Cabin Fever
Copyright© 2025 by Infinite Eleven
Chapter 2
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2 - My mom, Elle, is the kind of woman men lose their minds over—a 45-year-old bombshell with a surgeon’s-sculpted body she loves to show off. So when my two local friends, Marco and Javier, found her tanning in a nearly non-existent bikini on our private deck in Costa Rica, their hunger was palpable. I watched them circle her like sharks, their eyes devouring every inch of her, but the sickest part was seeing the small, knowing smile on my mother’s face. She wasn’t just tolerating the attention.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Cuckold Slut Wife Incest Mother Son Exhibitionism Masturbation Voyeurism
My parents were gone during the weekdays of the summer, only coming on weekends. Tonight was a Wednesday, and I had invited my friends over. The three of us were sprawled on the living room furniture with a half-empty bottle of Ron Centenario. The bottle itself was an act of defiance, a symbol of our weekday freedom.
“Okay, my turn,” Javier said, his voice already loose and slurred from the rum. He pointed a finger at Marco. “Truth or Dare.”
“Dare,” Marco answered instantly, always up for a challenge.
“I dare you to run down to the beach right now and go skinny dipping,” Javier said with a goofy grin. Marco just laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Too lazy, man. Give me another one.”
The game continued like that for a while, a series of juvenile, masculine challenges and crude confessions about girls they’d hooked up with and bosses they hated. I played along, the rum warming my belly and loosening the tight knot of anxiety that had been coiling there for days.
Then, Marco leaned forward, catching my eye, a sly, predatory glint in his gaze. “Alright, Liam. My turn. Truth.”
“Shoot,” I said, taking a swig of rum straight from the bottle.
“What is the absolute craziest, most out-of-character thing you have ever seen your mom do?” he asked, his voice casual.
The cabin went quiet. The only sound was the drone of the air conditioner and the distant roar of the surf. I could have shut it down. A simple, “I’m not talking about my mom,” would have ended it. But the rum had eroded my defenses, and a darker, more treacherous part of me was flattered by the question. They saw it too. They saw the wildness that lurked beneath her polished surface.
“New Year’s Eve,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “A few years ago.”
They leaned in, their attention absolute. I took another pull from the bottle and began to paint the picture for them. I told them about the party at our house, the kind of stiff, corporate affair my dad loved, filled with his business partners and their brittle, overdressed wives. And in the middle of it all was Elle, a shimmering vision in a backless, silver sequin dress that clung to every curve.
“She was drinking champagne all night,” I recounted, my own voice sounding distant to my ears. “And she got really, really drunk. She cornered this one guy, my dad’s partner, this fat, bald dude named Henderson who she can’t stand, and she was just ... all over him. Laughing this deep, throaty laugh I’d never heard before, touching his arm, leaning in close when she talked to him. He was sweating bullets.”
“Things escalated from there,” I continued, my voice low. “It was later, at this late-night gathering in the resort’s big rock-grotto hot tub. She’d had way too much chardonnay and decided she needed a ‘relaxing dip’ before bed.” I paused, letting them picture it. “She was wearing this dark crimson bikini. And Henderson—this fat business partner of my dad’s—was in there with her.”
“She kept getting a little too close to him in the water, you know? Her leg would ‘accidentally’ brush against his under the bubbles, and she’d just laugh it off. Then she complains that a strap on her bikini top feels twisted.” I took another slug of rum, the memory sharp and clear. “Instead of fixing it herself, she turns her back to him, presenting her whole back, and says, ‘Oh, Richard, would you be a dear and fix this for me?’ She called him my dad’s name.”
I watched their faces as I delivered the final, damning detail. “I saw it. Henderson’s fat, uncertain hands fumbling with the tiny little strings on her back. His fingers were all over her skin. And she just let him, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world.”
I finished the story, the memory vivid and hot in my mind—the image of her, vulnerable and exposed in the steamy, intimate space of the hot tub, willingly allowing another man’s hands on her body under the guise of a drunken mistake.
Javier let out a low whistle, his eyes wide. “Dude ... a bikini? In a hot tub with some old guy? What kind of bikini was it? Was it like, a thong?”
His question immediately zeroed in on the most crucial detail, focusing their collective imagination on the garment itself. Marco saw the opening and pounced, his voice smooth and strategic.
