19-03-2025, 06:30 PM
Salma was halfway to the door, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm against the polished floor, when Imran’s voice cut through the silence behind her. “Wait,” he said, his tone softer now, stripped of its earlier deference but tinged with something needier. “Can you stay tonight? In my room? I’ve got some bastards skimming product off the shipments—need to deal with them first, but I’ll be back soon.”
She paused, one hand on the doorframe, and turned slowly, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied him. Imran stood there, his broad frame still imposing despite the mess on his shirt, his cigar smoldering forgotten on the desk. The request hung in the air, awkward and raw, a crack in his kingpin armor.
“No,” Salma replied flatly, her voice cool and dismissive. She adjusted her robe, ready to leave him to his mess and his men.
But then Imran’s demeanor shifted. He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a childish whine that clashed absurdly with his hardened exterior. “Mom, please,” he pleaded, his eyes wide and imploring, like a kid begging for a bedtime story. “I’ll do whatever you want, just stay. Please?”
Salma’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement breaking through her irritation. She tilted her head, considering him—his hulking figure reduced to this pathetic, groveling boy. It was a game they’d played before, every once in a while, when his bravado cracked and he sought something softer from her, something she wielded like a leash. She crossed her arms, her gaze piercing as she weighed the offer.
“Double the usual,” she said finally, her tone clipped and businesslike. She wouldn’t call it payment—her pride wouldn’t allow it—but they both knew what it was: a transaction masked as a gift, a price for her indulgence in his twisted need. “And don’t think I’m doing this out of kindness.”
Imran nodded eagerly, a relieved grin spreading across his face. “Done,” he said, his voice still carrying that childish lilt. “Double it is. I’ll have it ready.”
Salma’s smile was slow and predatory, her eyes glinting with control. “Beta,” she purred, stepping closer and patting his cheek with mock affection, “don’t be late. If I’m waiting too long, I’ll pat your ass instead—and not the way you like.” Her tone was teasing, but the threat beneath it was real, a reminder of who held the reins.
Imran chuckled, a low, nervous sound, and ducked his head. “I’ll be quick, Mom,” he promised, already moving to grab his jacket. “Just need to crack some skulls, then I’m yours.”
She watched him go, his men falling into step behind him as the warehouse doors slammed shut. Salma sighed, shaking her head slightly as she turned toward the stairs leading to his private quarters. The absurdity of it—Imran “Kingpin” Mirza, feared drug lord, begging her to play mommy—never failed to amuse her. But it was power, too, another thread in the web she’d spun around him.
His room was starkly different from the opulence below—a simple bed, a worn armchair, a single lamp casting a dim glow. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the kingpin shed his title and became something smaller, needier. Salma kicked off her heels and shrugged out of her robe, letting it pool on the floor. She stood there for a moment, debating, then slipped off her panties too, leaving herself bare. Imran wouldn’t penetrate her—she knew that for certain. His desires didn’t run that way with her; they were too tangled in this strange, maternal fantasy.
She settled onto the bed, propping herself against the headboard, her full breasts exposed to the cool air, the bruises from the minister still stark against her skin. She didn’t cover them—Imran liked them out, liked burying his face there while he rambled about business or whatever else spilled from his mind. It was a ritual, one she tolerated because it kept him pliable, loyal, hers.
An hour later, the door creaked open, and Imran slipped inside, his jacket slung over his shoulder, his knuckles faintly bloodied from whatever “dealing” he’d done. His eyes lit up when he saw her—naked, waiting, her presence both commanding and indulgent. “You stayed,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent.
“Told you I would, beta,” Salma replied, patting the bed beside her. “Come here. Tell Mommy how you handled those thieves.”
Imran shed his jacket and boots, crawling onto the bed like an overgrown child. He settled beside her, his head dropping to her chest, his face nestling against her breasts with a contented sigh. His breath was warm against her skin, his stubble grazing the tender marks as he mumbled, “Caught two of them skimming coke off the coastal shipment. Broke their fingers, sent a message. The rest’ll fall in line now.”
