Child Brides of India

By C. Stanton Leman

Chapter 102

The next morning, after taking care of a few incidentals at the office, I called the Registrar’s Office at Johns Hopkins University. They directed me to the Arabic Language Program at their School of Advanced Studies in Washington, D.C. I left a message for the program coordinator to call me back.

An Arabic gentleman with a name I couldn’t pronounce much less spell from the university called back an hour later. I explained in detail my problem and what I was looking to find from his pool of students. He told me that he had one student, Jamila Mustafa, an American born citizen of Syrian parents, who was working on her doctorate, but was having financial difficulties. He told me that except for those that come to America financially secure, many Muslim families in the U. S. — like American families — rely on scholarships and grants to complete their education. Sometimes, they can be few and far between.

I told him what I was willing to offer and asked him if she had a complete command of the Arabic language. He assured me that she was most qualified. I then asked that he speak to her and ascertain whether or not she might be interested. I left him my name, office, home and cell numbers and asked him to have her call me if she wanted the position. If she wasn’t interested, I requested that he call me back with another recommendation, if possible and he agreed.

At twelve-fifteen, as I was getting ready to leave for the hospital, Jamila called me on my cell. I explained to her that the position was a full time, live-on position in my home and she would be providing translation services for two Iraqi females, one an eight year-old child. In return for one year’s translation services, I would pay for all of her remaining educational costs: including books and fees along with a salary of $60.000. She gasped and I think she dropped her cell phone.

She was ecstatic and said she’d accept the position on the condition that her parents approved. She asked if her father could call me to discuss the matter and I informed her that my family and I were Muslim and that she would be living in an essentially Muslim home. That eased her mind and she said that armed with that knowledge, her parents might approve. I told her I’d await her father’s call and answer any questions he might have. With that, we gave our salaams and disconnected.

I arrived at the hospital a little after one and Miko was eating lunch in the nurses’ lounge. I asked her how things were going with Hibbah. She told me that Hibbah had a very rough night, was in a lot of pain today and floating in and out of sleep due to the pain medication. She told me that Aziza was looking exhausted and that I should take her to lunch while Hibbah slept. I said to Miko, “Now I feel like a heel. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own feelings and thinking about Hibbah that I neglected to take into account what Aziza is going through. I think you’ve made a great suggestion. I’ll go drag her out to a nice lunch.”

Miko nodded with a bite of fruit salad in her mouth and waved me off to do just that. I knocked on Hibbah’s door and when I poked my head in, Aziza was hurriedly wiping her eyes. She’d been crying, but quickly put on a polite smile when she saw my face. I stepped inside and went to her. I outstretched my arms and she came to me and began to sob as I just held her and let her cry. I swallowed hard and clenched my jaw as I stood holding the woman as she cried for her child.

When she had calmed down, I broke the hug and asked her what was bothering her. She stepped to the bed and laid her hand on Hibbah’s hip then stroked across to her tummy and said through the translator, “My baby, my poor, poor baby! She never hurt anyone. Why did this have to happen to her?”

I immediately remembered sitting on the floor at my mother’s feet and asking the same thing the day of Emmy’s death. All I could think of to say was what my mother had told me. I sighed and replied softly, “I don’t know, Aziza. We’ll find out when we see God’s face. There is a reason for everything and sometimes we don’t know what that reason is. Let’s just be thankful that Hibbah is alive and will grow to be a woman, get married and have children of her own.”

“Marriage? Hah!” she replied with anger. “She’s deformed, crippled and scarred. There’s not a Muslim man in the world that would marry her now.”

The translator’s words cut me. I knew Aziza spoke the truth: Muslim men look down on a crippled woman thinking they would not make a fit wife and I replied, “Come, come sit and let’s talk.”

The movement to the chair gave her time to calm a little and I said as I took her hands in mine, “Do you believe that Hibbah is a true child of God?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Sean, she is! She says her prayers faithfully and with a pure heart.”

“Let me tell you something. You know Miko, one of Hibbah’s nurses?”

She nodded as she wiped her eyes with her veil and sniffled her reply, “Yes, she is very kind and gentle.”

I went on to tell her how God had moved Miko’s heart to convince me to spend time here at the hospital and spend time with the children. I also told her that Miko felt very deeply that God had moved her to bring me here in order to set into motion a plan to bring Hibbah, Aziza and me together so that I could take care of them and all of their needs.

