to take in the grandeur and majesty of Mustafa’s massiveness when he saw him as a doctor.
“I’m gonna destroy you, boy,” Mustafa growled as soon as the match began. “You pansy-ass weakling! Go back to your clinic, with the girls and women, you will fit in there.” He said it loud enough that everyone heard and laughed.
Abdul blushed, but there was little he could do about it, he wasn’t quick-witted enough to come up with any insults of his own, and he could barely reach Mustafa’s face much less punch him in it. In any case, he did work mainly with women — nurses — so he couldn’t dispute that part of it.
Mustafa’s hands rammed into Abdul’s kisbet. The kisbet is a pair of short pants, like lederhosen that end over the upper ankle. They were black leather, stiff but loose around the waist. The goal of Turkish oil wrestling was to gain control over your opponent, usually by reaching into the kisbet and grabbing ahold of it from the inside. Since both wrestlers and their kisbets were coated in olive oil, it was slippery and chaotic, and the only way to win was to put your hands all over your opponent. That was one of the things Abdul liked most about it.
“Yeah, bring him down, Mustafa! You can do it! Destroy that smooth-skinned nerd!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
Mustafa reached into Abdul’s kisbet, hands brushing against his cock. He had rough fingers, huger than seemed possible, like cricket bats it seemed to Abdul. The larger wrestlers touching his manhood sent a shiver of desire up Abdul’s spine, but he straightened his back to focus on the match. The more the other wrestlers chanted for Mustafa, the more devoted Abdul was to making this match last long enough he could his head up at the end of it.
As his hands roughly grabbed, then let go of, Abdul’s dick, Mustafa growled at him. He clutched the leather of Abdul’s kisbet, which was coated in olive oil. Mustafa failed to get a good grip on it.
Abdul had a fighter’s spirit, so he managed to dart away despite his innate desire to stand right there let Mustafa paw all over him. He swung around, jumping onto Mustafa’s back, hoping to push him to the ground, but Mustafa stood up straight and shook his back, trying to get Abdul off.
“Climbing Mount Mustafa, huh!?”
“Oooh!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
“Bring him down!”
The other wrestlers laughed. Only a handful of people had shown up to watch today’s match, a small crowd even by this tiny league’s standards. Most of the audience was the other wrestlers, either waiting for their match or recovering from it, who hooted as Abdul gripped Mustafa’s broad, strapping back. Mustafa’s muscles tightened and rippled beneath Abdul’s touch.
But his grip was not tight. Abdul didn’t have a good hold on Mustafa because both men were covered in oil. He clawed at Mustafa’s skin as he slipped, and his feet tried in vain to grip Mustafa’s body. His flesh was firm but greasy with olive oil, and Abdul kept treading with his feet to stay aloft on Mustafa’s slippery back.
As Abdul slid down the man’s rippling-muscled back, his toes grabbed ahold of the waist of Mustafa’s kisbet, pulling that down along with him. He didn’t mean to, but he bared Mustafa’s asscheeks.
In seconds, Abdul was on the ground, standing behind Mustafa, with his face plastered in the meaty, hair-covered ass of the much bigger Turkish man. The reek and funk of Mustafa’s ass assaulted Abdul’s senses, and he inhaled deeply of it. He found the scent exhilarating, dizzying, electrifying. It smelled and tasted so strongly of man, and it made Abdul reel, as his hands roamed over Mustafa’s beaty body.
The wrestlers screamed with laughter as Mustafa quaked, and his asscheeks jiggled around Abdul’s face. All that only took a few seconds, as Mustafa struggled to regain his balance and his momentum.
The onlookers no doubt assumed Abdul was humiliated, rather than aroused, at touching Mustafa’s ass with his face, and that Mustafa was embarrassed to be naked (which was probably true). Accidental nudity happened occasionally, so it wasn’t a huge surprise. That was why no women or children were allowed anywhere’s near the field on match days. Women didn’t even know how the sport worked.
The wrestlers jeered at Mustafa’s big swinging dick, which swayed between his legs as he tried to get Abdul in front of him. It was so thick — Abdul wondered if it was always that thick and how did he never noticed that when Mustafa came into the clinic for a physical exam — it swayed like a pendulum as Mustafa swaggeringly stood. It was a foot long and smooth, slightly lighter in color than Mustafa’s baked brown body.
