Three from the Reeds

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.

Three From The Reeds

A few weeks after Akhtar's whirlwind visit, Hayat Khaskheli showed up unannounced on a sticky Friday evening—the kind where Hyderabad's air hung heavy with diesel fumes and the promise of weekend escape. I'd just kicked off my shoes in the hallway, briefcase still dangling from one hand, when the doorbell buzzed like an impatient mosquito.

There he was, leaning against the frame in his usual crisp shalwar kameez, that roguish grin splitting his wheatish face like he'd just closed a deal on a truckload of premium gravel.

"Bilal Sahib," he drawled, slipping through the door unbidden. His hand found the swell of my ass with brazen ease, palm molding to its curve through the taut fabric of my dress pants, while a slender finger—knowing, wicked—traced a slow, deliberate scratch right over the hidden pucker of my hole, teasing the seam like a promise of the breach to come.

"Miss me... or my lund?" he murmured, breath ghosting my ear, his free hand brushing the insistent bulge of his already hard cock against my thigh.

I laughed, locking the door behind him, the sound echoing off the cool tile. "Both, you rogue. What's the occasion?"

Hayat didn't answer right away. He kicked off his sandals, padded into the living room like he owned the place, and flopped onto the armchair with a sigh that meant relief.

"Just felt like seeing you," he said, eyes dancing, voice light. "You know me."

But I knew that silence. The way he didn't meet my eyes. The way his grin came half a second too late. Hayat had been fucked. And Hayat hated that. He tolerated it for the money but it scraped something raw inside him every time. I'd seen it before: his charm was dimmed. He hadn't come to talk. He'd come to take their memory away.

He poured us glasses of Pakola in the living room. We clinked, sipped, and sank onto the sofa, his thigh pressing warm against mine. The sweetness was welcome down my throat, loosening the week's knots—site reports, contractors' oily smiles. Hayat's fingers traced lazy patterns on my knee, his touch familiar as monsoon rain.

"That kid Akhtar? Won't shut up about you back home," he said, eyes dancing with mischief. "Tells my cousins you're some city jinn—sucked his cock like a dream, took it like a champion wrestler. Got 'em all jealous, yaar. Speaking of..." He leaned in closer, breath hot against my ear, voice dropping into that velvet Sindhi lilt that always made my pulse stutter. "Jabbar's in town for a construction site gig—my big cousin, built like he wrestles tractors for breakfast. Quiet type, doesn't waste words on wind. Eid's creeping up like a thief; he wants a sherwani that screams 'village king'—crisp white, embroidered. What do you reckon?"

Jabbar Khaskheli. I'd heard the name in passing—a shadow in Hayat's tales of reed-bed brawls and harvest hauls. Older than anyone else of Hayat's cousins, late-twenties maybe, with a reputation for silence that hid a slow-burning fire.

I met Hayat's gaze, cock already stirring at the thought.

"Deal," I murmured. "But tonight is just you and me."

Hayat's grin widened, wicked and triumphant. "Oh, Sahib. You'll sing louder than a wedding qawwali."

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The next evening, as planned, I swung by the chai stall near the Kotri Barrage on my way back from Tando Allahyar to Hyderabad. Hayat was easy to spot—sprawled on a plastic stool like he owned the strip, legs wide, flashing teeth as he waved at me.

Beside him loomed Jabbar Khaskheli: a mountain of a man, broad as a canal gate, shoulders straining his faded blue kurta, arms corded from years of wrestling irrigation pipes and stubborn bullocks. His skin held a deep wheatish glow, baked darker by the delta sun. Cropped hair framed a jaw like carved teak. Eyes like polished agate—dark, steady, missing nothing—met mine as I pulled up. No grin. Just a nod: respectful, assessing. Like he was sizing up rebar for a bridge.

He saw me—late twenties, lean and fit, well-dressed. Designer stubble framed my face that everyone called handsome. I caught the flicker in his eyes that told he was intrigued.

