Soaked to the skin
By Maximilian Cummings
Part 2
It was not something Hannah could put her finger upon: much less describe. There was a feeling, not a strong feeling more a nagging doubt that all had not been as it seemed; that the man’s bonhomie and easy conversation was a trifle contrived; that there was more to his pleasantries than met the eye. But she was not sure; it was only a small worry at the time.
It was only later, looking back that she realised her behaviour had not been normal, that it had slowly and subtly changed, that she had not been acting as she usually would and that realisation had caused her to seek an explanation. The limited evidence pointed towards him; that he had done something to her; something early on: there was no question he had not done something to her later! There was, after all, no one else involved.
But it had not been planned; the whole meeting at the railway station had been happenstance. Surely it could not all have developed out of an accidental meeting in the rain?
The interview had, despite it all, gone well. Hannah had not seen anyone frowning at her clothes, at the way they looked crumpled as if she had not ironed them after the wash. They had, of course, mostly been men and she would not really have expected them to notice such things. Hannah smiled; her close friend, Angie Scott, would have had a bon mot on the subject along the lines of men tending to see the woman under the clothes; indeed seeing through the clothes, missing them entirely, whilst looking for the body beneath.
The dampness in her panties had long gone yet Hannah was still conscious her body held the outcome of the morning’s intercourse. For no real reason that she could fathom, she had engaged in sexual relations with a complete stranger in a workman’s hut on the railway. She had taken all her clothes off, admittedly to dry them on a radiator, and this had lead through conversation to her own arousal and request that he fuck her ‘properly.’ It simply was not what she did. She was no virgin, not that her mother knew that, but she was no trollop who jumped on men’s laps just like that. Yet she had done just that and onto an older, indeed much older man as well. She had liked him. He had been amusing and so pleasant.
Amusing and pleasant were good but not enough surely to go that far and offer herself like that?
Hannah did not understand but she had, even so, accepted his invitation to call upon him again the next day. She was not inclined to fail to turn up – indeed she was looking forward to renewing the acquaintance. The man had been really rather engaging and he did not, after all, live far away and she could go on her bicycle.
Just at the time Hannah was returning by train from her interview and pondering on the strange events of the morning, a little up the road from the station and that very workmen’s hut that had been the scene of those events a marital conversation had begun:
“Oh, this is a nice surprise, dear. I thought you were staying the night in London at the Savoy. Did you meet Hannah Hutchings on the train as you had arranged?”
The man kissed his wife.
“Not as such; it all worked out rather differently from what I had planned. The rain rather stopped that particular play. No need to go to the hotel.”
“It was simply awful. I did feel for you. Did you get caught? But, I can see, you enjoyed yourself.”
“Oh yes, she is a fine, strapping young girl, just as you said.”
“You copulated?”
“Naturally. She was very pliable in the end. Quite juicy!”
“Lovely dear, you do still so enjoy that game. Will you be taking the young girl again?”
“Tomorrow I think. I’ve invited her to luncheon”
“Oh that will be nice.. It does save me all that messy bother. I really find it too much these days. Far better you enjoy yourself with younger women. They have the stamina and the lubrication! You can play with her whilst I have a lie down after luncheon. I shall enjoy seeing her at lunch. Tell me, what happened. I do like a good story.”
“You know I said it looked like it might rain later when I set out for the train?”
“Yes. The clouds were threatening and it did so pour after you’d gone. I was worried for you.”
“Well, I got truly caught but, more to the point, so did she. Like a half drowned kitten. Totally soaked and her blouse all transparent with the rain.”
“Pleasing for you, my dear: most tiresome for Hannah. Did you help her off with that? I told you she had a fine bosom.”
“Very fine. All in good time....”
The next morning found Hannah cycling up the road. It was drizzling slightly. She had her cagoule over her dress to keep it dry but the rain was wetting her legs. It did not really matter her trainers getting wet as she had her high heeled shoes in the bag on her back. Her mother had asked her where she was going and she had made some story up. Her mother had been worried about her going out in the rain “after yesterday.” Not that her mother knew half about “yesterday.”