Salma’s hand rested on his head, her fingers threading through his hair with a lazy, almost maternal touch. “Good boy,” she murmured, her tone laced with approval. “You’re learning. What else?”
He shifted closer, his voice growing drowsy as he rambled on—details about the Goa routes, the minister’s latest demands, a rival gang sniffing too close to his territory. Salma listened, her sharp mind filing away every word, every weakness he unwittingly revealed. His face stayed buried in her chest, his lips brushing her skin but never crossing the line she’d drawn. She was naked, vulnerable in body but untouchable in spirit, and he knew it.
“Double’s on the table,” he muttered after a while, his eyes half-closed. “Cash and that diamond bracelet you wanted. It’s yours.”
Salma smirked, her hand stilling in his hair. “Smart boy,” she said, her voice low and satisfied. “You keep Mommy happy, and I’ll keep you safe. But don’t think this gets you off the hook with the minister. He’s still your problem.”
Imran nodded against her, his breath evening out as exhaustion took hold. “I know,” he whispered. “I’ll figure it out.”
She didn’t respond, letting him drift into sleep, his weight heavy against her. Salma’s eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling as her mind churned. Imran’s neediness was useful, but his confession earlier—that he was below the minister in the syndicate’s ladder, unable to climb—gnawed at her. He was a tool, yes, but a limited one. A kingpin who couldn’t rise was a liability in her war for power.
And then there was the minister—his hands, his twisted games with Rukhsar, his casual dominance over her body. Salma’s jaw tightened, her fingers curling slightly in Imran’s hair. She’d tolerated it for the promotion, but she wouldn’t again. Imran’s weakness meant he couldn’t shield her from that pig, and that was unacceptable.
Salma’s gaze lingered on the ceiling, her mind still churning through the possibilities—corporate audits, Maya’s pristine company ripe for ruin. Imran’s shipments and the Goa trip were petty games, crumbs compared to the feast she craved. His doubled “gift” tonight—cash and that glittering bracelet—was a nice trinket, but it wasn’t enough. She needed real power, the kind he couldn’t hand her on a platter, the kind she’d have to seize with her own hands.
Imran stirred against her, his face still pressed to her chest, his breath warm and steady against the bruised skin. His stubble grazed the tender marks left by the minister, and she felt him shift slightly, his lips brushing closer to one swollen nipple. He hesitated, his body tensing as if testing her boundaries, then pulled back just enough to look up at her with those dark, needy eyes.
“Salma,” he murmured, his voice low and tentative, dropping the “Mommy” act for a moment. “Those marks… the minister really went at you, didn’t he?” His gaze flicked to the deep red imprints, the faint outlines of teeth framing her areolas, and a hungry edge crept into his expression. “What if… from now on, I could…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Could I suck them? Your tits, I mean. Whenever we’re like this?”
Salma raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a faint, amused smirk. “You’re bold tonight, beta,” she said, her tone teasing but sharp. “What’s in it for me? You think I’m letting you anywhere near these for free after that pig slobbered all over them?”
Imran’s face flushed, but he pressed on, his voice gaining a desperate edge. “Fifteen percent,” he offered quickly, his eyes locked on hers. “Double your usual cut—7.5 to 15, every week’s collections. Cash straight to you, no questions. I just… I want to.” His gaze dropped back to her chest, the minister’s marks like a taunt, a perverse invitation he couldn’t resist.
Salma tilted her head, considering him. Fifteen percent was a hefty jump—millions more over time, a steady stream to fund her ambitions. She could see the temptation in his eyes, the way the minister’s brutality had stirred something in him, and she relished the power it gave her. “Fifteen, hmm?” she mused, her fingers threading through his hair again, tugging lightly. “You’re that desperate to play with Mommy’s toys? Fine. But you’d better not disappoint me, Imran. I don’t do charity.”
