Rob is in Turkey to sponsor a pehlivan — a Turkish oil wrestler — and maybe get a peek at his body. But it turns out Turks have some unusual ideas about what sponsors, can, should or may do to the men they sponsor, giving Rob an opportunity he’ll never forget!
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The whole plan was overly complicated, in retrospect. As Rob Winthrop dropped to his knees and started to jerk Kaan off, that had become abundantly clear. It had proven much easier to get Kaan’s thick uncut cock in his mouth than he thought it would be.
When Rob had decided to sponsor a Turkish oil pehlivan (called a pehlivan) so he could spend time alone with him, he thought he’d be lucky to get a look at his naked body. He came up with a long excuse for why he needed to see him before and after the match (he didn’t mention that he hoped that was when Kaan would be naked, greasing himself up). He assumed the Turks who managed Kaan’s career wouldn’t like that.
As soon as he met Kaan Gözübüyük, right before the first match began, Kaan stripped off all his clothes there in the staging area. It wasn’t even a locker room, it was wide open, dozens of pehlivans and trainers hanging around, plus a handful of regional Turkish press.
Kaan was a massive, hairy-chested Turkish man with a big uncut cock. He had no regard for modesty. He stood there proudly, hairy body and massive cock all hanging free, still ungreased for the moment. He must have realized Rob was talking to his coach about him, but he still showed no reaction.
Rob talked to the coach, learning about strategy for the match. Rob didn’t understand much of it, and he didn’t pay attention to the coach’s words. Rob had no interest in the sport of it and was unaware until this very moment that a sponsor was apparently expected to hear about strategy and training regiments, promises to win the championship this year. Now that Rob knew listening, and presumably participating in, these kinds of discussions was part of being a sponsor, he realized he didn’t need such a complicated plan to get in here.
“That sounds wonderful, sounds like he’s got a real shot this year,” Rob said. That seemed like the kind of thing a sponsor should say. Inside though, he just kept sneaking glances at Kaan’s motionless body.
Were some of the other sponsors massaging the men? It looked like it, in the periphery of Rob’s eyesight, but he didn’t move his head to see more clearly. That coach could really go on. Some of them didn’t have as much to say, but Kaan’s coach, Coach Badem Kubat, was a real motormouth. He kept switching back to Turkish for a few sentences, as though he thought Rob was fluent, but only in short bursts.
He wondered both how far Kaan was willing to go, how far Coach Badem was willing to allow Kaan to go, and how far modern Turkish society would allow them to go. Now that he saw Kaan in person, Rob had a strong feeling that Kaan was one of those rough machos who didn’t much care whom he rammed so long as he was on top. It’s not shameful if you’re sticking it in someone else’s hole, Rob thought (and hoped Kaan thought).
And then, finally, the coach stopped talking. The other pehlivans had started rubbing olive oil into their skin, and in a few cases, coaches or sponsors or men of uncertain relevance did the rubbing. Much to Rob’s delight, Kaan gave him a bucket of olive oil and invited him to get started — Kaan apparently only spoke Turkish, so he used hand motions to communicate that. He flexed his biceps and his chest, then stood there like a statue, like he expected to be inspected by Rob. So Rob tried to pretend he wasn’t excited to cover Kaan’s hairy muscles in olive oil, as he grimaced and studiously caressed Kaan’s frame.
He eyed him up and down like he was evaluating his musculature. Other sponsors were doing that as the pehlivans got greased up.
In Turkish oil wrestling (yağlı güreş), men oil each other up and wear these loose trousers called kisbet. The goal was to gain control of one’s opponent’s kisbet, such as by sticking your hands down his kisbet. Since both men were greased up with olive oil, they were both slick and slippery, and since they were Turkish, they were handsome, muscular, bulging with powerhouse bodies. It was Rob’s favorite sport.
He massaged oil into every inch of Kaan’s body. He caressed his chest and shoulders, and even wiped oil over Kaan’s asshole and his cock and balls. As he did, he patted each muscle as though he approved of it. He kept one hand on Kaan’s powerfully muscled asscheek, which was flexed tight.
