Sana: The Relapse

Years had passed since Sana Aftab’s last “meeting.” She was thirty-nine now, still turning heads on @SanaStylesPK, which had crossed 400,000 followers. The main feed was cleaner: sponsored shoots in Karachi studios, modest-yet-chic western wear, motherhood reels with Ahmed (now fifteen, tall and quiet). She had married again—a soft-spoken school principal named Faraz who believed her past was only “a difficult phase.” They lived in a rented upper-portion in Bahria Town Phase 8, paid for with brand deals and Faraz’s salary. Ahmed attended a good cadet college on scholarship. The roof no longer leaked.

But cracks reappeared slowly.

Inflation bit harder. Ahmed’s college fees rose. Faraz’s mother fell ill—hospital bills in Lahore every month. Sana’s ring light broke, then her camera. A big fashion week invite demanded outfits she couldn’t afford to rent. The old hunger stirred: not just for money, but for the electric pulse of being wanted by strangers who paid in crisp thousands.

It began with a single DM in July, monsoon heat thick outside.

@GulfHercules:
“Sana, saw you at the Dolmen Mall shoot. Still the most beautiful woman in the room. Visiting Islamabad for three days. One evening. 300K. No recordings, no hassle.”

The profile picture showed a man in a gym mirror—six-four, shoulders like bridge cables, skin sun-darkened from Gulf construction sites. Thirty-five, Overseas Pakistani, civil engineer. Verified.

Sana’s thumb hovered. She had sworn off the secret account, deleted every burner SIM. Faraz was at a parent-teacher meeting. Ahmed at cricket camp. She typed:
“Only dinner. Cash up front.”

They met at a rooftop restaurant in F-11. She wore a sleeveless black maxi, hair in loose waves, red toenails peeking from strappy heels. He stood when she arrived—towering, polite, voice low. “You look better than your photos.” Half the money in an envelope before appetizers.

Conversation stayed light: his projects in Doha, her brand trips to Dubai. When he asked if she ever missed “the rush,” her laugh came too quick. “Sometimes.”

He booked a suite at the Serena. “Just to talk more,” he said. She told Faraz she was crashing at a girlfriend’s after a late shoot.

The suite smelled of oud and chilled air. He poured mocktails. She kicked off her heels, stretched on the chaise. He knelt without asking, lifted her right foot.

“Roman,” he murmured, thumb tracing the high arch. “Perfect proportion.”

Her feet were her quiet vanity—ivory-pale from years of closed shoes, soles baby-pink, toes lacquered scarlet. He turned the foot sole-up, kissed the ball, slow, deliberate. Heat shot up her calf.

“Fairer than the rest of you,” he said, voice rough. “Like they’ve never seen sun.”

Sana’s breath hitched. Faraz loved her, but never like this—never with hunger that made her feel carved from marble and sin.

He carried her to the bed as if she weighed nothing. Powerful arms under her thighs, her back pressed to his chest. Stand-carry—he lifted her clean off the carpet, legs wrapped around his waist. She gasped at the strain in his biceps, the way her body folded open.

“Hold tight,” he growled.

She did, arms around his thick neck, ankles locked. He walked them to the full-length mirror so she could watch: her black dress rucked to her hips, his hands gripping her ass, her scarlet toes curling against the small of his back.

He entered her standing, slow, relentless. Each thrust lifted her an inch, dropped her back onto him. Gravity and muscle worked in tandem; she felt impaled, weightless, split open. Her moans echoed off glass.

“Look,” he ordered.

She did. The mirror showed a woman she barely recognized—hair wild, lips parted, feet flexing pink soles skyward with every stroke. His shoulders flexed like steel cables; sweat beaded on his brow but his rhythm never faltered.

The angle was brutal, intimate. He hit depths Faraz never reached. Sana’s nails dug into his traps. Pleasure coiled viciously in her belly.

“Tell me,” he said, voice gravel.

“It’s—too much—”

“Say you missed this.”

