19-11-2024, 09:52 PM
Salma Iqbal
the name itself carried weight in bureaucratic and political circles, a woman known for her beauty as much as her ruthlessness. Her rise in the civil service was meteoric, fueled by an uncanny ability to navigate the murky waters of power with a charm that hid her cunning intentions.
Salma, a striking figure in her late thirties, had an aura of dominance that could silence a room with a single glance. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes seemed to pierce into the soul of anyone who dared to meet them, while her sharp jawline and sculpted features gave her an almost regal appearance. Her veils were perfectly styled to match her form-fitting kurtis, a subtle blend of modernity and tradition that left everyone wondering how a devout image could coexist with her notoriously unscrupulous ways.
She was married to Faheem Iqbal, a struggling businessman whose net worth barely scratched the surface of Salma's lavish lifestyle. Faheem had once been a proud man, ambitious and hard-working, but years of nagging and constant belittlement by his wife had dulled his spirit. Salma made no secret of her disdain for his "mediocre achievements," often reminding him how much her influence outstripped his.
Behind her polished IAS officer persona, Salma ran an empire of shadows. Her reputation as a facilitator for the elite was whispered about in the corridors of power. **Her specialty? Providing "favors" in the form of desperate women** — young professionals, struggling students, and even housewives in need of her assistance. Salma had perfected the art of manipulation, preying on vulnerability to feed her web of corruption.
She wasn’t above leveraging her influence to break those who defied her or using her network to silence inconvenient truths. **Salma’s pride stopped her from engaging physically with the powerful men she worked with, but she didn’t shy away from becoming their pimp.** Ministers, corporate magnates, and other power players relied on her to fulfill their carnal desires, knowing she could deliver without fail.
The women she “helped” had no choice but to obey her; whether it was due to debt, coercion, or the illusion of opportunity, Salma ensured they were trapped. In exchange, she reaped immense political capital and personal favors that solidified her place in the system.
The Politician's Gathering
One evening, Salma hosted a discreet gathering at a luxury farmhouse outside the city, a place known only to her trusted circle. The room was filled with powerful men—ministers, industrialists, and bureaucrats—each one captivated by Salma’s charm as she played the perfect host.
“Minister Sahab,” she said with a smile that hinted at danger, “I’ve arranged someone very special for you tonight. A young chick just perfect for your kink.”
The minister, a portly man with a sly grin, nodded appreciatively. “Salma, you truly are a gem. How do you manage to find such treasures?”
She tilted her head and chuckled lightly. “Let’s just say I have a talent for understanding people’s… needs.”
The farmhouse was bathed in a golden glow from the crystal chandeliers, the soft hum of conversation mingling with the clink of crystal glasses and the faint strains of classical music in the background. Salma, the orchestrator of it all, moved with grace, her sharp eyes monitoring every interaction while her polished charm ensured the air remained light and convivial.
The petite girl had been brought in earlier that evening, her movements hesitant, her wide, doe-like eyes scanning the opulent surroundings with equal parts awe and fear. Her name, Salma had quickly learned, was **Rukhsar**, though she had little attachment to it. The name had followed her out of the orphanage, where the papers said she’d turned 18 just the week before. In truth, no one cared to verify details. Her frail figure, shy demeanor, and trembling hands were proof enough that she was exactly what Salma had promised: fresh and untouched.
Salma’s men—loyal constables she’d groomed with favors and secrets—had made the delivery seamless. They plucked Rukhsar from the farewell party that the orphanage matron had organized, ushering her out with promises of a job opportunity that would change her life. She barely had time to process what was happening before she was in the back of a sleek black car, Salma's assurances of a bright future filling the silence between her timid questions.
Now, standing awkwardly in the corner of the lavish bedroom upstairs, Rukhsar fidgeted with the hem of her simple dress, a stark contrast to the luxury around her. The dim lighting softened the edges of her thin frame, her youth unmistakable. She was clutching a glass of juice she hadn't touched, her gaze darting to the heavy wooden door every so often, as if weighing the chance to escape.
Downstairs, Salma exchanged subtle nods with one of the constables who had brought her in. “Upstairs,” she murmured to the minister, her tone dripping with calculated sweetness. “She’s nervous, but… I’m sure you’ll help her feel comfortable.”
The minister’s grin widened, his thick fingers adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “Nervous ones are the best,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Their tears taste sweeter.”
Salma’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes darkened momentarily. “Be gentle, Minister Sahab,” she said, her voice smooth but laced with mock concern. “She’s had a long night.”
The portly man nodded, taking his cue to ascend the grand staircase. Salma watched his retreating figure, her nails clicking softly against the side of her wine glass. There was no hesitation in her posture, no flicker of second thoughts. **She had orchestrated nights like these countless times before**, each one a stepping stone in her climb toward untouchable power.
In the bedroom, Rukhsar flinched as the door creaked open. The minister stepped inside, his shadow looming large against the far wall. He closed the door behind him with a deliberate click, the sound reverberating like a lock sealing her fate.
“Don’t be scared, beti,” he said, his smile revealing teeth stained yellow from years of neglect. His tone was patronizing, falsely warm. “I’m here to take care of you.”
Rukhsar backed away instinctively, her slender shoulders trembling. “I… I don’t understand,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
The minister chuckled, his laughter deep and guttural. “You will soon, my dear. You will soon.”
The room seemed to shrink around Rukhsar as the minister advanced, his hulking frame filling the space with a suffocating presence. The faint clink of his polished shoes against the marble floor sent shivers racing down her spine, her breaths shallow and rapid. She gripped the glass in her hands tighter, as if it were a talisman that might shield her from the predator circling her.
“You’re even more delicate than I imagined,” the minister purred, his voice a sickly mix of honeyed affection and lecherous intent. His eyes raked over her, devouring the sight of her trembling form. “So young, so fresh. Like a little flower, just starting to bloom.”
Rukhsar tried to step back, but her legs hit the edge of the bed. She froze, trapped between the soft, inviting mattress behind her and the approaching threat in front. “Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t… I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
The minister laughed, a low, guttural sound that made her flinch. “Oh, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, beti. Salma made sure of that.” His hand reached out, thick fingers brushing against her cheek, and she recoiled, the juice glass slipping from her hands and shattering on the floor.
Her reaction only seemed to amuse him. “So feisty. But don’t worry, we’ll break that spirit soon enough.” He grabbed her wrist with a grip like iron, dragging her closer despite her futile attempts to pull away.
“Please, no!” she cried, her voice rising to a desperate pitch. Her free hand clawed at his, but it was no use. He was too strong, his thick frame dwarfing her frail body.
The minister’s grin widened, his other hand cupping her chin, forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his. “You’ll learn to obey, little one,” he murmured, his breath heavy with the stench of alcohol and something far darker. “It’s better for you if you don’t fight.”
