Uyghur Strongman

I had been in Xinjiang for almost three years. On various forums, I had heard that Uyghur men were well-endowed, and curiosity gnawed at me. I wanted to experience it myself.

That evening, I went to a bathhouse. To my surprise, it was empty. I took my time washing, the warm water easing my muscles. As I rubbed lotion over my body, my hands lingered near my cock. Arousal stirred within me.

Just then, the door swung open.

I flinched, pretending to focus on my shower. As my eyes adjusted, I saw him--a man in his early thirties, with sun-darkened skin and a powerful build. He undressed, revealing his muscular frame. My gaze flicked lower. Even soft, his cock was impressive.

My pulse quickened.

---

I stole glances as he washed. My imagination ran wild.

Finally, unable to resist, I spoke. "Would you like to scrub each other's backs?"

He hesitated, not quite understanding. I grabbed a towel and began rubbing his shoulders, letting my fingers linger slightly longer than necessary. He tensed but didn't pull away.

"Thank you," he said in broken Mandarin. "Later, I help you."

Encouraged, I let my hands roam lower, pressing firmer against his back.

"Your cock is... really big," I murmured.

He chuckled, shifting slightly. "Uyghur men are circumcised young. It makes us bigger than Han men."

"Can I touch it?"

He hesitated. "Only my wife touches, but..." His voice trailed off, as if debating. "You... good to me. Just a little."

That was all the invitation I needed.

My fingers curled around him. Thick. Heavy. His cock twitched under my touch, swelling in my grasp. My breath hitched as it grew larger--easily over eight inches, maybe more.

"God... it's huge," I whispered.

His breath turned shallow. "Not that big."

I smirked. "Bigger than mine."

His lips parted slightly, as if processing my words. His body was betraying him now--his cock fully erect, standing proud before me.

---

I knelt.

His cock throbbed, inches from my lips. I hesitated, then gave in to temptation, pressing a soft kiss to the tip.

He shivered.

Encouraged, I took him deeper, my tongue tracing the sensitive ridge. His breath hitched. His hands clenched into fists.

I worked him expertly--lips, tongue, deep throat. His moans grew louder, his hips bucking slightly as he lost control.

His cock twitched--warning me.

Then--hot. Thick. Salty. He came deep down my throat.

I swallowed greedily, savoring the taste of him.

---

Afterward, he exhaled shakily. "I... I never do this before."

I wiped my lips, smirking. "You seemed to enjoy it."

His cheeks darkened, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he gestured toward me. "I help you now."

His hands--rough, calloused--wrapped around my cock. The contrast of his touch sent a jolt of pleasure through me. Slowly, he stroked, his grip firm.

I groaned.

Ten minutes later, I came with a strangled gasp, spilling over his fingers.

He wiped his hands clean, studying me. "Your cock... smaller than mine. But very hard."

I chuckled. "Uyghur men really do love comparing sizes, huh?"

His lips curled slightly at the tease. But then, his expression turned thoughtful.

"You like men. Not women?"

I shrugged. "I like what I like."

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, without warning, he retrieved a small razor blade.

I tensed. "What are you doing?"

Instead of answering, he lathered his groin with shower gel and carefully began shaving. His cock stirred again as he worked, growing half-hard.

"We shave often," he explained. "No hair... much cleaner."

When he finished, he looked at me. "You want?"

I hesitated. The idea of letting him handle a bare blade near my cock made me nervous.

Seeing my reluctance, he reassured me. "I do this since I was boy. Very safe."

His confidence soothed me.

"Alright," I said.

He worked slowly, carefully. A few minutes later, I was completely smooth--without a single nick.

---

Later, as dinner approached, I felt a new craving stir within me.

I wanted more.

"You should let me treat you to dinner," I said, testing the waters. "Maybe... invite your friends too?"

To my surprise, he grinned. "No. I treat you. And I bring my friends."

His offer was more than just hospitality--I could see it in his eyes.

We took a taxi to Dolan Dining Square, where Uyghur culture thrived. The scent of roasted lamb and spices filled the air. Soon, two of his friends arrived.

The first was Maimaijiang--sharp features, piercing eyes, the epitome of Uyghur masculinity. My gaze drifted lower.

He had to be big.

The second, Kader, was slightly shorter, with a strong, stocky build.

I had no doubt--these men were just as well-endowed.

We feasted on lamb skewers, Uyghur hot pot, and strong wine. The alcohol burned my throat, but the warmth in my chest wasn't just from the drink.

It was the anticipation.

The unspoken promise lingering between us.

---

As we left the restaurant, I made my move.

"I've never been inside a Uyghur home," I said casually. "I'd love to see one."

They exchanged glances, speaking in their native tongue. Then, Alim nodded.

"Maimaijiang lives alone. We go there."

Exactly what I wanted.

The taxi ride was long. Rural. The further we went, the darker the surroundings became. A thrill ran down my spine.

When we arrived, I stepped into his home--simple, spacious, and private.

Perfect.

Alim leaned in. His breath was warm against my ear.

"They don't speak much Chinese," he murmured. "But don't worry. I told them everything."

I shivered. "Everything?"

His smirk deepened.

"You're going to love this."