“I will wrestle… sir… the best, uh… Sir…” He gruntingly spoke in English. It was clear he didn’t actually know English, but someone had taught him the words he needed to say. “I am, I have, a, uh, I have a, I am planning, on… plan to strategy. For winning.” He spoke thickly, like his mouth was full of pudding. Rob wrapped one hand around his cock, but he didn’t stroke it, he waited to see if Rob was scolded by either Kaan or the coach. Kaan showed no reaction at all.
“Please do not jerk him off now,” said Coach Badem, who spoke barely comprehensible British-inflected English. “It is bad before a match. It will inhibit his performance.”
Rob blushed and let go of Kaan’s cock. Was this normal? Did a lot of pehlivan sponsors jerk their men off? Now that he thought about it, that seemed likely to Rob — what other sport gives you nearly naked men rubbing oil into each other’s muscles and sticking their hands down each other’s pants? Of course they did it. “Sure, okay-“
“After the match, you may do as you wish. You may service him then, he will submit.”
They walked away then, leaving Rob with greasy hands and the scent of Turkish muscle-sweat in his nostrils. He watched Kaan’s meaty ass shake once he put on his loose kisbet. Kaan gave no indication he understood what Coach Badem said. Was that because Kaan already assumed it would happen? Or did Kaan not speak English well enough to understand?
Rob headed out to the stadium, where he found a seat away from anyone else, it was in a section reserved for sponsors, coaches and others, though they mostly stayed down on the field, giving Rob plenty of space to be alone. He watched the match with a hardon the entire time. His seat was near the action, so close he could taste droplets of sweat and oil on his tongue.
It took most of an hour, but eventually Kaan took his turn, wrestling a similarly massive buck from the other side of Turkey. By then, Rob had picked up enough to be interested in watching, to see if Kaan would win. Kaan seemed like a huge brute, but then, the other Turk did too. Rob would have gladly serviced either one of them.
Turks shouted and cheered. The audience called for one or the either pehlivan to win, and encouraged them both to wrestle their hardest. Rob followed along with his limited Turkish. Luckily none of the whooping and calls were grammatically complex, and Rob got the gist of them.
“Go Kaan!” Rob blushed again because he felt kind of silly, a white guy yelling in poorly articulated Turkish from a lonely corner of the stadium. But no one seemed to notice him. Kaan began the match with a quick grapple, but he was unable to gain control of his opponent’s kisbet. Both men’s muscles writhed, gleaming with olive oil in the brilliant midday Turkish sun.
Flesh slapped on flesh. He wished he could ram his head between their bodies, licking the sweat and olive oil off their bodies. All he could do was watch them fumble with each other’s cock and balls, stroking each other’s hairy asscheeks beneath their kisbets.
Finally, Kaan won. He pumped his biceps with a big goofy grin on his face. The crowd erupted in cheers.
That lasted for only a moment before the referee announced him the winner and Kaan put his stony macho face on — it was untoward for a pehlivan to gloat excessively. Still, Rob could see him bristling with pride.
After that, the tournament continued, but Rob was done watching. He snuck into the changing area just a few paces behind Kaan, whose body was streaked with sweat. He was still worked up, muscles quavering like he was just looking for someone to punch. He paced through the changing area.
“Wait,” Rob said when he got in the changing area and saw that Kaan’s coach was leading him into the shower. “Let me see Kaan first.” Rob didn’t want Kaan to shower before he got a chance to taste all that delicious sweat.
Still shadowboxing the air, Kaan complied, and he came to Rob near the door to the changing area. Just a few feet away the next bout was beginning. The air here was redolent with the scene of male sweat and body hair, and of course rank olive oil. They said they used only high quality olive oil, but Rob was knowledgeable enough to guess that that was a lie. It was cheap-ass stuff.
Not that Rob was bothered by it.
He came closer to Kaan, inhaled deeply of his scent and planted his tongue right on Kaan’s bicep. He licked up all the musk there. Kaan looked at him like he was crazy. Rob chuckled. “Is this alright? I want to lick you all over, Kaan.” He kept his tongue moving up and down his arm, which Kaan flexed.
