The Kindness of a Stranger
Prologue (from Gift of the Sands 01)
Rozi Khan, ever the winking benefactor, dangled several other introductions my way in the months that followed—gay-for-pay lads from all walks of life, generously footing the bill for that first session to grease the wheels. A wiry kid from a bicycle repair shop, grease under his nails and a quick laugh; a lanky waiter from a roadside dhaba, smelling faintly of sizzling parathas and carrying the easy sway of long shifts. They were all slim and smooth, probably the kind of boys Rozi himself preferred to fuck—young, pliant, easy on the eyes. He never said anything outright, of course. Just a wink, a chuckle, and an offer to "show the lad the sights" if I had time.
Despite his sharp eye, Rozi Khan never quite pieced it together—that I was always the bottom in these discreet deals, the one craving to yield rather than command. Each one of his 'friends' came primed to bend over for the 'engineer sahib'. Their eyes often widened in pleasant shock when I asked them to take the lead instead. They adapted with grins and gusto—those solid encounters, all muscle and fleeting heat.
The Kindness of a Stranger
Rozi Khan had a type—slim, boyish, young. The kind of lad who looked like he'd stepped off a sun-faded Lollywood poster and wandered into a SITE canteen, all wide eyes and tentative smiles amid the clatter of steel plates and chai steam. He favored them lithe and unscarred by the heavier labors of the fields, boys whose bodies still whispered of schoolyard mischief rather than the brutal grind of adult toil. They were his offerings, these fragile flames: boys drawn by Rozi's envelope—folded bills for folded bodies—pliant under his winking gaze, and always, always primed to bend for the "engineer sahib."
Asgher didn't quite fit the mold, and I saw it the moment Rozi paraded him into my office that sweltering afternoon. Trailing behind like a shadow in a crisp but ill-fitting shalwar kameez, he carried the scent of clean soap and faint attar, undercut by the nervous sweat of a boy stepping into a world of hidden hungers. But where Rozi's usual boys were all coltish slenderness and elfin softness, Asgher was a shade broader across the shoulders. Early twenties like the rest, but with a more solid build that hinted at the pull of fieldwork—high cheekbones still smoothed by youth, yes, but framed by a jaw that squared off like quarried stone, and eyes the color of weak tea, deep-set and steady.
Rozi handled the introduction with his usual gravelly flourish, slapping Asgher's back hard enough to make the boy rock forward a step, almost stumbling.
"Engineer Sahib, meet Asgher—fresh from a village near Badin, sharp with numbers, helps on the surveys. Good lad. Very... accommodating."
The wink was blatant, the implication thicker than Hyderabad's monsoon humidity: he'll bend over, earn his keep, keep the boss—me—happy.
Asgher nodded politely, his flush creeping up his neck like dawn on wheat fields, but his eyes darted to me—curious, wary, already rehearsing the role Rozi had cast him in.
I caught that glance and felt the old heat rise, the one that always came unbidden when a new boy sized me up. 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 adapted: designer stubble now framed my handsome features, a calculated shadow to harden the edges, to say authority instead of prey.
My pulse quickened with a spike of paranoia. Had Rozi finally sniffed it out? The way I always flipped the script with his boys? Was this his sly joke—a broader, manlier type meant to let me know I was the one bending?
The drive to my house was thick with that unspoken tension, the sodium lamps flickering like hesitant fireflies along the highway. Asgher sat in the passenger seat, not rigid but alert, hands loose on his thighs, the fabric of his kameez tenting subtly at the crotch—not from anxiety, I thought, but from the low hum of anticipation.
When we crossed the threshold into the cool hush of my living room, no chai was poured, no small talk lingered. Asgher followed me to the bedroom with a grace, Rozi's instructions still etched into his posture: strip, submit, smile through it.
Of course, like all of Rozi's introductions, he assumed he'd be the one bending over.
His kameez tugged over his head revealed skin the pale wheat of sheltered youth, stretched over a frame that spoke of quiet strength: nipples dusky peaks on a chest broader than the boys before him, smooth as river-worn stone but dusted faintly with the promise of chest hair to come.
He turned his back to me before taking off his shalwar. His hips flared with a man's easy power, framing an ass that stopped me cold. It was a true bubble butt—pert and impossibly rounded, curving like overripe melons, firm from village walks and youthful vigor yet plush in a way that begged plunder.
The cleft shadowed deep, flushed pink at the edges, clenching subtly in invitation, as if sculpted for the grip of hands that knew how to claim.
