22-11-2024, 11:22 AM
Salma’s sharp eyes swept over the room, lingering briefly on the men stationed against the walls. Their postures were neutral, their expressions carefully blank, but she could read them as easily as an open book. They were waiting. Waiting for permission, for indulgence, for their own twisted piece of the empire Salma ruled.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she adjusted her blouse, now properly buttoned after Rukhsar had dutifully applied the lotion. She knew these men—loyal but base, driven by their hungers as much as their loyalty to her. She also knew how to wield control, keeping them just satisfied enough to remain obedient but always yearning for more.
But tonight, there would be no reward.
“Don’t even think about it,” Salma said coldly, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. The men stiffened slightly, their gazes shifting to her with thinly veiled disappointment. “The girls are off-limits. Not now. Not until after the home minister’s son’s birthday in Goa next week.”
A murmur of discontent rippled through them, quickly silenced by the sharp glare Salma shot their way.
“I need them in their prime,” she continued, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You think those rich little pricks want leftovers? Broken goods? No. They want the illusion of innocence, of perfection. And I’ll give it to them—because that’s where the real power lies.”
Her words were clinical, her dominance absolute. She leaned back slightly, her arms crossed as she surveyed her mutts with faint amusement. “So, enjoy the rest. You’ve earned it, I suppose. But keep your hands to yourselves. The girls need to heal.”
The men nodded begrudgingly, their disappointment palpable but their deference unshaken. Salma was the queen of this dark hierarchy, and they knew better than to question her decisions.they left downstairs.
As they dispersed, Salma turned back to Rukhsar, who remained sitting quietly on the bed, her head bowed and her body still trembling. “And you,” Salma said, her voice soft but no less commanding. “You’ll get some rest too. Next week, you’ll need to look like a goddamned angel.”
Rukhsar didn’t respond, her silence only feeding Salma’s confidence. The girl was broken, molded, and exactly where Salma wanted her to be.
Salma’s empire of shadows was built on the broken backs of women—each one a pawn, a commodity, a price to be bartered. Some came willingly, lured by promises of wealth that glittered too brightly to resist. Others, like Rukhsar, were stolen by circumstance, caught in Salma’s web through sheer bad luck. Still, others were bound by desperate love for their families, their sacrifices driven by threats that Salma wielded like a blade at their throats.
A girl might arrive in Salma’s orbit for something as trivial as an unpaid hostel bill or a petty legal infraction—offenses fabricated or exaggerated by Salma’s loyal constables, who knew exactly what she needed. Innocent or guilty didn’t matter. Once caught, they were hers to tame, their spirits crushed under the weight of her relentless blackmail.
Then there were the slums, teeming with daughters whom fathers considered burdens. Salma had turned these girls into a lucrative trade, brokering deals with foreign sheiks who paid handsomely for young brides. Age, beauty, even the girls’ consent—it was all irrelevant. What mattered were the cash bundles pressed into the calloused hands of fathers, whose smiles were as hollow as their morals.
In another life, Salma might have been disgusted by such transactions. She might have seen the humanity in these girls, their dreams and fears. But the woman she had become cared only for power.
Her younger self was a far cry from the ruthless architect she was now. As a girl, Salma had been ambitious but idealistic, a bright student determined to change the world. She had risen quickly in her career, her sharp intellect and charm earning her accolades. But the system had shown her its true face, and her optimism had soured into cynicism. She learned that power didn’t come from playing fair—it came from control, from exploiting weakness, from knowing the price of everything and everyone.
And so, Salma had transformed herself. The kind-hearted dreamer became the cold, calculating puppeteer. Every girl she trapped was another rung on the ladder to her own untouchable status. The slum fathers gripping their blood money, the sheiks who salivated over their unwilling brides, the ministers and businessmen who feasted on broken innocence—all of them were pieces in her intricate game.
But the weight of what she had become didn’t bother her. Salma no longer allowed herself the luxury of regret. “Power has no room for softness,” she often told herself, brushing off the faint whispers of guilt that tried to creep in when the nights grew too quiet.