"Engineer Bilal Sahib," he rumbled, voice low and gravelly, thick with the Sindhi drawl of the deep villages. He unfolded his bulk into the back seat, the car dipping under his weight.

Hayat whooped and claimed shotgun. "See, Sahib? Told you—prime stock," Hayat crowed, slapping Jabbar's knee with a grin that could light up the barrage. "Built like a threshing bull, probably hung like a water pump—his bride walked bowlegged for a week after the wedding. Jabbar bhai's itching to flood your thirsty little plot, Sahib. Girth, grunt, and stamina—he'll plow you so deep, you'll be sprouting gratitude for weeks. And if not—paise wapas—all money cheerfully refunded!"

Jabbar grunted, a fond half-smile at his irrepressible cousin cracking his stoic mask as the chai stall receded in the rearview. "Hayat talks too much. Like a crow over rice." But his eyes still lingered on me in the mirror, a spark flickering there—curiosity, maybe hunger: the young engineer who pays excellent money to get plowed.

Back at the house, the AC hummed a welcome against the dusk's sticky cling. For Jabbar—older—I uncorked the arak. I'd brought out a chilled bottle of Pakola for Hayat, sweet and fizzy, just like him. But he waved it off with a grin, already reaching for the alcoholic arak. "I've been tasting this forever, Sahib—don't worry," he said, cheerful as ever, pouring himself a generous splash like he'd been born to it.

Hayat held court from the armchair, glass in hand, swirling his arak with insouciant flair as he regaled Jabbar with tales of his past "deals": Hanif's greed, Akhtar's coltish hesitation.

Jabbar listened, sipping slow, his massive frame settled beside me on the sofa, thighs spread wide and unbothered. Every time he shifted, his knee brushed mine—solid, deliberate. The air between us thickened—not with words, but with heat, slow and deliberate.

From the armchair, Hayat leaned forward, grinning like a contractor with a winning bid. "See, Sahib? Quiet as a bull in the reeds. Jabbar bhai, Engineer Sahib's all parched—show him what Kotri bulls do to dry fields."

Jabbar didn't answer right away. He took another slow sip, eyes flicking between Hayat and me. That half-smile tugged at his mouth again, deeper now, touched with something else—curiosity, calculation, maybe even care. His gaze lingered on me longer than usual, and I knew he'd seen it: the way my eyes softened every time they landed on Hayat, the way my body leaned toward him without meaning to. Not lust. Something warmer.

Jabbar said at last, voice low and deliberate, eyes still locked on mine. "You go first, little rascal. If I'm the first, the Sahib won't even feel your twig slipping in after—might as well be stirring tea with a matchstick."

Hayat blinked, then barked a laugh. "Me first? No, I'm always the last one in, bhai. I have to ensure that Sahib is fully satisfied before we go."

Suddenly, he turned to me with a wicked grin. "Hey Sahib—great idea! You fancy a double helping for once? You two game?"

I saw it in a flash—slim, youthful, pretty Hayat, gay for pay, must've been taken by two men a few times. Probably laborers on a break, short on time and long on need. The kind who didn't ask, just arranged themselves around him like a task to be done. And Hayat, ever the professional, must have bore it with that same insouciant grin.

This wasn't routine. This was new ground—unplowed, untested. And I wanted it. The air between us thickened, charged. My hole clenched in anticipation.

Jabbar flexed subtly, the kurta pulling tight across his chest. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and unflinching, as if waiting for me to demur. But I didn't. I couldn't. My throat was dry, my heart thudding like a drum in a well. The image of two guys fucking me in front of each other in one room made me hot.

I saw doubt in Jabbar's eyes too. He'd probably never fucked anyone with someone else watching—let alone his own cousin. But Hayat's cheerfulness was infectious, and the arak had already blurred the edges of our hesitation.

I nodded and smiled wordlessly, the way Jabbar looked at me—half nervous, half hungry—made it easy to agree. Lust was a tide rising fast, sweeping away hesitation.

