Read Online Exit to Eden by Anne Rice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Rice
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Erótica, Romance, Contemporary, Sex, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories, Erotic Fiction, New Orleans (La.), Rich people, Photojournalists, Nightclubs
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misinterpret it.
"But you won't use a whip, I mean something that can really damage, inflict bad pain…" I had whispered into the phone after all the arrangements had been discussed, the interview at a San Francisco restaurant, how we should recognize each other.
"No, my dear," Jean Paul said. "No one does that, except in books."
******
Oh, the pure agony of those long ago moments, the secret hopes and dreams…
Jean Paul had looked so European when he stood up from the table at Enrico's. Velvet jacket, narrow lapels. Like a beautiful dark-eyed French actor I remembered from a Visconti film.
"A truly sensuous American woman, what a treasure," he had whispered as I finished the coffee. "But why do we waste time in this place? Come with me."
******
Yes, agony, that was the word for it, being that young, that compelled, that frightened… Some pagan angel had been watching over me in those days, surely.
******
But my mental clock had sounded its silent alarm. Richard was waiting, and now we were the pagan angels. And we had less than half an hour before the new slaves came into the receiving hall.
Elliott
Chapter 5
A Walk on the Wild Side
I guess I figured those terraces facing the sea were the whole club, and once we were inside the garden, we'd be sheltered from adoring eyes by the sprawling branches of the trees. No such luck.
I bowed my head, trying to catch my breath, only half believing what I saw. The garden stretched out endlessly, linen-draped luncheon tables everywhere crowded with elegantly dressed men and women, and waiting on the crowd quite nonchalantly were hundreds of naked slaves with trays of food and wine.
Scores of guests moved back and forth from the buffet tables, under the lacy foliage of California peppers, laughing, talking in small clusters, and of course there was still the throng on the terraces of the main building gazing down as before.
But it wasn't just the size of the gardens, or their crowds that shocked me again.
It was the odd way that the crowd resembled any other, except for the dazzling spectacle of the naked slaves.
There was the flash of gold jewelry on tanned arms and throats, the sun exploding in mirrored glasses, the clink of silver on china—men and women in dark tans and Beverly Hills chic lunching as if it were perfectly normal for a horde of scrumptious nude men and women to be waiting on them—and of course there was the usual gathering of some fifty abject and trembling newcomers with their hearts in their mouths at the gates.
It was as devastating to see backs turned, faces in earnest conversation, as it was to see bold stares and smiles.
But again, everything happened very fast.
The mass of new slaves was huddling together, and a new flock of handlers was closing in. They waited just long enough for us to catch our breath, then we were ordered to run along a garden path.
A strong, red-haired male slave broke into the lead when ordered, and another followed, whipped on by the handlers, who seemed a little more sophisticated than the bunch on the yacht.
They were powerfully built like the blond sailor, but they were decked out all in white leather, including tight pants, vests, and the straps with which they drove us along.
They seemed made to go with the pastel tablecloths, the huge flowered hats worn by the women, the white or khaki shorts and seersucker jackets of the men.
I braced myself for the sight of a woman handler but there was none, though there were plenty of knockout women scattered all through the garden, and everywhere I looked I saw short skirts, exquisitely shaped legs, bright sandal high heels.
The grass, soft as it was, scratched at my feet. And I was dazed by the lush growth on all sides, the fragrant jasmine and roses everywhere, and the birds I glimpsed in gold cages, giant blue and green macaw parrots, pink and white cockatoos. In one enormous gingerbread cage there were dozens of chattering capuchin monkeys. And the final spice
"But you won't use a whip, I mean something that can really damage, inflict bad pain…" I had whispered into the phone after all the arrangements had been discussed, the interview at a San Francisco restaurant, how we should recognize each other.
"No, my dear," Jean Paul said. "No one does that, except in books."
******
Oh, the pure agony of those long ago moments, the secret hopes and dreams…
Jean Paul had looked so European when he stood up from the table at Enrico's. Velvet jacket, narrow lapels. Like a beautiful dark-eyed French actor I remembered from a Visconti film.
"A truly sensuous American woman, what a treasure," he had whispered as I finished the coffee. "But why do we waste time in this place? Come with me."
******
Yes, agony, that was the word for it, being that young, that compelled, that frightened… Some pagan angel had been watching over me in those days, surely.
******
But my mental clock had sounded its silent alarm. Richard was waiting, and now we were the pagan angels. And we had less than half an hour before the new slaves came into the receiving hall.
Elliott
Chapter 5
A Walk on the Wild Side
I guess I figured those terraces facing the sea were the whole club, and once we were inside the garden, we'd be sheltered from adoring eyes by the sprawling branches of the trees. No such luck.
I bowed my head, trying to catch my breath, only half believing what I saw. The garden stretched out endlessly, linen-draped luncheon tables everywhere crowded with elegantly dressed men and women, and waiting on the crowd quite nonchalantly were hundreds of naked slaves with trays of food and wine.
Scores of guests moved back and forth from the buffet tables, under the lacy foliage of California peppers, laughing, talking in small clusters, and of course there was still the throng on the terraces of the main building gazing down as before.
But it wasn't just the size of the gardens, or their crowds that shocked me again.
It was the odd way that the crowd resembled any other, except for the dazzling spectacle of the naked slaves.
There was the flash of gold jewelry on tanned arms and throats, the sun exploding in mirrored glasses, the clink of silver on china—men and women in dark tans and Beverly Hills chic lunching as if it were perfectly normal for a horde of scrumptious nude men and women to be waiting on them—and of course there was the usual gathering of some fifty abject and trembling newcomers with their hearts in their mouths at the gates.
It was as devastating to see backs turned, faces in earnest conversation, as it was to see bold stares and smiles.
But again, everything happened very fast.
The mass of new slaves was huddling together, and a new flock of handlers was closing in. They waited just long enough for us to catch our breath, then we were ordered to run along a garden path.
A strong, red-haired male slave broke into the lead when ordered, and another followed, whipped on by the handlers, who seemed a little more sophisticated than the bunch on the yacht.
They were powerfully built like the blond sailor, but they were decked out all in white leather, including tight pants, vests, and the straps with which they drove us along.
They seemed made to go with the pastel tablecloths, the huge flowered hats worn by the women, the white or khaki shorts and seersucker jackets of the men.
I braced myself for the sight of a woman handler but there was none, though there were plenty of knockout women scattered all through the garden, and everywhere I looked I saw short skirts, exquisitely shaped legs, bright sandal high heels.
The grass, soft as it was, scratched at my feet. And I was dazed by the lush growth on all sides, the fragrant jasmine and roses everywhere, and the birds I glimpsed in gold cages, giant blue and green macaw parrots, pink and white cockatoos. In one enormous gingerbread cage there were dozens of chattering capuchin monkeys. And the final spice
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