22-11-2024, 12:07 AM
(This post was last modified: 22-11-2024, 12:08 AM by Naruto411. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
The farmhouse was eerily quiet after the minister’s departure, his heavy footsteps and laughter replaced by a suffocating stillness that hung in the air. Salma, now alone with her carefully curated team of enforcers (constables )and goons who she treats as slaves, felt a surge of triumph course through her veins. The minister’s words were currency, a power she could wield with precision to carve her path to greater influence.
She climbed the staircase deliberately, her thoughts sharp and focused as she made her way to the room where Rukhsar lay. Inside, the girl was curled up on the bed, her frail body trembling with silent sobs. Her tear-streaked face was a portrait of devastation, her innocence torn apart by the beast who had claimed her as his toy for the night.
Salma stepped inside, her presence commanding despite the softness in her tone. “Rukhsar,” she said, her voice carrying a cold assurance that froze the girl mid-sob. “Enough of that. What’s done is done. From now on, you work for me.”
Rukhsar looked up at her with wide, terrified eyes, her lips trembling as she tried to form words. Salma raised a hand, silencing her before she could even begin. “Tomorrow,” Salma continued, her tone businesslike, “we’ll open a bank account in your name. Three lakhs for tonight. Two more to the men who ensured your safety—and mine—throughout the evening.”
Salma smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “You’ll learn, Rukhsar. Money talks. Money will buy you freedom, comfort, protection. But only if you do exactly as I say.”
Her words were cold comfort, but the dominance behind them was impossible to ignore. Rukhsar nodded weakly, her spirit too broken to resist.
Salma, satisfied, unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the deep red marks and faint bruises on her chest where the minister’s teeth had left their imprint. She winced slightly as she rubbed at them, muttering curses under her breath.
Salma’s chest was striking, her dusky brown skin smooth and supple, contrasting against the sharp lines of her authority and the cold dominance in her demeanor. Her breasts were full yet firm, their curves accentuating the feminine power she wielded in the world of men. Her nipples, darker than the surrounding skin, stood prominent and swollen now, the result of prolonged, aggressive attention from the minister.
Deep red marks and faint bruises marred the once-unblemished flesh, clear evidence of the minister's greedy obsession during the eighty minutes he had spent latched to her. Teeth marks framed her areolas, faint but unmistakable, where his biting had pushed the limits of her patience even as she remained still to maintain the delicate balance of hierarchy. Her nipples were raw, their sensitivity heightened to the point of discomfort, each brush of fabric sending an irritating sting through her chest.
Salma hissed softly as her fingers trailed over one particularly darkened spot, where the minister’s teeth had sunk in harder than elsewhere. The skin was tender, the lingering soreness a reminder of how deeply he had indulged himself
“That filthy old bastard,” she hissed, more to herself than anyone else. “Sucking me dry like I’m some damned fruit.” Her fingers traced over the marks, a mixture of anger and discomfort flashing across her face.
The men who stood nearby—her loyal constables and slaves—watched her unflinchingly, their expressions neutral, accustomed to her brazenness. Salma spared them no thought, treating their presence as insignificant. To her, they were not humans , tools in her vast machinery of power. Their gazes meant nothing to her; she had long since discarded any notion of modesty in their company. She would be indifferent to their presence like one doesn't care being naked infront of a fish in aquarium or their dog .
Then, without warning, her hand lashed out, striking Rukhsar across the face with a sharp crack. The girl cried out softly, her hands flying up to her cheek as fresh tears streamed down her face.
“That’s for not tiring him out enough to sleep,” Salma snapped, her voice laced with frustration. “You think I enjoy sitting there like a statue while he uses me like some chew toy? Do better next time, girl.”
Rukhsar’s head snapped to the side as Salma’s slap landed, the sting spreading across her cheek like fire. For a moment, the pain wasn’t just physical—it was the culmination of everything she had endured that night, a sharp reminder of her helplessness. Her wide eyes filled with fresh tears, and her trembling hand instinctively flew to her reddened cheek as if trying to soothe the humiliation.
Her mind reeled with disbelief, the injustice of it crushing her spirit further. She had been bangd—violated in every way by a man she couldn’t resist—and now she was being punished for it.And not just by anyone, but by the very woman who had orchestrated her downfall, who had snatched her from the orphanage under false pretenses and delivered her into the hands of a monster.
Salma’s words—harsh and dismissive—echoed in Rukhsar’s ears like mockery. "You should’ve tired him out,” she had sneered, as if the girl had been anything more than a helpless victim in the minister’s clutches. The absurdity of it twisted in Rukhsar’s chest like a blade. How could she be blamed for what had happened? How could Salma stand there, brazen and unashamed, when she was the one who had facilitated it all?
