13-04-2025, 03:42 PM
(This post was last modified: 13-04-2025, 04:57 PM by Naruto411. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The phone buzzed on Salma’s desk, a sleek mahogany slab in her modest IAS office, its surface cluttered with files—tax reports, company audits, whispers of power waiting to be seized. The Delhi summer pressed against the window, the air thick with dust and ambition, but her focus sharpened as the caller ID flashed: a private number, one she’d learned to recognize. She answered, her voice cool, controlled. “Yes?”
“Salma, my dear,” came the MP’s gravelly drawl, laced with a smirk she could feel through the line. “Good news awaits you in Delhi. Tomorrow, my residence, noon sharp. I’ve something big—career-changing, let’s say.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then added, his tone dipping low, “You’d better prepare to give me something for it. Favors like this don’t come free.”
Salma’s grip tightened on the phone, her nails digging into her palm. She knew his game—power for pleasure, the oldest currency in his world. Her mind raced, calculating. Sleeping with him outright was a line she wouldn’t cross—her body was a tool, not a gift—but she’d played this chessboard before, and she had a move ready. “I’ll be there,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, betraying none of the fire beneath. “With a surprise you’ll like.”
He chuckled, a throaty sound that made her skin crawl but her resolve harden. “I trust your taste, Salma. Don’t disappoint.” The call ended, leaving the hum of her office fan to fill the silence, her thoughts already spinning to Rukhsar.
She leaned back, her kurti clinging to her skin in the heat, and pictured the girl—frail, pliant, her collegegirl uniform a perverse costume that had hooked the MP last time when she’d posed as his “granddaughter.” Rukhsar was her ace, a pawn shaped by Salma’s hand, loyal and broken enough to perform without question. Salma wouldn’t fuck the MP, but Rukhsar could satisfy his appetites, leaving Salma’s ambition clean to claim the prize—whatever role he dangled, likely a leap toward the GST tax department, where company data flowed to SEBI, the share market’s pulse hers to manipulate.
By dawn, she’d arranged it—Rukhsar packed off with her, a quiet figure in the train’s first-class cabin, her braids neat, her eyes vacant, the uniform folded in her bag. Delhi’s haze swallowed them as they arrived, the MP’s residence looming in a posh enclave—white walls dbangd in bougainvillea, gates guarded by men with discreet earpieces. Salma’s heels clicked on the cobblestone drive, Rukhsar trailing like a shadow, her small frame dwarfed by the estate’s grandeur.
At the entrance, the MP’s PA—a wiry man with a clipboard and a smirk—stopped them. “Madam Salma,” he said, eyes flicking over her kurti, her poised stance. “The MP’s orders: if you’re heading to the second floor, you go without the dress. No exceptions.” He nodded at a side room, its door ajar, a velvet curtain swaying inside.
Salma’s jaw tightened, but she’d expected a power play. Without a word, she stepped into the room, her fingers swift as she shed her kurti, the fabric pooling at her feet, followed by her bra, her panties, until she stood naked, her dusky skin catching the dim light, her curves unapologetic, her eyes fierce. She folded her clothes with precision, handing them to the PA, who averted his gaze but couldn’t hide his flush. “Rukhsar waits here,” she said, glancing at the girl, already in her uniform—pleated skirt, white blouse, braids loose—standing obediently outside the door, her hands clasped, ready for her role.
Salma strode out, her bare feet silent on the marble stairs, her head high as she climbed to the second floor, the cool air prickling her skin, her ambition a drumbeat louder than any shame. Behind her, Rukhsar waited, a weapon primed, while the MP’s chamber loomed above, its promise of power—and its price—waiting to unfold.
Salma ascended the marble staircase to the second floor of the MP’s Delhi bungalow, her naked body catching the faint glow of crystal sconces lining the corridor. The air was cool, laced with sandalwood and the distant hum of a sitar, but her skin prickled—not from the chill, but from the weight of what awaited. Her bare feet padded silently, each step a deliberate claim of control, her dusky curves swaying with a defiance that masked the churn in her gut. She’d shed her kurti, her bra, her panties downstairs at the PA’s command, leaving her vulnerable yet unbowed, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like a shield, her sharp eyes fixed on the carved teak door at the hall’s end. Rukhsar waited below, her collegegirl uniform a silent promise, but for now, Salma faced the MP alone.
The door swung open as she approached, revealing the chamber—a decadent sprawl of crimson silk curtains, teak panels etched with lotus blooms, and a chandelier dripping amber light like honey. The marble floor gleamed under a Persian rug, its intricate threads soft against her soles as she stepped inside. The MP lounged on a velvet divan, his heavyset frame dbangd in a half-open silk kurta, the gray hair on his chest matted with sweat despite the AC’s hum. His face was weathered—jowls heavy, eyes small but piercing, a hawk’s glint beneath bushy brows—his lips curled in a smirk that oozed power and want. He held a crystal tumbler of whiskey, the ice clinking as he set it down, his gaze locking onto her with a hunger that made her stomach twist.
“Well, well,” he rasped, his voice a gravelly caress, “you’ve outdone yourself, Salma.” His eyes raked her body—slow, deliberate, starting at her bare feet, climbing her toned calves, lingering on the dark triangle of her pussy, then tracing the curve of her hips to her full breasts, her nipples stiffening under his stare. She felt stripped beyond her skin, his look peeling back her armor, probing for weakness. Her pulse quickened, not from desire but from the game—his lust was her leverage, and she’d wield it without breaking. She stood taller, shoulders back, letting him drink her in, her silence a challenge.
“Come closer,” he said, patting the divan. She crossed the room, her hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked, the rug’s fibers tickling her toes. As she neared, he stood, surprisingly agile for his bulk, and pulled her into a hug—his arms thick, enveloping, his kurta’s silk brushing her bare skin like a taunt. His hands roamed her back, fingers digging into her spine, then lower, cupping her ass with a possessive squeeze that made her tense. His beard grazed her cheek, whiskey and tobacco on his breath, his chest pressing her breasts flat, her nipples scbanging his coarse hair. “You’re a vision,” he murmured, his lips too close to her ear, “built for more than paperwork, aren’t you?”
She swallowed a retort, forcing a smile, her body rigid but compliant. He released her, only to circle her like a predator, his fingers trailing—across her collarbone, down her arm, a thumb brushing the side of her breast. “Oops,” he said suddenly, a pen slipping from his hand to the floor, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Pick it up, Salma.”
Her jaw clenched—she saw the trap, the crude ploy—but she played along, bending over slowly, her hands reaching for the pen, her ass high, her pussy exposed from behind. His sharp inhale told her he was looking, his gaze a hot weight on her folds, glistening faintly from the room’s humidity. “Fuck,” he muttered, low and raw, “that’s a sight.” She straightened, pen in hand, and turned, her eyes locking his with a cool defiance, handing it back without a word. The power was still hers—she’d given him the view, not the victory.
He grinned, motioning to a low sofa, its cushions plush under a silk throw. “Sit. Tea?” A silver tray waited—chai steaming in delicate cups, biscuits arranged like offerings. She sank onto the sofa, her thighs pressed together, her nakedness stark against the fabric. He joined her, too close, his knee brushing hers as he poured the tea, his hands unsteady with want. Setting his cup down, he reached for her again, his palms cupping her breasts, fingers kneading the soft flesh, thumbs circling her nipples until they ached. “These,” he said, voice thick, “I could drink milk from these, Salma. Sweet as this chai, I bet.” He squeezed harder, a possessive edge to his grip, his nails grazing her skin, leaving faint red marks.
She sipped her tea, the heat grounding her, her expression calm despite the fire in her chest—anger, ambition, control wrestling within. His hands didn’t stop—one slid to her thigh, fingers tracing the inner curve, stopping short of her pussy, teasing, testing. He tugged her closer, an arm around her waist, his lips brushing her shoulder, leaving a wet trail as he nibbled, his beard prickling her skin. “You’re a queen,” he muttered, “but I’d make you my goddess if you’d let me.” His other hand lifted her breast, bouncing it lightly, watching it jiggle with a boyish grin, his thumb flicking her nipple like a toy.
