Luxury Perfumes Quotes

His scent is intensified in here perfectly, baked by summer, preserved by snow, sealed and pressurized inside glass and metal. I inhale like a professional perfumer. Top notes of mint, bitter coffee, and cotton. Mid notes of black pepper and pine. Base notes of leather and cedar. Luxurious as cashmere. If this is what his car smells like, imagine his bed. Good idea. Imagine his bed. He

Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came; and if the village had been beautiful at first, it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched out beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.

That summer, Titanic fever gripped Kabul. People smuggled pirated copies of the film from Pakistan- sometimes in their underwear. After curfew, everyone locked their doors, turned out the lights, turned down the volume, and reaped tears for Jack and Rose and the passengers of the doomed ship. If there was electrical power, Mariam, Laila, and the children watched it too. A dozen times or more, they unearthed the TV from behind the tool-shed, late at night, with the lights out and quilts pinned over the windows. At the Kabul River, vendors moved into the parched riverbed. Soon, from the river's sunbaked hollows, it was possible to buy Titanic carpets, and Titanic cloth, from bolts arranged in wheelbarrows. There was Titanic deodorant, Titanic toothpaste, Titanic perfume, Titanic pakora, even Titanic burqas. A particularly persistent beggar began calling himself "Titanic Beggar." "Titanic City" was born. It's the song, they said. No, the sea. The luxury. The ship. It's the sex, they whispered. Leo, said Aziza sheepishly. It's all about Leo. "Everybody wants Jack," Laila said to Mariam. "That's what it is. Everybody wants Jack to rescue them from disaster. But there is no Jack. Jack is not coming back. Jack is dead.

Chic, is first, when you don't have to prove you have money, either because you have a lot and it doesn't matter or because you don't have any and it doesn't matter. Chic is not aspirational. Chic is the most impossible thing to define. Luxury is a humorless thing, largely, and when humor happens in luxury it happens involuntarily. Chic is all about humor. Which means chic is about intelligence. And there has to be oddness-- most luxury is conformist, and chic cannot be. Chic must be polite and not incommode others, but within that it can be as weird as it wants.

Unlike perfume, handbags are visible on the body, and--like Air Jordans for teenagers--give the wearer the chance to brandish the logo and publicly declare her status or aspiration.

I quickly learned that choice is a luxury, and is largely responsible for pleasure. Half the enjoyment of putting on perfume is the decision to do so, and the decisions of which one, where, and how much.

Whoever said that sin was not fun? Whoever claimed that Lucifer was not handsome, persuasive, easy, friendly? Sin is attractive and desirable. Transgression wears elegant gowns and sparkling apparel. It is highly perfumed; it has attractive features, a soft voice. It is found in educated circles and sophisticated groups. It provides sweet and comfortable luxuries. Sin is easy and has a big company of pleasant companions. It promises immunity from restrictions, temporary freedoms. It can momentarily satisfy hunger, thirst, desire, urges, passions, wants without immediately paying the price. But, it begins tiny, and grows to monumental proportions - drop by drop, inch by inch.

Affluence isn't affluence at all. Hong Kong is the benchmark; everybody else's affluence is mere tat. Until you've experienced that perfume-washed air as polarized glass doors embrace you into a luxury hotel's plush interior, you've only had a dud replica of the real thing.

Dreams, always dreams! and the more ambitious and delicate is the soul, the more its dreams bear it away from possibility. Each man carries in himself his dose of natural opium, incessantly secreted and renewed. From birth to death, how many hours can we count that are filled by positive enjoyment, by successful and decisive action? Shall we ever live, shall we ever pass into this picture which my soul has painted, this picture which resembles you? These treasures, this furniture, this luxury, this order, these perfumes, these miraculous flowers, they are you. Still you, these mighty rivers and these calm canals! These enormous ships that ride upon them, freighted with wealth, whence rise the monotonous songs of their handling: these are my thoughts that sleep or that roll upon your breast. You lead them softly towards that sea which is the Infinite; ever reflecting the depths of heaven in the limpidity of your fair soul; and when, tired by the ocean's swell and gorged with the treasures of the East, they return to their port of departure, these are still my thoughts enriched which return from the Infinite - towards you.

Y puedo ver lo que es el supersueño -joyas, pieles, perfumes, batas de seda, anillos, cuadros, automóviles- calculado por hombres que hablan el idioma del precio y que no conciben la vida gratuita de esta tarde que los envuelve sin que sepan sentirla.

Even the Bible admitted that the world was full of mystery and beauty and golden perfumed luxury.

Before Parting A MONTH or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, And that strong purple under juice and foam Where the wine’s heart has burst; Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray Even to change the bitterness of it, The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise Over my face and eyes. And yet who knows what end the scythèd wheat Makes of its foolish poppies’ mouths of red? These were not sown, these are not harvested, They grow a month and are cast under feet And none has care thereof, As none has care of a divided love. I know each shadow of your lips by rote, Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; The fashion of fair temples tremulous With tender blood, and colour of your throat; I know not how love is gone out of this, Seeing that all was his. Love’s likeness there endures upon all these: But out of these one shall not gather love. Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough To make love whole and fill his lips with ease, As some bee-builded cell Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. I know not how this last month leaves your hair Less full of purple colour and hid spice, And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care; And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet Worth patience to regret.

If you've ever taken a sub, you'll know they have available every luxury item the weary traveller could ever wish to purchase. Drinks, food, perfumes, clothes, blankets, anything. These compartments weren't empty, but I doubt the weary traveller was really in the market for a selection of low and high powered pistols, assault rifles, armour piercing rounds and the variety of explosive devices on offer. Unless they were on the way to a Christmas family get-together.

The room smells of lemon oil, heavy cloth, fading daffodils, the leftover smells of cooking that have made their way from the kitchen or the dining room, and of Serena Joy's perfume: Lily of the Valley. Perfume is a luxury, she must have some private source. I breathe it in, thinking I should appreciate it. It's the scent of pre-pubescent girls, of the gifts young children used to give their mothers, for Mother's Day; the smell of white cotton socks and white cotton petticoats, of dusting powder, of the innocence of female flesh not yet given over to hairiness and blood. It makes me feel slightly ill, as it I'm in a closed car on a hot muggy day with an older woman wearing too much face powder. This is what the sitting room is like, despite its elegance.

All April and May, the stock-pots exuded the fragrance of the crushed bones and marrow of cattle and fowl, seasoned with the crispate herbs and vegetables from her own luxuriant garden. The smells coalesced into a dark perfume that felt like a layer of silk on the tongue. My nose grew kingly at the approach of my home. There would be the redolent brown stocks the color of tanned leather, the light and chipper white stocks, and the fish stocks brimming with the poached heads of trout smelling like an edible serving of marsh.