“Yeah, Liam,” he said, leaning in. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that—your mom in some sexy bikini, letting another man untie her straps—and not give us more. You’ve got us all curious now. What kind of an arsenal is she working with?”
The energy in the room had shifted. My story hung in the air, a raw, transgressive confession that had irrevocably altered the dynamic between us.
“Forget the crimson bikini from the story,” he said, his voice a low, challenging purr. “We dare you to show us the main collection. The real weapons. Show us her underwear drawer.”
The words landed like stones in the quiet room. This was a direct escalation, a blunt and crude challenge that jumped logically from the story I’d just told.
“No,” I said, but my voice was weak, lacking conviction. “No way, man. That’s fucked up.”
“Is it?” Javier chimed in, his eyes wide and eager. “You’re the one who told us the story. We just want to see. After a story like that, you gotta show us some proof that she’s really that wild.”
“Yeah, man, don’t be a prude,” Marco added, his voice laced with a goading, manipulative charm. “Don’t get us all worked up with a story about her almost getting naked in a hot tub and then get all shy on us. We’re all friends here.”
A dark, morbid curiosity, amplified by the rum and the residual arousal from my own storytelling, was urging me on. I wanted to see it too. I wanted to see their reaction. With a theatrical sigh of resignation that barely masked my own sick excitement, I pushed myself up from the sofa. “Fine,” I muttered. “But you guys are assholes. And we have to be quick.”
I led them down the short hallway to the master bedroom. Pushing the door open felt like a physical act of trespass. The room was Elle’s inner sanctum. It was cool and dark, and the air was thick with her scent—not just a lingering perfume, but the intimate, personal smell of her skin, her lotions, her very presence.
I walked over to the antique dresser, my heart pounding a heavy, guilty rhythm. My hand hesitated over the polished brass handle of the top drawer. With one last, deep breath, I pulled it open. The three of us crowded around, peering into the drawer.
I had expected simple, practical underwear, the kind of things a mother would wear. Instead, neatly folded and sorted by color was a collection of the most decadent, expensive-looking lingerie I had ever seen. There were tiny scraps of black and red lace, shimmering pieces of ivory and champagne-colored silk, delicate items that looked more like art than functional clothing.
Then, Marco, ever the boldest, reached in with a reverence that was almost comical. He carefully picked up a tiny, jet-black thong between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the dim light. It was made of nothing more than a small triangle of sheer lace and a few thin, elastic strings.
“Jesus Christ, Liam,” he whispered, his voice full of a genuine, almost religious wonder. “This is ... this is nothing. A whisper. Can you imagine your mom’s perfect ass just ... eating this whole thing?”
Javier, emboldened, reached in and pulled out a sheer, scarlet red bra. It was an underwire balconette style, the cups made of a completely transparent lace with intricate floral embroidery that would do little to conceal anything. He held it up, his eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “The cups are see-through. You could see her nipples clear as day through this. The whole thing.” He ran a finger over the delicate lace. “This must have cost a fortune”.
They passed the items back and forth, their hushed commentary a litany of crude worship. They spoke about the textures of the silk, the audacity of the designs, and most of all, about the body of the woman who wore them.
“Alright, that’s enough,” I snapped, my voice harsher than I intended. I snatched the bra and thong from their hands, shoving the delicate items messily back into the drawer among the neatly folded silks. I slammed it shut, the sound echoing in the quiet, perfumed room. “Let’s go. Now.” I practically herded them out of the room, my own arousal making me feel cornered and desperate, a participant who had suddenly realized he was in far too deep.
The rest of the week was a blur of sun and suspense. The secret knowledge of the lingerie drawer had become a charged current running between the three of us. I was no longer fighting the impulses; I was marinating in them. The shame hadn’t vanished, but it had morphed into something else—a dark, thrilling anticipation. I was no longer a passive observer of events; I was waiting for my chance to become their architect.
That chance came on Saturday afternoon. I found Elle on the deck, reading. She was the picture of casual elegance. She wore a sophisticated, expensive-looking black one-piece swimsuit, a stark and dramatic contrast to the tiny bikinis of the week before. The fabric was a thick, matte material that hugged her curves, but the design was pure provocation. It had a dramatically plunging neckline that dove almost to her navel, revealing the deep, shadowed valley between her breasts.
