A Gift from the Sands

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A Gift from the Sands 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, already counting the bills, 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.

I met some of Rozi Khan's other guys more than once -- 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 make him squirt like a monsoon hose!"

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 pickle 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 waistband like a magician pocketing applause.

Hayat was still glowing. 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 one)

来自沙土的礼物 第一部分：承包商的供奉

那时候我还是个年轻的土木工程师，升得飞快——有些人会说，太快了。才二十五六岁，我就在富庶的 Tando Allahyar 区签着几百万卢比的合同，管着那些岁数顶我两倍、对我下的每一道命令都恨得牙痒痒的施工队。

办公室是凉飕飕、光溜溜、静悄悄的——跟那些承包商完全两码事。他们是从灰扑扑的工地上直接过来的，靴子上糊着水泥碴子，嗓门里还嗡嗡地荡着他们冲苦力吼了一上午的那些脏话。这会儿，他们窝在吊扇底下的塑料椅上，浑身不自在，手里拨弄着标书文件，拼命忍着不让汗珠子从衬衫上透出来。我这间办公室——区工程师的办公室——让他们发毛。太干净，太静，太多不是他们定的规矩。

我知道他们背后嘀咕什么。嘀嘀咕咕说我看着更像个学生，不像个正经在册的政府长官。就因为我下巴刮得溜光，衬衫笔挺，脸上老挂着副好说话的浅笑，他们就把我的提拔全归给走后门、不认我的本事。可撇开这些，技术活儿对我来说轻飘飘，薪水厚实，至于那些油水嘛……嗯，全裹着一层又一层的周到，藏在底下。

所有承包商——那些满手老茧、脸上堆着巴结贱笑的经世老油条——都会往我这边滑过来厚墩墩的信封：那是我让他们账单快点儿批、或是轻轻推一把接下他们标书的“抽头”。我很快就学会挂着副体面的似笑非笑接下来，一声不吭，把这些沾着茶渍的“孝敬”揣进兜里。

可 Rozi Khan 不一样。他是个五十来岁的帕坦人，矮墩墩，宽肩膀，那对眼什么都漏不过。他在海得拉巴附近那片干巴巴的山里带着一队人。他报的标扎实，干的活儿靠得住，可每回到工地视察，他眼睛就老往人身上挂——我偷摸瞟他那些光膀子苦力的时候，他那眼神总能逮着我，那些太阳底下烤透了的壮身子，扛着钢筋，搬着砖，背着 ZealPak 的水泥袋。

Rozi 嘴上从没漏过一个字，可他那股子心知肚明的分量，我全觉出来了。有一天，在我开着空调的办公室里签支票的时候，有人开门给我送更多文件进来。就那么一眨眼的功夫，等候区漏进来一片闹腾：一阵爆笑，一道嗓门劈出来——糙乎乎的，憋着乐，半压着声。

“想当初那些老工程师在这屋的时候，我进办公室之前，得在衣裳上扑来扑去，看有没有灰。如今可好，里头坐着年纪轻轻的 Bilal Sahib，跟个 chikna chhokra 似的，我这衣裳扑得得更勤了——我得看明白，我那根 lund 没在底下给人敬礼！”

门就荡了回去，我来不及听他们怎么回嘴，可那阵笑没散——生猛，不过滤。Chikna chhokra——“嫩滑，欠操的小子”——这句明贬实褒的恭维，烧得我两颊烫起来，底下还勾得什么更深的东西往外翻。

一个晚风凉凉的傍晚，Rozi Khan 邀我去海得拉巴吃饭，挑的是 Salateen Hotel，最出名的就是那口 karahi 炖肉，就在国家公路路边，是那种吊扇在天花板上搅着烤 seekh kebab 和豆蔻 chai 香气的馆子。Rozi 已经等在那儿了。我到的时候他客客气气站起来，屁股后头，跟条影子似的，缀着我从没见过的一个年轻男人——二十一岁上下，踩在年轻人那股勾魂的尖尖上，浑身上下每一动，都带着还没人沾过的那种能野到哪去的兆头。

他高高条条，软溜溜的，像根枣椰树那么股秀气的细法，皮肤是晒透了庄稼的那种暖暖的小麦色。他那对深窝窝的乌黑眼珠子稳稳当当，头发是软软的乌黑卷浪，刚刚够长，蹭着领口。他走动起来安安静静，带着股把得住的底气，简简单单穿一套利利落落的 shalwar kameez，底下那副瘦条条的身板子，全不用猜。

“这位是 Hayat Khaskheli，”我们围着桌子坐定，Rozi 用那副成年累月在风镐声里吼叫惯了的沙哑大粗嗓门说。“从 Kotri 上头一个村子里来的。机灵小伙子——时不时帮我那帮人干点活儿。”