I said to her, “I don’t know what God’s plan is for Hibbah, you, me or anyone else, but I do know that I am here: today, tomorrow and as long as you need me. I will do all I can to help you give Hibbah a life that she can be happy with. Whether or not that means a husband, only Allah knows for sure, but Hibbah is alive. She will survive and move on with her life. It’s now our job to help her have a life where she knows she is safe, loved, and can accomplish anything in life she desires to do. Losing a foot may make that journey harder, but it doesn’t mean she can’t complete that journey.

“I am a convert to Islam. I was raised a Christian. In the Bible, in the Book of Proverbs, it says: It is the glory of God to conceal a matter and the glory of kings to search it out. I believe that that verse means that we don’t know why God does things or allows something to happen. We must take what God has given us and strive to find purpose in that. To take the pain as well as the joy and find our way in this world according to His plan. I believe that it is in the striving, the living and struggling to find our way that we unfold the mystery of what God has planned for us.

“We need to stop, think and count our blessings. The bomb that crippled and disfigured Hibbah killed four other children. Why was she spared and not one of the other children? Which is the better blessing: burying your child, or sitting here and praying for a way to make her life worth living?”

“Oh Mr. Sean, I never thought of that. I would rather have her here as she is than to lay my child in the ground. Allah has blessed me with her life, but I worry about what kind of life that will be.”

“So do I, Aziza. Let’s make a vow to do all within our power to help her achieve her dreams. Maybe right now, her dreams and yours are shattered, but Allah will replace them with new ones, maybe even better ones; ones she never could have achieved before.

“Almost seven years ago, I was going to marry a young girl. Two weeks before our wedding, she contracted Meningitis and died. I asked my mother the same questions you’re asking me and she told me that God feels my pain and He will heal that pain. He will replace that pain with a blessing far and above what I had lost. At the time, it was impossible for me to see or believe that because of my pain and grief. But Allah did bless me and one of those blessings was Miko, the nurse that brought me here, to this hospital, at the exact time Hibbah was brought to this room.

“I can look back now and see that if Emmy wouldn’t have died, I never would have met or married Miko… and I never would have met you or Hibbah. I wouldn’t be here now, in a position to help Hibbah or you through this ordeal. My mother always said that we should take time to appreciate all the little victories in life, because that’s what brings the fullness of life. Let us appreciate and thank God for the victory of Hibbah’s life and what she can still achieve and be happy with that. If we can do that, there will be many more victories to celebrate in the future.”

Aziza sank to the floor at my feet and hugged me around the knees and cried out, “Oh praise Allah! Your words are like the soothing balm of His love. Thank you, oh God for bringing you to us! Will you explain this to Hibbah? Your words bring such healing and hope.”

“All in good time, Aziza. Hibbah isn’t ready to hear it yet, but when the time is right, I will tell her. We need to let her heal in her own way, in her own time and simply show her she’s loved and supported. Now, I think you need to get away from here for a while and relax. Let’s go to lunch while Hibbah is sleeping and you can return fresh and relaxed. That way, you can better minister to your daughter.”

“Oh no, Mr. Sean, I couldn’t leave her all alone. What if she wakes and I’m not here?”

“Miko will tend to her. She’s heavily medicated and even if she wakes, it will only be for a few moments. Come. Come with me and trust me. Besides, all my wives are busy and I miss the company of an attractive Muslim woman at lunch.”

Aziza smiled and replied, “No wonder you have four wives; you have a silver tongue to match those sparkling blue eyes.”

“I’m as harmless as a fly. Ask my one year-old daughter. I’m a wimp in a house full of females. Besides, it was Miko’s idea and we have our interpreter to protect you.”

I looked over at the woman and she smiled with a nod. With a bodyguard available, Aziza smiled and took my hand. I stopped by the nurses’ station and told Becky that we were going to lunch and that Hibbah was alone in her room.

We went to a nearby Persian restaurant and ordered a Muslim dish. Once the coffee came, so did Aziza’s story.

I asked her, “Where are you from in Iraq?”

She sipped her coffee and replied, “We lived in an area called Jizira, a suburb of Baghdad near the university. We moved there when my husband was stationed in Baghdad. He was in the army. He was killed when the vehicle he was in accidentally overturned and crushed him. He’s been dead for four years now and it’s been a struggle to raise Hibbah by myself.”

“Does Hibbah remember very much of her father?” I asked.

“Some, but her memories are fleeting. He was a very strict man and she remembers that he was not a very affectionate man. He expected his wife and child to know that he loved them, but he had a hard time expressing it. He loved us and was good to me and Hibbah, although we had very little.”

