All these thoughts were brushed aside as if by magic when he saw the palace. Gods it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The trees had been cut to create a large bare area in the middle of the island, dotted by tropical plants and trees. Green grass, emerald under the afternoon light, carpeted the area around the palace and rolled up to the walls of the Palace.

::Jesus. This place is.. my god, this place is amazing!:: Genrou stared at the beautiful housing complex that confronted his eyes. The Palace was a complex of houses and small hut-like apartments, all oiled wood and bamboo -- all circling a huge structure that rose up against the rest of the buildings. The impressive thing was that everything was put up on ten foot tall, stilt-like supports that raised the tops of the buildings at level with most of the trees around the complex. But the main room started at ground level, and was maybe three floors tall, with a roof mostly of glass. Even though this Palace was made only of wood, Genrou had the strangest feeling that even a tornado wouldn't be able to blow this place down.

"W-what..?" Genrou stammered.

He had faced opulence before, being heir to several billions of dollars. Yet he had never been faced with anything that screamed of the decadence and comfort and _beauty_ that money could buy. One second of pure acquisitiveness and the heady sense of possession swirled through Genrou's mind. He had fallen in love with the place.

"This is the Palace. The main building is for you, Genrou-sama. The door that leads into it can be opened by your key. The rest of the buildings are servants quarters, the kitchen, housekeeping facilities, spare rooms, even an extensive library. We even have our own de-salination plant, located further off. Plus, we do not have to worry about electricity, since it is provided by solar dishes hidden by the trees. We are self-sufficient, Genrou-sama. We grow enough food -- the gardens are also further off -- and what we cant catch from the sea, we buy from the mainland. But if we so wish, we can have no contact with the outside world, other than what we see on tv of course." Shiira smiled mischievously. "We even get cable for free."

Genrou was startled into a laugh, yet his eyes stayed on the architectural wonder in front of his eyes. "This is all mine?"

"Yes. Your grandfather was a very rich man, and this was one of his pet projects. We have a great deal of information concerning his plans for this place, if you so wish to see, Genrou-sama." Dhocal put in.

"Yes... Yes I think I do want to see." Genrou stared thoughtfully at his new home for the moment.

***

"If you wish, you may stay at the main room that your grandfather occupied when he visited, rather than going to the main room." Shiira announced as they pulled up to the stairway that led up to the main building.

"What do you mean?" Genrou shot a glance at Shiira's bland expression.

"He would visit sometimes, only to go to his room. He didn't visit the main building often. I think that for as long as we have been the new guides," Dhocal paused while he thought," How long has it been, Shiira? Three years? Well, Masao-sama visited Tarragon less than a dozen times. "

"Yes, and the Purple Key was developed and sold only four years ago, bought by your grandfather once it was available. We replaced the previous guides because they decided to live in the outside world as a married couple, and as part of normal society. We were chosen by Masao-sama." Shiira continued the tale.

"Tarragon, your slave," Shiira gave Genrou an obliquely penetrating look, then proceeded, "Your slave has been here for four years, yet has only been visited by the Master a few times. It is highly unlikely that Tarragon even remembers Masao-sama, for the last time he visited was for one night, eight months ago."

"Hmn." Genrou frowned, deep in thought. ::Well? Should I put off this confrontation? Or should I go and beard the lioness in her den? What was her name? Tarragon?:: "No. I'll go in. How will I contact you if I need anything?"

"There are buzzers and speaker systems on the wall next to the door, in the bathrooms; and in emergencies, your key can be activated to set off an alarm. Just pull off the amethyst from the setting, and that will alert us." Shiira gestured towards the key that Genrou was still holding in his hand.

"Shall we bring your luggage in for you?" Dhocal bent down to pick up what was Genrou's luggage: small duffel bag and a small, battered suitcase.

"Its all right. I'll take care of it." Picking both up with one hand, Genrou walked to the door and fitted the key into the lock. He was aware of the suddenly increased beating of his heart, and the dampness on his palms. With a soft click, the door opened, and Genrou stepped into the green darkness of the room.

