23-11-2024, 09:59 AM
(This post was last modified: 23-11-2024, 10:24 AM by Naruto411. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Salma descended the stairs with her characteristic poise, the faint hum of conversation among her men quieting as she entered the room. They knew better than to interrupt her when she was focused—especially now, when she carried with her the kind of "entertainment" that had become an unspoken perk of their loyalty.
She walked to the large television mounted on the wall, pulled out her phone, and connected it seamlessly. The screen flickered for a moment before settling on a paused video. The thumbnail alone was enough to make the men shift in their seats, anticipation simmering in the air.
Before hitting play, Salma turned to address them, her voice calm but commanding. “Next week, we’re running the shipment through the coastal routes. You know the drill—minimal contact, no loose ends. If anyone gets stupid, I’ll make sure they regret it. Clear?”
The men nodded, their attention only half on her words as their eyes flicked back to the screen. Salma smirked, sensing their impatience. She stepped aside and pressed the play button, the video springing to life.
The grainy footage showed Rukhsar sitting on the minister’s lap, dressed in the college uniform he had forced upon her. Her braids were slightly loose, her face pale and tear-streaked, as the old man’s hands roamed over her trembling body. The audio picked up faint whispers of his disgusting mutterings—things too vile to be repeated—and the sound of Rukhsar’s muffled sobs.
One of the constables chuckled darkly, nudging his neighbor. “The old man’s got some fucked-up tastes,” he said, his voice low. “Dressing her like that? Who does he think she is, his collegegirl fantasy?”
Another chimed in, grinning. “Probably. You know how these big shots are. Twisted fuckers.”
Salma leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs as she sipped from a glass of water, her own amusement thinly veiled. “That uniform was his granddaughter’s,” she said casually, her tone laced with mockery. “He’s obsessed with her. Calls Rukhsar by her name when he’s drunk enough.”
The room erupted in murmurs of disgusted amusement, the men sharing knowing looks as the video continued to play. Salma watched them closely, gauging their reactions. They were loyal dogs, but even dogs needed a bone every now and then to keep them in line.
One of the younger goons hesitated before raising a hand, his voice uncertain. “Madam… can we, uh, you know… while watching?”
Salma raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “Go ahead. Just don’t make a mess on my carpet.”
It wasn’t the first time they had indulged themselves in her presence. She remembered the first instance vividly—years ago, when she had entrapped a famous actress in a fabricated drug case. That night had been pivotal, a test of her control over the men who served her. The actress had been their entertainment, her tears and humiliation recorded for leverage, and the men had been allowed to lose themselves in the spectacle under Salma’s watchful eye.
Now, she barely noticed as they undid belts and shifted in their chairs. Her focus remained on the video, her eyes flicking between the screen and her men, ensuring they didn’t let their excitement spiral into chaos.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said with a sardonic grin. “The real work starts next week, and I don’t want any of you distracted.”
Her words barely registered as the men’s attention remained fixed on the video, their laughter mingling with the low moans and cries that filled the room.
The room buzzed with low, coarse voices as the men watched the video, their attention flicking between the screen and their own vulgar comments.
“Look at how she fits into that uniform,” one of them muttered, his voice tinged with awe. “Like it was made for her. You’d think she actually was a student.”
Another man laughed, his tone rough. “She’s got that scared look down perfectly, too. That’s what they like—the innocence, the fear. Makes them feel like gods.”
Salma smirked at their words, leaning back against the couch with her usual air of detached superiority. “Of course she fits perfectly,” she said, her voice smooth, cutting through the men’s murmurs. “That’s why I chose her. She was made for this role. A blank canvas, ready to be painted however I see fit.”
The men nodded in agreement, their focus firmly on the video as they exchanged further crude remarks. Salma, meanwhile, let her gaze drift lazily across the room, her expression unreadable.
Without hesitation, she reached up and popped open the top button of her blouse, then the next, her fingers moving with deliberate care. The fabric parted to reveal the smooth expanse of her chest, the edges of her bra just visible beneath the open shirt. She slid one hand inside the bra, her fingers brushing against her tender, bruised nipple as she winced slightly at the lingering soreness.
She didn’t stop there. Her other hand moved to the waistband of her pants, pushing them down her hips in one smooth motion. With a casualness that belied the intimacy of her actions, she slipped her hand into her panties, her fingers finding the heat between her thighs.