He nodded eagerly, a grin breaking through his usual stoicism. “I won’t,” he promised, shifting closer. “You’ll see.” He hesitated again, waiting for her nod, and when she gave it—a slight, imperious tilt of her chin—he leaned in, his lips closing around one bruised nipple with a reverence that bordered on worship. His tongue flicked gently at first, then bolder, tasting the salt of her skin and the faint sting of the marks. A low groan rumbled in his throat, muffled against her flesh.
Salma let him indulge, her expression cool but calculating as she watched him lose himself. “Talk to me,” she said after a moment, her voice cutting through his haze. “What’s on your mind, beta? Business? Those thieves you smashed up?”
Imran pulled back slightly, his lips still hovering near her chest, his breath ragged. “Yeah,” he muttered, kissing the curve of her breast before continuing. “The shipment’s secure now—broke their hands, scared the rest straight. Goa’s next. Coastal routes are tight, but I’m doubling the guards after tonight.” He nuzzled closer, his face half-buried again. “What about you? That girl you mentioned—Rukhsar. What’s her story?”
Salma’s smirk widened, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Curious, are you?” she said, reaching for her phone on the bedside table. “She’s a little treasure I plucked from an orphanage—barely 18, fresh as they come. The minister couldn’t keep his hands off her. Want to see what your precious syndicate boss gets up to?”
Imran lifted his head, intrigued, and nodded. Salma unlocked her phone, her fingers deft as she pulled up the video—secretly recorded by her men, every angle crisp, every sound captured. She hit play, and the screen lit up with the grainy footage: Rukhsar perched on the minister’s lap, her college uniform bunched around her hips, her braids loose and her face streaked with tears. The minister’s hands roamed her trembling body, his slurred voice muttering, “Perfect, just like my little princess,” as he pawed at her.
Imran’s eyes widened, a mix of disgust and fascination flickering across his face as the audio kicked in—Rukhsar’s muffled sobs, the minister’s guttural grunts. “He’s a perv,” Imran said, his voice low, almost incredulous. “Imagining his own granddaughter? That’s fucked up, even for him.”
Salma laughed, a sharp, throaty sound that filled the room. “Oh, and you’re a saint, are you?” she mocked, leaning closer until her breath brushed his ear. “Burying your face in Mommy’s tits, begging me to stay like some lost little boy? Don’t pretend you’re above him, beta. You’re just a different flavor of twisted.”
Imran flushed again, his lips parting to protest, but he couldn’t deny it—not with his mouth still glistening from her skin, not with the way he’d groveled earlier. “It’s not the same,” he muttered, defensive, but his eyes flicked back to the video, drawn to the depravity despite himself.
“Not the same?” Salma echoed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re right. He breaks girls for fun; you break yourself for me. At least he’s honest about what he wants.” She paused the video, the frame freezing on Rukhsar’s tear-streaked face, and set the phone aside. “She’s my goldmine now. That perv paid well, but he’s just the start. Goa’s where the real money is—fresh meat for the elite.”
Imran shifted, his head resting against her chest again, his lips brushing her other nipple as he resumed his gentle sucking. “You’re ruthless,” he mumbled between kisses, his voice muffled. “But smart. Always smart.”
“Damn right,” Salma replied, her hand tightening in his hair, guiding him as she leaned back against the headboard. “And you’d do well to remember it. Fifteen percent’s a nice start, but I’m not stopping there. Keep your shipments tight, beta, and maybe I’ll let you keep playing with Mommy’s toys.”
He nodded against her, his tongue tracing the minister’s marks with a mix of reverence and envy, his mind clearly spinning with her words. Salma watched him, her thoughts drifting back to her bigger game— Maya’s company teetering on the edge of her audits. Imran was useful, pliable, but he was small-time compared to what lay ahead. His fetish, his money, his loyalty—they were tools, nothing more.
