"Mary, pleased to meet you," she said with an extended hand toward Megan and me. I was pretty certain these two were the richest couple I'd talked to - maybe ever.
Megan and I shook her hand and introduced ourselves, then Malcom said, "Is this your first time on Barbados?" We nodded. "Isn't it the best? Mary and I make a point of spending at least a month here each year. We rent the Villa up at Sandy Lane."
"Sandy Lane?!"
I choked, and was immediately a bit embarrassed at my shock. Sandy Lane was the nicest hotel on the island where rooms cost anywhere between one and ten thousand dollars per night. The Villa, as he mentioned, was the most expensive unit. Somehow I remembered this from when Megan and I had researched where we wanted to stay - we'd laughed at the absurdity of staying at Sandy Lane.
"Oh it's just wonderful. You've got to stay there next year if you come back," Mary said.
Megan and I exchanged wide eyes. Had these people ever heard of a monthly budget? Would the concept even compute for them?
We chatted with them over another round of rum punches, after which Megan and I were officially
done drinking
for the rest of the fete. Throughout it, I came around about Malcolm and Mary. They were actually very fun and pleasant, despite having no idea how rich they sounded. They also found us "positively delightful", as Mary put it while reacting to one Megan's funnier work stories.
"Listen, we're hosting a party at our villa this evening. You two should come!" Malcolm said to us about an hour later as he started to shift around like he was getting ready to leave.
Megan and I froze - we hadn't expected to be out tonight.
"Please consider - we throw this party every year and it's always a
time!"
Malcolm said.
"That's so kind of you," Megan said. "What is this party like? What would we wear?"
"It's actually quite casual, so if you come, bring your appetite and something you can get wet. The pool is quite the amenity!" Malcolm answered.
I grinned to myself again at
just how rich they sounded.
"If you do choose to come, and it would honor us if you did, tell the gate that you're here on personal invitation to the Villa from the Winstons. They're under instruction not to trouble anyone. You're welcome to arrive any time after sundown," Malcolm continued explaining.
"Okay, thank you! That sounds fun - we'll think about it," I said.
Malcolm and Mary raised their cups to us, then made their way off the beach toward a waiting Mercedes Benz.
Of course
they had a dedicated driver and weren't riding in normal taxis.
"Well, what do you think?" I asked Megan.
"Unless their plan is to murder us, it sounds fun," she answered.
I laughed and nodded. "That's my feeling, too. Want to go?"
"Sure!" she said.
It was only 3pm, so we ate some food from the extravagant spread and chatted with other folks at the fete. By 5pm, the sun was beginning to set and we decided to head back to our place. We felt a bit more sober by the time we got back, which was good because our invitation started in only an hour.
We ended up needing more time than that, as Megan wanted to shower and freshen up before going to Sandy Lane. I couldn't argue after sweating on the beach all day, so I joined her for a shower where we, for once, weren't completely all over each other. Between orgasming about twice a day and feeling tired after five hours in the sun, we were both in the mood for a utilitarian shower.
"I could fall asleep if we weren't going somewhere," I said through a yawn while getting dressed.
"Then it's good we're going somewhere!" Megan replied, also trying to convince herself to rally. "This is way too early to crash!"
We were finally ready to call a taxi to Sandy Lane around 7pm. Megan had opted for her white crochet cover-up again, but this time chose her nicest white bikini to go underneath. The top was halter style, but other than the two white triangles of cotton that covered her breasts, all the connecting straps were crafted from shimmering gold chains. The bottom piece was similar, with two triangles of fabric - one for the front and one for the back - connected by two thin gold chains that rounded her hips. She looked so beautiful and so elegant in this bikini that I couldn't shake the feeling that she looked like the younger woman in a sugar daddy arrangement. My outfit was a lot simpler - I paired my shortest swim shorts, which showed a lot of thigh, with my nicest cream polo Megan had bought for me just for this trip.
