The Haunted Sultan (Skeleton Key) by Gillian Zane, Skeleton Key Page A

arm with gentlemen.
    It was a different time. She was in the past. How could that be?
    She looked around the room; it was massive, meant for entertaining. Low sofas were scattered along the walls, and thick carpets were strewn over the wood floors, double stacked in some places. Large overstuffed pillows were everywhere, patterned in ornate, thick materials in deep burgundy and navy blue. They were stacked in welcoming piles throughout the room for sitting or lying. Low tables, equipped with incense burners and hookahs were also placed strategically throughout the room, discarded drinks and ashtrays covered them in haphazard patterns. The smell of hashish clung heavy in the air, the pungent smell and tantalizing elixirs a salve to ease Sierra’s disturbed mind.
    This was the past. This was the time of the Sultan. Today, in her world, the place couldn’t look like this. It was run down and a hot mess of an apartment complex. This was decadence to the extreme. This reflected the house’s name; this was a Sultan’s palace.
    A woman, wearing only a flowing skirt, her nipples erect and dusted with gold, greeted them. She spoke in a warm language that Sierra couldn’t understand. The woman smiled mischievously and beckoned them into the room. She pulled on Sierra and Owen’s hands, enticing them to join the festivities, to go further into the illusion.
    The man, the same man Sierra had spotted on the balcony, lay back on a mound of pillows. He was smoking from a long tube connected to a hookah and watched as a nude man danced in front of him.
    “ Bonjour ,” he said in thickly accented French, the music coming to a stop the moment he spoke. When both Owen and Sierra didn’t respond the man spoke again, “ Francais ? Anglais ?”
    “English,” Owen spoke up.
    “Ah, the English of the Americans. I speak well English. Welcome guests. I have not had pleasurable guests in a very long time. Come, please, sit.” He gestured to the pillows around him and Owen sat down, pulling Sierra down with him.
    “My home is your home and my home is pleasure,” the Sultan said and smiled. The music began again and with it the nude man resumed his dance. He was a beautiful specimen of a man. He was of African descent, his skin gleamed like obsidian, his muscles were toned to perfection, but they were for fashion. His perfect skin and soft features spoke of a life of leisure and not of labor. As a testament to that, jewels glittered on his wrists and ankles and there was even a gold ring around his cock. The large organ, adorned with gold, jutted out, hard and erect from a nest of thick dark hair.
    “ Du vin ,” the female who had greeted them at the door said and handed them chalices of fragrant smelling wine. Sierra took a big gulp and reveled in the unique flavor. She had never sampled wine like this. The taste was rich and spicy, delicious and overpowering. She breathed in the incense burning around her and sipped the wine, feeling pleasure infuse every pore of her being. This was amazing. Surreal and intense.
    She was in a different time, a different place. She should be nervous, worried, and scared, but she had never felt so at ease. Her limbs felt heavy, and her body tingled in awareness. Owen’s fingertips trailed along her shoulder and she focused in on that touch, on the feel of his fingertips, rough, yet soft. Her consciousness narrowed to only where her skin met his skin. She was so aware of him, her breath hitched when his fingers trailed lower. Everywhere he touched burned, it ignited a path down her spine and directly to her core.
    Movement brought her attention back to the man that danced. She watched as he moved suggestively, femininely, his hips thrusting forward and moving in a circle. His eyes never left the Sultan’s. It was a dance for him.
    The topless woman joined the dance, her body wrapping around the man like a snake. She slid down his body, her hands on his chest, moving her body in a wave of motion, even