Chapter 7: The Gangbang Initiation
The blindfold came off with a sharp tug, and Berkay’s world resolved into the cavernous, rust-stained gloom of the warehouse. A loose circle of a dozen unfamiliar men stood silhouetted against the grimy windows, their faces hard and hungry in the weak light.
“We call this ‘the circuit,’” Umut announced, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. “One at a time. You’ll take what each man decides to give.” He pushed Berkay forward towards Serdem, who stood with gentle, resigned eyes. “He’s all yours, big guy. Warm him up.”
Serdem’s large hands were surprisingly tender as he guided Berkay to his knees on the cold concrete. He began by unbuckling his own pants, freeing his thick, heavy cock, and pressing it against Berkay’s lips. “Open up for me, aşkım,” he murmured, and Berkay obeyed, taking the soft head into his mouth, working it slowly to fullness with his tongue. Serdem sighed, carding his fingers through Berkay’s hair, fucking his mouth with a slow, deep rhythm that was almost loving. Then he pulled out, slick with spit, and turned Berkay around, pushing him over a stack of pallets. “This too,” he whispered, and entered his ass with the same patient, grinding pressure, filling him completely until Berkay gasped. Serdem fucked him like that for a long while, steady and thorough, before pulling out and wiping his cock on Berkay’s back. “Good,” he said softly, stepping aside.
Mustafa was already unbuckling his belt, a cruel smile on his face. “My turn, you pretty little fuckhole,” he growled, not bothering with any preliminaries. He shoved Berkay flat against the pallets, spat on his own cock, and drove it into Berkay’s still-loosened hole in one brutal thrust. Berkay cried out, the breath punched from his lungs. “Shut up and take it,” Mustafa grunted, setting a punishing, jackhammer pace that slammed Berkay’s body against the wood with each impact. The other men laughed and jeered, their voices a distant roar as tears welled in Berkay’s eyes, streaking through the dirt on his cheeks. Mustafa fucked him with a vicious, mechanical anger, until he finally shuddered, spilling inside him with a choked curse.
Işik stepped up next, his shirt already off. “Over here, slut,” he commanded, pulling Berkay by the hair to a clear space on the floor. He sat on a crate and spread his legs. “Lick. Everywhere.” Berkay began with the sweat-slick skin of Işik’s chest, his tongue tracing over defined muscle. “Lower,” Işik ordered, guiding Berkay’s head to his armpit. The coarse hair was damp with pungent sweat, the scent musky and sharp. Berkay pressed his face into it, licking and sucking the salt from the skin as Işik groaned, tangling his fists in Berkay’s hair. “Yeah, just like that, you nasty fucker,” Işik breathed, arching his back. Berkay serviced him until Işik shoved him away, wiping his own wet pit across Berkay’s face.
Umut took his time, watching with calm ownership as Berkay knelt before him, trembling and soiled. “You remember who you belong to,” he stated, his voice flat. He made Berkay undress him slowly, then lay back on a stained mattress, directing Berkay to worship every inch of his body with his mouth. Berkay licked from Umut’s hairy ankles up his thighs, kissed his balls, sucked his cock to a throbbing hardness, then worked his way back down. Umut flipped him over and entered him with a slow, possessive claim, setting a grinding rhythm that went on and on, his eyes locked on Berkay’s ruined face. “This hole is my property,” he repeated, each thrust a punctuation, until he finally came with a long, guttural groan, collapsing his weight onto Berkay’s back.
İsmail was already hard, slapping his cock against Berkay’s cheek the moment Umut rolled off. “You love this, don’t you?” he taunted, forcing his way into Berkay’s mouth. He gripped Berkay’s skull with both hands and began to fuck his throat in short, brutal pistons, cutting off his air. Berkay gagged, tears streaming anew as İsmail laughed. “Swallow it all, cocksleeve,” he demanded, his hips slamming faster, his balls slapping Berkay’s chin. When he was close, he pulled out, making Berkay lick his shaft and balls clean before finishing across his heaving chest.
Then Semih stepped into the light, and Berkay’s breath hitched. The recognition was a physical blow. “Hello, Berkay,” Semih said, his voice smooth as oil. A memory, sharp and painful, flashed: a school hallway, a crushing teenage longing for this exact man. “Surprise.” He knelt, bringing his bare foot to Berkay’s mouth. “You used to stare at these in gym class. Lick.” Berkay did, a sob caught in his throat, as he tasted the salt and leather. Semih made him worship his sculpted arms, his chest, his stomach, and finally, his rank, sweaty armpits, holding Berkay’s nose deep into the damp hair until he choked. “Now the dick you dreamed about,” Semih whispered, guiding his thick, veined cock to Berkay’s lips.
Berkay took it, his heart breaking as he sucked his adolescent fantasy to hardness, the act a grotesque parody of every secret wish. Semih let him work for a minute, stroking his hair mockingly, before his grip tightened. “Dreams come true, faggot,” he snarled, and began to facefuck him with a violence that surpassed İsmail’s, drilling deep into his throat until Berkay’s vision spotted black. Then he flipped him over, spread his ravaged cheeks, and without any spit, drove his cock into his ass. The scream that tore from Berkay was raw and shattered, a sound of pure, breaking agony. Semih fucked him through the cries, each thrust a punishment for every stolen glance, until he roared, pulling out to paint Berkay’s face with thick, white streaks.