“I know what you mean. My father was also strict and didn’t show me very much affection as a child, but somehow I knew he loved me. He wasn’t the hugging type, but there were little things he did with me and for me that showed his affection. The first tear I ever saw him shed was with my wife, Priya. Ever since I’ve been married and he has grandchildren, he’s become an old softly. He hugs and kisses my daughters and whenever I or one of my wives tell a child no, they run to Poppy. They pour on the sugar and he melts like butter.”

“How old are your wives?” Aziza asked.

“Well…” I drew out, “I’m sure India is like many Islamic countries in that they allow girls to marry at a very early age, so you won’t be shocked when I tell you. Priya, my first wife, was twelve when we married. She’s now eighteen and we have a one year-old daughter together. Aleeya was five, but is thirteen and is five months pregnant with our first, a girl. Monaavi was twenty three when we married and is almost thirty now. She has given me twin girls that are five and is pregnant with another girl. Miko is twenty-seven and pregnant with our first child, a girl also. So, there you have it. I’m surrounded in a house full of females with three more on the way.”

“Abdul wanted to arrange a marriage for Hibbah when she turned nine, but I was against it. I’ve seen too many young girls treated poorly when they married young. I hope Hibbah will find a suitable husband some day, but only when she’s a little older: at least sixteen. Now, I don’t know if marriage is in her future.”

‘Well, if you choose to stay in America, she’ll probably marry much later than that. The legal age to marry in the U.S. is eighteen. Most states will approve a marriage for a girl at sixteen with her parents’ consent.”

Aziza smiled and nodded her understanding and said, “I’d very much like to meet your wives — especially the young one — and your children. What’s her name again?

“Aleeya, but we call her Leeya. She’s thirteen going on thirty. She’s very mature, has a gift for children and helps Monaavi teach the girls. She has a very direct approach to life.”

“You seem much more relaxed and amenable than most Muslim men.”

I laughed and replied, “I just go with the flow. My wives run the show and my daughters have me wrapped around their fingers. All I do is go to work and pay the bills. I will admit that I’m treated like a king by four beautiful women. Allah has been good to me and blessed me more than I deserve.”

Our appetizer arrived and as we ate, I asked our interpreter what her name was. She replied, “My name is Basheera Haroom. Thank you for asking.”

“And how did you become an interpreter?”

“I am from Iran,” she answered. “My husband was killed during the Iran/Iraq war. My son, who is grown now, was injured and Caring Arms brought him and me here so he could have his leg operated on. I would have been destitute in Iran and to repay them for their help, I worked as a temporary translator one day while I was in the hospital with my son. After that, they offered me a job when I told them I’d like to stay and make a safe life for my son and me.”

“Interesting,” I replied. “Over there our countries are enemies, but over here, we’re all Muslims in need of help.”

“I agree,” Basheera replied. “War is wrong for any reason. It only brings death, never solutions. The aftermath leaves behind hatred and animosity.”

“Where do you live, Basheera: in the Baltimore area or in Washington D.C.?

“I live in Rockville, a Washington suburb.”

“Wow! That’s a heavy commute everyday to Towson, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I have to leave my house at six-thirty in order to be at the hospital at nine.”

“Boy, I don’t see how you can travel that capital beltway every day. I’d have gone insane after the first two days.”

She chuckled and said, “Prayer helps.”

“How true,” I agreed. “Aziza, and this concerns you too, Basheera, I am now looking for a full time interpreter for you and Hibbah. I’d like to get you out of that hotel and into my home where you’ll have other Muslim women to interact and pray with, but unfortunately, there are legalities to be considered. I have to sign some legal documents that guarantee that I will be financially responsible for you and Hibbah. Until then, Caring Arms is legally responsible for you. Do you understand?”

“It’s all strange to me,” Aziza replied. “We are simple people. I never would have believed that we would ever travel on a plane to another country. Everything here is so modern and fast paced. We have no money or possessions, but I took the word of the aid people that they would take care of us and help Hibbah.”

“Let me explain how these organizations work,” I started to explain. “Organizations like Caring Arms get some of their money from governments, but most of their money comes from wealthy people around the world that want to help their fellow man. Caring Arms uses those funds to bring people like you and Hibbah to countries like America, England, Germany, and a few others, for modern medical care. Once they get you to a hospital, they try to find a local sponsor: someone who is willing to help pay for part or all of a person’s treatment. It’s easier to get a sponsor if they can see who they are sponsoring face-to-face.