Salma let him play, her body a calculated offering, but her mind stayed sharp—the appointment letter was somewhere in this room, her ticket to the GST tax department, where company data fed SEBI, the share market’s secrets hers to unravel. She’d endure his hands, his mouth, his crude fantasies, but she wouldn’t fuck him. Rukhsar was her trump card, waiting outside, ready to sate his deeper hungers while Salma claimed the prize. “You’re generous,” she said, her voice low, teasing, letting him think he was winning, her eyes scanning the room for that parchment, her ambition a blade honed and ready.
The MP’s chamber pulsed with heat, the chandelier’s amber glow bathing Salma’s naked body as she sat on the plush sofa, her thighs pressed tight, her breasts still tingling from his relentless hands. The air was thick—sandalwood incense curling with the sharp bite of his whiskey breath, the sitar’s hum a low drone beneath the thud of her pulse. His fingers lingered on her, one hand kneading her breast, the other tracing her inner thigh, inching toward her pussy, his intent clear. “Salma,” he rasped, his voice a hungry growl, leaning closer, his beard scbanging her shoulder, “I want to fuck you. Right here. Spread you wide, make you scream.” His eyes gleamed, small and predatory, his kurta gaping to show his matted chest, his bulk looming as he pressed his knee between hers, nudging them apart.
Salma’s stomach twisted, not from fear but from the line she wouldn’t cross. Her body was bait, not a surrender—her ambition burned too bright for that. She felt his want, a heavy weight, his fingers now grazing the edge of her folds, slick from the room’s humidity and his earlier teasing. She forced a smile, slow and seductive, her voice velvet despite the steel beneath. “You deserve something better, sir,” she said, shifting slightly, letting her breast bounce free of his grip, a calculated distraction. “Let me bring in my gift.”
Before he could protest, she stood, her curves catching the light—hips swaying, her ass a deliberate taunt as she crossed to the door. His breath hitched, his hand falling to his lap, adjusting the bulge straining his kurta. She cracked the door, her voice low but firm. “Rukhsar, now.” The girl slipped in, a fragile shadow in her collegegirl uniform—pleated skirt barely covering her thighs, white blouse stretched tight over small breasts, braids loose and swaying, her eyes downcast but obedient. Rukhsar’s presence was electric, a spark to the MP’s fuse, and Salma felt the shift—his gaze snapping to the girl, his lips parting in a hungry grin.
“Her again,” he murmured, standing, his bulk casting a shadow over Rukhsar’s slight frame. “My little granddaughter, back for more.” He stepped closer, his fingers brushing her braid, then her cheek, his voice dropping to a coo. “You know what I like, don’t you?” Rukhsar nodded, her lips trembling, her hands clasped tight as she sank to her knees, the rug swallowing the soft thud. Salma moved to leave, her bare feet silent, aiming for the door, the appointment letter still unclaimed but within reach—she’d let Rukhsar seal this deal.
“Not so fast,” the MP barked, his voice cutting through the sitar’s hum, his eyes flicking back to her. “Stay, Salma. Watch.” He gestured to the sofa, a glint of command in his stare, his hand already unbuttoning his kurta further, revealing a belly soft but heavy with power. “Sit. Enjoy the show. You brought her—see what she does for me.”
Salma froze, her hand on the doorframe, a flicker of irritation tightening her jaw. Staying meant witnessing his filth, a voyeur to her own orchestration, but leaving risked his mood—and that letter, the GST tax department’s golden key, company data to SEBI, the share market’s pulse hers to twist. She calculated fast, her ambition a cold blade. “As you wish,” she said, her tone smooth, masking the churn inside. She sank back onto the sofa, naked, her legs crossed, arms folded over her breasts, her eyes sharp as she watched, a queen tolerating a jester’s game.
The MP turned to Rukhsar, his hands swift now, yanking her blouse open—buttons popping, scattering like pearls on the rug—her small breasts bare, nipples dark and stiff in the cool air. He groaned, palming them roughly, his fingers pinching as she whimpered, her braids swaying with each tug. “Good girl,” he muttered, shoving her skirt up, exposing her panties, a damp patch betraying her trained response. He dropped his kurta entirely, his pants following, his cock thick and veined, jutting out as he guided her head, her lips parting to take him. The wet suck filled the room, her gags soft but rhythmic, her tongue working as he thrust, his hands tangled in her braids, pulling hard.
Salma watched, her face a mask—cool, detached, but her body betrayed her, a heat pooling low, not from desire but the raw power of her control. Rukhsar was her creation, a tool honed to perfection, and the MP’s grunts, his hips bucking, were her victory. He fucked Rukhsar’s mouth, his belly jiggling, sweat beading on his brow, his eyes flicking to Salma now and then, daring her to flinch. She didn’t—her gaze held his, unyielding, her nakedness a throne, not a cage.
He pulled Rukhsar up, bending her over the divan, her skirt bunched, panties ripped down, her ass pale and quivering. “Spread,” he growled, and she obeyed, her thighs parting, her pussy glistening under the chandelier’s glow. He slapped her ass—once, twice, the crack echoing—then thrust into her, a wet squelch as she gasped, her braids swinging, her fingers clawing the velvet. His pace was brutal, his cock slamming deep, her moans mixing pain and performance, her body rocking with each pound. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he panted, his hands gripping her hips, leaving red marks, his eyes darting to Salma again, a smirk twisting his lips. “See this, Salma? This is what you’re missing.”
She tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips, her voice low, cutting. “I see a man getting what he needs. I brought you that.” Her words stung, his smirk faltering, but he didn’t stop, his thrusts quickening, Rukhsar’s cries sharper now, her body trembling as he chased his peak. Salma’s fingers tightened on her arms, her breasts rising with each controlled breath, the letter’s promise burning brighter than the scene before her—she’d stay, she’d watch, but she’d walk out with power.
The MP’s chamber thrummed with raw energy, the chandelier’s amber glow casting flickering shadows across Salma’s naked body as she perched on the velvet sofa, her legs crossed tightly, her arms folded over her full breasts to shield their ache from his earlier groping. The air was heavy—sandalwood incense swirling with the musk of sweat and sex, the sitar’s drone nearly drowned by Rukhsar’s choked moans and the wet slap of flesh. Salma’s eyes were steely, her face a sculpted mask of control, but beneath her calm, a pulse of heat stirred—not from the MP’s grunting bulk or Rukhsar’s trembling submission, but from the intoxicating truth: this was her design, her power bending the room to her will. Her pussy clenched faintly, a traitor to her focus, her breath shallow as she watched, her ambition a fire that burned brighter than any shame.
The MP had Rukhsar bent over the divan, her collegegirl skirt bunched around her waist like a crumpled flag, her ripped panties dangling from one ankle, her pale ass red from his slaps, quivering under each brutal thrust. Her blouse hung open, small breasts bouncing free, nipples dark and pinched raw by his fingers, her braids swinging wildly as he fucked her. His cock—thick, veined, slick with her juices—plunged deep into her tight pussy, a squelching rhythm that echoed off the teak walls, her lips parted in a continuous whimper, half-pain, half-performance. “Fuck, yes,” he growled, his belly jiggling with each slam, sweat dripping from his brow to her back, his hands gripping her hips so hard the skin blanched under his nails. He yanked her braids like reins, forcing her head back, her throat exposed as she gasped, her eyes glassy but locked on nothing, a doll trained to please.