Salma leaned against the doorframe, her sharp eyes scanning the room as her mind worked through the subtle calculus of control. Her men—the loyal constables and her so-called slaves—might be leashed for now, but she knew better than to leave them unsatisfied for long. A pack like hers needed to be fed, or they might turn rabid.
Her gaze settled on Rukhsar, still seated on the bed, her frail body trembling with exhaustion and pain. The girl's innocence, her vulnerability—it was all too useful, a tool Salma wielded with precision. But tonight wasn’t for her. Not yet. She needed Rukhsar in perfect condition for next week, for the high-paying guests who demanded nothing less than fresh, unblemished merchandise.
Still, Salma couldn’t resist the momentary amusement as her grin spread, wicked and calculating. Her eyes flicked to Rukhsar’s tear-streaked face, noting the slight panic that flared in the girl’s expression as she began to understand.
Rukhsar shook her head, her movements frantic and desperate. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pressed a trembling hand against her abused, swollen pussy, her small attempt to plead for mercy. The sight of her—a broken bird trying to shield itself with a single fragile wing—was almost too pathetic to bear.
Salma let out a low, throaty laugh, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence of the room. She stepped closer, her presence looming over Rukhsar as she tilted her head with mock concern.
“No need to be afraid, beti,” she said, her tone deceptively soft but dripping with condescension. Her hand reached out to cup Rukhsar’s chin, tilting the girl’s face upward so their eyes met. “I have other plans for you. You’re too valuable for the mutts downstairs, and they know it.”
Her words did little to soothe Rukhsar’s terror. The girl’s tears continued to fall, her lips trembling as she clutched at herself, her body recoiling from Salma’s cold touch.
Salma smirked, releasing her grip as she straightened. "Rest now," she said curtly, her voice losing its false sweetness. "You’ll need it for the week ahead."
With that, she turned on her heel, the sound of her heels clicking against the polished floor signaling her departure. She left Rukhsar alone in the room, broken but temporarily safe, as she descended to deal with the men waiting for her commands.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she adjusted her blouse, now properly buttoned after Rukhsar had dutifully applied the lotion. She knew these men—loyal but base, driven by their hungers as much as their loyalty to her. She also knew how to wield control, keeping them just satisfied enough to remain obedient but always yearning for more.
But tonight, there would be no reward.
“Don’t even think about it,” Salma said coldly, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. The men stiffened slightly, their gazes shifting to her with thinly veiled disappointment. “The girls are off-limits. Not now. Not until after the home minister’s son’s birthday in Goa next week.”
A murmur of discontent rippled through them, quickly silenced by the sharp glare Salma shot their way.
“I need them in their prime,” she continued, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You think those rich little pricks want leftovers? Broken goods? No. They want the illusion of innocence, of perfection. And I’ll give it to them—because that’s where the real power lies.”
Her words were clinical, her dominance absolute. She leaned back slightly, her arms crossed as she surveyed her mutts with faint amusement. “So, enjoy the rest. You’ve earned it, I suppose. But keep your hands to yourselves. The girls need to heal.”
The men nodded begrudgingly, their disappointment palpable but their deference unshaken. Salma was the queen of this dark hierarchy, and they knew better than to question her decisions.they left downstairs.
As they dispersed, Salma turned back to Rukhsar, who remained sitting quietly on the bed, her head bowed and her body still trembling. “And you,” Salma said, her voice soft but no less commanding. “You’ll get some rest too. Next week, you’ll need to look like a goddamned angel.”
Rukhsar didn’t respond, her silence only feeding Salma’s confidence. The girl was broken, molded, and exactly where Salma wanted her to be.
Salma’s empire of shadows was built on the broken backs of women—each one a pawn, a commodity, a price to be bartered. Some came willingly, lured by promises of wealth that glittered too brightly to resist. Others, like Rukhsar, were stolen by circumstance, caught in Salma’s web through sheer bad luck. Still, others were bound by desperate love for their families, their sacrifices driven by threats that Salma wielded like a blade at their throats.
