Part 1: The Contractor’s Offering
In those early days as a young civil engineer, I rose fast—too fast, some would say. By my mid-twenties, I was signing off on multimillion-rupee contracts across the prosperous Tando Allahyar district, overseeing teams of men twice my age who resented every order I gave.
The office was cool, polished, and quiet—everything the contractors weren’t. They arrived straight from dusty sites, boots caked in cement, voices still echoing with the vulgarities they’d hurled at laborers all morning. Now they sat awkwardly in plastic chairs under a ceiling fan, fidgeting with bid documents and trying not to sweat through their shirts. My office—the District Engineer’s office—made them uneasy. Too clean. Too quiet. Too full of rules they didn’t write.
I knew what they whispered. That I looked more like a student than a gazetted government officer. Because of my clean-shaven jaw, crisp shirts, and an easy smile, they credited my rise to nepotism instead of my competence. But despite all that, the technical work was easy for me, the pay generous, and the perks… well, they came wrapped in layers of discretion.
All contractors—weathered men with callused hands and ingratiating smiles—would slide thick envelopes my way: my ‘commission’ for a quicker turnaround on their bills, or a gentle nudge toward accepting their tender bid documents. I learned quickly to accept with a gracious half-smile, pocketing the chai-stained ‘bribes’ without a word.
But Rozi Khan was different. A short, broad-shouldered Pathan in his fifties with eyes that missed nothing, he ran a crew out of the arid hills near Hyderabad. His bids were solid, his work reliable, but it was his gaze that lingered during site visits—the way he’d catch me stealing glances at his shirtless laborers, those sun-baked bodies hauling rebar, bricks, or ZealPak cement bags.
Rozi never said a word about it, but I felt the weight of his knowing. One day, while signing cheques in my air-conditioned office, someone opened the door to bring me some more documents. Just for a moment, the waiting area spilled in: a burst of laughter, one voice cutting through—rough, amused, half-whispered. “Back when the old engineers were here, I brushed my clothes, checking for dust before going into the office. Now, with young Bilal Sahib inside like a chikna chhokra, I brush my clothes more—to check to make sure my lund’s not saluting!”
The door swung shut before I could hear the retort, but their laughter lingered—raw, unfiltered. Chikna chhokra—”smooth, fuckable boy”—a backhanded compliment that made my cheeks burn even as it stirred something deeper.
One breezy evening, Rozi Khan invited me to dinner in Hyderabad, at Salateen Hotel, known for its karahi, just off the National Highway, the kind where ceiling fans stirred the scent of sizzling seekh kebabs and cardamom chai. Rozi was already waiting. He stood up politely when I arrived, and trailing behind him like a shadow was a young man I’d never seen—around twenty-one, that intoxicating cusp of youth where every movement hinted at untamed possibility.
Tall and lithe, with the graceful slenderness of a date palm, his skin held the warm wheatish hue of sun-ripened grain. His dark eyes were deep-set and steady, and his hair fell in soft, raven waves just long enough to brush his collar. He moved with quiet confidence, dressed simply in a crisp shalwar kameez that suggested the lean lines beneath.
“This is Hayat Khaskheli,” Rozi rumbled as we settled at the table, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders over jackhammers. “From a village up near Kotri. Sharp lad—helps with my crews sometimes.”
Hayat nodded politely, his smile flashing white and unhurried, but there was a spark in those eyes, a quiet assessment that made my pulse quicken.
Over plates of karahi with buttered naan, Rozi Khan and I talked contracts and timelines, but the air hummed with something unspoken. Rozi’s laughter boomed too loud at my jokes, his glances darting between us like a broker closing a deal. I felt like a commodity being appraised, not a colleague.
As the meal wound down, the bill settled with a flourish, Rozi leaned in close, the scent of his attar sharp and earthy. He winked—a deliberate, conspiratorial crinkle of his eye—and murmured, “Sahib, why don’t you take Hayat back to your place? He’s fresh, curious, and not just about city life. Consider it a little bonus.”
