Quarters and Quarrels
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.
Quarters and Quarrels
Hayat Khaskheli's plans usually ran slick as diesel through a well-oiled pump. But that evening outside Kotri, as the sun bled orange over the SITE factory's silos, the gears caught hard, grinding the night into something raw and unforeseen.
He'd taken me to meet a cousin I hadn't met before—Riaz Khaskheli, who worked in one of the factories in the huge industrial area just outside Kotri.
After flashing ID, we were waved through the gates. The security guard called Riaz first, then pointed us toward the rear of the compound. We drove past the monolithic factory building to the workers' quarters.
The quarters were laid out in rigid rows behind a high concrete wall—ten rooms to a row, each barely wide enough for a pair of charpoys and a fan. A shared verandah ran between them like a spine, betel-stained, ending in a latrine at one end and a kitchen at the other, thick with turmeric haze and the acrid bite of burnt onions.
I parked in the visitor lot, gravel crunching under the tires. Riaz was already waiting politely, his posture straight—clearly, he'd scrubbed up for this visit.
He was handsome in a generic way—mid-twenties, with designer stubble groomed just so, eyes dark and appraising beneath thick, arched brows, and a crooked, charming smile flashing extra-white teeth.
He'd obviously raided his sparse wardrobe for the occasion. He was wearing a crisp polo, likely ironed that morning, the collar stiff and tucked neat into a throat that bobbed with a swallow of nerves. The shirt stretched taut over broad shoulders, chest tapering to a waist cinched by a belt polished to a dull gleam. He had a pair of second-hand jeans on, but carefully washed and ironed flat, creases sharp, hugging his thighs just enough to hint at the muscle beneath.
His whole getup screamed a laborer's best shot at polish—a bid to impress the sahib (me), the one paying top rupee for his cock.
When he greeted me, his wink flashed quick—but not before a double-take rippled across his face: brows lifting in that split-second recalibration, like he'd braced for an elderly uncle in rumpled khadi, not this. I could almost hear Hayat's pitch echoing in his head—"Fuck my Sahib and he'll pay you really well"—the kind of vague lure that painted me as some fat old engineer, paunchy from desk rot and desperate enough to drop rupees on pity fucks.
His dark eyes sharpened, appraising me with a hunger that overrode the nerves bobbing in his throat.
I was in my late twenties, lean and fit. I knew I looked more like a university student dodging lectures than the gazetted government officer I was—all sharp jaw and easy grace, the kind of face that made contractors smirk behind my back and call me a "Chikna Chhokra"—smooth, fuckable boy. It stung slightly, so I'd changed: by now, designer stubble framed my handsome features, a calculated shadow to harden the edges, to say authority instead of prey.
Riaz's handshake lingered just a breath too long—palm callused but warm, thumb grazing my knuckles in a way that hinted at hunger without spelling it out, now laced with the thrill of an unexpected upgrade.
He led us to his room, the air humming with the low murmur of voices from neighboring quarters—snatches of Sindhi laughter, the clatter of a metal plate.
His room was clean but sparse, meant for two—but his roommate was away on vacation. Riaz was alone. That, of course, was why Hayat had timed it just so.
After Hayat and I settled on one bed and Riaz on the other, we refused his polite offer of chai and biscuits. Hayat, ever the ringleader, gave me a theatrical nudge towards the other bed and a wink—his eyes flicking toward Riaz's crotch with exaggerated glee.
"Go on, Sahib," he whispered, grinning. "Riaz bhai's lund is already standing to attention. Don't be shy—take a peek."
But Riaz hesitated—his smile faltering, eyes flicking toward Hayat, then the door. For a moment, something passed between them: an unspoken plea. Like most of Hayat's cousins, he drew the line at stripping under family eyes. The taboo hung thicker than the turmeric fog.
So Riaz and Hayat struck a pact—but not before a bit of cousinly ribbing.
Hayat nudged Riaz with a grin. "Arrey, what's this shyness now? Cousin Jabbar wasn't shy. We fucked Bilal Sahib in same room one after the other."
Riaz shook his head, lips pressed tight, eyes flicking toward me in apology. "That was Jabbar," he muttered. "I'm not Jabbar."
Hayat laughed, clapped him on the shoulder. "Fine, bro. For you, I'll stand outside. But when it's my turn, you're welcome to watch and critique my performance. Bring a notepad."