With a frown on his face, Kaanlooked at Coach Badem, and they spoke in Turkish. The coach cleared his throat. “You may not put a finger in his ass. But yes, you may service him all over.”
Kaan grumbled to himself and danced back and forth on his feet, while Rob’s tongue sopped up all the foul sweat and bitter olive oil clinging to his muscles. Though he played himself off as too tough and crude to be into it, he loved plowing men — he could be meaner and rougher with them than he could with girls — he just didn’t want it to be obvious that he liked it.
And he truly did not like getting licked like a kitten like this. Many sponsors wished to do so, and Kaan would have refused, but then nobody would fund his career.
So he stood there with his arms stiff, cock dangling like he was too good for Rob. Kaan was used to his sponsor controlling everything about him, from what he ate to where he exercised to which girls he spent time with. Having one jerk him off was better than any of those possibilities.
Rob blushed and got started. He first sucked all the sweat off his chest and his back, then his arms, his armpits, his thighs, his hair-choked ass. Kaan was very hairy, which Rob loved. He wanted to taste each kinky black hair and savor the salty sweat that clung to each one. The flavor of sharply astringent sweat flooded Rob’s senses.
You may not stick a finger in his ass.
Was that his only rule? The coach’s words took a moment for Rob to grasp. As his tongue lapped at Kaan’s hairy chest, Rob wondered if Coach Badem was giving him permission to do even more than this. Was it normal? Kaan reacted like it was a necessary but distasteful part of his career.
The bitter savory taste of olive oil assaulted Rob’s senses. He loved how it accentuated the salty-sourness of his sweat. He could even taste a second layer of sweat — that was the other pehlivan’s, the one who lost his match to Kaan, which had a different, grassier, fresher flavor to it. Rob’s hands caressed Kaan’s muscles, which flexed and puckered beneath his grasp.
Kaan stood there, grunting, hands on his waist. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes. Rob dropped to his knees. He picked up Kaan’s cock and looked up — no reaction at all. He tried to make eye contact with Kaan, but his eyes were closed.
This was the part Kaan loved. He felt like a big man, like he was so powerful he could force another man to submit — he knew in this case he wasn’t forcing the man, but still, to him it felt like he could have forced it. He was potent enough and strong enough and tough enough to make a man submit to his will.
At last Rob put the tip in his mouth, just the tip, which again sparked no response from Kaan. Rob’s hands reached up massaged his chest while his mouth suckled on Kaan’s cocktip, which made a twinge of firmness erupt in his shaft. It still was nowhere near a full erection, but it was beginning, and Kaan’s muscles rippled from head to toe. Rob pulled off his knob and craned his head around Kaan’s powerful thighs to make eye contact with Coach Badem, “Sorry, is this alright? I don’t want to sponsor a man whose manhood doesn’t work. I must inspect him. I know he won his match, but I do not know how serious of a rival the other pehlivan was.”
Coach Badem nodded. “Yes. That is fine. Jerk him off all you wish.”
Kaan grunted and said something in Turkish. The coach responded like he disagreed, and they argued. Then the coach flared his nostrils.
“Kaan says you may put a finger in his ass,” he said. He hesitated as though going to give a reason, but then he just bit his lip. Finally he added, “it is only just… It is a valid… There are medical reasons you may wish to do that, to inspect his manhood and its functioning.”
Rob hadn’t noticed that Kaan’s eyes were open, sneaking a glance down at Rob. When they made eye contact, Kaan closed them again and pretended that they had never been open. His muscular body swayed from side to side as Rob sucked on his dicktip.
A giggle escaped from Rob’s lips as he realized that Kaan was asking to get fingered. No wonder, he thought, Coach Badem had hurried to forbid that. Rob’s hand snuck up between Kaan’s hairy legs to his ass, which was also choked with dense kinky hairs.
