19-03-2025, 06:08 PM
Salma emerged from the bathroom, the steam still clinging to her skin as she wrapped herself in a sleek black robe. The hot water had done little to wash away the irritation simmering in her chest—the minister’s pawing hands, his slobbering mouth, the way he’d left her bruised and raw. She rubbed at the tender marks on her breasts absentmindedly, muttering a curse under her breath as she slipped into a pair of leather heels. Her reflection in the mirror was sharp and unyielding, a queen ready to reclaim her throne after a night of calculated concessions.
She didn’t linger at home. Faheem’s sullen silence and Razia’s approving nods were background noise to her now—mere stepping stones in her ascent. Salma grabbed her keys and strode out, her heels clicking with purpose against the marble floor as she headed for her car. The drive to Imran’s hideout was a familiar one, a winding route through the city’s underbelly that she navigated with the ease of a predator stalking its territory.
Imran “Kingpin” Mirza’s lair was a fortress disguised as a nondescript warehouse, its exterior crumbling but its interior a testament to his illicit wealth—polished floors, imported furniture, and walls lined with monitors tracking his empire. Salma didn’t knock; she never did. The guards parted for her like obedient dogs, their eyes averted as she swept past them and into the dimly lit office where Imran waited.
He was sprawled in a leather chair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his broad frame exuding the kind of menace that had earned him his nickname. But the moment Salma stepped into the room, his posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. His dark eyes flicked up to meet hers, and a flicker of something eager, almost desperate, danced behind his hardened facade.
“Salma,” he greeted, his voice a low rumble, but there was a deference in it that no one else ever heard. He stubbed out the cigar, rising to his feet as she approached, towering over her yet somehow diminished by her presence.
She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “That filthy minister,” she snapped, dropping her bag onto his desk with a thud. “The bastard spent half the night pressing my tits like they were his personal stress toys. Eighty minutes, Imran—eighty fucking minutes of his teeth gnawing at me like I’m some damned chew toy. Look at this.” She tugged the neckline of her robe aside, revealing the deep red marks and bruises marring her dusky skin, her nipples still swollen and tender from the assault.
Imran’s gaze dropped to her chest, his breath catching slightly, but he didn’t dare linger too long. He knew better. “He’s a pig,” he muttered, his tone sympathetic but cautious, testing the waters.
“A pig with power,” Salma shot back, stepping closer until she was inches from him. “And then there’s the girl—Rukhsar. Fresh little thing, straight out of the orphanage. He had her in his lap, dressed up in his granddaughter’s college uniform, braids and all. The twisted fucker roleplayed her like she was his own kin, calling her ‘beti’ while he groped her senseless. Five hours he spent breaking her, and she cried so beautifully he said it was worth every second.”
Imran’s jaw tightened, a mix of disgust and fascination flickering across his face. “Sounds like he got his money’s worth.”
Salma’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Oh, he did. But I didn’t sign up to be his damned fruit basket while he plays out his sick fantasies. Next time, he can suck on someone else.” She jabbed a finger into Imran’s chest, her nails digging in just enough to make him flinch. “You’re going to make sure of it, aren’t you, pet?”
The shift was immediate. Imran’s broad shoulders slumped slightly, his hardened exterior melting under her command. “Yes, Salma,” he said, his voice quieter now, submissive. He sank to his knees before her, the movement fluid despite his size, his hands hovering near her feet as if awaiting permission.
She smirked, lifting one leather-clad heel and pressing it lightly against his chest, forcing him to lean back. “Good boy,” she murmured, her tone dripping with condescension. “You know your place, don’t you? Down there, groveling at my feet while I deal with pigs like him. Tell me, Imran, what’s the point of your little empire if you can’t even shield me from that old bastard’s hands?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on her heel as it trailed down his chest, stopping just above his groin. “I’ll handle it,” he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of shame and arousal. “I’ll talk to the syndicate, pull some strings—”
“Strings?” Salma laughed, sharp and cruel, pressing her heel harder until he gasped. “You don’t pull strings, Imran. You’re a puppet yourself. Don’t think I haven’t figured it out. You’re below that minister in the ladder, aren’t you? A kingpin in name only, stuck kissing the boots of men like him while they climb higher. You can’t move up, can you?”
Imran’s face flushed, his hands trembling as they gripped the floor. “It’s… complicated,” he muttered, but the defeat in his voice confirmed her words. “The syndicate—they’ve got me boxed in. I’m their front, nothing more.”
Salma tilted her head, her smirk widening as she absorbed the revelation. She’d always known Imran was a tool, but this—his inability to rise above the minister—made his submission to her all the sweeter. “Pathetic,” she said, lifting her foot and pressing it against his face, the leather cool against his heated skin. “You get off on this, don’t you? Knowing you’re nothing compared to them, compared to me. Go on, then. Show me how much you love it.”