Hayat 客客气气点点头，那笑晃得又白又不急，可那对眼里的亮光，分明是在不出声地度量我，那一下，我心跳都紧了紧。

就着一盘盘 karahi 黄油馕饼，我跟 Rozi Khan 谈着合同和工期，可空气里一阵阵嗡嗡的都是些没出口的事。Rozi 笑我那些笑话的时候，笑得也太响了，他那对眼珠子在我们俩之间来回蹦，跟个中间人做交割似的。我觉着自己不像同事，倒像件正被人盘的货。

等饭吃到末了，账也付得气气派派，Rozi 凑过身子，他那股 attar 香料味又冲又土。他挤了个眼——是那种故意不遮掩、一起谋着什么似的眼皮一夹——然后压着嗓子说：“Sahib，怎么不把 Hayat 带回你那儿去呢？他嫩着呢，心里痒着呢，可不光是痒城里日子这点事。就把它算成一点小甜头吧。”

意思再明白不过了。没半点惺惺作态，用不着磕磕巴巴找借口。

这提议把我打了个愣——一个承包商，敢这么明说，狗胆不小。可这正正是我盼的。我俩眼对了眼，那一小刻不出声，什么都说明白了。我点了点头，嗓门稳得跟什么似的。“那是当然，Khan Sahib。我乐意得不行。”

开车回我在 Sindhi Muslim Housing Society 那栋房子的路上，钠光路灯浑黄的光影刷刷地过，车里头空调闷闷地咕噜着，Hayat 挨在我旁边没开口，可浑身一股暖烘烘的气往外散，他那特长的手指头，有一搭没一搭在膝头上打着点子。

我俩差不多就没怎么说话——光是随口扯扯堵车，扯扯水泥涨了价——可那股绷着的劲，每走一公里，就拧得越紧。等我们踏进我屋门那一脚，空气都噼噼啪啪起了电。没带着参观客厅，没问要不要上茶。他眼在走廊那点光底下正对着我的眼，又黑又直，就这一下，够了。我们俩一声不出、心里门儿清地就移到了卧室，我们之间那团空气，涨得满满的，全是许诺。

衣裳剥得哗啦啦地急——他那条 shalwar 软塌塌堆在地板上，我那件 kameez 从头顶上扯下来。老天，他那副身子简直就是天启：又高又滑溜，每道线条都是乡下苦活儿跟年轻火气磨出来的。他那皮肉泛着层薄薄的汗光，跟露水似的兜着灯光。那两条瘦胯骨，朝上一阔，捧出个又翘又圆、实墩墩的屁股——绷得结结实实，没半点挑剔的余地，勾得你只恨不得一把握死。往下头看，跟我认识过的所有别的巴基斯坦小伙一个样，他剃得干干净净，那份光秃秃的裸相，把他那根雄赳赳翘着的鸡巴衬得更显眼了——又长又文气，茎身上爬着青筋，跟榕树根缠着条看不见的泉眼似的。他那对卵蛋，又小又紧，就那么光溜溜地挂在那儿，等着人拿嘴去尝。

我拿手顺着他的胸口摸过去，觉着他那呼吸在打颤，那层绸子般滑溜的皮肉底下，肌肉在轻轻地、不出声地腾挪。他是活生生一件动着的艺品，我这会儿早就魂都没了。

我们滚上了床，没有亲嘴，没有字——就光是热，光是饿。床单贴在我们皮肉上凉阴阴的，可我们压根没觉出来。我伸手抄起床头柜上那支润滑剂，嬉着脸塞给他，以为他要拿来给自己抹。结果他反手挤了一大坨，糊在我正一寸寸变硬的鸡巴上，他那手摸上来那股浑不吝又稳当的劲，摸得我脊梁骨酥酥地往上窜火星子。

我笑出声来——压得低低的，真被他打了个猝不及防——一面把他那只手从我鸡巴上拉开。“别，Hayat——不住这。我是当零的。”

他眨了眨眼，是真真愣住了神——倒像我忽然成了别的什么人。

“真的假的，Sahib？”他连眨几个眼，嗓门都劈叉了，一副死活不信的口气，“你叫我……呃……操你？我？”

我龇着牙，鸡巴胀得生疼。“是啊，就叫你。你瞧见这屋里还有别人吗？”

他瞪着我，好像我把他整个村子的规矩都给翻了个个儿。跟着那龇牙笑冒出来了——慢悠悠的，不怀好意，跟烟似的卷过他整张脸。他那对眼锁在我眼上，全是泼天的鬼心眼，还有层更辣的：那是送到嘴边的肥肉。他那嘴唇的弯里，明明白白就是一场撩拨。

“我操你是行，Bilal Sahib，那得多收一百卢比。”他那把嗓子，活脱脱是丝绒裹着钢，再搅进去那股叫人小肚子发紧的赖兮兮的 Sindhi 腔调。

我一挑眉，叫他勾起了兴头。“你还收钱的？”

