Chapter 1 – The Side Door
In my early twenties, slim, smooth, and always horny for cock, one of my regular haunts was Chandni Cinema in Market Square—a once-grand movie house that had fallen into graceful decay. The owners kept the seats filled with late-night screenings of semi-pornographic films that danced right along the edge of censorship.
That programming turned Chandni into something more than a theater. Men came for the screen, yes, but stayed for each other. The bathrooms became their own shadowed universe: lingering glances, silent signals, wordless connections. I slipped in there often, drawn as much by the thick, charged air as by the beautiful anonymity it offered.
That's where I met Rashid Khwaja. A couple of years older than me, broader across the shoulders than my narrow frame. Back then almost every guy I met seemed thicker, more solid—but by that point I'd learned how to carry myself to maximum effect.
We were both bottoms; we clocked that almost instantly. Yet instead of drifting apart after that quick flash of rueful recognition, we stepped out together into the warm Hyderabadi night.
We stopped at a roadside drink stall, one of those open-air spots where the owner sets out plastic chairs right on the sidewalk, selling ice-cold soft drinks and snacks to anyone who wants to linger and talk. We grabbed two chilled bottles, claimed a couple of those wobbly chairs under the string of bare bulbs, and just sat there chatting. Rashid was genuinely thrilled to meet another educated young guy—someone who could discuss job prospects, ambitions, and the endless thrill of chasing different cocks without shame or judgment. We swapped stories like we'd known each other for years. It felt like finding a kindred spirit. There was an ease between us, the kind that usually takes months, not minutes.
After a few more accidental meetings in the cinema—each one dissolving into long, easy conversations—Rashid decided I'd been stuck in that one hunting ground too long.
"You've been chasing cock in this cinema forever," he said with a grin. "Let me show you where there's more."
One of the places he introduced me to became my absolute favorite: the Rangers Hostel in Phulleli, temporary home to a unit of the Pakistan Rangers—Sindh's elite paramilitary force, the guys who guard the borders, handle riots, and back up the police. Fit men in their late 20s and 30s, many from interior Sindh villages, living that strict barracks life far from family.
Rashid laughed as he told me about it. "Those Rangers will beg for a slim, pretty bottom like you."
He walked me through it the first time like a proud older brother. The building was a long, two-story colonial-era block at the corner of a busy road and a quieter side street. The ground floor was ordinary: staff quarters, kitchens, mess hall, storage, the common rooms. But upstairs was the prize. Rows of small rooms lined the outer walls, windows facing the side road across a wide sidewalk.
These weren't ordinary guys. They were Rangers personnel—strong men in their prime from the Pakistan Rangers (Sindh), the paramilitary outfit that patrols borders, quells unrest, and stands tall in crisp fatigues with their red-and-blue insignia. Raised in villages across interior Sindh: Sukkur, Larkana, Jacobabad, Shikarpur, Dadu—now bound by years of drills, discipline, and barracks routine.
By day they moved in formation, crisp camouflage fatigues and polished boots thudding in unison. By evening they lounged in their rooms in military-issue T-shirts and shorts—some still wearing unlaced combat boots, others padding around in thick socks, dog tags clinking softly against chests dusted with hair, rank patches or unit badges faintly visible on discarded fatigues slung over chairs.
Discipline hung in the air: clipped voices barking orders from the ground floor, rigid schedules posted on walls, the sharp smell of starch, boot polish, and gun oil.
But beneath it ran a current of pent-up hunger. Far from wives or girlfriends, bound by rules all day, they craved release at night. You could feel that tension radiating from the upper windows like heat from a stove.
The system was brilliantly simple and efficient. After dark, especially on weekends, civilians looking for military dick lingered on the sidewalk outside the hostel under streetlamps, pretending to scroll phones or simply hang around while stealing glances upward. If a Ranger was horny—and in this all-male environment, plenty always were—he'd lean out, catch your eye, and give the smallest signal: two fingers, a nod. You'd walk to the side door. He'd come down the stairs and peer through the narrow window beside it, scanning you head to toe.
Rashid warned me many got turned away right there—a curt headshake, a dismissive flick, the lock staying shut. The Rangers were disciplined, experienced, and very choosy; with so many strangers trying their luck each night, they could afford to be selective.
The civilian would then go back to the sidewalk, hoping another man, less picky, would summon him.
But from my first visit, I never had that problem. The moment a Ranger saw me up close, the lock clicked open without hesitation.
Once inside, Rashid explained, the night could stretch. You could wander the corridors and see if any others were interested. The men, particularly those whose rooms didn't face the street, kept watch in the hallways, leaning casually in their doorways, pretending to chat or clean their boots. And because they were strong, confident, and full of that built-up drive from living in an all-male environment, they weren't shy about showing interest.