But fight she did, twisting and squirming in his grasp, her fear morphing into raw panic. She screamed, loud and piercing, the sound cutting through the silence of the isolated farmhouse. Yet no one came to her aid. Downstairs, Salma sipped her wine, the faint echo of Rukhsar’s cries barely registering as she charmed another industrialist with her poised conversation.
Upstairs, the predator tightened his grip, his patience wearing thin. “Enough!” he bellowed, slamming her down onto the bed. The impact knocked the wind out of her, leaving her gasping and dazed. He loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole as he began to undo the buttons of his shirt, his intentions as clear as the moonlight streaming through the window.
Rukhsar’s mind raced, a whirlwind of terror and helplessness. She was prey, caught in the jaws of a predator, her cries drowned out by the silence of a world that had abandoned her.
The minister leaned in close, his weight pressing down on Rukhsar, his hand pinning her wrists to the mattress. His grin was a grotesque mask of power and greed, the smell of his sweat and cheap cologne overpowering.
“You’re lucky, you know that?” he hissed, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, as if he were letting her in on some great secret. “Girls like you? Orphans with nothing? No future, no family, no one to care if they live or die? I’m giving you a chance, beti. A chance to live the kind of life most women can only dream of.”
Rukhsar turned her head away, trying to block out his words, but he grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t be stupid,” he growled, his tone losing its veneer of kindness. “Do you know who I am? What I can do for you? I can make you rich, beautiful, powerful. I can take you out of this miserable existence and turn you into someone people worship. A queen in silks and jewels.”
His eyes darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. “But only if you learn your place. If you stop fighting and let me… mold you into what you’re meant to be. A woman who knows her role. A good, obedient whore who serves the powerful.”
The word hit her like a slap, her body stiffening beneath him. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head, her voice barely audible. “I can’t…”
The minister’s laugh was cruel, his grip tightening on her wrists. “Oh, but you can. You’ll see. It’s not so bad once you get used to it. You’ll find it’s even… pleasurable, if you learn to accept it. And trust me, little one, you will accept it. Everyone does.”
His free hand trailed down her body, his touch heavy and unwelcome. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock affection. “Give you everything you need. All you have to do is be a good girl for me. For the men who matter. That’s the life you were born for, whether you like it or not.”
Rukhsar’s heart pounded in her chest, her tears streaming silently as she realized just how deeply trapped she was.
Rukhsar’s petite frame was delicate, almost childlike, her limbs slender and fragile as if a strong wind could knock her over. Her skin was a warm, sun-kissed brown, smooth and unblemished except for the faintest trace of scars on her knees, remnants of a childhood spent playing on orphanage grounds. She was trembling now, every inch of her body betraying her fear, her wide, almond-shaped eyes brimming with tears that clung stubbornly to her long, dark lashes.
Her black hair tumbled around her face in soft, disheveled waves, framing her features in a way that made her look even younger than her supposed age. Her lips were full but quivered with each shaky breath, their natural pink hue standing out against the pallor of her frightened expression.
When the minister tore her simple dress with a vicious yank, the thin fabric gave way easily, revealing more of her body than she’d ever shown to anyone. The cheap material fell in tatters around her, exposing her bare shoulders, her modest chest barely hidden behind a worn, ill-fitting bra that had clearly been donated to the orphanage. Her collarbones jutted out slightly, emphasizing the frailty of her frame.
She let out a small, strangled gasp and instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his greedy gaze. Her hands trembled as they pressed against her skin, her fingers curling protectively over her small, barely developed curves. Her body was slim, almost too much so, with narrow hips and long, delicate legs that she now pulled close to her chest in a desperate attempt to cover herself.
The minister’s laugh was lecherous as he leered at her. “Such a shy little thing,” he sneered, his eyes roving over her trembling form with predatory delight. “But you can’t hide from me, beti. You were made for this.”
The minister’s eyes roved over Rukhsar’s trembling form, the thin fabric of her underwear clinging to her petite body. Her frailty, her youth, her helplessness—all of it fed his twisted appetite as he loomed over her like a predator savoring its prey. She curled in on herself, her arms wrapped around her knees in a futile attempt to hide from his piercing gaze.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and insidious, his fingers grazing her bare shoulder. She flinched at the contact, but his hand didn’t retreat. “So small, so soft. Are you sure you’re eighteen? You don’t look it. You look barely old enough to understand what a man can do to a girl like you.”
Rukhsar whimpered, shrinking back against the headboard, but there was nowhere to go. The minister’s hand slid down her arm, the roughness of his touch stark against her smooth, youthful skin. “Don’t be shy,” he cooed mockingly, his lips curling into a predatory grin. “I’m just admiring you. Salma really knows how to pick them, doesn’t she? Pure. Untouched. A treasure.”
Tears welled in Rukhsar’s wide eyes, her throat constricting with the effort to keep from sobbing. “Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”
He chuckled darkly, his fingers now tracing the delicate line of her collarbone. “Oh, no, beti. Not when you look like this. Not when you’re so perfect.” His hand moved lower, brushing against the strap of her bra, his breath quickening as he leaned in closer. “So young. So innocent. It’s like you were made for this.”
She turned her face away, tears spilling down her cheeks as his words and touch burned into her. He tilted his head, his fingers gripping her chin and forcing her to face him. “Don’t cry,” he said, though there was no kindness in his tone. “You’re about to learn what it means to be a woman. You should be grateful.”
Rukhsar’s body trembled violently, her mind screaming for an escape that didn’t exist.
The minister settled into the plush armchair, the leather groaning under his weight as he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. The amber liquid glistened in the dim light, the clink of ice against the glass breaking the oppressive silence. He swirled it lazily, his eyes fixed on Rukhsar, who sat huddled on the bed, trembling, her thin arms wrapped around her knees.
To him, she was no more than a delicacy, a rare side dish presented to sate his darkest cravings. He took a long sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, then leaned forward, setting the glass on the table beside him. His gaze sharpened as he stood, the predatory glint in his eyes sending fresh waves of dread coursing through her.
He approached her with deliberate slowness, the weight of each step heavy with intent. Reaching her, he leaned down and traced a finger along the curve of her arm, his touch cold and lingering. “Such soft skin,” he murmured, his voice dripping with depraved appreciation. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of her fear as it lingered on her skin.
Rukhsar recoiled instinctively, her body trembling harder as she tried to shrink into herself. Her attempts to pull away only amused him, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat as he straightened.
“Bring it,” he barked, snapping his fingers. The command was sharp, cutting through the air like a whip.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and one of his aides entered, holding a neatly folded garment in his hands. The man avoided looking directly at the scene, his head bowed as he handed the item to the minister.
The minister unfolded it with care, the fabric spreading to reveal a high-profile college uniform. It was pristine, white and navy blue with pleats, the kind worn by the daughters of the elite. Its short skirt would barely reach mid-thigh on a young girl, let alone on someone even slightly older.