As Imran’s breathing slowed, his body growing heavy against her, Salma’s lips curved into a cold, triumphant smile. “Sleep tight, little boy,” she whispered, her voice a velvet blade. “Mommy’s just getting started.”
She paused, one hand on the doorframe, and turned slowly, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied him. Imran stood there, his broad frame still imposing despite the mess on his shirt, his cigar smoldering forgotten on the desk. The request hung in the air, awkward and raw, a crack in his kingpin armor.
“No,” Salma replied flatly, her voice cool and dismissive. She adjusted her robe, ready to leave him to his mess and his men.
But then Imran’s demeanor shifted. He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a childish whine that clashed absurdly with his hardened exterior. “Mom, please,” he pleaded, his eyes wide and imploring, like a kid begging for a bedtime story. “I’ll do whatever you want, just stay. Please?”
Salma’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement breaking through her irritation. She tilted her head, considering him—his hulking figure reduced to this pathetic, groveling boy. It was a game they’d played before, every once in a while, when his bravado cracked and he sought something softer from her, something she wielded like a leash. She crossed her arms, her gaze piercing as she weighed the offer.
“Double the usual,” she said finally, her tone clipped and businesslike. She wouldn’t call it payment—her pride wouldn’t allow it—but they both knew what it was: a transaction masked as a gift, a price for her indulgence in his twisted need. “And don’t think I’m doing this out of kindness.”
Imran nodded eagerly, a relieved grin spreading across his face. “Done,” he said, his voice still carrying that childish lilt. “Double it is. I’ll have it ready.”
Salma’s smile was slow and predatory, her eyes glinting with control. “Beta,” she purred, stepping closer and patting his cheek with mock affection, “don’t be late. If I’m waiting too long, I’ll pat your ass instead—and not the way you like.” Her tone was teasing, but the threat beneath it was real, a reminder of who held the reins.
Imran chuckled, a low, nervous sound, and ducked his head. “I’ll be quick, Mom,” he promised, already moving to grab his jacket. “Just need to crack some skulls, then I’m yours.”
She watched him go, his men falling into step behind him as the warehouse doors slammed shut. Salma sighed, shaking her head slightly as she turned toward the stairs leading to his private quarters. The absurdity of it—Imran “Kingpin” Mirza, feared drug lord, begging her to play mommy—never failed to amuse her. But it was power, too, another thread in the web she’d spun around him.
His room was starkly different from the opulence below—a simple bed, a worn armchair, a single lamp casting a dim glow. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the kingpin shed his title and became something smaller, needier. Salma kicked off her heels and shrugged out of her robe, letting it pool on the floor. She stood there for a moment, debating, then slipped off her panties too, leaving herself bare. Imran wouldn’t penetrate her—she knew that for certain. His desires didn’t run that way with her; they were too tangled in this strange, maternal fantasy.
She settled onto the bed, propping herself against the headboard, her full breasts exposed to the cool air, the bruises from the minister still stark against her skin. She didn’t cover them—Imran liked them out, liked burying his face there while he rambled about business or whatever else spilled from his mind. It was a ritual, one she tolerated because it kept him pliable, loyal, hers.
An hour later, the door creaked open, and Imran slipped inside, his jacket slung over his shoulder, his knuckles faintly bloodied from whatever “dealing” he’d done. His eyes lit up when he saw her—naked, waiting, her presence both commanding and indulgent. “You stayed,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent.
“Told you I would, beta,” Salma replied, patting the bed beside her. “Come here. Tell Mommy how you handled those thieves.”
Imran shed his jacket and boots, crawling onto the bed like an overgrown child. He settled beside her, his head dropping to her chest, his face nestling against her breasts with a contented sigh. His breath was warm against her skin, his stubble grazing the tender marks as he mumbled, “Caught two of them skimming coke off the coastal shipment. Broke their fingers, sent a message. The rest’ll fall in line now.”