The implication was clear. No pretense, no fumbling excuses.
The offer caught me off guard—bold of a contractor to suggest that. But it was welcome. Our eyes met, and in that brief silence, everything was understood. I nodded, voice steady. “Of course, Khan Sahib. I’d enjoy that.”
The drive to my house in Sindhi Muslim Housing Society was a blur of sodium-lit streets and the low hum of the car’s AC, Hayat silent beside me but radiating warmth, his long fingers drumming idly on his knee.
We barely exchanged words—small talk about the traffic, the rising price of cement—but the tension coiled tighter with every kilometer. By the time we stepped through my door, the air between us crackled. No tour of the living room, no offer of tea. His eyes met mine in the hallway light, dark and direct, and that was it. We moved to the bedroom with quiet purpose, the air between us thick with promise.
Clothes shed in a hurried rustle—his shalwar pooling on the floor, my kameez tugged over my head. God, his body was a revelation: tall and smooth, every line honed by village labor and youthful vigor. His skin glowed with a faint sheen of sweat, catching the lamplight like dew. Slender hips flared to a pert, rounded ass—firm, flawless, begging to be gripped. Below, like all the other Pakistani guys I’ve known, he was shaved completely clean, that bold bareness accentuating the proud rise of his cock—long and elegant, veined like banyan roots twisting toward hidden springs. His balls, small and tight, hung smooth and ready to be savored.
I traced my hands over his chest, feeling the faint tremor of his breath, the subtle play of muscle under silk-smooth skin. He was art in motion, and I was already lost.
We tumbled onto the bed, no kisses, no words—just heat and hunger. The sheets were cool against our skin, but we barely noticed. I reached for the lube on the nightstand, passing it to him with a grin, expecting him to slick himself up. Instead, he squirted a generous dollop onto my hardening length, his touch bold and unhesitating, fingers wrapping around me with a practiced ease that sent sparks up my spine.
I laughed—low, startled, genuinely caught off guard—as I pulled his hand away. “No, Hayat—no. I’m the bottom.”
He blinked, genuinely taken aback–like I’d suddenly turned into someone else.
“Really, Sahib?” he said, blinking hard, voice cracking with disbelief. “You want me to… er… fuck you? Me?“
I grinned, cock straining. “Yes, you. Do you see anyone else?”
He stared like I’d just flipped the village hierarchy upside down. Then the grin came—slow, wicked, curling across his face like smoke. His eyes locked onto mine, full of audacious mischief and something sharper: opportunity. The curve of his lips was pure provocation.
“If I’m to fuck you, Bilal Sahib, it’ll cost an extra hundred rupees.” His voice was velvet over steel, laced with that cheeky Sindhi lilt that made my stomach flip.
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You charge?”
He shrugged, unashamed, leaning back on his elbows like a king on a divan.
“Rozi Sahib paid me a hundred to let you fuck me—generous man. But if I fuck? That’s prime work. I can only come once a night, see. After that, I’m done—no more earning. Getting fucked, though? I can handle three, four clients easy. Keeps the rupees flowing.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, with that roguish grin, like he was haggling over gravel prices at the site, I burst out laughing, utterly charmed, the sound echoing off the walls. This wasn’t some wide-eyed village boy; Hayat was a force, unapologetic and alive.
“Alright, deal,” I said, my voice husky. “But first…” I slid down, taking his cock in my mouth—slender and tall, tasting of clean salt and promise, the silky skin sliding over my tongue as I hollowed my cheeks and sucked him deep, feeling him pulse against my throat. Delicious, like sweet fruit from the edge of the Indus, his shaven pubes scratching my nose as I swallowed him whole, drawing out a salty taste that made me hum around him.
