Sana: The Fall
Ahmed was sixteen when the truth slipped through the cracks of his perfect world.
It happened in the cadet college hostel, late after lights-out. His roommate and closest friend, Bilal—son of a brigadier, sharp-eyed, always scrolling private Telegram channels—leaned over from the top bunk.
“Bro, your mom’s fire,” he whispered, phone glowing. “But like… fire fire.”
Ahmed laughed it off at first. Everyone knew @SanaStylesPK. His mom was famous. Brands, shoots, Maldives trips. But Bilal’s tone was different—hungry, conspiratorial.
He shoved the phone under Ahmed’s nose.
A grainy clip: a hotel suite, marble floor, a woman’s bare feet—ivory skin, pink soles, red toes—lifted high as a man’s thick arms held her suspended. Stand-carry. The angle was low, phone hidden. The woman’s moan was unmistakable.
Sana.
Ahmed’s stomach didn’t drop. It tightened. He recognized the feet—he’d seen them a thousand times, painted fresh every Sunday night while she watched Turkish dramas. The arch, the Roman shape, the way the second toe was slightly longer. His mother’s.
Bilal didn’t know it was her. Not yet. “Some high-end escort,” he said. “They call her ‘Scarlet Soles.’ Rates start at a crore. Only Overseas Pakistanis. Your mom models with her sometimes, right? Same circle.”
Ahmed said nothing. He took the phone, memorized the handle: @SanaSecretPK_vip. Burner account. Encrypted.
That night, he didn’t sleep.
He stole Faraz’s old laptop, cracked the Wi-Fi, used a VPN. The account was locked—invite only. But Bilal had a link from a Dubai group. Ahmed paid 50K from his cricket savings to a fixer. Got in.
The bio was simple:
Scarlet Soles
Exclusive. Discreet. 15M base. Advance wired. No locals under 30. Medical cert mandatory.
Feet | Stand-carry | Full control.
Pinned post: a close-up of those pink soles against black silk, captioned “Dubai, Dec 20–22. Two slots. 25M each.”
Ahmed stared until the screen burned his eyes.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t rage. Something hot settled in his chest.
He wanted to know. Not from clips. Not from whispers. From her.
He created a fake profile: @AhmedGulfExec. Used Bilal’s uncle’s company logo, forged a Canadian passport scan, wired 5 million from the plot sale money Sana had stashed in his “college fund” account (he’d watched her enter the PIN once). The fixer verified. Slot confirmed.
December 21. PC Hotel, Islamabad. Penthouse.
He told Faraz he was at a debate tournament in Lahore. Took a Careem at 2 a.m.
The suite was dark, city lights bleeding through sheer curtains. She entered from the bedroom in a crimson silk robe, hair loose, barefoot. Red toes. Pink soles glowing against the marble.
She didn’t recognize him at first. The room was dim. He wore a tailored suit, voice lowered, clean-shaven—still boyish, but the suit and the darkness aged him.
“Evening,” he said. “You’re more beautiful in person.”
Sana smiled—professional, warm. “You paid well. Let’s make it worth it.”
She moved to the chaise, lifted one foot into his lap. “Roman,” she said, like it was their ritual. “You like?”
Ahmed’s hand didn’t tremble. He took her ankle. The skin was warm, soft, familiar. He’d held this foot when she twisted it at a wedding when he was eight. Carried her slippers. Painted her toes once, age ten, while she laughed and called him her little artist.
Now he traced the arch like a stranger.
“Fair,” he said, voice steady. “Like milk.”
She leaned back, robe slipping open. “You said stand-carry in the form. Strong enough?”
He stood. Six feet now, broader from cricket. He lifted her easily—arms under her thighs, her back to his chest. She gasped, surprised at his strength. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Scarlet toes locked at his spine.
He walked to the mirror.
“Look,” he said.
She did. And froze.
The reflection showed her son’s eyes staring back.
Ahmed’s grip didn’t falter. He held her suspended, fully clothed, her weight nothing in his arms.
“Mama,” he whispered.
The robe fell open. Her breath hitched—not in horror, but recognition. A flicker of something else. Curiosity?
“Put me down,” she said, voice low.
He obeyed slowly. Her feet touched the marble. Pink soles. Red toes. Bare.
She didn’t back away. She studied him.
“Ahmed,” she said, not a question. “You paid 25 million to see me like this.”
He nodded.
She stepped closer, robe slipping from one shoulder. “Then let’s not waste it.”
She sank to her knees on the plush carpet. Hands behind her back. Eyes up. Submissive. Waiting.
Ahmed’s breath caught. He unbuckled his belt. She didn’t flinch.
He freed himself—hard, young, aching. She leaned forward, lips parted, took him in slow. No hands. Just mouth. Tongue. Throat.
She was obedient. No teasing. No control. She let him set the pace—slow at first, then deeper, until her nose brushed his stomach. Tears pricked her eyes, not from pain, but effort. She swallowed around him, hummed softly, the vibration making him groan.
He threaded fingers through her hair—not pulling, just holding. She stayed pliant, letting him use her mouth like a toy. Saliva glistened on her chin. Red lipstick smeared. Pink soles flat on the carpet behind her.
When he pulled out, she stayed on her knees, lips swollen, eyes glassy.
“Stand-carry,” he said.
She rose. He lifted her again—this time naked, robe discarded. Her legs wrapped around him. He entered her in one smooth thrust. She gasped, arms around his neck, ankles locked.
He walked her to the window. City lights below. Her reflection superimposed on Islamabad’s skyline.
He fucked her standing, relentless. Each thrust lifted her an inch, dropped her back onto him. Gravity and muscle. She clung to him, moaning into his shoulder. Her pink soles flexed against his lower back with every stroke.
“Harder,” she whispered.
He obliged. The angle was brutal. Intimate. She came first—clenching around him, nails digging into his shoulders, toes curling so tight the red polish cracked at the edges.
He followed, buried deep, pulsing inside her.
After, he lowered her to the bed. She lay on her back, legs open, feet in the air. He knelt between them, kissed each pink sole, sucked each red toe clean.
She watched him with half-lidded eyes.
“You’re good at this,” she said softly.
“You taught me,” he replied.
She smiled—small, secret. “Next month. Same rate. But you book through the fixer. No more family discounts.”
He nodded.
She dressed slowly, slipped into Louboutins, took the envelope—25 million in crisp notes.
At the door, she paused.
“Tell Bilal his uncle’s company logo looks fake,” she said. “Fix the watermark.”
Ahmed grinned.
She left.
The secret stayed between them.
Sana kept the account. Ahmed kept the slot.
Once a month.
No judgment.
Just business.