He pulled out abruptly, his cock glistening, and spun her around, shoving her to her knees on the Persian rug. “Mouth,” he barked, and Rukhsar obeyed, her lips stretching wide to take him, her tongue flicking the underside as he thrust, hitting her throat with a wet gag. Her nose pressed into his matted pubic hair, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked, drool spilling down her chin to drip onto her bare breasts, streaking the rug below. He groaned, one hand tangled in her braid, the other pinching her nipple—twisting, pulling—her muffled cry vibrating against him, her thighs trembling as she knelt, her pussy leaking onto her heels, a glistening trail marking her submission. “That’s it, my little granddaughter,” he panted, his eyes darting to Salma, a smirk curling his lips. “She’s better than you’d be, Salma—looser mouth, tighter cunt.”
Salma’s smile was a blade, thin and sharp, her voice cutting through his grunt. “She’s exactly what you need—my gift to you.” Her words were cool, but her body betrayed her—a faint flush creeping up her neck, her nipples hardening not from his taunt but from the thrill of her control, the puppet strings she pulled making Rukhsar dance. She shifted, uncrossing her legs briefly, the air cool against her slick folds, then crossed them again, her fingers tightening on her arms. Watching wasn’t arousal—it was triumph, her power over this filth a drug stronger than lust. Yet her clit throbbed once, unbidden, and she cursed it silently, her eyes never leaving the MP’s.
He fucked Rukhsar’s mouth harder, his cock bulging her throat, her gags louder now, wet and desperate, her mascara smearing as tears streaked her cheeks—not pain, but reflex, her body pushed to its edge. He pulled back, stroking himself, and sprayed across her face—hot, thick ropes of cum splattering her lips, her nose, dripping down her chin to her breasts, coating her nipples like obscene pearls. She gasped, panting, her tongue darting out to lick what she could, her braids limp, her skirt still hiked, her pussy glistening under the chandelier’s glow. He slapped her ass once more, a parting crack, then sank back onto the divan, his chest heaving, his kurta discarded, his belly slick with sweat.
“Fuck, she’s good,” he muttered, wiping his brow, his eyes sliding to Salma, then back to Rukhsar, who knelt still, cum-streaked and trembling, awaiting orders. He leaned forward, voice softening, a strange glint in his eye. “Salma, let me take her. Adopt her, maybe—give her a home. Or send her to my granddaughter’s college—same one, fancy place in London. She’d fit, cleaned up a bit.” His tone was half-lust, half-sincere, his fingers brushing Rukhsar’s braid as she flinched, her eyes darting to Salma.
Salma’s gaze sharpened, her mind racing—the GST letter was close, the tax department’s power to audit companies, feed SEBI, twist the share market, nearly hers. Rukhsar was her asset, not his toy to claim, but she played the long game. “I’ll think about it,” she said, her voice smooth, rising from the sofa, her naked body catching the light as she stepped closer, breasts swaying, hips deliberate. “She’s booked for Goa this weekend—big event, you know how it is. Maybe after, I’ll send her to you.” Her tone dangled the promise, vague but tempting, her eyes flicking to the side table where the letter lay, its parchment glowing like a trophy.
The MP nodded, still panting, his hand reaching for Rukhsar’s breast, smearing the cum across her skin, a possessive mark. “Goa, huh? Don’t break her there—I want her fresh.” He chuckled, then stood, his bulk unsteady, and beckoned Salma closer. “Come here. We’re not done talking.” His voice held a command, but she moved anyway, her ambition louder than his lust, her nakedness a weapon as she stood before him, ready to claim what she’d orchestrated.
The MP’s chamber pulsed with afterglow, the air thick with the musky residue of sex—Rukhsar’s cum-slicked scent mingling with sandalwood incense, whiskey fumes, and the faint tang of sweat. The chandelier’s amber light danced across Salma’s naked body as she stood before him, her dusky skin gleaming, her full breasts rising with each measured breath, her dark hair a wild cascade framing her sharp eyes. Rukhsar knelt nearby, her collegegirl uniform in tatters—skirt bunched, blouse torn open, braids limp—her face and breasts streaked with the MP’s cum, her thighs glistening from her own juices, her breath ragged but silent, awaiting Salma’s next command. The Persian rug beneath them bore wet stains, the sitar’s hum a faint pulse under the MP’s heavy panting, his bulk slumped on the divan, his kurta discarded, his belly slick and heaving.
He beckoned Salma closer, his small eyes glinting with renewed hunger, his voice a low growl. “Come here, queen. We’re not done yet.” His hand reached out, fingers thick and calloused, and she stepped forward, her bare feet sinking into the rug, her hips swaying just enough to keep him hooked. Her ambition burned—a blazing certainty that the appointment letter, her ticket to the GST tax department, lay on that teak side table, its parchment glowing like a beacon. Company data, SEBI filings, the share market’s veins hers to twist—she’d endure his filth for that power, her body a tool, not a sacrifice.
He pulled her onto his lap, his thighs hot and sweaty against her ass, his cock still half-hard beneath her, pressing but not entering—she’d drawn that line, and he knew it. His arms wrapped around her, a possessive cage, his beard scbanging her collarbone as he buried his face in her breasts, inhaling deep, a groan rumbling from his chest. “Fuck, you smell like sin,” he muttered, his lips closing over her nipple, sucking hard, his tongue swirling in wet, greedy circles. The sensation jolted her—her nipple stiffened, aching under his teeth, a faint wetness spreading as he bit lightly, leaving red marks. His other hand kneaded her free breast, fingers digging in, bouncing it like a toy, his thumb flicking the nipple until it throbbed, a dull heat pooling low in her belly despite her resolve.
Salma’s face stayed cool, her lips curved in a faint smile, but her body hummed—a traitor’s spark, not from his touch but from the power she wielded, orchestrating this room, bending his lust to her will. Her pussy clenched once, slick against his thigh, and she cursed it silently, shifting to hide the betrayal, her eyes locked on that letter. He moved to her other breast, his mouth ravenous, sucking until her skin flushed, his beard prickling like sandpaper, his saliva trailing down her ribs. “I’d drink your milk, Salma,” he rasped, pulling back to grin, his teeth yellowed, his eyes wild. “Squeeze these dry, sweet as fucking nectar.” He pinched both nipples, twisting hard, a sharp sting that made her gasp—her first crack, quickly masked as she exhaled, slow and deliberate.
His hand slid lower, fingers grazing her stomach, circling her navel, then dipping to her inner thigh, teasing the edge of her pussy—wet now, not from want but the room’s heat, her control. He didn’t push inside, respecting her line, but his thumb brushed her clit once, a deliberate taunt, and she tensed, her nails digging into her palms. “Relax,” he chuckled, his other hand scooping cum from Rukhsar’s nearby breast—still kneeling, head bowed, a cum-drenched doll. He smeared it across Salma’s breasts, the hot, sticky ropes clinging to her skin, streaking her nipples, dripping down her cleavage like obscene paint. “Looks good on you,” he said, rubbing it in, his fingers slick, massaging her breasts until they glistened, the scent sharp and primal, his grin widening as he watched her skin flush under the mess.
Salma’s pulse raced, her chest tight—not disgust, but the thrill of her endgame. She was his canvas, his queen, but she was winning. Her eyes flicked to Rukhsar, then back to him, her voice low, cutting through his heavy breaths. “You’ve had your fun,” she said, sliding off his lap, her breasts bouncing, cum still clinging in wet patches. “The letter, sir.” Her tone was firm, a command wrapped in silk, her nakedness a throne as she stood, hips cocked, one hand brushing her hair back, the other pointing to the table.
He laughed, a throaty bark, and leaned back, his cock twitching but ignored. “Greedy, aren’t you?” he said, reaching for the parchment, the GST seal catching the light—her gateway to tax oversight, company secrets, SEBI’s data, the share market’s pulse. He held it out, his fingers lingering, forcing her to step closer, her breasts brushing his arm as she took it. The paper was heavy, her victory tangible, and she clutched it tight, her smile genuine now, a predator’s edge. “Well earned,” he muttered, his hand grazing her ass one last time, a parting claim she allowed, her focus already shifting—Goa, Rukhsar’s next play, Maya’s solar empire ripe for her audit.