He groaned, fingers threading into my hair, hips arching just so as I worked him, tongue swirling over the head, dipping to lave his balls with slow, teasing laps—sucking one into my mouth, rolling it gently until his thighs quivered.
“Sahib,” he gasped, voice roughening, “I want to finish right there—in your mouth, flooding you with everything I’ve got.”
I pulled off with a wet pop, meeting his heated gaze, strings of spit connecting us like a filthy vow.
“Not a chance. I remember your words—one shot a night. Don’t waste it down my throat when I need it buried balls-deep in my ass, breeding me like you own it.”
He chuckled, deep and throaty, conceding with a nod. “Fair enough. But damn, you suck like you were born to it. If you finish me that way, no extra charge—call it a bonus.”
“Tempting,” I teased, wiping my mouth, “but I want you inside me. Money’s no object.”
I flipped onto my stomach, ass raised invitingly, sliding a pillow under my hips to arch just right—offering myself like a prayer to the gods of the night. He didn’t hesitate. Slick fingers prepped me first, gentle but sure, then he was there—pressing in slow, that long cock stretching me with exquisite burn, the flared head popping past my rim before he sank inch by veined inch, filling me until his smooth balls kissed my butt.
He moved like a master, hips snapping in a rhythm that built like a gathering storm: deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve, his hands gripping my waist, breath hot against my neck. I came undone beneath him, the world narrowing to the slap of skin, his low moans in my ear, the coil of pleasure tightening until it shattered.
Afterward, sated and tangled in sweat-damp sheets, we lay catching our breath. His head on my chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my thigh.
“That was… good,” he murmured, almost shy now, the audacity softened in the afterglow. “My clients have always preferred to fuck me.”
I didn’t blame them—he had a great ass, firm and high, the kind that made you want to grip hard and never let go. But I never fucked him. Not once. I prefer to keep my partners topping me. It’s not about power—it’s about sensation, surrender, the kind of pleasure that blooms when you let someone else take the reins. And Hayat? He was always more than happy to oblige, especially with a little extra cash on the table.
“No need to bother Rozi Khan,” I said, tapping his phone. “Call me directly next time. I’ll pay your full rate—and then some.”
He grinned, eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of mischief and calculation. “Sahib, you’ve been the best client of my life,” he said, already counting the bills. “And the easiest to please—no haggling, no drama, just good money and good time.”
And just like that, the sands had offered their gift—and I, unguarded, had accepted.
—
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.
Rozi Khan’s other guys were good, no doubt—each one was pleasant, eager, and good in bed. I liked them well enough, even invited a few back for repeat visits. But none of them hooked me like Hayat. The others came and went—good for a few weeks, maybe even a month or two—but Hayat kept returning, month after month, year after year.
What began as a simple offering turned into something that burned brighter—more charged, more personal. He wasn’t just another body in my bed; he became a rhythm in my life.
I suspect he kept my secrets from Rozi, too. Another reason I loved being with him: that sly loyalty wrapped in cheeky silence, like he understood the stakes without needing them spelled out.
There were many times with Hayat whenever my schedule allowed, each one building on the last: his laughter echoing as we wrestled playfully onto the bed, the way he’d pin me with that lithe strength, whispering filthy promises in Sindhi that made my blood sing.
But oh, Hayat was fascinated with blowjobs, always begging mid-suck to let him finish in my mouth—”Just this once, Sahib, no charge, I swear”—his voice husky with that rare crack of need, eyes pleading like a boy at a mela stall, desperate for something sweet.
I regret it to this day—the way I brushed him off with a playful “Next time, next time,” too caught up in my own pleasure to see how much it meant to him. I was entranced by how his slender cock slotted so perfectly up my ass—elegant and unyielding, with just enough curve to graze that aching spot inside me, again and again. It filled me like it belonged there, like my body had been waiting for that exact shape, that exact rhythm.
