Kin from the Delta
Prologue: (From A Gift from the Sands 01)
One of those lazy post-coital afternoons, as we lay in bed, Hayat Khaskheli had let it slip: he was married, wed at eighteen to a really beautiful girl from a neighboring village, in the way of rural Sindh where boys become men under family roofs before they've truly tasted freedom—a life of fields waiting back home for them.
With that roguish glint in his eye, he had leaned in closer and murmured he'd bring her over one evening, let me have her if I paid five hundred rupees for the night. I laughed aloud and clapped him on the shoulder, my hand drifting down to squeeze his still-damp cock through the sheets.
"Yaar," I had told him straight, "even after all these times, you're offering me a girl? I'm a pure gaandu—I don't need a girl. What I need is this"—giving him a firm tug that made him hiss—"buried in me again."
The refusal had hung between us like a playful gauntlet, and Hayat—ever the irrepressible fox, with that grin splitting his face like he'd just spotted a loophole in a contract—didn't miss a beat. He just leant back against the headboard as if we'd just sealed a merger instead of dodging domestic drama.
"Achha, Sahib, no girls for the pure gaandu? Fair enough—your rupees, your rules. But wait, wait..." His eyes had lit up like a hawker at the Sunday bazaar, fingers snapping as the gears whirred behind that wheatish glow. "I've got other stock back home. Cousins, strong as bullocks, eager as goats in heat. They need cash for dowries or diesel or whatever—I take a tidy commission on top of my usual fee, say twenty percent, non-negotiable—and you? You get a revolving door of fresh cock for your ass. Win-win-win, yaar."
I had barked a laugh, half-charmed, half-mesmerized by his audacity, the way he haggled pleasure like it was gravel tonnage.
"You're a clever young entrepreneur, Hayat."
He had winked, irrepressible as the monsoon. "Only for you, sahib. Deal?"
I had given his thigh a squeeze, cock still warm under the sheets. "Deal," I said. "And I love you anyway, you shameless bastard."
Yes, Hayat was an opportunist, he wasn't a trained pimp with contacts sprawling across Sindh—he could only wrangle his cousins and, that one teasing time, his own wife for these deals, his world hemmed in, no networks anywhere else. But, damn, if he didn't make it feel like the grandest bazaar in Sindh.
Kin From The Delta
True to his word, Hayat Khaskheli wasted no time rolling out the family line, starting closest to home with a connection that twisted the knife of irony just a little sweeter: his own brother-in-law, Hanif Arain—proof of his swift pivot from spurned pimp to kin-broker extraordinaire.
Hayat brought him over a few days later, midweek when the office grind had me frayed at the edges, announcing it with a flourish over the phone like he'd landed a prime contract. "Special delivery, Sahib—my wife's own brother. Early twenties, looks like he stepped off a film poster. You'll see why I wasn't joking about her beauty; the siblings share blood, she's a knockout."
When they arrived, it hit me like a gut punch—Hanif was a revelation, far better looking than anyone Hayat would parade through my door in the years to come: tall and sculpted like a young god from the Indus myths, with high cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, full lips curved in a perpetual half-smile, and eyes the color of storm clouds over the delta, fringed with lashes that begged to be tugged. His skin held that same wheatish warmth, but polished finer, like it had been kissed by the sun and spared the fields' harsher bite. Dressed in a simple white shalwar kameez that clung just right to his broad shoulders and narrow waist, he moved with an easy grace that made my living room feel smaller, hotter.
Hayat handled the intros with his usual flair, pouring chai and slapping Hanif's back like a proud salesman unveiling a prototype.
"See? Told you—prime stock. Better than any girl, eh? Wife's brother means family-approved! And remember, twenty off the top for your favorite middleman."
Hanif chuckled low, a sound like gravel wrapped in velvet, but there was a glint in his eye—calculating, almost, beneath the charm.
Hayat was still counting his money in the living room when Hanif and I went to my bedroom. Hanif wasted no time, shedding his clothes with a confidence that bordered on showmanship, revealing a body honed by farm work and whatever village sports kept him lean and lethal: rippling abs dusted faint with hair, thighs like coiled ropes, and a cock—God, that cock—nice and thick, cut and heavy, curving upward with a girth that promised to split and satisfy in equal measure. Shaved clean below, like every boy Hayat would ever broker, his balls hung full and inviting, but it was the whole package that hooked me.
Hanif stood there, naked and gleaming, hips cocked like he was posing for a billboard. He caught my gaze and grinned, all confidence and calculation.
"Sahib, you like what you’re getting?" He ran a hand down his chest to his cock, shaking it slow and deliberate. "My lund. Best quality. Straight from the delta."
I smiled, letting my eyes linger. "You’re magnificent. And your lund even more so."
Hanif stepped closer, eyes locked on mine.
"I can’t wait to give you the full product right now. Hayat says you like getting fucked hard and deep," he winked, "You’ll get your money’s worth from me, never fear!"
I liked his cockiness—how he stood there like a prize. So instead of getting on my knees to suck him first, I decided to skip the ceremony and go straight to the main event. Let him see what he was working with. Let him earn that grin.