He didn’t hesitate. His hands moved to her ankle, cradling her foot with reverence as he pressed his lips to the leather, kissing it fervently. His groans filled the room, low and desperate, as he worked his way up the arch, his tongue flicking out to taste the polished surface. Salma watched, her expression a mix of amusement and disdain, her dominance absolute.
“Faster,” she commanded, her voice like a whip. Imran obeyed, his kisses turning frantic, his breath hot and ragged against her heel. She shifted her foot, pressing the pointed tip against his groin, feeling his hardness straining through his trousers. “You’re such a dog,” she sneered, grinding her heel just enough to make him whimper. “A filthy mutt who cums at my feet because it’s all you’re good for.”
Imran’s hands fumbled with his belt, freeing himself as he rutted against her heel, his movements clumsy and urgent. Salma didn’t flinch, her eyes locked on his, drinking in his humiliation. Within moments, he shuddered, a guttural moan escaping him as he spilled onto her leather heel, the sticky warmth pooling against the black surface.
She pulled her foot back, inspecting the mess with a faint grimace before wiping it against his shirt. “Disgusting,” she muttered, but her tone held a trace of satisfaction. Imran stayed on his knees, panting, his head bowed as he tried to collect himself.
Salma straightened, adjusting her robe with a flick of her wrist. “Clean yourself up,” she said curtly, stepping past him toward the door. “And don’t forget what I said about the minister. I’m done playing his chew toy.”
As she reached the threshold, Imran rose to his feet, his demeanor shifting seamlessly back to the hardened criminal the world knew. He brushed off his trousers, his voice steadying as he called after her. “I’ll see what I can do, Salma. But the syndicate—they don’t bend easy.”
She paused, glancing over her shoulder with a cold smile. “Then break them, Imran. Or I’ll find someone who will.” With that, she swept out of the room, leaving him alone with the lingering scent of leather and his own shame.
Outside, Imran lit another cigar, his hands steady now, his face a mask of authority as he barked orders at his men. The warehouse hummed with activity—drugs being packed, routes being planned—but Salma’s words gnawed at him. She was right. He was a kingpin in title only, a cog in a machine controlled by men like the minister, men he couldn’t touch. His pleasure at her feet was a twisted solace, a release from the truth he couldn’t escape: he’d never climb higher.
Salma, though, knew better than to settle for second best. Imran’s weakness was her gain, another lever to pull in her relentless ascent. As she drove away, her mind was already spinning—Rukhsar’s next “appearance” in Goa, the minister’s promotion dangling before her, and the corporate empires she’d soon bend to her will. Imran might be stuck, but she’d never be. Not while she held the reins.
She didn’t linger at home. Faheem’s sullen silence and Razia’s approving nods were background noise to her now—mere stepping stones in her ascent. Salma grabbed her keys and strode out, her heels clicking with purpose against the marble floor as she headed for her car. The drive to Imran’s hideout was a familiar one, a winding route through the city’s underbelly that she navigated with the ease of a predator stalking its territory.
Imran “Kingpin” Mirza’s lair was a fortress disguised as a nondescript warehouse, its exterior crumbling but its interior a testament to his illicit wealth—polished floors, imported furniture, and walls lined with monitors tracking his empire. Salma didn’t knock; she never did. The guards parted for her like obedient dogs, their eyes averted as she swept past them and into the dimly lit office where Imran waited.
He was sprawled in a leather chair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his broad frame exuding the kind of menace that had earned him his nickname. But the moment Salma stepped into the room, his posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. His dark eyes flicked up to meet hers, and a flicker of something eager, almost desperate, danced behind his hardened facade.
“Salma,” he greeted, his voice a low rumble, but there was a deference in it that no one else ever heard. He stubbed out the cigar, rising to his feet as she approached, towering over her yet somehow diminished by her presence.
She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “That filthy minister,” she snapped, dropping her bag onto his desk with a thud. “The bastard spent half the night pressing my tits like they were his personal stress toys. Eighty minutes, Imran—eighty fucking minutes of his teeth gnawing at me like I’m some damned chew toy. Look at this.” She tugged the neckline of her robe aside, revealing the deep red marks and bruises marring her dusky skin, her nipples still swollen and tender from the assault.
Imran’s gaze dropped to her chest, his breath catching slightly, but he didn’t dare linger too long. He knew better. “He’s a pig,” he muttered, his tone sympathetic but cautious, testing the waters.
“A pig with power,” Salma shot back, stepping closer until she was inches from him. “And then there’s the girl—Rukhsar. Fresh little thing, straight out of the orphanage. He had her in his lap, dressed up in his granddaughter’s college uniform, braids and all. The twisted fucker roleplayed her like she was his own kin, calling her ‘beti’ while he groped her senseless. Five hours he spent breaking her, and she cried so beautifully he said it was worth every second.”