Salma’s hand rested on his head, her fingers threading through his hair with a lazy, almost maternal touch. “Good boy,” she murmured, her tone laced with approval. “You’re learning. What else?”
He shifted closer, his voice growing drowsy as he rambled on—details about the Goa routes, the minister’s latest demands, a rival gang sniffing too close to his territory. Salma listened, her sharp mind filing away every word, every weakness he unwittingly revealed. His face stayed buried in her chest, his lips brushing her skin but never crossing the line she’d drawn. She was naked, vulnerable in body but untouchable in spirit, and he knew it.
“Double’s on the table,” he muttered after a while, his eyes half-closed. “Cash and that diamond bracelet you wanted. It’s yours.”
Salma smirked, her hand stilling in his hair. “Smart boy,” she said, her voice low and satisfied. “You keep Mommy happy, and I’ll keep you safe. But don’t think this gets you off the hook with the minister. He’s still your problem.”
Imran nodded against her, his breath evening out as exhaustion took hold. “I know,” he whispered. “I’ll figure it out.”
She didn’t respond, letting him drift into sleep, his weight heavy against her. Salma’s eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling as her mind churned. Imran’s neediness was useful, but his confession earlier—that he was below the minister in the syndicate’s ladder, unable to climb—gnawed at her. He was a tool, yes, but a limited one. A kingpin who couldn’t rise was a liability in her war for power.
And then there was the minister—his hands, his twisted games with Rukhsar, his casual dominance over her body. Salma’s jaw tightened, her fingers curling slightly in Imran’s hair. She’d tolerated it for the promotion, but she wouldn’t again. Imran’s weakness meant he couldn’t shield her from that pig, and that was unacceptable.
Salma’s gaze lingered on the ceiling, her mind still churning through the possibilities—corporate audits, Maya’s pristine company ripe for ruin. Imran’s shipments and the Goa trip were petty games, crumbs compared to the feast she craved. His doubled “gift” tonight—cash and that glittering bracelet—was a nice trinket, but it wasn’t enough. She needed real power, the kind he couldn’t hand her on a platter, the kind she’d have to seize with her own hands.
Imran stirred against her, his face still pressed to her chest, his breath warm and steady against the bruised skin. His stubble grazed the tender marks left by the minister, and she felt him shift slightly, his lips brushing closer to one swollen nipple. He hesitated, his body tensing as if testing her boundaries, then pulled back just enough to look up at her with those dark, needy eyes.
“Salma,” he murmured, his voice low and tentative, dropping the “Mommy” act for a moment. “Those marks… the minister really went at you, didn’t he?” His gaze flicked to the deep red imprints, the faint outlines of teeth framing her areolas, and a hungry edge crept into his expression. “What if… from now on, I could…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Could I suck them? Your tits, I mean. Whenever we’re like this?”
Salma raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a faint, amused smirk. “You’re bold tonight, beta,” she said, her tone teasing but sharp. “What’s in it for me? You think I’m letting you anywhere near these for free after that pig slobbered all over them?”
Imran’s face flushed, but he pressed on, his voice gaining a desperate edge. “Fifteen percent,” he offered quickly, his eyes locked on hers. “Double your usual cut—7.5 to 15, every week’s collections. Cash straight to you, no questions. I just… I want to.” His gaze dropped back to her chest, the minister’s marks like a taunt, a perverse invitation he couldn’t resist.
Salma tilted her head, considering him. Fifteen percent was a hefty jump—millions more over time, a steady stream to fund her ambitions. She could see the temptation in his eyes, the way the minister’s brutality had stirred something in him, and she relished the power it gave her. “Fifteen, hmm?” she mused, her fingers threading through his hair again, tugging lightly. “You’re that desperate to play with Mommy’s toys? Fine. But you’d better not disappoint me, Imran. I don’t do charity.”