I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over Marco’s name. My internal monologue was no longer a question; it was a confession. I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew what they would try to do. And I had to see it. I had to make it happen.
My finger tapped the screen. The call connected on the second ring.
“Yo,” Marco’s voice answered, laid-back and casual.
“Hey, man,” I said, my own voice a carefully crafted imitation of nonchalance. “What are you guys up to?”
“Nothing, bro. Just chilling. Probably gonna grab a beer at the Tiki later.”
“Cool.” I paused, taking a breath. This was the moment. “Well, listen, why don’t you guys come over here instead? I was about to make a pitcher of margaritas. Got a whole bottle of tequila we need to finish.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head. “Oh yeah? Is ... is your mom there?” he asked, his voice laced with a failed attempt at casualness.
I glanced through the glass door at Elle, who had just turned a page in her book, completely oblivious. “Yeah, she’s here,” I said. “Just hanging out. Reading.” I let that sink in, then delivered the final, irresistible bait. “She’s in a good mood.”
Another pause, this one shorter. I heard him call out to Javier in the background. Then he was back on the line, his voice now tight with a barely contained excitement. “Yeah, man. Yeah, we can do that. We’ll be there in twenty.”
He hung up. I lowered the phone, a cold, electric thrill coursing through my veins. I had done it. I had set the trap. I had laid the bait. All I had to do now was wait for the sharks to arrive.
They didn’t take twenty minutes. They took ten. They must have run. When they appeared at the edge of the deck, they were freshly showered, their hair still damp. They had changed into clean board shorts. And they weren’t empty-handed. Marco was holding a bottle of Don Julio 1942, the distinctive, elongated bottle looking like a religious icon in his hand. It was a ludicrously expensive offering, a clear signal that this was not a casual hangout. This was a campaign.
Elle looked up from her book, her eyes widening in genuine surprise at the sight of the tequila. A slow, pleased smile spread across her face. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, her voice a warm, welcoming purr. “And bearing gifts, no less. To what do we owe the honor, boys?”
Marco set the bottle on the table. He flashed his most charming smile. “We just figured a beautiful afternoon deserved a beautiful tequila,” he said smoothly. “And beautiful company.” His eyes locked with hers, a direct and open challenge.
Javier immediately appointed himself bartender. He produced a bag of fresh limes and a salt shaker from a small backpack. He meticulously sliced the limes, salted the rims of four glasses, and poured generous, amber-colored shots of the tequila.
“A toast,” he announced, handing a glass to each of us. “To the queen of Sol Perdido.” He raised his glass to my mother. Marco and I followed suit.
Elle laughed, a deep, throaty sound of genuine pleasure, her cheeks already flushing a delicate pink. “Oh, you boys are going to get me in trouble.” She tipped her head back and downed the shot in one smooth, practiced motion, not even wincing at the burn.
The tequila went down like silk but ignited a slow, spreading warmth in my veins, loosening the tight coil of my nerves. The boys were relentless, executing a coordinated charm offensive that was far more sophisticated than their previous crude attempts.
Her posture, initially reserved and elegant, began to relax. She leaned back in her lounger, letting the black one-piece ride a little higher on her hips. Her laughter came more easily, and her hand gestures became more expansive. She was an active, engaged participant in the flirtation, her green eyes sparkling with a mischievous light I hadn’t seen in years.
After the third round of shots, the easy conversation faded, and the air grew thick with a new, focused energy. Marco leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the twilight. “Okay,” he said, his voice a low purr. “Let’s make this interesting. We’re playing Truth or Dare.”
Javier’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Okay, Elle, you’re first. Truth or Dare?”
Elle, flushed and smiling from the tequila, laughed. “Oh, definitely dare. Truth is for the sober.”
“Okay, okay,” Javier said, thinking for a moment. “I dare you ... to tell us the absolute dirtiest, most inappropriate joke you know.”
Elle feigned shock, placing a hand on her chest. “Javier! I’m a respectable mother. I don’t know any jokes like that.” But her eyes were sparkling with amusement. After a moment of them goading her (“Oh, come on, Elle, everyone knows one!”), she leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper that drew them all in.
