The instructive case of Osman Farug

The instructive case of Osman Farug.

"Tell me, Mr. Farug... How did you find yourself in my office in such an unusual state?

I'll bet you 100 akkhe and a skin of fine Rakia that a person dressed in a sugar sack, officer's boots, a turban with air cavalry insignia, and a seat studded with glass, not to mention a saber, has a fascinating story to tell..."—these were the words of the barber I managed to find after a long, and worse still, painful journey on the back of a chestnut horse.

"For the love of the Sultan!" I roared. "Get to work, you goat, or I'll saber you so hard that you'll have to not only eat but also piss through a straw!"

However, the barber's question forced me to reflect on the circumstances that had landed me in such a bleak existence. I believe the reasons for my current, rather unsatisfactory situation lie in the poverty of my dear father, who held the honorable position of court scribe to the vizier of the Padishah of Kahramanmaras province. Beyond the splendor and numerous mistresses that his position as scribe afforded, my father boasted only a donkey and a shabby mansion on the outskirts of the capital. As you yourselves understand, such a birth unfortunately precluded a career as a reasonable pensioner, or, even less so, a less reasonable spendthrift. Having reached manhood, at the age of 12 and 3/4, I was faced with the necessity of leaving my family home and thus taking up gainful employment. Wandering moodily through the streets of Kilis, I stumbled upon the recruitment point of the 4th Air Cavalry Squadron named after Emre Yenen, where a sign read: "Whores, wine and great fun!" I knew little, unfortunate man, about the war turmoil brewing at that time in a barbaric Europe that no one cared about, a Europe into which our gracious ruler intended to join on the side that was ultimately losing. Nevertheless, I did as any other teenager in my position would, I succumbed to temptation and signed up for 10 years! My wartime adventures are only significant to this story, as they explain that over the course of five years, by demonstrating unparalleled skills in escaping the enemy and finding my way back in time (that is, before the sentence of execution for desertion was passed), I attained the rank of officer cadet and the position of squadron clerk, as well as personal adjutant to Colonel Mustafa Kemal, and also acquired the ability to carry out even the most foolish orders without batting an eyelid, which brings us to the tragic afternoon of October 30, 1918. My commander, known for his extravagance, drunken brawls and mustaches as sharp as the bristles of a Dardanelles donkey, ordered me to report to number 69 on Talat Pasha Boulevard, in possession of: a ceremonial saber, a barrel of fat and

bandages. Having already unlearned the habit of arguing with superiors in my early years of service, hanging upside down in the freezing cold and being pissed on by stray dogs and drunken dragoons, I obeyed without a murmur, and promptly at 6:00 PM, I knocked on the door of the aforementioned house, or rather, a lavish residence. A young, but not particularly beautiful, servant girl opened the door and led me (to my surprise) to the bathhouse, where I read Colonel Mustafa's written order, stamped with the squadron's coat of arms. The order read:

"Attention!

1. Remove clothing.

2. Wash all dirt from your mangy body.

3. Cover yourself thoroughly with fat, especially your genitals.

4. Put on your riding boots, turban, and, saber in hand, report upstairs.

Execute!" I felt cold, then warm, and then even more sick. But the Lord commands, the servant must, and it could have been worse. Word became flesh. Saber in hand, I appeared upstairs. After crossing the bedroom door, pointed out to me by the lame footman, this sight met my unfortunate eyes: the commander on an ottoman, dressed in a housecoat. Nearby, a gigantic water pipe gurgled. Idly fanning himself with a whip, on a huge bed, propped on his knees and elbows, was a person—undoubtedly—of the fair sex, equipped with a set of colorful ostrich feathers woven into his hair, as well as an English riding saddle.