She was very much too smartly dressed for cycling but an invitation to lunch at the big house was not something she could turn up in just jeans and tee shirt. Not, Hannah suspected, her dress would stay on all afternoon. She was sure Sir Hugh Wagstaff would find some excuse for nakedness and if he didn’t she would! Hannah did not understand it but she had enjoyed the fuck yesterday and wanted to do it again. She knew he was old enough to be her father—her grandfather even and, if all her ancestors had sired at fifteen or sixteen, even her great grandfather!
Hannah was puzzled at herself but there she was in her little grey dress cycling through the rain to East Mumble Hall. Her freshly bathed sex firmly planted on the leather of the bicycle seat, her hands on the handlebars and her wet legs propelling her along the road. Probably Sir Hugh would have preferred her naked beneath the cagoule, happy for her to hand it to him on her arrival, pleased to towel her legs to dryness and, no doubt, more than content that she could still wear her high heeled shoes. It would have felt funny just wearing the cagoule—rather clammy and sweaty without some cotton or the like between her skin and the nylon. Had it been fine she could have dispensed with the cagoule but what would the drivers and other cyclists she had passed have thought—let alone her mother seeing her off!
And what would the leather feel like without the protection of her grey dress and panties? Sir Hugh would, like as not, have made some very apposite comment about the intimacy the leather saddle had with her, about how jealous the boys would be, about how surprisingly intimate a bicycle saddle is with a girl. Hannah laughed as she turned into the entrance drive of the hall, her bicycle wheels making a pleasing scrunching sound on the gravel.
Leaning on his spade the gardener watched from the bushes. What a gay young thing with a pretty laugh! Such long smooth legs making the bicycle wheels go round. He wondered if Sir Hugh would need his assistance later.
A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds illuminating the stone porch as Hannah rode up. It really was quite a grand house. She looked up at the sky for the rainbow. Her optimism was rewarded, the rainbow arcing across the sky in brilliant colours.
“Hannah, my dear, so pleased you could come.” The man was there, hand outstretched, immaculately attired in tweed and brogues. Hannah had half expected to find him naked but for a leather thong—a kynodesme. Perhaps he wore it beneath.
“It is such a shame it is still raining. A walk in the garden would have been so pleasant. Perhaps, though, the conservatory after luncheon. The best we shall manage if the rain holds might be a walk down the garden and back? I would like to show you my garden. It is wonderful in the sunshine but this rain is such a nuisance. Let me take your coat.”
‘Coat’ was a little overstating Hannah’s cagoule but she was happy to hand it over and retrieve her high heels. They brought her rather higher than she had been in the workman’s hut when barefoot. She smoothed the grey dress down, her fingers lightly tracing her thighs. She did not like to mention her legs but they would dry.
“Please this way.”
Hannah walked before him. She had half expected his hand to pat her buttocks in a familiar way and encourage her forward. She could imagine the thin dress would have given the temptation but that did not seem to be Sir Hugh’s style. He had, after all, been very gentlemanly in the workman’s hut, not seeking to take advantage and, indeed, it was she who had taken the initiative—she thought.
Lady Lyanthe rose as Hannah entered the room.
“Hannah, my dear, how good of you to come.”
Hannah could recall meeting Lady Lyanthe before. Was it at the village hall or some social event of her mother’s? She could not remember.
“Pleased to meet you. It was kind of Sir Hugh to invite me. I... we... he was very kind to me at the station in the rain; I was on the way to an interview and...”
“Yes, yes Hugh told me. So unfortunate, getting so wet; must have been dreadful; but with a happy ending?”
“Yeah, I got to the interview OK.”
“Arnold Barker’s company I believe.”
“You know him?”
“Oh yes, we do. Hugh was at school with Arnold. A good man, indeed a good company. How did the interview go?”
It was all very pleasant. A glass of wine as an aperitif before lunch; easy relaxed conversation; both her hosts charming. Lady Lyanthe had even been complimentary about her dress. “Hugh is such a philistine. All he sees is the body beneath. Don’t you my dear? Too much a connoisseur of the female form. But it is of course good for a man to have a hobby. Better than motor cars—all that oil!”
