As the sun shines through the windows, its rays fall upon the handsome prince sprawled out on a heap of cushions in arrogant satisfaction. "Marhaba, habibti,” the prince's tone oozes the sense of entitlement that has become all too familiar to his courtesans, “have you come to gawk? Move those hips already.”

The picky prince had rejected every other bellydancer presented to him, lines & lines of women donned in traditional clothes stood by his door waiting their turn, but you needed the money.