She had begun to love the rocks and the ocean, the thunder of the wave, and the sterility of the sand,–awful objects, the incessant recurrence of whose very sound seems intended to remind us of grief and of eternity. Their restless monotony of repetition, corresponds with the beatings of a heart which asks its destiny from the phenomena of nature, and feels the answer is ‘Misery.’ 'Those who love may seek the luxuries of the garden, and inhale added intoxication from its perfumes, which seem the offerings of nature on that altar which is already erected and burning in the heart of the worshipper;–but let those who have loved seek the shores of the ocean, and they shall have their answer too.

In the Roman psyche the East had long been a place of danger, but also a place of plenty. The first Emperor Augustus famously said of Rome that he found a city built in brick but left it in marble – all that money had to come from somewhere. India was repeatedly described in Roman sources as a land of unimaginable wealth. Pliny the Elder complained that the Roman taste for exotic silks, perfumes and pearls consumed the city. ‘India and China [and Arabia] together drain our Empire. That is the price that our luxuries and our womankind cost us.’ It was the construction of the Via Egnatia and attendant road-systems that physically allowed Rome to expand eastwards, while the capture of Egypt intensified this magnetic pull. Rome had got the oriental bug, and Byzantium, entering into a truce with the Romans in 129 BC following the Roman victory in the Macedonian Wars that kick-started Gnaeus Egnatius’ construction of the Via Egnatia, was a critical and vital destination before all longer Asian journeys began.

Talking with Merritt was like slipping into one of those silk-lined borrowed coats from the Challons. Comfortable, luxurious. She was whip-smart, understanding the details, the unsaid words. She had a way of wrapping people in empathy that extended to everyone from the duke down to the young assistant groundskeeper. It was the kind of charm that made people feel wittier, more attractive, more interesting, in her reflected glow. Keir was doing his level best to resist her lure. But he was so drawn to her, so damn besotted. He adored her fancy words... "prevarication"... "resplendent"... her easy smiles... her perfumed wrists and throat. She was like a beautiful gift that begged to be unwrapped. Just being near her made the blood sing in his veins.

I'm not interested in luxury but I'm interested in the quality of life that is led by people who are interested in luxury. Jean-Claude Ellena Perfumes are constructed to smell good on paper, not on skin, which is a perversion. Hay is, as literally as possible, the smell of liquid summer sunlight. This Marxist idea that the price of a thing is the price of its materials is false. A wonderfully odd combination of fresh plant and wool gabardine and clear wood, like opening a clean wardrobe to find a tropical fruit tree growing inside it. There are two great poles of perfumery, Latin and Anglo-Saxon. Seduction and hygiene. The Latin wants to seduce, he says: "See how sexy I am, I'm coming to you.". The American says: "See how clean I am, you can come to me." Jean-Claude Ellena

A fresh, uplifting mélange of Italian bergamot, mandarin, and raspberry that comprised the opening accord filled her nostrils with the carefree scents of spring. Her imagination soared with memories. The gardens of Bellerose, picnic baskets bursting with summer fruits on sunny Mediterranean beaches, summers spent on the Riviera, yacht parties, and the casino in Monte Carlo. The plain little bottle held the essence of the happy life she had known. She inhaled again, closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to wander, to visualize the images the aroma evoked. Excitement coursed through her veins. She imagined a glamorous, luxurious lifestyle of exotic locales, mysterious lovers, sandy beaches, glittering parties, elegant gowns, and precious jewels. And amid it all, sumptuous bouquets of fabulous flowers, enchanting and romantic, intense aromas of pure, bridal white jasmine and sultry tuberose, and the heady, evocative aroma of rose. Seductive spices, clove with musk and patchouli, smoothed with sandalwood and vanilla, elegant and sensual, like a lover in the night. And finally, she realized what was missing. A strong, smooth core, a warm amber blend that would provide a deep connection to the soul. Love.

She often said those had been her best years, and surely the most fun. Twenty-five years later, she was still having fun. Isabelle showed the photograph of her debut to Allegra, who looked at it admiringly. She could see the resemblance, but her mother was so much more flamboyant and extroverted. She radiated excitement and joy. Allegra was a much quieter person, with a much more peaceful nature. She would never have dared to be as exuberant as her mother. She had been forced to hide all her life from people who didn’t want her around, or to nurture herself when they left her to her own devices, or abandoned her like her parents. She had never had the luxury of being as sure of herself as Isabelle was. She couldn’t even imagine what that would feel like. Allegra had been forced to be invisible for most of her life, in order to avoid getting hurt or rejected. “Studio 54 was fantastic,” Isabelle said to Allegra, with the light of memory in her eyes. “It didn’t last long, but it was fabulous. People really had fun then. The world is a lot quieter and more boring now.” “Maybe fewer drugs,” Mariette commented, and as Isabelle laughed, Allegra heard the sound that had reminded her of bells as a child. She remembered that and the scent of her exotic perfume most of all. “I used to love your perfume,” Allegra said with a dreamy expression. Her mother smiled at the memory. “I wore two in those days, Femme by Rochas and Shalimar by Guerlain. I blended them myself. I don’t wear either of them anymore. It’s funny that you remember that.” She looked touched for a moment.

Good luck. For most of my generation, it would just go to student debt and cocktails. If anything came to me (an impossibility), I would dump it into a poorly managed career in edgy luxury items. You can’t make opera money on perfume that smells like cunts and gasoline. At any rate, I didn’t usually make an appearance beyond the gala. Or, I hadn’t until recently. But Joseph Eisner had promised me a fortune, and now he wouldn’t take my calls. He did, however, like his chamber music. It had been an acquired taste for me. In my distant undergraduate past, when circumstance sat me in front of an ensemble, I spent the first five minutes of each concert deciding which musician I would fuck if I had the chance, and the rest shifting minutely in my seat. I still couldn’t stand Chanel. And while I had learned to appreciate—indeed, enjoy—chamber ensembles, orchestras, and on occasion even the opera, I retained my former habit as a dirty amusement to add some private savor to the proceedings. Tonight, it was the violist, weaving and bobbing his way through Dvořák’s Terzetto in C Major like a sinuous dancer. I prefer the romantics—fewer hair-raising harmonies than modern fare, and certainly more engaging than funereal baroque. The intriguing arrangement of the terzetto kept me engaged, in that slightly detached and floating manner engendered by instrumental performance. Moreover, the woman to my left, one row ahead, was wearing Salome by Papillon. The simple fact of anyone wearing such a scent in public pleased me. So few people dared wear anything at all these days, and when they did, it was inevitably staid: an inoffensive classic or antiseptic citrus-and-powder. But this perfume was one I might have worn myself. Jasmine, yes, but more indolic than your average floral. People sometimes say it smells like dirty panties. As the trio wrapped up for intermission, I took a steadying breath of musk and straightened my lapels. The music was only a means to an end, after all.