Riaz rolled his eyes, but the tension eased. Hayat posted up outside, whistling low.
Riaz clicked the door shut behind him, the sound soft but final. I dropped to my knees as he unzipped his jeans, the concrete biting cool through my jeans.
He let me suck on his cock for a few minutes while he took his polo off—his body easing into the moment as I took him in.
True to the Khaskheli tribe's characteristics—which by now I knew intimately—it was thick and cut clean: seven inches of veined steel pulsing hot against my tongue. The flared head, a blunt arrow capped rose-dark and slick with my spit, shaft ridged like twisted banyan roots scraped the roof of my mouth with salty friction. His balls were heavy and smooth-shaven swinging low like pendulums, their skin taut and musky, and I licked them as well, gladly.
He pulled back impatiently with a ragged inhale, eyes dark and urgent.
"Enough teasing, Sahib," he growled low, breath hot against my lips, cock twitching heavy in the air between us. "I want to get on with the real thing."
Unlike Hayat, obviously Riaz wasn't too enamoured of blowjobs.
Riaz reached for a bottle of coconut oil—slippery and pungent. He slicked himself quickly, the scent rising sharp between us, then guided me to the edge of the charpai. Like most Sindhi tops, he clearly preferred a position where my own cock dangled hidden, irrelevant—draped out of sight, ignored in favor of the heat he chased.
I leaned forward, bracing against the frame as he stepped in behind me. "Now," he muttered, voice a low grate against my ear, slick fingers parting me quick as the slick head of his cock nudged at my entrance.
Then, with a wet, yielding pop, he pushed in deep—no hesitation, just heat and pressure. His designer stubble scraped my neck as he rutted hard, breath ragged against my collarbone. Each thrust snapped through me with urgency, stretching me wide, the wet schlick of oil and flesh punctuating the creak of the charpai.
He fucked like a factory machine—slow, even strokes, relentless in their rhythm, each one measured and unyielding, like he'd timed the line to outlast the longest shift. Pride flickered in his dark eyes when they met mine over my shoulder, a glint of that crooked smile saying watch me work, his breath steady even as sweat beaded his temple, hips rolling with the easy command of a man who knew he could draw this out till dawn if he chose.
It drove me almost crazy with pleasure, the steady rub against my prostate—in and out, deep and deliberate, in and out—building that white-hot coil relentlessly for almost half an hour, my body clenching greedy around him, chasing the friction he doled out like a foreman rationing overtime.
Halfway through, as my moans turned ragged and I pushed back desperate for more, he leaned in close—chest slick against my back, stubble grazing my ear—and rasped low, voice a gravel chuckle between thrusts: "You feel great, Sahib, tight and slick. Bet no one's lasted this long in you."
I could only gasp a half-laugh, half-whimper—"Keep going"—and he did, that glint sharpening to smug fire, strokes unhurried as ever, owning every second like it was his quota to fill.
Finally, he upped the pace—just a notch, hips snapping sharper now—and grabbed my hips even tighter, callused fingers digging in like anchors, pushing in deep with a low, triumphant groan. He came hot, thick, and viscous—flooding me full, pulsing wave after wave that milked him dry. The air thickened, heavy with the primal salt of release, his weight settling heavy against my back for a beat, savoring it, before he eased out slow, deliberate, that pride lingering in the satisfied huff against my neck.
He wiped off on a clean but threadbare towel before he dressed, polo snapping crisp over his chest. He then accepted his cash and an extra tip with a heartfelt, "Thank you, Sahib—that's very generous," his crooked smile flashing brief, like he'd just clocked out top of the shift. He stepping out with a wink that lingered hot in the doorway air, door clicking soft behind him.
--
Hayat breezed back into the room, insouciant as ever, that signature grin splitting his face, eyes dancing. He didn't miss a beat, shalwar already loosening before the door clicked shut behind him.
"Satisfied with the cousin special, Sahib?" he quipped, voice a teasing lilt, not waiting for my nod before fishing out his cock—half-hard and familiar, that perfect curve I craved.
I laughed, low and hungry, still sprawled nude on the charpai, thighs sticky from Riaz's leavings.