It was on one of those lazy post-coital afternoons, as we lay in bed, that Hayat 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 leaned in closer and murmured he’d bring her over one evening, let me have her if I paid five hundred rupees—her soft tits and wet pussy all mine 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 told him straight, “even after all these times, you’re offering me a girl? I’m a pure gandu—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 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, bhai, no girls for the pure gandu? Fair enough—your rupees, your rules. But wait, wait…” His eyes 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 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 winked, irrepressible as the monsoon. “Only for you, sahib. Deal?”
I gave his thigh a squeeze, cock still warm under the sheets. “Deal,” I said. “And I love you anyway, you shameless bastard.”
For Hayat, our nights were just gay-for-pay—his cheeky bravado a mask for the straight-laced days he returned to, the extra rupees a bridge between duty and desire. I was just another client, a wallet with a willing hole.
But for me, Hayat was something more. He was joy in motion, a spark that lit up the grind of my days. Even knowing I was only borrowing him, the thrill of his presence—his laughter, his mischief—made me ache for something deeper.
True to his word, Hayat wasted no time rolling out the family line, starting closest to home with a connection that twisted the knife of irony just a little sweeter: his own brother-in-law, Hanif Khaskheli.
Over the next few years, he opened doors I hadn’t dared knock on. From his village he brought others—young, virile men with the same hungry fire in their eyes.
After his own brother-in-law, a cousin came next, lithe and slim. Others of his cousins trickled in, each one a new verse in our unfolding saga: threesomes where I’d kneel between them, one cock filling my mouth—salty and thick, gagging me with its girth while I slurped messily—while another claimed my ass, rutting deep with wet slaps that echoed off the walls, their groans mingling like a desert chorus.
I set the rules firm, though—always finish inside my ass, deep where it burned hottest.
Only Hayat would beg often, eyes gleaming, “Let me cum in your mouth this once, bhai—no charge.”
But I’d shake my head, “Paying customer’s choice. You know the deal.”
For the others, it was business, pure and unadorned—no whispers of love, no tangled hearts from me or them. I paid them all fairly, and Hayat took his commission with that same cheeky wink, pocketing the extra like a proud broker.
Eight of his kin in total he brought to my door, each encounter etching deeper into my skin, my desires.
—
One unforgettable time, Hayat invited me to his village for his cousin Mir Khan Khaskheli’s wedding—the very same Mir Khan who’d already fucked me several times, his callused hands, hardened by farm work gripping my hips hard, while his thick cock plunged deep and owned me with every rutting thrust. I couldn’t help but picture the new bride who’d soon savor that girth on her wedding night—but I knew Mir Khan would be back, knocking on my door before the mehndi had even faded, his fresh vows no barrier to earning another hundred rupees from the sahib.
I hadn’t wanted to come, the long drive through rutted tracks and the thought of awkward small talk in a mud-brick yard held little appeal. But Hayat had teased me, that roguish glint in his eye as he leaned in close: “Sahib, you’ll get more than you bargained for—trust me.”
And oh, he delivered.
From the moment we arrived, he paraded me through the feast with extreme pride, arm slung over my shoulder like I’d hung the moon, boasting to every cluster of kin with a booming voice: “This is my friend the Engineer—Bilal Sahib himself.”
It was rare for someone of my stature to grace a humble affair like this—and Hayat was doubly thrilled, his chest puffed like a peacock in molting season.
As the evening went on, I spied uncles swigging illicit sips from hidden flasks, their eyes glazing with boozy heat, but beneath it all simmered the knowing glances—Hayat’s sly wink across the mehndi-dyed crowd, a flash of white teeth and dark promise that made my hole clench in anticipation of the night’s true feast, my cock twitching traitorously against the confines of my shalwar.
