The Telemachus Story Archive

In a Turkish Garden
By CenturionF (Illustrated by Rocket)
Email: CenturionF


by centurionF

Turkey’s toughest young fighters fought it out on the grassy field. They fought for the crown of champion, and they fought for the eye of the Sultan

He watched from his box. Their oiled, muscular bodies glistened in the heat. He knew most of them. He’d wrestled himself when younger. He knew their ways, their culture, their secrets

Turan, his favourite, made it to the final. But he was still young, and he was tired. On all fours, he allowed his opponent to invade his leather shorts as he tried to regain his breath. To no avail. He was belly-flipped, and lost. Hakan, the overjoyed winner, was feted by the crowd, and saluted the Sultan. Turan, a corn-gold redhead, lay flat on his face in the grass, sobbing in defeat

The Sultan invited the winner to his palace for the evening. No-one ever divulged what went on. It was accepted amongst the wrestlers that the champion would dine with His Imperial Majesty. And then enjoy with him a few of the girls selected from his harem. It was the fantasy of every rough lad from every village in the land: the ruler’s respect and admiration, and his invitation to partake with him in the naked delights of his household

Hakan sat in awe. The palace was beyond his wildest dreams. The sky faded into a purple blue, and a feast was under way. Across the courtyard, through a screen, he saw the Sultan, some girls, some guards. And Turan. The tough blond wrestler he had beaten this afternoon. Turan was dining with his majesty, sitting next to him, laughing and smiling. Hakan dropped his head and waited. He could do no more

Some hours later, two janissary guards led Hakan to a spot between two marble columns. Two veiled, semi-naked girls appeared, and slowly, gently undressed him. He submitted with a smile, and watched as they took his garments away. Suddenly - he was in the embrace of the Sultan, who had come up from behind. Startled, he stayed still, as the Sultan massaged Hakan’s chest, his pectorals and nipples. He seemed to be rubbing an ointment into him, as his nipples tingled and became erect. He relaxed into the Sultan’s arms. The Sultan murmured into his ear `You conquered my favourite fighter. I will conquer you`. Hakan was perplexed. The Sultan continued: `I can throw you out into the street now, if that is what you want, and your time with me is finished. Or you can submit. The choice is yours. Me and my palace? Or the street?`

Hakan was seduced. He saw how Turan was feted as a son. He did not want to leave this place. He nodded his head, and whispered `Whatever you say, Your Imperial Majesty, I submit`

Four guards silently appeared from the shadows. In a dream, Hakan offered his wrists up as the men chained him to the columns. Someone from behind held a pungently-scented cloth to his face, and his head swam. The guards attached chains to his thighs, spreading them wide. They slapped his ballsac and jacked his cock. He was ready for the Sultan

Hakan was a Turk. He knew the traditional forms of male punishment, male pleasure. But it still took his breath away when the Sultan’s whip landed on his broad, muscular back. He stayed silent, and steadied himself. After a few strokes he was braced, and taking it for his Sultan. Whack. His back wide and straight. Whack. His legs wide and firm. Whack. He was a wrestler. Whack. He knew about pain. Whack. And how to take it. Whack. He took it. Whack. Through the screen across the courtyard he saw Turan, looking at him. Whack. Turan was shirtless. Whack. Turan was masturbating

When finally the Sultan was done, he came up to Hakan, sweating and out of breath. He embraced Hakan from behind, and kissed his neck. `You are a strong boy Hakan. You did well`. Again Hakan relaxed into his Sultan’s embrace. He’d found favour. The Sultan was hard. Hakan kept his legs wide. He’d do whatever it took. The Sultan plunged his cock into Hakan’s guts and starting pumping. Hakan’s back had taken his master’s whip. His insides now took his cum

The Sultan emptied the last spurts of his load, and pulled out. A girl was waiting with an embroidered cloak. She draped it on the Sultan’s shoulders, and fastened it at the neck. Another girl knelt, her face an inch away from his large, dark, discharged cock. She put slippers on his feet, and looked up at him, adoringly. He brushed her aside. The cloak caught the breeze and billowed behind him, as he walked across the courtyard, into Turan’s embrace. Hakan watched, but he had little time for jealousy. A half dozen or so guards appeared, laughing and raucous, then more. They were naked, semi-erect, and carrying their own whips. They moved in on Hakan, still in position between the pillars. He dropped his head. He knew he would never be going back to his village in Anatolia. He was heading for the Sultan’s male harem. The plaything of men. To be punished, masturbated and fucked. By the Sultan maybe. The guards certainly. And, no doubt, Turan