I pushed him down onto the rumpled ropes with a firm hand on his chest, his back hitting the weave with a soft creak, and took him in deep—lips sealing wet around the base on the first bob, tongue swirling lazy under the ridge as he swelled hot and full in my throat—knowing full well Hayat loved this—loved the way I worshipped him. He'd confessed it enough times, breathy while I sucked him: Suck me to the end, Sahib, and you don’t have to pay me—hell, I'd pay you back.
He groaned like I'd struck gold, hips bucking shallow, fingers tangling loose in my hair—not pulling, just cradling, his usual control fraying at the edges.
"Yaar... yes, like that," he murmured, voice cracking into a whine that betrayed the hustler, the boy who'd trade diesel dreams for this one indulgence.
I alternated slow, deliberate—broad laps from his balls, heavy and drawn tight with that earthy musk of him, salt-kissed from the day's heat, up the underside to lap at the slit, teasing out beads of pre-cum that I savored sharp and addictive, rolling them over my tongue before sucking him back down, hollowing cheeks till my jaw ached sweet.
He twitched, cursed soft in Sindhi, that grin twisting into open-mouthed bliss, eyes half-lidded like he could ride this edge forever—waive every fee, every deal, just to spill down my throat.
But god, I loved his cock too much for that—loved the stretch of it, the way it claimed me whole, not just this teasing taste. The ache from Riaz sharpened into a throb, demanding more, deeper. I could have straddled him, slid my ass down till he was buried deep inside me, setting my own pace.
But I knew him thoroughly by now: he liked control, liked dictating the rhythm, knowing exactly how deep, how fast, how his it all felt. I let him take it, rolling onto my back and lifting my legs, knees hooked over his shoulders in invitation. He snatched the coconut oil from the floor—not that I needed it, still slick and swollen with Riaz's cum—but I let him do as he pleased.
His cock slid into me and I sighed in relief. He started slow, wanting to lengthen the time, and I let him. But halfway through—just as the rhythm deepened and the room filled with the wet slap of skin—voices rose outside. More than one. Sounding like young, rough-edged factory hands with the restless hunger of men who punched clocks and dreamed of release.
"Riaz!" one barked. "What's going on in your room?"
Hayat stiffened mid-thrust. I felt it in his grip—the sudden tension, the breath caught. We froze, ears straining.
Outside, footsteps. Inside, panic.
"Nothing's going on, just a couple of guests resting after their drive here," Riaz said, too smooth, too quick.
"Resting, huh?" The second voice sounded skeptical. "We saw you go in while someone waited outside like a guard. Now you're guarding the outside and someone else is in. What kind of 'rest' is this?"
Hayat pulled out—slick, silent—the room still thick with sex.
"Don't lie, yaar," the first voice said. "We weren't born yesterday. Some dirty business is going on."
I froze, calculating the shift in the air. In these men-only quarters—packed with young, horny factory hands starved for release after twelve-hour shifts—gay sex was as open a secret as the betel stains on the verandah walls. Everyone knew it happened: quick fumbles in the latrine, charpai creaks muffled by snores, the occasional moan swallowed by the fan's whine. No one batted an eye; it was survival steam, not scandal. So why had these two suddenly decided to confront Riaz like hounds with a grudge?
Outside, Riaz still tried to laugh it off, "Bas, yaar. It's just a couple of my cousins visiting. Chill."
Inside, we scrambled—frantic fingers fumbling buttons, shirts dragged over sticky skin still flushed from the aborted fuck. Our breath came ragged, uneven, like we'd sprinted from a factory collapse. Hayat smoothed his kameez, the ache of unfinished release still throbbing, insistent, in his shalwar.
We unlocked the door and stepped into the verandah's dim 60-watt glow, blinking like men roused from sleep—clothes rumpled, faces flushed.
But the neighbors weren't fools—yes, there were two of them, looming like factory cranes, early or mid-twenties, wiry from shift work but fueled by that bone-deep lust of young men starved for more than wages. Both were wearing baniyans—really loose armless tanks—hanging loose with scooped-deep armholes that bared their ribs, and lungis. They both had chappals—simple flipflops—on their feet
I looked them over. One had a hawkish face, eyes narrowed. The other was broader, his jaw shadowed with perpetual five-o'clock scruff. From their attitude, I judged right away they knew what young horny guys get up to, and they were already thinking of how they could turn this to their advantage.
Both were staring pointedly at me and Hayat—bed hair wild, buttons misaligned, the flush of sex still radiating from our skin. I could see their lungis already tenting faint under the bulb. In a heartbeat, it clicked like a jammed gear freeing: these two weren't guardians of virtue—they were hounds scenting fresh meat.