My suspicions were unfounded. Rozi hadn't read me—he'd simply found a boy whose ass rewrote his usual type.
Even I—a bottom to my core—felt the treacherous pull, the temptation to flip him over and take a stab at topping those glorious curves, just this once.
He turned to me, still shy, hands over his crotch.
I undressed slowly, letting him see the want in my eyes. "Asgher," I said, voice low. "I need you to fuck me. Come closer… please let me suck your cock first."
The hesitation bloomed like monsoon clouds gathering—his eyes widening, not in disgust or judgment, but in pure, uncharted uncertainty. He seemed to hesitate, cheeks burning deeper, that shy smile faltering into a bitten lip.
I'd seen it before: Rozi's boys, pausing mid-script, unsure if they'd misheard me. They had been paid well by Rozi Khan to let me fuck them, and this sudden reversal shifted their gears, and left them wondering.
As Asgher dropped his hands, the bedroom light revealed a penis small but earnest, not laughably diminutive, not deformed—just compact and sweet, like a village mango still firm at the edges. Cut clean in the rural Sindhi way, it rose perhaps four inches at full strain, slender as a reed shoot, the shaft smooth and unmarred save for a subtle vein tracing its underside like a hidden river. The head flared gently, flushed a tender rose, capped by a foreskin remnant that tugged back to reveal a slit already beading with nervous dew. Below, his balls hung small and tight, shaved smooth like all Rozi's boys, drawing up close to his body in the cool air, vulnerable and begging for a tender mouth.
Rozi Khan, a top through and through, might never have noticed the size of it. But I did. Of course I did. But I saw more than inches—I saw the flicker of shame in his eyes, the brace in his shoulders, as if steeling himself for a cruel laugh he'd heard before, or feared he might.
But I didn't care about his size. Hunger wasn't in girth or length for me; it was in the passion of getting fucked, the submission.
My hand cupped his jaw, thumb tracing the flush before I knelt down and slowly took his small cock into my mouth, slow and deliberate, to show him I wanted this. In truth I did, the smaller length easy for me to swallow up to the root, and my tongue laving away at the same time, almost touching his balls while his cock was all the way in me.
I released his cock to lave at his balls, and back to his cock, which by now had hardened into a steel spike. This time I didn't deep throat him, just licked up and down the sides till it was all wet and dripping from my spit.
"Will you fuck me?" I asked, "I need it."
Relief cracked through him like sunlight on floodwaters—his breath hitched, and that shy smile bloomed, tentative but real.
"Uh-huh," he said, still not forming complete words, perhaps still pondering the sudden change from his expectations.
"Which position do you prefer?" I said, sounding eager, "I like to be kneeling doggy style for first meetings."
A little lie—I usually lay on my tummy with pillows to raise my ass for the gay-for-pay lads so they wouldn't have to see my cock. But doggy would free his hands to split apart my buttocks, making it easier for his smaller cock to penetrate me deeper.
He nodded wordlessly again, eyes locking on mine with a trust that twisted something deep in my chest—hunger, yes, but laced with ache.
We moved slow, reverent: lube slicking his palms, his slender fingers—nimble from survey maps and chai pours—circling my hole with hesitant care, dipping in to stretch me open. The burn hit soft and sweet under his touch. I arched for him, ass clenching around that gentle intrusion, my ring yielding slick and eager, greedy for more despite his modesty.
When he started fucking me, it was pure patience: his compact cock sliding home with a whisper of friction, the flared head popping past my rim with a soft, wet give—not the brutal stretch of thicker dicks, but an intimate nudge, nestling deep into the tight clutch of my ass walls.
God, I felt every inch of him, unyielding in its humility: the tender rose of his tip breaching my hole first, a velvet kiss against my pucker that shivered up my spine, my ring fluttering in surprise and surrender as it gripped his slender insistence.
No brute force, no aching fullness—just precise, probing heat mapping my inner walls like fingers on a scar, waking nerves in hushed waves from the tingling rim to the deeper spots that clenched greedily around his reed-thin shaft, pulling him in like my body was built for this exact fit.
His hunger showed in the closeness—narrow hips slapping flush against my cheeks, smooth-shaven pubes prickling my skin, small balls nestling warm and heavy against my taint, their taut sac brushing with each tentative thrust, a soft patter grounding me in his raw vulnerability.
