In an unassuming house nestled in the heart of Algiers, an alluring woman in her late thirties goes about her daily routine. As she moves through the house – dressed in a conservatively long-sleeved blouse and full-length floor-grazing skirt – her eyes wander towards the window. The streets below teem with life, but she only has eyes for one person: her husband. Little does her husband know that desires far more carnal than those of a devout Muslim woman have been igniting within her. As he leaves for work, she retreats to her bedroom. Here, she bares her body, revealing the allure that lies below her modest attire. A black bodysuit hugs her curves as she pulls on her hosiery – black and opaque, like her intentions. She slips her feet into a pair of sleek black pumps and smoothes her hair back into a sleek ponytail. She stands before the full-length mirror, her eyes alive with a forbidden fantasy. This is the first time she has dared to wear pantyhose in public. The sight of them against her legs is arousing. She savors the feel of the fabric against her skin, the smooth texture of the sheer nylon an unseen turn-on. She knows that her husband would disapprove of the stockings, but she craves the thrill of her desire. In a flash – quicker than a mosque’s call to prayer – the woman is dressed and ready to leave her home. She glides down the stairs, her movements more fluid than she recalls ever being. Her husband is at work, unaware of the darkness awaiting him at home. She steps out onto the paved streets, her heels clicking against the pavement.