Salma stepped back, the cum drying on her breasts, her skin prickling under his gaze, but her heart soared. She’d watched, endured, orchestrated—Rukhsar’s fucking, his groping, this final messy ritual—and walked away with power. “Rukhsar,” she called, voice sharp, and the girl rose, cum dripping, skirt falling as she followed. The MP’s eyes followed them, but Salma didn’t look back, the letter her crown, the chamber’s heat fading as she aimed for the door.
The MP’s chamber was a haze of decadence, the chandelier’s amber light glinting off Salma’s naked body as she stood near the carved teak door, the GST appointment letter gripped tightly in her hand. Cum—Rukhsar’s and the MP’s—clung to her breasts in drying streaks, a sticky badge of her endurance, her dusky skin flushed from his groping, her nipples raw from his pinches. The air choked with sandalwood incense, whiskey fumes, and the primal musk of sex, the sitar’s drone barely audible under the MP’s heavy breaths. Salma’s dark hair spilled wild over her shoulders, her sharp eyes blazing with triumph—she’d secured the tax department’s throne, company data to SEBI, the share market’s pulse hers to twist, Maya’s solar empire next in her sights. But her victory felt jagged, the MP’s final play still unfolding.
Rukhsar knelt on the Persian rug, a broken doll in her ruined collegegirl uniform—skirt hiked to her thighs, blouse ripped open, small breasts glistening with cum, her braids matted, her face a mess of mascara, semen, and sweat. Her lips trembled, swollen from his cock, her thighs slick with her own juices, but her eyes held a flicker—something alive, calculating, darting to Salma, then away. The MP sprawled on the velvet divan, his kurta gone, his belly slick with sweat, his cock soft but heavy against his thigh, a smirk twisting his lips as he watched Salma edge toward the door, her ass swaying, her nakedness a defiant crown.
“Hold on, queen,” he called, his voice a gravelly taunt, stopping her cold, her bare feet rooted to the marble floor. He leaned forward, snatching a second document from the teak side table—a transfer memo, its GST seal gleaming. “This posting? It’s Kerala—swampy office, miles from power.” He dangled it, his small eyes glinting, fingers drumming the paper. “Want Mumbai instead? The heart of it all—companies, SEBI, markets bending to you. I can switch it.” His smirk widened, sliding to Rukhsar. “But I want her. Leave Rukhsar with me—permanently. My little granddaughter belongs here.”
Salma’s chest tightened, frustration surging like a tide. Kerala was exile—humid, stagnant, a grave for her ambition. Mumbai was her arena, where she’d audit Maya’s empire, crack its clean facade, climb higher. Rukhsar was her tool, molded by her hand, loyal through fear, her role in Goa’s elite bash crucial to Salma’s trafficking web. Losing her now was a knife-twist, a miscalculation that stung. Her fingers crushed the letter’s edge, her pussy throbbing—not desire, but fury, her body a traitor to the calm she forced. “You’re ruthless,” she said, voice low, ice over fire, her eyes boring into his. “Fine. She stays—for now. Mumbai’s mine, or you’ll regret it.” Her tone was a blade, her gaze flicking to Rukhsar, who knelt still, unreadable.
The MP laughed, a guttural bark, tossing the memo aside, his hand waving her off. “Mumbai it is—papers fixed by dawn.” He stood, closing the gap, his fingers brushing her arm, then her breast, smearing the cum one last time, a slick, possessive mark. “You’ll ruin them all, won’t you?” he murmured, his beard grazing her shoulder, whiskey hot on his breath. His thumb flicked her nipple, a final taunt, but she didn’t flinch—her smile was cold, her victory sealed. “Rukhsar,” she snapped, voice sharp, “stay. Obey him.” The girl nodded, her cum-streaked face blank, but that flicker in her eyes—relief, cunning?—flashed again. Salma strode out, the door thudding shut, her bare feet silent on the marble stairs, her mind churning—Mumbai hers, Rukhsar lost, Goa’s plan shifting, Maya’s audit her next strike. Frustration gnawed, but she’d forge this setback into power, her ambition unbreakable.
The chamber stilled, the sitar’s hum swelling as the MP sank back onto the divan, expecting Rukhsar to clean up, to fade into the background like the used toy she’d been. But she moved—sudden, alive—rising from her knees, her skirt falling crooked, her bare breasts bouncing, cum dripping to the rug in viscous beads. She stepped close, her small hands trembling as they cupped his weathered face, her lips crashing into his with a fervent, desperate kiss. Her tongue darted out, tasting whiskey, sweat, and her own cum on his mouth, her braids brushing his chest, her nipples grazing his matted hair. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice cracked but fierce, her breath hot against his lips, her eyes glistening with something raw—gratitude, triumph, a secret breaking free.
He froze, his hands hovering, then settling on her hips, fingers digging into her cum-slick skin, smearing it further, his cock twitching despite its exhaustion. “Thank you?” he rasped, brow furrowing, his belly pressing her thighs as she straddled his lap, her skirt riding up, her panties long gone, her pussy brushing his thigh, wet and warm. “What’s this, girl?”
Rukhsar pulled back, her lips swollen, cum still clinging to her chin, her eyes burning with a fire he hadn’t seen. “I whispered to you,” she said, voice low, a confession spilling like wine, “when Salma was distracted—watching you fuck me. I begged you to make her leave me here. Told you I’d be obedient, anything you want.” Her fingers clutched his shoulders, nails biting his skin, her breasts heaving, cum sliding down her ribs. “You saved me—from her, from Goa, that fucking bash. I couldn’t go back.” She kissed him again, deeper, her tongue snaking into his mouth, a moan vibrating as she pressed closer, her pussy grinding lightly against his thigh, leaving a slick trail, her braids swinging like pendulums.
The MP’s grin spread, slow and predatory, his hands roaming her ass, squeezing hard, the flesh yielding under his grip, red marks blooming from his slaps. “Clever little slut,” he growled, his fingers slipping lower, brushing her asshole, then her pussy’s edge, wet and swollen from his earlier pounding. “You played her—my kind of girl.” He yanked her blouse remnants off, her breasts fully bare, cum-streaked and bouncing as he palmed them, pinching her nipples until she gasped, her moan a mix of pain and eager submission. “What do you want, huh? Stay as my pet? College like my granddaughter? Or just this?” His thumb flicked her clit, a wet squelch as she shivered, her thighs trembling, her eyes locked on his, pleading, fierce.
“Anything,” she breathed, her voice a vow, her hands sliding down his chest, nails raking his belly, stopping short of his cock, teasing, promising. “Keep me here—adopt me, send me to college, fuck me raw, I don’t care. Just not with her.” She leaned in, licking his neck, her tongue tracing sweat and whiskey, her teeth grazing his earlobe, a soft bite that made him groan. Her pussy pressed harder against his thigh, smearing juices, her hips rolling slow, a deliberate dance, her cum-slick breasts sliding against his chest, nipples hard as pebbles.
He laughed, rough and deep, his hands gripping her ass, spreading her cheeks, one finger circling her asshole, not entering but taunting, her gasp hot against his skin. “You’re mine now,” he said, pulling her face to his, kissing her hard, his tongue plunging, tasting her cum, her desperation, her victory. His cock stirred, half-hard, and he shoved her down, her knees hitting the rug again, her lips hovering near his shaft, not sucking but kissing its base, her breath warm, her braids pooling on his thighs. “Show me,” he growled, “how obedient you’ll be.”