“This,” he said, holding it up for Rukhsar to see, “was my granddaughter’s. She wore it when she was about your size.” His eyes glinted with perverse satisfaction as he tossed the uniform onto the bed. “Put it on.”
Rukhsar stared at the garment, her heart pounding in her chest. “I—I can’t…” she stammered, shaking her head in refusal.
The minister’s expression darkened, his voice turning to steel. “You will. Now.”
Her hands trembled as she reached for the uniform, every fiber of her being screaming against the humiliation she was being forced into. But she knew she had no choice. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she slipped the dress over her head, its too-short hem brushing against her knees, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.
The minister took a step back, his eyes roving over her in silent appraisal. “Perfect,” he murmured, the word heavy with vile intent as he took another long sip of his whiskey.
The minister’s eyes lit up with twisted delight as he watched Rukhsar adjust the uniform, the sight of her petite frame swamped in the oversized blouse yet framed perfectly by the short skirt fueling his depravity. Her trembling hands tried to tug the hem lower, but it was no use. The fabric barely brushed her knees, leaving her legs exposed and her cheeks flushed with humiliation.
“Adorable,” he purred, setting his whiskey down on the side table. His gaze lingered on her tear-streaked face, her innocence amplified by the uniform, and he clapped his hands with mock enthusiasm. “Like a doll, my dear. But something is missing…”
Rukhsar froze as he approached, his large hands reaching out to her. She flinched but didn’t dare move as he grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her toward the vanity mirror that sat in the corner of the room.
“Sit,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. When she hesitated, he pressed down on her shoulders, forcing her into the chair. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and frightened, as the minister stood behind her, his hulking form dwarfing her slight frame.
He picked up a hairbrush from the vanity, running it through her long, silky locks with surprising gentleness. “You’re too shy, too simple,” he said, almost as if he were chiding her. “But don’t worry. I’ll make you perfect.” His voice lowered to a murmur, a sickening undercurrent of satisfaction threading through his words.
Rukhsar sat rigidly, her fists clenched in her lap as he parted her hair down the middle, dividing it into two sections. His movements were clumsy but deliberate, his thick fingers struggling to twist the strands into neat braids. He secured each one with small ribbons he found in the drawer, tying them with exaggerated care, as though dressing a child for her first day of college.
“There,” he said finally, stepping back to admire his work. The sight of Rukhsar with her hair in twin braids, her tear-streaked face framed by the dark strands, made his grin widen with satisfaction. “Now you look just right. So innocent, so young. Like you’ve stepped straight out of a storybook.”
Her reflection blurred as tears filled her eyes, her humiliation complete. She wanted to scream, to fight, but the weight of his presence and her own fear kept her rooted to the chair.
The minister’s hand rested on her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the delicate curve of her neck. “Perfect,” he whispered, his breath hot and close. “Now, little one… it’s time to show me just how obedient you can be.”
The minister took a deep breath, his hands firm yet deliberate as he gripped Rukhsar’s waist and guided her toward him. She resisted weakly, her small hands pressing against his chest, but he was far too strong. With a satisfied grunt, he settled her onto his lap, the weight of her petite frame barely registering against him.
“There we go,” he murmured, his tone thick with false affection. His hands adjusted her position, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. His fingers moved with purpose, lifting her skirt with a practiced ease, folding the fabric back so it bunched around her hips.
Rukhsar whimpered, her face burning with shame as she realized what he was doing. She tried to reach down and pull the skirt back, but his hands swatted hers away with a sharp smack. “None of that,” he chided, his voice laced with amusement. “You’ll sit just as I want you to.”
Her thin underwear was the only barrier left, the soft cotton pressed against her trembling thighs. The coarse texture of his lungi rubbed against her as he adjusted himself beneath her, his movements deliberate and slow.
Rukhsar felt it then—his hardness pressing against her through the fabric. A wave of panic shot through her as she squirmed, but his strong hands clamped down on her hips, holding her firmly in place.
“Stop moving,” he growled, the edge in his voice making her freeze. His fingers tightened their grip, digging into her skin. “You’re making this harder for yourself.”
Her breathing quickened, her chest heaving as she felt his arousal grow beneath her. Every shift, every subtle movement sent a fresh wave of awareness crashing through her. She tried to push away, but his arms wrapped around her, locking her against him.
“Relax,” he whispered, leaning in so close that his breath brushed her ear. “It’s natural, little one. A man reacts when he has something as beautiful as you in his lap.”
Rukhsar’s hands clenched into fists, her body trembling as his touch lingered, his hardness pressing insistently against her softness. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, but the walls seemed to close in around her, leaving her with no escape.
The minister's breath was warm and heavy against Rukhsar's ear as he spoke, his voice dripping with mock sweetness that only deepened her despair. His large hands gripped her waist firmly, holding her in place as she trembled in his lap.
"This dress," he said, his fingers brushing over the pleated skirt bunched around her hips, "it’s perfect for you. Makes you look just like a collegegirl. Innocent, naive… but we both know the truth, don’t we?”
Rukhsar’s tears fell silently, streaking her flushed cheeks as she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet his predatory eyes. Her small frame shook with every sob, but she made no sound, her fear locking her voice in her throat.
The minister chuckled, low and cruel, as if her silence only amused him. “Oh, don’t cry, beti,” he murmured, one hand reaching up to wipe away her tears with a thumb that lingered far too long against her soft skin. “You’re an adult. This is just a little game, hmm? A bit of roleplay. You can pretend to be the shy student, and I’ll be the… caring teacher.”
His grin widened as he watched her flinch, her body going stiff in his arms. “Don’t be shy. We’ll keep it our little secret. You’ll even enjoy it, if you let yourself.”
Rukhsar’s hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the overwhelming urge to scream, to flee, to do anything to escape his grasp. But she was trapped, his strength and dominance pressing down on her like a cage, leaving her with no choice but to endure.
Her silent tears continued to fall as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Now, tell me, little one… would you like to be my favorite student?”
After 5hrs
The minister emerged from the room, his frame heavy with exhaustion, his shirt damp with sweat clinging to his broad chest. His breath came in labored gasps, but his face bore a look of deep satisfaction, a predatory smugness that sent a chill down Salma’s spine as she approached him.
Her smile was professional but taut, her usual composure faltering for the briefest of moments as she caught the glint in his eyes. "Minister Sahab," she said smoothly, masking her unease with her trademark charm. "I trust everything was to your liking?"
The minister chuckled darkly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "To my liking?" he repeated, his voice low and guttural. "Salma, that little one is... exquisite. You’ve outdone yourself this time. So innocent, so breakable." He licked his lips as if savoring the memory. "It was worth every second. She cried so beautifully."
