Jessie and Jack rifled through their duffles in search of something a little dressier than their birthday suits. Jessie had it relatively easy as sponsors gifted her resort-wear to advertise on Instagram. She found a sarong, a midnight-blue blouse, and her only pair of heels. She tried a bra, but elected on airy comfort, and ditched it. She looked pretty fantastic. Jack only managed a pair of khaki’s, a wrinkled button-up shirt, and Seavee boat shoes.

“Will this do?” Jack asked.

Jessie gave him a less than satisfied look up and down and said, “It will have to do.” But she then laughed and said, “I think Clare only had eyes for your cock, anyway.”

As they walked down the dock, they took a peek at their host’s yacht. It was named “Talkies,” and was larger than their own “Jay Bird” — something close to sixty feet. And where Jay Bird was all white fiberglass, stainless steel, and shiny aluminum, Talkies was all varnished wood and bronze. “That’s a beauty,” Jack said, “It must take an army to maintain it.”

They ascended the steep, winding path that led to the house. They passed through tropical forest that seemed to have overtaken what had once been more cultured grounds. Wild orchids of every color seemed to hang from the trees, and they filled the air with a deep perfume.

“My god, they seem to be blossoming right in front of us,” Jessie exclaimed.

At last, they came to the house. It was a classic Caribbean Victorian, painted white, with a green copper roof. It was beautiful, and quite large. A huge veranda wrapped around the house, affording a good view of the cove they had just come from. True to their word, Winston and Clare were there on the veranda, cocktail glasses in hand.

“Holy shit, will you look at that?” Jack said.

Jessie looked up to see Clare and Winston in full evening attire. He in a white dinner jacket; she in an emerald gown.

“Wow,” Jessie concurred. “We are in a whole other league, here.”

They were greeted at the main entrance by a pretty black woman in a white maid’s outfit. She spoke with an English accent, rather than a Caribbean one, which was a little surprising. She was not particularly friendly as she led them down a long hallway to the salon.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Clare and Winston said in near unison. “It’s swell having you! We have a batch of gin martinis ready for you, if you like,” Winston said. They nodded and glasses suddenly appeared on a silver tray held by a tall, ginger-haired butler. Jessie took her glass and said thank you, but in return, she only got a serious green-eyed stare from the waiter. She was then startled by a flash, as Winston snapped a photo with the oldest Leica camera and strobe she had ever seen. It was a habit that he and Clare would carry on for the rest of the night.

From an awkward start, the evening proved quite enjoyable. Winston and Clare were entertaining hosts. They had rich, if hard to follow, stories about the islands and sailing. They were truly beautiful. Jack could not help but to allow his eyes to trace Clare’s lovely face and body. Her dark green gown had a plunging cowl neckline, and was utterly backless. It was obvious that she was naked, or nearly so, under the clinging silk. Winston was dashing in his dinner jacket, and Jessie found his onyx-blue eyes almost hypnotic.

In conversation, they shared that they were both actors “on a break” from their careers. “We will wait for that awful Hays Code to pass,” Clare said.

“Those prudes,” Winston nodded along. Jessie sent Jack a confused stare, and he shrugged. They seemed very successful, so it was odd that Jessie and Jack did not recognize them.

The lovely maid and butler delivered tasty hor d’oeurves and more drinks, and despite the distinct strangeness of their surroundings, Jessie and Jack began to relax. Maybe it was the gin. Or maybe it was the delightful distraction of their striking and aggressively flirtatious hosts. They liked to drop loaded references to “fun and wild” times they had with the “Hollywood Elite,” “Royalty,” and “millionaires.” Jack and Jesse thought Winston and Clare were mostly making stuff up.

Winston and Clare had ready explanations — or at least deflections — for the oddities that their guests inquired about.

Why do you both speak in that same distinctive accent even though you were raised in different places? “It’s the international accent, darlings. The Studio insists on it.”

How can you maintain this vintage house in such pristine condition? “It’s not as old as you must think.”

Then why have you let the forest overtake the landscaping? “We like our privacy, my loves.”

Dinner was announced and Jack and Jessie were encouraged to “freshen up” before moving to the dining room. There was only one small lavatory on the main floor. Jack deferred to Jessie, and then bounded up the ornate, curved staircase to search for another. As he walked down the long hallway, he found most doors locked. At the end of the hallway he discovered a bathroom, and next to it a small sitting area organized around a bow window.

Jack did a double-take as he glanced outside. He squinted to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The window looked out upon a cove on another side of the island. In it were three sailboats.

What in the hell? Jack asked himself. All the yachts looked in good shape. One had the distinctive stern overhang of a boat from the nineteen-fifties. The second was a broad ketch with a large center pocket, which Jack recognized as Morgan motor-sailor from the seventies. And finally a sleek Jeanneau that was likely newer than his own.

Jack returned downstairs and took a seat at the absurdly large dining table. Rather than the black woman and the ginger butler, dinner was served by a lovely woman with long, sun lightened brown hair, and a man a little younger than Jack. He had the build and manner of a surfer, despite his server outfit and slicked-back hair. They said little, but what they did say was in an American accent.

“So Winston, I noticed some boats in a cove on the north side of the island. Are there others staying here?” Jack asked.

Winston, Clare, and the servants all exchanged quick glances.

After an awkward beat, Winston said, “Oh, no! Those are ours — Clare’s and mine. It’s a terrible habit. When we see an attractive boat available, it is impossible for us not to acquire it!”

“Wow,” Jessie exclaimed before she could edit herself, “That habit, not to mention the house and servants must cost a fortune.” She regretted her rudeness immediately, but Clare seemed ready for the question.

“Our movies were very popular, abroad, my darling. We were very lucky.”