Unlike my usual practice with gay-4-pay lads—turning face down to keep my cock away so they'd have a better illusion—I lubed us up and raised my legs, wanting to see that face—Hanif's film-poster beauty framed by the curve of my thighs, eyes locked on mine as he lined up. I needed that gaze, that storm-cloud intensity, to anchor me in the moment. Let him see me open, wanting, ready.
He fucked like he was born to it—deep, rolling thrusts that started slow, letting me adjust to his girth. The fat head breached me with a burn that bloomed hot, stretching my rim taut as he sank in, inch by veined inch. His heavy balls slapped my ass, and then ramping to a piston rhythm that had me clawing the sheets, his hands pinning my wrists above my head as he whispered filthy encouragements in a husky Sindhi lilt: "Loving my lund, sahib? Raise your gaand... like that, yes—milk me with your hole, beg for my load."
Stamina like a diesel engine, relentless and unyielding, sweat slicking his chest, dripping salty onto my tongue when I craned up to lick it off him mid-thrust.
Sweat slicked his chest, dripping onto mine as he drove home, lasting far longer than his age suggested, edging me to the brink and back until I shattered around him, only then flooding me deep with a groan that rattled the headboard. It was exquisite, that first time—raw skill wrapped in extraordinary looks, leaving me boneless and buzzing.
But even after cumming, I asked him to send Hayat in afterwards. I was entranced by how Hayat's slender cock slotted so perfectly up my ass—elegant and unyielding, with just enough curve to graze that aching spot inside me, again and again. It filled me like it belonged there, like my body had been waiting for that exact shape, that exact rhythm.
—
Hanif came back, oh yes—many times over the next few months, each visit a repeat performance that blurred the line between addiction and routine.
The greed crept in subtle at first: a murmured, "Sahib, make it 150 this round? Tractor needs oil..." after we'd caught our breath, his hand already fishing in my wallet on the nightstand, always with the caveat to keep it from Hayat.
I'd oblige, amused at the cheek, slipping him the extra without a fuss.
"Our secret, Sahib," he'd say as he pressed a kiss to my knuckles—a traditional Sindhi gesture of gratitude.
But it escalated, the asks bolder each time—Rs. 50 extra, then Rs. 75—until one night, buried to the hilt inside me, his thick cock still sliding in and out of my ass with that thick, unyielding drag—each plunge churning slick heat deep in my gut, his balls slapping wet against me—he murmured, "Bilal Sahib... tonight, make it 400. I really need it—sister's festival coming, rupees tight..."
The words sliced through my sexual haze like a cold blade, sordid and untimely, shattering the rhythm we'd built—his girth suddenly feeling less like worship and more like a tollbooth, the fantasy curdling even as my body clenched traitorously around him.
Post-fuck? I'd have tolerated it, swallowed the greed for the sake of those looks alone, slipping him the extra with a sigh and a smile. But mid-fuck, mid-thrust cock buried deep and he was just thinking of money? That was the line, the one thread of illusion I clung to in these transactions—that at least during the act itself, they were thinking of pleasure—now frayed raw.
Too nice to shatter the moment outright—or maybe just too tangled in the heat—I let him finish, but my body was on autopilot—heat without hunger, just going through the motions as he ramped faster. He thrust to completion with a groan that rang hollow in my ears. He spilled deep in my ass as always, collapsing beside me in sated haze, oblivious to the chill that had settled.
I peeled away soon after, fishing out four hundred-rupee notes from my wallet without a word—his eyes lighting up like I'd handed over a lottery ticket—and watched him dress, that perfect face softening into gratitude.
"Thanks, sahib—you're a good man." He left with his trademark lingering kiss to my knuckles.
But the incident had soured everything. For the first time ever, I didn't ask him to send Hayat in, my mood too shattered.
When Hayat finally caught me alone a few days later, I laid it out flat: "Hayat, I'm asking you plainly, please don't bring Hanif again."
Hayat's brow furrowed, that irrepressible spark dimming to concern. "What happened, Bilal Sahib? Limp dick? Couldn't keep it up? Came too soon, left you wanting more?"
I hesitated, reluctant to drag the sordid tale into the light—money mid-moan, the greed gnawing at the pleasure like rust on rebar—but Hayat pressed, and out it poured, every awkward thrust and whispered ask.
"I didn't mind paying a little extra from time to time," I explained gently, "But I need the illusion, Hayat. During the act, I need to believe it's about pleasure—not payment."
Hayat didn't seem too surprised. "Hanif's always been the fox in the henhouse—pretty face, hungry paws. Takes after his sister that way—stunner on the outside, but always greedy for more."
But then his irrepressibility bounced back up. "No worries, Sahib; I've got more lined up. Next one's a firecracker."
—
A week later, Hayat made good on his promise, arriving with the next offering from his village in tow.
Trailing him like a skittish colt was a boy—no, a young man, barely nineteen, with the wide-eyed wariness of someone who'd stepped too far from the reed beds.
"This is Akhtar Khaskheli," Hayat announced, clapping a hand on the kid's shoulder with brotherly pride and salesman's flair, steering him into the living room where the AC hummed against the afternoon blaze. "My own first cousin—fresh from the fields, strong as a young buffalo but green as monsoon rice fields. He'll treat you right, Sahib."