Even Salma, a woman who had orchestrated countless such nights, felt her stomach churn at his words. But she didn’t let it show. Instead, she offered a small nod, her sharp mind already calculating the next steps.
"Of course," she replied, her voice steady. "Only the best for my esteemed clients." Her eyes flicked briefly toward the door, where she knew Rukhsar lay inside, broken and vulnerable. She didn’t need to see the scene to know what awaited her.
But as the minister continued down the hall, humming to himself with satisfaction, Salma pushed past her momentary discomfort and stepped into the room.
The air was thick, oppressive with the remnants of sweat, whiskey, and despair. Rukhsar lay curled on the bed, her body trembling, her petite frame barely covered by the tattered remains of the uniform. Her braids were loose, her hair disheveled, and her face streaked with tears. Bruises bloomed on her pale skin, stark against her fragile form. Her wide, empty eyes stared at nothing, as if she had retreated somewhere far away, beyond the reach of pain.
Salma stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the wreckage of the girl. A faint shiver ran down her spine, but she quickly suppressed it, the cold pragmatism that had carried her this far kicking in. **There was value here, in Rukhsar’s vulnerability, her delicate beauty, her broken innocence.**
With a sharp snap of her fingers, she summoned her men, who stood waiting just outside. "Take care of her," Salma ordered, her tone brisk and commanding. "Get her cleaned up, tended to. Make sure she’s ready for her next appearance."
One of the men hesitated, glancing past her at the trembling girl on the bed. "Are you sure, madam?" he asked, his voice low.
Salma’s expression hardened, her gaze slicing through him like a blade. "I don’t pay you to question me," she snapped. "Do as I say. Rukhsar will make us a fortune. The men will clamor for someone like her."
The men nodded, stepping into the room with careful precision, lifting Rukhsar’s limp body from the bed as gently as they could. Salma watched impassively, her mind already turning to how best to market this newfound "treasure." She knew the appeal Rukhsar would hold—the allure of innocence tainted, of a delicate flower in the grip of power.
As the men carried her out, Salma turned on her heel, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she left the room. Behind her, the door swung shut with a finality that echoed in the silence.
Salma descended the grand staircase, her mind focused and sharp despite the faint unease lingering from her brief glimpse inside the room. By the time she reached the sitting area, she had shed all remnants of hesitation, her mask of poise and authority firmly in place. She found the minister lounging on an ornate sofa, his legs spread wide, a half-finished glass of whiskey balanced on the armrest beside him.
"Minister Sahab," she greeted, her voice calm, practiced, and warm, though her eyes gleamed with calculated intent. She lowered herself gracefully onto the seat beside him, close enough to signal familiarity but far enough to maintain a semblance of propriety.
He smirked at her approach, his large frame shifting as he leaned closer, the heavy scent of alcohol rolling off him. "Ah, Salma," he drawled, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "Here to bask in your success, hmm? That girl… exquisite. You’ve truly proven yourself invaluable to our little arrangement."
Salma inclined her head slightly, the faintest smile on her lips. "I’m glad she met your expectations," she replied smoothly, her hands resting lightly on her lap. "But I didn’t come just to celebrate. There’s a matter of my next posting I hoped to discuss."
The minister chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. His eyes glinted with a mixture of amusement and something darker as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Ah, your promotion," he mused, setting the glass down and shifting his focus entirely onto her. "Always the ambitious one, aren’t you, Salma?"
Before she could respond, his hand moved suddenly, sliding across the back of the sofa and then down, slipping inside the front of her blouse with practiced ease. His thick fingers closed over her breast, squeezing firmly, the motion casual yet deliberate.
Salma tensed for the briefest moment, her spine stiffening as she felt his touch. But she didn’t pull away. Her expression didn’t falter. This was the cost of power, the unspoken currency of the world she navigated. She didn’t sleep with them, no. That was her line. But she couldn’t stop them from taking liberties like this—it was simply the hierarchy in the dark, where dominance trumped boundaries.
The minister’s grin widened as he continued to grope her, his other hand gesturing expansively as if they were merely discussing politics. "You’ve done well, Salma," he said, his tone almost conversational. "You’ve earned my favor. And when you have my favor, doors open. Promotions come. But you understand how these things work."
Salma nodded, her voice steady even as his fingers pressed harder. "I do, Minister Sahab," she said. "And I’m always willing to do what’s necessary to prove my worth."
He laughed again, withdrawing his hand finally, as if granting her some small mercy. "Good girl," he said, patting her cheek condescendingly before leaning back into the sofa. "You’ll get your promotion. But don’t forget where your power comes from, Salma. Loyalty is everything in this game."
Salma offered him a small, knowing smile, her heart beating steady and cold in her chest. "Of course, Minister Sahab. I wouldn’t dream of forgetting."
The minister, still basking in the afterglow of his debauchery, leaned lazily into Salma as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of her khaki dress. Her practiced indifference didn’t falter, her posture remaining composed even as the fabric parted under his rough hands. She had long since learned the art of survival in this world—a blend of compliance and silent calculation that allowed her to emerge unscathed and ever more powerful.
He tugged her dress open, exposing the smooth curve of her skin beneath. His lips found her shoulder first, then trailed lower, his mouth hungrily pressing into her chest as his hands groped with an exhausting, almost mechanical fervor. She remained still, her gaze distant, letting him indulge himself. **This was not consent; it was strategy.**
His weight eventually grew heavier against her, his breaths slowing into deep, guttural snores. The minister had succumbed to sleep, still clutching at her like a child with a favored toy. Salma didn’t move, her body a calculated stillness. She knew better than to disturb him, understanding that his comfort was a currency she could later exchange for power.
An hour later, he stirred, his groggy movements signaling his return to consciousness. His hands shifted lazily against her skin, and as he pulled himself upright, his bleary eyes landed on her still form. A slow, self-satisfied smile spread across his face.
“You didn’t even flinch,” he remarked, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re a smart one, Salma. You know how to handle men like me.”
She adjusted her dress without a word, buttoning it back up with the grace of someone used to such indignities. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto his. “I aim to serve, Minister Sahab,” she replied smoothly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
The minister chuckled, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he reached for his glass of whiskey. “That promotion you’ve been angling for,” he began, his tone casual but laden with promise. “It’s yours. The power to audit companies is no small thing, Salma. You’ll have access to places most can only dream of.”
Salma inclined her head, her expression betraying nothing but polite gratitude. But inside, her mind was already racing. **Corporate audits meant access to endless streams of money, influence over businesses, and control over the elite.** It was a role that could cement her position not just as a facilitator of power but as a player in her own right.
“You deserve it,” the minister added, as if bestowing her with a reward for her loyalty. “And I trust you’ll know how to use it.”