The men, though seated just feet away, didn’t dare turn their heads. They could sense the shift in the air, the silent warning radiating from Salma even as she seemed wholly unconcerned by their presence. Her movements were unapologetic, completely devoid of shame. **She was Salma, the queen of this dark empire, untouchable and utterly dominant.**
She knew they wouldn’t risk a glance. **To look at her would be a death sentence.** Her presence alone demanded respect and fear in equal measure, and the thought of crossing her was enough to keep their eyes fixed on the screen.
Salma let out a low, almost imperceptible sigh as her fingers worked beneath the fabric, her other hand still gently massaging the soreness in her chest. Her expression remained cool, indifferent, as if her actions were as routine as flipping through paperwork.
“You know why you’re still alive, don’t you?” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the men. They froze, unsure if her words were directed at them.
“It’s because you understand,” she continued, sliding her fingers free from her bra to adjust her blouse again. Her hand lingered there for a moment, straightening the fabric with a calculated deliberation. “You understand that I’m not some plaything for you to ogle. The day you forget that…”
She let the threat hang in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. One of the men shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but none of them dared respond.
Salma chuckled softly, her hand still resting lazily in her panties as she leaned back further. “Good boys,” she murmured, her tone almost amused. “Keep your focus where it belongs.”
The men nodded silently, their attention snapping back to the video, but the tension in the room was palpable.
Salma’s sharp eyes roved over the room, taking in the sight of her men, hunched forward in their chairs, their pants undone as their hands worked feverishly over their erect cocks. The obscene, wet sounds of their stroking filled the air, mixing with the muffled cries and gasps from the video playing on the TV.
She leaned back on the plush sofa, her legs spread just enough to let her fingers move freely in her soaked panties. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her other hand idly grazing her still-sensitive nipples under her half-open blouse. The faint ache from the minister’s earlier assault was now a delicious counterpoint to the heat pooling between her thighs.
Her lips curled into a sly, wicked grin as her gaze lingered on the men in front of her. She could see the tension in their shoulders, the way their hips jerked slightly as they tried to stay focused on the screen, but she knew the truth. They were thinking about her. About the untouchable queen who sat behind them, her fingers buried in her own slick heat while they pleasured themselves like dogs.
Salma bit her lip, her mind wandering as she studied their cocks. One of the constables had the smallest dick in the room—a pitiful, twitching little thing that barely filled his hand. She imagined stepping in front of him, her expression cold and disdainful as she tapped the pathetic appendage with her security officer stick. The thought of him groveling, begging for mercy as she toyed with his manhood, sent a thrill through her.
Her gaze shifted to another man—the one with the longest cock, thick and veined, bobbing proudly as he stroked it with deliberate, almost arrogant motions. She imagined sliding her foot out of her sleek sandal, pressing her bare sole against his shaft, feeling its heat and the pulse of his need beneath her arch. She’d make him beg too, but differently—make him worship her feet like the mutt he was.
A low, throaty moan escaped her lips as her fingers quickened their pace, her hips grinding slightly against her own touch. The video on the screen—a recording of the minister’s depravity with Rukhsar—blurred in her vision as her own fantasies took over.
In the video, the minister was still grunting as he forced Rukhsar to straddle him, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force. Her tear-streaked face was frozen in a mask of despair, her college uniform riding up to reveal her trembling thighs. The sound of his labored breathing filled the room, mingling with Rukhsar’s muffled cries and the men’s ragged breathing as they stroked themselves faster.
Salma’s grin widened, her dominance feeding her arousal. She was in control here, the center of their desires, the queen they could never touch. Even as they pleasured themselves, they remained her dogs, their lives completely in her hands.
“Pathetic,” she murmured, her voice low and dripping with amusement as her fingers plunged deeper. “All of you, jerking off like animals while I sit here watching. You think I don’t know what’s going through your filthy little minds?”
The men didn’t dare respond, their focus remaining on the video, but she saw the way their movements faltered briefly, their cocks twitching as if her voice alone could make them lose control. The thought of it—her power over them, her ability to command their bodies without lifting a finger—pushed her closer to the edge.
Salma’s breathing quickened, her eyes fluttering shut as she gave herself over to the sensations, her body writhing slightly against the soft cushions of the sofa. “Don’t stop now,” she said, her tone both a command and a taunt. “Let me hear you finish.”
The video continued to play on the large screen, the minister’s greedy hands stripping away the remnants of Rukhsar’s college uniform piece by piece. The men in the room leaned forward, their eyes glinting with lust as more of her nubile, trembling body was revealed. Her smooth skin glowed under the dim lighting in the video, her tears streaking her face as she tried to cover herself in vain.