他耸了耸肩，没半点害臊，胳膊肘朝后一撑，活像个斜在榻上的土皇帝。

“Rozi Sahib 给我一百块，叫我让你操——那是他出手大。可要我操？那是上等活儿。你瞧，我一晚上就来得了那么一回。弄完那一下，我就废了——再挣不着钱。可要是光挨操呢？我轻轻巧巧接个三四个客，那卢比可不停点地淌着来。”

他说得那么一脸正正经经，还挂着那副赖皮狗似的龇牙，跟他在工地上拿碎石子价钱磨嘴皮子一个架势，我一下撑不住，哈哈大笑起来，真真是被他拿得服服帖帖，那笑在四面墙上撞来撞去。这哪是什么怯生生的乡下小子；Hayat 是股不认人、浑身活着劲儿的力道。

“成，就这么定了，”我说，嗓门已经闷哑了。“可先……”我滑下身子，把他那根鸡巴含进嘴里——细长条，老高老高，吃进嘴是干干净净的咸混着许诺，那层绸子皮滑过我舌头，我吸瘪了腮帮子，把他往深了嘬，觉着那东西一下下顶着我的嗓子眼在那里跳。美得很，跟印度河边上的甜果儿一样，他剃得光溜溜的屌毛搔着我鼻子，我把他整根往下吞，嘬出一股又咸又勾人的味，闷哼哼地在他上头直哼。

他闷嚎了一声，手指钻进我头发里，胯骨就照着我正拿捏的节拍，轻轻一拱。我舌头绕着那颗头打旋，又沉下去，拿舌尖慢慢一下下拨弄着舔他那对卵蛋——吸一颗进嘴里，轻轻转着，直转得他那两条大腿打起了哆嗦。

“Sahib，”他倒着气，那嗓门越来越糙，“我真想就在那儿弄完了——就射在你嘴里，拿我攒的那点儿东西，全给你灌进去。”

我噗一声湿漉漉地松了他，正对上他那对热滚滚的眼，唾沫丝子在我们俩之间挂着，跟条脏兮兮的誓一样。

“甭想。你刚才那话，我可记着——一晚就一枪。别白瞎在我嗓子眼里，我非得把它连根埋在我这屁股里，跟配种一样操我，拿它全给我灌进来。”

他粗粗沉沉地嘿笑了一声，认了账，点了点头。“也成。可他娘的，你嘬屌嘬得真跟生来就是这块料一样。你拿嘴把我弄利索了，我不加钱——算赏你的。”

“馋是馋了，”我逗着他，擦了把嘴，“可我就想你在里头。钱不是事。”

我翻身趴在床上，屁股高高撅着，跟请人似的，拽了个枕头垫在胯骨底下，叫自己那弧度刚刚好——拿自己当夜献给那黑夜的神，拿身子当份祭礼。他半点没磨蹭。先拿滑溜溜的指头给我备好了，又轻又稳，跟着他就顶上来了——慢慢地往里压，那根长鸡巴抻得我又辣又美，那颗胀开了的头噗地一下过了我那圈肉，跟着就一寸、一寸顺着那青筋胀起来的东西往里沉，一直填死我，到他光溜溜的卵蛋贴在我屁股上。

他动起来跟把好手似的，胯骨一下下甩着那股节拍，一层层往上码，跟场正往死里拧着劲的风暴似的：又深、又稳的捅撞，每一下都正正顶在叫我要了命的那块地方，他两只手掐死我腰胯，滚烫的呼吸喷在我脖子上。我在他身子底下就这么散了架，天底下什么都缩成了那皮肉相撞的啪响，他在我耳边那低沉的闷嚎，那团越拧越紧的快活，一直拧到它炸了为止。

完事以后，餍足得动不得，缠在被汗濡得潮乎乎的床单里，我们瘫在那儿倒气。他脑袋搁在我胸口，手指懒洋洋划着我大腿上的纹路。

“那……真不赖，”他咕哝着，这会儿倒像是害了羞，那股泼天的胆子，在事后的温存里，软下来了。“我那些客，向来都爱操我。”

我倒不怪他们——他那屁股真是一绝，又紧又翘，是那种叫你恨不得死攥着就不撒手的。可我从来没操过他。一回都没有。我就爱让跟我好的那些男人在上头弄我。这不关谁压谁的事——是那股子觉受，那股子交付出去的放任，那种等别人替你把着缰绳时只管自管自开出的快活。而 Hayat 呢？他向来是巴不得地应着，更不提还能额外往桌上多码些票子了。

“用不着去烦 Rozi Khan，”我拍了拍他手机，跟他说。“下回你直接喊我。我照你全份的钱付——只多不少。”