Their primary customers are upper-income women between thirty and fifty years sold. The average markup on a handbag is ten to twelve times production cost. Perfume has, for more than seventy years, served as an introduction to a luxury brand. The message was clear: buy our brand and you too, will live a luxury life. The contradiction between personal indulgence and conspicuous consumption is the crux of the luxury business today: the convergence of its history with its current reality. Today, luxury brand items are collected like baseball cards, displayed like artwork, brandished like iconography. The tycoons have shifted the focus from what the product is to what is represents. Perfume has a mystical, magical quality. It catches your attention, enchants you. It complements and enhances your personality. it stirs emotion, within you and others around you. Perfume was a link between gods and mortals. It was a way to contact the gods, Hermes's Jean-Claude Ellena told me. Now it is a profane link: it's between you and me. Contentment is natural wealth. Luxury is artificial poverty. Socrates More than anything else today, the handbag tells the story of a woman: her reality, her dreams. Oscar Wilde said elegance is power. If it would abolish avarice, you must abolish its mother, luxury. Cicero People don't believe there is a difference between real and fake anymore. Bernard Arnault's marketing plan had worked: consumers don't buy luxury branded items for what they are, but for what they represent. Luxury is the ease of a T-shirt in a very expensive dress. If you don't have it, you are not a person used to luxury. You are just a rich person who can buy staff. Karl Lagerfeld Luxury is exclusivity, it is made for you and no one else has it. At a minimum, it must be impeccable. Maximum, unique. If you do luxury, Louboutin explained, you have to treat people in a human way and you have to be elegant. You can't ask poor people in bad conditions to make beautiful things.

He went straight to ‘his alley,’ and when he reached the end of it he perceived, still on the same bench, that wellknown couple. Only, when he approached, it certainly was the same man; but it seemed to him that it was no longer the same girl. The person whom he now beheld was a tall and beautiful creature, possessed of all the most charming lines of a woman at the precise moment when they are still combined with all the most ingenuous graces of the child; a pure and fugitive moment, which can be expressed only by these two words,— ‘fifteen years.’ She had wonderful brown hair, shaded with threads of gold, a brow that seemed made of marble, cheeks that seemed made of rose-leaf, a pale flush, an agitated whiteness, an exquisite mouth, whence smiles darted like sunbeams, and words like music, a head such as Raphael would have given to Mary, set upon a neck that Jean Goujon would have attributed to a Venus. And, in order that nothing might be lacking to this bewitching face, her nose was not handsome— it was pretty; neither straight nor curved, neither Italian nor Greek; it was the Parisian nose, that is to say, spiritual, delicate, irregular, pure,— which drives painters to despair, and charms poets. When Marius passed near her, he could not see her eyes, which were constantly lowered. He saw only her long chestnut lashes, permeated with shadow and modesty. This did not prevent the beautiful child from smiling as she listened to what the white-haired old man was saying to her, and nothing could be more fascinating than that fresh smile, combined with those drooping eyes. For a moment, Marius thought that she was another daughter of the same man, a sister of the former, no doubt. But when the invariable habit of his stroll brought him, for the second time, near the bench, and he had examined her attentively, he recognized her as the same. In six months the little girl had become a young maiden; that was all. Nothing is more frequent than this phenomenon. There is a moment when girls blossom out in the twinkling of an eye, and become roses all at once. One left them children but yesterday; today, one finds them disquieting to the feelings. This child had not only grown, she had become idealized. As three days in April suffice to cover certain trees with flowers, six months had sufficed to clothe her with beauty. Her April had arrived. One sometimes sees people, who, poor and mean, seem to wake up, pass suddenly from indigence to luxury, indulge in expenditures of all sorts, and become dazzling, prodigal, magnificent, all of a sudden. That is the result of having pocketed an income; a note fell due yesterday. The young girl had received her quarterly income. And then, she was no longer the school-girl with her felt hat, her merino gown, her scholar’s shoes, and red hands; taste had come to her with beauty; she was a well-dressed person, clad with a sort of rich and simple elegance, and without affectation. She wore a dress of black damask, a cape of the same material, and a bonnet of white crape. Her white gloves displayed the delicacy of the hand which toyed with the carved, Chinese ivory handle of a parasol, and her silken shoe outlined the smallness of her foot. When one passed near her, her whole toilette exhaled a youthful and penetrating perfume.

Christine's heart is thumping wildly. She lets herself be led (her aunt means her nothing but good) into a tiled and mirrored room full of warmth and sweetly scented with mild floral soap and sprayed perfumes; an electrical apparatus roars like a mountain storm in the adjoining room. The hairdresser, a brisk, snub-nosed Frenchwoman, is given all sorts of instructions, little of which Christine understands or cares to. A new desire has come over her to give herself up, to submit and let herself be surprised. She allows herself to be seated in the comfortable barber's chair and her aunt disappears. She leans back gently, and, eyes closed in a luxurious stupor, senses a mechanical clattering, cold steel on her neck, and the easy incomprehensible chatter of the cheerful hairdresser; she breathes in clouds of fragrance and lets aromatic balms and clever fingers run over her hair and neck. Just don't open your eyes, she thinks. If you do, it might go away. Don't question anything, just savor this Sundayish feeling of sitting back for once, of being waited on instead of waiting on other people. Just let our hands fall into your lap, let good things happen to you, let it come, savor it, this rare swoon of lying back and being ministered to, this strange voluptuous feeling you haven't experienced in years, in decades. Eyes closed, feeling the fragrant warmth enveloping her, she remembers the last time: she's a child, in bed, she had a fever for days, but now it's over and her mother brings some sweet white almond milk, her father and her brother are sitting by her bed, everyone's taking care of her, everyone's doing things for her, they're all gentle and nice. In the next room the canary is singing mischievously, the bed is soft and warm, there's no need to go to school, everything's being done for her, there are toys on the bed, though she's too pleasantly lulled to play with them; no, it's better to close her eyes and really feel, deep down, the idleness, the being waited on. It's been decades since she thought of this lovely languor from her childhood, but suddenly it's back: her skin, her temples bathed in warmth are doing the remembering. A few times the brisk salonist asks some question like, 'Would you like it shorter?' But she answers only, 'Whatever you think,' and deliberately avoids the mirror held up to her. Best not to disturb the wonderful irresponsibility of letting things happen to you, this detachment from doing or wanting anything. Though it would be tempting to give someone an order just once, for the first time in your life, to make some imperious demand, to call for such and such. Now fragrance from a shiny bottle streams over her hair, a razor blade tickles her gently and delicately, her head feels suddenly strangely light and the skin of her neck cool and bare. She wants to look in the mirror, but keeping her eyes closed in prolonging the numb dreamy feeling so pleasantly. Meanwhile a second young woman has slipped beside her like a sylph to do her nails while the other is waving her hair. She submits to it all without resistance, almost without surprise, and makes no protest when, after an introductory 'Vous etes un peu pale, Mademoiselle,' the busy salonist, employing all manner of pencils and crayons, reddens her lips, reinforces the arches of her eyebrows, and touches up the color of her cheeks. She's aware of it all and, in her pleasant detached stupor, unaware of it too: drugged by the humid, fragrance-laden air, she hardly knows if all this happening to her or to some other, brand-new self. It's all dreamily disjointed, not quite real, and she's a little afraid of suddenly falling out of the dream.