Abdul didn’t want to move. He loved the taste of Mustafa’s olive oil-scented ass. It was sweet and salty and savory, he could have stayed there and licked the man’s burly ass for hours if he could have gotten away with it. But Mustafa was too macho to allow anything like so, so that face-in-ass position only lasted a few moments before Mustafa bent over to pull his kisbet up.
And that was when Abdul took his opportunity — he grabbed the kisbet as well. No strategy in mind, Abdul simply saw that he could hold Mustafa’s kisbet, and that was the goal of Turkish oil wrestling, so that was what Abdul did. He pulled the kisbet back as Mustafa pulled it up, and the result was Mustafa falling forward on his knees, then collapsing onto his belly when he lost his balance.
That was it. Within a few seconds, Abdul was declared the winner. He held onto that kisbet with both hands, and he was just barely strong enough to lift Mustafa’s feet a few inches off the ground. With Mustafa collapsing on his belly, bare ass resplendently brown in the brilliant Turkish sun, all he could do was squeal and flail about. He had no leverage to get Abdul away from him.
“Oh shit, the little man won!”
“Did you see that?!”
The match was over. Abdul had won. His face was scrunched up, still dripping with the oil that had been on Mustafa’s hairy asscheeks.
The audience cheered, momentarily on Abdul’s side even though he was white-collar. He was so shocked he barely registered what had happened as the wrestlers stormed the field and congratulated him. He was mobbed, and presumably Mustafa was too, but Abdul couldn’t see far through the crowd of wrestlers and fans.
Abdul accepted their congratulations with as much grace and magnamity as he could muster. The onlookers all seemed to have forgotten they were rooting for Mustafa throughout this, like he hoped to convince Abdul and each other that they had bet on the longshot all along.
As the celebration died down, abdul and the other wrestlers headed into the hammam attached to the field, while they relived and relived again the match that had just happened. Abdul was aching now that the adrenaline had worn off, and his bruised and battered body hurt. He didn’t let on though.
While hammams were very often ornate and fancy buildings, this was a squat concrete structure with a few saunas, baths and showers. The floor was dirty, with underwear and oil-soaked kisbets littering the ground. It reeked in here, of body hair and olive oil and other base, musky scents Abdul couldn’t place.
“Good job, Abdul!”
“Mustafa is not as unbeatable as he seemed. You beat him when even Kaan couldn’t.”
But Abdul was not very popular among the other wrestlers, who still regarded him as an outsider. Even as a winner now, he was not popular, and they all remembered that he was a white-collar clean-shirt, not a roughneck like them. Soon the excitement had worn off, and the men were all gone. Abdul delayed leaving, both because he was worked up over the victory and because he always liked to hang around watching his fellow wrestlers wash the oil off their muscles.
He hadn’t even noticed that Mustafa was still there. He had been upset, and he spoke with his coach — Coach Badem — after the match, which was why he hadn’t showered yet. Coach Badem no doubt scolded him for his loss to a much smaller man.
When Abdul finally got close again to Mustafa, he glared at him, and Abdul looked down. His confidence was gone.
“Hey, I’m sorry about that,” Abdul said. “I… didn’t mean to pull your kisbet down or anything. That’s just how it happened. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Do not be sorry. You won,” he said.
“Well… okay. But everybody knows you’re a better wrestler than me. You’re stronger, heavier, you’re better in every way at this. That’s why they were so excited to see me win. It was a fluke. Everyone knows that,” Abdul said. “It’s just fun to see an underdog win.”
“I know,” Mustafa said. His voice was grim and flat-lipped. “Coach Badem says I should punish myself for my failure.”
“That’s not really necessary-“
“You must ram me.”
“What?” Abdul thought for sure he had misheard that.
But Mustafa didn’t repeat himself. He sighed and grabbed for Abdul’s kisbet. He pulled it down, revealing Abdul’s bare cock, and he dropped to his knees. Before Abdul could process what was happening, Mustafa swallowed it to the root, all in one smooth motion.
Standing on his feet and sucking in his breath, Abdul gasped, unable to think of how to respond except standing there and letting it happen. Sparks of pleasure erupted instantly throughout Abdul’s body, and a long wavering moan escaped from his throat. Mustafa’s hairy body exuded heat palpable even in the hammam, as Abdul’s hands once again roamed over his muscles.