A girl might arrive in Salma’s orbit for something as trivial as an unpaid hostel bill or a petty legal infraction—offenses fabricated or exaggerated by Salma’s loyal constables, who knew exactly what she needed. Innocent or guilty didn’t matter. Once caught, they were hers to tame, their spirits crushed under the weight of her relentless blackmail.
Then there were the slums, teeming with daughters whom fathers considered burdens. Salma had turned these girls into a lucrative trade, brokering deals with foreign sheiks who paid handsomely for young brides. Age, beauty, even the girls’ consent—it was all irrelevant. What mattered were the cash bundles pressed into the calloused hands of fathers, whose smiles were as hollow as their morals.
In another life, Salma might have been disgusted by such transactions. She might have seen the humanity in these girls, their dreams and fears. But the woman she had become cared only for power.
Her younger self was a far cry from the ruthless architect she was now. As a girl, Salma had been ambitious but idealistic, a bright student determined to change the world. She had risen quickly in her career, her sharp intellect and charm earning her accolades. But the system had shown her its true face, and her optimism had soured into cynicism. She learned that power didn’t come from playing fair—it came from control, from exploiting weakness, from knowing the price of everything and everyone.
And so, Salma had transformed herself. The kind-hearted dreamer became the cold, calculating puppeteer. Every girl she trapped was another rung on the ladder to her own untouchable status. The slum fathers gripping their blood money, the sheiks who salivated over their unwilling brides, the ministers and businessmen who feasted on broken innocence—all of them were pieces in her intricate game.
But the weight of what she had become didn’t bother her. Salma no longer allowed herself the luxury of regret. “Power has no room for softness,” she often told herself, brushing off the faint whispers of guilt that tried to creep in when the nights grew too quiet.
Salma leaned against the doorframe, her sharp eyes scanning the room as her mind worked through the subtle calculus of control. Her men—the loyal constables and her so-called slaves—might be leashed for now, but she knew better than to leave them unsatisfied for long. A pack like hers needed to be fed, or they might turn rabid.
Her gaze settled on Rukhsar, still seated on the bed, her frail body trembling with exhaustion and pain. The girl's innocence, her vulnerability—it was all too useful, a tool Salma wielded with precision. But tonight wasn’t for her. Not yet. She needed Rukhsar in perfect condition for next week, for the high-paying guests who demanded nothing less than fresh, unblemished merchandise.
Still, Salma couldn’t resist the momentary amusement as her grin spread, wicked and calculating. Her eyes flicked to Rukhsar’s tear-streaked face, noting the slight panic that flared in the girl’s expression as she began to understand.
Rukhsar shook her head, her movements frantic and desperate. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pressed a trembling hand against her abused, swollen pussy, her small attempt to plead for mercy. The sight of her—a broken bird trying to shield itself with a single fragile wing—was almost too pathetic to bear.
Salma let out a low, throaty laugh, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence of the room. She stepped closer, her presence looming over Rukhsar as she tilted her head with mock concern.
“No need to be afraid, beti,” she said, her tone deceptively soft but dripping with condescension. Her hand reached out to cup Rukhsar’s chin, tilting the girl’s face upward so their eyes met. “I have other plans for you. You’re too valuable for the mutts downstairs, and they know it.”
Her words did little to soothe Rukhsar’s terror. The girl’s tears continued to fall, her lips trembling as she clutched at herself, her body recoiling from Salma’s cold touch.
Salma smirked, releasing her grip as she straightened. "Rest now," she said curtly, her voice losing its false sweetness. "You’ll need it for the week ahead."
With that, she turned on her heel, the sound of her heels clicking against the polished floor signaling her departure. She left Rukhsar alone in the room, broken but temporarily safe, as she descended to deal with the men waiting for her commands.
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