Rukhsar didn’t dare speak. The men standing in the room, her silent witnesses, didn’t flinch or exchange a glance. They were used to Salma’s mercurial moods, her calculated cruelty, and her absolute unwillingness to tolerate what she deemed as failure. To them, this was just another scene in the relentless hierarchy Salma commanded.
But to Rukhsar, it was a moment of crushing realization: there was no escape from Salma.Not from her dominance, not from her judgment, not from her ruthless manipulation. Salma was a force that consumed everything, bending people to her will and leaving them powerless to resist.
Tears streamed down Rukhsar’s face as she lowered her head, her body shaking with silent sobs. Fear was her constant companion now, smothering any glimmer of defiance or hope. When Salma handed her the jar of lotion and commanded her to apply it to her bruised chest, Rukhsar complied without hesitation, her movements robotic and empty. It was as if her mind had retreated somewhere far away, leaving only her battered body to obey.
Even as the men watched, their indifference cutting like a second wound, Rukhsar’s focus remained on the task Salma had given her. She didn’t let her hands falter, didn’t let her tears drip onto Salma’s skin. This was her new reality, one dictated by a woman who could destroy her as easily as she had delivered her into hell.
As Rukhsar worked, her thoughts churned with anger and despair, a storm she had no strength to voice. Salma had not just stolen her freedom—she had stolen her very right to feel human. And for Rukhsar, that loss was more devastating than any slap could ever be.
Rukhsar sobbed silently, her body shrinking under Salma’s glare. The older woman sighed, her irritation fading as she reached for a small jar of lotion on the bedside table. She unscrewed the lid and held it out to Rukhsar, her tone suddenly soft but no less commanding.
“Now, apply this,” she ordered, gesturing to her sore nipples. “I don’t have time for discomfort tomorrow.”
Rukhsar hesitated, but the fear in her eyes was enough to spur her into action. She took the jar with trembling hands and began applying the cool lotion to Salma’s bruised skin, her movements slow and careful despite the pain coursing through her own battered body.
The men watched silently, their expressions unreadable, as the scene unfolded. Salma, unbothered by their presence, leaned back slightly, closing her eyes as the soothing sensation of the lotion began to ease the sting. “Good girl,” she murmured, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
Rukhsar didn’t reply, her head bowed in submission as she completed the task. Inside, her mind was a storm of pain and fear, her spirit struggling to hold onto whatever fragments of herself remained in Salma’s ruthless grip.
She climbed the staircase deliberately, her thoughts sharp and focused as she made her way to the room where Rukhsar lay. Inside, the girl was curled up on the bed, her frail body trembling with silent sobs. Her tear-streaked face was a portrait of devastation, her innocence torn apart by the beast who had claimed her as his toy for the night.
Salma stepped inside, her presence commanding despite the softness in her tone. “Rukhsar,” she said, her voice carrying a cold assurance that froze the girl mid-sob. “Enough of that. What’s done is done. From now on, you work for me.”
Rukhsar looked up at her with wide, terrified eyes, her lips trembling as she tried to form words. Salma raised a hand, silencing her before she could even begin. “Tomorrow,” Salma continued, her tone businesslike, “we’ll open a bank account in your name. Three lakhs for tonight. Two more to the men who ensured your safety—and mine—throughout the evening.”
Salma smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “You’ll learn, Rukhsar. Money talks. Money will buy you freedom, comfort, protection. But only if you do exactly as I say.”
Her words were cold comfort, but the dominance behind them was impossible to ignore. Rukhsar nodded weakly, her spirit too broken to resist.
Salma, satisfied, unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the deep red marks and faint bruises on her chest where the minister’s teeth had left their imprint. She winced slightly as she rubbed at them, muttering curses under her breath.
Salma’s chest was striking, her dusky brown skin smooth and supple, contrasting against the sharp lines of her authority and the cold dominance in her demeanor. Her breasts were full yet firm, their curves accentuating the feminine power she wielded in the world of men. Her nipples, darker than the surrounding skin, stood prominent and swollen now, the result of prolonged, aggressive attention from the minister.
Deep red marks and faint bruises marred the once-unblemished flesh, clear evidence of the minister's greedy obsession during the eighty minutes he had spent latched to her. Teeth marks framed her areolas, faint but unmistakable, where his biting had pushed the limits of her patience even as she remained still to maintain the delicate balance of hierarchy. Her nipples were raw, their sensitivity heightened to the point of discomfort, each brush of fabric sending an irritating sting through her chest.