Hakan was right, but he could not have guessed that he would lose his balls. Men loved him, as he fought back. He never gave up. He was dangerous, always had to be restrained, and became the favourite of all the male visitors. One warm night the Sultan was in the mood for excitement, and he had Hakan brought to him. He unlocked his manacles. Hakan appeared to submit. The chains fell to the floor, and Hakan melted into a full-face kiss from the shirtless Sultan. The ruler’s hands massaged Hakan’s back and waist. Then dropped to his glutes. Both hands took hold of the wrestler’s glutes, and worked them, kneaded them. Hakan felt himself get hard, and reacted. He delivered a punch aimed at the Sultan’s head, but it fell short. The Sultan was a fighter and warrior too and he sensed what was coming. Before the guards rushed into the room the Sultan had overpowered Hakan and had his arms in a bone-breaking hold behind his back. He barked `The bench` at the guards. They brought in a wooden bench

The bench was designed for a man to lie on, face down, with an aperture at hip level through which his testicles would hang. Castrating a man was one of the Sultan’s greatest sports. He loved it, and he was an expert. As soon as Hakan’s arms and legs were secured at the four corners of the bench his heavy ballsac fell through the hole. The Sultan was lying underneath, ready to welcome it. He kissed and stroked Hakan’s bollocks. Hakan got hard. Pre-cum oozed from his cock onto the bench under his belly. The Sultan was good, and Hakan was a big, fertile guy: pre-cum puddled onto the bench and dripped over the edge. Hakan was moaning. The Sultan had his man. A guard handed a loaded syringe to the Sultan lying under the bench: he pushed it into Hakan’s balls. Hakan’s yelped, and whimpered. He was given one, two, three syringes of saline solution. Then a fourth. His aching balls were hanging, big, swollen, heavy. The Sultan’s plaything and joy. He tapped them. It was agony for Hakan. The Sultan kept tapping, Hakan was screaming. Then Hakan saw the small, gold-inlaid shears. A guard handed them underneath the bench to His Imperial Majesty. Hakan saw the Sultan’s hand reach up and take the shears. He sobbed, and pleaded `No`. The Sultan positioned the cold metal of the gelding shears around the top of Hakan’s ballsac. He was an expert, and liked to see a clean cut. This man would have years of service in his female harem. His pecs would plump up pleasantly. He knew Turan liked the smooth, full chests of the palace eunuchs

It was at that point that his lover’s face suddenly appeared beside him, looking at him under the bench. `Can I do it?` he whispered, with a filthy grin on his wide handsome face. The Sultan could deny him nothing. `Of course` the Sultan said, as he got out from under the bench, `but wait until I give the word`. Hakan was whimpering. The Sultan sat astride him on the bench, reached under Hakan, and began masturbating him, cup-fashion, so that his palm enclosed Hakan’s throbbing knobhead. The Sultan knew that despite his fear, he was almost there. Hakan felt Turan close the metal shears round his testicles, as the Sultan jacked him, smoothly, between his abdomen and the bench surface, both sticky with pre-cum from his oozing cock. He was defenceless: the Sultan’s hand was jacking up his semen as surely as he gave orders to his men. Hakan felt the fire of his cum welling up in his cock. He took a deep breath and pressed his face hard against the bench. The Sultan’s hand felt Hakan’s cock swell. He barked `Take him Turan` and Hakan parted company with his bollocks. He shot spurt after spurt into the Sultan’s hand. The guards in the room were all masturbating. A dozen wads splashed onto the marble floor, as Hakan sucked off the Sultan. He had jumped off Hakan, rushed round to his face, lifted his head up with the hand which had milked out Hakan’s last load and shot into Hakan’s mouth. Hakan would never forget the taste

Hakan never made it into the comfort of the female harem, the only consolation which he thought awaited him. Instead he became Turan’s personal servant. Required always to be smooth, clean and greased. For dicking, for whipping, to suck and to swallow. With special attention to Turan’s balls. Turan made him worship them, day and night, for the rest of his life. He kissed, licked and sucked the globes of manhood which his opponent still possessed, and which his opponent still gloried in. Which his opponent used to enslave the Sultan, and used to enslave Hakan. `Worship my balls, Hakan`. `Yessir`. Over time, it mattered not who gave the order. Turan, the Sultan, guards, soldiers, wrestlers, horsemen – there was only one thing he existed for. And they could give it to him. The greatest gift a man could give. The gift of a man’s cum.