The minister’s heavy, labored breathing filled the room as he pawed at her small, youthful frame, his words slurred with depravity. “You’re perfect,” he growled, his fingers digging into her bare hips. “Just like my little princess.”
One of Salma’s men couldn’t hold back his excitement, his hand pausing mid-stroke as he turned to another and whispered, “When do we get a taste of her? She’s wasted on that fat old bastard.”
The question hung in the air like a taboo, the audacity of it drawing sidelong glances from the others. Salma didn’t react immediately, her attention seemingly on the screen as her fingers continued their lazy work beneath her panties. The man who had spoken, emboldened by her apparent disinterest, dared to steal a glance over his shoulder at her.
He froze as their eyes met. Salma had noticed.
“Come here,” she said sharply, her tone cold and commanding. The room fell silent, the tension thick as the man hesitated before standing, his semi-hard cock still jutting from his unzipped pants. He shuffled forward, his head bowed as if in apology, but his gaze flickered nervously toward her half-unbuttoned blouse, her hand still glistening from her earlier indulgence.
Salma didn’t miss his stolen glance, but she allowed it, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the floor at her feet.
The man dropped to his knees, his breathing uneven as he waited for her next move. Salma leaned forward slightly, pulling her sticky hand free from her panties and holding it up. Her fingers glistened with her arousal, the scent faint but unmistakable.
“You want to taste something so badly?” she asked, her voice dripping with mockery as she reached out and grabbed his face. Before he could respond, she rubbed her sticky fingers across his cheeks, his lips, smearing her slickness over his skin like a handkerchief.
The man didn’t dare flinch, his face heating under her touch as the wetness clung to him. Salma’s smirk widened, her dominance radiating from her every move. “Let me make something clear,” she said, her voice low but deadly. “Rukhsar isn’t for you. She’s for the minister, and only the minister, until I say otherwise.”
She pushed his face away roughly, making him stumble slightly as he caught himself on his hands. “You’ll wait your turn like the good little dogs you are,” she continued, adjusting her blouse and crossing her legs with a casual air of authority. “Until I get what I want, she serves him. Any of you step out of line, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”
The man nodded quickly, his face still sticky as he scrambled back to his seat. The others avoided her gaze entirely, their focus snapping back to the screen as the video continued to play.
Salma leaned back, her smirk fading into a look of calculated satisfaction. Her control was absolute, her authority unquestioned. Rukhsar might be the bait for now, but the real power was always Salma’s to wield.
Salma shifted her attention lazily to the man sitting closest to her, her sharp eyes locking onto him like a predator zeroing in on prey. She stretched slightly, her body relaxed yet radiating an aura of command that made everyone else in the room tense despite the ongoing depravity on the screen.
“What’s your daughter doing these days?” she asked casually, her tone almost conversational. In another setting, it might have been a benign question. Here, it felt loaded with implication, her words curling like smoke around the room, choking the air.
The man stiffened, his hand pausing in its obscene rhythm. He glanced nervously at the others before lowering his head. “She’s studying, Madam,” he replied, his voice subdued, betraying the growing anxiety twisting in his gut. “Mechanical engineering. At the government college in the city.”
Salma raised an eyebrow, tilting her head as though she were genuinely curious. “Government college, hmm? Good. Practical choice. But tell me,” she said, her lips curling into a sly grin, “do they wear uniforms there? Or is it casual dress?”
The room fell silent. The low hum of the video playing in the background was the only sound as the tension mounted. Everyone could feel the sinister undertone in her question. Some shifted uncomfortably, their minds racing with the implications. Others, perversely, felt a jolt of arousal as her words hung in the air, their bodies betraying them with a sick thrill.
One man let out an involuntary gasp, a shudder rolling through him as he came, unable to hold back the shameful reaction to the situation. Salma didn’t look his way, but her smirk widened slightly, as if she had felt the ripple of his humiliation.
The man she was questioning swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists. He kept his head down, unable to meet her piercing gaze as he answered, “They… they wear uniforms, Madam.”
Salma leaned back, her grin stretching wider as she considered his answer. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of the sofa, her mind clearly at work. “Uniforms,” she repeated, as if savoring the word. “Interesting. Maybe I should see this college for myself someday. Engineering students can be so… resourceful.”
Her tone was light, almost playful, but the menace beneath it was unmistakable. The man’s face burned with shame and fear, his mind spinning with a mix of protective instinct and powerlessness.