The hawkish one snorted, peering inside the door—the bottle of coconut oil glinting guilty on the floor beside the charpai, its cap askew like a spilled secret. One rumpled bed, the other pristine. It didn't take a surveyor's eye to read the scene.
"Cousins, huh?" he said, voice low and pointed. "Smells like more than family chai in there."
He scratched at his shirt again—callused fingers fumbling the hem, the loose baniyan gaping to bare a sweat-slick ribcage heaving with more than just bravado. A glance to his friend, in that wide-eyed scramble of two young bucks who'd clocked out horny and spotted a rare, unguarded trough.
"We could toss your so-called 'cousins' out back to their village with their tails tucked," his voice low and edged, a smirk cracking as his lungi twitched. "Or, y'know… cut us in for a taste. No fuss that way."
The broader one grunted, uncrossing his arms with deliberate drag—scruff twitching into a half-smirk that didn't reach his eyes, wary and calculating. But the tent in his lungi betrayed him, twitching like a divining rod dowsing for heat. "Yeah, Riaz yaar," he drawled, thick and unhurried, "share the wealth—or nobody gets a drop."
Riaz stammered something placating, but the air had already thickened—electric with that knife-edge bargain: exposure or excess.
"Which one of you's the gaandu?" the hawkish one asked, eyes raking us—barely lingering on me, late-twenties, the calculated stubble hardening my jaw. They settled on Hayat, just over twenty-two and built like a reed in the wind: slim hips, pretty-boy softness in his cheeks, that youthful flush still clinging to his wheatish skin like he hadn't yet been weathered by factory grit or family roofs.
Then, with a sneer: "Him, of course."
His finger jabbed toward Hayat, turning Hayat's lithe frame suddenly coiling inward, that irrepressible grin fracturing into something raw.
I knew the truth too well. Hayat was totally gay-for-pay. He bottomed for clients, yes—but never with joy. He hated it, but did it for the money, and these guys wouldn't pay a paisa. I recalled the shadows whenever he'd stumbled back from a client, shoulders slumped under his kameez, eyes dull as spent embers, yet pretending nothing happened.
And now this flicker—half fear, half fury in his pretty face—hit me like a gut punch. When their gaze lingered, marking him prey, I stepped forward without a stutter. My heart thudded, but my resolve was iron.
"I'm the gaandu," I said, voice steady as a site command, chin lifted to meet their stares.
It wasn't just deflection—a shield flung up in the dust. It was love, raw and unasked, sparing Hayat the sting of bottoming for these roughnecks. Yes, I could have sneaked him his usual fee afterwards to smooth it over, or offered the pair a few hundred to slink off. But no—why pay when I could try my luck and claim those two cocks myself? A gamble worth the grit.
Truth be told, I craved bottoming. I liked the stretch, the ache, the way it made my body sing. And these two? Young, horny—factory hands with the urgent thrust of men pent-up from endless shifts, all urgent piston thrusts and zero finesse. The kind who gripped hard, spilled deep, and vanished into the dawn whistle without a backward glance.
Oh yeah. Bring 'em on! Best part? If luck went my way, I wouldn't even have to pay. Two extra cocks, no extra cost. A rare kind of windfall.
Of course, I could see the disappointment in them. Slim, pretty Hayat was clearly their first pick—fresh-faced, slender, the kind of boy who turned heads in bus stations and back alleys.
The broader one spoke, voice thick with disappointment, "Yeah, I remember this one was guarding the door earlier while Riaz was inside. What's your name?"
"Hayat Khaskheli," Hayat muttered softly.
"A Khaskheli, eh? Any relative of Riaz here?"
"Yeah, he's my cousin," Riaz confirmed.
Realisation seeped through, and their eyes shifted to me. At first, doubtful looks, as though I wasn't worthy of their manhood. I wasn't as slim, not as youthful.
But then they looked closer. I took care of myself. Still relatively young, still fit. My skin was clear, my hair neat, a button-up shirt that showed my trim waist and a pair of jeans that made my ass pop—tight enough to tease, faded just right.
No words at first, just that loaded silence of men pondering their options in the half-light, the verandah's bulb humming overhead like a conspirator.
