It happened in Hirabad, the beating heart of old Hyderabad in Sindh. By day, the Clock Tower Market – that grand colonial relic known as the Navalrai Clock Tower or simply Ghanta Ghar – pulses with chaos: vendors hawking spices, fabrics, and street food under the shadow of the 1914 stone tower, crowds pressing through narrow lanes at the end of Shahi Bazaar. But come late evening, when the sun dips low and the shutters clang down one by one, the energy shifts. The market empties, leaving behind dim streetlights, the faint echo of distant traffic, and a quiet that feels almost conspiratorial.
Among the well-known spots where men seek discreet company after dark is the public toilet tucked in the courtyard of an old cinema, just inside the open gates. The cinema itself has seen better days, its faded posters peeling, but the courtyard gates are never locked – a convenience for late-night wanderers and anyone needing relief. Few people use it after hours, though. The bulb overhead casts long shadows across cracked tiles, the air thick with the faint tang of disinfectant and something more primal. That's where the cruising begins: silent glances in the mirrors, a slow unzip, the soft rustle of fabric, hearts racing in the hush.
Back then, I was in my early twenties — a slim, smooth good-looking Sindhi guy — and I’d been slipping into that toilet for a while.
The place drew a very particular kind of man, the sort you rarely saw lingering in cafés or strolling the nicer parts of town. These were the workers who kept the bazaar alive: the men who unloaded trucks at dawn, backs straining as they hauled sacks of grain or crates of produce; the porters who spent their days weaving through crowds with impossible loads balanced on their shoulders; the labourers who mixed cement on half‑finished construction sites, their clothes permanently dusted with grey.
Some came straight from the godowns, shirts damp with sweat and the smell of burlap clinging to them. Others were mechanics from the small workshops nearby, hands stained with grease no matter how much they scrubbed. A few were rickshaw drivers who parked their vehicles just outside the gates, engines ticking as they cooled.
They were men shaped by long days and hard work — rough around the edges, unpolished, often tired, but carrying a kind of grounded confidence that came from knowing their bodies were tools they relied on. They didn’t talk much, didn’t posture, didn’t pretend. Their lives were simple, their needs direct. And something about that rawness, that unfiltered masculinity, made the risk of slipping into that dimly lit courtyard feel worth it every time.
I arrived around eight, just after sunset, when the bazaars had finally emptied. The air was cooler now, carrying the lingering smells of fried snacks and diesel from the main road. I'd always scored quickly here—no waiting around—and tonight was no different. In the darkest corner of the long, rectangular space, facing the urinals under the weakest light, stood a handsome young bearded Pathan guy, probably in his thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, rugged frontier features: sharp jaw, thick black beard neatly trimmed, dark eyes holding steady. He looked like the kind of person who worked as an assistant in one of the bazaar shops, someone who spent long hours standing behind a counter, fetching stock from the back, sweeping up at closing time.
I positioned myself a couple of urinals away at first — just to test the waters. When I glanced over, he was already watching me, his gaze lingering with clear interest. I wasn’t the kind of guy who blended in this seedy place. I was good-looking, slim, smooth‑skinned, with neatly kept hair. My clothes fit well, clean and simple, and I carried that easy, unselfconscious confidence, the kind other men notice immediately. Compared to the rougher, dust‑covered labourers who passed through here, I must have looked polished, fresher and really attractive.
Whatever it was, it caught his eye. I offered a tentative smile; he answered with a wide, warm one of his own, open and immediate, as if he’d already made up his mind about me.
Then, without a word, he eased back from the urinal just enough to show himself off—his cock already fully hard, thick and cut, easily seven inches, veins standing out under the dim bulb. It throbbed once as I stared.
Fuck, I loved it! Heart racing, I didn't bother tucking myself away as I stepped over to the urinal right next to him. The place was deserted except for us. Just the low hum of the flickering light and the shared knowledge that this spot existed for exactly this: guys like us, chasing a quick, raw thrill in the shadows.
He turned toward me slowly, his thick cock standing proud and rigid, the head glistening faintly in the low light. Without a word, I reached out and wrapped my hand around it—warm, heavy, pulsing against my palm. The skin was smooth over the hardness, veins prominent under my fingers as I gave it a gentle squeeze.
Like most Pakistani tops I'd encountered in places like this, he made no move toward my own aching erection, which throbbed untouched through my unzipped jeans. That one-sided focus has always thrilled me—I love being the eager bottom for manly men who only care about their own pleasure.
I stroked him a few times, slow and deliberate, savoring the way he thickened even more in my grip, the quiet hitch in his breathing. But before I could drop to my knees or do anything more, we both froze at the sound of several footsteps echoing from the courtyard outside—steady, unhurried, approaching the toilet building.