“Especially Clare,” Winston chimed in, with a raised glass to his wife.

As the meal went on, the light turned to dusk. The maid and butler came in to light candles on the table and in the chandelier, and then lit kerosene lamps in the corners of the room.

“So no generator?” Jack asked.

A brief silence was filled by the butler’s voice. “Our masters prefer things the old-fashioned way,” he said with an Irish accent as he gave Clare an arched brow.

When dessert was served, the cooks came out. They were each in chef’s coats, with floppy white caps. “We hope you enjoyed the meal,” said a woman with a French accent. She was very pretty. Like Jessie she was fair, with blue eyes and apparently lots of wavy blonde hair trying to fight its way from under her cap.

“It has been a pleasure to cook for you,” added her co-worker, in an even thicker French accent. He looked like the stereotypical Frenchman: dark, unshaven, with penetrating, deeply-set eyes and an aristocratic nose. He was not handsome, per se, but Jessie still found him attractive in an almost animal-like way.

Why is everyone who works here so young and hot? Jessie asked herself as she shifted on her chair.

The foursome returned to the veranda for ports. Winston lit a cigar. “Keeps the mosquitoes away,” he said with a laugh. They talked until they were all quite tipsy and the sky was dark. Jessie yawned and gave Jack a look.

“Say, Winston, thank you so much for this evening. I don’t suppose you could lend us a flashlight, or some candles, or something? We should be getting back to the boat,” Jack said.

“Nonsense! You’ll stay here! It’s not safe to wander down those dark stairs, especially when you’ve had one-too-many,” Winston countered. He rang a small bell and the servants began to scurry about. “Cynthia, please prepare the guest room.” The young English woman bowed in compliance, but gave Jessie a look of what seemed like concern.

After one last port, Clare and Winston said goodnight, and the tall, strapping Irishman led them up to the third floor, to a large, round room. A long row of double sash windows wrapped the room and were open to the sea air. The kerosene lamps fluttered slightly. A beautiful four-poster bed of carved mahogany, with sheer lace curtains, dominated the room. An ivory nightgown had been left for Jessie, as well as matching pajamas for Jack.

Jessie was nervous, but the thought of a feather bed and soft sheets was, at that drunken moment, very enticing. She stripped off her clothes. She didn’t bother with the nightgown. She pulled back the bed curtain and slipped her naked body under the covers with a sigh. As she lay her head down, it was met with an unpleasant thud. Now what? She wondered. She reached under her pillow and found what felt like a large book. Jack, also naked, was just turning down the last of the lamps.

“Hold on,” Jessie said.

They sat on the bed and opened the book — a photo album. Inside the first page was a note: Leave now. Don’t spend the night.

“Well, that’s creepy as fuck,” Jack said as he exchanged a freaked-out look with Jessie.

The creepiness would only increase as they flipped through the album. There were pictures of Clare and Winston on their yawl. Clare was in a vintage bathing suit — complete with skirt — in most of them. Then there were pictures of them in front of the house, apparently while it was under construction.

“Wait. What? I thought this place was super old,” Jessie said as Jack nodded in agreement.

There were more black and white photos of them in the now finished house, on the beach, and again on the yacht. They were always in vintage costume. “These guys are dedicated to their gag, I’ll give ‘em that,” Jack said, shaking his head.

As they turned the pages, more people began to show up in the black and white images. “Holy shit,” Jessie said, pointing at a shapely blonde stretched out on the deck of the yacht in a black maillot. “Is that…is that the cook?!” Jessie whispered. They turned a few more pages and verified that it surely was, as it was the other Frenchman.

“I guess it makes sense — “ Jack cut himself off. “Um… that’s a surprise.” The next photos were erotic or even pornographic in nature. The French woman was nude and smiling at the camera. She was full-figured and very sexy, like a pinup from the fifties. Then there were shots of her and her man. She giving him head. Then he was performing cunnilingus.

“Well, they are French,” Jessie joked at the same time she felt herself getting turned on.

Later pages revealed the surfer couple. She was in a string bikini and he in a pair of tight corduroy shorts and an Ocean Pacific t-shirt. There was a picture of them diving off a white sailboat. “That’s the Morgan I saw in the other cove. I’m pretty sure,” Jack commented as he turned the page. He then found what he was both horrified and excited to see. The muscular sun-bleached young man was naked, fucking the girl from behind in the cockpit of Winston and Clare’s yawl. Most shocking of all, Winston’s cock was in her mouth.

“And they say you can’t get good help anymore,” Jack giggled. He and Jessie hurried through the pages. Truth was that at this point Jack was very excited for what seemed inevitable. All the women, his wife included, of course, had turned him on that night. He’d at one point fought off an urge to slip a hand into Clare’s revealing gown to cup one of her perfect breasts. She had seemed to want it so badly. But it was the pretty Afro-English woman that had really caught his eye.

And there she was, standing, bent over the bowsprit, clinging to the pulpit, taking dick from her tall, bearded Irish boyfriend. “Oh my god,” he uttered involuntarily as he turned to the next photo. He surged with excitement as he looked upon the image of the black woman in a tight sixty-nine with Clare. And finally, there she was, stretched out on the deck, looking at the camera seductively, with white puddles on her belly and breasts. Winston and the butler were standing over her, their dripping dicks in hand.

“Whoohoo! This is a very kinky crowd,” Jessie said, astonished.

“Kinky — interesting, or kinky — creepy?” Jack asked, half hoping she would say the former.

“I don’t think it’s cool to fuck your staff,” Jessie said. “I mean, it looks like everyone is having a good time. But the vibe with the staff was different tonight. And this note is fucking scary.”

“O.K,” Jack agreed, pulling his clothes back on. “You’re right. We’ll sneak down to Jay Bird when everyone is asleep.”