他龇起牙，手里已经在点票子了，眼里亮闪闪，还是那股子我熟的、赖皮狗似的狡黠混着盘算的劲。

“Sahib，你是我这辈子经的最好的客了，”他手里还在点票子，“也是最好打发的——不磨嘴皮子，没那么多啰嗦事，钱给得痛快，事也办得舒坦。”

就这么着，沙土把它们那件礼，献到了我眼前——而我，也没设防，收了下来。

---

Rozi Khan，这个永远眨巴着那副拉纤保媒的眼的施主，打那往后的几个月里，还陆陆续续又朝我面前牵来好几回线——各行各业出来打短、为钱当基佬的小年轻，都是他大方掏了那头一回的钱，给我们把路滑顺了。有个从自行车修理铺来的瘦麻秆小子，指甲缝里还嵌着黑油泥，笑起来跟打闪似的赶；又有一个，从路边 dhaba 来的瘦高条跑堂的，身上隐隐一层刚离煎锅 paratha 的香气，走道带着跑长工磨出来的那股不紧不慢的晃荡劲。他们全是苗条溜滑的身子，八成就是 Rozi 自己偏喜欢操的那类小子——嫩，软，养眼。他自然从来不明说的。就是一个挤眼，一通闷闷的笑，然后问一句，要是有工夫，愿不愿意“带这小年轻转转，见见世面”。

虽说他眼毒，Rozi Khan 还真从来没全参透——我在这每一桩悄没声息的买卖里，始终就是个当零的，那个巴不得服服帖帖、不抢那下令权的货。他牵来的每一个“兄弟伙”，来的时候，心里全装得足足的，预备好了弯腰伺候“工程师老爷”。等我一开口叫他们来拿主意，他们那几对眼珠子，常常就一滚，滚出股惊得美滋滋的亮光来。他们改招改得拿手，一个个全是龇着牙抖着威风——那几下实打实的碰头，全是蛮肉跟短命的烫。

Rozi Khan 牵来的那些人里，有几个我还见过不止一回——回回都是欢欢喜喜，急巴巴的，床上也不赖。我挺喜欢他们的，有几个还邀过再回来。可没一个能像 Hayat 那样勾住我。别的那些，来过也就过了——撑几个礼拜好光景，顶多一两个月——可 Hayat，月月来，年年来。

一开头不过是桩简简单单的孝敬，到后来，竟烧出股越蹿越亮的火苗子——更见棱角，更沾着私人的情分。他早不单是一具扔在我床上的身子；他成了我日子里的一节律。

我猜着，他在 Rozi 跟前，也替我守着密。这又是我爱跟他处着的另一层缘由：那机灵偷着藏的忠心，裹在他那没正形的闷声不响里，倒像是用不着我一个字一个字敲明，他全把这其中的轻重给量明白了。

只要我日子排得开，跟着 Hayat 的还有许多回，每一回都是在上一回的底子上往上码：我俩闹着玩往床上滚的时候，他那笑荡荡地来回撞；他拿自己那副软中带狠的蛮劲把我钉死的那架势，嘴里再拿 Sindhi 话压低了声，给我往耳朵里灌那些叫我血都发烫的下流愿。

可，嗬，Hayat 是叫嘬屌这事给迷住了心窍，回回到半路上就要央告，求我让他就在我嘴里弄出来——

“就这一回，Sahib，不加钱，我起誓——”

他那嗓门，一到那当口就闷闷地劈，露出难得一见的渴求，那双眼，跟个眼巴巴守在赶集 mela 摊子跟前的小崽儿一样，馋巴巴地奔着口甜的。

我到今儿个，还为这桩事懊得慌——我当初就那么拿句嬉皮笑脸的“下回，下回”把他搪塞回去，只管贪我自己的那份快活，就没明白那东西对他有多要紧。我那时候是为他那根细长条的鸡巴捅在我屁眼里那股子天造地设的配法入了迷——文气又毫不含糊，身上那一道弧，刚刚好够着身子里面那块叫我痒得受不住的痒筋，一回，再一回。它填着我，就跟它天生就该待在那儿似的，像我这副身子，打头里就一直在巴巴地等那独一份的形状，那独一份的节律。

后头有一回，我俩又跟往常那样，一场操完了懒洋洋挨在床上温存，就在那当口，Hayat 说漏了嘴：他是结了婚的，那些在乡下 Sindh 地界上，十八岁就把一个邻村的、真真漂亮的姑娘讨进了门，连什么是自在都没来及尝透，就把家拴上了——是那种得回家、家里头有块地等着他们的命。

他眼一挤，凑过来，那声压得搔耳朵，说他哪天夜里把她给带来，我只要出上五百卢比，那软乎乎的奶子、水叽叽的骚屄，就全归我，随我弄一晚上。我听完了大笑，使劲拍了把他肩膀，手跟着滑下去，隔着床单把他那根还湿着、还没硬起来的鸡巴狠狠捏了一把。