The others exchanged uneasy glances, their arousal and tension blending into a charged atmosphere. Salma, as always, thrived on their discomfort, the lines between fear and lust blurring under her unwavering control.
She walked to the large television mounted on the wall, pulled out her phone, and connected it seamlessly. The screen flickered for a moment before settling on a paused video. The thumbnail alone was enough to make the men shift in their seats, anticipation simmering in the air.
Before hitting play, Salma turned to address them, her voice calm but commanding. “Next week, we’re running the shipment through the coastal routes. You know the drill—minimal contact, no loose ends. If anyone gets stupid, I’ll make sure they regret it. Clear?”
The men nodded, their attention only half on her words as their eyes flicked back to the screen. Salma smirked, sensing their impatience. She stepped aside and pressed the play button, the video springing to life.
The grainy footage showed Rukhsar sitting on the minister’s lap, dressed in the college uniform he had forced upon her. Her braids were slightly loose, her face pale and tear-streaked, as the old man’s hands roamed over her trembling body. The audio picked up faint whispers of his disgusting mutterings—things too vile to be repeated—and the sound of Rukhsar’s muffled sobs.
One of the constables chuckled darkly, nudging his neighbor. “The old man’s got some fucked-up tastes,” he said, his voice low. “Dressing her like that? Who does he think she is, his collegegirl fantasy?”
Another chimed in, grinning. “Probably. You know how these big shots are. Twisted fuckers.”
Salma leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs as she sipped from a glass of water, her own amusement thinly veiled. “That uniform was his granddaughter’s,” she said casually, her tone laced with mockery. “He’s obsessed with her. Calls Rukhsar by her name when he’s drunk enough.”
The room erupted in murmurs of disgusted amusement, the men sharing knowing looks as the video continued to play. Salma watched them closely, gauging their reactions. They were loyal dogs, but even dogs needed a bone every now and then to keep them in line.
One of the younger goons hesitated before raising a hand, his voice uncertain. “Madam… can we, uh, you know… while watching?”
Salma raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “Go ahead. Just don’t make a mess on my carpet.”
It wasn’t the first time they had indulged themselves in her presence. She remembered the first instance vividly—years ago, when she had entrapped a famous actress in a fabricated drug case. That night had been pivotal, a test of her control over the men who served her. The actress had been their entertainment, her tears and humiliation recorded for leverage, and the men had been allowed to lose themselves in the spectacle under Salma’s watchful eye.
Now, she barely noticed as they undid belts and shifted in their chairs. Her focus remained on the video, her eyes flicking between the screen and her men, ensuring they didn’t let their excitement spiral into chaos.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said with a sardonic grin. “The real work starts next week, and I don’t want any of you distracted.”
Her words barely registered as the men’s attention remained fixed on the video, their laughter mingling with the low moans and cries that filled the room.
The room buzzed with low, coarse voices as the men watched the video, their attention flicking between the screen and their own vulgar comments.
“Look at how she fits into that uniform,” one of them muttered, his voice tinged with awe. “Like it was made for her. You’d think she actually was a student.”
Another man laughed, his tone rough. “She’s got that scared look down perfectly, too. That’s what they like—the innocence, the fear. Makes them feel like gods.”
Salma smirked at their words, leaning back against the couch with her usual air of detached superiority. “Of course she fits perfectly,” she said, her voice smooth, cutting through the men’s murmurs. “That’s why I chose her. She was made for this role. A blank canvas, ready to be painted however I see fit.”
The men nodded in agreement, their focus firmly on the video as they exchanged further crude remarks. Salma, meanwhile, let her gaze drift lazily across the room, her expression unreadable.
Without hesitation, she reached up and popped open the top button of her blouse, then the next, her fingers moving with deliberate care. The fabric parted to reveal the smooth expanse of her chest, the edges of her bra just visible beneath the open shirt. She slid one hand inside the bra, her fingers brushing against her tender, bruised nipple as she winced slightly at the lingering soreness.
She didn’t stop there. Her other hand moved to the waistband of her pants, pushing them down her hips in one smooth motion. With a casualness that belied the intimacy of her actions, she slipped her hand into her panties, her fingers finding the heat between her thighs.
The men, though seated just feet away, didn’t dare turn their heads. They could sense the shift in the air, the silent warning radiating from Salma even as she seemed wholly unconcerned by their presence. Her movements were unapologetic, completely devoid of shame. **She was Salma, the queen of this dark empire, untouchable and utterly dominant.**
She knew they wouldn’t risk a glance. **To look at her would be a death sentence.** Her presence alone demanded respect and fear in equal measure, and the thought of crossing her was enough to keep their eyes fixed on the screen.