Jabbar stood without ceremony, but I saw the way his fingers hesitated at the hem of his kurta, the way his breath hitched before he spoke. "No problem for me either. Let's go."

In the bedroom we moved as if choreographed by nerves and drink—clothes shed in a rustle of fabric and nervous chuckles. Hayat's lithe form first, that elegant cock we knew rising proud and veined, shaved clean as always. He stretched like a cat, utterly at ease, his grin steady and unbothered.

Jabbar was last, peeling off his kurta with a grunt that sounded more like resolve than ease. His torso emerged like hammered earth—broad pecs dusted faint with hair, abs ridged from farm-haul labor. Below, his cock was a beast: much thicker than Hayat's, cut and heavy, the flared head flushed thick as my thumb, veins bulging like twisted roots, balls hanging full and low like ripe figs begging to be savored. He stroked it once, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving mine.

I swallowed hard. We were committed now. No turning back. And somewhere beneath the nerves, the heat began to rise to red hot levels.

Hayat let out a low whistle. "Oh come on, you've both done this before. Don't act like it's your first wedding night." He grinned, eyes flicking between us. "Don't worry, Jabbar bhai—I'll go first. Engineer sahib never bites when he sucks."

Jabbar snorted, amused despite himself. I felt my breath catch, the tension in my chest loosening just enough to let the heat flow freely.

Hayat winked. "Now come on, Sahib. Two lund's await!"

I sank to my knees between them, the carpet soft under me, their heat flanking like twin monsoons.

Hayat—more addicted to my blowjobs than to arak—claimed my mouth first. He grinned at Jabbar, as he pushed his cock into my mouth, voice full of mischief: "Watch this, bhai. See how sweetly my Sahib treats my lund."

His long, curved length slid past my lips with a familiar glide—salty, insistent, the silky skin stretched over rigid heat. It bumped the back of my throat as I hollowed my cheeks and sucked deep, welcoming him with practiced devotion.

 

"Fuck, Sahib—your tongue's a thief," he groaned, fingers threading into my hair, hips rocking gentle but greedy, like he could stay lost in this heat forever if the world let him.

Jabbar watched, breath hitching. He hadn't moved yet—still standing, still weighing the moment. But then he saw me suck Hayat's cock deep till my nose was buried in his smooth pubes, my cheeks hollowed with devotion. Heard Hayat groan, fingers tangled in my hair, hips rocking with greedy rhythm.

That did it.

Jabbar's final hesitation shattered—not by words, but by the wet sound of my mouth and Hayat's breathless praise. Something in him gave way. He stepped forward, cock heavy and flushed, tapping my cheek with the fat head like he'd made up his mind.

"Over here now, Sahib," he murmured, voice rough as canal gravel.

I turned to take him in—God, the stretch. His thickness pried my jaw open, the smooth cut head gliding deep as I tongued the slit, laving the salty tang while Hayat whispered encouragements in Sindhi: "Suck him like you do me, Sahib—make my cousin's knees buckle."

The rhythm built like a gathering storm: me alternating, mouth stuffed full one moment with Hayat's elegant thrust (gagging wetly, nose buried in his smooth pubes), the next with Jabbar's bull-girth (lips stretched taut, throat working to swallow half before tears pricked my eyes).

Their groans mingled—Hayat's throaty chuckles, Jabbar's guttural rumbles—hands fisting my hair in tandem, guiding without force. The air thickened with spit-slick pops and the wet slurp of my devotion.

And in that moment, with their hands in my hair and their heat flooding my mouth, I stopped thinking. I just gave in—to the rhythm, the hunger, the strange tenderness of being wanted by both.

Then, with a cheeky grin aimed at Jabbar, Hayat said, "Come on, bhai—time to give Sahib his favorite treat. He's obsessed with getting fucked."

I staggered upright, jaw aching, hole clenching with need.

Hayat slapped my ass playfully as he guided me onto the bed like a prize being presented. "Flat on your back, legs up. You know the drill."