The remark, though, was slightly strange. Humorous certainly but giving the suggestion that Lady Lyanthe knew more of the workman’s hut than Hannah would have expected.
Luncheon was equally good and as far as Hannah could judge the wine was very good indeed both white and red. Outside the day looked a little brighter, clouded over but with the occasional hint of blue. Sir Hugh saw Hannah looking at the window.
“Yes we shall try the garden later. We may risk getting all muddy but that is nature and perhaps Freikörperkultur.”
“Oh you and your Freikörperkultur,” said Lady Lyanthe, “only suitable for the Mediterranean or perhaps the Indies: not England even in summer. The Germans are a hardy lot but, unlike Hugh, I don’t have any German blood.”
“My maternal grandfather,” explained Sir Hugh, “I used to go to Germany a lot as a boy.”
Hannah was nonplussed; she had not expected such a clear continuation of yesterday’s conversation.
“You would like to try nudity outside the hut I presume?”
Hannah stared. It was evident Lady Lyanthe knew everything or at least nearly everything. What could she say? What should she say?
“Oh, I don’t know that I could.”
“It is such a fine dress,” said Lady Lyanthe, “it is a pity not to wear it but you would not want to get it all muddy. I could lend you something.”
But it was clear Sir Hugh was having none of it. “Nonsense. Strong strapping lass is not going to feel the cold; it is brightening; we might even see the sun; a glass of brandy will do the trick and if we keep moving at a brisk pace.”
“Well, I shall retire for a while. You are not to tire our guest, Hugh, and see she does not get cold.”
Hannah was not used to wine at lunch let alone strong spirits; still less to undressing in front of her hosts at lunch. Of course the brandy helped and Sir Hugh did seem to be rather persuasive.
Lady Lyanthe watched. Indeed Sir Hugh watched. It was not like the workman’s hut. Hannah felt herself on show.
“Such a pretty dress,” Lady Lyanthe was returning to her previous comment but now it was folded over a chair. Hannah was standing in Sir Hugh’s dining room with nothing but her bra and panties. It had not been easy pulling the dress over her head, not in company. Of course the underclothes were dry this time.
“And what a pretty figure. Come, my dear, don’t be shy, show us—or rather me—all.”
It seemed awfully rude not to comply straightway. Hannah blushed as her hands reached and she undid the bra strap and let it fall away, her breasts revealed. It was as easy to get it over with as wait. The panties came down.
“Why, my dear, how naughty. Shaving at your age. Well I never. Turn for me. Yes, a lovely figure, your dress did not lie. Well I’ll leave you now for a nap. Hugh I am sure will entertain you with his boundless energy.”
Sir Hugh showed his wife out before returning to his naked guest. “Right, let’s have this walk. Let me show you the grounds. But of course, first the Freikörperkultur.”
It was clear Sir Hugh had no compunction about undressing in front of Hannah. Even when his penis bounded out of his underpants already fully erect.
Hannah had seen it before but she could not avoid her eyes widening. It was the incongruity, perhaps or was it its fine proportions? It was as big as she remembered.
“Come,” he said and the two of them stepped out of the French Windows into the open air. It was not something you could do anywhere but clearly a naked couple walking out of the house, and down stone steps with the man sporting an erection was quite acceptable at the Hall. Not that there was obviously anyone to see. The gravel was a little uncomfortable on Hannah’s feet but soon her bare feet were on the wet grass; soft if a little cold. Sir Hugh was chatting merrily pointing out this and that about the house and the grounds.
A shaft of sunlight came between the clouds illuminating the lawn in yellow light—and the strolling pair.
“See the weather is brightening!”
Hannah was not so sure but the garden was certainly fine even if her mode of viewing it was a little peculiar. She was happier closer to the borders, on the grassed paths between hedges, indeed anywhere but out in the open in the middle of the lawn. She felt so exposed, so vulnerable. And Sir Hugh was certainly exposed. It really was most peculiar!
Sir Hugh had not been so right about the weather. The rain began to pour. It was very like being caught on the way to the railway station a few days before, only this time she did not have to wait to be soaked to the skin: that happened straightway—there were no clothes for the rain to soak through!