Imran’s jaw tightened, a mix of disgust and fascination flickering across his face. “Sounds like he got his money’s worth.”
Salma’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Oh, he did. But I didn’t sign up to be his damned fruit basket while he plays out his sick fantasies. Next time, he can suck on someone else.” She jabbed a finger into Imran’s chest, her nails digging in just enough to make him flinch. “You’re going to make sure of it, aren’t you, pet?”
The shift was immediate. Imran’s broad shoulders slumped slightly, his hardened exterior melting under her command. “Yes, Salma,” he said, his voice quieter now, submissive. He sank to his knees before her, the movement fluid despite his size, his hands hovering near her feet as if awaiting permission.
She smirked, lifting one leather-clad heel and pressing it lightly against his chest, forcing him to lean back. “Good boy,” she murmured, her tone dripping with condescension. “You know your place, don’t you? Down there, groveling at my feet while I deal with pigs like him. Tell me, Imran, what’s the point of your little empire if you can’t even shield me from that old bastard’s hands?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on her heel as it trailed down his chest, stopping just above his groin. “I’ll handle it,” he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of shame and arousal. “I’ll talk to the syndicate, pull some strings—”
“Strings?” Salma laughed, sharp and cruel, pressing her heel harder until he gasped. “You don’t pull strings, Imran. You’re a puppet yourself. Don’t think I haven’t figured it out. You’re below that minister in the ladder, aren’t you? A kingpin in name only, stuck kissing the boots of men like him while they climb higher. You can’t move up, can you?”
Imran’s face flushed, his hands trembling as they gripped the floor. “It’s… complicated,” he muttered, but the defeat in his voice confirmed her words. “The syndicate—they’ve got me boxed in. I’m their front, nothing more.”
Salma tilted her head, her smirk widening as she absorbed the revelation. She’d always known Imran was a tool, but this—his inability to rise above the minister—made his submission to her all the sweeter. “Pathetic,” she said, lifting her foot and pressing it against his face, the leather cool against his heated skin. “You get off on this, don’t you? Knowing you’re nothing compared to them, compared to me. Go on, then. Show me how much you love it.”
He didn’t hesitate. His hands moved to her ankle, cradling her foot with reverence as he pressed his lips to the leather, kissing it fervently. His groans filled the room, low and desperate, as he worked his way up the arch, his tongue flicking out to taste the polished surface. Salma watched, her expression a mix of amusement and disdain, her dominance absolute.
“Faster,” she commanded, her voice like a whip. Imran obeyed, his kisses turning frantic, his breath hot and ragged against her heel. She shifted her foot, pressing the pointed tip against his groin, feeling his hardness straining through his trousers. “You’re such a dog,” she sneered, grinding her heel just enough to make him whimper. “A filthy mutt who cums at my feet because it’s all you’re good for.”
Imran’s hands fumbled with his belt, freeing himself as he rutted against her heel, his movements clumsy and urgent. Salma didn’t flinch, her eyes locked on his, drinking in his humiliation. Within moments, he shuddered, a guttural moan escaping him as he spilled onto her leather heel, the sticky warmth pooling against the black surface.
She pulled her foot back, inspecting the mess with a faint grimace before wiping it against his shirt. “Disgusting,” she muttered, but her tone held a trace of satisfaction. Imran stayed on his knees, panting, his head bowed as he tried to collect himself.
Salma straightened, adjusting her robe with a flick of her wrist. “Clean yourself up,” she said curtly, stepping past him toward the door. “And don’t forget what I said about the minister. I’m done playing his chew toy.”
As she reached the threshold, Imran rose to his feet, his demeanor shifting seamlessly back to the hardened criminal the world knew. He brushed off his trousers, his voice steadying as he called after her. “I’ll see what I can do, Salma. But the syndicate—they don’t bend easy.”
She paused, glancing over her shoulder with a cold smile. “Then break them, Imran. Or I’ll find someone who will.” With that, she swept out of the room, leaving him alone with the lingering scent of leather and his own shame.
Outside, Imran lit another cigar, his hands steady now, his face a mask of authority as he barked orders at his men. The warehouse hummed with activity—drugs being packed, routes being planned—but Salma’s words gnawed at him. She was right. He was a kingpin in title only, a cog in a machine controlled by men like the minister, men he couldn’t touch. His pleasure at her feet was a twisted solace, a release from the truth he couldn’t escape: he’d never climb higher.
Salma, though, knew better than to settle for second best. Imran’s weakness was her gain, another lever to pull in her relentless ascent. As she drove away, her mind was already spinning—Rukhsar’s next “appearance” in Goa, the minister’s promotion dangling before her, and the corporate empires she’d soon bend to her will. Imran might be stuck, but she’d never be. Not while she held the reins.
Feel free to critique 
Leave a comment it gives writter the kick same as you get by reading the story.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)