No. 5 Chanel. I returned to the floor and removed the stopper, inhaling top notes of bergamot, with a sultry middle of jasmine and orris root sliding into base notes of amber and vanilla. It was gorgeous, generous, set off by a series of synthetic, surreal scents, bright as searchlights, precise as expertly manicured fingernails tapping against a table.

Objects are repositories of what we can learn about people. Pleasure is selfish. Luxury is something you share. The aim of perfumery, as of all the arts, is to create products that arouse sensual pleasure. The pleasure of the senses is also an intellectual choice. Memory works in such a way that the perfumes which are not experienced with excitement and passion, which are not linked with a personal story, are devoid of meaning and leave no trace in the memory. - The Baroques are defined by exaggeration and the space they occupy; the creation of tension through the accentuation of detail. - The Classics are perfumes that have become emblems, archetypes of perfumery. - The Abstracts are perfumes that do not imitate nature in any way. - The Figuratives seek to provide a faithful representation of a specific odor. - The Narratives tell a story and describe a place or a journey. - The Minimalists express odor for its own sake, stripped of all sentiment.

Exquisite as an artistic product of Society, she affected the imagination not so much by her personal charm as through the perfume of luxury which breathed about her. Egremont, with his radical tendencies of thought, found himself marvelling as he regarded her; what a life was hers! Compare it with that of some little work-girl in Lambeth, such as he saw in the street — what spaces between those two worlds!

Many Buddhists observe what are known as the Eight Precepts on all the holy days during Lent. The Buddhist holy days are the day of the dark moon, the eighth day of the new moon, the day of the full moon and the eighth day after the full moon. The Eight Precepts are four of the basic Five Precepts (not to kill, steal, lie or take intoxicating drinks) with the addition of four others: not to commit any immoral acts, not to take any food after twelve noon, not to indulge in music, dancing and the use of perfume, not to sleep in high places. (The last is taken to mean that one should not sleep in a luxurious bed.) Some devout Buddhists keep these eight precepts throughout the three months of Lent. Because it is a time when people should be thinking of their spiritual development, Buddhists should not get married during this period. Marriage brings family life and therefore greater ties and attachments. Thus it is likely to make the achieving of nirvana more difficult. The end of Lent coincides with the end of the monsoon rains in October. It is a time for happiness and rejoicing. Tradition has it that the Lord Buddha spent one Lent in the Tavatimsa heaven to preach to his mother. (His mother had died in giving birth to him and had been reborn in Tavatimsa, one of the many Buddhist heavens.) At the end of Lent, he came back to earth and the people of the world welcomed him with lights. In celebration of this, during the three days of the Thidingyut festival, pagodas, monasteries and homes are decorated with lights and lanterns.

Their unique essences mixed together, heavy and heady in the small room. Basil and cinnamon and allspice combined with those elements with no names. Somehow it all worked, all fit exactly right. And the result rivaled the most delicious meals, the most luxurious perfumes, the deep heady richness of the forest. It was perfect.

What shall I say of their effeminate adornments, their costly fabrics, their extravagant perfumes, their sumptuous tables groaning under the weight of rare and luxurious viands? Nay, sensuality and luxury are so general that, to our shame, books are published to teach us how to sin in these respects. Men have perverted creatures from their lawful use, and instead of making God's benefits a help to virtue, they have turned them into instruments of vice. So great is the selfishness of the world that there is nothing which men do not sacrifice to the gratification of the flesh, wholly forgetful of the poor, whom God has so specially recommended to their care. Such persons never find that they are poor until they are asked for alms; at any other time there is no extravagant luxury their income cannot afford.

successively – and successfully – of the effete and perfumed dandies of the Imperial Court with their sparkling and libidinous ladies; of the rough and raucous warlords who ruled in iron the worlds they had gained in blood, with their unbridled and lascivious wenches; of the plump and luxurious businessmen of the Foundation, with their lush and flagitious mistresses.

It all felt so decadent and luxurious, lolling around in her perfumed room, accompanied by the sad, dulcet tones of Billie Eilish, girl genius, as she tried to pick open her mother’s treasure box.

Our Men's Luxury Perfume Gift Set is the perfect gift for the dynamic and charismatic man. This box set contains Bella Vita Luxury's 4 most iconic perfumes, which gives you endless reasons to spread an enchanting aura, making them an arsenal of indulgence.