Because of his modesty—or thanks to it—each stroke hit profound: the subtle drag of his shaft grazing nerves no fat cock could touch so precisely, teasing electric friction down my channel, my hole fluttering and milking him to etch his shape into me forever.
I felt that single vein pulsing like a secret code against my walls on every pull and push, while his gentle flare tugged my rim on the outstroke, a delicious stretch that hitched my breath, my ass clenching in bliss to drag him back in. His smallness amplified it all—the tight join, his length molding to my curves instead of wrecking them, filling me with tailored heat that coiled low in my gut like thunder.
He fucked like he might break me, thrusts shallow and tender at first: the nudge teasing my entrance, my pucker sucking open around his tip in slick warmth; the slow glide sheathing his cock in my velvet grip, every inch revealing texture—smooth skin on slick muscle, his vein's ridge firing along my folds—until he bottomed out easy and complete, base sealing us flush, my walls throbbing around him, toes curling into the sheets.
He built to a coaxing rhythm—each plunge a question, my moans the yes—breath ragged on my neck, sweat beading his boyish brow and dripping hot onto my collarbone, mixing with my salt in our raw scent.
The bed creaked under us, syncing with the wet schlick of lube-slick skin, his flare nudging my prostate with gentle precision—pressing, circling, pulling back to ache before slamming home—pleasure blooming deep, thighs quaking, my untouched cock leaking steady on my belly, throbbing to his cadence, echoing how he owned me without trying.
"Like this, Sahib?" he whispered once, voice cracking like dry roti, hand splaying on my hip, thumb stroking my ass curve where it dimpled under his grip, anchoring to my pleasure.
I nodded, lost: my hole fluttering around his girth, velvet clench sucking him deeper with every breath, heat radiating from our join—his balls tightening as he hitched, tremor rippling through his frame and cock into me like a secret, my ass gushing fresh slick to make his next thrust silkier, deeper.
He came with a soft cry—hot spurts flooding my ass shallow but insistent, gentle pulses painting my walls warm, each twitch of his slender cock blooming inside, head swelling to kiss my depths as it emptied. His finger— that same one—circled my rim while he spilled, teasing the stretched edges in feather swirls as his dick softened, leaving me full and cherished, not bloated: excess cum dribbling sticky down my crack like honeyed rain, proof his small cock made me feel vast, seen, utterly fucked.
But I wasn't done. "Stay in me," I gasped, hand wrapping my throbbing cock, slick with my own leak. "Keep that cock buried while I jerk off—make me cum around you."
He obliged, eyes wide with that boyish trust, his softening length still plugging my hole loose and warm. Not just staying put—he started moving, slow drags in and out, his cum-slick shaft stirring the mess inside me, reigniting sparks along my walls with every gentle thrust. The friction built filthy and perfect, his modest girth churning his load deeper, coating my prostate in wet heat that made my fist fly faster on my cock. I bucked back onto him, ass clenching greedy around his reed-thin dick, moans ripping free as the coil snapped—ropes of cum splattering the sheet under me, his name a broken chant on my lips, his tender rocks drawing out every pulse until I shuddered empty, owned twice over in that reverent hush.
Afterwards, he asked me—a bit hesitantly—if he could take a shower before leaving. I nodded, of course, watching his body as he padded away. That pert bubble of an ass, flexing with each step like sun-ripened fruit begging to be plucked, the deep cleft shadowing secrets I ached to plunder. God, how it taunted me, that impossible curve: firm from village miles yet plush in its invitation, cheeks parting just enough with his stride to tease the pink flush beneath, a hidden pucker I imagined clenching under my cock.
Even sated as I was, sprawled in the rumpled sheets with his seed still warm inside me, the sight stirred a feral twist in my gut—the bottom in me yielding to a rare, insistent top's hunger, the urge to flip him against the tiles, spread those glorious globes, and bury myself deep in that heat.
The water hissed to life behind the door, a steady rhythm that echoed our earlier cadence, and I lay there listening to it, the sound wrapping around me like a half-remembered prayer—cleansing, separating the sweat-slick hours from the dust-choked world outside.
—
It became his ritual, that ask, etched into every stolen afternoon that followed: the hesitant murmur after we'd untangle, his body still humming with the afterglow, "Sahib, may I... shower?"—always with that boyish dip of the chin, as if permission were a gift rather than a given.
