23-11-2024, 10:41 AM
Salma’s arrogance was no hollow bluff. It was fortified by an alliance with a man who commanded respect—and fear—across the country: Imran “Kingpin” Mirza, a drug lord whose empire accounted for a tenth of the narcotics supply in the nation. Yet their relationship wasn’t one of submission or servitude. Salma, ever the strategist, had established dominance over even this notorious figure.
Imran wasn’t like the other men she dealt with. He wasn’t hungry for her body like the ministers or the lecherous bureaucrats; he craved her control. In private, the feared drug lord knelt before her, seeking the very humiliation that other men feared. Salma’s leather-clad heels became his altar, her feet his obsession. She didn’t bother undressing for him; he didn’t deserve that. Instead, she sat imperiously, her sharp eyes watching as he groaned in pleasure, his hands trembling as he kissed her feet and begged for her approval.
Occasionally, when he had pleased her with his loyalty—or amused her enough with his desperate whining—she would grant him the privilege of release. Her toes, deft and deliberate, would work him over until he came, his humiliation staining the very floor where he knelt. It wasn’t sex; it was power. And that was all Salma cared about.
Yet even with Imran’s backing, Salma knew she was just a player in a larger game. The syndicate that supported her—the web of ministers, drug lords, and shadowy financiers—was a hierarchy as rigid as the government it corrupted. Imran, for all his notoriety, was just a CEO. A face for the media to scrutinize, a name to take the fall when the real powers needed a scapegoat.
Salma had no illusions about her place in this network. She wasn’t at the high table. She wasn’t even close. The true wealth and influence—the kind that could silence entire investigations, collapse governments, and make billion-dollar deals vanish into thin air—was in the hands of men she’d never even met.
This reality burned in her gut like acid. Salma’s ambition had always been her driving force, and she refused to let herself be boxed in by the limits of this shadowy underworld. Drugs and human trafficking were lucrative, but they were dirty money, tied to the whims of men like Imran and the ministers who controlled him.
Her eyes were set on something bigger: the white-collar industry. Corporate empires that moved millions daily, laundering their wealth behind glossy offices and legal loopholes. She knew the power wasn’t in backroom deals with petty criminals but in the boardrooms where CEOs manipulated stock markets and governments alike.
The ministry posting she was angling for—one that gave her authority over corporate audits—was her ticket to this world. It wasn’t just about the money; it was about respect. She craved the kind of authority that came with polished power, where her name alone could make men quake, not because of her connections but because of what she controlled.
This wasn’t just ambition. It was war. Salma was determined to claw her way to the top, no matter how many lives she shattered along the way.
How they met and everything is totally different story that we can discuss another day
Imran wasn’t like the other men she dealt with. He wasn’t hungry for her body like the ministers or the lecherous bureaucrats; he craved her control. In private, the feared drug lord knelt before her, seeking the very humiliation that other men feared. Salma’s leather-clad heels became his altar, her feet his obsession. She didn’t bother undressing for him; he didn’t deserve that. Instead, she sat imperiously, her sharp eyes watching as he groaned in pleasure, his hands trembling as he kissed her feet and begged for her approval.
Occasionally, when he had pleased her with his loyalty—or amused her enough with his desperate whining—she would grant him the privilege of release. Her toes, deft and deliberate, would work him over until he came, his humiliation staining the very floor where he knelt. It wasn’t sex; it was power. And that was all Salma cared about.
Yet even with Imran’s backing, Salma knew she was just a player in a larger game. The syndicate that supported her—the web of ministers, drug lords, and shadowy financiers—was a hierarchy as rigid as the government it corrupted. Imran, for all his notoriety, was just a CEO. A face for the media to scrutinize, a name to take the fall when the real powers needed a scapegoat.
Salma had no illusions about her place in this network. She wasn’t at the high table. She wasn’t even close. The true wealth and influence—the kind that could silence entire investigations, collapse governments, and make billion-dollar deals vanish into thin air—was in the hands of men she’d never even met.
This reality burned in her gut like acid. Salma’s ambition had always been her driving force, and she refused to let herself be boxed in by the limits of this shadowy underworld. Drugs and human trafficking were lucrative, but they were dirty money, tied to the whims of men like Imran and the ministers who controlled him.
Her eyes were set on something bigger: the white-collar industry. Corporate empires that moved millions daily, laundering their wealth behind glossy offices and legal loopholes. She knew the power wasn’t in backroom deals with petty criminals but in the boardrooms where CEOs manipulated stock markets and governments alike.
The ministry posting she was angling for—one that gave her authority over corporate audits—was her ticket to this world. It wasn’t just about the money; it was about respect. She craved the kind of authority that came with polished power, where her name alone could make men quake, not because of her connections but because of what she controlled.
This wasn’t just ambition. It was war. Salma was determined to claw her way to the top, no matter how many lives she shattered along the way.
How they met and everything is totally different story that we can discuss another day
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