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3. Aykut's unquenchable Hammam lust
Aykut stood motionless before the full-length gym mirror, the harsh fluorescent lights casting sharp shadows that accentuated every brutal detail of his physique. His deltoids were shredded to the bone, thick veins twisting like rivers over the striated muscle fibers, pulsing faintly with the remnants of his last set. Below them, his chest rose and fell in controlled breaths, deep separations carving between the pecs, skin stretched so thin it gleamed with a sheen of sweat. His abs were a brutal grid—eight deep, cobblestone ridges etched into his midsection, each one shadowed and glistening, flexing involuntarily as he tightened his core. Veins forked downward from his lower abs, disappearing beneath the low waistband of his shorts, hinting at the raw power coiled lower still. But it was his legs that stole the show, the undeniable pride of his entire physique—the crowning achievement of years of merciless squats, lunges, and deadlifts that had forged them into something almost inhuman. His quads exploded outward in sweeping, teardrop-shaped masses, each vastus muscle separated by razor-sharp cuts that looked etched by a blade, veins thick as cables snaking across the surface and plunging deep into the grooves. When he shifted his weight, the individual heads of the quadriceps rippled and danced under the paper-thin skin, the outer sweep flaring dramatically before tapering into hamstrings so densely packed they bulged even at rest. His adductors carved inward like steel cables, framing the inner thigh with brutal definition, while his calves below were diamond-hard, split into two perfect, heart-shaped heads that flexed involuntarily with every subtle movement, veins wrapping around them like ivy on marble. At twenty-eight, he was the hardest, most peeled he had ever been, every ounce of body fat stripped away to reveal the marble statue beneath—especially those monstrous legs that had become his signature, the part of him that turned heads and silenced rooms. The national championships were four weeks out—the gateway to a pro card, to the international stage he’d bled for years to reach. Every rep, every forced meal, every grueling posing practice had to be flawless. This was his moment, the culmination of relentless obsession. Nothing—not exhaustion, not temptation—could be allowed to distract him.
But it did.
No matter how hard he pushed through brutal squats or endless sets of bench press, flashes invaded his mind: hairy chests pressing against him, powerful arms pinning him down, rough thumbs circling his sensitive nipples before pinching them hard—twisting, tugging, rolling the stiff peaks between calloused fingers until electric jolts shot straight to his groin, sapping every ounce of strength from his trembling thighs and leaving him weak, gasping, utterly helpless. Then came the overwhelming burn of that thin towel sawing across his cock head, the uncontrollable squirting that left him shattered and sobbing. His body reacted instantly—blood rushing south, towel or shorts tenting embarrassingly in the middle of the crowded gym, his nipples hardening into aching points beneath his sweat-soaked shirt, begging for touch even as shame flooded him. He’d have to turn away quickly, pretend to adjust weights, face burning as he willed the erection down and tried to ignore the phantom throb in his chest.
He was comfortable with being gay—he’d known for years, dated discreetly, hooked up when he needed. That wasn’t the problem. What tormented him was how deeply he had craved the loss of control at the hammam, how much he had secretly loved being reduced to a helpless, overstimulated mess by three rough, hairy men who weren’t even bodybuilders.
In his darkest fantasies, he saw himself as the demigod Hercules—magnificent muscles swollen with godlike power, broad shoulders that could bear the weight of the heavens, legs like towering pillars that had crushed armies, a body sculpted by divine fire and years of iron penance. He was invincible, unbreakable, the ultimate symbol of masculine strength and dominion. Yet in those same visions, he was defeated not by gods or monsters of legend, but by Geryon reborn as the three masseurs—ordinary men with thick, calloused hands and coarse black hair covering their heavy chests and backs. They had somehow uncovered the chink in his immortal armor: his aching, treacherous nipples.
With cruel precision they mastered his weakness, surrounding him on the slick marble slab, their six rough hands converging on his chest. Thumbs and fingers pinched, twisted, tugged, and rolled the stiff, sensitive peaks without mercy, sending lightning bolts of raw pleasure-pain through his invincible frame. The mighty Hercules—his own flawless, vein-riddled physique—thrashed and bucked beneath them, roaring turning to broken gasps as his godlike strength drained away, legs trembling, abs clenching uselessly, every ounce of legendary power sapped by those relentless, focused assaults on his chest. He was supposed to be invincible, the conqueror of twelve impossible labors, not a sobbing, squirting wreck begging for release at the hands of three mortal men who knew exactly how to unravel a demigod. It felt like a perversion of everything he stood for.