And every time, as he rose and turned, bare and unselfconscious in the afterglow's haze, I'd steal that glance at his ass—imagine pinning him there in the shower, water sheeting down that perfect swell, my hands kneading the firm flesh while I pressed in slow, claiming what Rozi's winks had primed him for but I'd never taken—topping him until the lines blurred, until his straight edges softened under me like dune sand in the flood.
Emerging damp and composed, shalwar retied with quiet precision, a faint scent of my soap clinging to him like a borrowed secret as he slipped back, leaving the air cooler, the bed faintly scented with the ghost of attar and rain—and me, harder in secret for the topping I'd never steal.
—
We met again a few days later. Asgher, arriving with a shy knock, like he already knew the rhythm of the place.
He was as quiet as before, but less tense. His smile came easier, and when I handed him a glass of cold water, his fingers lingered against mine for a beat too long. We didn't speak much. We didn't need to.
In the bedroom, he undressed slowly this time—not with the resigned grace of a boy trained to submit, but with something closer to curiosity, his eyes flicking to mine as if testing the air between us.
I watched him peel off his kameez, then his shalwar, revealing the same modest cock, half-hard and earnest, the same soft limbs, the same body that had made me ache with tenderness the first time. God, that ass—pert and plush, flexing as he shifted—stirred the feral twist in me again, the bottom's hunger flipping to a top's raw urge to spread him open and claim it.
He looked at me, uncertain but eager, his flush deepening as he stepped closer, cock twitching with that boyish want. "Sahib, will you let me fuck you again, please?"
The plea hit like a spark to dry tinder—his voice cracking soft, eyes wide with that unfeigned hunger, not a transaction, but a need blooming fresh—untrained, unguarded, his own. I ached to flip him, to bury my cock in that perfect curve and watch him yield, but how could I deny him? Not when he wanted it this much, this pure.
I nodded, throat tight, "Yes, Asgher. Fuck me. Show me how much you want it."
"On my back this time?" I added, already lying back and holding my buttocks open with both hands.
He climbed between my thighs, his hands bracing my chest as he eased in. No bravado. No roughness. Just breath and warmth and the quiet rhythm of someone trying to be good at something they didn't quite understand.
I moaned softly, not from pain, but from the ache of being seen. His thrusts were shallow, careful, almost reverent. He watched my face the whole time, adjusting when I winced, pausing when I gasped. It wasn't skillful, but it was kind. And that kindness made my body open like a flower in monsoon.
God, the way his compact cock filled me in this position—face-to-face, eyes locked—was even more intimate, his slender length nudging deep with that precise, probing warmth, mapping my inner walls like a secret only we shared. No overwhelming stretch, just the velvet drag of his shaft grazing nerves no thicker dick could touch so tenderly, sparks flickering electric along my channel as my hole fluttered greedy around him, milking every inch to etch his humble shape into me. His small balls brushed my ass with each gentle rock, warm and insistent against my skin, while that single vein pulsed like a hidden river against my clenching depths, his flared head catching my rim on the outstroke in a delicious tug that hitched my breath and coiled heat low in my gut.
It was tailored perfection, his modesty amplifying the closeness—narrow hips flush to mine, smooth pubes tickling my belly, his boyish face inches away, sweat-damp brow furrowing in focus as he chased my pleasure over his own, turning submission into something sacred, profound.
As he built that coaxing rhythm, my untouched cock throbbed heavy against my stomach, leaking steady in time with his careful cadence. I couldn't hold back—my hand wrapped around it, fisting slow at first, then faster as his thrusts stirred the fire higher, churning slick heat inside me that made my ass clench and release in waves.
He didn't stop, didn't pull away; instead, his eyes dropped to watch, wide and hungry, as I jerked harder, the wet schlick of my fist syncing with the soft slap of our bodies.
Pleasure crested sharp and inevitable—ropes of cum arcing hot across my chest, splattering my skin in thick pulses that left me shuddering, hole spasming around his buried cock like it was drawing him deeper into my bliss. He shuddered too, my clenching ass too much for him. Then, as he stilled inside me, breath ragged, a shy grin broke across his flushed face as he took it in—earnest pride blooming in those tea-brown eyes.
"You enjoyed my cock that much?" he murmured, voice cracking with wonder, not mockery—half-laugh, half-awe—as if my release was the sweetest validation he'd ever chased.
After, he lay beside me, one arm draped across my stomach, his breath slow and even. I didn't speak. Just traced the curve of his shoulder with my fingers.
