Chapter 2 - Chapter One: Washed Up.

Warm sandy beaches, tropical breezes, skies without a whiff of smog or civilization; that's supposed to be paradise. When it's your own idea, sure. When you're a kilometer from a bungalow with running water, and satellite internet, definitely.

 Not after you've just spend half a day in layover, because the airline triple booked your flight. Not after the crew of your private jet 'compensation flight' disappears; in the middle of the night, in the air. Not after you barely manage a landing after spending the night in the cockpit, hoping to hell you weren't about to crash into a mountain. Not after splash landing in the middle of the ocean, when you were supposed to be flying from Philadelphia to LA!
 Not for Sol. The man who at the edge of a sand bank as the waves pulled that private jet down, and out to sea, away from the island on the other side of the atoll boundry. Sol knew enough about ocean science to know that the island was that, an atoll. Once volcanic, now in regression. The inflatable life raft had food, water, and plenty of duty-free booze, so as he pushed off and made for the island he resolved to live as long as possible. He did, after all have the plane's transponder, right in his lap.

It should be a nice little vacation. Hell, he might even get some publicity out of it. Publish a survivor memoir, then ride that to push his real work. Sure. I bet that'll work out for him just great. Won't it, folks? The island, itself, was the picture of deserted oasis. The sand was soft under his feet and only gave enough to support his weight. He pulled the raft and supplies up to the grass and took a deep breath, and coughed. It smelled of low tide.
“Oi...” He shook his head. Well, he'd get used to it, probably. In the shade, for most of the morning, he worked to built a sort of 'nest' out of the raft and some of his supplies. It turned out quite nice: Off the ground, and away from the rocks and the creepy-crawlies, covered by a bound up roof of thick leaves, and the survival tarp. It wasn't quite home but it was a start. After such a long night, he decided to sleep through the hot hours of the day. Island wasn't going anywhere. He figured. In his head. Because talking to yourself out loud is a level of lonely he hasn't reached... just yet. But as the daylight ebbs and Sol awakes to the afternoon heat, he rolls off the raft, and spends the last few hours of daylight to gather supplies for a campfire. 

The first night is cool. Not far from the water, the ocean waves lap away. He steps away from the fire while one of the ready meals warms near it. He's always liked the stars, being named after the Sun helps a bit. That's when he started to realize: he wasn't where he thought he was. He knew he didn't know where on Earth he was, but he did, at least think he was on Earth. But Earth doesn't have a night sky like the one he saw. Earth doesn't have moons (plural) like the ones he saw.

“Oh.” He laughed, “Shit.” He fell on his ass and looked at his hands. “I'm dead.” Fatalist, also wrong. Still, can you blame him? After that last 'island' show, it's hard to blame him for guessing that. But let's move on to the next day, hm? Morning, Sol ate because he felt hungry. He wasn't sure if he felt hungry because he thought he should feel hungry; or if he wasn't dead and still needed to eat. It was bothering him, the inconsistency. He came to a conclusion, if he was dead, there was no reason for his 'purgatory' to be so lonely or so boring. Somebody ought to be there to at least keep him company, otherwise it was just Hell. Ugh, that's a thought that turned his gut.
Luckily he shook it off, and decided to explore the island. Dead or not, Hell or not, no sense sitting doing nothing. (Seriously, two pages and no one's even naked yet?) His journey through the bush was an exercise in frustration as the foliage had grown together like walls as he walked over a stretch of ground that ran parallel to the coast. He tugged at branches and only got blisters for his troubles. “Fucking Hell.” He swore and kicked a rock. It flew into a bush and there was a squawk.

A white plumped bird fluttered up from the bush into the branches. Sol marveled at what he saw. A chicken. A totally normal looking chicken. Yeah it was up in a tree, but wild chickens fly, right? Right. Rather than try and hunt the rather perplexed poultry; Sol was content to simply stare at it, much like a cat stares at a mouse it has no intent on eating. It knows it's not going to eat the mouse, but the mouse certainly doesn't know that. Sol leaned forward, and the chicken ruffled its feathers.
 He smiled and slowly turned his body, with his head locked on the bird, and he walked a slow circle around the bird, feeling his way with his feet to avoid trips and falls. The bird shuffled in its perch, doing its best to face Sol, and not take its beady eyes off him. It amused him, but it also got him thinking; if the bird was around here, there might be water. Before sundown, he found that water, a running stream that trickled down rocks from a higher source. He gathered what water would fit in the empty bottle he carried, after drinking his own fill. He considered what parts of his salvage might store more water as he noticed the rocks seemed to lead through the other wise unbroken wall of
foliage and grass. That's when it occurred to him that the greenery might have been growing out of an actual, natural wall of stone. Rather a very short cliff. And here was a way up with a built in water spout: neat.
He climbed up the six feet of worn, though slippery, rock carefully and pulled himself up over the edge. His worn and weary clothes wet by the water and while his sweat washed away, he felt refreshed. Atop the short cliff Sol saw thinner trees, going forward, and was content to journey deeper into the island. If he kept going he might make it to the center by noon. He got their quicker, owing to the path. It was no animal trail. Worn wide and with stones lining it. The grass on either side was long, yet nothing grew between the flat stones that fit together to make a path leading up to the island's volcanic mountain. Sol was ecstatic, a path meant people, and if it was clean they might still be there, or only recently gone.
They could come back! Maybe in a few months or weeks, but certainly if this place was important enough that you'd lay down stone work it was something you'd come back to, sooner or later; He ran up the path, not taking notice of the shallow carvings in the stones that lined the path. Not seeing the totems bound up in the tall grass and bushes, covered but no less watchful. 