I released the Pathan's cock and stepped sideways to my original urinal, facing forward like I was just another guy taking a casual piss. He turned his body forward to the urinal, both of us staring straight ahead at the cracked wall tiles. The footsteps grew louder, then paused at the entrance.
The footsteps belonged to a group of four or five guys, and the moment they stepped inside, I realized they weren’t just wandering in. They were looking for someone. Their eyes swept the room with purpose, and when they spotted the Pathan, one of them hissed, “Look, there’s the Pathan.”
The shift in their faces told me everything — this wasn’t random. They’d been waiting for a chance to corner him somewhere quiet. The Pathan must have worked in one of the better shops in the bazaar, a job that well. During the day, surrounded by customers and shopkeepers, he was untouchable. But here, at night, in this forgotten corner of Hirabad, they finally had him alone.
They moved toward him with grim certainty. One shoved him against the wall; another grabbed his shirt and slapped him twice, sharp and practiced. The Pathan didn’t fight back. He just lifted his hands slightly, shoulders tight, accepting the humiliation. He knew exactly why they’d come. And he knew better than to escalate it.
Low, territorial whispers followed: “Pathan yahan nahi aana,” “yeh hamara ilaqa hai.” This was Muhajir turf, and they were reminding him of it — punishing him for daring to cruise in their area, for having a job they envied, for being visible in the wrong place.
I stood frozen for a moment, adrenaline still buzzing from the encounter that had almost happened. But watching them corner him like that twisted something in me.
I stepped forward, voice steady. “Hey, what the hell? He didn’t do anything — leave him alone.”
That finally made them notice me.
The leader — mid‑twenties, sharp features, the kind of confidence that comes from being obeyed — turned toward me as I stepped into the light. His eyes flicked over me in a quick, surprised assessment.
I could see the thought cross his face: What’s a guy like you doing here? I didn’t look like the usual men who drifted into this place after dark. I was young, clean‑cut, almost polished — someone who should’ve been haing coffee at a café or shopping in an upscale mall, not in a grimy toilet in a dying cinema courtyard. My presence here didn’t fit the script.
Two of his guys stepped in and gave me a couple of firm smacks — not vicious, just enough to sting and send a message. My glasses flew off, skittering across the tiles.
“Mind your own business, boy,” one muttered. The tone wasn’t fury — it was warning, confusion, maybe even curiosity. I wasn’t the target. I was just… unexpected.
The Pathan fled, shaken and humiliated. The group, satisfied with their little show of dominance, clattered out into the courtyard and disappeared into the empty bazaar lanes.
I crouched down, feeling blindly for my glasses. My heart was still pounding.
That’s when I realized someone was still there.
The leader hadn’t left. He stood a few feet away, watching me with an expression that had softened into something almost thoughtful. When he stepped closer, the aggression was gone.
“You should have kept your mouth shut,” he said quietly — not a threat, just a rueful observation. Then, unexpectedly: “You okay? Hope those smacks didn’t hurt too bad.”
“I can’t find my glasses,” I muttered.
He scanned the floor, spotted them, and bent to pick them up. He handed them to me carefully, waiting while I wiped the lenses and slid them back on. When my vision cleared, I saw him properly. Mid-20s, maybe a year or two older than me, but he carried himself with the easy, coiled authority of someone who'd already fought for what he wanted.
He was built solid—broad shoulders straining the seams of his simple cotton shalwar kameez, thick arms and a chest that spoke of hard days hauling loads or swinging tools in the bazaar markets, the kind of young working-class muscle that came from real labor, not gyms. Yet there was an edge to it, something street-hardened: the way he stood planted, feet apart. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his full mouth, the kind that said he was used to getting his way without asking twice. .
“Come with me,” he said. “There’s a roadside dhabba nearby. One cup of chai to calm your nerves.”
I shook my head, still shaky.
He leaned in slightly, voice low. “I know what you were here for.” Then he kissed me — quick, firm, unexpectedly warm. “And I’d like to give it to you.”
My head spun. The extraordinary shift from danger to desire was so sudden it left me breathless. When he pulled back just enough to look at me, his arms slid around my waist, drawing me tight against him. The confidence in his touch contrasted sharply with the chaos of a few minutes earlier. Through the thin fabric of his shalwar kameez, his cock pressed hard against my thigh—thick, insistent, fully erect.
Up close like this, I could feel the solid muscle under his clothes: broad shoulders, thick arms from whatever day job he did—probably construction or loading in the bazaar—mixed with the street-hardened edge of someone who spent nights keeping "his" territory clear. Young, tough working-class by day, enforcer at night.
He poked his lund against me. "This is what you want, right?"
I reached down instinctively, palming him through the cloth. He smiled, slow and knowing, a low hum of approval in his throat.
Then he leaned to my ear, breath warm: "My buddies are still prowling the area. They might come back. I don't want them to know I fuck ass. I know a better place—quiet, dark alley in the bazaar, all shops closed this time of the night. We can go there."