Perfume is to smells what eroticism is to sex: an aesthetic, cultural, emotional elaboration of the raw materials provided by nature. The ladies of the court, led by Marie-Antoinette, resorted to the only thing that could keep them one step ahead of the commoners, however wealthy they were: fashion. In fact, this is how fashion as we know it came into existence: the latest trend adopted by a happy few for a season before trickling down to the middle classes. Just a touch of the negligence etudiee that distinguishes chic Parisian women from their fiercely put-together New Yorker or Milanese counterparts. Perfume needs to be supported by image. You're not just doing it to smell good: you're perpetuating a ritual of erotic magic that's been scaring and enticing men in equal measure for millennia. Perfumes are our subconscious. They read us more revealingly than any other choice of adornment, perhaps because their very invisibility deludes us into thinking we can get away with the message they carry. These scents severed fragrance from its function as an extension of a female or male persona - the rugged guy, the innocent waif or the femme fatale - to turn it into a thing that was beautiful, interesting and evocative in and of itself. Perfume's advertising relies on the 3 aspiration S: stars, sex and seduction, with a side helping of dreams or exoticism. Descriptions, impressions, analogies, short stories, snippets or real-life testing, bits of history, parallels with music or literature. Connecting a scent with emotions, impressions, atmospheres, isn't that why we wear it? Isn't it all subjective? Just because you don't want it in your life doesn't make it bad. And it's not entirely impossible to consider perfumes beyond their "like/don't like" status. What intent does t set out to fulfill? How does it achieve its effects? How does it fit in with the history of the brand or its identity? How does it compare to the current season's offerings? Does it bring something new? The story told by the perfumer blends with the ones we tell ourselves about it; with our feelings, our moods, our references, our understanding of it. Once it is released from the bottle, it becomes a new entity. We make it ours: we are the performers of our perfume. Both lust and luxury are coupled in the same Latin word: luxuria is one of the 7 deadly sins. The age-old fear of female sexuality. The lure of beauty, set off by costly and deceitful adornments, could lead men to material and moral ruin but, more frighteningly, suck them into a vortex of erotic voracity. A man's desire waxes and wanes. But how can a woman, whose pleasure is never certain and whose receptive capacity is potentially infinite, ever be controlled?

Perhaps she stood in the street attracted by the crowd, and, as she listened to our Saviour’s talk, it seemed to hold her fast. She had never heard a man speak after that fashion, and when he spoke of abounding mercy, and the willingness of God to accept as many as would come to him, then the tears began to follow each other down her check; and when she listened again to that meek and lowly preacher, and heard him tell of the Father in heaven who would receive prodigals and press them to his loving bosom, then her heart was fairly broken, she relinquished her evil traffic, she became a new woman, desirous of better things, anxious to be freed from sin. But she was greatly agitated in her heart with the question, could she, would she, be really forgiven ? Would such pardoning love as she had heard of reach even to her? She hoped so, and was in a measure comforted. Her faith grew, and with it an ardent love. The Spirit of God still wrought with her till she enjoyed a feeble hope, a gleam of confidence; she believed that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah , that he had appeared on earth to forgive sins, and she rested on him for the forgiveness of her sins, and longed for an opportunity to do him homage, and if possible to win a word direct from his mouth... and I have already derived such benefit from him that I love him better than all besides; I love him as my own soul... Now, when she came to the door, the Saviour was reclining at his meat, according to the Oriental custom, and his feet were towards the door; for the Pharisee had but little respect for Christ , and had not given him the best and innermost place at the feast ; but there he lay with his uncovered feet towards the door, and the woman, almost unperceived, came close to him, and, as she looked and saw that the Pharisee had refused him the ordinary courtesy of washing his feet, and that they were all stained and travel-worn with Lis long journeys of love, she began to weep, and the tears fell in such plenteous showers that they even washed his feet. Here was holy water of a true sort. The crystal of penitence falling in drops, each one as precious as a diamond. Never were feet bedewed with a more precious water than those penitent eyes showered forth. Then, unbinding those luxurious tresses, which had been for her the devil’s nets in which to entangle souls, she wiped the sacred feet therewith. Surely she thought that her chief adornment, the crown and glory of her womanhood, was all too worthless a thing to do service to the lowest and meanest part of the Son of God. That which once was her vanity now was humbled and yet exalted to the lowest office; she made her eyes a ewer and her locks a towel. “Never,” says bishop Hall, “was any hair so preferred as this ; how I envy those locks that were graced with the touch of those sacred feet.” There a sweet temptation overtook her, “I will even kiss those feet, I will humbly pay reverence to those blessed limbs.” She spake not a word, but how eloquent were her actions ! better even than psalms and hymns were these acts of devotion. Then she bethought her of that alabaster box containing perfumed oil with which, like most Eastern women, she was wont to anoint herself for the pleasure of the smell and for the increase of her beauty, and now, opening it, she pours out the costliest thing she has upon his blessed feet. Not a word, I say, came from her; and, brethren, we would prefer a single speechless lover of Jesus, who acted as she did, to ten thousand noisy talkers who have no gifts, no heart, no tears. As for the Master, he remained quietly acquiescent, saying nothing, but all the while drinking in her love, and letting his poor weary heart find sweet solace in the gratitude of one who once was a sinner, but who was to be such no more.

I like pleasures when they are shared, that is my definition of luxury. Appetizing but not edible. Edible smells are lazy, something appetizing is exciting. "Appetizing" is a word sufficiently evocative to be turned into a smell. Tocqueville anticipated the fact that, in a democracy, society would tend towards unified tastes. trend may be the price we have to pay for democracy. For Kant, beauty could exist only outside usefulness. A people that listens to jazz is a people that favors human exchange. Green is the only color that makes sense as a smell. Learning a language or any other thing, means opening yourself up to the world once more; it is also a return to humility. I envy the emotion an enthusiast experiences when he smells a perfume for the first time, using words of love that I wish I could come up with again. In Chinese or Japanese culture, perfection exists, it is also a goal to aim for, but the aspiration isn't unattainable and isn't tainted by a sense of guilt. I believe that the best way to develop creativity is to work alone and without evaluation, which does not mean without any dialogue. The majority of ideas are the fruit of assiduous, day-to-day work, sometimes the result of meeting people, country walks, idle strolls, things I have read, moments when my mind is free to roam. My moleskine notebook, in which I jot down ideas, words and the beginning of formulae, is always close at hand. I experience solitude as a freedom I have chosen.

Notes of sandalwood, spice, vanilla, and incense expanded the nineteenth-century European perfumer’s palette, as did the aroma chemicals in their laboratories. While the colonial project was underway—and the prices of raw materials were driven down by the endless capacity to exploit human labor and the creation of new synthetic materials—Parisian perfume houses became the locus of Western olfactory culture. Perfume became a mode of sensory imaging of the Other and the fragrant material of the Orient. Most Western writing on perfume focuses on its capacity for transcendence or escape. Allures of luxury and the exotic nature of the materials described in purple, perfumed prose. This is what first drew me in, language that is lyrical, historic, romantic, and scientific, at once. There is inventive signature in the way independent perfumers describe their creations. Yet I often find the opulent, canonized, big-brand Western perfumes powdery as the dusts of conquest.

Regular bathing was not the norm, although Elizabeth was described as having a bath every month ‘whether she needs it or no’. Nevertheless, in a world of pungent body odour, perfumes were used greatly and considered more than simply a luxury.