“By the time Hibbah’s treatment and therapy is complete and she has been fitted for and receives her new foot, the cost for all of that will be over a hundred thousand dollars. She will need to have a new foot fashioned every year until she grows to her adult size. The more of these costs that private people like me can pay, the more people like you and Hibbah Caring Arms can help.”

“You mean my daughter’s treatment will cost that much money?” Aziza asked, astonished.

“Yes. The average cost of a hospital bed in a semi private room can vary between $1,200 and $3,000 per day. Then you have surgical costs, doctors’ bills, medicines, bandages and dressings, everything adds up. Every doctor that sees your child will send a bill. Every pill or shot or bandage will be billed. Then, when she comes home, she’ll have doctor’s appointments and therapy, which means more bills. Her new foot will cost a lot of money.

“After all of that is paid, then you have to add up the cost to live: food, clothing, transportation and medicines. These organizations do the world a great service and help those that really need it throughout the world. These organizations are formed in every modern country in the world and they help people regardless of their color, race, religion or their politics. They just want to help those that can’t help themselves.

“Look at us sitting here. There is an Iraqi, an Iranian and an American sitting here eating a meal together in peace. There’s no government telling us that we should hate each other. Organizations like Caring Arms are able to do what they do because they remove the governments from the system and operate simply as caring people helping people. The only thing governments are involved in is visas, entry permits, asylum or ways people are admitted to their country.”

“It’s all so confusing, but in the end, I just thank Allah and praise Him that you are willing to help us.”

I chuckled and commented, “You’re a lot like Leeya: short, sweet and to the point.”

This time she chuckled and answered, “Then I think I’m going to like this girl Leeya.”

We finished eating and took a short walk to settle our stomachs at a local shopping mall and I gave Aziza a hundred dollars to buy Hibbah some underwear and some personal items for herself. She wanted to give me the change, but I refused it. I also slipped Basheera a hundred to help cover the cost of gas. She was reluctant to take it, but I pushed it into her hand and told her I’d be offended if she didn’t accept. She smiled warmly and thanked me. We talked of our families and even Basheera was happy to be included in the conversation. We arrived back at the hospital about three-thirty. Hibbah was still sleeping when we arrived.

I sat on her bed and stroked the side of her face and she smiled in her sleep. She stirred and when I started to stand, she opened her eyes. She smiled and asked me, “Do I get my hug today or are you going back on your word?”

I sat back down and leaned over her, enfolding her in my arms. I said, loud enough for Basheera to hear, “I have to be very careful. If my wife saw me hugging a pretty girl in bed, I’d be in really big trouble.”

She scrunched up her nose and pushed me away saying, “Liar. Miko said I could get all the hugs I want, so there!”

“I see,” I teased as I cocked an eyebrow, “Now that you’re talking to my wife, will you tell her if I steal a kiss?”

“She said she’d share you with me and I can get as many hugs as I want.”

“Well, if she says it’s alright, then I’ll hug you to death, how’s that?”

She giggled when I tweaked her nose. I asked her, “How are you doing today? I heard you had a bad night. Are you in a lot of pain?”

“Yes, it hurts a lot. The medicine helps, but it puts me to sleep and it doesn’t take away all the pain, but enough for me to bear it for a little while. All I want to do is cry. I’m trying to be strong for Mama and you, but it’s hard — very hard.”

I just wanted to cry. I stroked her cheek and said, “Listen, Sweetie, no one wants you to be in pain. If the medicine isn’t working very well, let me talk to Miko and see if there’s another medicine they can use. If you want to cry, you go ahead and cry. Your mother, the doctors and nurses or I will never think you’re a baby because you cry. You tell your mom, me, the nurses or anyone if you need anything — anything at all. If you want to be held, tell your mom or me and we’ll hold you and hug you all you want.”

The child nodded with tear-filled eyes and said, “I keep trying to tell my brain that my foot is gone and stop hurting, but it doesn’t work. Then, I cry because I know it’s gone. I keep hoping it’s all a bad dream and I’ll wake up and see my foot. I wiggle my toes and I can still feel it. It’s as if it’s still there. I want my foot back. I want to be normal again and run and play and jump rope and do all the things I did before. Why did they cut it off?”

I gave a heavy-hearted sigh and looked at the ceiling to regain my composure. I looked down at her and asked, “Can you scoot over a bit?”