“Oh, I will,” Salma replied, her voice as smooth as silk. And she meant it. Power was her currency, and money was its lifeblood. With this promotion, she would not only climb higher—she would own the ladder.
the name itself carried weight in bureaucratic and political circles, a woman known for her beauty as much as her ruthlessness. Her rise in the civil service was meteoric, fueled by an uncanny ability to navigate the murky waters of power with a charm that hid her cunning intentions.
Salma, a striking figure in her late thirties, had an aura of dominance that could silence a room with a single glance. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes seemed to pierce into the soul of anyone who dared to meet them, while her sharp jawline and sculpted features gave her an almost regal appearance. Her veils were perfectly styled to match her form-fitting kurtis, a subtle blend of modernity and tradition that left everyone wondering how a devout image could coexist with her notoriously unscrupulous ways.
She was married to Faheem Iqbal, a struggling businessman whose net worth barely scratched the surface of Salma's lavish lifestyle. Faheem had once been a proud man, ambitious and hard-working, but years of nagging and constant belittlement by his wife had dulled his spirit. Salma made no secret of her disdain for his "mediocre achievements," often reminding him how much her influence outstripped his.
Behind her polished IAS officer persona, Salma ran an empire of shadows. Her reputation as a facilitator for the elite was whispered about in the corridors of power. **Her specialty? Providing "favors" in the form of desperate women** — young professionals, struggling students, and even housewives in need of her assistance. Salma had perfected the art of manipulation, preying on vulnerability to feed her web of corruption.
She wasn’t above leveraging her influence to break those who defied her or using her network to silence inconvenient truths. **Salma’s pride stopped her from engaging physically with the powerful men she worked with, but she didn’t shy away from becoming their pimp.** Ministers, corporate magnates, and other power players relied on her to fulfill their carnal desires, knowing she could deliver without fail.
The women she “helped” had no choice but to obey her; whether it was due to debt, coercion, or the illusion of opportunity, Salma ensured they were trapped. In exchange, she reaped immense political capital and personal favors that solidified her place in the system.
The Politician's Gathering
One evening, Salma hosted a discreet gathering at a luxury farmhouse outside the city, a place known only to her trusted circle. The room was filled with powerful men—ministers, industrialists, and bureaucrats—each one captivated by Salma’s charm as she played the perfect host.
“Minister Sahab,” she said with a smile that hinted at danger, “I’ve arranged someone very special for you tonight. A young chick just perfect for your kink.”
The minister, a portly man with a sly grin, nodded appreciatively. “Salma, you truly are a gem. How do you manage to find such treasures?”
She tilted her head and chuckled lightly. “Let’s just say I have a talent for understanding people’s… needs.”
The farmhouse was bathed in a golden glow from the crystal chandeliers, the soft hum of conversation mingling with the clink of crystal glasses and the faint strains of classical music in the background. Salma, the orchestrator of it all, moved with grace, her sharp eyes monitoring every interaction while her polished charm ensured the air remained light and convivial.
The petite girl had been brought in earlier that evening, her movements hesitant, her wide, doe-like eyes scanning the opulent surroundings with equal parts awe and fear. Her name, Salma had quickly learned, was **Rukhsar**, though she had little attachment to it. The name had followed her out of the orphanage, where the papers said she’d turned 18 just the week before. In truth, no one cared to verify details. Her frail figure, shy demeanor, and trembling hands were proof enough that she was exactly what Salma had promised: fresh and untouched.
Salma’s men—loyal constables she’d groomed with favors and secrets—had made the delivery seamless. They plucked Rukhsar from the farewell party that the orphanage matron had organized, ushering her out with promises of a job opportunity that would change her life. She barely had time to process what was happening before she was in the back of a sleek black car, Salma's assurances of a bright future filling the silence between her timid questions.
Now, standing awkwardly in the corner of the lavish bedroom upstairs, Rukhsar fidgeted with the hem of her simple dress, a stark contrast to the luxury around her. The dim lighting softened the edges of her thin frame, her youth unmistakable. She was clutching a glass of juice she hadn't touched, her gaze darting to the heavy wooden door every so often, as if weighing the chance to escape.
Downstairs, Salma exchanged subtle nods with one of the constables who had brought her in. “Upstairs,” she murmured to the minister, her tone dripping with calculated sweetness. “She’s nervous, but… I’m sure you’ll help her feel comfortable.”
The minister’s grin widened, his thick fingers adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “Nervous ones are the best,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Their tears taste sweeter.”
Salma’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes darkened momentarily. “Be gentle, Minister Sahab,” she said, her voice smooth but laced with mock concern. “She’s had a long night.”
The portly man nodded, taking his cue to ascend the grand staircase. Salma watched his retreating figure, her nails clicking softly against the side of her wine glass. There was no hesitation in her posture, no flicker of second thoughts. **She had orchestrated nights like these countless times before**, each one a stepping stone in her climb toward untouchable power.
In the bedroom, Rukhsar flinched as the door creaked open. The minister stepped inside, his shadow looming large against the far wall. He closed the door behind him with a deliberate click, the sound reverberating like a lock sealing her fate.
“Don’t be scared, beti,” he said, his smile revealing teeth stained yellow from years of neglect. His tone was patronizing, falsely warm. “I’m here to take care of you.”
Rukhsar backed away instinctively, her slender shoulders trembling. “I… I don’t understand,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
The minister chuckled, his laughter deep and guttural. “You will soon, my dear. You will soon.”
The room seemed to shrink around Rukhsar as the minister advanced, his hulking frame filling the space with a suffocating presence. The faint clink of his polished shoes against the marble floor sent shivers racing down her spine, her breaths shallow and rapid. She gripped the glass in her hands tighter, as if it were a talisman that might shield her from the predator circling her.
“You’re even more delicate than I imagined,” the minister purred, his voice a sickly mix of honeyed affection and lecherous intent. His eyes raked over her, devouring the sight of her trembling form. “So young, so fresh. Like a little flower, just starting to bloom.”
Rukhsar tried to step back, but her legs hit the edge of the bed. She froze, trapped between the soft, inviting mattress behind her and the approaching threat in front. “Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t… I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
The minister laughed, a low, guttural sound that made her flinch. “Oh, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, beti. Salma made sure of that.” His hand reached out, thick fingers brushing against her cheek, and she recoiled, the juice glass slipping from her hands and shattering on the floor.
Her reaction only seemed to amuse him. “So feisty. But don’t worry, we’ll break that spirit soon enough.” He grabbed her wrist with a grip like iron, dragging her closer despite her futile attempts to pull away.
“Please, no!” she cried, her voice rising to a desperate pitch. Her free hand clawed at his, but it was no use. He was too strong, his thick frame dwarfing her frail body.
The minister’s grin widened, his other hand cupping her chin, forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his. “You’ll learn to obey, little one,” he murmured, his breath heavy with the stench of alcohol and something far darker. “It’s better for you if you don’t fight.”
