It was inevitable that it would happen—sooner or later. It was building up to sooner. Amir, still, at fourteen, going by the nickname of Ammy, had lain in bed in the connecting room at the Dome Hotel in the ancient harbor of Kyrenia in Turkish Cypriot and listened to the Danish UN soldier fucking his father, Afram, in the other room. Ammy’s inclination was no different than his father’s and he lay on his bed masturbating to the sounds of his father’s moans and the headboard of the bed in the next room bouncing rhythmically against the wall. It was nominally the midafternoon siesta time, a time during the hottest portion of the day that people in the Mediterranean took to their beds to nap. Afram and Holst had taken to Afram’s bed to fuck.

Ammy’s father was a Lebanese Arab. His family ran a successful restaurant in London. Ammy’s mother was English, but she was off cruising around Norway with her boyfriend, and Ammy had been brought on holiday to Turkish Cyprus by his father. The parents weren’t divorced but they quite definitely were separated.

Holst was a beautiful, blond, hulking UN soldier if twenty-three on vacation himself in Kyrenia from the UN base on the Green Line dividing the capital of Nicosia to the south of the harbor town. In 1986, there was an uneasy truce between the two factions dividing the island, the Greeks to the south and the Turks to the north.

Afram and Holst had hooked up while touring the Kyrenia castle, a Byzantine castle nestled inside a Crusader’s Castle in the harbor earlier in the afternoon. They had exchanged pleasantries in passing each other while exploring the castle. Holst and Afram obviously liked the looks of each other and Holst had an eye for Afram’s dark, sultry, fourteen-year-old son, Ammy, as well. Ammy, half Lebanese and half British, but all lithe and handsome sultriness, had been attracting the attention of many Turkish men in the town. Turkish men were a randy bunch. Many of them would fuck anything that moved. The Arab-English boy was ripe for it. For that matter so was his father.

Holst was sitting at a table by the harbor, drinking beer, when Afram and Ammy came out of the castle. His eyes met with Afram’s in passing, and an interest and understanding that had been established in the castle was affirmed. Holst asked them to sit and drink with him. Ammy was only fourteen, he was told, so he drank Coke instead. They chatted amicably during which Holst established that Afram was an active submissive and Ammy was uninitiated, along on the vacation because he couldn’t be left on his own in London.

An hour later, they had gone to Afram and Ammy’s rooms in the Dome to escape the heat of the day and to honor the midday withdrawal hours of the locals. Afram was on his back, legs raised and spread, arms raised over his head, grasping the rungs of the headboard, while the hunky, muscular Dane knelt between his thighs, pounding away in his stretched anal passage and pulling groans and little cries of pain-pleasure out of the Lebanese restauranteur.

Ammy was in the other room, on his bed, beating off, and wishing that someday—sooner than later—it would be him under a body beautiful such as the Danish soldier hunk. No doubt while plowing the father, the Dane was giving some thought to wishing—and hoping—to do the son as well. The son was claimed to be a virgin. He would be a delicious first-time lay.

They ate in the harbor next to the bobbing boats and under the strings of fairy lights that night. Ammy sat next to the Dane and across from his father. The two older men carried the conversation, but the Dane touched Ammy now and again on the arm or the leg and the young boy was in heat. He also was watching a muscular and handsome Turk appearing to be in his early thirties closing down the small fishing boat he’d floated into the harbor and birthed right next to the table where Ammy and the men were eating.

As he worked, the Turk ogled Ammy and Ammy ogled him back. The Turk finished his business and came up onto the stone quay rimming the harbor that had been taken over by restaurant tables. He gripped Ammy’s shoulder to help climb up onto the land. In doing so he smiled and nodded at Ammy and Ammy, feeling a surge of arousal, smiled back.

Not long afterward, Ammy said he had to take a piss and left his father and the Dane and went toward the restaurant building across the quay. He didn’t make it there. The big bruiser Turkish fisherman, covered only in coveralls exposing much of his beefy chest and in rubber boots, pulled Ammy into the alley by the restaurant and pushed him up against the wall.

His hands went all over the fourteen-year-old’s willowy body, covering the boy’s face and throat with kisses. The evening was quite warm, and Ammy was only wearing shorts and sandals. The Turk grasped the boy under the thighs and raised his legs, hooking them on his hips. Ammy could feel the size of his erection. He moaned, ripe for where this was leading. The Turk was already rocking his pelvis against the boy’s groin, with a hand down there feeling the boy up as well, ready to do a bit or rearranging and fucking him right there, right then, against the wall.