Sleep became impossible. He’d lie in the dark, replaying every moment, cock throbbing painfully. Even waking up to frantic jerk-off sessions brought no lasting relief—the memories only grew stronger, more vivid. Dark circles formed under his intense eyes; his coach noticed the fatigue, warned him he was risking overtraining.
Finally, one sleepless night, he broke.
Just past 2 a.m., he found himself pushing open that familiar heavy wooden door again. The hammam was silent, empty as always at this hour. The attendant barely raised an eyebrow—just a knowing smirk as he waved Aykut through.
Emir, Kerem, and Burak emerged almost immediately, towels low on their hips, hairy bodies glistening faintly in the dim light. Their eyes lit with recognition—and triumph.
“Look who’s back,” Emir said, voice warm and teasing. “The mighty Hercules returns to face Geryon in the final showdown.”
Kerem chuckled. “We knew you couldn’t stay away, champion.”
Burak’s deep rumble followed. “Three heads are always stronger than one demi-god.”
Aykut’s face flushed, but he didn’t protest. He dropped his towel without a word, revealing the even more shredded physique he’d built in the weeks since—veins thicker, separations sharper, every muscle screaming from recent torture.
This time, though, they didn’t pounce.
Instead, they guided him gently to the heated göbek ta?? and laid him face down. Warm olive oil poured in generous streams over his aching back, shoulders, glutes, and legs. Six strong, hairy hands began working in perfect coordination—slow, deep, therapeutic strokes that dug into every knot and trigger point earned from weeks of gruesome training. Emir’s powerful forearms kneaded his traps and lats with expert pressure. Kerem worked the hamstrings and calves, thumbs sinking into the rock-hard muscle to release weeks of accumulated tension. Burak focused on the glutes and lower back, broad palms gliding smoothly, easing the deep ache from heavy deadlifts.
Aykut exhaled long and low, tension melting away for the first time in weeks. The oil was warm, fragrant; the hands skilled and strong but gentle. No teasing touches, no lingering near his hole or cock. Just pure, soothing relief. He closed his eyes, almost moaning in gratitude. Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe he could finally enjoy a proper hammam massage like ordinary men did—relaxation without the devastating surrender.
Just when he let himself believe that…
Burak, the broadest and hairiest of the three, knelt between Aykut’s spread legs with a knowing grin, his rugged frame casting a shadow over the bodybuilder's flawless physique. His fingers—thick and strong, almost as girthy as his infamous cock—were slick with warm oil, glistening like forbidden fruit. He traced Aykut’s tight, puckered entrance slowly, teasingly, circling the sensitive rim with feather-light pressure that sent electric shivers up Aykut's spine. Aykut tensed at first, his massive glutes clenching instinctively, but the weeks of tormenting memories had worn down his resistance; he exhaled shakily and surrendered, parting his legs wider, accepting the intrusion he once rejected as Burak's finger breached him—slow, deliberate, filling him inch by inch with a delicious burn that made his cock twitch and leak precum onto his chiseled abs.
At the same moment, Burak leaned forward, his bearded face hovering close enough for Aykut to feel the hot breath on his throbbing shaft. He took Aykut’s rock-hard nine-inch cock deep into his hot, velvet mouth, lips sealing tight around the veined girth, beard scratching against smooth inner thighs like erotic sandpaper. The suction was immediate and intense—wet, slurping pulls that hollowed Burak's cheeks, tongue swirling hungrily around the swollen head, lapping up every salty bead of precum as if savoring a rare delicacy. Aykut's hips bucked involuntarily, the dual invasion sending waves of molten pleasure coursing through him.
To prevent any hint of struggle, Emir and Kerem moved instantly—hot mouths latching onto Aykut’s ultra-sensitive nipples like ravenous wolves, wet tongues circling the swollen areolas in slow, maddening swirls while teeth grazed the hardened peaks, sending jolts of fire straight to his core. The sensation was overwhelming: nipples throbbing under the assault, pulling deep moans from Aykut's throat as his legendary strength evaporated, leaving him a quivering mess of sculpted muscle and raw need.