The other wrestlers always said that whoever lost was going to get plowed. They frequently threatened it, against each other and, especially, against the wrestlers from other villages when they competed in tournaments. They whispered warnings not to drop the soap in the shower.
But nobody ever followed through. That was something that happened like a hundred years ago, as far as Abdul knew. That was how they used to punish the loser. Abdul always suspected that this sport was invented by men who wanted to set up precisely that sort of scenario.
But no modern-day wrestlers did that when they lost, right? He assumed it didn’t happen anymore, if it ever did. It was just a joke, a threat, not something that would actually be done.
He couldn’t deny that Mustafa’s big body was stooped way over so he could handle Abdul’s dick, which sprang to attention in his big mouth. Even as Abdul insisted to himself it wouldn’t happen, Mustafa let Abdul’s dick slip past his lips.
He gagged profusely at first, coughing up a thick mess of spit that dripped down Abdul’s dick. Since both men were still covered in oil, their flesh gleamed, Abdul’s was smooth, nearly hairless aside from his head and thin beard. Mustafa, on the other hand, was marked with scars, evidence of his rough-and-tumble career on an oil rig and a lifetime of drunken fighting when he was in his less-devout phases.
Mustafa’s beard was thick and scratchy, rubbing against Abdul’s thighs as Mustafa moved his head up and down that shaft. He seemed surprised that he had trouble deep-throating Abdul — because, Abdul guessed, Mustafa assumed that a small man must have a small dick.
Intense pleasure shot through Abdul’s body. He had been so shocked by it happening in the first place that his dick took a minute or two to fully react, and then a bolt of pleasure shot through Abdul’s frame. He moaned and grunted, watching the muscles of Mustafa’s back as he struggled to deep-throat Abdul’s dick.
Abdul groaned and gripped the thick mess of dark hair on Mustafa’s head. His cock pulsated as precum leaked out. Mustafa wrinkled his nose but didn’t stop.
The difference in size made it difficult for Mustafa to get his mouth all the way down on Abdul’s cockshaft. He had to stoop way over, and Abdul was still on his toes so Mustafa could reach his crotch more easily. But the sight of the big Turkish brute being forced to struggle with his dick turned Abdul on.
Then Mustafa pulled off. He wrinkled his nose and glared at Abdul, as though Abdul was making him do this. Tendrils of spit and maybe precum still connected his mouth to Abdul’s crotch.
“What? I’m sorry, don’t be mad at me. I didn’t tell you to do this. Coach Badem said to do it, you could tell him no,” Abdul said. “You could tell him you did it but not actually do it. I’ll back you up-“
“I am not angry at you. I am angry at myself. Coach Badem says that I must teach my body that it will get punished for humiliating me like this. He says I should not have allowed you to get in that position,” he said. He hung his head. “I think… he is right. I can get a sponsor if I focus on my athleticism. I should not have lost to you, and my humiliation will teach me a lesson. I will not misjudge a man for being small again.”
Mustafa bent over the bench in the center of the hammam. His body was so wide it wasn’t easy to balance himself on it, but his thick ass was right in front of Abdul. Abdul had to stand on his toes to gain access to it. He had never plowed such a big man, whose cheeks were bigger than Mustafa’s head, and covered with thick black hairs that trapped the sweat and olive oil that remained stuck to his skin.
He held his breath as he pushed his cock in. Mustafa bit his lip and grunted in pain. Abdul gripped his broad back and pushed in deeper until he felt resistance.
“Are you okay?”
“Just stick it in me! You are supposed to hold me down and make it hurt. It is supposed to be punishment,” Mustafa said. He sounded frustrated, like he just wanted to get this over with. He closed his eyes.
“I can’t hold you down, Mustafa,” he said. “I’m like a third your size. There’s no way I can keep you down. And I don’t want to anyway. If it hurts, tell me to stop-“
“No, keep going.”
“I can use lube, I don’t have any, but we could take a break and find some, or we could just get more olive oil,” Abdul said. He grabbed a pitcher of olive oil from a shelf nearby. It made for a fairly effective lube, he found, and it helped him get a few more inches in past those hairy asscheeks.
Soon enough, Abdul was drilling his dick in easily. He mounted Mustafa to get a better angle at his ass, and he rode his back like a horse. Since he was so much shorter than Mustafa, Abdul’s head was wedged in the meaty center of his back.
