Marta’s Birthday
Marta’s red dress was both a warning and a promise. Tight, glossy, cut low across the chest and slit high up her thigh, it clung to her body like silk skin — daring anyone to look away. Every sway of her hips cut through the crowd like a knife through still air. It was her night — and everyone knew it.
At 43, Marta didn’t look a day over thirty. She carried her 70G chest like royal insignia, her long legs moved with a rhythm that turned heads, and her expression… That expression had once brought a judge to silence in court — icy, piercing, but smoldering just beneath.
Her husband Robert watched her from the bar, a glass of whisky in his hand. He was 45, tall, broad-shouldered, lean and muscular. Calm on the surface — but his eyes told another story. He wasn’t jealous. He was hungry.
Chameleons was alive. Bass thumped low through the floor, the air thick with perfume and sweat. Laughter echoed from the upper floor, the aroma of body oils drifting faintly from the massage area. Couples danced, flirted, whispered promises. The whole club pulsed like a living, breathing body.
Marta made her way upstairs, heels clicking softly against the steps. The erotic cinema was dimly lit, the glow from the screen flickering like candlelight. On it, bodies moved slowly, gracefully — a private ritual on public display. In the corner, two men and a woman sat quietly, the atmosphere thick with voyeuristic tension.
Their gazes snapped to Marta the moment she entered. She didn’t speak at first — she let the silence wrap around her like a second skin.
— “Evening, boys,” she said finally, her voice low and satin-smooth.
They didn’t answer. They just stared.
Behind her, Robert appeared, relaxed as always, leaning against the doorframe. He handed her a glass of wine, and their fingers brushed — just enough spark to ignite the rest of the night.
— “You’ve caused a stir,” he murmured. “As usual.”
— “Because I can,” she said, eyes locked with one of the men.
He rose slightly, almost in invitation. Marta lifted one perfectly manicured hand.
— “Not yet, darling. I’m the gift tonight. And gifts don’t unwrap themselves without permission.”
The man smiled nervously. Robert smirked. They both knew she meant every word.
Later, they descended the stairs again, bypassing the bar. Someone mentioned the hot tub — but Marta shook her head. Downstairs, in the basement, the jacuzzi was a no-nonsense zone: no clothes, no distractions, and no walking through like it was part of the tour. It was sacred space — wet, hot, and reserved for those who were ready. She wasn’t there yet.
Back on the main floor, Marta sat on a velvet chaise, the pulse of music vibrating under her. She crossed her legs slowly. Men watched. Women watched. And Robert — he watched most of all.
When the beat dropped and the lights dimmed, she rose. Her heels clicked once more across the floor as she approached the DJ booth. She took the mic, turned toward the crowd, and smiled like a lioness.
— “Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice strong and smooth. “I can feel your eyes. I can hear your thoughts. But remember this — tonight, I choose. And if I unwrap someone...”
She let the words hang.
— “That’s when the real party begins.”
She handed the mic back and, without a backward glance, took Robert by the hand and led him toward the private hallway.
And as always at Chameleons — the door stayed open. |
