The stone villa crowning the overlook of the La Gomera coast is a surprise even for Mai Lee. Centuries old, the Moorish estate was etched directly into the rock face of a sheer cliff seizing the Atlantic Ocean. It is a magnificent fusion of Africa’s introduction to China, India, and Arabia, both feminine and formidable the façade is intricately patterned with dozens of hand carved arches in perfect symmetry. From the helicopter, Mai has an incredible view of a private black beach one hundred feet below the palace that is buttressed by coral reef. Like most of the shorelines of these untamed Canary archipelagos, their impenetrable cliffs meet the deep sea with fearless turbidity only sea lions would chance.
Greeted by a host of servants, upon entry the domed and vaulted muqarnas are the centerpiece of every room of the palatial estate, their vibrantly painted tiled patterns echo the African dominance of architecture in this region, they are a marvel to her.
Having done her homework, Mai knows the Marchioness de Marsili is renowned for her intimate parties and exclusive circles of guests, she feels honored to be among them.
A grand inner hall that leads to the guest wing is laden with portraits depicting a questionable seventy-something, wearing aristocracy like a brand; tucked, pulled, and tanned, the marchioness is beyond specie recognition. It is no coincidence that the last public photograph of her was taken fifty years ago, she guards her privacy like a gold fevered dragon.
The extensive grounds occupy over thirty miles of coastline, and the estate is fortified by an armed security detail. There are no cameras inside the palacio, and the use of cell phones is strictly regulated to her inner circle; it is truly a fortress.
Mai was informed by a Shang Hai fan, that the marchioness’ guest lists are always diversified by age and ethnicity, but fiercely vetted socially and economically. Only background players are invited, and their strings run deep: obscure royalty, billionaires and trillionaires, politicians, and the exceptional celebrity on occasion.
Assigned a personal valet upon arrival, Mai Lee is instantly enveloped in opulence fit for a queen. Her suite, twenty times the size of her apartment is washed in royal blue. The tiled and frescoed walls are a lush background to a staged, hand-carved canopy bed that is surrounded by a sitting room large enough to accommodate twenty or so guests. A swimming pool sized bath, being drawn for her at the opposite end of the chamber, is a reminder that while Europeans wallowed in filth in the eighth century, the Moors who ruled Spain would go without food before soap. Reluctant to embrace her own Chinese culture, for fear of rediscovering hypocrisy and oppression, she has always been attracted to the reigns and idiosyncrasies of the brutally refined: Moors, Huns, and Romans. All three cultures enlisted tattooing and or disfigurement as a symbol of blessing, strength, or demarcation, a simplified status quo, not only appealing but indescribably genuine to her.
Lavender scents and musky oils from the water, infuse the air like a potion under an almost psychedelic, patterned light cast from enormous, brass pendant lamps hanging from the tiled ceiling.
“You bathe please,” her attendant Zoya, coaxes in an unrecognizable accent, while adeptly removing Mai Lee’s tank top and jeans.
“What is the marchioness like?”
“No one meets the marchioness.”
Confident she will meet the marchioness, Mai is certain her “one of a kind” status, is alluring to the world’s elite. The list of conquests both male and female is long, bringing a smile to her lips. Her unique, handsome if not fit, ornate body is the perfect canvas; no one can say no. Allowing herself to be undressed and led into the pool, Mai Lee has gone back in time as the warm water embodies her, the sound commanding the room.
Zoya’s nubile, dark skin is a welcome contrast to her own un-inked iridescence. HHer bright smile, caught in a tangle of deliciously curly black hair is an invitation to intimacy in the steaming, translucent pool. Mai Lee empties her glass of champagne, placing it to the side as Zoya joins her. Entwining in the shoulder high water, they quietly discover each other. Hands slowly tracing the lines of their bodies, Zoya’s large mouth, hungrily devouring Mai Lee’s petite neck. Warm penetrating kisses mix with the aromas of oils that transport Mai to another world.
The palm of Zoya’s left hand finds its way between Mai’s legs. Gently probing, while licking her neck and ear, she coos like a small bird, stirred and breathing hard, as Mai surrenders in a desperate need for release.
Blissfully, pushed backward floating, Mai’s body rises to the top of the water. Zoya pulls Mai to her mouth, gently sucking and licking with a warm, wet tongue, her saucer eyes coercive. The incredible rushing sound of the inescapable water echoes through the chamber while the patterned ceiling above becomes vague through crescent eyes as Mai orgasms.
Ascending to another place the rhythm begins to grow again faster and harder, pushing and pulling. The first sound that escapes Mai’s mouth is drowned by the water, her upper body surging through the current, as she moans with each beat and nip, afraid to stop, but almost afraid to continue. Each time she’s driven forward, waves of water draw dangerously into her mouth. Wrapping her legs tightly around Zoya’s neck forcing the penetration further, she anchors herself, until delivery washes her thoroughly again.
Catching her breath, weightless, Mai feels Zoya pull her around. Leaning over the top of her head now, Mai’s opalescent body is buoyant and floating while Zoya fills her mouth with kisses; a mixture of salty sex and mint, the combination undeniable.
Eyes closed, mollified, floating without a care– Mai is suddenly thrust down by an indomitable pressure of hands. Pushed under water. She fights madly to free herself. Her head held under, a hard prick, pierces her neck. Panicked, straining to hold her breath, blurry shapes like specters through the water restrain her arms and legs.
Struggling in vain, eyes bulging, mortal instincts kick in. Mai fights with the power of a wild animal, freeing her left hand first, then her right leg. Kicking frantically, she grabs an oppressor by the shoulder, and pulls herself up for air. But her limbs go limp involuntarily. Immobilized, she watches the last bit of air release in front of her in a small stream of bubbles.
She is lifted out of the water like a rag doll. Tears sting her eyes, her appendages freighted by some invisible force, Mai is unable to speak or move. Locked in but able to hear and see, confused and panicked, she can only watch as a masked consortium carries her through the monstrous room now filled with people. Her head dangling, each seat is occupied by naked women and men, observing the procession. Their ingurgitating eyes visible only through holes in garish masks is terrifying.
She is delicately draped across the bottom of her canopied bed at the opposite end of the room, the soft mattress beneath her surreal. On display for the entire faction, saliva lumbers down the back of her throat, as a cavernous silence, is met by her involuntary breathing.
Through fluttering eyes, a figure comes into view, his body older, naked, and erect, his face hidden by a golden, Menelaus mask. All heads turn towards him in reverence, his blue, piercing eyes and licentious mouth, visible only through bantam holes. An age-spotted hand reaches out to her, petting her head like a dog, before a slip of saliva enthusiastically drops from the corner of his mask onto her cheek.
Eyes pleading, Mai holds her breath.
He takes each one of her arms gently, and in turn lays them comfortably at her side while another set of hands she cannot see, separates each of her legs then turns her head sideways.
The entire room in view now, she follows the masked man, her eyes wide with fear, tears clouding her vision, as he moves towards a small table barely in her vision. Breathing heavily, she feels his nearness before witnessing the vipers of a gorgon mirrored within the glittering reflection of a blade, its first stroke piercing her soft, wet flesh.