Mustafa shifted until he was on his knees on the edge of the bench. His massive cock dangled. Abdul wondered idly if it was hard, then reached for it without giving it a second thought.
It wasn’t hard, but as soon as he touched it, two things happened. Mustafa jumped, startled, as Abdul wrapped his fingers around his cock, and then his manhood rocketed to attention as though it had just been waiting for someone to touch it. Mustafa groaned, the pained tenor in his voice now replaced by a slow melting pleasure.
“You are giving me a reacharound? I do not deserve it,” Mustafa said. He hung his head and winced as though speaking reawakened the pain in his ass — or maybe it was the surge of pleasure now that Abdul stroked his dick.
“You do so, don’t be so down on yourself,” Abdul said. “Losing wasn’t a big deal, it was an utter fluke.” Despite Mustafa’s protestations, he didn’t try to get his dick away from Abdul’s hand. He bucked his hips as he moved in sync with Abdul’s motions, clenching on Abdul’s dick while his own manhood pulsated beneath Abdul’s fingers.
The bitter and sweet taste of olive oil seared into Abdul’s mind as the sweat and oil mixture flowed into his mouth from Mustafa’s back. Abdul licked and groped all over Mustafa’s body. Despite his verbal reluctance, Mustafa seemed to enjoy every moment of it.
Mustafa even shot his load first. Maybe that was just because Abdul was a doctor who knew exactly how to hit the prostate, but he liked to think it was because he was so good at it. He could feel the intense pleasure coursing through Mustafa’s veins as those broad back and shoulders muscles writhed. Mustafa grunted so hard and so desperately that it sounded almost painful.
Cum flowed across Abdul’s hand. He held out his other hand to soak most of it up, wanting to eat it. His semen was thick, hot, creamily dripping between Abdul’s fingers. Mustafa’s body shook and writhed as his orgasm flowed through him.
Then Abdul licked all the cum off his hands. The sour and sweet flavor overwhelmed his senses, and sent his own pleasure to the next level. He rolled his eyes and arched his back. His dick slammed in and out of Mustafa’s broad ass, which was now loose enough that plowing was easy. It didn’t seem to hurt him any longer either, which was nice, Abdul didn’t want to cause him pain.
But he did writhe as pleasure overcame him. Mustafa’s orgasm continued even as his dick limpened up, and his ass squeezed around Abdul’s dick.
“Ah, oooooh, stick it me…” Mustafa murmured, then bit his lip like he regretted saying it. But his ass didn’t lie and couldn’t hide how intensely he loved the prostate stimulation.
That was enough to send Abdul over the edge. He gasped and grunted, gripping Mustafa tightly. Cum flowed out of his cock, filling Mustafa’s ass. Abdul sighed loudly. Mustafa bucked and arched his back, grimacing as he accepted every drop of cum.
Then Abdul backed out. He held onto Mustafa’s tight, flexed back muscles though, savoring their feel and taste until Mustafa shifted. Mustafa stood, a sheepish frown on his face like he was embarrassed at how easy that was.
“If Coach Badem asks,” Mustafa said softly. “Tell him I cried. Tell him it hurt very badly.”
Abdul nodded. He was too tired and spent to tell Mustafa he shouldn’t be so humiliated. He knew that wouldn’t work anyway, it would just sound patronizing, he thought. So he allowed it and watched as Mustafa strode off into the showers.
Abdul sat down, alone, still so shocked that he couldn’t even think about what to do next. He needed to shower too but he assumed that Mustafa wanted to be alone right now, and Abdul just wanted to sit. Besides, he was covered in Mustafa’s alpha scent at the moment, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to wipe that off.
As he waited for his turn in the shower, Abdul wondered how he could lose to Mustafa in a way that would make Coach Badem order Abdul to be on the bottom next time. Abdul resolved to lose in a particularly embarrassing way the next time he could do so — that would help Mustafa feel like he had regained his masculinity, while also being enjoyable for Abdul.
He smiled and sighed as he imagined what that would be like. He was interrupted by Coach Badem himself, who poked his head in, wrinkling his nose tentatively as if worried about what he would walk in on. When he saw that Abdul was there alone, he frowned.
“Did Mustafa…?”
“Yeah, he did it. He did what you wanted.”
“Good. I hope he learned his lesson.”
“I sure think so, Coach Badem,” Abdul said with a smile. “I think he learned that lesson very good. I was glad to teach him.”