HAMMAN RELAX PIG

Fernando pushed the heavy brass-studded wooden door of the old hammam hidden in a narrow alley next to Sultanahmet. It was almost nine thirty at night. The bustle of tourists had disappeared completely. Only the true regulars remained, those who knew that at that hour the steam became thicker, the lights lower, and the classic ritual transformed into something else.

He was twenty-two years old. A young, slender body, and well fucked. He had been in Istanbul for three days and had gone in looking for relaxation, but deep down he knew perfectly well what he was looking for. The street air still smelled of kebabs and the damp of the Bosphorus. As soon as he crossed the threshold, that smell stayed behind, as if the door had closed one world and opened another. He paid without looking at the price. The man at reception barely raised his eyes. He handed him the thin raw cotton pestemal and the worn plastic flip-flops. Fernando undressed in the changing room without hurry. He folded his clothes with almost ritual care. He let his cock, already half hard, swing freely between his legs. The smell of the place went straight into his brain: black olive soap, wet marble and that dense, animal aroma that only hammams give off at the last hour. He ran his tongue over his lips and smiled to himself.

This is what I came looking for, he thought.

Not relaxation. This.

As soon as he entered the main room, the steam embraced him like a hot mouth. The great dome with glass stars let golden, murky rays fall on the central göbek taşı, that enormous marble platform that looked like an altar. The heat hit his chest and for a second closed his throat. He lay face down on the burning stone. The marble burned the skin of his thighs and chest during the first seconds. Then the pain became a deep heat that penetrated him to the bone. Within minutes he was dripping sweat from every pore. The pestemal stuck to his ass like a transparent second skin. He breathed heavily, his face resting on his forearm. A slow, almost drunken smile was drawing itself on his mouth.

The silence of the hammam was not silence. It was steam, distant dripping of water, heavy breathing and the occasional friction of one body against another. Fernando closed his eyes and let himself go.

He did not take long to feel them. Some big, calloused hands, with thick, expert fingers. A male of about fifty-five, thick mustache speckled with gray, chest and back covered in dense black hair soaked in sweat, knelt beside him. The man's smell reached him before his voice: olive oil, cumin and that heavy aroma he had been sweating for hours. He whispered with a grave, broken voice, almost against his ear:

"Good massage… very deep."

Fernando only let out a low moan of approval and slightly parted his legs. The pestemal rode up a little over his buttocks. The guy—whom Fernando began mentally calling the Mustache—poured thick black soap over his bac...