The rain soaking her hair, running down her neck, cascading off her breasts—off her cold hardened nipples—like two miniature waterfalls. Sir Hugh looked like he was perpetually urinating as the rain ran in streams down his stomach and much of it seemed to run out along his flaccid penis and rush to the ground in a stream. There was no point hurrying anywhere and Sir Hugh seemed to find it all very funny and Hannah could not but join in. There was no pressure, no ruined interview clothes, and no deadline to meet: they were out for a walk and the rain had come down and they were soaked. Naked and soaked. It was not as if the warm house was far away. It was easy just to enjoy being out in it, as natural a shower as you could get and the water so soft. The rain just poured.
They sought shelter in a little thatched summer house. It was charming, thoroughly charming. A sort of mock Tudor construct even with a little brick chimney complete with corkscrew stack at the top; leaded light windows, an oak door and certainly shelter from the rain.
“A little folly of my great grandfather’s. Perhaps he built it for dalliance in the garden. I wonder who he brought here?”
Hannah wondered if its purpose had not changed at all in all the years it had stood there; but it was cold inside especially as they were so wet.
Sir Hugh crouched over the brick fireplace and within seconds there was a flame. Dry tinder and ready kindling plus the all important ingredient of a match had done the trick. The fire, if not yet warm, was certainly cheery as the rain came outside and beat on the old leaded panes. Sir Hugh drew up a wooden bench before the fire and they sat on it warming their naked feet. The fire crackled as it gained hold sending smoke and sparks up the chimney. Sir Hugh added a few small logs. It was building nicely.
“Well Hannah, here we are sheltering from the rain again.”
“But isn’t a real fire so much nicer than an electric radiator.”
“But we were more than grateful for it.”
“Mmmm. Got our clothes toasty warm.” Hannah could feel the heat now coming off the fire. Her initial thought that it would be best to head to the house was going. This was really rather fun.
“Sitting on this wooden bench, sitting naked I mean, reminds me what you were saying about the Turkish Bath the other day, you know in Germany and how...”
“No, no, no not a Turkish Bath but a sauna. They are not the same. In a sauna the air is dry, very dry but in a Turkish Bath it is steamy. Both are very good for you. Of course the Turkish Bath, the Hamam, is very similar to Roman baths and we are going back a long way to those! They can be very beautiful buildings, you must see one, try one in Turkey sometime or around that part of the world.”
“And it is like the Germans? Everyone naked and both sexes together?”
“Again no, not at all. That would appal the Turk! Strict segregation of the sexes, different baths or different times and not nudity—at least not for the men. A towel at all times.”
“Not what I would have expected.”
“Ah well, reputations are not always deserved or justified. No, the Hamam is a place of relaxation and a meeting place. Properly there are three basic rooms; you would like me to explain?”
Hannah assented.
“You begin in the warm room where you relax and perspire before moving to the hot room, the Sicaklik. In the best it is a domed room with small glass windows in the dome that create a half-light; the room will contain a large marble stone called a Göbektasi at the centre on which you and others lie and are given a very vigorous soapy massage. You can cool yourself by ladling cold water or taking it flowing from fountains. The room is hot and steamy with vapour—not, my dear, steamy with sex! Finally there is the cold room to have a refreshing drink a sherbet or sometimes tea—çey, take a snack—çerez, and perhaps take a nap in a private cubicle and dress.”
“It is easy for the more Western mind to conjure up a vision of naughtiness in such a place. Such a little twist and all is not simply exotic but erotic!”
Sir Hugh was warming to his theme. Hannah was happy to sit, opening her legs a little so the heat of the fire warmed her sex as she listened.
“Imagine you arrive at this, what shall we call it, this naughty Hamam, this Kötü Hamami. It is a building of some antiquity, beautifully marbled and tiled—if a little ‘faded glory.’