The hawkish one began to thaw, eyes narrowed, tracing the curve of denim from my thighs to the swell beneath my belt—measuring, recalibrating. His scowl softened into something sharper. Hungrier.
The other hung back, shifting his weight from chappal to chappal. A grunt escaped—reluctant approval—as he adjusted his lungi with a meaty fist, the fabric tenting firmer now.
Then the hawkish one jerked his chin toward the door, voice dropping low and gravel-thick: "The pretty one's off-limits? Fine. But I guess you'll do. Spread that ass for us, take our cocks deep, and we'll fuck off after. No bullshit, no noise."
The other nodded once, sharp. The deal sealed in that quick, macho flicker—no haggling, no drama. Just the raw calculus of lust trumping caution.
The hawkish one shoved past his friend with a muttered, "Watch the door," claiming first rights.
The door snicked shut behind him. He told me to undress while peeling off his own gossamer cotton tank, muscles coiling under factory-scarred skin. He undid the knot of his lungi, letting the cloth whisper to the floor in a heap. His chest matted with coarse black hair that arrowed down to a belly just soft from too many late-night biryanis, thighs like pistons scarred from machine slips.
I didn't wait for further commands—just picked the position that I felt would attract him best. I knelt on the charpai and backed my body to the edge, ass arched in invitation, the ropes creaking under my knees.
He snatched the coconut oil bottle from the floor, its cap still askew, and poured a generous dollop into his palm—the pungent, tropical slick gleaming under the jaundiced bulb as he fisted himself slow, deliberate strokes that made the ridges bulge and the head flare wider, oil sheening every inch until it dripped warm from his knuckles.
He was in me in seconds—wiry, relentless. His cock—curved wicked, mushroom head begging like a fist—speared home with no preamble, the burn a welcome spark that lit the room's air.
Outside, I could hear the other guy's low rumble as he told Riaz to move away from the room, Riaz still protesting faintly, their footsteps fading away on the verandah grit. I didn't hear a peep from Hayat, uncharacteristically silent. Probably didn't want to bring anyone's attention back to him.
Inside, the hawkish man moved with purpose—fucking my ass like he was drilling for oil, each thrust bottoming out with a force that made me bite into the pillow, breath ragged. Heavy, piston-deep plunges churned friction into ache, my body opening wide for him, skin slapping echo off the concrete walls. I braced against the charpai, breath catching on every dive, ropes creaking chorus to our rut.
Outside, I could hear the other returning, his footsteps eager as his turn ticked closer like a shift whistle, the wait only sharpening the edge of what was to come.
Halfway in, sweat-slick chest grinding my back, the hawkish man spoke—voice a gravel rasp cracking on a moan, hips stuttering just a beat: "Fuck... thought you'd be loose, Sahib, but this gaand grips like a vice. I like it—shit, I like it very much."
The words spilled hot against my ear, raw admission from a man who thought he'd settled, but found gold, spurring him deeper, hungrier, like the confession unlocked the flood.
When he came, it was sudden and volcanic—a shuddering release that left my hole milking him as if desperate to breed, the excess trickling sticky down my thighs like a laborer's wage spilled loose.
He pulled out—his cock slipping free with a wet, reluctant pop, leaving me gaping and slick with his load.
As soon as the hawkish one stepped out, the broader man shouldered through the door, locking it behind him with a decisive click that echoed like a shift bell in the humid close. His eyes raked me head to toe, lingering on my sprawled nudity: still kneeling at the edge of the rumpled charpai, skin flushed and sheened with sweat, my hole still twitching obscenely around the leavings, a pearly dribble tracing slow down my crack to pool sticky on the woven ropes.
A low grunt escaped him, approval rough as gravel, "Good," he muttered, eyes locked on my upturned ass, his perpetual scruff twitching into a smirk that split wide and wolfish. "Stay like that, looks hot."
As he undid his lungi, his lund sprang free, a brute unchained—girthy as a laborer's wrist, cut blunt with a head thick and brutal, purpled like overripe plum, the shaft a veined battering ram unyielding as rebar.
Outside, the verandah hummed with silence, Hayat and Riaz probably pacing far away and the hawk-faced man sated—no footsteps now.
Then the broader man was on me, hairy hands gripping my waist hard enough to mar the skin with pale fingerprints. He mounted me from behind with a growl that vibrated through his belly against my back, his plump, fuzzy-hairy balls slapping heavy as he churned the mingled seed to froth.