The boy was aching for it too. But he could see out of the corner of his eye that his father and the Dane were rising from their table, ready to return to the Dome Hotel and fuck the night away. They’d be coming to look for him.

Ammy hissed, “Late tomorrow morning. They are going to Nicosia tomorrow. Here, late in the morning.” He broke away, regretfully and, flushed and aching for it, joined Afram and Holst for the walk back to the Dome Hotel and to a night of Afram’s cries that the vigor and size of the Dane, the periodic rhythmic bouncing of the headboard against the wall in the other room, and Ammy jerking himself off again and again, his thoughts alternating between the two hunks—the Turkish fisherman and the Danish soldier.

The Turk’s name was Jamal, although they didn’t say much to each other—didn’t call each other by their names—for the entire time they were together. Most of what Jamal conveyed were instructions and demands in the fuck. Most of what Ammy verbalized was the pain-pleasure of being relieved of his virginity and then being gang banged.

Jamal owned a motorcycle as well as the fishing boat and he roared down onto the Kyrenia quay on the bike, beckoned to Ammy, and roared back up the hill, and the mountain, toward the old abbey town of Bellapais, when the boy hopped on the cycle behind him.

He was wearing just coveralls again today, although they were white today. They’d been blue the previous night. He had sneakers without socks on his feet. He was hirsute and curly black hair spilled out above the bib of the overalls, around the straps suspending the top on his chest, and in his pits. He had showered and these were probably his best overalls. He’d slapped on too much aftershave, but he hadn’t shaved in a few days. The close-cropped beard looked sexy on him, Ammy thought.

All in all, he’d come to party. Ammy had whispered to him the previous night in the alley that he’d never had a man’s cock in him, and Jamal had come to notch his bedpost with a virgin.

The boy hung on tied behind the Turk as the cycle took the mountain road. Ammy encircled the muscular torso with his arms and he lay a hand on the Turk’s basket, which was showing a filling-out life of its own. Halfway up the mountain, the bike went off the road to the east and drove into a vineyard. They came to a stop well inside the vineyard that mounted the mountain in shallow terraces. The spot Jamal picked was on one of the terraces, out of sight from either side and above and with a picturesque view down into the Kyrenia harbor, with its stone castle and then out into the Mediterranean, showing greenish blue close to land and a deeper blue beyond.

The deflowering was immediate, a bit bumbling, forceful, and horrific to the boy, although Ammy was keyed up for this, prepared for the first time to be challenging but well wanting to be past the first time. They didn’t speak, but there was a lot of heavy breathing, grunts, and groans from both of them as Jamal climbed off the cycle, set the stand, pulled Ammy off, and threw the boy onto the grassy ground between the rows of vines and onto his knees.

The Turk covered the boy from above and behind in a close, controlling embrace. Ammy was wearing just shorts, briefs, and sandals, and they were stripped off of him in seconds. Similarly, the straps of the Turk’s overall were released, the garment puddled down to the ground, and the Turk stepped out of them and stripped off his briefs in one motion.

They hadn’t been off the bike for forty seconds before Ammy was on his knees, chest and cheek pushed into the grass, and the Turk was on top of him and inside him with no more lubricant than his spit. He wasn’t able to stuff himself too far into the boy, though, before he ejaculated from the excitement of taking a gorgeous virgin boy. Ammy howled of the brutal violation when Jamal had barely been able to stuff three inches of erection in him. The Turk was built big. In his third withdrawal while battering his way in, he ejaculated, his cum slathering the boy’s hole and smearing on the inner curves of his buttocks.

As far as popping the boy’s cherry, it was done. Ammy was relieved of his virginity to men. This wasn’t satisfying to either one of them, though. Jamal pressed his foot to the side of Ammy’s head, grasped the boy’s waist between his hands, and gave it a more concerted go, pushing in through the added lubricant of his cum. He managed to sink most of the way in and get of a good dozen pumps while Ammy gasped and panted hard, but then he started going soft. His excitement had made Ammy’s first time less than stellar.

Ammy was a bit disappointed, but he’d known the first time wouldn’t be all that great and he’d wanted to reach and get beyond the first time. Jamal released him and went back to the bike and started unpacking what he’d brought—a blanket, some bread and cheese, and a couple of bottles of wine. Ammy rolled onto his back near a row of grape vines and watched the Turk move. His hirsute body was magnificent, Ammy thought—muscular and hirsute. The man wasn’t all that handsome, but, to Ammy, he was sexy as hell. And he was hung. Ammy didn’t know how much of that cock had gotten inside him the first time, but he wanted more of it the next time.