The totems, to the credit of their crafter, saw no threat in Sol. One male, human; healthy but untrained, armed with little better than a utility knife. Even if the Mistress had been present on the island, they would have only sent a notice her way. And another, perhaps, to the kitchen. 

Sol rounded a bend and nearly fell to his knees laughing. A villa: that was the best way to describe it. The circular buildings that made up a lavish tropical manse that looked as expensive as it was private. Sol looked around for signs of people. Again there were signs of people recently being there. Stonework was only a little dusty, there were basins clearly meant for fires that had been scrubbed clean. It's like someone had finished their vacation, or their time share, cleaned up, and left. A day ago? A few hours ago? Sol considered seeing where the other half of the path brought him, maybe to a dock, or an airstrip!
 But at the moment, he wanted to see if there was at least a phone or something he could use to call home. Then the image of last night hit him in the brain pan. Two moons... Wherever he was, whenever he was; would he be in range of service for his family's cell plan? Not fucking likely. Shit. He walked up to the villa's front gate and knocked on the door. No response. “Hello~” He called out, his voice a little dry from nerves. He drank from his water bottle and knocked again, more insistent. “Okay... Okay.” He looked back and forth, around the door for some kind of bell. “Permission or Forgiveness...” He wondered aloud. “Fuck it”
He reached for a door knob, but only found a flat key hole. He groaned as fell against the door. “Please...” He pleaded, to the door perhaps, “Just let me in...” He drew his hands down the length of the door, looking for some seam or maybe a way to rattle the door open without damaging it. The the wood rippled. Yes. The wood: Rippled. Like water or the curtains in a whore house, the wood shifted and a body the same dusky brown as a woman came forth. He breasts came first, blooming out on either side of Sol's face and pushing him back from the force behind them. Her knees poked into his stomach as she knelt, as on a ledge, out of the door itself. 
“Wow,” was all Sol managed to get out, as the beautiful leaned out of the door. At least it wasn't 'whoa'. Bands of metal like the hinges of the door held and leashed her body to the door as she leaned low, steel 'in' the door below her knees. She loomed in front of him. Surely if she stood on her own feet, she'd be as tall as the doors. 

“Must you knock so hard?” Her voice was stern, curious, tired, and playful all at the same time. “Things have only just quieted down inside,” She rolled a shoulder to indicate the house, and her breasts shook inches from Sol's face. “I was hoping to get some rest but, oh. Did they leave you behind? Little guest?” Sol opened his mouth to speak, but the door-woman cocked her head.“Wait, I don't know you.” Sol's mouth snapped shut. “I know all the guests, and servants, and... well I know everyone the Mistress brings to the island...” She looked him up and down. “Did you wash up here?” Sol nods, trying to focus on her facial features. The strong lines of her face as as proud as any warrior but polished smooth with the gleam of veneer. “Poor thing.”
She leans low and, before Sol can think it might be a bad idea to let her, she kisses him. Warmth, softness, a wet and welcome guest into his own mouth. Grateful he'd found some floss and tooth paste in the survival kit, and more that'd he'd used it today, as the Door-woman explored his mouth, Sol's hands took hold of her wonderful knockers. They fit perfectly in each hand, and the wide areolas around her stiff, pierced nipples warmed up under his touch. He looped his fingers through the wide rings and gently massaged her breasts and nipples with his fingers and palms. His sweat and her polish worked together to make her artisan curves shine. “That's the proper way to knock,” She cooed into his mouth. “Gently, politely, Now... try my lock.”

She spread her knees wide and her thighs glistened with a honey that streamed from her gilded lips. Sol undid his belt and pants, and hesitated. Here he was, about to fuck what was very likely a genuine magical door-woman woman right out of Lewis Carroll's non-pedobear fantasies, and he was worried he wasn't 'big' enough, Lords help him... Seeing the fear in Sol's face, the Door-woman drew him into another kiss, and from the door, another pair of hands grew and yanked down his pants, letting his cock rise free. She shot a look down and chuckled, “You were worried? With that between your legs?” The hands guided the head to her lips and before Sol could say something clever, his hips spoke for him and thrust up into her. 
On the first stroke, the head of his cock jabbed right into a tight and tender cluster of nerves that sent a rattle and moan through the woman. On the second he reached the entrance of her womb. Thrust after thrust he fucked her, and her moans filled the courtyard. Sol pulled her close and kissed her, he could feel his orgasm building already. The soreness from his experience and the unconditionally passionate woman he was fucking, compounded into a shortness of 'limits' that annoyed him, moreso that he really wanted to cum right that fucking moment.
 “Do it, babe.” Her voice longing. “Whenever you are, I'm already 'there'.” taking her meaning, Sol reached around and pulled her close as he came. Days up saved up seed rocked her womb and the crashing orgasm that swept through her. Behind Sol, the cairns erupted in a white-blue fire. The idle fountains roared to life. All the gems and crystals that lined the grounds shone like starfire. The door-woman howled in bliss at the magic in his seed. Someone had sent her Mistress a mighty guest. Sol went right with her, into the villa.
He landed flat on his back, on a bed of cushions. He blinked. Suddenly alone, half-undressed, and on the slope after orgasm, quite confused. He sat up, seeing a dim, but lavish entry way. It was intimate, and cool. Pillows and couches arranged near tables with empty bowels.
“Hello?” He whispered. A content rumble that was much a purr as a house settling rippled above and behind him. From the cushions beside him, a woman bloomed up, made of silk, velvet, lace, and thread. “You?” Her face was the same as the Door-woman's. “I am the Villa of the Lady Zynira Felhollow, Twelfth Throne Succubus of the Order of Lilith; It is my very great pleasure and honor to offer myself as sanctuary and solace during your time here, young Magus.” She arced her back and kissed him.