“I missed it,” she sobbed, the confession torn out with the next thrust.

He spun them, still inside her, and lowered her to the bed without breaking contact. Now on his knees, her legs over his shoulders, he bent to kiss each red toe while driving deeper. The dual worship—foot and core—shattered her. Orgasm crashed in waves, thighs trembling, soles cramping against his lips.

After, he laid her feet on his chest, massaging the arches while she floated in aftershocks.

“Stay the night,” he said. “Double the rest.”

She should have refused. Instead she texted Faraz a lie about an all-night edit session.

Morning brought envelopes thick with purple 5,000-rupee notes. She hid them in a sanitary-pad box under the sink.

The relapse did not spiral; it sharpened.

She reactivated @SanaSecretPK on a new phone, password-protected, hidden in Ahmed’s old toy drawer. But this time she curated. No more 300K randos. She set a floor: 1 million per night, advance wired, medical certificate required, no recordings, no social overlap. Clients were vetted through a discreet fixer in Dubai—Overseas Pakistanis only, C-level or above, flying in on private charters.

Rehan—@GulfHercules—became a regular, but even he paid the new rate. He booked entire floors at the PC Islamabad, sent a Rolls to collect her. Their ritual refined: he greeted her barefoot in a silk robe, knelt to unbuckle her heels, kissed each pink sole before carrying her to the marble island in the kitchenette. Stand-carry against the floor-to-ceiling window, city lights glittering thirty stories below, her reflection superimposed on Islamabad’s night skyline.

She learned to savor the suspension—his forearms like bridge girders under her thighs, her weight nothing to him. The angle let him grind against her clit with every lift; she came twice before he spun her to the bed.

Other clients followed the same template:

• A shipping tycoon from Karachi who paid 1.5 million to watch her paint her toes crimson while he jerked off in a chair, then fucked her standing in the shower, water sluicing over her pale soles.
• A tech founder from Toronto who wired 2 million for a weekend in a Nathia Gali villa, spent an hour massaging rose oil into her arches before lifting her against a cedar beam, pine scent mixing with sex.

She kept a ledger on an encrypted note: dates, amounts, STI tests. Faraz saw the new jewelry, the sudden plot purchase in DHA Phase 5, the private tutor for Ahmed’s SATs. She fed him half-truths—“Crypto side hustle with a Dubai contact.” He wanted to believe her ambition.

Publicly, @SanaStylesPK hit 600,000 followers. She launched a modest swimwear line (shot in the Maldives, of course—“brand retreat”). Private jets, five-star spas, designer abayas she never wore at home.

Ahmed, sixteen now, asked once why she smelled of airports. She laughed, ruffled his hair, bought him AirPods Pro.

The mirror moment came in October.

Rehan had her in a Centaurus penthouse, stand-carry again—her favorite now, the way it made her feel both fragile and invincible. He held her suspended, dress pooled at her waist, red toes digging into his lower back.

“Look at us,” he panted.

She did. And saw not guilt, but power: her body a commodity she controlled, price tag climbing.

“Put me down,” she whispered—not in regret, but command.

He obeyed instantly, lowering her to the carpet. She straightened her dress, slipped into Louboutins he’d gifted, took the envelope—1.8 million this time.

“Next month,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Same rate. Bring the Gulfstream.”

She drove home at dawn, windows down, monsoon air cool on her skin. The sanitary-pad box under the sink was replaced by a biometric safe.

Sana Aftab no longer relapsed; she reigned. Selective, pricier, untouchable.

The feet that once earned lakhs now commanded crores—pink soles pressed to marble in palaces from Doha to Toronto, scarlet toes curling in ecstasy thirty thousand feet above the Arabian Sea.

In Bahria Town, Faraz slept. Ahmed dreamed of MIT.

And Sana, barefoot on the cool tile of her walk-in closet, counted stacks of purple notes, painted her toes a deeper red, and smiled at the woman in the mirror who had learned the final lesson:

Descent is only the beginning if you price the fall.