When you stepped out of a room—flushed, satisfied, legs a little shaky—they'd be waiting with wide grins, sometimes flashing hard cocks under loose nightwear or shorts as enticement. They'd nod you over with a tilt of the head or call in low voices, "ab idhar aa na?" "Come here now?" Some would pat the doorframe invitingly; others would gesture toward their room with a conspiratorial smile. It wasn't aggressive, just eager—like men who'd been cooped up too long and were thrilled for any distraction.
On good nights, Rashid boasted, he'd had three or four encounters non-stop, one after the other, even with some of the older mess cooks or office staff downstairs. Still strong, still masculine, still part of that charged ecosystem.
That first night, Rashid coached me carefully. "Be discreet. Don't stare. They want to feel like they're choosing you, not being chased."
He also warned he couldn't stand right beside me; the Rangers never called down to someone who looked like part of a pair.
Everything felt sharper that night—the streetlamps, the shadows, the distant hum of traffic. Rashid positioned me apart from the other cruisers, murmured a few last reminders, then slipped away to his own spot.
I stood alone under the yellow glow, pretending to check my phone, heart pounding harder than I'd expected. Above, masculine silhouettes passed across the long row of lighted windows, sometimes faces appearing then vanishing. But sooner than I'd expected, one window cracked open.
A Ranger leaned out—broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome even from below, still in full fatigues. His uniform shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms. He looked straight at me with a steady, assessing gaze that stole my breath. Then he lifted two fingers in a subtle beckon.
My feet moved before my brain caught up.
I walked to the side door, pulse racing. Boots thudded down the stairs—heavy, confident. He appeared behind the narrow window, face inches from mine. Up close he was even more arresting: sharp jaw, sun-darkened skin, regulation haircut, eyes flicking over me with quick precision.
No words. None needed.
His gaze traveled from my hair to my shoes, taking in my slim frame, clean clothes, the way I held myself. Then the lock snapped open with a soft metallic click.
Inside, he led me up the dim stairwell in silence, the scent of sweat, starch, and boot polish trailing him. His fatigues rustled softly. The scent of sweat, starch, and gun oil trailed him. A duty roster was pinned crookedly to the wall; someone had circled "Inspection – Monday" in red ink. A whistle blew somewhere outside. A radio crackled faintly from a room below.
We reached his room and he motioned me inside. I peered around curiously. It was small, almost austere, stamped with the unmistakable order of a soldier's life. The bed was the first thing I noticed: a thin mattress stretched tight under a perfectly tucked sheet, corners pulled so sharp they looked inspected daily. A single grey wool blanket lay folded at the foot with parade‑ground precision. Nothing in the space was luxurious—everything was functional, issued, earned. A steel trunk sat locked at the foot of the bed, its surface scuffed from travel and drills, the stenciled "PR SINDH" fading along the side. A spare uniform hung from a nail, creases still crisp, rank patch catching the dim bulb's light. A beret rested on the trunk beside a tin of boot polish and a half‑used bottle of camphor oil. The air smelled faintly of starch, metal, and the clean bite of gun oil—an aroma that clung to him as naturally as breath. Even off duty, the room felt disciplined, contained, like every object inside it had been taught where to stand.
But before I could gawk more, the door shut with a firm click, and the charged quiet wrapped around us like heat.
His first words made me flush: "You're much better looking than any of the guys out there. First time here? I would've noticed someone like you."
"Yes, first time," I managed.
He was in his late 20s, solid and sure, his confidence filling the small space like he'd earned it.
"I don't kiss guys," he said, stepping closer until our bodies almost touched, "but fuck… you're so pretty, I'll break my rules tonight."
He pulled me tight against his solid chest and kissed me deeply—slow at first, then hungry, tongue sliding past my lips and claiming my mouth. The kiss stretched long and wet while his hands fumbled with buttons and zipper, my body pressed so close it made the task clumsy and urgent. I mirrored him, peeling off my shirt, kicking off shoes, until we were both naked. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, perfectly cut, the head flushed dark and glossy already, completely shaven smooth from base to tip. It looked almost too clean, too disciplined, like the rest of him.
"Shit," he muttered against my lips, as I grabbed his cock eagerly. "You want this bad, huh?"
I could only nod, throat tight.
"Do you suck?" he asked, voice low, already guiding my shoulders downward with one strong hand, as though he knew I'd never refuse.
I dropped to my knees on the thin barracks rug. Up close his cock was even more impressive—veined, rigid, the smooth shaved skin making every ridge stand out. I wrapped my lips around the head, tasting salt and clean skin, then took him deeper. He groaned softly, fingers threading into my hair—not rough, just firm.