Akhtar nodded stiffly, his frame all coltish limbs and untried muscle: tall like Hayat but softer around the edges, with a mop of unruly black hair falling over brows furrowed in apprehension, skin that wheatish glow we'd laughed about, now flushed with nerves. He wore a faded kurta that hung loose on his slender build, hands fidgeting at his sides—callused from scything sugarcane, no doubt, but trembling just enough to betray him.
Back in his village, Hayat's gigs were no secret from his cousins—how he'd bottom for his contractor or labourer clients, or offer his pretty wife. Hayat had sworn to Akhtar he'd top, but doubt clung to the boy like dew on reeds. Seeing me—tall and older, late twenties with the build of a man, authority etched in my stance—he looked scared out of his wits. His eyes darted like a cornered jackal, braced for the trick, the sudden reversal where promises dissolved into the same old yield.
Hayat's eyes were dancing with that familiar mischief as he murmured instructions in rapid Sindhi, too low for me to catch every word but enough to see Akhtar's Adam's apple bob—likely a crash course in, "don't forget, treat the engineer sahib well, he's a soft touch for extras."
Then, with a wink that screamed "ka-ching" and a parting slap to Akhtar's back, he waved us off to the bedroom – probably already tallying his empire in his head.
In the bedroom, the silence stretched. Akhtar's gaze darted to me, sweat beading on his upper lip despite the cool air. His voice trembled as he stammered, "Sahib... I... Hayat said... but... I know you'll want to... I've never been fucked... do it gently..." He trailed off, cheeks burning, body coiled tight as if ready to bolt, clearly braced for the worst: me, the big-city boss, flipping him over the nearest surface and taking what I'd paid for.
I couldn't help but chuckle, soft and reassuring, like coaxing a stray dog with a scrap of naan.
"Easy, Akhtar—I have no interest in fucking your gaand. That's not how this works with me. Didn't Hayat explain clearly?"
His head snapped up, dark eyes wide with shock and dawning relief. The tension uncoiled from his shoulders like a released bowstring. Still, a flicker of disbelief lingered—waiting for the catch.
"Truly, sahib? Hayat did say, but I thought... with you being... and knowing about Hayat's clients..." He gestured vaguely at my frame, the house, the invisible weight of my title, but the fear ebbed fast, replaced by a spark—curiosity flickering to something hotter, hungrier. His kurta tented at the crotch, that hidden thickness twitching with equal parts dread and want.
What followed was a revelation in enthusiasm. I undressed him gently, tugging his kurta over his head to reveal a chest smooth and dusted with the faintest trail of hair. It led down to where he'd shaved clean—just like Hayat. That bold bareness framed a cock already straining: thicker than his build suggested, veined and eager, the head flushed dark.
He was tentative and shy at first, hands hovering as though to cover his nakedness, but once I knelt, hollowed my cheeks around him—tongue swirling the salty slit, sucking deep until he hit the back of my throat—the dam broke. Akhtar turned into a whirlwind—enthusiastic didn't cover it; he was a storm, fucking my mouth till I pulled away, gasping for breath, strings of spit and precum linking us like a filthy promise, his groans raw and ragged: "Sahib—fuck, your mouth... mera lund chooso —Suck my cock! don't stop..."
Once I'd undressed and lubed us both, I lay face down on the bed—partly to ease him in, partly to keep my own hard cock from spooking him again. Akhtar pinned me to the sheets with surprising strength, his earlier shyness shattering into fervent thrusts that spoke of pent-up village nights.
He slammed home with a slick pop, that thick length stretching me wide as he chased the high. The room filled with the wet slap of his balls and his broken pleas:
"Sahib—am I doing good?" "You are tight like—your gaand is sucking me in..."
His voice cracked with urgency, each thrust more confident than the last, as if every stroke rewrote his understanding of power and pleasure.
He finished in my ass, far too soon for me to cum, but good for a beginner—a shuddering groan tearing from his throat as he buried deep, flooding me with hot, pulsing cum that overflowed in a sticky trickle down my crack, his body shaking like he'd run a marathon through the delta. I didn't mind. His raw enthusiasm, the way he gave himself over so completely, was its own kind of pleasure. I stroked his back as he collapsed besides me, spent and beaming.
Akhtar left with a grin that split his face, pocketing his pay with a shy thank-you that hid the spark of a convert.
I asked him to send in Hayat afterwards, needing his cock to make me cum.
—
And just like that, the floodgates creaked wider—Hayat's network of kin unfurling like the delta at high tide, his cheeky empire expanding one commission at a time, each new face a promise of storms yet to break. No one else ever asked for more money during the act, not with their cock still buried in me. Maybe word had spread. Maybe Hanif's fall from grace had become a cautionary tale, whispered in the reed beds and tractor sheds of his village. Whatever the reason, the others came hungry, but careful. They’d wait until the end—when they were dressed, standing by the door—before respectfully asking for an extra tip or 'bus fare'. And that suited me just fine.
The End (Of Part 2)
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