“Yaar，”我直直告诉他，“都这么些回了，你还给我供姑娘？我他妈是纯全的 gandu——用不着姑娘。我缺的是这玩意儿——”我又使劲拽了他一把，拽得他嘶嘶倒抽气——“重新给我埋进来。”

我这番回绝，在我俩中间悬着，跟只下了战书的决斗手套似的，而 Hayat——这个谁都压不垮的刁狐狸，脸一咧，就跟正巧瞅见合同里藏着条空子似的——连个磕巴都没打。他往床靠上一倒，倒像我们俩方才撂牌的不是躲了场家务官司，而是敲定了一场联并案。

“Achha，bhai，不给纯 gandu 上姑娘？成——你的卢比，你的规矩。可慢着，慢着……”他那眼神呼一下亮了，跟礼拜天巴扎上见了肥羊的贩子一样，手指头啪地一捻，那层麦色的脸皮子底下，轮子正呼呼地转。“我老家还有别的存货。表兄弟些，壮得跟羯牛，馋得像发了情的骚羊。他们缺钱，不是办嫁妆就是买柴油，管他呢——我捞一笔小头，除了我那常份，再单抽个二十个点，没得商量——你呢？新鲜鸡巴跟转门子一样，一茬一茬往你屁股里捅。赢，赢，大赢，yaar。”

我泼声大笑，一半是被他勾得迷迷瞪瞪，一半是为他那股混不吝的胆气给镇了，他那讨价还价的骚模样，倒跟谈碎石方量一色一样。

“你可真是个鬼精的小买卖人，Hayat。”

他挤了个眼，跟季风打不走似的。“就冲着你的，sahib。敲定了？”

我捏了把他大腿，他鸡巴还在床单底下热着。“定了，”我说。“反正，你怎么着我都爱，你这没脸没臊的狗东西。”

在 Hayat 看，我们那些夜夜全不过是拿当基佬换钱——他那些赖皮狗似的豪横，全是张面具，好让他回他那直挺挺的白天，那把多挣的卢比，是架在应分的日子和真心的想头之间的一道桥。我不过是他手上另一号客，一个长了洞的钱包。

可在我看，Hayat 还不止。他是欢蹦乱跳的活悦乐，是一簇点亮我磨盘般日子里头的火星。就算我心里透亮，我不过是在租他，单是他那人在我跟前——他那笑，他那使不完的鬼——揪得我心里发痛，盼着些更深的、够不着的。

Hayat 半点没耽搁，照着他说出去的话，立马把那亲族队伍往外摊，先从挨着他屋里近的、叫这桩事那股子叫人哭笑不得的反讽更甜上一层的那条线起：他那连襟，Hanif Khaskheli。

打那往后几年，他又开了一扇扇我从前没敢敲的门。从他村里他带了别的好些人来——全是年轻力壮、那对对眼里燃着同一股饿火的后生。

他那连襟完了，跟着来了个堂弟，又软溜又细长条。他别的堂表兄弟些也三三两两往外淌，每一个，都是我这场正往外翻的大戏里，一折新的词：一来二去就凑成三人行，我跪在他们俩中间，一根鸡巴满满地塞着我这张嘴——咸丝丝，大墩墩，拿那粗东西顶得我嗓子眼直干呕，我一面还黏答答地胡撸——另一根又霸着我屁眼，浑身蛮劲地在我屁股里又深又猛地往里夯，撞得满屋子啪啪的湿响，他们那闷嚎搅成一片，跟沙漠上头一层鬼吼似的。

可规矩是我咬死了的——回回都得是在我屁眼里头收场，得捅到最深的那个地方，那最烫的地方。

也只有 Hayat 常常会央告，那眼亮得，说：“哥，就这一回，让我射你嘴里——不收钱。”

我偏回回把头一摇，“掏钱的主说了算。规矩你又不是不晓得。”

对别的人，这就是买卖，光秃秃，不添半点描画——没有偷摸递的情话，没有搅成乱麻的心，从我那儿、从他们那儿，都生不出来。我给他们所有人都付了公道钱，Hayat 就拿他那一份抽头，一面还是拿那副我熟的挤眉弄眼的赖皮相，揣着那多出来的票子，跟个神气得意的中间人一样。

他带到我这门里来的，满共是八个他的血亲骨肉，每一趟在我身上刻得深一层，刻在我那欲念上，我那火头上。

---

有一回，叫我到死都忘不了，Hayat 邀我去他们村上，吃他表弟 Mir Khan Khaskheli 的喜酒——就是那个 Mir Khan，到那当口已经操过我好多回了，他那双做地里活磨得满是老茧的手，死死掐着我胯骨，他那根粗鸡巴就深深往里捅，回回都拿我当他的地那么耕，不认人地霸着。我管不住不去想，那新媳妇，洞房夜里就该尝着这根好家伙了——可我心底也明白，Mir Khan 是会回来的，连她手上那 mehndi 彩还没褪，他就得来敲我这 sahib 的门了，他那还热乎着的新誓约，半点拦不住他多挣这一百卢比。