Aykut melted into complete surrender, a low, guttural moan rumbling from his chest like thunder. Burak was masterful: fingering slow and deep at first, exploring every ridge inside him with languid curls that grazed his prostate teasingly, then building to a faster rhythm—thrusting in and out with increasing urgency, scissoring to stretch him wider—all perfectly synced with the suction of his mouth: tight, vacuum pulls on the upstroke that made Aykut's balls tighten, swirling tongue around the head that left him gasping. The pleasure built in intoxicating waves, driving Aykut insane, his cock pulsing in Burak's throat as precum flowed freely. A second thick finger joined, then a third, the stretch burning deliciously, filling him to the brink; his moans grew louder, echoing off the marble walls like erotic symphonies. Unable to hold back, Aykut’s hips began bucking instinctively, fucking Burak’s willing mouth in desperate, rhythmic thrusts, chasing the edge with wild abandon.
But Burak sensed the precipice and cruelly slowed—relaxing the suction to feather-light licks, easing the fingering to a frustrating crawl that left Aykut's prostate aching for more. Aykut whimpered in agony, his godlike body trembling, so close yet denied, cock throbbing painfully in the humid air.
Suddenly, everything stopped.
Emir and Kerem gently helped the dazed bodybuilder sit up, leaving him throbbing and unfulfilled, his skin flushed and slick with oil and sweat. “Tonight we try something different, Hercules,” Emir murmured, voice husky with promise, his eyes dark with lust.
Emir lay back on the warm göbek ta??, his long, curved cock standing proud—the longest of the three, perfectly shaped to hit deep, veined and glistening with anticipation. Kerem and Burak guided Aykut to straddle him reverse—back facing Emir’s chest—so that when he lowered himself, Emir’s length filled him completely from behind, the curve pressing insistently against his inner walls, stretching him in ways that made stars burst behind his eyelids. Aykut gasped at the fullness, the heat of Emir's cock throbbing inside him like a living pulse; eyes fluttering shut, he began bouncing up and down, riding Emir with abandon—hips rolling in sensual circles, muscles flexing like coiled steel as waves of pleasure radiated from his core—while one hand wrapped around his own leaking shaft, stroking furiously, thumb circling the slick head in time with each descent.
Just as he lost himself in the rhythm, the erotic haze of oil-slicked skin and heavy breathing, Kerem and Burak seized his thick, 21-inch arms and pushed him backward until he lay fully atop Emir—his broad, sweat-glistened back pressed against Emir’s hairy chest, the coarse curls tickling his sensitive skin like forbidden whispers. Emir immediately wrapped his powerful arms around Aykut’s torso, pinning the bodybuilder’s massive biceps helplessly at his sides, the embrace both possessive and intimate, Emir's beard grazing Aykut's neck as hot breath whispered encouragement. Aykut struggled half-heartedly, flexing those peaked guns in a futile show of power—but Kerem and Burak’s fingers found his nipples again, kneading and twisting with ruthless precision, thumbs rolling the hardened buds until electric weakness flooded him, rendering his arms limp and useless.
Emir began bucking upward—hard, fast, relentless—his long, curved cock slamming repeatedly into Aykut’s prostate with devastating accuracy from below, each thrust sending shockwaves of bliss that made Aykut's toes curl and his breath hitch in ragged gasps. Aykut’s moans turned to cries, loud and unrestrained, his body arching in Emir's iron hold, but his own cock bobbed untouched, trapped and rubbing against his own ridged abs. Denied any direct friction, the occasional titillating scrape cumulated into an unbearable ache.
Lost in the overwhelming sensation—the heat of Emir's body beneath him, the relentless prostate pounding that made his vision blur—Aykut felt strong hands grip his muscular thighs. Kerem, with a predatory gleam, lifted Aykut’s powerful legs high and draped them over his broad shoulders—Emir’s curved cock remaining buried deep inside, the shift in angle driving it even harder against Aykut’s prostate, eliciting a sharp cry of pleasure-pain. The new position opened him completely, vulnerable and exposed.
Kerem aligned himself, his oiled cock pressing insistently alongside Emir’s already embedded length, the blunt head nudging at the stretched rim with relentless pressure.