An old woman greets you, ‘Merhaba, Hannah hanim’, and you slip your clothes from your body. You dress in a pretty cotton peshtemal, pick up a towel and don wooden clogs—Nalin, to stop you slipping on the wet marble floor and settle yourself in the warm room. It is quiet and pleasant. A few other women join you, pleasant chatter as you perspire and then into the Sicaklik. A surprise, for it is not just women there but there are young male masseuses waiting, seemingly just dressed merely in towels. You had perhaps been expecting Kispet, leather trousers worn by the oil wrestlers. Perhaps you might see that later; strong men trying to clasp and throw their opponent with them all slippery with olive oil. It is perhaps like the wrestling of the Ancients.
The massage is not gentle, the men are strong and you are in their hands. The massage is firm done with a rough glove, a Kese.
You are staring at the young man, you can see the swelling beneath the towel and you are so wishing that the towel will slip, that the fold at the waist will give way and it will fall; perhaps catching momentarily on his strongly upstanding cock but then dropping to the ground leaving the young man’s light brown skin shining in the light, his hard circumcised penis pointing towards the dome above you. Let us have it fall!
There is no attempt to retie the towel. The young man is leaving himself naked for you. He moves, working at your body but your eyes follow his cock as it waggles, oh so suggestively to you. The knob plump and shiny, so smooth and rounded—such a delight to you. Pleasing to you to think the tumescence is a response to you. It is firm, not a hint of sag, solid, rugged and masculine. The other masseuses seem in a similar state of excitement. If only the other towels would fall and you could see!
It surprises you; you are not used to seeing so many young men with tumescent penises even if hidden beneath the cotton. They must enjoy their work and are thinking ahead. Perhaps one by one their rough work, their firm massaging causes the towels indeed to loosen, first one then another slipping from their bodies perhaps catching for a moment or two on their cocks like your own did—such fine fleshly coat pegs! You are impressed—the young men are working erect. A comparison of penises, of Turkish erections so interesting to you. All very firm. They are young men after all!
And what of the men lying on the göbektasi being worked at by the girls. The girls’ silks made wet by the soaping, a transparency appearing, half seen breasts, very clear nipples pushed against wet silk, wet buttocks plastered with silk. The female form half revealed, mysterious and exciting. You can see they have excited the men and to get fully at the men’s bodies they have removed the men’s towels and they too are displaying like the masseuse working on you, yes like the other young men, their penises lying on their tummies or raised up perhaps seeking. The atmosphere of the room heady with perfumed steam and the prospect of sex. Erections everywhere you look. You have an almost overwhelming desire to hold.”
Hannah giggled, “It sounds rather wonderful. A real girl’s dream. All those... all those naked men. I can imagine it. But would it be like that?”
“No, not at all. Nothing like that! You would only have male attendants in the female Hamam in perhaps a tourist place and not like that, not like that at all—they would be clothed. It is not the way of the Turk at all. Inside the male hamam the men are not naked but have towels around their waists—and not ones ready to fall! Perhaps not always so for the women to be so carefully modest but then again there are only women present. The Hamam and washing is a serious but social business—it is not about sex at all. That is pure Western fabrication. But it is pleasant to fantasise, nonetheless. Did you like the imagery?”
Hannah noticed Sir Hugh’s eyes were on her thighs and she was conscious they were rather open as if readying herself for sex—or was it merely to feel the heat of the fire—just there? Hannah knew she had become wet, the story arousing, could Sir Hugh pick out her scent? Instinctively she closed her thighs—a little act of modesty. Quite unnecessary as she knew.
The room was a lot warmer now. It was not large and the fire had built strongly. Hannah thought it would be sex with Sir Hugh right there. Repeating, probably, what he had done before many times in the folly and perhaps not just with Lady Lyanthe; repeating what his ancestors had done—Edwardians, Victorians, Georgians? Had many a winter’s night seen strange happenings? Had estate workers peered through the window in astonishment at what the fine folk do in ‘private?’
“What happens next?”
“Well properly comes the sluicing of water to wash off the result of all that scrubbing and then back to the warm room and finally relaxation in the cold room and a cooling drink.”
“I was more thinking of what those strong Turkish men might do.”
“Hannah, surely you do not want them to do more?”
“What, looking like that? Yes, please!”