We hopped in our taxi by 7:15 and arrived at Sandy Lane by 7:40. "For the Winstons in the Villa," our driver said to the gate. The man's gaze flipped back to Megan and I in the back seat. I thought he sighed and relaxed his shoulders a bit before pressing the button to open the automatic gate. We drove in, and our jaws dropped.
The grounds out front of Sandy Lane reminded me of the gardens behind the Palace of Versailles, but reimagined for tropical vegetation. Enormous oak trees, easily a hundred years old each, dotted the lawn. Their canopies were so large and thick as to create the sensation of having driven into a living cave. Grassy knolls rolled downward toward the entrance, carved up by the main driveway loop and smaller golf cart paths of immaculate cobblestone. The palm trees and tropical undergrowth were too thick to get a good view of the main building until we pulled right up to it, but once we did, we gasped. The floor inside and outside of the building was all shining black and white tile, whereas the walls and ceiling were pink sandstone that felt plucked straight out of a north Italian vineyard. The color scheme was all pinks and reds with gold accents, which I immediately appreciated to be the richest possible beach color palette.
A valet approached our taxi and opened the door, allowing Megan and I to step out. He scanned us vigorously, looking for anything he could take off our hands, but we were traveling light.
Our breath got caught in our throats at the view of the beach, visible straight through the Sandy Lane arching entrance and lobby. A marble walkway dipped into a luxurious restaurant that spanned several hundred square feet of stone patio, lined by an ornate balustrade, before continuing down to the beach and its row of perfectly aligned white and pink umbrellas. The sand was pristine, the staff not allowing even a single stray leaf to tarnish its image. Everyone we saw who worked at the place looked like the butler from Fresh Prince of Bel Air and they moved as if the slightest misstep would immediately cost them their job.
"Do you think I'm dressed appropriately for this?" Megan whispered to me, suddenly nervous about her choices and generally uncomfortable by how
nice
everything was.
"They said people will be using the pool, so I think you're good!" I whispered back to her.
"You did say the Villa, yes?" asked the valet. We nodded. "Good, come right this way."
He led us on a winding tour through what felt like an ancient Roman emperor's private estate. The mood was set by small stone pools cycling their own water through statues of flying babies playing harps or private gardens with hundreds of flowers in full bloom. It was clear, not a single square inch was ever allowed to dip down to the embarrassing depths of mere 99% luxury.
We turned into a hallway which led to the Villa, and somehow I still had the capacity to be impressed. The tile and the pink sandstone were constantly ornate, with intricate designs underfoot and detailed carvings whittled into the walls at regular intervals. Mirrors and candelabras and Renaissance paintings enclosed us. It was all hard to take in.
Abruptly, we stopped, and the valet swooped his arm at a large cherry wood door, hand flat and palm facing up. "The Villa," he said with a small flourish, and pressed the ringer.
"Welp, this is our last chance," I whispered to Megan.
But our last chance had already passed, as the door opened and Malcolm's face lit up at the sight of us. "You accepted our offer - delightful!" he said, stepping back to admit us. Megan and I walked in, and - you guessed it - gasped. Our eyes and senses were overwhelmed by a barrage of intense inputs.
Immediately, I knew we'd misread the situation. Megan's dress was not too sexy at all. If anything, it wasn't sexy enough. Across the room, I counted four tall, early-twenties French models wearing completely translucent, diamond-studded dresses and nothing underneath, their glorious - if a little thin for my tastes - bodies on full display. Megan and I had seen Moulin Rouge when we visited Paris last year and these girls all looked plucked from that lineup. They were about the same height, maybe 5'7" (1.7m), had the same shoulder-length, pin-straight blond hair, the same tight bodies without a blemish or imperfection, the same mid-sized breasts and small but well-toned butts. Their bodies were immaculately shaved, leaving not a single hair on their arms, legs, and of course their inviting lady mounds. Their eyes and smiles all lit up when they talked and laughed, making each one of them exquisitely beautiful.