What do you smell on me?" Elise breathed, vaguely stiff. All four immediate notes of her perfume, specifically. Gardenia, vanilla, coconut, and sage. There might have been a hint of bergamot too. But beneath all of those luxurious scents, Layla could sense Elise. And it wasn't just the essence of her skin and the natural scent she gave off. But Layla also sensed the warmth that radiated from her and whatever emotion tainted her aura in that moment. Right now it was unease, coupled with a bit of unbridled excitement.

Try. It’s more efficient. You can’t go through life doing this the wrong way. The wasted minutes could add up to days. Weeks.” An unexpected giggle escaped her, as if she were a young girl being teased. “I don’t use a pencil that often.” Devon reached around her, his hands engulfing hers. And she let him. She stood still, her body wary but compliant. A fragile trust had been established during their earlier encounter--no matter what else she might fear from him, she seemed to understand that he wouldn’t hurt her. The pleasure of holding her washed through him in repeated waves. She was petite and fine-boned, the delicious fragrance of roses rising to his nostrils. He’d noticed it when he’d held her earlier…not a cloying perfume, but a light floral essence swept with the sharp freshness of winter air. “All it takes is six cuts,” he said near her ear. She nodded, relaxing against him as he guided her hands with precision. One deep stroke of the lade neatly removed an angled section of wood. They rotated the pencil and made another cut, and then a third, creating a precise triangular prism. “Now trim the sharp edges.” They concentrated on the task with his hands still bracketed over hers, using the blade to chamfer each corner of wood until they had created a clean, satisfying point. Done. After one last luxurious inhalation of her scent, Devon released her slowly, knowing that for the rest of his life, a single breath of a rose would bring him back to this moment.

There are five precepts taught by Buddhism that all Buddhists should follow: 1. Kill no living thing (including insects). 2. Do not steal. 3. Do not commit adultery. 4. Tell no lies. 5. Do not drink intoxicants or take drugs. There are other precepts that apply only to monks and nuns. These include: 6. Eat moderately and only at the appointed time. 7. Avoid that which excites the senses. 8. Do not wear adornments (including perfume). 9. Do not sleep in luxurious beds. 10. Accept no silver or gold.

Omani frankincense products are more than just fragrant resins — they are a part of Oman’s identity, history, and culture. Grown in the Dhofar region of Salalah, this natural treasure has been traded across the world for thousands of years. Today, modern Oman still honors this tradition by producing luxury Omani incense, frankincense perfumes, gifts and boxes, oud and oils, and musk blends that combine authenticity with modern elegance. Whether you are looking for a soothing home fragrance, a natural wellness solution, or a meaningful gift, Omani frankincense products bring the soul of Oman right to your home. What Are Omani Frankincense Products? From Tree to Treasure Frankincense comes from the Boswellia Sacra tree, found mainly in Salalah, Dhofar. Harvesters make careful incisions on the tree’s bark and collect the resin once it hardens. The resin is then cleaned, graded (Hojari, Najdi, Shaabi), and packaged for various uses. A Range of Natural Products Today, Omani frankincense is available in multiple forms — raw resin, essential oils, perfumes, luxury incense, and even wellness drinks. These products are popular not only in Oman but also in GCC countries like UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Bahrain. Popular Omani Frankincense Products 1. Frankincense Resin The most traditional product — perfect for burning on charcoal or electric burners. It produces a rich, soothing smoke that purifies your space and creates a welcoming atmosphere. 2. Frankincense Perfumes Omani perfumers combine frankincense essential oil with oud and oils, musk, and floral notes to create unique blends. These perfumes are long-lasting and embody the luxury of Omani tradition. 3. Luxury Omani Incense Prepared from high-quality resin and natural aromatic ingredients, luxury incense is ideal for special occasions, weddings, and celebrations. 4. Gifts and Boxes Frankincense is one of Oman’s most cherished gifts. Elegant gift boxes containing resin, perfumes, or burners make perfect souvenirs and presents for family and friends. 5. Oud and Oils Apart from frankincense, Oman is famous for oud oils and blends that complement frankincense’s unique fragrance. 6. Musk Group & Yeasts Special Omani mixtures combining musk, frankincense, and natural yeasts create a signature aroma unique to the region. Benefits of Omani Frankincense Products For Home & Spiritual Use Purifies the air and removes unpleasant odors Used during prayers, meditation, and gatherings Creates a relaxing, spiritual atmosphere For Health & Wellness Traditionally used in Omani households for respiratory comfort Frankincense water is believed to support digestion and boost immunity For Gifting Symbol of hospitality and Omani culture Perfect for weddings, Eid, and housewarming occasions Why Choose Authentic Omani Frankincense Products 1. Premium Quality Hojari frankincense from Dhofar is considered the best in the world due to its color, clarity, and aroma. 2. Sustainable Harvesting Traditional collection methods ensure the trees stay healthy and continue producing resin year after year. 3. Cultural Connection Every purchase supports local harvesters and keeps Oman’s rich heritage alive. How to Use Omani Frankincense Products Burn as incense: Place resin on hot charcoal for a deep, calming aroma. Make frankincense water: Soak small pieces in water overnight and drink the next day.

But on earth here in France, every sense was bathed in luxury, luxury of which she became more and more aware as she grew older. The palate was indulged with strawberries from Saumur and melons planted in the Loire by a Neapolitan gardener long ago, with trout pate, Tours pastries, and vin d’Annonville, with its delicate bouquet. The nostrils were pampered by the happy work of Catherine de Médicis’s Italian perfumers working with the flowers from the fields of Provence, producing heady fragrances to be worn on throats and wrists and to scent gloves and capes. Hyacinth, jasmine, lilac—all wafted through the rooms and from the bathwaters of the châteaux. The skin was caressed with unguents and the feel of silk, velvet, fur, leather gloves of softest deerskin; goosedown pillows cupped weary bodies at the day’s end; and in winter, newly installed Germanic tile stoves at Fontainebleau provided central heating. Eyes were continually presented with beauty in ordinary objects rendered more opulently pleasing: a crystal mirror decorated with velvet and silk ribbons; buttons with jewels affixed. There were fireworks reflected in the river; paintings by Leonardo; and black-and-white chequered marble paving in the long palace gallery over the Cher that spanned the rippling water outside. Pleasing sounds were everywhere: in the chirping of the pet canaries and more exotic birds in the garden aviaries; in the baying of the hounds in the matchless royal hunting packs; in the splash and gurgle of the fountains and elaborate water displays in the formal gardens. And above all that, the sound of melodious French, exquisitely spoken; witty conversations, and the poets of the court reciting verses composed to celebrate the aristocratic dreamworld they inhabited, with a haunting melancholy that it would all pass away.