Jabbar blinked, then snorted in amusement at Hayat's cheerful patter. Whatever doubt he'd carried had melted under Hayat's grin and my parted legs. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between my thighs.

Hayat reached for the lube, uncapped it with a flick, then tossed it to Jabbar. Jabbar caught it, turned it over in his hand, brow furrowing slightly.

"What is this?" he asked, sniffing it like he expected perfume.

Hayat laughed. "It's not engine grease, bhai—it's called lube. Makes things slicker than spit."

Jabbar raised an eyebrow.

"You've got a big cock," Hayat added, grinning. "Use plenty. Make it slick for Sahib's tight ass."

Jabbar shrugged, squeezed out a generous dollop, and started coating himself—slow, deliberate, like he was still getting used to the idea but already halfway gone.

I went boneless, legs hooked over Jabbar's broad shoulders as he lined up—his cut beast nudging my slick hole, the flared head pressing insistent.

"Ready for me, Sahib?" he murmured, voice low and thick. "Gonna fill you like the Indus at flood."

The breach was exquisite fire: he sank in—slow, inexorable, the fat crown stretching me wider than I'd dreamed, burning sweet as he bottomed out, those heavy balls slapping my ass.

Hayat straddled my chest, feeding me his cock again while he whispered with a dirty grin: "Look at you, Sahib—stuffed like a festival keema. Milk him, clench your gaand—make Jabbar moan."

I hollowed my cheeks around Hayat's slender length, sucking him deep and sloppy, tongue swirling that familiar curve until his thighs trembled and he groaned, pulling back. He remembered my rule: cum in my ass, never my mouth. No wasting that flood down my throat; I wanted it buried deep, breeding me like the delta claims its silt.

Jabbar moved like a tide—slow rolls building to piston thrusts, his girth dragging every nerve, churning the extra lube into froth that squelched obscenely with each plunge.

Above me, Hayat goaded: "Harder, bhai—make the engineer's gaand bounce!"

Jabbar's retort was an indulgent growl: "Save your breath, Chhotay—little one—no one's asking for your advice now."

But he ramped faster, hips slamming, that thick drag hitting deep until my vision sparked, cock untouched and leaking against my belly.

Then came the peak—Jabbar burying to the hilt, flooding me hot and thick. Cum pulsed deep, his cock twitching inside me like a diesel engine sputtering to life. I felt every jet, warm and insistent, painting my walls, overflowing in a sticky gush down my crack.

But Jabbar didn't even pause. He kept fucking through it, churning his own load back into me, the slick mess squelching louder, hips grinding relentless like he was tilling unyielding soil.

Hayat's encouraging whispers now turned to pleas, his slender cock bobbing as he looked almost frantic, eyes locked on Jabbar's endless rhythm. "Bhai, come on—finish quick! My turn, Jabbar mian... Sahib's waiting for me. Don't hog the field all night!"

Jabbar's eyes flicked to Hayat, warm and teasing. "You'll get your turn, Chhotay. Let me finish this right."

He powered on—deeper, unhurried, his girth stretching me raw and exquisite, hunger coiling tighter in my gut.

Minutes blurred. Sweat pooled between us. My moans fractured into gasps.

Hayat's begging cracked into a litany of Sindhi curses and pleas: "Jabbar bhai—enough! Let me in, or I'll bust right here!"

Finally, Jabbar buried deep again, groaning low as he unloaded a second time—hotter, thicker cum pulsing against my core, his cock jerking wild inside me, flooding me fuller while he held still, savoring the clench of my rim around his girth. But he didn't pull out. No, he still stayed buried to the hilt, that thick beast twitching with aftershocks, still rock-hard and pulsing like it owned the night.

His agate eyes flicked to Hayat as he ground slow, deliberate circles, churning his fresh load deeper. "What's the rush, little one? I'm thinking another round. Sahib's ass deserves it."