Shiira and Dhocal watched Genrou disappear into the room and observed quietly as the door shut silently. Dhocal sighed and whispered, "Do you think he will stay? It has been a long time since the Purple Key has been held by a good master."

Shiira turned and took Dhocal's hand in his. "We can only wait and see. Masao-sama was not a bad master, Dhocal. But... I believe that Genrou-sama loves this place already, more so than Masao-sama ever did."

The twins turned and waited for the second limo to come.

***

Tarragon smiled in devilish anticipation; the new master would be here in just a few more moments and Tarragon was ready to greet this new owner. He lay sprawled on the fur covered bed, his right hand fiddling with a long lock of blond hair shot with red. He stared up at the ceiling of the tree-house -- really just two rooms, the huge bedroom with the fur-bed, a long table, and numerous cushions. The other room was the bathroom with a large sunken wooden tub that dominated the area, a shower and a toilet discreetly hidden by a sliding wood door. He turned on his side and smiled a catlike smile of sly knowledge. He was looking forward to meeting this master.

With fluid grace and feline ease, Tarragon stood and walked towards the sliding door that led to the bathroom. It was time to prepare.

***

Tarragon sat up high above, perched on a branch of one of the artificial trees that fashioned his tropical jungle room. He was hidden by lush foliage that, though imitation, smelled and felt real enough to him. He looked down, and watched the Master drop his bags in surprise at the jungle that faced him. Tarragon understood perfectly what the Master was feeling -- he had felt the exact same stupefied amazement when faced with a tropical wood encased within a room. It was a perfect imitation, dark, green, and living. The smell of wet earth, the sly sounds of animals hidden in the undergrowth, the taste of humid, living air, the scent of exotic flowering plants. It was hard to remember sometimes, when sitting up in the tree-house, that Tarragon was within a room rather than a true jungle.

He looked down on Master, and was pleasantly surprised at the fact that this one was young. Young, and.. and beautiful. Tarragon had seen plenty of beautiful people -- men and women -- during his four years of training before coming to the Purple Room, yet somehow, none of them could touch this one. Tarragon leaned forward to get a better view, and almost fell out of his tree when Master stared straight at him. He calmed his heart, :: Stupid! He's not looking at _me_. That's impossible.:: But his heart persisted in trying to beat its' way out of his chest when Tarragon met those eyes. Eyes so black that night was day in comparison. He drank in the Master's triangular face, high cheekbones that cast shadows that only emphasized the delicate features. Full lips, so red they looked bitten, :: ...or well kissed...:: And his hair! :: I've never seen a color like that before, like the purple of a night sky.:: His eyes ran over a lean figure, broad shouldered and slim hipped, encased in black silk trousers and tunic that should have looked feminine, yet only emphasized Master's sheer maleness. He was absolutely beautiful. Tarragon's right hand crept up to play with a lock of hair, twisting it between his fingers. He let out a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding when Master looked away to stare at the path leading towards the tree-house. He leaned forward again to watch Master pick up his bags and walk away.

Tarragon looked down at himself, a sudden stab of doubt piercing his soul. This one looked so different... Maybe he didn't need to do anything. NO. He had to test this one. Look what happened with the one before this. The old bastard. No. He had to do this, no matter what.

Reaching down on his chest, he rearranged the thick layer of mud and bits of dirt that he had smeared on his body. His hair was a filthy mess of more mud, twigs and old leaves. He was a walking, talking pile of dirt, and Tarragon took a perverse pride at the great job he had made in concealing himself under this filth. ::Gods,:: he thought wryly, ::I wouldn't touch _me_ with a ten foot pole...::

With an easy heave of his body, Tarragon swung down from his branch to land on a lower one, then dropped as swiftly as an agile little monkey from the tree. Reaching the ground, he loped away towards the center of the room, keeping behind bushes, running as silently as the wind.