I present to you honey passion nectar with ethereal exploding white peach boba." The rare nectar was another luxury courtesy of the Celestial Banquet. At the auction house, it would command at least three hundred silver coins by the jar. The taste was a perfect amount of sweetness tempered by a sharp tang. The nectar came from pink and blue tropical flowers found only on Mutyan soil. Perfume from its petals were a noble favorite on the Continent. On the other side of the table, Songwon whispered to Pubu. The goddess lifted her wrist and made a spinning motion with her index finger. A golden ribbon of nectar flowed out of the bowl to hover above our heads and make a looping chain design, with one end dipping into the smaller bowl of the boba. The nectar took the shape of a stairway to carry a string of obedient pink boba upward into the suspended design. The air filled with the fragrance of the honey passion mingled with the soft scent of white peaches. One by one, each of the boba exploded into tiny pink blooms like New Year's sparklers above the petal cups.

E-971529006850 Call Girls Near My Hotel in Corniche Deira by Corniche Deira Near My Hotel Call Girls Corniche Deira, a vibrant waterfront area in Dubai, is renowned for its scenic views along Dubai Creek, lively community, and diverse dining, shopping, and entertainment options, making it an attractive destination for residents, tourists, and business travelers seeking a blend of leisure, culture, and convenience, and located near major roads and public transport links, Corniche Deira provides easy access to Deira’s traditional markets, commercial hubs, and iconic attractions, allowing visitors to experience both modern amenities and historic charm in one locale; the dining scene in Corniche Deira is eclectic and caters to all tastes, featuring an array of restaurants, cafés, and casual eateries serving Middle Eastern, Asian, European, and international cuisines, with many venues offering outdoor seating, waterfront views, and family-friendly atmospheres, creating ideal settings for social gatherings, business lunches, or casual meals, while local bakeries, coffee shops, and dessert outlets provide quick bites, relaxed refreshments, and culturally authentic flavors, adding depth and variety to the culinary landscape; shopping along Corniche Deira is convenient and diverse, with supermarkets, retail outlets, and specialty stores offering daily essentials, fashion, electronics, and lifestyle products, while nearby traditional souks, such as the Gold Souk, Spice Souk, and Perfume Souk, provide authentic shopping experiences for souvenirs, luxury goods, and cultural artifacts, creating a dynamic mix of modern retail and traditional market exploration for residents and visitors; entertainment in Corniche Deira caters to all ages and preferences, including scenic walking and jogging tracks along the creek, parks, playgrounds, and recreational centers that promote fitness, outdoor activities, and family engagement, while cultural events, exhibitions, workshops, and seasonal festivities enhance the area’s social and cultural vibrancy, fostering community interaction and memorable experiences for both locals and tourists; wellness and leisure amenities are also abundant, with gyms, wellness centers, and yoga studios supporting healthy lifestyles, while waterfront promenades, landscaped areas, and scenic viewpoints provide tranquil spaces for relaxation and social interaction; Corniche Deira is complemented by nearby hotels, serviced apartments, and hospitality services, offering comfortable accommodations with easy access to dining, shopping, and entertainment, making it ideal for visitors and business travelers; overall, Corniche Deira stands out as a lively, well-connected, and culturally rich neighborhood where dining, shopping, and entertainment converge, offering residents and visitors a harmonious blend of modern conveniences, recreational opportunities, culinary delights, and authentic local experiences, making it a prime destination for anyone seeking a dynamic, engaging, and memorable lifestyle in one of Dubai’s most iconic waterfront areas.

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A Window Without Curtains She was called Mira by her clients, though it wasn’t her real name. Her real name had been shed years ago, discarded like an old skin in a city that didn’t care for pasts. She walked through the night in cheap perfume and tighter smiles, her heels echoing on concrete that never forgot the stories of women like her. By daylight, she was invisible. By night, she was needed. Room 403 was like the others. Beige walls. A bed that smelled of cleaning chemicals and regret. A window that didn’t open, without curtains, as if the hotel itself had given up pretending to offer privacy or dreams. Tonight, the man was late. Mira didn’t mind. The quiet was better company than most. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the flickering red numbers on the digital clock. 9:46. The room buzzed faintly from an old neon light outside. She could see its pink glow on the wall, shaped like the outline of a woman, eternally lit and forever waiting. She used to wait like that — in doorways, under blinking signs, for someone who would change things. A man with kind eyes. A job that didn’t come with bruises. A way out. But hope, she had learned, was a luxury sold to people with options. Not to girls like her. She met Layla at the corner of 52nd and Main three years ago. Layla had been in the game longer, a little older, a little harder. She smoked menthols and always carried pepper spray and a knife in her purse. "Hope gets you killed," Layla said once, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand. “You dream, you slip. You slip, you die.” Mira remembered laughing. Not because it was funny — but because it was the only sound she could make that didn’t feel like screaming. The client finally showed. Tall, maybe mid-40s, with a wedding ring he didn’t bother to hide. “I don’t want to talk,” he said, tossing a crumpled wad of bills on the dresser. She nodded. It was easier that way. Words were dangerous — they made people real. She didn't want him to be real. She went through the motions. The fake moans. The practiced eyes. She thought of the ceiling, counted the little bumps in the paint, kept her breath even. When he left, she showered with the water scalding hot, scrubbing skin that never quite felt clean. Then she sat back on the bed, legs folded, watching the window again. It was raining now. The neon woman outside still smiled. One night, a month ago, Mira had walked into a bookstore. She didn’t know why. Maybe because it was raining, and she had nowhere to be yet. Maybe because it smelled like old paper and safety. She wandered in wet heels past shelves full of stories — princesses, detectives, women who fought dragons. She picked up a poetry book and flipped it open. The words were soft. Angry. Beautiful. “Do you want help finding something?” the clerk asked. Mira looked up, startled. The girl behind the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty, with round glasses and gentle eyes. “No,” Mira whispered, holding the book tighter. She didn’t buy it. She left without a word. But she came back two days later. And again the week after. She never bought anything. Just touched the spines and read a line or two. Something about it made her feel almost human again. Tonight, she opened her little purse. The one with the broken zipper. Inside were five twenties from the client, a stick of gum, a cracked compact, and a folded receipt from the bookstore. She stared at the receipt like it was a relic. Like it belonged to someone else.

