Turkish men, lots of them, in hairy, olive masculinity, their eyes gleaming eagerness at invading my pink and squishy asshole, the tight opening leading to a warm, wet heaven. We do the dance of lust: I demure, murmur confusion, struggle with the heat of my undoing. I push away my huge hairy suitors growing in number around me. The heat in their hands as they touch my fair flesh, knead my muscles into goo, stretch out the kinks in my resolve, and pull at my innocence.These behemoths whisper their intentions, dare me to discard my gentility, and encourage me to rage in lust. My ears are wet from their kisses and murmurs, my skin riots in desire at their touches, and my reason flees.I take these hot men: big men, their musk filling my nostrils, their cocks leaking man juice. I suck them; they fuck me; my body becomes their fertile soil. I am shaped and molded to their wills. I want to be molded–furrowed and tilled. . Gay sex . I feel the coolness of the room, and my vision is disappointingly clear. I was made to be used, abused if it’s their wish.Bushy mustaches and beards, swinging cocks, hairy balls, fuzzy legs; dark eyes, sly smiles; acres of hairy, sweaty flesh look down at me.