They laughed together.
“Do you want me to tell you; shall I describe what happens.”
“You are a good story teller.”
“A good bedtime story?”
“Well I am a big girl now and we big girls like a big girl story.”
“More it is big men I think!”
“Yes, please, for bed.”
Hannah liked Sir Hugh; he was so fun to be with—just like in the workman’s hut. He had a way with him.
“Have I inserted too many big men in your story perhaps?”
Hannah caught the play on ‘inserted’ and laughed.
“And now you want them inserted in you? How many—there are other girls in the hamam and they have needs too.”
“But I thought it was my story!”
“Perhaps the clients are all matched up, after all the masseuses, tellaklar, have other clients to follow and it would not be fair of you to use up all their erections—take all their semen away.”
“But if they did this day in day out they would not keep their erections surely? It would be commonplace and no longer stimulating. The sight of naked woman just everyday work—even the touching.”
“You have me there, Hannah hanim but it is only a bedtime story. Not real.”
“More’s the pity!”
“You reach up and grasp the young man’s strengthening erection, penisin sertlešmesi, it is so firm in your hand. The head so shiny. He smiles and acknowledges your request. He knows it is not just a body massage he must perform but the other more intimate massage, not just a rigorous rubbing of your body but of your vagina as well. As you massage his cock he eases your thighs apart and his soapy hand slide firmly, massaging the muscles but each time getting a little closer to your sex. He can see it is open and waiting. You are prepared.
You look around and you are not alone. The other ladies have their hands full just like you. All of the young men are held.”
“How nice for the ladies!”
The story was as invigorating as the massage. It had got Hannah quite worked up and it clearly had the same effect on Sir Hugh. Hannah had not missed the stirring as he talked and then the steady pumping rise of his penis so it now stood waving hopefully in the air, its head ruddy and shining. She could easily imagine Sir Hugh in the Kötü Hamami making his rounds of the ladies. Her hand stole out.
“Can I reach and hold?” And with it her hand went to Sir Hugh’s own erection but unlike the fine young Turks there was a foreskin to slide and Hannah slid.
“But, alas, I do not have a hamam. I have thought of building one but, well, the expense to do it properly, the tiles and the dome. A simple functional building would miss the point but I can offer you a sauna. They are so much easier to build because the traditional Scandanavian sauna is just a box made of pine planks with a heat source. You can buy them ready to assemble. Mine is a little better but nonetheless it is not on the scale of a hamam even a small private hamam. I regret.”
Hannah’s eyes were on his penis watching her hand moving the skin over the head and down again. She was thinking of sex, thinking of the young Turks all slippery and ready for the enjoying, thinking of mounting Sir Hugh, thinking of feeling his thick cock inside her again. In a way it surprised her. It was not surprise that the story had excited her nor that she had become interested—very interested—in Sir Hugh’s erection; she was used to her sexual feelings and how she became aroused; but it was the easy way she found herself naked at Sir Hugh’s house and how she fell easily in with his strange ways. A few days ago would have been completely different, she would never have dreamt of sitting naked like this let alone playing with this quite old gentleman’s cock.
Something had happened in that workman’s hut—not that she minded; she was very much enjoying sitting in the pretty little mock cottage listening to a sexy story and holding Sir Hugh like that. But something had happened. Her mind, her thoughts, her attitudes were not the same. Her hand fondled a little more.
Hannah was imagining the oil wrestlers.
“I did love your talk of the Turkish Bath, the...”
“Haman.”
“Yes. You mentioned oil wrestling.”
“Ah yes. Very Turkish. Strong young men with their bodies oiled, wrestling against each other dressed only in leather trousers. I suspect leather takes the oil well and duplicates skin somewhat making a grip difficult and the wrestling hard. A hand could grip cotton or linen but not the leather. No risk of them being pulled off. We know the ancient Greeks wrestled naked but not whether the oil wrestling is that old. Probably, yes.”
Hannah liked the idea of strong men wrestling.
“It does sound rather gay.”
“Yes, perhaps to us, but it has no such connotation in Turkey. Not at all.”
“But with all that grappling, all that skin to skin and oily sliding might...”