A sigh escaped from Kaan’s lips as he felt Rob’s finger teasing the rim of his asshole, and Kaan’s desirous reaction made Coach Badem let a groan escape from his own lips. Rob’s fingertip on Kaan’s tight asshole made him shudder and bite his lip to avoid a louder sound.
“Remember yourself, Kaan.”
He disliked Coach Badem telling him what to do all the time. Unlike his sponsor, Kaan’s coach didn’t pay him money (he did buy him food and clothes and girls and other things, but Kaan didn’t think about that too much), so Kaan didn’t want to hear orders from him. He didn’t have a choice but to do what Coach Badem said though.
As he kept stroking, Rob slipped his finger between Kaan’s cheeks. The flesh there was choked with fur, sweat and olive oil, which made Rob moan with desire. Kaan grunted too, though he tried to keep it from being too loud — he was still pretending for Coach Badem’s sake that he didn’t want to do this.
Then Rob’s finger slipped in further, massaging just inside the rim of his asshole. Kaan groaned, his dick rocketing to full erection even before Rob entered him. His hole puckered and opened, virtually sucking Rob’s finger into him.
“Ah….” Kaan couldn’t help but moan. That bone-rattlingly deep grunt escaped from Kaan’s mouth, and his cock twitched. Precum flowed freely down Rob’s throat. The salty flavor was the same as, but somehow also different from, the taste of the oil-and-sweat film that covered Kaan’s body hair.
Kaan spread his legs to give Rob better access to his ass. That way Rob could really get in there, ramming his finger in and out now that he could tell that neither Kaan nor Coach Badem were going to stop him. First, Rob used his pinkie finger, but Kaan was a big man and he didn’t complain, so Rob switched to his middle finger. When even that went in easily, Rob used both his middle and index finger.
At last that made Kaan grunt and bite his lip. His asshole clenched down tightly on Rob’s finger. Pain made him break out in sweat again, but then that melted away, replaced by intense pleasure and a rolling, undulating moan. Rob worked that dick harder, timing his fingers so that he had them all the way in Kaan’s ass at the same moment that Rob had his mouth off Kaan’s cock, then he switched them, going back and forth until Kaan was on the verge of orgasm.
“Finish up, Kaan. There is much for us to do.”
His balls twitched and his cock pulsated angrily — Kaan hated to be rushed, especially by Coach Badem. He remained motionless with his hands on his hips, but he let loose with a panoply of sounds from his bearded mouth, and his knees buckled when a pang of bliss shot up his spine.
He was near orgasm, but it stopped now. Kaan’s cock was rock-hard, bigger than it had ever been before, or so it seemed to Kaan. He blinked his eyes, needing to fight back the urge to grab Rob’s head and make him swallow it some more.
As Rob turned around, lifting his ass in the air, Kaan grumbled happily but Coach Badem frowned. He didn’t say anything, but he did lightly pat Kaan on his meaty shoulder as though reminding him of something. Kaan growled and pushed him away. He knew Coach Badem didn’t think this was appropriate — he didn’t even approve of having sex with women in the ass — but Kaan was glad to prove he wasn’t Coach Badem’s slave.
“Shut up, I will do it. My sponsor has ordered me to,” Kaan said in Turkish, glad to have an excuse. He closed his eyes and murmured to himself, ignoring Coach Badem’s judgmental stare.
So Rob backed his ass onto Kaan’s cock. Still, Kaan didn’t move. He kept his hands on his hips even as his muscles rippled and he sighed like Rob was scratching an itch that had been bothering Kaan for a very long time. He watched his dick sink into Rob’s tight hole.
At first, pain hit Rob, and Kaan grunted, his hands still at his side as if he didn’t want to be involved in this. That wasn’t going to slow Rob down. It was now clear sponsors were allowed, even expected, to do this kind of thing, and it was true, he did want to test Kaan’s manhood. If it were lacking, Rob would stop sponsoring him. All those things were true.
And all of them added up to Rob being allowed to penetrate himself with Kaan’s massive cock. It twitched and slipped out of his ass. Rob kept one hand on the floor to steady himself, while his other hand reached behind his body to hold Kaan’s erection in place. It throbbed in his grip. Kaan jutted his hips forward, but otherwise he simply didn’t particpate, only watching as Rob struggled to force himself lower and lower on Kaan’s shaft.