As dusk bled into velvet black over the Indus, I was quietly escorted from the throng, a lantern-bearer’s flame dancing like a teasing tongue as we slipped past dozing cattle, their low moos a faint echo of the moans to come, toward the village’s autaq—the village guest house—mud walls, woven mats, a few charpoys, and an oil lamp. It was where outsiders slept, men gathered to talk, and the village showed its version of hospitality: simple, quiet, and practical.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by a lone lamp sputtering in the far corner, its flame dancing like a nervous tongue. My bed had been set up on the side furthest from the door, covered in their best sheets and piled high with cushions like a village divan—clearly arranged with care. There also were extra towels and clay pitchers of water placed strategically everywhere, which gave me a broad but unnecessary hint what Hayat had planned as his surprise.
Seven of Hayat’s past recruits showed up after a few minutes—dressed to the nines in their finest wedding shalwar kameez, hair slicked, collars stiff, and eyes gleaming with mischief. They looked like groomsmen on parade, but their grins showed they were already half-hard and half-drunk. The missing eighth, of course, was Mir Khan, the groom himself, off consummating his fresh vows. But Hayat was there, cocky as ever. So yes, still eight cocks in the room.
They burst in like a pack of horny jackals, cocks swinging under their shalwars, mouths louder than a dhaba kitchen at lunchtime.
“Engineer Sahib!” one cousin roared, slapping his own thigh with theatrical flair. “Ready for the Kotri Express?”
Another flexed and winked, “Bet I’ll have you begging before Karim even gets his shalwar off!”
A third pointed at his crotch and grinned. “This? This is the real irrigation system. I’ll flood your fields in five strokes flat!”
“Five?” someone snorted. “Bhai, your strokes are like your math—short and confused!”
The room erupted—backslaps, belly laughs, and the kind of crude joy only young men soaked in booze and bravado can summon. One lad mimed a thrust so exaggerated he nearly toppled over, earning a chorus of whistles and a shouted, “Save it for the hole, Romeo!”
I lay back, grinning like a man about to be devoured. All of them had already been with me, most more than once. They knew what I liked. Hayat had primed them on the one new twist: not to be shy about doing it in front of each other.
None of us—not me, not them—had ever gone beyond a threesome. Their jokes were loud, their hands bold, but beneath it all was a flicker of nerves, masked by bravado and booze.
I grinned, already hard, and threw fuel on the fire: “Extra hundred rupees to the one who fucks me best—make it count!”
That lit the fuse. Cheers exploded like firecrackers.
“Hundred rupees? I’ll rearrange your insides so well, you’ll start signing contracts in moans!”
“Engineer Sahib’s gonna need a cement mixer to walk tomorrow!”
“Oi, Karim—don’t waste your stroke like last time. You pumped like a goat with arthritis!”
“Shut it, Sajid! Your stroke’s so weak, even your shadow pulls out early!”
And through it all, I could feel Hayat’s grin burning at the edge of the room—because of course he’d planned this. The moment I’d accepted his invitation, the wheels had started turning. He’d lined them up like a wedding procession, each cock a gift wrapped in mischief and bravado, waiting for my hole like it was the bride.
They lounged fully clothed, each one peeling off only when it was his turn to fuck me—like actors stepping into a scene. They fucked me one by one, while the rest lounged on charpoys and chairs around the room. They traded jokes and commentary like it was a village kabaddi match—but rowdier, drunker, and far more obscene. The dim light kept the details hidden, but not the rhythm: the sway of bodies, the slap of skin, the gasps and groans that echoed off the mud walls. The onlookers couldn’t see exactly what was happening, but they could hear it—feel it—and that was enough to stoke their imaginations. The sounds inflamed them, turned their banter filthier, their laughter sharper, their eyes hungrier. Each thrust drew a new round of crude applause, each moan a fresh volley of vulgar wit.
Hayat went first, clothes shed in a rustle, his long cock—still my favorite—sliding home with a slick grind, stretching me anew as he bottomed out, balls slapping my ass while the room whooped: “That’s it, bhai—churn that engineer butter!”