“Might not an erection happen? Indeed I am sure it must.”
“Mmm.” Hannah had one in her hand.
“You like the idea?”
Hannah did; the idea of watching fine young men exerting themselves but seeing that familiar bulge, perhaps familiar shape outlined in the oily leather. “Yes.”
“Perhaps the winner takes you as the prize? Is that an idea?”
“Young men fighting over me. Now, there’s a thought!”
“You standing with the winner holding his hand high.”
“I’d need to be careful not to get that oil on my clothes. Olive oil I presume?”
“Clothes? Yes it is olive oil.”
“Sir Hugh, you are not suggesting...”
“Perhaps I was! The winner wrestling you into public submission! Imagine the hushed audience as you undo his trousers and they drop letting his erection spring free.”
“He is erect, is he, with everyone watching?”
“He sees you naked and desirable, he knows his prize. How could he not be? It is natural!”
“Is he big?”
“Why not? Very big. Let’s give him, this Turkish lad, a fine stand. His big circumcised knob shining. There is a gasp from the audience and you walk him around but instead of holding his hand high you grasp his manly spike, the knob showing above your fist, and display him, the victor, to the men and women watching.”
“And then?”
“More oil is poured. On you this time and the grappling starts.”
“Sexy. All that slipperiness.”
“Would you like the audience watching, even applauding?”
“I don’t know. Public copulation seems so strange. There’s a big difference between watching and being watched!”
“Perhaps you have already watched others. Yours is not the first bout!”
“I feel sorry for the loser.”
“He watches too and sees what he has missed out on—you!”
“I think I’d like to have seen the men wrestle naked. Do women wrestle in Turkey?”
“A modern thing, but yes.”
“You’d like naked girl wrestling no doubt!”
“Of course—and seen it!”
“Not fair. I’ve not seen the men! I’d like seeing them get hard as they wrestle. Gay really, but not if they were competing for me! Those firm male bodies, those tight little bottoms, and big erections—Mmm please! Do you think the audience might laugh when one got hard?”
“Very possibly. It must be a worry for the ordinary wrestler but when he is exposed like that. Shall we make it their first time naked?”
“Why not?”
“They had not expected that. Told to take the trousers off and then shown you as the prize. An erotically charged situation. Unexpectedly grappling with a naked opponent and you by the side—eminently desirable. Difficult for them both not to start erect let alone what might come from the slippery contact with the male opponent and the prospect of grappling with you.”
“Lovely to see. Strong muscled men trying to get a hold on the other and an erection coming. I’m not sure, though, about being publically... um... fucked.”
“Perhaps you win.”
“Unlikely! If the big boy doesn’t make me cum. I mean being fucked in the ring with everyone watching might put me off. What if I feel the squirting of the winner’s big cock too soon?”
“Has he penetrated yet or are you still wrestling?”
“I wouldn’t be that strong. I couldn’t hold him off getting his lovely slippery prick into me.”
“Sounds like you wouldn’t want to hold him off! But I think the audience would love it if he suddenly spurted all over you. The disappointment on his face that he had not got to have you.”
“Do I get the loser to play with?”
“Or do you have to wait for the next fight to be over and another winner presented? Sitting demurely at the ringside all oiled up and...”
“Sticky with spunk!”
“Yes it’s not just oil your next partner has to contend with but getting another man’s semen on him as well. The audience will like that!”
“So I get to be fucked in the end!”
“Of course! It is only natural.”
She had been maintaining a steady rhythm, Hannah waited for Sir Hugh to touch her; she could feel her breasts tingling in anticipation. It was only natural to want to fuck.
“Well, Hannah, perhaps a choice. We could have intercourse here, I could tell you more of the Kötü Hamami and perhaps bring you off with my fingers without intercourse or we could go through the rain back to the house and to my sauna and continue there. What would you like? I have taken the liberty of having the sauna heated.”
