19-03-2025, 09:30 PM
The night deepened, the room cloaked in a heavy silence broken only by Imran’s steady breathing. Salma stirred awake, her body registering the heat of him before her mind caught up—his broad frame pressed tightly against her naked form, arms wrapped around her like a needy child clutching a doll. His face was buried in her neck now, no longer nestled against her chest, his stubble prickling her skin. She lay still for a moment, her sharp mind cutting through the haze of sleep, and a mocking thought slithered in: Look at you, big bad kingpin, clinging to me like I’m your lifeline. Pathetic little boy.
She shifted, turning away from him, her back to his chest, intending to reclaim some space. But Imran adjusted instinctively, his arms tightening as he hugged her from behind, his hips pressing closer. His dick—half-hard even in sleep—nudged against her ass, the warmth of it brushing her skin through the thin gap between them. Salma’s lips twitched in faint disgust, but she didn’t pull away. It wasn’t worth the effort. He wouldn’t dare cross that line, not even in his dreams. She closed her eyes, letting the sound of his soft snores lull her back into sleep, unbothered by the contact.
Then the dream came.
It started with shadows—blurred edges, a room not unlike the minister’s lavish bedroom at the farmhouse. But it wasn’t Rukhsar on the bed this time; it was Salma, sprawled naked, her wrists pinned by Imran’s strong hands. His eyes gleamed with that same desperate hunger she’d seen earlier, only now it was feral, unchecked. He loomed over her, his breath hot and ragged, but instead of the minister’s collegegirl uniform, he dbangd her in a saree—rich silk, deep maroon, the kind her mother might have worn. Gold jewelry glinted at her neck and wrists, a veil slipping loosely over her hair, framing her face in a mockery of reverence.
Salma’s dream unfurled like a fevered nightmare, the edges of reality melting into a dimly lit room that felt both foreign and suffocatingly familiar. The air hung thick with the musky scent of sweat and incense, a cloying mix that coated her nostrils and clung to the back of her throat, sharp and invasive. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by a flickering oil lamp in the corner, its flame spitting faintly audible pops that mingled with the low, rhythmic creak of the wooden bed beneath her.
She saw herself sprawled across the mattress, her body dbangd in a maroon saree—rich, heavy silk that shimmered faintly in the lamplight, its golden threads catching the glow like veins of fire. The fabric hugged her curves, cool against her skin at first, a deceptive comfort. Imran loomed above her, his broad silhouette filling the frame, his dark eyes glinting with a hunger that twisted her stomach. His hands, calloused and rough, gripped the edge of the saree, and with a sudden, violent yank, he tore it aside. The sound ripped through the silence—a harsh, grating tear, like cloth splitting under a blade, exposing her bare flesh to the cool air. Goosebumps prickled across her skin, the sudden chill contrasting with the heat radiating from his body as he leaned closer.
“Mommy,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust, a gravelly growl that vibrated in her ears and sent a shiver racing down her spine. The word dripped from his lips like honey laced with poison, perverse and possessive, echoing in the hollow space around them. His breath washed over her face, hot and sour with the faint tang of cigar smoke and whiskey, a taste she could almost feel on her tongue as he hovered inches above her. His hands roamed her body, rough and unyielding—fingers digging into her hips, scbanging over her ribs, leaving trails of heat and faint stings where his nails grazed her dusky skin. She saw the minister’s bite marks on her breasts flare red under his touch, tender and raw, each brush igniting a dull ache that pulsed through her chest.
Salma’s dream-self fought, her nails clawing at the sheets—coarse cotton that scratched her palms, bunching under her grip as she twisted beneath him. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and old sweat, a stale, earthy undertone that mixed with the sharper scent of her own rising panic. She heard her own breaths, sharp and ragged, cutting through the wet, guttural grunts spilling from Imran’s throat as he flipped her over. The motion was swift, jarring—her stomach lurched as the bed groaned under their weight, the wood splintering faintly with each shift. Her ass was bare now, vulnerable, the cool air kissing her skin before his hands seized her again, his palms sweaty and hot, gripping her hips like a vice. The pressure was bruising, a dull throb blooming where his fingers sank in, pinning her in place.