She just looked at me then inched herself over about ten inches. I lay down beside her and slid my arm under her neck. I pulled her to me a bit and started stroking her cheek and said, “Hibbah, they had to take your foot in order to save your life. If they would have left it on, it would have become infected and you could have died. It is more important to save your life than your foot. You may not believe that right now, but how do you think your mama would have felt if you died? She’d be all alone and without her little princess.”

“I’m not a princess. I’m just a poor little girl than no one pays any attention to.”

“What?” I asked in mock shock, “All girls are princesses, didn’t you know that? I thought everyone knew that!”

“Are all your daughters princesses?”

“Of course! I’m the king of my home so that makes all my daughters princesses. The only problem with princesses is that they have this strange, supernatural power over the king. They smile their little princess smiles and flicker their little princess eyelashes at the king and voila! The king gives them anything they want. Their hugs and kisses have supernatural powers too. Once a king has been hugged by a princess, he’s under their spell; and if he gets a princess kiss, well, it’s all over; he’s totally powerless to resist their charms.”

Hibbah giggled and leaned up and kissed me on the cheek. I tilted my head back and moaned, “Oh no! I feel it! I’m under your spell! Oh mercy me, what am I going to do now? I’m powerless to resist your demands!”

She stuck out her chin and asked, “If I’m a princess then I can have anything I want?”

“Yes, you sneaky little princess, I should have been more careful. Now, I’ve gotta do whatever you want!”

“Then I want a new foot. Can you get me a new foot?”

I leaned down and pressed my cheek to hers and replied softly, “I will get you a new foot, Princess Hibbah. It will take a few months, but you will have a new foot.”

“Really?”

“Really, Sweetheart. Once your leg heals enough, we’ll get you a new foot. We’ll even get one with toes and toenails and you can polish them bright red. How’s that sound?

“Oh thank you, Mr. Sean!”

“You’re welcome, Hibbah. And don’t call me Mr. Sean. Just call me Sean, okay?”

“Okay Sean. Can I have something else?”

“Anything, Sweetheart, anything at all.”

“Can I have a teddy bear?”

“See? I knew it! I told you I act all foolish around a pretty little princess with big brown eyes!”

She gave a hand covered giggle, but I could see the sparkle in her eyes. I continued to tease her saying, “I got on the bed and cuddled with you, that was my first mistake. Then, I hugged you: that was my second mistake. Then, like a dummy, I got close enough to let you kiss me and now, I have to get you a teddy bear!”

She gave the sweetest little giggle and nodded firmly saying, “You shouldn’t have told me I was a princess with special powers. Now, I can have anything I want, right?”

“Yes and no,” I qualified, “as long as it doesn’t cost a zillion dollars. I’m rich, but I don’t have a zillion dollars. Besides, I have to spend money on my other princesses too.”

“When I get out of the hospital, can I have a pretty new dress?”

I rolled my eyes and quipped, “Here we go: a princess and her clothes! I’ll tell you what; as soon as you can go shopping, you can pick out all the dresses you want. How’s that sound?”

Hibbah teared up and asked shyly, “And can Mama get some new dresses too; and maybe some new veils?”

“Whatever she wants, Princess.”

Aziza and Basheera started crying. To lighten things up, I jokingly said, “Let me get up before I have to buy you a pony!”

Hibbah’s eyes bugged out and asked, “Really, I can have a pony too?”

“That’s it!” I said as I got up. “Now I was stupid again and opened my big, fat mouth! Yes, Princess Hibbah, you can have a pony, but that’s it for today! You tricked me and now I have to buy a foot, a teddy bear, lots of dresses for you and your mama and now, I even have to buy a pony! You know what? You, young lady, are a very expensive princess!”

She stretched out her good arm and I leaned down and let her wrap it around my neck. She squeezed me tight and kissed my cheek and said, “I love you, Sean. I don’t think of the pain when you’re here. You make me laugh and I feel happy for a little while. I’m glad Allah sent you to us.”

“I love you, Hibbah. I’m glad too, Princess.”

“Hibbah?” Aziza asked, “Don’t you think that we’ve taken enough of Mr. Sean’s time today?”

“Please,” I interrupted, “please, Aziza, call me Sean. We are equals and I’m just Sean, okay?”

“Yes, Sean,” she replied, “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re more than welcome. Now, Princess,” I said as turned to the little pixie, “I better get going. I have four princesses at home that probably want ponies too. Do you want me to talk to the nurse about your pain medicine?”