LuXury Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 Top Night SerVice Here’s one raw, offensive, no-apologies page. Pure filth. Pure English. Zero redemption arc. Title (working): Cheap Perfume & Cigarette Burns – Backroom of a Karachi nightclub, 3 a.m. She tasted like knock-off Chanel and someone else’s lipstick. He didn’t care. He had her bent over the cracked leather sofa in the VIP room that smelled of spilled Black Label and broken promises, skirt shoved up to her waist, cheap lace panties ripped and dangling off one ankle. The bass from the dance floor thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat. “Fucking take it,” he growled, yanking her hair hard enough to make her scalp burn, slamming into her so deep her breath fogged the fake leather. “This what you came here for, hai na? Rich boy dick in your slum pussy?” She laughed, some bottle-girl from Lyari who’d lied about her age and dyed her hair platinum, just pushed back harder, nails digging into the sofa. “Shut up and make me bleed, harami,” she spat, voice hoarse from screaming over the music. “I charge extra for tears.” He slapped her ass so hard the print stayed white for three full seconds before blooming angry red. She moaned like it was applause. Sweat dripped off his jaw onto her spine. His Rolex scraped her skin with every thrust; she’d have scratches tomorrow to match the cigarette burn he’d given her earlier when she tried to steal his lighter. “Say it,” he snarled, reaching around to pinch her clit until she jerked. “Say you’re nothing but a cheap whore who lives for this.” “I’m a cheap whore who lives for this,” she gasped, coming so hard her knees buckled. “Now pay me double and call me a slut again, you spoiled little momma’s boy.” He laughed, dark and ugly, and finished inside her without asking, without caring, because that’s exactly what she’d come here for. When he pulled out, she stayed bent over, breathing hard, cum sliding down her thigh like the last rupee she hadn’t earned yet. He zipped up, tossed a crumpled bundle of thousands on her back like she was a table. “Clean yourself up,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “You look like the trash you are.” She turned her head, mascara streaked to hell, and smiled with teeth. “Next week, same time. Bring more cash and worse words.” He exhaled smoke into her face.

(H2O) 971523959219 Bur Dubai Call Girls by Indian Call girls in Bur Dubai, In the glowing towers of Dubai, where glass kisses the sky and everything is draped in luxury, there exists another layer of the city—unseen, unnamed, but always there. Among the Lamborghinis and designer perfumes, past the marbled hotel lobbies and penthouse elevators, are women whose names change with each new client, whose accents shift like silk depending on the room they walk into. Call girls, high-end escorts, companions—whatever the term, they move like ghosts through the high society of the Emirates, invisible to those who choose not to see. They come from places like Ukraine, Morocco, the Philippines, Russia, Kenya—each carrying a different story, but all drawn to the promise of something more. Some came chasing money to send back home, others to escape pasts that clung like shadows. In a country where public modesty is law and morality is policed with precision, their work exists in a paradox—illegal, yet in demand; hidden, yet everywhere. You wouldn’t find them on neon-lit street corners or advertised in windows. No, the UAE has polished discretion into an art form. These women are whispered about in five-star hotel bars, booked through encrypted apps, discussed behind gold-embossed business cards passed quietly at shisha lounges. Their world is one of whispers, veiled glances, and luxury wrapped in secrecy. They dress impeccably, often mistaken for influencers or models, blending seamlessly into the city’s glossy surface. Yet beneath the diamonds and designer heels is a kind of steel—these women know how to read a man before he opens his mouth, how to leave before attachment turns dangerous, how to smile without giving anything away. They’re not reckless. They know the risks. One wrong word, one client too careless, and they could vanish overnight—deported, detained, erased. So they operate with caution. They memorize the names of hotel staff who won’t ask questions, learn the unspoken codes, and walk with the confidence of someone who cannot afford to be afraid. But behind closed doors, they are still human. Some laugh with real joy, others cry quietly into hotel pillows after the client leaves. Some dream of escape—of starting over in Istanbul, or Paris, or back home where mothers still wait for phone calls. Others have stopped dreaming altogether, living only in the now, because in their world, tomorrow is never promised. And though the city shines bright outside their windows—its endless lights, its promises of luxury—they often feel like shadows within it. Seen, desired, used, but rarely understood. In a place that sells the illusion of perfection, they are the imperfect truth no one wants to look at for too long. And yet, they are not victims, not entirely. They are survivors. Navigating a tightrope in heels, living lives that can’t be posted, and carrying stories that will never make it to Instagram. They are the city's secret heartbeat—always present, always hidden, and always walking just behind the glow.

(H2O) 00971523959219 Burj Khalifa Call Girls by Indian Call girls in Burj Khalifa Tower, In the glowing towers of Dubai, where glass kisses the sky and everything is draped in luxury, there exists another layer of the city—unseen, unnamed, but always there. Among the Lamborghinis and designer perfumes, past the marbled hotel lobbies and penthouse elevators, are women whose names change with each new client, whose accents shift like silk depending on the room they walk into. Call girls, high-end escorts, companions—whatever the term, they move like ghosts through the high society of the Emirates, invisible to those who choose not to see. They come from places like Ukraine, Morocco, the Philippines, Russia, Kenya—each carrying a different story, but all drawn to the promise of something more. Some came chasing money to send back home, others to escape pasts that clung like shadows. In a country where public modesty is law and morality is policed with precision, their work exists in a paradox—illegal, yet in demand; hidden, yet everywhere. You wouldn’t find them on neon-lit street corners or advertised in windows. No, the UAE has polished discretion into an art form. These women are whispered about in five-star hotel bars, booked through encrypted apps, discussed behind gold-embossed business cards passed quietly at shisha lounges. Their world is one of whispers, veiled glances, and luxury wrapped in secrecy. They dress impeccably, often mistaken for influencers or models, blending seamlessly into the city’s glossy surface. Yet beneath the diamonds and designer heels is a kind of steel—these women know how to read a man before he opens his mouth, how to leave before attachment turns dangerous, how to smile without giving anything away. They’re not reckless. They know the risks. One wrong word, one client too careless, and they could vanish overnight—deported, detained, erased. So they operate with caution. They memorize the names of hotel staff who won’t ask questions, learn the unspoken codes, and walk with the confidence of someone who cannot afford to be afraid. But behind closed doors, they are still human. Some laugh with real joy, others cry quietly into hotel pillows after the client leaves. Some dream of escape—of starting over in Istanbul, or Paris, or back home where mothers still wait for phone calls. Others have stopped dreaming altogether, living only in the now, because in their world, tomorrow is never promised. And though the city shines bright outside their windows—its endless lights, its promises of luxury—they often feel like shadows within it. Seen, desired, used, but rarely understood. In a place that sells the illusion of perfection, they are the imperfect truth no one wants to look at for too long. And yet, they are not victims, not entirely. They are survivors. Navigating a tightrope in heels, living lives that can’t be posted, and carrying stories that will never make it to Instagram. They are the city's secret heartbeat—always present, always hidden, and always walking just behind the glow.