She obeyed, her tongue flicking out, lapping his balls, slow and reverent, her hands cupping them, massaging gently, her moans vibrating as she worked, her pussy dripping to the rug, her breasts swaying, cum flaking off in the heat. The chandelier glowed, the sitar hummed, the chamber a bubble of their twisted pact—Rukhsar’s freedom bought with submission, the MP’s prize a girl who’d outplayed her master, his hands tangled in her braids, his grin wide as the sea beyond Delhi.
“Salma, my dear,” came the MP’s gravelly drawl, laced with a smirk she could feel through the line. “Good news awaits you in Delhi. Tomorrow, my residence, noon sharp. I’ve something big—career-changing, let’s say.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then added, his tone dipping low, “You’d better prepare to give me something for it. Favors like this don’t come free.”
Salma’s grip tightened on the phone, her nails digging into her palm. She knew his game—power for pleasure, the oldest currency in his world. Her mind raced, calculating. Sleeping with him outright was a line she wouldn’t cross—her body was a tool, not a gift—but she’d played this chessboard before, and she had a move ready. “I’ll be there,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, betraying none of the fire beneath. “With a surprise you’ll like.”
He chuckled, a throaty sound that made her skin crawl but her resolve harden. “I trust your taste, Salma. Don’t disappoint.” The call ended, leaving the hum of her office fan to fill the silence, her thoughts already spinning to Rukhsar.
She leaned back, her kurti clinging to her skin in the heat, and pictured the girl—frail, pliant, her collegegirl uniform a perverse costume that had hooked the MP last time when she’d posed as his “granddaughter.” Rukhsar was her ace, a pawn shaped by Salma’s hand, loyal and broken enough to perform without question. Salma wouldn’t fuck the MP, but Rukhsar could satisfy his appetites, leaving Salma’s ambition clean to claim the prize—whatever role he dangled, likely a leap toward the GST tax department, where company data flowed to SEBI, the share market’s pulse hers to manipulate.
By dawn, she’d arranged it—Rukhsar packed off with her, a quiet figure in the train’s first-class cabin, her braids neat, her eyes vacant, the uniform folded in her bag. Delhi’s haze swallowed them as they arrived, the MP’s residence looming in a posh enclave—white walls dbangd in bougainvillea, gates guarded by men with discreet earpieces. Salma’s heels clicked on the cobblestone drive, Rukhsar trailing like a shadow, her small frame dwarfed by the estate’s grandeur.
At the entrance, the MP’s PA—a wiry man with a clipboard and a smirk—stopped them. “Madam Salma,” he said, eyes flicking over her kurti, her poised stance. “The MP’s orders: if you’re heading to the second floor, you go without the dress. No exceptions.” He nodded at a side room, its door ajar, a velvet curtain swaying inside.
Salma’s jaw tightened, but she’d expected a power play. Without a word, she stepped into the room, her fingers swift as she shed her kurti, the fabric pooling at her feet, followed by her bra, her panties, until she stood naked, her dusky skin catching the dim light, her curves unapologetic, her eyes fierce. She folded her clothes with precision, handing them to the PA, who averted his gaze but couldn’t hide his flush. “Rukhsar waits here,” she said, glancing at the girl, already in her uniform—pleated skirt, white blouse, braids loose—standing obediently outside the door, her hands clasped, ready for her role.
Salma strode out, her bare feet silent on the marble stairs, her head high as she climbed to the second floor, the cool air prickling her skin, her ambition a drumbeat louder than any shame. Behind her, Rukhsar waited, a weapon primed, while the MP’s chamber loomed above, its promise of power—and its price—waiting to unfold.
Salma ascended the marble staircase to the second floor of the MP’s Delhi bungalow, her naked body catching the faint glow of crystal sconces lining the corridor. The air was cool, laced with sandalwood and the distant hum of a sitar, but her skin prickled—not from the chill, but from the weight of what awaited. Her bare feet padded silently, each step a deliberate claim of control, her dusky curves swaying with a defiance that masked the churn in her gut. She’d shed her kurti, her bra, her panties downstairs at the PA’s command, leaving her vulnerable yet unbowed, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like a shield, her sharp eyes fixed on the carved teak door at the hall’s end. Rukhsar waited below, her collegegirl uniform a silent promise, but for now, Salma faced the MP alone.
The door swung open as she approached, revealing the chamber—a decadent sprawl of crimson silk curtains, teak panels etched with lotus blooms, and a chandelier dripping amber light like honey. The marble floor gleamed under a Persian rug, its intricate threads soft against her soles as she stepped inside. The MP lounged on a velvet divan, his heavyset frame dbangd in a half-open silk kurta, the gray hair on his chest matted with sweat despite the AC’s hum. His face was weathered—jowls heavy, eyes small but piercing, a hawk’s glint beneath bushy brows—his lips curled in a smirk that oozed power and want. He held a crystal tumbler of whiskey, the ice clinking as he set it down, his gaze locking onto her with a hunger that made her stomach twist.
“Well, well,” he rasped, his voice a gravelly caress, “you’ve outdone yourself, Salma.” His eyes raked her body—slow, deliberate, starting at her bare feet, climbing her toned calves, lingering on the dark triangle of her pussy, then tracing the curve of her hips to her full breasts, her nipples stiffening under his stare. She felt stripped beyond her skin, his look peeling back her armor, probing for weakness. Her pulse quickened, not from desire but from the game—his lust was her leverage, and she’d wield it without breaking. She stood taller, shoulders back, letting him drink her in, her silence a challenge.
“Come closer,” he said, patting the divan. She crossed the room, her hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked, the rug’s fibers tickling her toes. As she neared, he stood, surprisingly agile for his bulk, and pulled her into a hug—his arms thick, enveloping, his kurta’s silk brushing her bare skin like a taunt. His hands roamed her back, fingers digging into her spine, then lower, cupping her ass with a possessive squeeze that made her tense. His beard grazed her cheek, whiskey and tobacco on his breath, his chest pressing her breasts flat, her nipples scbanging his coarse hair. “You’re a vision,” he murmured, his lips too close to her ear, “built for more than paperwork, aren’t you?”
She swallowed a retort, forcing a smile, her body rigid but compliant. He released her, only to circle her like a predator, his fingers trailing—across her collarbone, down her arm, a thumb brushing the side of her breast. “Oops,” he said suddenly, a pen slipping from his hand to the floor, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Pick it up, Salma.”
Her jaw clenched—she saw the trap, the crude ploy—but she played along, bending over slowly, her hands reaching for the pen, her ass high, her pussy exposed from behind. His sharp inhale told her he was looking, his gaze a hot weight on her folds, glistening faintly from the room’s humidity. “Fuck,” he muttered, low and raw, “that’s a sight.” She straightened, pen in hand, and turned, her eyes locking his with a cool defiance, handing it back without a word. The power was still hers—she’d given him the view, not the victory.
He grinned, motioning to a low sofa, its cushions plush under a silk throw. “Sit. Tea?” A silver tray waited—chai steaming in delicate cups, biscuits arranged like offerings. She sank onto the sofa, her thighs pressed together, her nakedness stark against the fabric. He joined her, too close, his knee brushing hers as he poured the tea, his hands unsteady with want. Setting his cup down, he reached for her again, his palms cupping her breasts, fingers kneading the soft flesh, thumbs circling her nipples until they ached. “These,” he said, voice thick, “I could drink milk from these, Salma. Sweet as this chai, I bet.” He squeezed harder, a possessive edge to his grip, his nails grazing her skin, leaving faint red marks.
She sipped her tea, the heat grounding her, her expression calm despite the fire in her chest—anger, ambition, control wrestling within. His hands didn’t stop—one slid to her thigh, fingers tracing the inner curve, stopping short of her pussy, teasing, testing. He tugged her closer, an arm around her waist, his lips brushing her shoulder, leaving a wet trail as he nibbled, his beard prickling her skin. “You’re a queen,” he muttered, “but I’d make you my goddess if you’d let me.” His other hand lifted her breast, bouncing it lightly, watching it jiggle with a boyish grin, his thumb flicking her nipple like a toy.