我本是不想来的。开那么老远，下那些车辙坑洼的野路，再去一间泥砖院坝里硬撑一场浑身不自在的干巴应酬——想想就没趣。可 Hayat 拿话搔着我，他凑近来，那双眼滴溜溜转着他那股赖皮狗的刁光，凑着我，说：“Sahib，你这一趟，得的准比你图的多——信我。”

嗬，他还真没白说。

从我们到地方的那一刻起，他就拿那副神气活现的架势，擎着我逛遍了整场宴，胳膊搭在我肩上，倒像那月亮是我给挂上去的，拿那副闷雷似的大嗓门，在每一簇亲族堆里劈开了吹：“这位就是我跟你们说的那当工程师的兄弟——Bilal Sahib 本人。”

在这么桩寒素铺排的事上，能供出我这号人，是难得的——Hayat 这一下是两倍的欢喜，他那腔子挺得，跟只正换毛的孔雀一样，恨不得拿它撑满一村。

夜再深些，我偷瞄见好些当叔伯的，从偷摸揣着的扁壶里灌着那一口不该沾的，那眼珠子泡在那股酒烧的烫里，散了神，可在这底下，腾腾地煨着的，是那些知根知底的瞄头——Hayat 隔着那满院子 mehndi 染透后生的一张张脸，递过来他那偷摸的挤眼，一闪白牙，一道暗沉沉却赖不掉的许愿，叫我那洞眼馋得直缩紧，等着今夜里那场真格的席面，我那根鸡巴也在 shalwar 裤裆里不争气地一下下顶着布，蹦得欢。

等到暮色染透了印度河上的黑丝绒天，我就被悄没声地搀出了那人堆，一个打着灯笼的，那火苗子跟条逗弄人的舌头似的，一舞一舞的，我们溜过卧着打盹的牛群，它们那闷闷的低哞，是后头等着的那些闷哼声那遥遥传来的引子，我们冲着村子那间 autaq（村上的客舍）去——泥墙，编的草席，几张 charpoy 绳床，一盏油灯。这就是外人睡的地方，男人凑一堆白话的地方，是这村子亮给外人看的那份待客的情面：简单，不出声，扎扎实实。

屋里头，那盏孤零零的灯缩在最远的墙角里扑腾，那火苗子，跟条怯怯怕怕的舌头，一哆嗦一哆嗦的。我那张床，在离门最远的那片墙下头支好了，上头铺的是他们最好的床单，靠枕堆得老高，跟张乡下土皇帝榻似的——明摆着是花了心思铺排的。还有，多出来的手巾和瓦罐的清水，哪哪都码着，这就算往我眼前塞了个再明白不过、也实在不必的暗示——Hayat 要拿这个来给我当那个“惊喜”。

过了分把钟，Hayat 从前收下的那拨编队里就露面了七个——一个个拿他们顶顶排场的婚礼 shalwar kameez 给收拾得从头光鲜到脚，头发抿得油亮，领口浆得硬挺挺的，那对对眼，亮闪闪，全是冒着的坏水。他们看着跟一排正出操的傧相一样，可他们那咧嘴笑，敞敞亮亮的，是已经半硬了、也半醉了。缺的那第八个，还用说，就是新郎自己，Mir Khan，正跟那喜床上去把新誓约做成真事。可 Hayat 是在的，神气活现半点没减。所以，是，这屋里，照样是八根鸡巴。

他们炸进来，跟一窝发了情的骚公狗似的，鸡巴在 shalwar 底下晃荡着，那几张嘴，比午饭点上 dhaba 馆子的后厨还闹腾。

“工程师老爷！”一个堂表兄弟劈嗓子嚎，拿自己那大腿拍得跟唱戏似的招摇。“预备好了接这趟 Kotri 专列了吗！”

另一个绷了把劲，挤了个眼。“赌不赌，还没等 Karim 把他那 shalwar 扒下来，我就能弄得你哼哼着求我！”

第三个朝自己裤裆一指，龇起牙。“就这？这可是正经排灌系统。五下，不带多的，淹了你那块地！”

“五下？”谁嗤了一声。“Bhai，你那几下，跟你算术一个德行——短棒槌配浆糊脑子！”

整间屋子炸了——噼里啪啦互相拍背的，捧着肚子笑的，全是这种叫酒和豪横灌饱了的年轻后生才撩得起来的那股糙野欢喜。有个小子比划着做了个那么夸张的往前一顶，险险把自己人顶了个跟头，换来一片尖厉的口哨，还有一嗓子嗷嗷叫的：“把那一下给你那洞留着，罗密欧！”