He thrust into her with a grunt, the sound raw and animalistic, reverberating in her skull like a drumbeat. The intrusion was sudden, overwhelming—her body jolted forward, the mattress springs squeaking in protest beneath her. She felt him, thick and relentless, stretching her with a heat that burned deep inside, a slick friction that pulsed with every brutal stroke. The sensation was visceral, a mix of pain and unwanted warmth pooling between her legs, her traitorous flesh responding even as her mind screamed against it. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, a rhythmic, obscene cadence that drowned out her stifled gasps, each thrust punctuated by the faint jingle of the gold jewelry he’d forced on her—bangles clashing at her wrists, a necklace swaying heavily against her collarbone, its metal cool and biting where it grazed her sweat-slicked skin.
The saree’s remnants clung to her thighs, damp now with her own perspiration, the silk sticking uncomfortably as she writhed. She tasted salt on her lips—sweat or tears, she couldn’t tell—bitter and sharp, mingling with the metallic tang of fear as her tongue pressed against her teeth. Imran’s scent enveloped her, a heavy mix of musk and leather, intensified by the heat of his body pressing down on hers. His groans grew louder, more desperate, his voice rasping her name—“Salma, fuck, Salma”—a chant that clawed at her ears, possessive and unhinged. His pace quickened, relentless, the bed frame rattling with each thrust, the wood creaking louder as if it might collapse under the strain.
Then came the creampie—hot, messy, a sudden flood inside her as he shuddered above her, his grip tightening until her hips ached under his hands. She felt it spill, thick and searing, a violation that coated her insides and dripped down her thighs, the wetness sticky and warm against her skin. The air grew heavier with the scent of sex, raw and primal, choking her as she gasped for breath. His groans peaked into a guttural moan, his body trembling as he emptied himself, the sound echoing in her ears like a thunderclap. Her dream-self clawed harder at the sheets, nails catching on loose threads, the coarse fabric scbanging her fingertips raw as she fought to pull away.
He pulled out with a wet, sucking sound, leaving her empty and exposed, the cool air rushing in to replace his heat. But he wasn’t done. His hands shifted, slick with sweat, sliding down to spread her ass, his intent clear as he positioned himself again. She saw it in slow motion—his dick, glistening and still hard, inching closer, the air thick with the mingled smells of cum and her own reluctant arousal. She felt the pressure building, the threat of another invasion, her body tensing as his breath hitched, his voice whispering “Mommy” one last time—
The scene jolted, a violent snap like a rope breaking, and Salma’s eyes flew open, her real body drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around her legs in the dark room.
Salma woke with a gasp, her body slick with sweat, her thighs clenched around a shameful wetness. Her heart pounded in her chest, the dream’s vividness lingering like a stain. She sat up abruptly, her breath shallow, and turned to Imran, still asleep beside her, his arms loosely dbangd over the sheets now. His dick, she noticed with a surge of revulsion, had left a faint smear of cum on her thigh—evidence he’d rubbed himself against her in his sleep, finishing without even waking.
Rage flared in her, sharp and sudden. She reared back and slapped him hard across the face, the crack echoing in the quiet room. Imran jolted awake, his hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with confusion and panic. “What happened, Mommy?” he stammered, his voice groggy but instantly submissive. “Sorry if I did anything wrong—I didn’t mean to—”
He glanced down, noticing the mess on her thigh, and his face flushed with guilt. “Oh shit, I—I must’ve… early this morning, I didn’t realize—”
“Shut up,” Salma snapped, her voice icy as she swung her legs off the bed. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dignify his babbling with a response. The dream clung to her like a sickness—Imran’s hands, his voice, the perverse blend of maternal and sexual that mirrored the minister’s filth. She stood, her naked body tense, and stormed toward the bathroom, her bare feet silent against the cold floor.
Imran sat up, rubbing his stinging cheek, his expression a mix of shame and bewilderment. “Salma, wait—” he called after her, but the door slammed shut before he could finish, cutting off his plea.
Inside the bathroom, Salma turned the shower on full blast, the scalding water hitting her skin like a punishment. She stood under it, letting it burn away the sweat, the wetness, the lingering echo of that dream. Her hands scrubbed at her thighs, her chest, as if she could erase the minister’s marks and Imran’s touch in one furious sweep. Fucking idiot, she thought, her mind spitting venom at Imran. Cumming on me like some animal—and that dream… what the hell was that?
She didn’t linger on it. Dreams were nothing—tricks of a tired mind, not truths. She was still Salma Iqbal, untouchable, in control. Imran’s weakness, the minister’s perversion—they were fuel, not threats. As the steam clouded the mirror, her resolve hardened. She’d use them both, squeeze them dry, and move on to the real prize—Maya’s company, Arjun’s billions, the power she’d carve out with her own hands.
