The opulent Grand Hotel Lahore was abuzz with the city’s elite, their glittering evenings punctuated by the discreet arrivals of its most elusive guests – the call girls who plied their trade in the lavish surroundings.
Behind the ornate double doors of Suite 713, a champagne bottle chilled in an ice bucket as Amna, a stunning 25-year-old with porcelain skin and piercing green eyes, reclined on a plush king-sized bed strewn with silk pillows. Her crystal encrusted Louboutins lay discarded by the marble-clad en-suite bathroom, where a bottle of Tom Ford’s Black Orchid perfume lay open on the vanity.
The rich, musky scent mixed with the delicate notes of her own Chanel No. 5 as Amna made herself ready. She reached for the Hermès silk robe hanging on a bronze coat rack, its softness a welcome respite from the stilettos that had tortured her feet all evening. With practiced ease, she wrapped the luxurious fabric around her toned physique before padding over to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
From this lofty perch, the neon-lit sprawl of Lahore’s Old City glittered like a canvas of diamonds. The distant call to prayer from the Badshahi Mosque drifted up, a haunting counterpoint to the throb of the city below. Amna gazed out at the sleeping metropolis, her mind drifting to the man who would soon join her.
She had met him at the hotel bar earlier that night, his designer suit and commanding presence drawing her in like a moth to flame. Their conversation had flowed effortlessly, punctuated by the clinking of crystal glasses as they sipped on vintage cognac. He had been candid about his desires, his deep, raspy voice sending shivers down her spine as he outlined his fantasies.
Now, as the grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight, Amna heard the soft click of the door latch. She turned to face him, a sultry smile playing on her full lips. He looked every inch the wealthy businessman, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart race.
With a grace born of countless encounters, Amna sauntered over to him, the silk robe whispering against her skin. She reached out to trace a finger along the sharp line of his jaw, her touch electric. “I’ve been waiting,” she purred, as he pulled her close, their bodies melting together in a dance as old as sin itself.
In this sanctuary of luxury, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and the whispered secrets of the city’s underbelly, the allure of pleasure would reign supreme. For in Suite 713, Amna and her client were masters of their own desires, their tryst a fleeting moment of ecstasy in the grand scheme of Lahore’s endless nights.