“Please,” she nodded, “It hurts a lot.”

“Okay, Sweetie,” I said as I leaned down to kiss her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

She nodded as I gave her a peck on the lips. I gave her a wink and she smiled and silently nodded again. I said my goodbyes and offered my parting salaams to all and left to find Miko. She was tending to a patient, so I waited in the lounge for her. When she came in, I told her everything that had transpired, both at lunch with Aziza and with Hibbah when we returned.

Miko started to get teary as I retold what had happened and said, “Sean, you don’t know what you’ve done. With your manner of interaction with her, she’s started to accept her condition. She asked you for a new foot. That means she’s looking toward the future: to surviving. She doesn’t know it yet and neither do you, but she’s accepting it.

“That doesn’t mean she won’t display the anger, fear and insecurity. She still has to reconcile in her mind that what happened, happened and the ‘why me’s’ of it all. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

I asked her about Hibbah’s pain medication and she said that unfortunately, they can’t give her too much because of her age, and the fact that they need her lucid. She’ll have to bear some of the pain because they use pain as an indicator also of what might be a sign of trouble. She said she’d ask Dr. Clayborne about it and see what she says. I asked her to explain that to Aziza and Hibbah. I kissed my little lotus goodbye and headed for home.

_____________________________

On my way home, Mr. Tariq Mustafa called and wanted to speak about the interpreter’s position I had offered to his daughter, Jamila. He was a little confrontational until I told him that I was also a Muslim and father of four daughters and that I could empathize with his concern for his daughter.

I explained the situation with Hibbah and her mother and my sponsoring them in the U.S. I told him that my wives were from India and were multi-lingual, but no one in the household spoke Arabic. Since Hibbah and Aziza will be living at my home, I would need a live-in translator.

I told him of my problem finding a professional, and was in immediate need. I reiterated my offer to Jamila about paying for all of her remaining educational costs as well as supplying her with a salary of $60,000 for a year’s service. I explained how we have an extended family and are sharing a home with my parents. He asked me about my job, financial status and how I intended to guarantee my offer to Jamila.

I told him I would have a legally binding contract drawn up and if I failed to pay, he could take me to court. He seemed satisfied and asked when Jamila would need to start. I told him that there was some legalities involved in turning over financial responsibility of Hibbah and her mother to me, but possibly as soon as the end of the week.

He asked me about Jamila having time off and I explained to him that unfortunately, I would need her continual service until either one of my two charges learned to speak some rudimentary English. What I did offer as a compromise was that I would furnish Jamila with her own cell phone with texting, paid for by me. She could have access to a computer for email or video messaging, and that he and his family were welcome in our home at any time. Jamila would have access to her family, although she had to be available to do her job.

He tentatively agreed to let Jamila take the job, but wanted to meet me and my family at my home before he gave final approval and we set an appointment for him, his wife and Jamila to have dinner with us on Wednesday, two days hence. I told him I’d have the contract drawn up and ready to be signed in time for our meeting and he was agreeable. We politely gave our parting salaams and disconnected.

At home and at dinner, Miko and I explained the day’s events and everyone was pleased about the progress I’d made with Hibbah. All of my daughters (including Tiya) were all a twitter about the princess story and they all started batting eyelashes at the same time. Malina picked up on it and started blinking both eyes.

Tina cut in after the chuckles and said, “Daaa-dee.”

“What is it Princess Faatina?”

“Can we have the keys to the car and your credit card?”

“In your dreams, Little One.”

“Shucks,” she replied. Turning to Tiya, she quipped, “Well, no boob job for you, Sister.”

The adults just shook their heads. Tiya snapped her fingers and said, “Drats!”

“Leeya, what have you been teaching these girls?” Mom asked jokingly.

“What?” Leeya replied with a mouthful of food. “I didn’t do anything, honest!”

We all cracked up.

Mom said not to worry about the dinner with the Mustafas: she and Pita would take care of it. After dinner, I called Mark and told him I needed Jamila’s work contract drawn up and in my hands by Wednesday morning and he said no problem.

It was Miko’s night and she was particularly amorous that night. After inhaling my dick and almost sucking my balls through my urethra, she demanded the “Princess Treatment” and wasn’t satisfied until I’d filled all of her holes and she tried to wash the sheets — the orgasmic way.

She left me tired, drained and with aching balls, but boy, Pretty Pussy is sure a work of art! And here you thought the only thing the Japanese made well was cars.