When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, Imran was still on the bed, watching her warily. She ignored him, dressing in silence, her movements sharp and deliberate. “Clean up your mess,” she said coldly, not meeting his eyes. “And don’t pull that shit again.”
He nodded, subdued, and she left without another word, her mind already shifting back to the game ahead.
She shifted, turning away from him, her back to his chest, intending to reclaim some space. But Imran adjusted instinctively, his arms tightening as he hugged her from behind, his hips pressing closer. His dick—half-hard even in sleep—nudged against her ass, the warmth of it brushing her skin through the thin gap between them. Salma’s lips twitched in faint disgust, but she didn’t pull away. It wasn’t worth the effort. He wouldn’t dare cross that line, not even in his dreams. She closed her eyes, letting the sound of his soft snores lull her back into sleep, unbothered by the contact.
Then the dream came.
It started with shadows—blurred edges, a room not unlike the minister’s lavish bedroom at the farmhouse. But it wasn’t Rukhsar on the bed this time; it was Salma, sprawled naked, her wrists pinned by Imran’s strong hands. His eyes gleamed with that same desperate hunger she’d seen earlier, only now it was feral, unchecked. He loomed over her, his breath hot and ragged, but instead of the minister’s collegegirl uniform, he dbangd her in a saree—rich silk, deep maroon, the kind her mother might have worn. Gold jewelry glinted at her neck and wrists, a veil slipping loosely over her hair, framing her face in a mockery of reverence.
Salma’s dream unfurled like a fevered nightmare, the edges of reality melting into a dimly lit room that felt both foreign and suffocatingly familiar. The air hung thick with the musky scent of sweat and incense, a cloying mix that coated her nostrils and clung to the back of her throat, sharp and invasive. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by a flickering oil lamp in the corner, its flame spitting faintly audible pops that mingled with the low, rhythmic creak of the wooden bed beneath her.
She saw herself sprawled across the mattress, her body dbangd in a maroon saree—rich, heavy silk that shimmered faintly in the lamplight, its golden threads catching the glow like veins of fire. The fabric hugged her curves, cool against her skin at first, a deceptive comfort. Imran loomed above her, his broad silhouette filling the frame, his dark eyes glinting with a hunger that twisted her stomach. His hands, calloused and rough, gripped the edge of the saree, and with a sudden, violent yank, he tore it aside. The sound ripped through the silence—a harsh, grating tear, like cloth splitting under a blade, exposing her bare flesh to the cool air. Goosebumps prickled across her skin, the sudden chill contrasting with the heat radiating from his body as he leaned closer.
“Mommy,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust, a gravelly growl that vibrated in her ears and sent a shiver racing down her spine. The word dripped from his lips like honey laced with poison, perverse and possessive, echoing in the hollow space around them. His breath washed over her face, hot and sour with the faint tang of cigar smoke and whiskey, a taste she could almost feel on her tongue as he hovered inches above her. His hands roamed her body, rough and unyielding—fingers digging into her hips, scbanging over her ribs, leaving trails of heat and faint stings where his nails grazed her dusky skin. She saw the minister’s bite marks on her breasts flare red under his touch, tender and raw, each brush igniting a dull ache that pulsed through her chest.
Salma’s dream-self fought, her nails clawing at the sheets—coarse cotton that scratched her palms, bunching under her grip as she twisted beneath him. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and old sweat, a stale, earthy undertone that mixed with the sharper scent of her own rising panic. She heard her own breaths, sharp and ragged, cutting through the wet, guttural grunts spilling from Imran’s throat as he flipped her over. The motion was swift, jarring—her stomach lurched as the bed groaned under their weight, the wood splintering faintly with each shift. Her ass was bare now, vulnerable, the cool air kissing her skin before his hands seized her again, his palms sweaty and hot, gripping her hips like a vice. The pressure was bruising, a dull throb blooming where his fingers sank in, pinning her in place.
He thrust into her with a grunt, the sound raw and animalistic, reverberating in her skull like a drumbeat. The intrusion was sudden, overwhelming—her body jolted forward, the mattress springs squeaking in protest beneath her. She felt him, thick and relentless, stretching her with a heat that burned deep inside, a slick friction that pulsed with every brutal stroke. The sensation was visceral, a mix of pain and unwanted warmth pooling between her legs, her traitorous flesh responding even as her mind screamed against it. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, a rhythmic, obscene cadence that drowned out her stifled gasps, each thrust punctuated by the faint jingle of the gold jewelry he’d forced on her—bangles clashing at her wrists, a necklace swaying heavily against her collarbone, its metal cool and biting where it grazed her sweat-slicked skin.