Salma let him play, her body a calculated offering, but her mind stayed sharp—the appointment letter was somewhere in this room, her ticket to the GST tax department, where company data fed SEBI, the share market’s secrets hers to unravel. She’d endure his hands, his mouth, his crude fantasies, but she wouldn’t fuck him. Rukhsar was her trump card, waiting outside, ready to sate his deeper hungers while Salma claimed the prize. “You’re generous,” she said, her voice low, teasing, letting him think he was winning, her eyes scanning the room for that parchment, her ambition a blade honed and ready.
The MP’s chamber pulsed with heat, the chandelier’s amber glow bathing Salma’s naked body as she sat on the plush sofa, her thighs pressed tight, her breasts still tingling from his relentless hands. The air was thick—sandalwood incense curling with the sharp bite of his whiskey breath, the sitar’s hum a low drone beneath the thud of her pulse. His fingers lingered on her, one hand kneading her breast, the other tracing her inner thigh, inching toward her pussy, his intent clear. “Salma,” he rasped, his voice a hungry growl, leaning closer, his beard scbanging her shoulder, “I want to fuck you. Right here. Spread you wide, make you scream.” His eyes gleamed, small and predatory, his kurta gaping to show his matted chest, his bulk looming as he pressed his knee between hers, nudging them apart.
Salma’s stomach twisted, not from fear but from the line she wouldn’t cross. Her body was bait, not a surrender—her ambition burned too bright for that. She felt his want, a heavy weight, his fingers now grazing the edge of her folds, slick from the room’s humidity and his earlier teasing. She forced a smile, slow and seductive, her voice velvet despite the steel beneath. “You deserve something better, sir,” she said, shifting slightly, letting her breast bounce free of his grip, a calculated distraction. “Let me bring in my gift.”
Before he could protest, she stood, her curves catching the light—hips swaying, her ass a deliberate taunt as she crossed to the door. His breath hitched, his hand falling to his lap, adjusting the bulge straining his kurta. She cracked the door, her voice low but firm. “Rukhsar, now.” The girl slipped in, a fragile shadow in her collegegirl uniform—pleated skirt barely covering her thighs, white blouse stretched tight over small breasts, braids loose and swaying, her eyes downcast but obedient. Rukhsar’s presence was electric, a spark to the MP’s fuse, and Salma felt the shift—his gaze snapping to the girl, his lips parting in a hungry grin.
“Her again,” he murmured, standing, his bulk casting a shadow over Rukhsar’s slight frame. “My little granddaughter, back for more.” He stepped closer, his fingers brushing her braid, then her cheek, his voice dropping to a coo. “You know what I like, don’t you?” Rukhsar nodded, her lips trembling, her hands clasped tight as she sank to her knees, the rug swallowing the soft thud. Salma moved to leave, her bare feet silent, aiming for the door, the appointment letter still unclaimed but within reach—she’d let Rukhsar seal this deal.
“Not so fast,” the MP barked, his voice cutting through the sitar’s hum, his eyes flicking back to her. “Stay, Salma. Watch.” He gestured to the sofa, a glint of command in his stare, his hand already unbuttoning his kurta further, revealing a belly soft but heavy with power. “Sit. Enjoy the show. You brought her—see what she does for me.”
Salma froze, her hand on the doorframe, a flicker of irritation tightening her jaw. Staying meant witnessing his filth, a voyeur to her own orchestration, but leaving risked his mood—and that letter, the GST tax department’s golden key, company data to SEBI, the share market’s pulse hers to twist. She calculated fast, her ambition a cold blade. “As you wish,” she said, her tone smooth, masking the churn inside. She sank back onto the sofa, naked, her legs crossed, arms folded over her breasts, her eyes sharp as she watched, a queen tolerating a jester’s game.
The MP turned to Rukhsar, his hands swift now, yanking her blouse open—buttons popping, scattering like pearls on the rug—her small breasts bare, nipples dark and stiff in the cool air. He groaned, palming them roughly, his fingers pinching as she whimpered, her braids swaying with each tug. “Good girl,” he muttered, shoving her skirt up, exposing her panties, a damp patch betraying her trained response. He dropped his kurta entirely, his pants following, his cock thick and veined, jutting out as he guided her head, her lips parting to take him. The wet suck filled the room, her gags soft but rhythmic, her tongue working as he thrust, his hands tangled in her braids, pulling hard.
Salma watched, her face a mask—cool, detached, but her body betrayed her, a heat pooling low, not from desire but the raw power of her control. Rukhsar was her creation, a tool honed to perfection, and the MP’s grunts, his hips bucking, were her victory. He fucked Rukhsar’s mouth, his belly jiggling, sweat beading on his brow, his eyes flicking to Salma now and then, daring her to flinch. She didn’t—her gaze held his, unyielding, her nakedness a throne, not a cage.
He pulled Rukhsar up, bending her over the divan, her skirt bunched, panties ripped down, her ass pale and quivering. “Spread,” he growled, and she obeyed, her thighs parting, her pussy glistening under the chandelier’s glow. He slapped her ass—once, twice, the crack echoing—then thrust into her, a wet squelch as she gasped, her braids swinging, her fingers clawing the velvet. His pace was brutal, his cock slamming deep, her moans mixing pain and performance, her body rocking with each pound. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he panted, his hands gripping her hips, leaving red marks, his eyes darting to Salma again, a smirk twisting his lips. “See this, Salma? This is what you’re missing.”
She tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips, her voice low, cutting. “I see a man getting what he needs. I brought you that.” Her words stung, his smirk faltering, but he didn’t stop, his thrusts quickening, Rukhsar’s cries sharper now, her body trembling as he chased his peak. Salma’s fingers tightened on her arms, her breasts rising with each controlled breath, the letter’s promise burning brighter than the scene before her—she’d stay, she’d watch, but she’d walk out with power.
The MP’s chamber thrummed with raw energy, the chandelier’s amber glow casting flickering shadows across Salma’s naked body as she perched on the velvet sofa, her legs crossed tightly, her arms folded over her full breasts to shield their ache from his earlier groping. The air was heavy—sandalwood incense swirling with the musk of sweat and sex, the sitar’s drone nearly drowned by Rukhsar’s choked moans and the wet slap of flesh. Salma’s eyes were steely, her face a sculpted mask of control, but beneath her calm, a pulse of heat stirred—not from the MP’s grunting bulk or Rukhsar’s trembling submission, but from the intoxicating truth: this was her design, her power bending the room to her will. Her pussy clenched faintly, a traitor to her focus, her breath shallow as she watched, her ambition a fire that burned brighter than any shame.
The MP had Rukhsar bent over the divan, her collegegirl skirt bunched around her waist like a crumpled flag, her ripped panties dangling from one ankle, her pale ass red from his slaps, quivering under each brutal thrust. Her blouse hung open, small breasts bouncing free, nipples dark and pinched raw by his fingers, her braids swinging wildly as he fucked her. His cock—thick, veined, slick with her juices—plunged deep into her tight pussy, a squelching rhythm that echoed off the teak walls, her lips parted in a continuous whimper, half-pain, half-performance. “Fuck, yes,” he growled, his belly jiggling with each slam, sweat dripping from his brow to her back, his hands gripping her hips so hard the skin blanched under his nails. He yanked her braids like reins, forcing her head back, her throat exposed as she gasped, her eyes glassy but locked on nothing, a doll trained to please.
He pulled out abruptly, his cock glistening, and spun her around, shoving her to her knees on the Persian rug. “Mouth,” he barked, and Rukhsar obeyed, her lips stretching wide to take him, her tongue flicking the underside as he thrust, hitting her throat with a wet gag. Her nose pressed into his matted pubic hair, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked, drool spilling down her chin to drip onto her bare breasts, streaking the rug below. He groaned, one hand tangled in her braid, the other pinching her nipple—twisting, pulling—her muffled cry vibrating against him, her thighs trembling as she knelt, her pussy leaking onto her heels, a glistening trail marking her submission. “That’s it, my little granddaughter,” he panted, his eyes darting to Salma, a smirk curling his lips. “She’s better than you’d be, Salma—looser mouth, tighter cunt.”