A slow-melting sense of pleasure exploded in Rob’s ass. Kaan’s lack of movement was unusual and made the positioning rather awkward for Rob, but that only made the plowing feel even better. Rob slid his ass backwards onto Kaan’s dick, which had enough spit and olive oil on it to act as lube.
“Oh god, yes…” Rob said with a moan. He realized that made the coach uncomfortable, so he added, “Yes, I have made a good investment in your man. You have trained him well. His manhood is very functional.”
The coach wrinkled his nose. He patted Kaan on the asscheek, which made Kaan grunt. Kaan bristled and again pushed Coach Badem away, but then a series of snarls and staccato Turkish syllables erupted between them. In the end, Kaan’s coach kept a possessive hand on his ass — and was he fingering him? Rob thought maybe, but he couldn’t see at all without craning his head behind himself.
Rob wondered if masturbating was going to be a problem. It might not have even been obvious he was doing it, he thought, since the coach seemed to be trying not to look even if he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t noticing the details, and Rob’s hand was covered up by his body. So as Kaan’s dick rammed at his prostate again and again, Rob began stroking his own self off. His prostate thrummed, sending a continuous wave of pleasure through his body, a wave that was knocked up a notch with each thrust of Rob’s cock down on Kaan’s ass.
He got the feeling that Kaan knew Rob was jacking his own self off though, even if he couldn’t see. Rob always felt an intimate connection like this with any man who was inside him — that was, he thought, part of being a god. He could sense the pleasure roiling deep within Kaan.
Once Rob got into the swing of things, Kaan did dimple his asscheeks as he daggered his dick in Rob’s ass. Rob didn’t need to do all the work. But Kaan only barely moved his body, like he was concealing his participation in this — maybe Coach Badem would be mad if Kaan did it too willingly? Rob didn’t understand what was happening, but he was glad that Kaan was ramming, ever so slightly, pushing his dickshaft over and into Rob’s sensitive prostate.
When Kaan reached his orgasm, Rob sensed it coming. He felt it in his soul, in the throbbing of his cock, in the way he breathed, in the forefront of Kaan’s mind, in his balls crawling up in his sac. Rob felt it roll over him like a wave. Ecstasy erupted in both men’s bodies at the same time. Kaan’s muscles rippled beneath Coach Badem’s grasp.
His own load flew out onto the floor of the changing area, while Rob moaned so loud it made the coach uncomfortable. Kaan grunted furiously, aggressively, though not loudly — he twisted and writhed, finally letting go of his own hips and grabbing Rob by the waist.
He slammed his cock all the way into Rob, then pressed down on him with all of his might. That forced his entire massive manhood into Rob’s ass, while his chest pressed against Rob’s smooth back.
As though he had been expecting this, the coach barked an order — which Rob could guess was quit it! — and smacked Kaan’s ass again and again to get his attention. Kaan snarled, ignored him, then pushed him away one more time.
Finally it was done. Rob’s ass was so full he couldn’t help but moan, squirming as Kaan slowly withdrew his cock. Each centimeter that slid out Rob’s rim sent another burst of sensations to wrack Rob’s tiny body. Kaan continued stonefacing even as the aftershocks of his own orgasm visibly rippled through his body.
At last, Kaan’s limp dick popped out, and Rob sighed when a mind-blowing sense of relief flooded his body. He had rarely been rammed so good. He moaned and collapsed onto the floor of the changing area, watching as Kaan scowled while Coach Badem scolded him.
“You should not have done that. It was disgusting, and it is not tolerated in this country..”
Kaan grumbled, hung his head, rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, sir.” He wished he could just wrestle, without coaches and journalists and fans, just him and his opponent and someone submissive he could drain his balls into when he was done. That, he thought, was the best part of yağlı güreş.
“Goodbye,” Rob said when they finally walked away. “Good match, Kaan. You’re an excellent pehlivan.”