Salma let out a low, almost imperceptible sigh as her fingers worked beneath the fabric, her other hand still gently massaging the soreness in her chest. Her expression remained cool, indifferent, as if her actions were as routine as flipping through paperwork.
“You know why you’re still alive, don’t you?” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the men. They froze, unsure if her words were directed at them.
“It’s because you understand,” she continued, sliding her fingers free from her bra to adjust her blouse again. Her hand lingered there for a moment, straightening the fabric with a calculated deliberation. “You understand that I’m not some plaything for you to ogle. The day you forget that…”
She let the threat hang in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. One of the men shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but none of them dared respond.
Salma chuckled softly, her hand still resting lazily in her panties as she leaned back further. “Good boys,” she murmured, her tone almost amused. “Keep your focus where it belongs.”
The men nodded silently, their attention snapping back to the video, but the tension in the room was palpable.
Salma’s sharp eyes roved over the room, taking in the sight of her men, hunched forward in their chairs, their pants undone as their hands worked feverishly over their erect cocks. The obscene, wet sounds of their stroking filled the air, mixing with the muffled cries and gasps from the video playing on the TV.
She leaned back on the plush sofa, her legs spread just enough to let her fingers move freely in her soaked panties. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her other hand idly grazing her still-sensitive nipples under her half-open blouse. The faint ache from the minister’s earlier assault was now a delicious counterpoint to the heat pooling between her thighs.
Her lips curled into a sly, wicked grin as her gaze lingered on the men in front of her. She could see the tension in their shoulders, the way their hips jerked slightly as they tried to stay focused on the screen, but she knew the truth. They were thinking about her. About the untouchable queen who sat behind them, her fingers buried in her own slick heat while they pleasured themselves like dogs.
Salma bit her lip, her mind wandering as she studied their cocks. One of the constables had the smallest dick in the room—a pitiful, twitching little thing that barely filled his hand. She imagined stepping in front of him, her expression cold and disdainful as she tapped the pathetic appendage with her security officer stick. The thought of him groveling, begging for mercy as she toyed with his manhood, sent a thrill through her.
Her gaze shifted to another man—the one with the longest cock, thick and veined, bobbing proudly as he stroked it with deliberate, almost arrogant motions. She imagined sliding her foot out of her sleek sandal, pressing her bare sole against his shaft, feeling its heat and the pulse of his need beneath her arch. She’d make him beg too, but differently—make him worship her feet like the mutt he was.
A low, throaty moan escaped her lips as her fingers quickened their pace, her hips grinding slightly against her own touch. The video on the screen—a recording of the minister’s depravity with Rukhsar—blurred in her vision as her own fantasies took over.
In the video, the minister was still grunting as he forced Rukhsar to straddle him, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force. Her tear-streaked face was frozen in a mask of despair, her college uniform riding up to reveal her trembling thighs. The sound of his labored breathing filled the room, mingling with Rukhsar’s muffled cries and the men’s ragged breathing as they stroked themselves faster.
Salma’s grin widened, her dominance feeding her arousal. She was in control here, the center of their desires, the queen they could never touch. Even as they pleasured themselves, they remained her dogs, their lives completely in her hands.
“Pathetic,” she murmured, her voice low and dripping with amusement as her fingers plunged deeper. “All of you, jerking off like animals while I sit here watching. You think I don’t know what’s going through your filthy little minds?”
The men didn’t dare respond, their focus remaining on the video, but she saw the way their movements faltered briefly, their cocks twitching as if her voice alone could make them lose control. The thought of it—her power over them, her ability to command their bodies without lifting a finger—pushed her closer to the edge.
Salma’s breathing quickened, her eyes fluttering shut as she gave herself over to the sensations, her body writhing slightly against the soft cushions of the sofa. “Don’t stop now,” she said, her tone both a command and a taunt. “Let me hear you finish.”
The video continued to play on the large screen, the minister’s greedy hands stripping away the remnants of Rukhsar’s college uniform piece by piece. The men in the room leaned forward, their eyes glinting with lust as more of her nubile, trembling body was revealed. Her smooth skin glowed under the dim lighting in the video, her tears streaking her face as she tried to cover herself in vain.
The minister’s heavy, labored breathing filled the room as he pawed at her small, youthful frame, his words slurred with depravity. “You’re perfect,” he growled, his fingers digging into her bare hips. “Just like my little princess.”