—
We met often after that in the weeks that followed—quiet afternoons stolen from the office grind, the bedroom our sanctuary of soft touches and no bravado. He'd arrive with that hesitant knock, clothes rumpled from the bus ride.
He'd never tried to impress, never puffed his chest with false swagger. No crude jokes, no greed, no cheek. Just hunger tempered by care: that small cock—sweet, rose-flushed reed—sliding into me with growing confidence, the burn melting into bliss as he leaned down, lips brushing my ear with a tenderness that felt like trust, murmuring "Sahib... this feels so good," in that hushed Sindhi lilt, his ass clenching in rhythm above me, cheeks dimpling under my gripping palms, the pert swell flexing warm and alive as I kneaded it, fingers tracing the shadowed cleft where his own untouched pucker winked shyly.
My walls clenched velvet around his slender length, the subtle vein along his shaft dragging sparks with each unhurried draw and press, his small balls brushing warm and insistent against my perineum, the air thick with the mingled scents of bath soap and rising musk.
We'd finish tangled, his seed trickling warm from my hole, my own release spent across his flat belly, his ass bare in the lamplight, that pert swell flexing as I'd trace its cleft, fingers parting the firm globes to circle his hidden pucker—pink and closed, teasing without taking.
He'd trace my ass in return sometimes—fingers parting my firm globes to circle my own hidden pucker, still open and quivering from his earlier claim, his touch light as attar mist, dipping just the tip of a slick finger to swirl the stretched rim, coaxing a fresh bloom of heat that made me arch into him, my cock trapped between our bellies, leaking slow trails of pre-cum onto his smooth skin.
As always, he asked if he could take a shower afterwards—wrapping a towel around his waist with a shy grin, smoothing his hair in the hallway mirror like a boy preening for a village fair. He tucked the money into an inner pocket with quiet precision, a precaution against the pickpockets swarming the bus stations.
—
And then, after one of those meetings—a lazy afternoon where the rain pattered like hesitant lovers against the window—his small, rock-hard cock moved lazier still, each thrust a slow drag that left my ass tender for days. Every languid plunge was a savoring slide, my hole gripping him with a fluttering reluctance to let go. The wet sounds of our bodies mingled with the downpour like a secret duet.
We lay spent, sheets twisted around our legs, his head pillowed on my chest. One slender finger traced idle patterns on my thigh, skirting the damp crease where my hole still fluttered, slick with his release. The air hung heavy—salt and seed, attar and rain—and for a stolen moment, I pretended: this was more than money. This was soft. This was true.
As always, he asked for permission and went to shower. I sliced mangoes while he bathed, the sweet scent filling the quiet. When he returned, shirtless and cross-legged on the bed, his damp hair clung to his forehead. I watched him—the way his lashes caught the light, the curve of his smile as he reached for another slice. Something stirred in me—not lust, not hunger. Something older. Something that wanted to speak.
"I—" I started, then stopped.
He looked up, waiting.
I swallowed. "You're... good at this."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I try."
There was a pause. A long one. The kind that could hold a confession, if I were braver.
He glanced at the plate, then back at me. "Thank you for the mangoes... and everything else. Most men don't bother with kindness after sex. They just kick me out."
Then suddenly he rose, buttoning his shirt with trembling fingers—collar stiffening around his flushed neck, shalwar tugged over lean hips. His eyes met mine, steady as sun piercing clouds.
"I know you don't want just sex, Bilal Sahib," he said, voice low but clear, laced with the gentle cadence of Badin's reed-fringed hamlets.
A long pause.
"Not really. You want love. I wish I could give that to you, truly. But I'm straight." His flush deepened, but he held my gaze. "I won't be coming again. I feel your hurt, Sahib. Your longing—it's in every sigh, every clench around me. You've always been kind to me, and I don't want to hurt you."
I said nothing. The words sat heavy in my throat, too tender to speak.
At the door, hand on the frame, he turned.
"Take my advice, Sahib: you won't find love by paying. Guys like me? We pocket the money, and before we're out the door, our minds are already elsewhere."
He lingered in the hallway light, that shy smile flickering one last time—like a lantern snuffed at curfew—before he turned and slipped away into the rain-slick dusk.
I stood frozen, the echo of his absence heavier than any load I'd taken.
In the weeks that followed, I found myself tracing the ghost of that modest length in the quiet hours—not for the stretch, but for the kindness that had made it feel like love, if only for an afternoon.
The sands, it seemed, could withhold as cruelly as they gave.
The End (Part 5—Finale)
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