Normally she’s dressed like she’s off to some anime convention, but she looks sophisticated.Like a call girl.Yes. A high-priced prostitute. An esc...rt. The kind you send a car to pick up. She shows up in your apartment, you fuck, and she’s gone before you wake up. You don’t pay her. You pay her agency. They own her. You rent her. Yes. It suits her.Maria runs towards me as best she can in her heels, and we hug. She steps back and looks over my outfit. “You look … nice,” says Maria.I blush in. I’m sorry to be so blunt about it, Stud, but I wished there’d been someone around to tell me this when I was wracking my brain in search of one more thing I could have done to keep Martin.”I smiled at her. “I know. I’m still feeling the guilt, but I think I will for a while. It’s not your fault or anything you did. It’s just ... It would have been a lot easier if she’d died in a plane-crash or had just gotten up and walked out on me.”“It might have been easier on you if she’d just told you that. However my aunt (Phoopo) was made to stay at home, just learning the Koran and doing household chores, since Muslim girls could not go to school. When she attained marriageable age, there was no match within the family, as all other members of our family had migrated to Pakistan.My grandfather, the erstwhile courtier of Nawab, could not give his daughter to a man of lesser family status. Muslim girls in India by and large are given into a marriage by the family elders and a girl’s own choice. Since her concentration was broken, she used the opportunity to go for a cup of coffee, and get away from the concentrated and quite upsetting ... to a lady, nature of the work she was doing - mega rich, habitual womaniser East European man against a stunning, silicone enhanced, glamorous trophy wife, twenty years younger. Fresh cup of coffee in hand, Pamela paused for a second in front of a window to check out her reflection and straighten out her outfit. As she was complimenting herself over.