But fight she did, twisting and squirming in his grasp, her fear morphing into raw panic. She screamed, loud and piercing, the sound cutting through the silence of the isolated farmhouse. Yet no one came to her aid. Downstairs, Salma sipped her wine, the faint echo of Rukhsar’s cries barely registering as she charmed another industrialist with her poised conversation.
Upstairs, the predator tightened his grip, his patience wearing thin. “Enough!” he bellowed, slamming her down onto the bed. The impact knocked the wind out of her, leaving her gasping and dazed. He loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole as he began to undo the buttons of his shirt, his intentions as clear as the moonlight streaming through the window.
Rukhsar’s mind raced, a whirlwind of terror and helplessness. She was prey, caught in the jaws of a predator, her cries drowned out by the silence of a world that had abandoned her.
The minister leaned in close, his weight pressing down on Rukhsar, his hand pinning her wrists to the mattress. His grin was a grotesque mask of power and greed, the smell of his sweat and cheap cologne overpowering.
“You’re lucky, you know that?” he hissed, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, as if he were letting her in on some great secret. “Girls like you? Orphans with nothing? No future, no family, no one to care if they live or die? I’m giving you a chance, beti. A chance to live the kind of life most women can only dream of.”
Rukhsar turned her head away, trying to block out his words, but he grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t be stupid,” he growled, his tone losing its veneer of kindness. “Do you know who I am? What I can do for you? I can make you rich, beautiful, powerful. I can take you out of this miserable existence and turn you into someone people worship. A queen in silks and jewels.”
His eyes darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. “But only if you learn your place. If you stop fighting and let me… mold you into what you’re meant to be. A woman who knows her role. A good, obedient whore who serves the powerful.”
The word hit her like a slap, her body stiffening beneath him. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head, her voice barely audible. “I can’t…”
The minister’s laugh was cruel, his grip tightening on her wrists. “Oh, but you can. You’ll see. It’s not so bad once you get used to it. You’ll find it’s even… pleasurable, if you learn to accept it. And trust me, little one, you will accept it. Everyone does.”
His free hand trailed down her body, his touch heavy and unwelcome. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock affection. “Give you everything you need. All you have to do is be a good girl for me. For the men who matter. That’s the life you were born for, whether you like it or not.”
Rukhsar’s heart pounded in her chest, her tears streaming silently as she realized just how deeply trapped she was.
Rukhsar’s petite frame was delicate, almost childlike, her limbs slender and fragile as if a strong wind could knock her over. Her skin was a warm, sun-kissed brown, smooth and unblemished except for the faintest trace of scars on her knees, remnants of a childhood spent playing on orphanage grounds. She was trembling now, every inch of her body betraying her fear, her wide, almond-shaped eyes brimming with tears that clung stubbornly to her long, dark lashes.
Her black hair tumbled around her face in soft, disheveled waves, framing her features in a way that made her look even younger than her supposed age. Her lips were full but quivered with each shaky breath, their natural pink hue standing out against the pallor of her frightened expression.
When the minister tore her simple dress with a vicious yank, the thin fabric gave way easily, revealing more of her body than she’d ever shown to anyone. The cheap material fell in tatters around her, exposing her bare shoulders, her modest chest barely hidden behind a worn, ill-fitting bra that had clearly been donated to the orphanage. Her collarbones jutted out slightly, emphasizing the frailty of her frame.
She let out a small, strangled gasp and instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his greedy gaze. Her hands trembled as they pressed against her skin, her fingers curling protectively over her small, barely developed curves. Her body was slim, almost too much so, with narrow hips and long, delicate legs that she now pulled close to her chest in a desperate attempt to cover herself.
The minister’s laugh was lecherous as he leered at her. “Such a shy little thing,” he sneered, his eyes roving over her trembling form with predatory delight. “But you can’t hide from me, beti. You were made for this.”
The minister’s eyes roved over Rukhsar’s trembling form, the thin fabric of her underwear clinging to her petite body. Her frailty, her youth, her helplessness—all of it fed his twisted appetite as he loomed over her like a predator savoring its prey. She curled in on herself, her arms wrapped around her knees in a futile attempt to hide from his piercing gaze.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and insidious, his fingers grazing her bare shoulder. She flinched at the contact, but his hand didn’t retreat. “So small, so soft. Are you sure you’re eighteen? You don’t look it. You look barely old enough to understand what a man can do to a girl like you.”
Rukhsar whimpered, shrinking back against the headboard, but there was nowhere to go. The minister’s hand slid down her arm, the roughness of his touch stark against her smooth, youthful skin. “Don’t be shy,” he cooed mockingly, his lips curling into a predatory grin. “I’m just admiring you. Salma really knows how to pick them, doesn’t she? Pure. Untouched. A treasure.”
Tears welled in Rukhsar’s wide eyes, her throat constricting with the effort to keep from sobbing. “Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”
He chuckled darkly, his fingers now tracing the delicate line of her collarbone. “Oh, no, beti. Not when you look like this. Not when you’re so perfect.” His hand moved lower, brushing against the strap of her bra, his breath quickening as he leaned in closer. “So young. So innocent. It’s like you were made for this.”
She turned her face away, tears spilling down her cheeks as his words and touch burned into her. He tilted his head, his fingers gripping her chin and forcing her to face him. “Don’t cry,” he said, though there was no kindness in his tone. “You’re about to learn what it means to be a woman. You should be grateful.”
Rukhsar’s body trembled violently, her mind screaming for an escape that didn’t exist.
The minister settled into the plush armchair, the leather groaning under his weight as he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. The amber liquid glistened in the dim light, the clink of ice against the glass breaking the oppressive silence. He swirled it lazily, his eyes fixed on Rukhsar, who sat huddled on the bed, trembling, her thin arms wrapped around her knees.
To him, she was no more than a delicacy, a rare side dish presented to sate his darkest cravings. He took a long sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, then leaned forward, setting the glass on the table beside him. His gaze sharpened as he stood, the predatory glint in his eyes sending fresh waves of dread coursing through her.
He approached her with deliberate slowness, the weight of each step heavy with intent. Reaching her, he leaned down and traced a finger along the curve of her arm, his touch cold and lingering. “Such soft skin,” he murmured, his voice dripping with depraved appreciation. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of her fear as it lingered on her skin.
Rukhsar recoiled instinctively, her body trembling harder as she tried to shrink into herself. Her attempts to pull away only amused him, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat as he straightened.
“Bring it,” he barked, snapping his fingers. The command was sharp, cutting through the air like a whip.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and one of his aides entered, holding a neatly folded garment in his hands. The man avoided looking directly at the scene, his head bowed as he handed the item to the minister.
The minister unfolded it with care, the fabric spreading to reveal a high-profile college uniform. It was pristine, white and navy blue with pleats, the kind worn by the daughters of the elite. Its short skirt would barely reach mid-thigh on a young girl, let alone on someone even slightly older.