Hayat’s kin gut-fucked me one after another in a raw, relentless relay, their girths stretching me wide and ruthless, each thrust a piston of fire that bottomed out against my core—Karim’s thick shaft grinding slow and deep, flooding me with hot ropes that dribbled out only to be fucked back in by Sajid’s frantic pistons, churning it all to a creamy froth that squelched obscenely with every plunge—hot seed spilling in ropes only to be churned into froth by the next, the air thick with the tang of sweat and spent loads.
Each thrust drew a fresh round of teasing: “That all you got, Karim?” “I could do better with half a cock and one ball” “watch me when it’s my turn, I’ll squirt like a monsoon hose inside his gaand!”
The room was alive with laughter, goading, and crude bets with guttural cheers and slaps on the back, cousins goading kin with bets on who could pound me longest without pausing—”Come on, Hanif, show the engineer what Kotri boys are made of!”—their laughter a feral chorus mingling with my broken gasps and the wet, obscene squelch of flesh yielding.
Young Akhtar Khaskheli, slim as a reed, was so eager he had his clothes off before Yasin Khaskheli even pulled out—his lithe cock already bobbing in the lamplight, while a dribble of Yasin’s load trickled warm down my thigh.
Yasin, still catching his breath, grabbed what he thought was his kameez in the dimness—only to yank on Akhtar’s by mistake, the fabric bunching tight around his broader chest like a vice.
He grumbled, half-drunk and flushed, “Bloody thing’s shrunk from all that wedding feast—tighter than my auntie’s chutney jar!” Tugging futilely at the hem, he earned a fresh round of howls from the charpoys, the room shaking with backslaps and jeers.
By the end, I was a quivering mess—slick with sweat and cum, body stretched and stuffed, hole gaping and leaking a steady trickle down my crack, every nerve singing from the overload. Eight cocks in one session. Never before. Not even close.
It was a record. A riot. A revelation.
I lay there grinning, sore and sated, knowing I’d just lived through one of the wildest nights of my life.
The room had emptied slowly, laughter trailing into the night like smoke. Someone tossed a towel over my hips, someone else refilled the water jug, and then they were gone—leaving me alone in the dim glow of the sputtering lamp, slick and stretched, my body humming like a well-tuned engine.
I drifted off with a smile on my lips, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air, lulled by the distant moo of cattle and the soft creak of the autaq settling into silence.
I woke late next morning to the smell of fried eggs, fresh roti and doodh-pati chai—Hayat crouched beside me, grinning like a cat who’d raided the cream pot.
He placed a tin tray piled high with village breakfast next to me and said, “Sahib, rise and shine. Time to pay the orchestra.”
His eyes sparkled with mischief, but his palm was already open, ready for the payout.
I laughed, sore and starving, and handed over the bills without protest. He counted them with theatrical flair, then tucked them into his pocket like a magician pocketing applause.
Hayat was still glowing with happiness. Last evening, he’d shown me off to his entire village, arm slung over my shoulder like I was his personal trophy. The uncles had gawked, the cousins had whispered, and Hayat had soaked it all in—his rich, city-slicker friend with the government job.
Then this morning, he pocketed commissions from seven of his kin, plus his own full fee from me.
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.
I was grateful to him—truly. No one else I knew could’ve pulled this off. It took guts, charm, and a kind of village ingenuity that only Hayat had. He didn’t love me, and I didn’t need him to. But that night, he gave me something unforgettable.
But who’d won my offered 100 rupees Bonus? Easy to guess—young Akhtar Khaskheli, youngest of them all, simply for his enthusiasm: that slim reed of a boy, clothes shed in a blur, diving in like a monsoon flash-flood—pistoning frantic and deep, his lithe cock hammering my prostate until I saw stars, all while gasping, “Sahib—more?” like he was starving for it. The pack had cheered as he claimed the prize, pocketing the cash with a grin that said he’d earned every paisa—and maybe, just maybe, was already dreaming of the next round.
The End (Of Part 1 of 5)
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