Salma’s smile was a blade, thin and sharp, her voice cutting through his grunt. “She’s exactly what you need—my gift to you.” Her words were cool, but her body betrayed her—a faint flush creeping up her neck, her nipples hardening not from his taunt but from the thrill of her control, the puppet strings she pulled making Rukhsar dance. She shifted, uncrossing her legs briefly, the air cool against her slick folds, then crossed them again, her fingers tightening on her arms. Watching wasn’t arousal—it was triumph, her power over this filth a drug stronger than lust. Yet her clit throbbed once, unbidden, and she cursed it silently, her eyes never leaving the MP’s.
He fucked Rukhsar’s mouth harder, his cock bulging her throat, her gags louder now, wet and desperate, her mascara smearing as tears streaked her cheeks—not pain, but reflex, her body pushed to its edge. He pulled back, stroking himself, and sprayed across her face—hot, thick ropes of cum splattering her lips, her nose, dripping down her chin to her breasts, coating her nipples like obscene pearls. She gasped, panting, her tongue darting out to lick what she could, her braids limp, her skirt still hiked, her pussy glistening under the chandelier’s glow. He slapped her ass once more, a parting crack, then sank back onto the divan, his chest heaving, his kurta discarded, his belly slick with sweat.
“Fuck, she’s good,” he muttered, wiping his brow, his eyes sliding to Salma, then back to Rukhsar, who knelt still, cum-streaked and trembling, awaiting orders. He leaned forward, voice softening, a strange glint in his eye. “Salma, let me take her. Adopt her, maybe—give her a home. Or send her to my granddaughter’s college—same one, fancy place in London. She’d fit, cleaned up a bit.” His tone was half-lust, half-sincere, his fingers brushing Rukhsar’s braid as she flinched, her eyes darting to Salma.
Salma’s gaze sharpened, her mind racing—the GST letter was close, the tax department’s power to audit companies, feed SEBI, twist the share market, nearly hers. Rukhsar was her asset, not his toy to claim, but she played the long game. “I’ll think about it,” she said, her voice smooth, rising from the sofa, her naked body catching the light as she stepped closer, breasts swaying, hips deliberate. “She’s booked for Goa this weekend—big event, you know how it is. Maybe after, I’ll send her to you.” Her tone dangled the promise, vague but tempting, her eyes flicking to the side table where the letter lay, its parchment glowing like a trophy.
The MP nodded, still panting, his hand reaching for Rukhsar’s breast, smearing the cum across her skin, a possessive mark. “Goa, huh? Don’t break her there—I want her fresh.” He chuckled, then stood, his bulk unsteady, and beckoned Salma closer. “Come here. We’re not done talking.” His voice held a command, but she moved anyway, her ambition louder than his lust, her nakedness a weapon as she stood before him, ready to claim what she’d orchestrated.
The MP’s chamber pulsed with afterglow, the air thick with the musky residue of sex—Rukhsar’s cum-slicked scent mingling with sandalwood incense, whiskey fumes, and the faint tang of sweat. The chandelier’s amber light danced across Salma’s naked body as she stood before him, her dusky skin gleaming, her full breasts rising with each measured breath, her dark hair a wild cascade framing her sharp eyes. Rukhsar knelt nearby, her collegegirl uniform in tatters—skirt bunched, blouse torn open, braids limp—her face and breasts streaked with the MP’s cum, her thighs glistening from her own juices, her breath ragged but silent, awaiting Salma’s next command. The Persian rug beneath them bore wet stains, the sitar’s hum a faint pulse under the MP’s heavy panting, his bulk slumped on the divan, his kurta discarded, his belly slick and heaving.
He beckoned Salma closer, his small eyes glinting with renewed hunger, his voice a low growl. “Come here, queen. We’re not done yet.” His hand reached out, fingers thick and calloused, and she stepped forward, her bare feet sinking into the rug, her hips swaying just enough to keep him hooked. Her ambition burned—a blazing certainty that the appointment letter, her ticket to the GST tax department, lay on that teak side table, its parchment glowing like a beacon. Company data, SEBI filings, the share market’s veins hers to twist—she’d endure his filth for that power, her body a tool, not a sacrifice.
He pulled her onto his lap, his thighs hot and sweaty against her ass, his cock still half-hard beneath her, pressing but not entering—she’d drawn that line, and he knew it. His arms wrapped around her, a possessive cage, his beard scbanging her collarbone as he buried his face in her breasts, inhaling deep, a groan rumbling from his chest. “Fuck, you smell like sin,” he muttered, his lips closing over her nipple, sucking hard, his tongue swirling in wet, greedy circles. The sensation jolted her—her nipple stiffened, aching under his teeth, a faint wetness spreading as he bit lightly, leaving red marks. His other hand kneaded her free breast, fingers digging in, bouncing it like a toy, his thumb flicking the nipple until it throbbed, a dull heat pooling low in her belly despite her resolve.
Salma’s face stayed cool, her lips curved in a faint smile, but her body hummed—a traitor’s spark, not from his touch but from the power she wielded, orchestrating this room, bending his lust to her will. Her pussy clenched once, slick against his thigh, and she cursed it silently, shifting to hide the betrayal, her eyes locked on that letter. He moved to her other breast, his mouth ravenous, sucking until her skin flushed, his beard prickling like sandpaper, his saliva trailing down her ribs. “I’d drink your milk, Salma,” he rasped, pulling back to grin, his teeth yellowed, his eyes wild. “Squeeze these dry, sweet as fucking nectar.” He pinched both nipples, twisting hard, a sharp sting that made her gasp—her first crack, quickly masked as she exhaled, slow and deliberate.
His hand slid lower, fingers grazing her stomach, circling her navel, then dipping to her inner thigh, teasing the edge of her pussy—wet now, not from want but the room’s heat, her control. He didn’t push inside, respecting her line, but his thumb brushed her clit once, a deliberate taunt, and she tensed, her nails digging into her palms. “Relax,” he chuckled, his other hand scooping cum from Rukhsar’s nearby breast—still kneeling, head bowed, a cum-drenched doll. He smeared it across Salma’s breasts, the hot, sticky ropes clinging to her skin, streaking her nipples, dripping down her cleavage like obscene paint. “Looks good on you,” he said, rubbing it in, his fingers slick, massaging her breasts until they glistened, the scent sharp and primal, his grin widening as he watched her skin flush under the mess.
Salma’s pulse raced, her chest tight—not disgust, but the thrill of her endgame. She was his canvas, his queen, but she was winning. Her eyes flicked to Rukhsar, then back to him, her voice low, cutting through his heavy breaths. “You’ve had your fun,” she said, sliding off his lap, her breasts bouncing, cum still clinging in wet patches. “The letter, sir.” Her tone was firm, a command wrapped in silk, her nakedness a throne as she stood, hips cocked, one hand brushing her hair back, the other pointing to the table.
He laughed, a throaty bark, and leaned back, his cock twitching but ignored. “Greedy, aren’t you?” he said, reaching for the parchment, the GST seal catching the light—her gateway to tax oversight, company secrets, SEBI’s data, the share market’s pulse. He held it out, his fingers lingering, forcing her to step closer, her breasts brushing his arm as she took it. The paper was heavy, her victory tangible, and she clutched it tight, her smile genuine now, a predator’s edge. “Well earned,” he muttered, his hand grazing her ass one last time, a parting claim she allowed, her focus already shifting—Goa, Rukhsar’s next play, Maya’s solar empire ripe for her audit.