One of Salma’s men couldn’t hold back his excitement, his hand pausing mid-stroke as he turned to another and whispered, “When do we get a taste of her? She’s wasted on that fat old bastard.”
The question hung in the air like a taboo, the audacity of it drawing sidelong glances from the others. Salma didn’t react immediately, her attention seemingly on the screen as her fingers continued their lazy work beneath her panties. The man who had spoken, emboldened by her apparent disinterest, dared to steal a glance over his shoulder at her.
He froze as their eyes met. Salma had noticed.
“Come here,” she said sharply, her tone cold and commanding. The room fell silent, the tension thick as the man hesitated before standing, his semi-hard cock still jutting from his unzipped pants. He shuffled forward, his head bowed as if in apology, but his gaze flickered nervously toward her half-unbuttoned blouse, her hand still glistening from her earlier indulgence.
Salma didn’t miss his stolen glance, but she allowed it, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the floor at her feet.
The man dropped to his knees, his breathing uneven as he waited for her next move. Salma leaned forward slightly, pulling her sticky hand free from her panties and holding it up. Her fingers glistened with her arousal, the scent faint but unmistakable.
“You want to taste something so badly?” she asked, her voice dripping with mockery as she reached out and grabbed his face. Before he could respond, she rubbed her sticky fingers across his cheeks, his lips, smearing her slickness over his skin like a handkerchief.
The man didn’t dare flinch, his face heating under her touch as the wetness clung to him. Salma’s smirk widened, her dominance radiating from her every move. “Let me make something clear,” she said, her voice low but deadly. “Rukhsar isn’t for you. She’s for the minister, and only the minister, until I say otherwise.”
She pushed his face away roughly, making him stumble slightly as he caught himself on his hands. “You’ll wait your turn like the good little dogs you are,” she continued, adjusting her blouse and crossing her legs with a casual air of authority. “Until I get what I want, she serves him. Any of you step out of line, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”
The man nodded quickly, his face still sticky as he scrambled back to his seat. The others avoided her gaze entirely, their focus snapping back to the screen as the video continued to play.
Salma leaned back, her smirk fading into a look of calculated satisfaction. Her control was absolute, her authority unquestioned. Rukhsar might be the bait for now, but the real power was always Salma’s to wield.
Salma shifted her attention lazily to the man sitting closest to her, her sharp eyes locking onto him like a predator zeroing in on prey. She stretched slightly, her body relaxed yet radiating an aura of command that made everyone else in the room tense despite the ongoing depravity on the screen.
“What’s your daughter doing these days?” she asked casually, her tone almost conversational. In another setting, it might have been a benign question. Here, it felt loaded with implication, her words curling like smoke around the room, choking the air.
The man stiffened, his hand pausing in its obscene rhythm. He glanced nervously at the others before lowering his head. “She’s studying, Madam,” he replied, his voice subdued, betraying the growing anxiety twisting in his gut. “Mechanical engineering. At the government college in the city.”
Salma raised an eyebrow, tilting her head as though she were genuinely curious. “Government college, hmm? Good. Practical choice. But tell me,” she said, her lips curling into a sly grin, “do they wear uniforms there? Or is it casual dress?”
The room fell silent. The low hum of the video playing in the background was the only sound as the tension mounted. Everyone could feel the sinister undertone in her question. Some shifted uncomfortably, their minds racing with the implications. Others, perversely, felt a jolt of arousal as her words hung in the air, their bodies betraying them with a sick thrill.
One man let out an involuntary gasp, a shudder rolling through him as he came, unable to hold back the shameful reaction to the situation. Salma didn’t look his way, but her smirk widened slightly, as if she had felt the ripple of his humiliation.
The man she was questioning swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists. He kept his head down, unable to meet her piercing gaze as he answered, “They… they wear uniforms, Madam.”
Salma leaned back, her grin stretching wider as she considered his answer. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of the sofa, her mind clearly at work. “Uniforms,” she repeated, as if savoring the word. “Interesting. Maybe I should see this college for myself someday. Engineering students can be so… resourceful.”
Her tone was light, almost playful, but the menace beneath it was unmistakable. The man’s face burned with shame and fear, his mind spinning with a mix of protective instinct and powerlessness.
The others exchanged uneasy glances, their arousal and tension blending into a charged atmosphere. Salma, as always, thrived on their discomfort, the lines between fear and lust blurring under her unwavering control.
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