Panic surged, raw and primal. “No—wait—” Aykut gasped, voice cracking with desperation as he bucked upward, every fiber of his Herculean body exploding into resistance. His massive 21-inch arms—biceps peaking like cannonballs, thick veins bulging across the swollen muscle—flexed with brutal power as he strained against Emir’s iron embrace. With a savage twist of his torso and a surge of raw strength, Aykut succeeded in ripping his arms free, biceps flaring triumphantly for a fleeting second. But Burak was already there, lightning-fast—thick hands snapping around Aykut’s wrists like manacles, yanking them backward and stretching them high above his head. In one fluid, dominant motion, Burak stepped forward, sliding his powerful, hair-dusted thighs together and trapping Aykut’s straining arms between them in an unbreakable vise. The hard, corded muscle of Burak’s quads and hamstrings clamped down, squeezing with crushing pressure that made Aykut’s legendary biceps compress helplessly, veins flattening against unyielding flesh.
At the same moment, Burak shifted his hips forward, resting the full, throbbing weight of his hard, fat cock—heavy, veined, slick with oil and precum—directly across Aykut’s flushed face, the hot shaft pulsing against his cheek and lips like a brand of ownership. Right away, Burak’s rough fingers descended on Aykut’s chest, clamping down on both nipples with merciless precision. The searing bolts of electric pleasure-pain ripped through him, sapping the godlike strength from his trapped arms in seconds; those cannonball biceps trembled, then went slack between Burak’s thighs as every ounce of fight drained away in shuddering, helpless waves. Emir’s embrace never loosened, but it was Burak’s calculated, relentless assault on his nipples that ensured Aykut could never escape again. Trapped and immobilized, Aykut could only whimper, his Herculean frame trembling uncontrollably as Kerem forced his way in, inch by agonizing inch.
The double penetration felt like his torso being split in half—impossible stretch, burning fullness that bordered on exquisite torment—yet the pressure on his prostate was beyond comprehension, two thick cocks rubbing against each other inside him with slick, heated friction, squashing that sensitive gland with every synchronized thrust, sending tidal waves of ecstasy crashing through his core. Pain and pleasure collided in a savage storm: the stretch so violent it stole his breath, chest heaving uselessly as nausea surged, a dizzying wave that made his stomach lurch and his vision swirl, head spinning like he might black out or puke right there on the marble. Every merciless inch felt like it would tear him apart, yet the pleasure was deeper, darker, more intense than anything he’d ever known—white-hot, annihilating, flooding his nerves until he was addicted to the very thing destroying him. He never wanted them to stop, never wanted those dicks to leave him empty; the thought of withdrawal was unbearable, a terror sharper than the pain itself.
His mind convulsed under the avalanche of sensations and emotions—agony, ecstasy, humiliation, surrender—all crashing together in a blinding, deafening roar that erased every thought of resistance, every shred of the invincible Hercules he’d built himself to be. Pleasure exploded through him in raw, animalistic, all-consuming waves. This was the fuck of his lifetime, bodies slick with sweat and oil, grunts filling the steam as the masseurs claimed him utterly.
Emir and Kerem groaned in unison, the tight, velvet grip and mutual rubbing driving them wild, their cocks pulsing in rhythm. They came together—hot floods pulsing deep inside Aykut, filling him to overflowing with thick, searing loads that leaked down his thighs in sticky rivulets. The sensation hurled Aykut over the edge untouched; his cock erupted between his abs and Emir’s gripping arms, ropes of cum painting his own chest in forceful arcs as his hole clenched rhythmically around the double intrusion, milking every drop from them in shared bliss.
A scream tore from Aykut’s throat—raw, guttural, inhuman—like the mighty Hercules impaled alive on a merciless stake, the sharpened spear driven slowly through his anus and up the length of his godlike torso, inch by agonizing inch, until it emerged from his open, roaring mouth. Pain and pleasure speared him from both ends in perfect, unbearable symmetry: the burning, splitting fullness at his core from the two thick cocks still buried deep, and the overwhelming flood of hot seed stretching him further. Every nerve felt pierced, violated, exalted—agony and ecstasy braided so tightly he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, his magnificent body wracked by convulsions that left him breathless, trembling, utterly conquered.
In that exact moment, Burak shoved his fat cock into Aykut’s open, moaning mouth and thrust deep, completing the impalement from the opposite end. The thick shaft stretched his throat mercilessly, cutting off the scream into a series of muffled, desperate wails that vibrated helplessly around Burak’s pulsing length. Even with his mouth stuffed full, Aykut could not stop the muffled screaming—choked, frantic sounds bubbling up from his chest as the avalanche of sensations overwhelmed him completely, tears streaming down his temples while his body continued to spasm in uncontrollable ecstasy.