Salma stepped back, the cum drying on her breasts, her skin prickling under his gaze, but her heart soared. She’d watched, endured, orchestrated—Rukhsar’s fucking, his groping, this final messy ritual—and walked away with power. “Rukhsar,” she called, voice sharp, and the girl rose, cum dripping, skirt falling as she followed. The MP’s eyes followed them, but Salma didn’t look back, the letter her crown, the chamber’s heat fading as she aimed for the door.
The MP’s chamber was a haze of decadence, the chandelier’s amber light glinting off Salma’s naked body as she stood near the carved teak door, the GST appointment letter gripped tightly in her hand. Cum—Rukhsar’s and the MP’s—clung to her breasts in drying streaks, a sticky badge of her endurance, her dusky skin flushed from his groping, her nipples raw from his pinches. The air choked with sandalwood incense, whiskey fumes, and the primal musk of sex, the sitar’s drone barely audible under the MP’s heavy breaths. Salma’s dark hair spilled wild over her shoulders, her sharp eyes blazing with triumph—she’d secured the tax department’s throne, company data to SEBI, the share market’s pulse hers to twist, Maya’s solar empire next in her sights. But her victory felt jagged, the MP’s final play still unfolding.
Rukhsar knelt on the Persian rug, a broken doll in her ruined collegegirl uniform—skirt hiked to her thighs, blouse ripped open, small breasts glistening with cum, her braids matted, her face a mess of mascara, semen, and sweat. Her lips trembled, swollen from his cock, her thighs slick with her own juices, but her eyes held a flicker—something alive, calculating, darting to Salma, then away. The MP sprawled on the velvet divan, his kurta gone, his belly slick with sweat, his cock soft but heavy against his thigh, a smirk twisting his lips as he watched Salma edge toward the door, her ass swaying, her nakedness a defiant crown.
“Hold on, queen,” he called, his voice a gravelly taunt, stopping her cold, her bare feet rooted to the marble floor. He leaned forward, snatching a second document from the teak side table—a transfer memo, its GST seal gleaming. “This posting? It’s Kerala—swampy office, miles from power.” He dangled it, his small eyes glinting, fingers drumming the paper. “Want Mumbai instead? The heart of it all—companies, SEBI, markets bending to you. I can switch it.” His smirk widened, sliding to Rukhsar. “But I want her. Leave Rukhsar with me—permanently. My little granddaughter belongs here.”
Salma’s chest tightened, frustration surging like a tide. Kerala was exile—humid, stagnant, a grave for her ambition. Mumbai was her arena, where she’d audit Maya’s empire, crack its clean facade, climb higher. Rukhsar was her tool, molded by her hand, loyal through fear, her role in Goa’s elite bash crucial to Salma’s trafficking web. Losing her now was a knife-twist, a miscalculation that stung. Her fingers crushed the letter’s edge, her pussy throbbing—not desire, but fury, her body a traitor to the calm she forced. “You’re ruthless,” she said, voice low, ice over fire, her eyes boring into his. “Fine. She stays—for now. Mumbai’s mine, or you’ll regret it.” Her tone was a blade, her gaze flicking to Rukhsar, who knelt still, unreadable.
The MP laughed, a guttural bark, tossing the memo aside, his hand waving her off. “Mumbai it is—papers fixed by dawn.” He stood, closing the gap, his fingers brushing her arm, then her breast, smearing the cum one last time, a slick, possessive mark. “You’ll ruin them all, won’t you?” he murmured, his beard grazing her shoulder, whiskey hot on his breath. His thumb flicked her nipple, a final taunt, but she didn’t flinch—her smile was cold, her victory sealed. “Rukhsar,” she snapped, voice sharp, “stay. Obey him.” The girl nodded, her cum-streaked face blank, but that flicker in her eyes—relief, cunning?—flashed again. Salma strode out, the door thudding shut, her bare feet silent on the marble stairs, her mind churning—Mumbai hers, Rukhsar lost, Goa’s plan shifting, Maya’s audit her next strike. Frustration gnawed, but she’d forge this setback into power, her ambition unbreakable.
The chamber stilled, the sitar’s hum swelling as the MP sank back onto the divan, expecting Rukhsar to clean up, to fade into the background like the used toy she’d been. But she moved—sudden, alive—rising from her knees, her skirt falling crooked, her bare breasts bouncing, cum dripping to the rug in viscous beads. She stepped close, her small hands trembling as they cupped his weathered face, her lips crashing into his with a fervent, desperate kiss. Her tongue darted out, tasting whiskey, sweat, and her own cum on his mouth, her braids brushing his chest, her nipples grazing his matted hair. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice cracked but fierce, her breath hot against his lips, her eyes glistening with something raw—gratitude, triumph, a secret breaking free.
He froze, his hands hovering, then settling on her hips, fingers digging into her cum-slick skin, smearing it further, his cock twitching despite its exhaustion. “Thank you?” he rasped, brow furrowing, his belly pressing her thighs as she straddled his lap, her skirt riding up, her panties long gone, her pussy brushing his thigh, wet and warm. “What’s this, girl?”
Rukhsar pulled back, her lips swollen, cum still clinging to her chin, her eyes burning with a fire he hadn’t seen. “I whispered to you,” she said, voice low, a confession spilling like wine, “when Salma was distracted—watching you fuck me. I begged you to make her leave me here. Told you I’d be obedient, anything you want.” Her fingers clutched his shoulders, nails biting his skin, her breasts heaving, cum sliding down her ribs. “You saved me—from her, from Goa, that fucking bash. I couldn’t go back.” She kissed him again, deeper, her tongue snaking into his mouth, a moan vibrating as she pressed closer, her pussy grinding lightly against his thigh, leaving a slick trail, her braids swinging like pendulums.
The MP’s grin spread, slow and predatory, his hands roaming her ass, squeezing hard, the flesh yielding under his grip, red marks blooming from his slaps. “Clever little slut,” he growled, his fingers slipping lower, brushing her asshole, then her pussy’s edge, wet and swollen from his earlier pounding. “You played her—my kind of girl.” He yanked her blouse remnants off, her breasts fully bare, cum-streaked and bouncing as he palmed them, pinching her nipples until she gasped, her moan a mix of pain and eager submission. “What do you want, huh? Stay as my pet? College like my granddaughter? Or just this?” His thumb flicked her clit, a wet squelch as she shivered, her thighs trembling, her eyes locked on his, pleading, fierce.
“Anything,” she breathed, her voice a vow, her hands sliding down his chest, nails raking his belly, stopping short of his cock, teasing, promising. “Keep me here—adopt me, send me to college, fuck me raw, I don’t care. Just not with her.” She leaned in, licking his neck, her tongue tracing sweat and whiskey, her teeth grazing his earlobe, a soft bite that made him groan. Her pussy pressed harder against his thigh, smearing juices, her hips rolling slow, a deliberate dance, her cum-slick breasts sliding against his chest, nipples hard as pebbles.
He laughed, rough and deep, his hands gripping her ass, spreading her cheeks, one finger circling her asshole, not entering but taunting, her gasp hot against his skin. “You’re mine now,” he said, pulling her face to his, kissing her hard, his tongue plunging, tasting her cum, her desperation, her victory. His cock stirred, half-hard, and he shoved her down, her knees hitting the rug again, her lips hovering near his shaft, not sucking but kissing its base, her breath warm, her braids pooling on his thighs. “Show me,” he growled, “how obedient you’ll be.”
She obeyed, her tongue flicking out, lapping his balls, slow and reverent, her hands cupping them, massaging gently, her moans vibrating as she worked, her pussy dripping to the rug, her breasts swaying, cum flaking off in the heat. The chandelier glowed, the sitar hummed, the chamber a bubble of their twisted pact—Rukhsar’s freedom bought with submission, the MP’s prize a girl who’d outplayed her master, his hands tangled in her braids, his grin wide as the sea beyond Delhi.
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