Amina and Nadia (Pakistani sisters living in New York)

The apartment was cramped, but that was normal for New York. A single couch that sagged in the middle, a coffee table with one uneven leg, and a small kitchen that barely fit two people at once.

Amina sat cross-legged on the couch, her hijab neatly pinned, black fabric draped down over a loose cream abaya. She had her arms folded, watching her younger sister pace.

“I’m just saying it’s not fair,” Nadia snapped, her sneakers squeaking against the floor as she turned again. “We’re barely paying rent here and they want us to send money? Every month?”

Amina’s eyes narrowed. “They are our parents. They’ve done everything for us. If they need help, we send help.” Her voice was calm but firm, the kind of calm that only made Nadia more irritated.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one working double shifts” Nadia shot back, pushing her dark hair over her shoulder. She was still dressed in her work clothes, a cream coloured shirt and black skirt, her body was full of tension, her chin lifted in defiance.

“I work too, Nadia. And I still find a way to-”

The sharp trill of Amina’s phone cut her off. She reached for it without looking, pulling it from beside her on the couch.

“Hello?” she said, leaning back slightly. She listened for a moment, her brows pulling together. “Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to?” Her voice rose sharply. “You disgusting little-”

Suddenly she stopped speaking. Just like that. No stammer, no pause to think, she just froze mid-sentence, her mouth still half open before closing again.

Nadia frowned. “What the hell? Amina? Who is it?”

Her sister’s eyes had lost focus, staring somewhere past Nadia, unblinking. When she spoke again, her voice was flat, almost robotic. “Yes. My sister’s here with me.”

Nadia’s unease deepened as Amina lowered the phone from her ear and tapped the screen.

A young man’s voice filled the room, smooth but irritated. “Finally. Do you know how many people just ignore their phones these days? And when they do pick up, they’re either total duds or not even hot. I saw your name in the phone book and thought, hey, that sounds exotic, might as well try my luck.”

Nadia’s face twisted in disgust. “Are you serious? Who the hell are you? And why-”

“Shut up,” the voice interrupted, casual but sharp. “Sit quietly like a good girl.”

The command landed heavy. Nadia’s mouth shut before she’d even decided to listen, her body sinking into the couch as if it had been waiting to obey all along.

The caller laughed, low and pleased. “Oh, that’s nice. She actually shut up. Ami-whatever, what’s your sister doing right now? What’s her name?”

“She’s sitting quietly, her name is Nadia” Amina replied in the same empty tone, eyes still fixed on nothing.

Nadia’s nails dug into her palms. She wanted to tell him off, scream at Amina to hang up, anything, but her jaw stayed clamped shut, her body planted firmly in its place.

“Let’s do this again then,” the voice went on. “I forgot to make it a command last time. Got too excited that someone actually picked up.” He sounded almost amused. “Alright. Answer these questions for me, What's your full name, what are your measurements, and are you hot?”

“Yes,” Amina replied without a pause, her voice steady but oddly vacant. “Amina Rahman. Thirty-two… twenty-six… thirty-six.” She spoke her measurements with the same flat precision someone might use to recite a serial number, as if the figures belonged to a product rather than her own body. “Yes, I am hot.”

Nadia’s stomach twisted. Just what the fuck was going on here.

“And what are you wearing right now?” he asked.

“A Black hijab, a cream abaya, and black pants,” Amina answered, still perfectly steady.

“Good. Now here’s what we’re gonna do,” the man said, his tone turning playful. “Amina, I want three pictures, front, back, and side profile. And you’re gonna use your sister as your photographer. Nadia, that’s a command for you too. You’re going to take them, nice and clear, and then send them to me.”

Nadia felt her legs moving before she’d even thought to resist, standing up and reaching for the phone in Amina’s other hand. Her mind screamed against it, but her body was already doing what it was told.

Nadia lifted the phone and started clicking, each shot as stiff as the way Amina stood. Her sister’s arms stayed at her sides, chin straight, eyes forward. She turned only when necessary, moving like she was following a script.

When the three photos were done, Nadia sent them to the number on the screen, forcing herself to read and remember it even as her fingers moved automatically. Then she handed the phone back to Amina.

A low whistle came from the other end. “Damn. Finally got a good one. That ass could stop traffic.” His laugh was short and crude. “Shame, though way too much is covered, and you look like you’re posing for a passport photo.”

“Amina,” the voice continued, “you’re gonna get rid of all your clothes. Every single piece. Then we’re doing those three pictures again, but this time you’ll pose sexy like a real model. And don’t forget to smile.”

Nadia’s pulse spiked. “No-” she started to think, but nothing left her mouth.

“Yes. I understand,” Amina said flatly, already beginning to move.

“And Nadia,” the man added, his tone almost cheerful, “you’re the photographer again.”

Nadia’s hands twitched at her sides, useless against the command settling in like a weight.

Nadia’s breath caught in her throat the moment Amina’s fingers reached for the edge of her hijab.

She’d seen her sister’s hair, her full face, in rare private moments but never like this. Never for a stranger’s benefit.

The fabric slid free, dark silk slipping down her sister’s shoulders. Amina’s glossy black hair tumbled out in a cascade, catching the light, a stark contrast against the bare flush of her face. Nadia’s pulse thudded as she realized no man outside their family had seen Amina like this since she was a teenager. It felt almost criminal, watching her sister step out of the careful cage she’d lived in for years.

Then the abaya followed. One slow sweep of her arms, over her shoulders, and it slithered down her body, pooling at her feet. Underneath, Amina’s figure, normally hidden beneath layers, was shockingly soft, lush, and womanly. Her curves pressed against the thin fabric of her bra, her skin a warm olive tone with a faint sheen of sweat.

And her face… her face had changed. She was smiling.

Nadia lifted the phone.

Amina arched her back, tilting her head so her hair spilled over one shoulder, lips parting slightly as her gaze met the camera. She turned, hips jutting out, one hand sliding along her thigh as though tracing the outline of her own body. Then she crouched low, knees apart, looking up with a doe-eyed pout.

Click.

Then she shifted to her side, glancing over her shoulder with a sly, knowing smile. Her back arched just enough to lift her chest, the curve of one breast visible past the line of her arm. The twist in her waist made her hips flare, the swell of her ass framed by the soft pull of fabric. One heel lifted slightly, tightening her calf, while her fingers rested lazily on her lower back as if guiding the viewer’s gaze exactly where she wanted it.

Click.

Amina then turned her back toward the camera, one hand resting lightly on her hip while the other cupped her ass, pushing it up just enough to make the curve obvious. Her hips tilted slightly, one leg bent at the knee, giving her ass a playful sway. She glanced over her shoulder with a cheeky smile. The twist of her torso revealed a side profile of her chest, soft and natural.

Click.

Nadia found herself almost trembling, both unsettled and strangely captivated.

When she handed the phone back, Amina froze mid-pose. Life drained from her expression; her body went still, her eyes dull again. She quickly sent the pictures, her finger hovering over the final message. A few seconds of silence passed.

Then the line crackled to life.

“Your sister… she’s breathtaking, Nadia” the caller murmured, his tone low and almost reverent. “So pure. So untouched…”

There was a pause, a lingering, weighted pause before his voice returned, warmer, edged with curiosity.

“Tell me, Amina… have you ever been with a man? Ever felt…what it is like?”

Amina blinked, her voice faint. “No.”

On the other end, there was a sharp inhale. Then a soft, delighted laugh, the kind of giddy disbelief that borders on greed.

“Oh… oh, this is going to be perfect.”

The caller’s voice softened, careful, deliberate. “Amina, listen very carefully.”