“This,” he said, holding it up for Rukhsar to see, “was my granddaughter’s. She wore it when she was about your size.” His eyes glinted with perverse satisfaction as he tossed the uniform onto the bed. “Put it on.”
Rukhsar stared at the garment, her heart pounding in her chest. “I—I can’t…” she stammered, shaking her head in refusal.
The minister’s expression darkened, his voice turning to steel. “You will. Now.”
Her hands trembled as she reached for the uniform, every fiber of her being screaming against the humiliation she was being forced into. But she knew she had no choice. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she slipped the dress over her head, its too-short hem brushing against her knees, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.
The minister took a step back, his eyes roving over her in silent appraisal. “Perfect,” he murmured, the word heavy with vile intent as he took another long sip of his whiskey.
The minister’s eyes lit up with twisted delight as he watched Rukhsar adjust the uniform, the sight of her petite frame swamped in the oversized blouse yet framed perfectly by the short skirt fueling his depravity. Her trembling hands tried to tug the hem lower, but it was no use. The fabric barely brushed her knees, leaving her legs exposed and her cheeks flushed with humiliation.
“Adorable,” he purred, setting his whiskey down on the side table. His gaze lingered on her tear-streaked face, her innocence amplified by the uniform, and he clapped his hands with mock enthusiasm. “Like a doll, my dear. But something is missing…”
Rukhsar froze as he approached, his large hands reaching out to her. She flinched but didn’t dare move as he grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her toward the vanity mirror that sat in the corner of the room.
“Sit,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. When she hesitated, he pressed down on her shoulders, forcing her into the chair. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and frightened, as the minister stood behind her, his hulking form dwarfing her slight frame.
He picked up a hairbrush from the vanity, running it through her long, silky locks with surprising gentleness. “You’re too shy, too simple,” he said, almost as if he were chiding her. “But don’t worry. I’ll make you perfect.” His voice lowered to a murmur, a sickening undercurrent of satisfaction threading through his words.
Rukhsar sat rigidly, her fists clenched in her lap as he parted her hair down the middle, dividing it into two sections. His movements were clumsy but deliberate, his thick fingers struggling to twist the strands into neat braids. He secured each one with small ribbons he found in the drawer, tying them with exaggerated care, as though dressing a child for her first day of college.
“There,” he said finally, stepping back to admire his work. The sight of Rukhsar with her hair in twin braids, her tear-streaked face framed by the dark strands, made his grin widen with satisfaction. “Now you look just right. So innocent, so young. Like you’ve stepped straight out of a storybook.”
Her reflection blurred as tears filled her eyes, her humiliation complete. She wanted to scream, to fight, but the weight of his presence and her own fear kept her rooted to the chair.
The minister’s hand rested on her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the delicate curve of her neck. “Perfect,” he whispered, his breath hot and close. “Now, little one… it’s time to show me just how obedient you can be.”
The minister took a deep breath, his hands firm yet deliberate as he gripped Rukhsar’s waist and guided her toward him. She resisted weakly, her small hands pressing against his chest, but he was far too strong. With a satisfied grunt, he settled her onto his lap, the weight of her petite frame barely registering against him.
“There we go,” he murmured, his tone thick with false affection. His hands adjusted her position, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. His fingers moved with purpose, lifting her skirt with a practiced ease, folding the fabric back so it bunched around her hips.
Rukhsar whimpered, her face burning with shame as she realized what he was doing. She tried to reach down and pull the skirt back, but his hands swatted hers away with a sharp smack. “None of that,” he chided, his voice laced with amusement. “You’ll sit just as I want you to.”
Her thin underwear was the only barrier left, the soft cotton pressed against her trembling thighs. The coarse texture of his lungi rubbed against her as he adjusted himself beneath her, his movements deliberate and slow.
Rukhsar felt it then—his hardness pressing against her through the fabric. A wave of panic shot through her as she squirmed, but his strong hands clamped down on her hips, holding her firmly in place.
“Stop moving,” he growled, the edge in his voice making her freeze. His fingers tightened their grip, digging into her skin. “You’re making this harder for yourself.”
Her breathing quickened, her chest heaving as she felt his arousal grow beneath her. Every shift, every subtle movement sent a fresh wave of awareness crashing through her. She tried to push away, but his arms wrapped around her, locking her against him.
“Relax,” he whispered, leaning in so close that his breath brushed her ear. “It’s natural, little one. A man reacts when he has something as beautiful as you in his lap.”
Rukhsar’s hands clenched into fists, her body trembling as his touch lingered, his hardness pressing insistently against her softness. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, but the walls seemed to close in around her, leaving her with no escape.
The minister's breath was warm and heavy against Rukhsar's ear as he spoke, his voice dripping with mock sweetness that only deepened her despair. His large hands gripped her waist firmly, holding her in place as she trembled in his lap.
"This dress," he said, his fingers brushing over the pleated skirt bunched around her hips, "it’s perfect for you. Makes you look just like a collegegirl. Innocent, naive… but we both know the truth, don’t we?”
Rukhsar’s tears fell silently, streaking her flushed cheeks as she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet his predatory eyes. Her small frame shook with every sob, but she made no sound, her fear locking her voice in her throat.
The minister chuckled, low and cruel, as if her silence only amused him. “Oh, don’t cry, beti,” he murmured, one hand reaching up to wipe away her tears with a thumb that lingered far too long against her soft skin. “You’re an adult. This is just a little game, hmm? A bit of roleplay. You can pretend to be the shy student, and I’ll be the… caring teacher.”
His grin widened as he watched her flinch, her body going stiff in his arms. “Don’t be shy. We’ll keep it our little secret. You’ll even enjoy it, if you let yourself.”
Rukhsar’s hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the overwhelming urge to scream, to flee, to do anything to escape his grasp. But she was trapped, his strength and dominance pressing down on her like a cage, leaving her with no choice but to endure.
Her silent tears continued to fall as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Now, tell me, little one… would you like to be my favorite student?”
After 5hrs
The minister emerged from the room, his frame heavy with exhaustion, his shirt damp with sweat clinging to his broad chest. His breath came in labored gasps, but his face bore a look of deep satisfaction, a predatory smugness that sent a chill down Salma’s spine as she approached him.
Her smile was professional but taut, her usual composure faltering for the briefest of moments as she caught the glint in his eyes. "Minister Sahab," she said smoothly, masking her unease with her trademark charm. "I trust everything was to your liking?"
The minister chuckled darkly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "To my liking?" he repeated, his voice low and guttural. "Salma, that little one is... exquisite. You’ve outdone yourself this time. So innocent, so breakable." He licked his lips as if savoring the memory. "It was worth every second. She cried so beautifully."