I studied him in the dim light spilling in from the street. Up close, he was striking: sharp jaw, intense dark eyes, that confident smirk he hadn’t lost since the moment he kissed me. My regret over losing the Pathan's thick lund evaporated quickly; this guy had his own pull. He wasn't the rough, laborer type I usually chased, but he was tough—I'd felt it firsthand when he and his buddies smacked me around just minutes earlier. His muscular build had pressed against me so perfectly during that tight embrace: solid chest, strong arms, the heat of him radiating through his shalwar kameez. My body was already responding again.
I nodded. "Yes," I said. "Let's go."
As we walked out of the courtyard and into the quiet lanes of the bazaar, he introduced himself as Majid. He was married, he said casually, but he had a weakness for fucking cute young guys like me—slim, smooth, eager.
He spoke with the easy confidence of someone used to being obeyed. He told me he found it very hard to meet anyone, as he was a unit organizer for the MQM, and everyone around knew him. This suddenly everything clicked: why he and his group had zeroed in on the Pathan, why this spot was "their" territory, the way his group moved like they owned the shadows.
He didn’t give me much room to talk — just enough to tell him my name, Bilal, and a few basic details. Every few steps he apologized again for the smacks—"We didn't mean to hurt you, really"—but he kept coming back to it: "You shouldn't have interfered, yaar. Next time, just stay quiet." His tone was half-scolding, half-teasing.
He reached for my hand as we walked, squeezing it gently, almost in disbelief — like he couldn’t quite believe his luck in finding someone like me in a place like that.
He glanced sideways, smiling. "My family is home, warna ghar le jaata—bed pe ghanto chodta tujhe." (Otherwise I'd take you there—fuck you in bed for hours.)
The casual boldness of it made my pulse jump.
We didn't go far. He led me into a narrow alleyway in the bazaar, just off the main lane—deep enough for shadows to swallow us. Once we were hidden, he pushed me against the smooth cemented wall and kissed me long and deep. His tongue pushed in, hungry; all the while his hard lund poked insistently against my hip through the thin fabric, and his hands roamed down to paw at my ass, squeezing through my jeans like he owned it.
He broke the kiss with a low sigh. "Bilal, I can't wait anymore."
I unbuckled my jeans quickly, shoving them down to my knees along with my underwear. He spun me to face the wall, my palms flat against the cool concrete. We both spat into our hands—he slicked my hole, fingers circling slow and careful, pushing in just enough to open me; I reached back and lubed his cock, stroking the thick length until it glistened. He took his time, making sure everything was wet enough—no rush.
When he was satisfied, he pressed the head against me and eased in slowly. I gasped at the stretch—thick, hot, filling me inch by inch as my buttocks parted around him. The stretch burned sweet; his virile body flush against my back, chest to spine, crotch grinding tight.
Then I pushed my ass back, whispering, "I'm ready now."
He began with slow, deliberate strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep. I met every thrust, rocking back to take him fully. The unique thrill hit hard—this was the same guy who, with his buddies had just smacked me around, and now he was buried inside me in a dark alley, fucking me like he'd been waiting for it all night.
His cock seemed to thicken even more as he moved; he moaned softly against my ear, "Kitni tight gaand hai teri... perfect grip karti hai." (Your ass is so tight... grips perfectly.) "Feels so good inside you."
Every few strokes he'd pause balls-deep, wrap his muscular arms around my slender frame, and squeeze me hard against him—from chest to crotch—kissing the side of my neck, inhaling the faint scent of the light body lotion I always wore cruising. His breath was hot, ragged. "I'm close... teri gaand mujhe pagal kar rahi hai." (Your ass is driving me wild!)
When he finally came, he groaned low, hips stuttering, and held me even tighter—squeezing until I felt breathless, pinned and owned in the best way. His release pulsed inside me, warm and deep.
He stayed buried for long moments, catching his breath, then slowly pulled out.
"You were amazing," he whispered, still holding me close. "I hope you come back—see me again."
I pulled out the small hand towel I always carried on these nights and cleaned him off carefully, wiping his softening cock before tucking it back into his shalwar. He retied the drawstring while I pulled my jeans up, both of us still buzzing from the high.
As he walked me back to the more lighted areas, he told me he didn’t have a personal phone — only an MQM-issued one that was monitored — so he asked me to be discreet. “Text me, but be smart about it.”
I nodded, telling him I would. And I meant it in the moment. He’d been a great fuck, full of vigor and enthusiasm.
But truthfully, I was hooked on the chase—different cocks, different nights, the thrill of the unknown. His number eventually faded from my phone, lost in the blur of other encounters.
So that was it: one wild, unexpected night in Hirabad—started with a Pathan in the toilets, ended with a Muhajir MQM organizer in a back alley. Cruising in Hyderabad never failed to surprise me.
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