Salma hissed softly as her fingers trailed over one particularly darkened spot, where the minister’s teeth had sunk in harder than elsewhere. The skin was tender, the lingering soreness a reminder of how deeply he had indulged himself
“That filthy old bastard,” she hissed, more to herself than anyone else. “Sucking me dry like I’m some damned fruit.” Her fingers traced over the marks, a mixture of anger and discomfort flashing across her face.
The men who stood nearby—her loyal constables and slaves—watched her unflinchingly, their expressions neutral, accustomed to her brazenness. Salma spared them no thought, treating their presence as insignificant. To her, they were not humans , tools in her vast machinery of power. Their gazes meant nothing to her; she had long since discarded any notion of modesty in their company. She would be indifferent to their presence like one doesn't care being naked infront of a fish in aquarium or their dog .
Then, without warning, her hand lashed out, striking Rukhsar across the face with a sharp crack. The girl cried out softly, her hands flying up to her cheek as fresh tears streamed down her face.
“That’s for not tiring him out enough to sleep,” Salma snapped, her voice laced with frustration. “You think I enjoy sitting there like a statue while he uses me like some chew toy? Do better next time, girl.”
Rukhsar’s head snapped to the side as Salma’s slap landed, the sting spreading across her cheek like fire. For a moment, the pain wasn’t just physical—it was the culmination of everything she had endured that night, a sharp reminder of her helplessness. Her wide eyes filled with fresh tears, and her trembling hand instinctively flew to her reddened cheek as if trying to soothe the humiliation.
Her mind reeled with disbelief, the injustice of it crushing her spirit further. She had been bangd—violated in every way by a man she couldn’t resist—and now she was being punished for it.And not just by anyone, but by the very woman who had orchestrated her downfall, who had snatched her from the orphanage under false pretenses and delivered her into the hands of a monster.
Salma’s words—harsh and dismissive—echoed in Rukhsar’s ears like mockery. "You should’ve tired him out,” she had sneered, as if the girl had been anything more than a helpless victim in the minister’s clutches. The absurdity of it twisted in Rukhsar’s chest like a blade. How could she be blamed for what had happened? How could Salma stand there, brazen and unashamed, when she was the one who had facilitated it all?
Rukhsar didn’t dare speak. The men standing in the room, her silent witnesses, didn’t flinch or exchange a glance. They were used to Salma’s mercurial moods, her calculated cruelty, and her absolute unwillingness to tolerate what she deemed as failure. To them, this was just another scene in the relentless hierarchy Salma commanded.
But to Rukhsar, it was a moment of crushing realization: there was no escape from Salma.Not from her dominance, not from her judgment, not from her ruthless manipulation. Salma was a force that consumed everything, bending people to her will and leaving them powerless to resist.
Tears streamed down Rukhsar’s face as she lowered her head, her body shaking with silent sobs. Fear was her constant companion now, smothering any glimmer of defiance or hope. When Salma handed her the jar of lotion and commanded her to apply it to her bruised chest, Rukhsar complied without hesitation, her movements robotic and empty. It was as if her mind had retreated somewhere far away, leaving only her battered body to obey.
Even as the men watched, their indifference cutting like a second wound, Rukhsar’s focus remained on the task Salma had given her. She didn’t let her hands falter, didn’t let her tears drip onto Salma’s skin. This was her new reality, one dictated by a woman who could destroy her as easily as she had delivered her into hell.
As Rukhsar worked, her thoughts churned with anger and despair, a storm she had no strength to voice. Salma had not just stolen her freedom—she had stolen her very right to feel human. And for Rukhsar, that loss was more devastating than any slap could ever be.
Rukhsar sobbed silently, her body shrinking under Salma’s glare. The older woman sighed, her irritation fading as she reached for a small jar of lotion on the bedside table. She unscrewed the lid and held it out to Rukhsar, her tone suddenly soft but no less commanding.
“Now, apply this,” she ordered, gesturing to her sore nipples. “I don’t have time for discomfort tomorrow.”
Rukhsar hesitated, but the fear in her eyes was enough to spur her into action. She took the jar with trembling hands and began applying the cool lotion to Salma’s bruised skin, her movements slow and careful despite the pain coursing through her own battered body.
The men watched silently, their expressions unreadable, as the scene unfolded. Salma, unbothered by their presence, leaned back slightly, closing her eyes as the soothing sensation of the lotion began to ease the sting. “Good girl,” she murmured, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
Rukhsar didn’t reply, her head bowed in submission as she completed the task. Inside, her mind was a storm of pain and fear, her spirit struggling to hold onto whatever fragments of herself remained in Salma’s ruthless grip.
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