His piston plunges gaped me obscenely, my ass cheeks quivering under the relentless slap, cleft flushed red from the friction, hole milking him as if desperate—until he roared low, a guttural "Fuck, take it," breeding me fuller, the excess trickling sticky down my thighs like molten tar from a fresh pour.
--
The hawkish one poked his head in just as the broader man unlocked the door, his wiry frame filling the doorway with a smirk that mirrored the other's—eyes glinting, sweeping over my still-nude body with the slow appraisal of a man confirming a purchase. Not the consolation prize anymore, but a find worth haggling over.
"You're not bad, young man," the broader one rumbled with a wink, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Sure would like to do this again. Look me up next time you're around—ask anyone, they all know me, Rafey Jatt. I'll make it worth your while."
"Yeah, yaar—I also thought the pretty one was the prize," the other barked a laugh, low and agreeing, clapping a hand on his shoulder with the easy camaraderie of men who'd shared a secret. He turned to me, "But now? I'll bet you're the better fuck. Come again any time. I'm Azam Mirza. We're in the next room."
They lingered a moment longer, their gazes still raking over me—my flushed skin, the sheen of sweat, the twitch of my thighs—that initial doubt burned clean away, replaced by a rough respect that settled easy as shared smokes.
"Oi, before you go," Rafey added, jerking a thumb toward the haze-thick kitchen at the verandah's end, "grab some chaat-papri or samosas and chai. Tell the cook it's on my tab."
Azam barked a laugh, clapping Rafey's shoulder with a meaty thwack. "Yeah, and throw in some pakora with extra chutney—spicy, like what we just dished out. On my tab, yaar."
He winked, sharp and wolfish, before they finally strode out together, lungis swaying, chappals scuffing the verandah grit. Their winks promised silence, their swagger sealing the pact. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me alone—smirking with the echo of that backhanded seal of approval.
—
Hayat and Riaz entered together, the door creaking like a shared exhale, both flushed and breathless from the vigil—banished to the far end by the neighbors' gruff orders.
The tension still clung to them like sweat. Neither had been touched, hadn't been threatened, but their concern for my well-being had left its mark: Hayat's eyes wide, jaw tight; Riaz's shoulders slumped under the weight of it all.
Their eyes examined me thoroughly—sprawled, spent, thighs marked faint with fingerprints and a sticky gleam.
"Bilal Sahib," Hayat rasped, his voice cracking like gravel under tires as he stepped close enough to thumb a welt on my hip, "those bastards... you alright? They hurt you bad?"
Riaz hovered a beat longer, broad frame sagging, then echoed hoarse from the threshold: "Yeah, Sahib—you good?"
I shifted, wincing at the throb, but met their gazes with a half-smirk.
"Better than good," I said, voice husky from the moans I'd swallowed. "Two extra cocks? Hell, MUCH better than good."
Riaz's weary grin cracked through—a low chuckle rumbling at my sheer audacity—before he collapsed onto the room's other bed with a grunt, frame hitting the charpai like a sack of emptied grain. Propped on elbows, polo clinging to his back, he leaned forward, eyes twinkling with that post-panic spark—the one where fear flips to farce in a heartbeat.
"That's such a relief," he said. He let out a laugh, "Yaar, I was out there sweating bullets, whispering prayers to every pir in Sindh to keep those horny bastards from hurting you too much!"
"On the bright side, they'll both owe me a favor or two now," he added, wagging a finger like he'd just closed a deal at the bazaar. "Big ones, yaar—switching shifts and days off to make my time off longer. All thanks to you, Sahib."
I shot Hayat an encouraging grin, thumbing the crease between his brows to smooth it away—those soft brown eyes still shadowed with worry, the kind that dimmed his spark like sand over embers. I wanted that cheerful smile back, the one that lit even the darkest corners. "Riaz already delivered way over quota—two extra cocks! But you? You haven't delivered your share of lund yet, yaar."
Hayat's breath hitched, a flash of mock-offense crossing his face before it melted into that irrepressible fox-grin, the one that said he'd haggle the devil for a better deal. "Right away, Sahib," he drawled, voice dipping low and teasing as he leaned in, shalwar whispering loose. "Right here. My cock. Your wish is my command—as always."
