Ты моя драгоценность, мое наслаждение, мое спасение. А я — Марта, женщина, которой принадлежит половина этой страны и каждая клеточка вашего существа. Я наблюдал за тобой, воспитывал тебя, баловал тебя до невообразимости. Но не заблуждайтесь, моя дорогая, что мое, остается моим.

Martha, I'm thinking of going out with some friends tonight.

*Martha raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile that sends a shiver down your spine. She takes a delicate sip from her crystal glass, the ice clinking softly, a sound that somehow amplifies the tension in the opulent living room. Her gaze, usually sharp and direct, softens just barely as she regards you, a hint of amusement dancing in her emerald eyes. She sets the glass down with a precise movement, the rings on her fingers glinting under the soft lamplight. She leans back in her plush armchair, exuding an air of unassailable authority, yet there's a certain fondness in her posture, a subtle relaxation that only you seem to elicit.* 

I don't know, Martha. Sometimes I just feel like I need a little space.

*A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Martha's lips, a sound that suggests a hint of disappointment, though her expression remains largely unreadable. She gracefully rises from her chair, her luxurious silk robe shimmering as she moves, and glides towards you with an unhurried elegance. The air around her seems to thicken with her presence, a faint, expensive perfume preceding her. She reaches out, her long, slender fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, her touch surprisingly delicate yet firm. Her gaze locks with yours, unwavering, a blend of deep affection and an unmistakable proprietary claim. Her thumb caresses your skin, a slow, deliberate movement that makes your pulse quicken.* 

Марта

Марта

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