"Yeah… like that. Fuck, your mouth's warm." He rocked gently, letting me work him, then pulled me off with a wet pop. "Balls too. Get them."
I moved lower, licking and sucking at the tight, hairless sac, tongue tracing the seam while he breathed harder above me.
"Yes, that's it," he murmured. "You're good at this."
He sighed, tugged me up by the arms, and nuzzled his clean-shaven face into the crook of my neck, teeth grazing skin. Then he bent and latched onto one of my nipples, sucking hard enough to make me gasp.
"Sensitive here?" he teased, flicking the other with his thumb. "I like that."
He released me, maneuvered me backward until the backs of my knees hit the narrow bed. I lay down; he climbed over me, weight pressing me into the thin mattress, and returned to my nipples—sucking, biting lightly, making me arch.
After a minute he pulled back, eyes dark. "I want to fuck you now. Turn over? No—wait. Stay like this. I wanna see your pretty face while I'm in you."
He rummaged on the small desk beside the bed and came up with a plastic bottle of mineral oil. I guessed he used it to rub into his sore muscles after daily drills.
"Cover the whole lund," he said, pressing the bottle into my palm. "I want to fuck you deep."
I spurted a generous amount into my palm, slicking his cock from tip to balls until it gleamed under the single bulb. The shaved skin made every slide of my hand feel obscene, intimate. I rubbed the excess into the crack of my butt, concentrating on getting my slick fingers to slide into my hole.
He watched me the whole time, jaw tight.
"Enough," he growled. "Legs up."
I raised them; he grabbed a folded pillow from the head of the bed and shoved it under my hips, lifting me exactly where he wanted. Then he lined up, the blunt head nudging my hole.
"I'm going to enter you now," he said, voice softer now. "Enjoy!"
He pushed in slowly—inch by thick inch—until he bottomed out with a low hiss.
"Fuck… you're tight," he muttered. "Feels so good."
Then he started moving—slow rolls at first, testing, then deeper, steadier thrusts. He fucked like he'd been born knowing how: confident, controlled, every stroke deliberate. His hips snapped forward with masculine certainty, the bed creaking under us in quiet protest.
Being taken like this—in a real bed, door locked, just the two of us—felt worlds apart from the frantic standing fucks I'd had in dark alleys or cinema bathrooms. No hurried grunts against a wall, no awkward angles, no fear of footsteps. Here I could feel every inch of him, touch the play of muscle across his chest and shoulders, hear the soft slap of skin on skin. The bed creaked under us like an army cot, his dog tags cool against my skin as he thrust deeper.
And the way he looked at me—eyes locked on mine, almost possessive—made something inside me unravel.
"You like that?" he asked, voice rough, thrusting harder. "Like a military guy fucking you?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Oh, yes—don't stop."
He grinned, a flash of white teeth. "Thought so. You're taking me so well… that nice round gaand of yours."
His rhythm built—faster, deeper—and I felt that familiar coil tightening low in my belly. He shifted his angle, hitting just right, and I moaned louder than I meant to.
"Shh," he laughed quietly, covering my mouth with his palm for a second. "Walls are thin. But fuck, I like hearing you."
He kept going, relentless, until his breathing turned ragged.
"Gonna come," he warned, hips stuttering. "Inside—okay?"
I nodded frantically.
His cock jerked, swelled, and he buried himself deep with a choked groan, pulsing hot inside me.
For a long moment we stayed locked together, breathing hard. Then he eased out slowly, careful. He wiped us down with a standard-issue towel, the faint scent of gun oil lingering on his hands from morning maintenance.
"That was fucking great," he said, voice softer now, almost shy. "You're coming back, right? I'll watch for you."
"I can only make weekends," I told him, still catching my breath. "Maybe next Saturday, same time."
"I'll be looking," he promised as we dressed.
"I don't usually share my name with civilians," he said, voice dropping. Then he looked back at me, more open than before. "But… I like you. And I want to see you again."
A beat. "It's Asif."
The name landed soft but solid, like a secret handed over. For a moment I felt the shift—the line between stranger and something more. It felt like being chosen in a different way.
"I'm Bilal," I said.
"Asif and Bilal. Alphabetical." He nodded once, a small grin breaking through. "If you were in my unit, we'd be together all the time. Next weekend, then."
Asif offered to walk me downstairs to the door; I agreed.
But as we moved through the corridor, I was actively reminded of Rashid's words: once you're inside, more cock can be had if you want.
Two doors down, another Ranger leaned casually in his doorway—tight military T-shirt, shorts, arms crossed—giving me a slow, unmistakable once-over. Farther along, another door cracked open, a curious face peering out.
Rashid had been right.
As I left the building that night, one thought burned clear: next time, no meek escort out. I'd walk the halls myself and see who else was waiting.
End Chapter 1
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