“Now!” Umut commanded. The other five—Serdem, Mustafa, Işik, Umut, İsmail—closed in, their cocks in their hands, stroking furiously. They formed a tight circle around Berkay’s prone, cum-smeared form. On a shared grunt, they erupted over him, streams of hot seed splashing across his chest, his stomach, his already-dirty face, a fountain of ownership marking him from all sides. The last drops fell, and a heavy silence followed, broken only by their panting. Then, one by one, they leaned down and spat. Each gob of saliva landed on Berkay’s face, mixing with the cooling pools of semen, a final, wet desecration. He lay unmoving, a used, glistening wreck on the warehouse floor, the taste of salt, sweat, and shame the only truth he knew.
The warehouse air grew still, thick with the smell of spent bodies and cold concrete. “Fuck,” Mustafa finally grunted, zipping his jeans with a rough jerk. “That was something else.” He looked down at Berkay, who twitched on the floor. “Seriously, that ass of his is a goddamn miracle.”
İsmail laughed, lighting a cigarette as he nudged Berkay’s thigh with his foot. “You should’ve seen his face when Semih reamed him. I thought his eyes would pop out.” Berkay’s breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound in the quiet. “Hey, shitbag,” Umut said, crouching down so his face was level with Berkay’s. “We’re talking to you.”
Berkay’s eyes, glazed and distant, slowly focused on Umut’s. “Rate us,” Umut commanded, his voice not cruel but curiously clinical. “Who fucked you best? Give us points.” Berkay’s lips, swollen and sticky, parted. “Ten… ten is the best,” he whispered, the words scraping his raw throat.
“Fair,” İsmail said, blowing smoke. “I’ll start. My deep-throat game was a solid nine.” Serdem shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Bullshit. The way I opened him up? That was patience. That was a ten.”
“Semih,” Berkay croaked, the name tasting like bile and old longing. All eyes turned to him. “He… he broke something.” A strange, proud smile touched Semih’s lips as he wiped his hands on a rag. “Fucking hell,” Mustafa chuckled, slapping Semih’s shoulder. “The schoolboy crush wins.”
Umut nodded, a final verdict. “Semih takes it.” Then he looked back at Berkay, his gaze softening imperceptibly. “Thank you,” he said, and the others murmured their own gruff thanks, a chorus of gratitude for the raw, ruined gift beneath them.
“Don’t you dare wipe your face,” Umut commanded softly, pulling Berkay upright by his hair. The layered filth, a mosaic of their releases, had begun to dry in tacky streaks across his skin. İsmail produced a black silk scarf from his pocket, wrapping it loosely over Berkay’s eyes, the fabric sticking to the mess. “This stays on you.”
They led him, blind and pliant, through a nondescript door at the warehouse’s rear, the humid, cedar-scented air of a private hamam washing over him. Steam curled in the dim light, softening the edges of the hexagonal marble göbektaşı at the room’s heart. “Lie down,” Umut instructed, his voice echoing softly off the domed ceiling, and guided Berkay onto the warm, smooth stone. The six men—Umut, İsmail, Serdem, Semih, Mustafa, Işık—formed a silent circle around him, their shadows dancing in the vaporous heat.
For a long moment, they just watched, the only sound the drip of water and Berkay’s shaky breath. Then, as if on an unspoken signal, they knelt. Twelve hands settled onto his body all at once, a sudden, overwhelming map of contact. Fingertips, calloused and smooth, traced the lines of his throat, his collarbones, the soft dip of his navel. “Look at him tremble,” İsmail murmured, his hands sliding up Berkay’s inner thighs. Two of Serdem’s thick fingers, slick with hamam oil, pressed inside him without resistance, a gentle, probing stretch that made Berkay arch. “So open already,” Serdem observed, his tone one of clinical awe.
Other hands kneaded the firm muscle of his buttocks, palms cupping and squeezing while thumbs traced the cleft. Mustafa’s hand, rough and possessive, palmed his chest, rolling a nipple between finger and thumb until it peaked. “Beg for it,” Umut whispered, his own hand cradling Berkay’s jaw, a thumb stroking the soiled silk of the blindfold. Berkay’s head fell back, a low moan escaping his swollen lips as the sensations multiplied, the careful, simultaneous exploration dismantling his last shreds of thought. “Please,” he gasped, the word swallowed by the steam. “More… everywhere.”
The hands tightened their claim, their touches growing more intentional, more searching. One pair held his hips steady while Serdem’s fingers curled deep inside him, brushing a spot that drew a sharp cry. Another hand guided two fingers past his lips, testing the limit of his throat until he gagged softly around them. “Good boy,” Semih breathed, his voice close to Berkay’s ear as his hands roamed the love handles above Berkay’s hips. The language was hot, explicit—whispers of how wrecked he was, how perfectly he took them—but devoid of the earlier cruel humiliation. It was a liturgy of possession, and Berkay, lost in the steam and the heat and the dozen points of control, chanted along with his body, writhing under their collective grasp.