The Robinhood Act

Part 3: The Muslim League Minister
The fall of Balakrishnan created a vacuum, but the system quickly filled it. The new power pulling strings was Minister K.M. Ibrahim — a senior leader from the Indian Union Muslim League, representing a strong Malappuram constituency but wielding enormous influence over northern Kerala’s development funds. In his late 40s, he was sharp-featured, well-groomed with a neatly trimmed beard, always dressed in crisp white kurta-pajama and a prayer cap on formal occasions. He projected piety in public — attending Jumma prayers and speaking about community welfare — but behind the scenes, he siphoned crores from minority welfare schemes, education projects, and coastal infrastructure.
After the previous scandals, I knew I had to be more careful. Anjali resurfaced as a “consultant” for a women’s self-help group tied to municipal programs. My reputation as an efficient, charming, and discreet woman had spread in the right circles.
The minister first saw me at a high-profile iftar dinner in Kozhikode during Ramadan, organised to showcase “inclusive development.” I wore a deep emerald green silk saree with a matching low-cut blouse, a delicate veil-like dupatta, and traditional Muslim-inspired gold jewellery that complemented my look without overstepping. My makeup was elegant — kohl-rimmed eyes, nude lips with a glossy sheen, and a soft glow on my cheeks.
Minister Ibrahim couldn’t keep his eyes off me. After the event, his personal assistant approached me with an invitation to discuss “women’s empowerment initiatives” at his private residence in a quiet, upscale area near the city.
I arrived that evening dressed even more provocatively beneath a modest outer layer: a sheer black net saree over a skin-coloured blouse that made my padded breasts look naturally full, and a petticoat that accentuated my hips. He greeted me personally, dismissing his staff early.
“Anjali, you are a breath of fresh air in this corrupt world,” he said smoothly, his eyes tracing my form as he poured me rose sherbet. We sat in his luxurious living room with Arabic calligraphy on the walls and the faint scent of attar in the air.
I played the role perfectly — the vulnerable yet ambitious widow seeking patronage, using soft feminine emotions: gentle sighs, empathetic nods, and admiring glances. He opened up quickly about the “pressures” of politics, then about the “practical arrangements” needed for projects to move forward.
Soon, his hand was on my thigh. I didn’t resist. Instead, I leaned in, letting my dupatta slip, and whispered, “Saar, I understand. A powerful man like you needs… relief. I can be very discreet.”
The seduction was intense and culturally charged. He kissed me with surprising passion, his beard tickling my smooth face. I responded with moans, pressing my body against his. When he undressed me, revealing my secret, he paused only for a moment before lust took over. “Allah forgive me… but you are made for sin,” he murmured.
I knelt before him on the ornate carpet and took his circumcised cock into my mouth, sucking reverently while looking up at him. He groaned in Malayalam mixed with Arabic phrases, gripping my hair as I deep-throated him, saliva dripping down my chin. “You suck better than any wife,” he panted.
He laid me on the silk-covered bed and entered me from behind, one hand on my hip, the other reaching around to stroke me. The contrast — his pious public image versus the raw fucking — heightened everything. I cried out in pleasure as he thrust deep, my prostate singing with every stroke. “Tell me about the scholarship funds, Saar,” I gasped between moans. He spilled everything: how they diverted money meant for Muslim girls’ education into personal accounts and party coffers, names of contractors, and even links back to previous officials I had already exposed.
We went multiple rounds. He fucked me missionary while reciting whispered verses that only made it more forbidden and erotic. Later, I rode him, my cock bouncing as I ground down, my breasts (padded but realistic) heaving. He came hard inside me twice, filling me with his seed while I milked every confession.
I captured it all — hidden camera in the corner, audio from my jewellery. The videos were damning: the respected Muslim League minister pounding a crossdressing seductress while bragging about corruption.
The leak was surgical. Copies reached investigative journalists, rival factions within the UDF, and the Vigilance Department. Within days, a massive scandal erupted. “IUML Minister Caught in Sex Scandal Involving Corruption” dominated headlines across Kerala. Ibrahim was forced to resign, his political career in tatters. Raids followed on his properties in Malappuram and Kozhikode.
The community was shocked, but many ordinary people — tired of the hypocrisy — welcomed the exposure.
As Anjali, I lay low again, returning to my Arjun identity. But the taste of power and pleasure lingered. Three major figures had fallen to my feminine charms, my body, and my determination.
Kerala’s politics would never feel the same to me. The silk sarees still hang in my secret cupboard, waiting for the next corrupt target who underestimates the quiet strength of a “woman” from the coast.