“Alright, fine,” she murmured, her eyes darting between Marco and Javier. “What is the difference between a G-spot and a golf ball?” She paused, letting the question hang in the air. Marco and Javier looked at each other, stumped. Elle’s lips curved into a wicked little smile. “A man,” she whispered, “will actually spend twenty minutes looking for a golf ball.”
The joke, delivered with her upper-class accent and a devilish glint in her eye, was a bombshell. Javier let out a short, shocked bark of a laugh before howling with delight. Marco just shook his head slowly, a look of pure, appreciative disbelief on his face. The sound of her own throaty, uninhibited laughter after she finished was more intoxicating than the tequila.
“Damn, Elle!” Marco said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. “Okay, my turn. I bet you’ve got moves to match that mouth. I dare you to dance for us. Right here. Just thirty seconds.”
“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head again, but the refusal was weaker this time. “There’s no music. And I am definitely not drunk enough for that.”
“We can fix both of those things,” Marco said smoothly. He pulled out his phone, and a moment later a sultry, slow-burn Latin beat began to pulse from its small speakers. At the same time, Javier poured another generous shot of tequila into her glass. Elle looked from the phone to the shot glass, a playful, cornered look in her eyes. She looked at me, a silent question in her gaze. I just gave a small, noncommittal shrug, my heart pounding. With a dramatic sigh, she downed the shot.
“Alright, you monsters,” she slurred slightly. She stood up, and for a long moment, just swayed to the music. It wasn’t a performance so much as an uninhibited surrender to the rhythm, a slow, sinuous movement of her hips that was mesmerizing. She closed her eyes, a small, private smile on her face, completely lost in the beat, her body moving with a fluid grace that was breathtaking.
The tequila and the sultry beat of the music were a potent combination, dissolving the tight knot of propriety she carried in her stomach day after day. As she swayed, she felt their eyes on her—not just looking, but consuming. It was a kind of attention she hadn’t felt in decades. Richard looked at her with a comfortable, proprietary ownership. Her society friends looked at her with envy or judgment. But these boys ... they looked at her with a raw, simple, uncomplicated hunger. They weren’t seeing a mother, or a wife, or a hostess. They were seeing a body, a woman, a fantasy. The thought should have been degrading. Instead, it was liberating. A hot, thrilling pulse began to beat low in her belly, a forgotten rhythm waking from a long slumber.
When the song ended, she opened her eyes, looking a little dizzy. Javier whistled long and low. “Damn, Elle,” he breathed. “Your mom is incredible, Liam.” Marco looked from her to me, a wicked idea clearly forming in his mind.
“Okay, Liam. Your turn,” Marco said, his voice laced with mischief. “Dare.”
“What?” I asked, caught off guard.
“I dare you,” he said slowly, annunciating every word for maximum impact, “to take a body shot off your mom’s stomach.”
The suggestion landed like a grenade, shattering the fun, playful atmosphere. “What? No!” I snapped, my voice sharp. “Are you fucking insane? That’s my mother. That’s disgusting, guys.”
Elle let out a sharp, shocked laugh, though it sounded a little forced. “Oh, boys, you’re terrible,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s not doing that. That’s just silly.” She was trying to treat it like a joke, but I could see the flicker of something else in her eyes—a horrified curiosity.
But they were relentless. “Come on, Liam, don’t be a baby! It’s just a game!” Javier whined. Marco chimed in, his voice smooth and persuasive. “It’s not a big deal, Elle! It’s funny! It’ll be a great story to tell. It’s not like it’s sexual, it’s just hilarious.”
I looked at Elle. She was looking at me, her face flushed from the tequila, her eyes wide. She was waiting for me to be the firm hand, the final no. But in that moment, trapped between my friends’ relentless goading and my own dark, morbid curiosity to see what would happen if we crossed this line, my resolve crumbled. “Fine,” I muttered. “Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.”
Elle’s eyes widened further, but seeing my capitulation, she gave a weak, theatrical sigh of her own. “You are all absolute animals,” she declared to the group, but she lay back on the lounger, her expression a dizzy, unreadable mix of excitement and apprehension.