***

Tarragon watched the Master from a concealed position, up in another tree, looking right into the large window of the tree-house. He watched Master drop the bags with a sigh, then look around with fascination. His position on the tree branch gave Tarragon a perfect view of the Master as he began to unbutton, with those slender, yet strong looking fingers, his black tunic. Tarragon's heart, which had somewhat calmed down, began a fierce pounding that Tarragon was sure the Master could hear. He put up a hand to press against the ache in his chest when Master finally peeled off the silky stuff and drop it on the floor.

Tarragon drew in a breath of pure amazement. He stared avidly at the broad shoulders lean hips, defined muscles that shifted under skin so pale as to be white -- so white Tarragon could clearly see the blue veins underneath the thin skin. Master looked like someone who had never been exposed to the sun, yet he wasn't sickly pale. Rather, he was that opalescent-paleness of white marble. Tarragon had never seen anything like him before. Not even when he had been in the outside world.

With a wince, he felt the drying mud on his skin, the hardening coat of dirt that was an offensive contrast to the smooth beauty of Masters body. He almost regretted his plan... Yet... No. Dammit, just because Master was beautiful; that meant nothing. Masters beauty did not mean that he would be a better owner than the one before. He must act out his plan. Tarragon was sure that his own happiness depended on it. A sudden crafty grin spilt his mud-smeared face. This has such great possibilities for fun. Itchy and dirty, yes. Fun? Definitely.

***

Genrou froze, his hands on his the waistband of his pants. He had been almost sure he had heard a sigh.. .but now, the only sounds he heard were the jungle noises of birds and catcalls and the odd rustling of trees. -- ::Heh. All prerecorded I bet.:: -- Yet that knowledge did nothing to alleviate his first impression of awe at the wonderful indoor jungle, and did even less to assure him that he was alone. Tarragon. She wasn't here; at least, Genrou didn't see anyone around. God only knows where she's hiding.

Genrou, though almost positive he was alone, decided to leave his pants on -- ::I KNEW I should have worn some underwear...:: -- for the moment. After all, he wasn't an exhibitionist. Besides, what was there to exhibit anyway? He looked down on himself ::Pasty white skin, skinny. Yech. I'm whiter than the underbelly of a dead fish. And just as attractive.::

With a sigh, he pushed the tunic aside with his foot and dropped down on the bed. His hands clutched hands-full of the silky fur and couldn't resist the temptation to lie down and just rub against the softest pelts imaginable. He rolled to his side and faced the window, looking out at the artificial trees that looked real enough to the casual eye. ::What a pile of money Grandfather must have spent on this place. All to keep his personal sex slave. What a sick old monster! I didn't think he would be the one to play the Tarzan and Jane bit. Poor Tarragon. I bet she wasn't a willing Jane... And Grandfather was definitely no Tarzan.::

The warmth of the jungle-room and the soothing heat from the skylight -- ::huh. there're sun-lamps up there too...:: -- and the small breeze that ruffled through the tree-house, plus the soothing scents of wet earth and live plants all combined to lull Genrou into that twilight state of not-asleep, not-awake. The cool fur underneath him was a sensuous contrast to the warmth that skimmed over his skin.

::I haven't had a decent night's rest in a while... I'll explore later. And find Tarragon too... later...:: was Genrou's last thought before he toppled into deep sleep.

***

Tarragon watched Master sleep, a contrast of dark hair and white skin against the dappled fur of the bed. He watched the long limbs relax from their taut rigidity into a slack bonelessness that reminded him of cats lazing under the sun. He licked his own lips when Master's lips parted to breathe deeply, a slight sheen on those dark red lips. Even asleep, Master was incredible.

Tarragon slipped down from his hiding place, a quiet, mud-dappled shadow that crept into the tree house with practiced silence. He stood over the sleeping figure and extended a hand to touch the curled back that faced him. Master didn't stir. ::Good. He's a heavy sleeper.::

Rearranging his hair so that it stuck up in odd angles and making sure that his thick mud-covering was in place, Tarragon gently slid into bed with Master, and waited for him to wake up.

::I can't wait to see his face when he sees his new slave.:: Tarragon grinned in anticipation.