The saree’s remnants clung to her thighs, damp now with her own perspiration, the silk sticking uncomfortably as she writhed. She tasted salt on her lips—sweat or tears, she couldn’t tell—bitter and sharp, mingling with the metallic tang of fear as her tongue pressed against her teeth. Imran’s scent enveloped her, a heavy mix of musk and leather, intensified by the heat of his body pressing down on hers. His groans grew louder, more desperate, his voice rasping her name—“Salma, fuck, Salma”—a chant that clawed at her ears, possessive and unhinged. His pace quickened, relentless, the bed frame rattling with each thrust, the wood creaking louder as if it might collapse under the strain.
Then came the creampie—hot, messy, a sudden flood inside her as he shuddered above her, his grip tightening until her hips ached under his hands. She felt it spill, thick and searing, a violation that coated her insides and dripped down her thighs, the wetness sticky and warm against her skin. The air grew heavier with the scent of sex, raw and primal, choking her as she gasped for breath. His groans peaked into a guttural moan, his body trembling as he emptied himself, the sound echoing in her ears like a thunderclap. Her dream-self clawed harder at the sheets, nails catching on loose threads, the coarse fabric scbanging her fingertips raw as she fought to pull away.
He pulled out with a wet, sucking sound, leaving her empty and exposed, the cool air rushing in to replace his heat. But he wasn’t done. His hands shifted, slick with sweat, sliding down to spread her ass, his intent clear as he positioned himself again. She saw it in slow motion—his dick, glistening and still hard, inching closer, the air thick with the mingled smells of cum and her own reluctant arousal. She felt the pressure building, the threat of another invasion, her body tensing as his breath hitched, his voice whispering “Mommy” one last time—
The scene jolted, a violent snap like a rope breaking, and Salma’s eyes flew open, her real body drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around her legs in the dark room.
Salma woke with a gasp, her body slick with sweat, her thighs clenched around a shameful wetness. Her heart pounded in her chest, the dream’s vividness lingering like a stain. She sat up abruptly, her breath shallow, and turned to Imran, still asleep beside her, his arms loosely dbangd over the sheets now. His dick, she noticed with a surge of revulsion, had left a faint smear of cum on her thigh—evidence he’d rubbed himself against her in his sleep, finishing without even waking.
Rage flared in her, sharp and sudden. She reared back and slapped him hard across the face, the crack echoing in the quiet room. Imran jolted awake, his hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with confusion and panic. “What happened, Mommy?” he stammered, his voice groggy but instantly submissive. “Sorry if I did anything wrong—I didn’t mean to—”
He glanced down, noticing the mess on her thigh, and his face flushed with guilt. “Oh shit, I—I must’ve… early this morning, I didn’t realize—”
“Shut up,” Salma snapped, her voice icy as she swung her legs off the bed. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dignify his babbling with a response. The dream clung to her like a sickness—Imran’s hands, his voice, the perverse blend of maternal and sexual that mirrored the minister’s filth. She stood, her naked body tense, and stormed toward the bathroom, her bare feet silent against the cold floor.
Imran sat up, rubbing his stinging cheek, his expression a mix of shame and bewilderment. “Salma, wait—” he called after her, but the door slammed shut before he could finish, cutting off his plea.
Inside the bathroom, Salma turned the shower on full blast, the scalding water hitting her skin like a punishment. She stood under it, letting it burn away the sweat, the wetness, the lingering echo of that dream. Her hands scrubbed at her thighs, her chest, as if she could erase the minister’s marks and Imran’s touch in one furious sweep. Fucking idiot, she thought, her mind spitting venom at Imran. Cumming on me like some animal—and that dream… what the hell was that?
She didn’t linger on it. Dreams were nothing—tricks of a tired mind, not truths. She was still Salma Iqbal, untouchable, in control. Imran’s weakness, the minister’s perversion—they were fuel, not threats. As the steam clouded the mirror, her resolve hardened. She’d use them both, squeeze them dry, and move on to the real prize—Maya’s company, Arjun’s billions, the power she’d carve out with her own hands.
When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, Imran was still on the bed, watching her warily. She ignored him, dressing in silence, her movements sharp and deliberate. “Clean up your mess,” she said coldly, not meeting his eyes. “And don’t pull that shit again.”
He nodded, subdued, and she left without another word, her mind already shifting back to the game ahead.
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