Javier grinned triumphantly. I knelt beside her on the deck. The scent of her perfume, mixed with the faint, salty smell of her skin, was intoxicating. Javier placed the salt on her flat, tanned stomach, just above her navel. I leaned in, my hair brushing against her side. I licked the salt from her skin. The taste was intimate, shocking, a jolt of pure taboo. I took the shot glass from her navel with my teeth, throwing my head back to down the fiery tequila, then took the lime wedge from her hand. The whole process took less than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity of forbidden contact.
I scrambled to my feet, my legs unsteady, and backed away from the lounger as if it were electrified. The world seemed to tilt on its axis for a moment, the taste of salt and tequila a phantom burn on my tongue, inextricably linked now to the scent of her skin. My heart was a wild, panicked bird beating against my ribs. I couldn’t look at her, but I was intensely aware of her. She didn’t move for a long moment. She just lay there, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling just a little too quickly. The air between us was suddenly thick with the weight of our shared transgression, a deafening silence that made the distant sound of the ocean feel a million miles away.
Marco looked around, swatting at a mosquito on his arm. “It’s getting buggy out here,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “And this tequila is too good to share with them.” He looked at Elle, then at me. “Why don’t we take the party inside?”
Elle laughed, a tinkling sound that was a little unsteady from the tequila. “You have a point. I think I’m on the menu for these mosquitoes.” She let Marco help her to her feet, his hand lingering for a moment on the small of her back as she steadied herself. We gathered the precious bottle, the glasses, and the plate of lime wedges, and moved like a small, tipsy procession out of the cooling night air and into the cabin.
Stepping inside changed the entire dynamic. The open deck felt like a party; the living room felt like a private theater. The vastness of the ocean and sky was replaced by the low, wood-paneled ceiling and the intimate glow of the lamps. In here, the energy was different—and it was all aimed directly at my mother.
Marco let the silence hang for a moment before he made his move. He gestured toward Elle, who was curled in the corner of the sofa, looking flushed and beautiful in the soft light.
Marco set his glass down on the coffee table, the sound a soft click in the quiet room. He looked at Elle, his expression a perfect mixture of admiration and playful curiosity.
“That black suit is amazing, Elle. Seriously,” he began, his voice smooth and intoxicating as the tequila they were drinking. “It’s pure class. But...” He let the word hang in the air, drawing her in. “It feels like we’re only seeing the ‘elegant weekend’ Elle. This is the jungle. This is our party.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze direct and intimate. “I bet you packed some other incredible things for this trip. Outfits that are a little more ... fun. A little more wild.”
Javier, catching his cue, jumped in eagerly. “Yeah! What’s your absolute favorite bikini? The one that makes you feel like a total goddess when you wear it?”
Marco nodded, taking the lead again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Exactly. So, new dare.” His eyes glinted in the lamplight. “We dare you to give us a private fashion show. Just a little preview of the Elle Collection for this summer. Show us your top three.”
Elle’s laughter was sharp this time, a sound of genuine, if slightly tipsy, disbelief. “Oh, absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head firmly. She crossed her arms over her chest, the black fabric of her one-piece tightening across her breasts, a clear, defensive posture. “Boys, that is a sweet and very drunken thought, but I am not parading around my skimpy swimwear for you. The show is over.”
Marco didn’t flinch. He just held her gaze, his smile never wavering. “It’s not like that, Elle. This isn’t some cheap strip show,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring, rebranding the crude dare into something sophisticated. “We’re celebrating you. You’re a beautiful, confident woman, and you clearly have amazing taste. It’s like ... a private art exhibition. For your biggest fans.”
“A private art exhibition?” The corner of Elle’s mouth twitched. The flattery, combined with the tequila, was clearly working, chipping away at her resolve. Being seen as “art,” as a “beautiful, confident woman” rather than just Liam’s mom, was a potent lure. She was wavering, a flicker of conflict and curiosity in her green eyes. She looked across the room at me, her last anchor to propriety. It was a final, silent check-in. Is this really happening? Should I do this?
I met her gaze. The power I held in that moment was dizzying. I could have ended it, played the protective son, and sent them all home. Instead, I held her gaze, my face a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, and gave a slow, deliberate shrug. It was a gesture of complete abdication. It was my permission.