Hayat didn't worry about the audience—Riaz's propped elbows and nearby eyes be damned. Heat flared hot in his gaze as he dropped his clothes in a careless heap, snatching the oil bottle with a grip that betrayed his own pent-up edge. His body taut, his cock—the one I craved most—already rigid with youth's quicksilver resilience.
He flipped me face-down onto the rumpled bed, mounting with frantic urgency—sank in deep on the first thrust, the mingled slick of three loads of cum and fresh oil easing him home with a wet, claiming schlick that drowned the charpai's creak. Rhythm fast and possessive from the start, each snap of his hips grinding deeper, his weight pinning me open, erasing the strangers' memories with the familiar brand of us.
I opened greedy for Hayat, clenching around each thrust with moans that matched his rhythm—welcoming the ache's bloom into white-hot pleasure.
Riaz's low chuckle scraped warm and gritty from the side as, with a dramatic flourish, he slapped a palm over his eyes—peeking brazen through splayed fingers like a kid dodging a ghost story. "Damn, I don't want to see my own cousin's gaand bouncing like that!" he groaned, voice muffled but splintering into laughter, shoulders shaking the ropes of his charpai. "Yaar, Hayat—never knew you were this shameless!"
Hayat didn't miss a beat, thrusting deeper with a huff that was half-moan, half-snort—his hands gripping my hips like anchors, pulling me back onto him with a slick grind that made me clench and gasp. "Oh please, bhai—jealous much? Haven't you already fucked my Sahib once? His gaand'll be free soon enough if you want seconds."
Riaz's crooked grin split wide as he propped up higher, unabashed now, eyes glinting with mischief under the jaundiced bulb. "You just want to ogle my gaand while I fuck the Sahib, don't you, you little rascal? Fine—but no touching. Watching you shamelessly pound away without a care? Makes me fear you'll forget I'm your cousin and go for seconds on me!"
"I'd like to take you again, Riaz," I gasped between thrusts—words fracturing on a moan as Hayat's pace tipped frantic, his laugh rumbling against my back like a vow—"but right now... taking a... fourth cock in a row... Most ever. My gaand needs... a week's break. At least. After this."
Hayat and Riaz howled, that exaggerated, relieved laughter bursting after tension—like a dam cracking post-flood.
"Ok, Bilal sahib," Riaz shot back through his guffaws, slapping his thigh. "I'll let your ass rest!"
Hayat's cock slipped free mid-laugh—a wet, sucking pop—but he didn't hesitate, just thrust back in, chuckles rumbling unbroken around the schlick. I arched into it, clenching greedy, their shared chuckles dying away into Hayat's and my mingled moans.
Then, with a long, shattered groan, Hayat collapsed forward—spent, shuddering—his weight draping over me like a monsoon shield, warm and absolute. He nuzzled into my neck, breath ragged but steadying against my skin, fingers tracing lazy on my hip.
Riaz was still all hyped up. 'You're a two-pump chump, young cousin—I lasted ten times longer than that," he said with a wide, crooked grin. "Next time I WILL fuck the Sahib with you in the room, show you how to last longer!"
Hayat lifted his head just enough to snort against my skin, his grin vibrating through us both.
—
On the ride back, the Indus night blurring past in humid streaks, Hayat grinned like a cat with cream—thumbing through his earnings, his cut and Riaz's commission rustling crisp in the dashboard glow. He shot me a wink, eyes catching mine.
"You got four cocks in one night, Sahib!" he said, mock-indignant, leaning back with a theatrical huff. "You should be paying me double. Triple, even—hazard pay included!"
I snorted, sore and sated, shifting on the seat with a wince that unleashed a fresh trickle from my hole.
"You're lucky I don't invoice you for emotional damages. Or the bruises—those guys fucked like they build silos."
He laughed, unbothered, as he pocketed the wad with his usual flourish, the kind of laugh that said close calls didn't rattle him. Even with the gears grinding and the neighbors sniffing, he still came out ahead. Still lucky. Still grinning.
I watched him—smiling like the world bent to his rhythm—and wondered, not for the first time, how he did it. How he stayed untouched, unshaken, always landing on his feet while the rest of us scrambled to keep up.
And I loved him for it. Loved that irrepressible cheerfulness, that insouciant grin that refused to dim—even after a close call. It made me ache, a little.
Made me want to shield it, hold it safe, even knowing he'd never ask.
The End (Part 4 of 5)
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