"What are you waiting for, you idiot?! The country needs you! Fuck the major's wife, or I'll flog you, you pagan slowpoke!" roared the colonel, who, come to think of it, had no right to call anyone a "pagan slowpoke," being a converted Greek Cypriot. Without waiting for the fulfillment of his promise, I boldly took my saber in my hand, raised my prick, and shouting, "For the glory of the homeland, citizen colonel!" I mounted the major's wife, of course, using the saddle only to stay on her eagerly perked-up ass, which was difficult due to the excess fat on my person. And I began to fuck eagerly, panting, moaning, rustling, and wheezing, ignoring the inhuman scream the major's wife raised, after all, I was following orders! Delving into it rhythmically and vigorously, though not deeply, for objective reasons, I regained a degree of balance, which had been disturbed by the ominous sight of a whip in the colonel's hand, which in turn allowed me to devote more attention to the act of copulation. Devoting my attention to it, I discovered with despair that my limited experience in anatomical matters had led to a tragic mistake. Instead of copulation, I was practicing sodomy on the major's wife, ruthlessly pumping enormous amounts of air into her, which in turn caused the woman I was riding to develop a serious cold. Fortunately, the situation was, in a sense, saved by a genetic defect, of which I am the unfortunate carrier. My sack, in which I carry my family jewels, is (believe it or not) of unusual size, so by a fortunate coincidence, while I was passionately paying homage to the Major's charms, in the manner of the Royal Danish Parachute Division, said sack thumped and banged, and occasionally sank into the very spot where (if not for a fatal mistake) Napoleon—a great knight of short stature—would have been. Time passed, and fat, like any other lubricant, began to lose its lubricating properties. Wondering what my commander had in store for us, I repeatedly slapped the Major's firm buttocks, but only at her express request. Fortunately or not, my boss had grown bored with the current spectacle, or perhaps he had received some mysterious sign I didn't understand from the woman resting beneath me. In any case, he eventually ordered a retreat and a retreat to pre-determined positions. When I retreated from this, however favorable, "on top" position, the Major's wife deftly freed herself from the saddle, rolled onto her back, and thrust her incredibly appetizing legs up and out to the sides, offering me a paradisiacal view of Earth, or rather, the Promised Valley. The Colonel's bass tore me from my blissful enchantment:

"On your knees, you son of a bitch! The Major's wife is not only wet, but also smeared with fat! Lick her clean, you son of a bitch, so she shines like a Janissary latrine!"

This time, not out of fear of corporal punishment, but out of a basic appetite, I threw myself between the woman's thighs and, as ordered, began to greedily drink the Olympic nectar. Once I had drained the periphery of the area, I eagerly headed deeper, from where a blissful sloshing sound emanated, promising delight to the thirsty tongue. Like a drill, I began to dig, twist, and thrust furiously with my tongue, wriggling not only the main part but also my beard. To my surprise, and to some extent relief, the major's wife began to shriek in a manner similar to what I had experienced when I disembowelled her in the manner with which noble Spartans honored young boys.

"Our good!" I thought, and began to alternately suck my lover's clitoris, one nostril at a time, the other (depending on the current extraction situation), while stroking said clitoris mercilessly, using my practiced technique. While I was doing so, the colonel approached us and carefully observed my penis for a while, and after a moment's reflection, he said:

"You're doing a good job, but I'm afraid that funny stump of yours won't be able to satisfy the Major's wife in the classic way, but since I promised, I'll keep my word."

With that, he poured out the water from the water pipe and ordered me to insert my penis into the hole where, in normal use, the pipe draws in air. He then handed the inhaling end to the major. Knowing what her partner was up to, she began to suck like a maniac, not sparing her lungs at all. As she worked furiously to enlarge my modest size, a hellish commotion erupted from the main entrance: the clatter of hooves, the slam of a door being smashed, another clatter of hooves (this time on the stairs), and into the boudoir burst an enraged, snuff-spitting Major of Dragoons, mounted on the back of a warhorse, biting at anything and everyone. The major, in turn, roared like a bitten bear, glared at the pipe and the entire installation, then slashed and smashed the pipe to smithereens. And it was here that the short driver proved useful. Despite the major's unerring intention to deprive me of earthly pleasures forever and ever, the blow fell inches from the vital organ, leaving it encased in glass, yet no longer attached to the pipe by the force of the vacuum. After a very brief moment of consternation, the colonel regained his composure, scooped me up, and flung me against the window, backside first. For this, I am incredibly grateful, as I passionately prefer a glass slammed into my ass to a glass slammed in the opposite direction. As if that weren't enough, as I fell onto the street, I landed on a cart full of empty sugar sacks, which ensured not only a soft landing but also my clothing. Immediately after me, the colonel flew, or rather jumped, out the window, straight at the donkey harnessed to the cart I had previously fallen into. Shouting, "Every man for himself!", he stole the car from the scene of the accident, raising clouds of purple dust.