Even Salma, a woman who had orchestrated countless such nights, felt her stomach churn at his words. But she didn’t let it show. Instead, she offered a small nod, her sharp mind already calculating the next steps.
"Of course," she replied, her voice steady. "Only the best for my esteemed clients." Her eyes flicked briefly toward the door, where she knew Rukhsar lay inside, broken and vulnerable. She didn’t need to see the scene to know what awaited her.
But as the minister continued down the hall, humming to himself with satisfaction, Salma pushed past her momentary discomfort and stepped into the room.
The air was thick, oppressive with the remnants of sweat, whiskey, and despair. Rukhsar lay curled on the bed, her body trembling, her petite frame barely covered by the tattered remains of the uniform. Her braids were loose, her hair disheveled, and her face streaked with tears. Bruises bloomed on her pale skin, stark against her fragile form. Her wide, empty eyes stared at nothing, as if she had retreated somewhere far away, beyond the reach of pain.
Salma stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the wreckage of the girl. A faint shiver ran down her spine, but she quickly suppressed it, the cold pragmatism that had carried her this far kicking in. **There was value here, in Rukhsar’s vulnerability, her delicate beauty, her broken innocence.**
With a sharp snap of her fingers, she summoned her men, who stood waiting just outside. "Take care of her," Salma ordered, her tone brisk and commanding. "Get her cleaned up, tended to. Make sure she’s ready for her next appearance."
One of the men hesitated, glancing past her at the trembling girl on the bed. "Are you sure, madam?" he asked, his voice low.
Salma’s expression hardened, her gaze slicing through him like a blade. "I don’t pay you to question me," she snapped. "Do as I say. Rukhsar will make us a fortune. The men will clamor for someone like her."
The men nodded, stepping into the room with careful precision, lifting Rukhsar’s limp body from the bed as gently as they could. Salma watched impassively, her mind already turning to how best to market this newfound "treasure." She knew the appeal Rukhsar would hold—the allure of innocence tainted, of a delicate flower in the grip of power.
As the men carried her out, Salma turned on her heel, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she left the room. Behind her, the door swung shut with a finality that echoed in the silence.
Salma descended the grand staircase, her mind focused and sharp despite the faint unease lingering from her brief glimpse inside the room. By the time she reached the sitting area, she had shed all remnants of hesitation, her mask of poise and authority firmly in place. She found the minister lounging on an ornate sofa, his legs spread wide, a half-finished glass of whiskey balanced on the armrest beside him.
"Minister Sahab," she greeted, her voice calm, practiced, and warm, though her eyes gleamed with calculated intent. She lowered herself gracefully onto the seat beside him, close enough to signal familiarity but far enough to maintain a semblance of propriety.
He smirked at her approach, his large frame shifting as he leaned closer, the heavy scent of alcohol rolling off him. "Ah, Salma," he drawled, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "Here to bask in your success, hmm? That girl… exquisite. You’ve truly proven yourself invaluable to our little arrangement."
Salma inclined her head slightly, the faintest smile on her lips. "I’m glad she met your expectations," she replied smoothly, her hands resting lightly on her lap. "But I didn’t come just to celebrate. There’s a matter of my next posting I hoped to discuss."
The minister chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. His eyes glinted with a mixture of amusement and something darker as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Ah, your promotion," he mused, setting the glass down and shifting his focus entirely onto her. "Always the ambitious one, aren’t you, Salma?"
Before she could respond, his hand moved suddenly, sliding across the back of the sofa and then down, slipping inside the front of her blouse with practiced ease. His thick fingers closed over her breast, squeezing firmly, the motion casual yet deliberate.
Salma tensed for the briefest moment, her spine stiffening as she felt his touch. But she didn’t pull away. Her expression didn’t falter. This was the cost of power, the unspoken currency of the world she navigated. She didn’t sleep with them, no. That was her line. But she couldn’t stop them from taking liberties like this—it was simply the hierarchy in the dark, where dominance trumped boundaries.
The minister’s grin widened as he continued to grope her, his other hand gesturing expansively as if they were merely discussing politics. "You’ve done well, Salma," he said, his tone almost conversational. "You’ve earned my favor. And when you have my favor, doors open. Promotions come. But you understand how these things work."
Salma nodded, her voice steady even as his fingers pressed harder. "I do, Minister Sahab," she said. "And I’m always willing to do what’s necessary to prove my worth."
He laughed again, withdrawing his hand finally, as if granting her some small mercy. "Good girl," he said, patting her cheek condescendingly before leaning back into the sofa. "You’ll get your promotion. But don’t forget where your power comes from, Salma. Loyalty is everything in this game."
Salma offered him a small, knowing smile, her heart beating steady and cold in her chest. "Of course, Minister Sahab. I wouldn’t dream of forgetting."
The minister, still basking in the afterglow of his debauchery, leaned lazily into Salma as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of her khaki dress. Her practiced indifference didn’t falter, her posture remaining composed even as the fabric parted under his rough hands. She had long since learned the art of survival in this world—a blend of compliance and silent calculation that allowed her to emerge unscathed and ever more powerful.
He tugged her dress open, exposing the smooth curve of her skin beneath. His lips found her shoulder first, then trailed lower, his mouth hungrily pressing into her chest as his hands groped with an exhausting, almost mechanical fervor. She remained still, her gaze distant, letting him indulge himself. **This was not consent; it was strategy.**
His weight eventually grew heavier against her, his breaths slowing into deep, guttural snores. The minister had succumbed to sleep, still clutching at her like a child with a favored toy. Salma didn’t move, her body a calculated stillness. She knew better than to disturb him, understanding that his comfort was a currency she could later exchange for power.
An hour later, he stirred, his groggy movements signaling his return to consciousness. His hands shifted lazily against her skin, and as he pulled himself upright, his bleary eyes landed on her still form. A slow, self-satisfied smile spread across his face.
“You didn’t even flinch,” he remarked, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re a smart one, Salma. You know how to handle men like me.”
She adjusted her dress without a word, buttoning it back up with the grace of someone used to such indignities. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto his. “I aim to serve, Minister Sahab,” she replied smoothly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
The minister chuckled, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he reached for his glass of whiskey. “That promotion you’ve been angling for,” he began, his tone casual but laden with promise. “It’s yours. The power to audit companies is no small thing, Salma. You’ll have access to places most can only dream of.”
Salma inclined her head, her expression betraying nothing but polite gratitude. But inside, her mind was already racing. **Corporate audits meant access to endless streams of money, influence over businesses, and control over the elite.** It was a role that could cement her position not just as a facilitator of power but as a player in her own right.
“You deserve it,” the minister added, as if bestowing her with a reward for her loyalty. “And I trust you’ll know how to use it.”
“Oh, I will,” Salma replied, her voice as smooth as silk. And she meant it. Power was her currency, and money was its lifeblood. With this promotion, she would not only climb higher—she would own the ladder.
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