He nodded eagerly, a grin breaking through his usual stoicism. “I won’t,” he promised, shifting closer. “You’ll see.” He hesitated again, waiting for her nod, and when she gave it—a slight, imperious tilt of her chin—he leaned in, his lips closing around one bruised nipple with a reverence that bordered on worship. His tongue flicked gently at first, then bolder, tasting the salt of her skin and the faint sting of the marks. A low groan rumbled in his throat, muffled against her flesh.
Salma let him indulge, her expression cool but calculating as she watched him lose himself. “Talk to me,” she said after a moment, her voice cutting through his haze. “What’s on your mind, beta? Business? Those thieves you smashed up?”
Imran pulled back slightly, his lips still hovering near her chest, his breath ragged. “Yeah,” he muttered, kissing the curve of her breast before continuing. “The shipment’s secure now—broke their hands, scared the rest straight. Goa’s next. Coastal routes are tight, but I’m doubling the guards after tonight.” He nuzzled closer, his face half-buried again. “What about you? That girl you mentioned—Rukhsar. What’s her story?”
Salma’s smirk widened, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Curious, are you?” she said, reaching for her phone on the bedside table. “She’s a little treasure I plucked from an orphanage—barely 18, fresh as they come. The minister couldn’t keep his hands off her. Want to see what your precious syndicate boss gets up to?”
Imran lifted his head, intrigued, and nodded. Salma unlocked her phone, her fingers deft as she pulled up the video—secretly recorded by her men, every angle crisp, every sound captured. She hit play, and the screen lit up with the grainy footage: Rukhsar perched on the minister’s lap, her college uniform bunched around her hips, her braids loose and her face streaked with tears. The minister’s hands roamed her trembling body, his slurred voice muttering, “Perfect, just like my little princess,” as he pawed at her.
Imran’s eyes widened, a mix of disgust and fascination flickering across his face as the audio kicked in—Rukhsar’s muffled sobs, the minister’s guttural grunts. “He’s a perv,” Imran said, his voice low, almost incredulous. “Imagining his own granddaughter? That’s fucked up, even for him.”
Salma laughed, a sharp, throaty sound that filled the room. “Oh, and you’re a saint, are you?” she mocked, leaning closer until her breath brushed his ear. “Burying your face in Mommy’s tits, begging me to stay like some lost little boy? Don’t pretend you’re above him, beta. You’re just a different flavor of twisted.”
Imran flushed again, his lips parting to protest, but he couldn’t deny it—not with his mouth still glistening from her skin, not with the way he’d groveled earlier. “It’s not the same,” he muttered, defensive, but his eyes flicked back to the video, drawn to the depravity despite himself.
“Not the same?” Salma echoed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re right. He breaks girls for fun; you break yourself for me. At least he’s honest about what he wants.” She paused the video, the frame freezing on Rukhsar’s tear-streaked face, and set the phone aside. “She’s my goldmine now. That perv paid well, but he’s just the start. Goa’s where the real money is—fresh meat for the elite.”
Imran shifted, his head resting against her chest again, his lips brushing her other nipple as he resumed his gentle sucking. “You’re ruthless,” he mumbled between kisses, his voice muffled. “But smart. Always smart.”
“Damn right,” Salma replied, her hand tightening in his hair, guiding him as she leaned back against the headboard. “And you’d do well to remember it. Fifteen percent’s a nice start, but I’m not stopping there. Keep your shipments tight, beta, and maybe I’ll let you keep playing with Mommy’s toys.”
He nodded against her, his tongue tracing the minister’s marks with a mix of reverence and envy, his mind clearly spinning with her words. Salma watched him, her thoughts drifting back to her bigger game— Maya’s company teetering on the edge of her audits. Imran was useful, pliable, but he was small-time compared to what lay ahead. His fetish, his money, his loyalty—they were tools, nothing more.
As Imran’s breathing slowed, his body growing heavy against her, Salma’s lips curved into a cold, triumphant smile. “Sleep tight, little boy,” she whispered, her voice a velvet blade. “Mommy’s just getting started.”
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