我躺了回去，龇着牙，那模样，活脱脱就是个眼看就要被撕了的男人。他们这一屋子的，个个都跟我好过，好些还不止一回。我好的那口，他们门清。Hayat 也早早给他们透了那一条新规矩：谁也别缩在别个别眼前头不敢弄。

我们这堆人——不管是我，还是他们——在那之前，没谁弄过越过三人行的阵仗。他们那些荤笑话震天响，那几双手浑不吝地胡撸，可在这底下，明明白白还有一丝的怵，拿豪横和酒盖着。

我龇了龇牙，我那家伙早硬了，顺手再泼一勺油：“谁今晚操得最好，多赏一张红票——拿出本事来！”

这一下，把那火捻子点着了。那嚎叫，跟放鞭似的炸了起来。

“一百卢比？我准把你里头那点东西掏得明明白白，往后你签合同，全拿闷哼哼的动静签！”

“工程师老爷明儿走路，怕是得请台水泥搅拌机在后头扶着！”

“喂，Karim——别跟上回一样白糟蹋你那几下。你那一下下跟得了关节炎的山羊一样瞎扑腾！”

“你他妈给我闭上，Sajid！你那几下软得，连你自个儿的影子都提早抽身跑！”

从头到尾，我就觉出 Hayat 那龇牙笑，在那间屋沿上，烫乎乎地烧着——还用讲吗，这全是他铺排好的。我头一口应了他那邀，他心里那几盘轮子就转上了。他把他们码得齐齐整整，跟排迎亲的队伍，每一根鸡巴都是裹在坏水和豪横里头的礼，就等着我拿那洞眼当新娘子，接他们的驾。

他们全仰在 charpoy 绳床上，椅子上的，衣裳齐齐整整，一个挨一个，轮到他来操我的时候才把那身皮剥了——跟个角儿刚刚登台似的。他们挨个操我，剩下的就在屋里的绳床上椅子上四仰八叉地歪着。他们拿荤笑话和评头论足的话，来回来去地甩，跟场上守着看乡下 kabaddi 角力一个路数——不过更疯，更酒气冲天，也下流得远不到头。屋里那点暗沉沉的光，把那些细处全捂着不见，可那节律跑不掉：那身子一前一后的摆荡，那皮肉摔在皮肉上的啪响，那顺着泥墙荡回来的倒气和闷嚎。那些看客，虽看不清究竟在出什么事，可他们也在听——也实实觉着了——这就够了，够往他们那想头里再添把火了。那动静把他们烧得慌，叫他们来回甩的那些荤话更脏，那笑更尖厉，那眼更饿。每往里多夯一下，就多砸出一轮粗野的喝彩，每多泄出一声闷嚎，就又多一层下作机灵的抖搂。

Hayat 打头阵，衣裳哗啦一声就褪了，他那根长鸡巴——到这时候还是我的心头肉——滑溜溜地碾着往里一钻，顺顺当当回了家，那根东西一沉到底，那对卵蛋啪地拍在我屁股上，满屋就跟着呜嗷嗷地嚎叫：“就是这样，bhai——往那工程师牌黄油里头给我狠狠搅！”

Hayat 那些血亲骨肉，跟排一趟没完没了的、又生猛不松劲的接力赛似的，一个接一个拿那几根粗棒槌往我里头蛮夯，抻得我撑到不能再撑，一点不留情，每一往下捅，都跟一管发了疯的活塞，把那火的舌头连根喂到我那芯子里——Karim 那根肉墩墩的茎身，慢慢磨，深深犁，往我身子里灌那滚烫的黏浆，糊了一肠子，还没来及往外淌，又给 Sajid 那发了癫的几下快捣混着捅回来，翻来覆去地搅，全打成一团稠乎乎白花花的精糊糊，每一往回里夯的时候，都恶心巴拉地咕叽咕叽地响——那滚烫的精，一缕接一缕往外喷，只等着下一个再把它打成糊，满屋子荡着汗臊跟泼出去的那一泡又一泡存货的呛人骚气。

每往里多夯一下，就又砸出一轮新梗：“Karim，你也就那点能耐？” “换我，少半根鸡巴、缺一颗卵子，都比你强！” “你他妈瞧着，到了我这轮，我保管弄得他跟下暴雨的季风天一样往外滋水！”

满屋子活气腾腾，全是笑，鼓劲，跟下作的赌局，混着那几把粗野的嚎叫和啪啪打背的热闹。那帮堂表兄弟拿谁不歇气能连着夯我最久的由头，互相煽着火，打着赌——“来啊，Hanif，给工程师亮亮，咱们 Kotri 小子是拿什么材料做的！”——他们那笑，是一支野鬼凑成的合唱，嵌着我自己那一声声碎掉的倒气，还有那黏糊糊、叫人恶心的皮肉被压服的咕叽声。