From the feel of it—that insistent throb, the unyielding heat—his cock was still more than capable, hunger coiled tight as a spring, ready to plow on until I shattered.

Hayat's begging cracked into a desperate whine, his slender length bobbing slick against my cheek as he shoved at Jabbar's shoulder. "Jabbar bhai, enough—get out! My turn, yaar... Sahib's mine now!"

Only then did Jabbar pull out reluctantly, that flared head dragging free inch by veined inch, leaving me gaping and leaking a river of his seed.

He hovered there, cock still poised at my ass, smiling fondly at his little cousin. "Fine, masti-khor. Didn't I tell you to go first? Next time, Sahib's gaand gets the full harvest—three loads from this bull."

"Stop boasting, you monster—move!" Hayat shoved him aside with a laugh that cracked into a groan, practically lunging into place, his elegant cock—slender and curved just right—sliding home through the mess with a wet, welcoming pop.

But the wait had unraveled him. Jabbar's marathon had stoked Hayat's fire too long. He managed only a few frantic strokes—deep, desperate plunges that hit that aching spot inside me with precision hunger—before he shattered, flooding me with his load in shuddering jets.

But still that familiar curve, thinner but hotter, thrilled me sharper than the feel of Jabbar's girth. It milked my nerves like it belonged there, sending aftershocks rippling through me, untouched and unraveling in white-hot waves that left me quivering, spent.

We collapsed in a sweaty tangle—Hayat's skinny frame half-draped over me, his breath hot on my neck; Jabbar's bulk curled at my side. The room hummed with afterglow hush, the AC whispering over our slick bodies like a post-monsoon breeze.

Hayat chuckled low, arm slung over us both like a possessive vine. "Told you—win-win-win. But damn, Sahib, you took both of us like it's just another site inspection."

His grin flashed, then softened. His eyes held mine a beat too long, blurring that client-supplier line just enough to make it dangerous. For a moment, I felt the ache of something that might've been—if we'd met in another life, on different terms.

Hayat blinked first, his irrepressible grin snapping back into place. He rolled off the bed with a stretch and a yawn, already reaching for his kurta.

Later, dressed and ready to leave, I paid them.

"Shukriya, Bilal Sahib," Jabbar murmured, pocketing the notes without counting. His voice was gravel and gratitude, his hand warm and callused on my shoulder—lingering, steady.

"Next Eid… please come to our village," he said, eyes earnest. "We've got good food, fresh milk, clean air. There'll be music, laughter, and sweets for everyone. It's a simple day, but full of joy. People tell stories—some true, some not—but all worth hearing."

No ask. No angle. I was pleasantly surprised, astonished even, that Jabbar didn't ask for more, despite his marathon performance. He'd given more than I had expected, and taken only what was agreed.

And that mattered. I was used to Hayat's guys demanding chai-pani, bus fare, some little add-on. But Jabbar didn't. His invitation for visiting their village at Eid wasn't a hustle for more money—it was an honest invitation. And that made me happy beyond measure. My little fiction stayed intact: that this wasn't just a transaction. That maybe, for a night, it was something more.

Hayat's laugh bubbled up, bright and wicked. "Next time, Sahib—how about I bring the full dream team? Akhtar, Jabbar, and yours truly. Let's see if you still walk straight or just crawl to the shower."

I snorted, already picturing the chaos. "I'll need a stretcher, not a bed."

Jabbar chuckled low, adjusting his shawl, eyes twinkling. "We'll go easy. Maybe."

Hayat rolled his eyes. "Easy? Akhtar's got youth, and Jabbar—well, you've seen what he does."

As they stepped out, Hayat tossed me a final wink, all swagger and mischief. "Rest up, Sahib. Next time, we bring the monsoon—and maybe a backup generator."

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me in the hush of the AC and the scent of sweat and arak. I lay back, smiling to myself—sated, sore, and just sentimental enough to believe the night had offered more than pleasure. A flicker of connection. A fiction I wanted to keep believing.

The End (of Part 3)

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