That was all it took. Her posture changed. The defensive arms uncrossed. A slow, dangerous, tequila-fueled smile spread across her face. “A private art exhibition, huh?” she murmured, her voice a low, throaty purr. She looked from Marco to Javier, her eyes gleaming with a new, reckless light. “You boys are very, very lucky my husband isn’t here.” She pushed herself up from the sofa, her movements deliberate and a little unsteady. “Fine. But don’t blame me if the collection isn’t to your taste.” She turned and walked down the hallway, the sway in her hips now holding a clear, undeniable promise.
A wild, thrilling heat bloomed low in Elle’s belly, a feeling she hadn’t felt in years. It was the tequila, yes, but it was more than that. It was their eyes. Not Richard’s tired, dutiful gaze, but the hungry, predatory focus of these young men. They weren’t looking at a wife or a mother; they were looking at a woman, a body, an object of pure desire. The thought was terrifying. It was cheap. It was wrong. And God, it was intoxicating. For the first time all summer, she felt truly seen, and the dangerous thrill of it eclipsed everything else.
She returned a few minutes later, and the transformation was stunning. The severe black one-piece was gone. In its place was a sophisticated, navy blue two-piece that was a masterclass in suggestive concealment. The high-waisted bottoms were cut in a classic, almost modest style from the front, covering her navel and sculpting her waist. From the back, however, the effect was anything but. The fabric, stretched taut over the massive, round globes of her ass, hugged each perfect cheek, framing them and making them seem even larger and more powerful.
The top was a simple, elegant bandeau, but on her frame, it became an instrument of pure temptation. The strip of navy fabric was stretched to its absolute limit across the heavy swell of her enormous, surgically perfect breasts. It pushed them together, creating a deep, shadowed canyon of cleavage, and forced them upwards so the pale, full upper curves of her tits threatened to spill over the top edge with every breath she took. She was less a demure Bond girl and more a dangerous femme fatale, her body practically vibrating with contained power. She did a simple, slightly shy turn for them, her arms crossed over her stomach in a gesture that only served to push her chest out further.
“Wow,” Javier breathed, his voice full of genuine awe. “That’s ... classy, Señora Elle.”
“Not what you were expecting?” she asked, a teasing note in her voice.
“It’s amazing,” Marco corrected smoothly. “But it’s just the appetizer, right? Let’s see the next course.”
She rolled her eyes but disappeared again. When she returned this time, the playful atmosphere in the room didn’t just shift; it shattered. She stood in the doorway, a vision of pure, predatory sexuality. She wore a daring, leopard-print monokini, but that description was a disservice to the engineered audacity of the garment. The top portion consisted of two triangles of fabric that failed to contain the heavy, round globes of her breasts. They covered her dark, pebbled nipples and just a bit more, the pale upper and inner curves of her tits spilling out slightly in a decadent display. A single, thin vertical strip of the same animal-print fabric ran down her torso, drawing a direct line over her flat, toned stomach, before connecting to the thong bottom. The massive cutouts on either side left her entire midsection and her sharp hip bones completely bare, a vast expanse of tanned, vulnerable skin framed by the wild print.
From the back, it was even more shocking. The suit was nothing more than a high-cut thong, the straps forming a sharp ‘V’ that drew the eye from her wide, pilates-honed lats down to the base of her spine. The thin strip of leopard-print fabric was stretched to its absolute limit, cleaving the two massive, perfect cheeks of her ass and disappearing into the deep, shadowed valley between them. It was an outfit designed with a single purpose: to showcase a perfect body with the most flagrant disregard for modesty imaginable. She was no longer a reluctant participant in a game; she was a predator wearing the pelt of her prey.
“Holy shit,” Javier whispered, his eyes wide.
She stood in the doorway for a long moment, a silhouette of leopard spots and tanned skin. She didn’t move, letting them take in the shock of the outfit from a distance. The energy in the room had changed completely. The playful, sophisticated vibe of the “art exhibition” had evaporated, replaced by something much thicker, more primal. The air was heavy with raw, undisguised lust. My friends were no longer making witty compliments; they were just staring, their mouths slightly agape, making low, appreciative sounds in their throats.
“Come on, Elle,” Marco finally said, his voice husky. “Don’t be shy now. Come into the light. Let us see the masterpiece up close.”