年纪轻轻的 Akhtar Khaskheli，细得跟根苇秆一样，那火急火燎的，还没等 Yasin Khaskheli 往外拔呢，就自己把衣裳扒光了——他那细长条的鸡巴，早就在那灯底下点着头了，这当口，Yasin 那泡存货里的一道，正暖烘烘顺着我大腿淌。

Yasin，还在倒着气，黑黢黢里一把摸着他以为是自己的那件 kameez——结果错扯了 Akhtar 的，那料子箍在他那宽阔得多的胸口，死紧死紧，跟老虎钳一样。他恼哼哼地骂，半醉着，脸涨得通红：“这他妈的破玩意儿，吃顿喜酒就缩成这样——比我姨那腌菜坛子口还紧巴！”他白费力气地往下扯着衣边，又把绳床上那帮人逗得嗷嗷乱叫，满屋叫拍背和嘘声震得打晃。

到了末了，我成了一大摊哆嗦的烂泥——浑身叫汗和精液泼得精湿，身子给抻开、给塞死过去，那洞眼豁开来、张着口，成了一道小细流，顺着我屁股沟往下淌，浑身上下的神经全过头地撑爆了，在那里嚷嚷。一晚上，八根鸡巴捆成一捆来。从没有过。见都没见过。

那是一个破天的数目。一场暴动的疯魔。一道劈开眼界的启示。

我龇着牙摊在那儿，又麻又餍足，心里透亮，自己方才活过一夜，是我这辈子顶顶疯魔的乱子。

那间屋子慢慢空了，那笑跟烟一样，拖进了夜里。谁撂了条手巾搭在我胯骨上，谁又重把那水罐灌满了，跟着他们就走干净了——撂下我独个儿，在那盏正噼噼啪啪打闪的油灯底下，浑身滑溜溜、里外抻得大开，我这副身子，跟台刚调弄好的引擎一样，突突地哼着。

我嘴角挂着一弯笑，就这么漂远了，空气里堆满了汗臊和那档子事的骚气，远远那牛鸣和 autaq 那软软的嘎嘎响，把我摇进了那一片静里头。

第二天，我睡到迟迟的，给煎蛋、新鲜 roti 脆饼和 doodh-pati chai 的香气催醒了——Hayat 蹲在我旁边，龇牙笑得，跟只摸进奶油罐子里的贼猫一个样。

他把一张洋铁托盘堆得满满的乡下早饭放我旁边，说：“Sahib，起来，亮亮相。时候到了，给乐队发钱了。”

他那眼亮闪闪，全是坏，可他那巴掌早摊开了，随时等着接钱。

我笑了一声，浑身疼得酸，饿得慌，乖乖把票子递过去，没多说半个字。他拿唱大戏的架子点完了，往他那腰封里一掖，像个刚接了满堂彩的变戏法的。

Hayat 那高兴劲儿还没散。昨晚上，他拿我当他自己私人的奖杯，给我摆给他们一整个村子显摆，胳膊搭在我肩上，摆得那么透。那些当叔伯的瞪掉了眼，那些堂表兄弟们压着声嗡嗡，Hayat 照单全收——他这富得流油、捧着政府铁饭碗的城里朋友。

跟着今儿早，他又从他那七个血亲骨肉那儿，个个抽了他那份头，再加上他自己从我这儿领的全份报酬。

是了，Hayat 是个机会客，他本不是什么经训练的鸡头，手底也没那关系户，撒满 Sindh 全省——他拢共也就只能把些堂表兄弟往这块儿送，再有，也就是那一回，拿他自家媳妇来逗了我逗，就这么大块地方，圈着他的那方天地，哪哪再没别的路子。可是，他娘的，他是不是把这块地方，弄得跟 Sindh 全省最气派的巴扎一样？

我实实感激他——不掺假的。我这认识的人里头，再没第二个能操办得了这桩事。它得豁出去的胆子，得勾得住人的那套手段，还得是 Hayat 才有的那种，乡土街面上磨出来的刁钻。他并不恋我，我也不拿这个来要他。可那一夜，他给的，是我再也忘不了的。

可我悬的那一百卢比赏钱，到底归了谁？还用猜吗——年纪轻轻的 Akhtar Khaskheli，他们里头最小的那个，没别的原因，就单冲他那股子扑上来的馋巴巴的饿劲：那瘦得苇秆似的小子，衣裳是眼花一霎就褪了，人扎进来，跟季风天的山洪冲了道似的那么猛——发了疯往里夯，又急又深，他那根细长条的鸡巴，锤着我那处前列腺，直锤到我眼前炸开了星星，他那嘴也没歇，倒着气说，“Sahib——还来？”倒像他是饿着不松口地要。那群杂毛狼伙嗷嗷地嚎着，看他把那赏头拿到手，他把那票子往兜里一揣，脸上那笑分明就是说，这每一分都是他货真价实操回来的——没准，暗里，心里已经开始痒痒，馋着下一场了。