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Carefully I untangle my limbs from their arms and legs and slowly slide from their embrace. The recycled fiber carpet is as soft as wool under my bare feet as I cross the room to the large, luxurious bathroom.
The bathrooms are probably my favorite detail about the resort. To the average billionaire, they just look like five-star bathrooms. Thick glass mirrors. A bathtub the size of a Volkswagen with bubbling jets that number in the hundreds. A shower with forty-five strategically placed shower, waterfall, and steam jets.
But I know this is the most innovative part of the structure. The water is desalinated seawater. Every bit of it is recaptured for reuse—no wasted resources. The materials are all either recycled or they have hidden secondary functions such as energy production or sanitization. Even the lights are powered by an unusual solar process, combined with a bit of hydropower captured by the rushing of the wastewater as it flows through the pipes.
But like I said, you can’t tell by looking. I palm the control panel for the lights, automatically bouncing my fingertips to instruct the room to give me fifteen minutes of light at 40 percent, then 70 percent with a shift in temperature to 72 degrees so that I can do my hair and makeup.
My reflection smiles back at me. Even in Miami, I never got so much sun. My skin is tanned—even though I wear SPF 50 without titanium dioxide, of course, every day—and smooth. There are pale triangles over my breasts and a much brighter triangle over my lower torso. I do spend a good deal of time topless on the beach.
My hair seems to be growing really quickly, I notice as I tuck it behind my ears. It’s a little bit past my shoulders now. Saltwater hasn’t damaged it, and it looks thicker than ever before. Of course, we eat really well here. The aquaculture gives us a high-protein, high-plant content diet that is delicious and low-carb. Cal has even suggested farming acres under sea, hundreds of acres just like land-based farmers do. Currently we still import quite a lot of produce, fruit especially. In Cal’s vision, we could eventually be completely self-sufficient.
As soon as the shower jets turn on, the white noise of the water helps me clear my mind. This is my meditation space. I find the physical sensation of the water, the aromatic soaps, and the white noise to be just the right balance of sensory overload that seems to free by mind from its mundane tethers. If I close my eyes, I see swirling, impossible colors. Wireframes of machines and spaces that have never existed. It is a great place to consider my problems holistically, and let my imagination spin out all possible solutions I can come up with.
More than once I have aborted a shower because an idea exploded into my mind, something so sudden and important that I had to get out with my hair soapy and write it down. This resulted in a design for a voice-activated whiteboard on one wall, just like the one we had in the Miami office. Now when I think of something, I can activate the wall and describe my designs, or just take notes for myself that are automatically synced to my many cloud accounts.
Don’t waste anything, that’s my motto.
But I don’t have to worry about wasting water. I can stay in the shower for an hour, confident that I will never run out of hot water, and that every drop that goes down the drain is reclaimed, cleaned, sanitized, and stored for the next time it is needed.
With my eyes closed, I douse myself in luxurious, silky lather. The soap smells of vanilla and sandalwood, with a sharp undertone of lemon. As the sensations overtake me, I almost feel my mind reboot. The imaginary screen of my imagination clears itself, waiting for further instructions.
Almost immediately, I turn to my mental to-do list. The golf course is environmentally challenging. We need to reduce or eliminate water, pesticide, and herbicide solutions. Billionaires expect play a lot of golf, and they also expect golf courses to look and feel a certain way. I can’t just replant all the grass with something that is not grass. We may have to hire someone to bioengineer a new kind of grass seed. Now, who do I know who can tinker with the genetics of grasses?
As I mentally run down a list of horticultural geneticists. I feel a warm, gentle connection that starts at the nape of my neck and travels down my spine. Smiling, I arch my back slightly and luxuriate in this tender, gentle intrusion.
The water jets change their pulse frequency, becoming more of a combination of mist and waterfall. Each jet is individually temperature controlled and as gentle, inquisitive hands stroke my skin, I am maneuvered to a position where the alternating temperatures cast a bright rainbow across my mind’s eye.
Through slitted eyes, I can see the subtle shadows of my two lovers moving around me. Silently they work in tandem, one raising my arms over my head, the other spreading my thighs. They play me like a musical instrument, each taking his time to strum me to a high frequency, preparing me for their solos.
Irving guides my hands to the bar overhead, curling my fingers over its length for support. He mouths my shoulders, cupping my breasts from behind. Velvety courses of water trickle between us through the narrow crevices. I already feel his hardness pressing against the small of my back.
In front of me, Cal falls to his knees between my legs. The water washes away any signs of soap and he nuzzles my thighs apart, beginning the gentle, insistent intrusion of his tongue against my sex. When he places my legs over his shoulders, I balance carefully to position myself against his generous, curious mouth. Irving supports the rest of my weight from behind, reassuring me that I am secure in his embrace by giving me a quick squeeze around my rib cage.
I can be selfish for a moment. The combination of sensations transports me mentally to a place without words. Here I feel emotions and colors simultaneously. Cal’s tongue on my clit is magically transformed into peace, colored peach by longing. Anticipation of all the tumbling emotions that will come next. Irving’s cock against my asshole is transformed to a crimson-hued urgency that sounds like hunger. I need him inside me. A great, yawning desire expands in my mind. I’ll do anything to have him. They are all I can think about.
Cal’s fingers digging against my thighs as he sucks vigorously at my clit. Irving begins his slow, steady entrance from behind. He knows that I love the fat girth that fills me so well. This is how I feel whole. When I am stuffed with my men, I feel complete.
Pumping steadily, Irving holds me suspended but stabilizes me so that Cal can continue sucking my clit at the same time. Balanced between them, I have to maintain a Zen-like focus on being relaxed.
Trust. I have to trust them.
As the speed increases, I know which part of the symphony we are reaching. This is the screaming aria. This is the exultant crescendo. This is the part where I am shattered and immediately reassembled over and over again.
This is love.
Spasms rack my body as I come over and over again, cradled in their arms, helpless to do anything but climax until the sensation is wrung my body. When it finally subsides, they wrap me in their arms, holding me between them like a loving secret until consciousness slowly returns.
Cal tips my face toward his, kissing me under the warm, rushing water. Before the water can wash it all away, I taste the salty remains of my cum on his tender lips.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Irving murmurs into my ear.
Smiling, I allow them to bathe me, to soap themselves, and finish the process of the shower. I am still somewhat mute and stunned with bliss, so Irving washes my hair, his fingers gently massaging my scalp. Cal ensures that my heels are scrubbed gently with the pumice stone, the way that I like.
When we are done, Irving collects the silk, bamboo towel and holds it out for me to step into. He wraps it around me and slowly brushes the dampness from my skin.
“Oh, you really do spoil me,” I sigh.
“You spoil me right back,” he smiles.