Burak groaned above him, unloading thick spurts straight down Aykut’s throat—salty, musky essence flooding his senses in heavy waves. Aykut swallowed helplessly, throat working around the intrusion as he was claimed from both ends at once, overwhelmed by the simultaneous release of all four men—an unbelievably hot, synchronized climax that left the steam thick with their mingled grunts, the scent of sex, and the wet sounds of spent bodies.
When it finally ended, Aykut lay sprawled on the warm marble, his Herculean body still caught in the relentless grip of aftershocks—sharp, electric pulses that rippled through him like distant thunder refusing to fade. Each wave started deep in his core, where the ghost of that impossible double fullness lingered, clenching around nothing, then surged outward in shuddering spasms: his monumental thighs twitching involuntarily, the thick slabs of his quads jumping under sweat-slick skin; his carved abs contracting in hard, rhythmic flutters; his swollen nipples throbbing with every heartbeat, so hypersensitive that even the humid air felt like a teasing tongue.
His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, chest heaving as fresh tremors rolled up his spine, making his broad back arch off the stone before collapsing again. His spent cock, still half-hard and glistening, jerked with every surge, leaking the last weak pulses of cum onto his lower abs as if his body hadn’t yet accepted the climax was over. He was adrift in the aftermath—overwhelmed, undone, every nerve alight with the echoes of that annihilating pleasure-pain, like a vivid, intoxicating overload that kept him trembling, moaning softly without meaning to, lost in the endless replay of sensations that refused to release him.
The masseurs moved around him with quiet reverence, their rough hands now impossibly gentle as they lifted his shaking limbs. Warm water poured over his skin in slow cascades, rinsing away the mingled evidence of their frenzy—sweat, oil, thick rivulets of seed—but each touch sparked new shivers, new involuntary bucks of his hips as hypersensitive flesh reacted to the lightest graze. Fingers traced the deep separations of his pecs, skimmed the ridges of his abs, glided between the heavy cords of his thighs, and Aykut could only whimper, eyes half-lidded and glassy, riding the lingering waves that crashed through him again and again.
When they finally eased him back onto the heated marble, he sank into it like a collapsing colossus, the extreme excitement that had raged through him now exacting its brutal toll. The ferocious, unrelenting ecstasy had drained him utterly—every last reserve of strength, every spark of godlike endurance siphoned away in the cataclysmic climax, leaving his magnificent body a trembling, spent shell. His monumental thighs quivered one final time before going slack; the carved ridges of his abs softened under slow, heaving breaths; even the stubborn pulse in his swollen nipples faded to a distant echo. The electric hum that had kept him alive with lingering fire guttered out, replaced by a heavy, irresistible wave of total exhaustion that crashed over him without mercy.
His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet against flushed cheeks, lips parted in a final, soft exhale that carried no sound. The world blurred, then vanished. Aykut—the invincible Hercules forged in iron and discipline—succumbed completely, drifting into a profound, dreamless sleep right there on the warm stone, limbs sprawled in glorious defeat, chest rising and falling in slow, deep rhythms. The hammam’s steam curled gently around his oiled, cum-streaked skin, cradling him like a lover as unconsciousness claimed him at last.
When he woke hours later to faint dawn light, he was clean, dry, and alone once more—sprawled like a fallen god on the göbek ta??.
As he dressed on shaky legs and stepped into the cool morning air, regret crashed over him like a cold wave. He had come back seeking control, perhaps closure—but instead, he was more addicted than ever to this wild, forbidden pleasure he could find nowhere else.
The bodybuilding contest was only weeks away, and he knew the smart choice: stay away, pour everything into training, reclaim the iron discipline. But every attempt to forget had so far failed—the memories invaded his workouts, turning heavy squats into distractions, leaving him hard and frustrated mid-set, sapping the very strength he needed most. Yet if he kept returning to quench these insatiable urges, each devastating session would steal more of his recovery, dull his edge, risk everything he’d sacrificed years for. He stood at the crossroads, heart pounding with the terrifying thrill of it: could he truly resist the hammam’s call, or would the lure of total surrender prove stronger than his will to win?
Deep down, as the first light touched the horizon, he already feared the answer—and craved the night he would give in again.