All the choices were good. It was so tempting just to get on Sir Hugh, sit on his lap and push his long penis up into her—he was more than ready for that. She would like to hear more of the young Turks in the sauna or wrestling. She knew it would not just be one boy she would enjoy—it was after all her big girl’s story and what girl would not like the attention of strong young tumescent men jostling for position, each keen to make the insertion and take possession. Lovely to see them jostling and erect. It was her story, the pleasure of the other women not her concern. But she felt Sir Hugh wanted her to go to his sauna. She was the guest and did not like to refuse him. She would be fucked there—in the cottage or in the sauna, she would be fucked. That was good!
“It’ll be cold running through the rain.”
“But invigorating. Not quite like rolling in the snow but it is part of the sauna to experience different temperatures.” His hand rested on her thigh.
“Are you warm now and ready?”
Hannah shuddered. Oh yes, she was ready! She stood, stepped over Sir Hugh’s thigh, grasped his penis and slid him right up inside her. With one virtually fluid movement she had Sir Hugh embedded deep as she sat astride him. With her vaginal muscles she grasped him firmly.
“Oh yes—so ready! But we need to go to the sauna.”
She did not, though, make a move. She held him savouring the sensations, savouring his long penis inside her, savouring the way she was holding him. The wonderful animalistic connection. Hannah wanted to ride, slide up—no better to say ‘massage’ his erection—but knew once she started she would not stop. Not stop until she and probably Sir Hugh had come. She had to be the good guest and see Sir Hugh’s sauna. If only the yonng Turks were there. She could satiate herself on their erections and leave Sir Hugh firm and excited for the sauna. He would be able to enjoy her there even if she had had her fill of sex—and, indeed, fill of the young Turks’ semen! She could so imagine the delicious spurting of their brown circumcised erections as one after another she used them. She was sure Sir Hugh would be happy to watch her with the young men. He would enjoy seeing what she and they did. The idea of ‘using’ these naked young men so attractive.
They must have sat like that for a good five minutes, not moving, not even speaking. The fire hot on Hannah’s back. She could feel the sweat beginning to run—like it would be in the sauna or the hamam. The sexual tension rising, their sexes joined but unmoving. Eventually she rose. The lovely feeling of the penis sliding. Sir Hugh had not abated.
“That was nice.”
“Yes, very companionable, very friendly.” He too stood; his manly erection prominent and damp from Hannah. Marvellous to see a man like that. “Shall we go then?”
The rain was still pouring down, the sky almost black with cloud. It was cold and simply horrible. A shock to Hannah leaving the warmth of the cottage. Hand in hand with Sir Hugh: him sporting his erection, she with nipples erect and a real sexual tingle all over. In seconds all this was washed away by the rain and the cold. But Sir Hugh would not let her run. He said the cooling would make the sauna that much more pleasurable and so they slowly walked up the garden as the water cascaded down them running off his now limp penis; once more making it look as if he was continually urinating; making her hair hang sodden and heavy on her shoulders. It was not sexual: it was wet and cold.
Another door to the house, into the basement, a corridor and then a little pine hut in one corner.
“Please, after you.”
Hannah stepped into warmth—or rather, heat—the sauna was all match boarded inside, all bright golden pine; there was a scent of pine; a feeling of bright cleanliness. Two benches to sit upon, the warm touch of wood on her cold feet—the hot touch of wood on her cold bottom. She laughed at the contrast.
“You like?”
Hannah liked. After the cold rain it was lovely to sit again in the warmth—the heat. She had liked the little folly—she hoped to go there again and finish the act another time—it had been warm and cosy but so too was the sauna. Perhaps hot and cosy was more the description.
“Oh dear, Sir Hugh, look what has happened to you!”
There had been no way Sir Hugh could have maintained his erection in the cold and wet even if Hannah had held and stroked it the whole way—trying to nurse its tumescence. It had all shrivelled up and was not its usual proud self. Hannah lent right over, picked it up with her fingers and popped it in her mouth. It was small, cold and wet from the rain: a pitiful thing compared to its earlier pride: it was not like that, however, when Hannah took it out again! A careful nursing, a judicious use of her tongue all around the cold, little thing had soon seen to that. She held it in her hand as she had done in the folly. Firm and masculine. Hannah knew what she and Sir Hugh would do.