Read Online Seven Days in Rio by Francis Levy - Free Book Online Page B

metaphorically, but over the years, as she moved into regular, four-day-a-week analysis, the work concentrated more on her idealization of the French intellectuals. She didn’t turn tricks for the money, since her father was a wealthy industrialist, but more as a constant reminder that she was part of a barter economy in which sex was a commodity like anything else. Besides, she enjoyed taking her clothes off in front of strange men.
    As she continued to unspool her life’s story, Tiffany’s left nipple nestled into the center of her margarita and floated there like an olive in a martini. She was getting very emotional and I realized that it might become increasingly difficult to segue into a sex act. I couldn’t imagine interrupting her tale to ask if she could take my penis in her mouth. How would she ever be able to get to the denouement?
    My heart skipped a beat, however, and my fears were assuaged when Tiffany interrupted her own account by getting up from the table, standing in front of me with her big hairy pussy in my face, and announcing, “I have to pee. Why don’t we go back to my father’s place? He has a huge mansion in a small town on the coast just outside Rio.” I was about to admit to her that I hadn’t bothered to rent a car since the hotel provided free shuttle service when she announced, “We can zoom up there in my Alfa.”
    I noticed that she still hadn’t put any clothes on as the valet pulled her car up to the door of the club. I did think it was odd, but I rationalized that perhaps in Rio it was common for the beautiful daughters of wealthy industrialists to drive their fancy sports cars in the nude. As we drove through downtown Rio with the top down and the windows open, I remarked that none of the other drivers even blinked at the sight of a nude Tiffany passing them in traffic. This would never go over on the Long Island Expressway, where she would certainly have caused one of the greatest pileups in transportation history.
    I was beginning to notice that she remained curiously incurious about me. She just stared at the road with her dark, brooding eyes as she talked. It was apparent that she was a true narcissist whose seeming attention-giving was only a subterfuge by which she could call attention to herself.
    As we swung out onto the majestic coastal road leading out of Rio, past the sparkling beaches crowded with Tiffanys plying their trade late into the night, Tiffany’s nipples hardened as she continued to tell me her saga.
    Her father had wanted her older brother to take over the family empire, which included considerable real estate holdings. But the brother wanted to be a poet and had moved to Paris, where he tried his hand at writing while living off the earnings of his wife, a very successful prostitute in the Pigalle. They had two daughters who would undoubtedly follow in their mother’s footsteps. She told me that most of her brother’s poems were about his hatred for their father and that, with the French economy being in the state it was, it was likely that his teenage daughters would do much better selling their bodies than trying to sell the kind of poetry their father was churning out. The bitter irony was that both girls were artistically inclined and dreamt of being famous writers who could one day produce the same kind of hate-filled screeds as their dad.
    As we drove along, with the moonlight shining over the cresting waves of the Atlantic, I began to panic. I was on my way to the auspicious residence of a major Brazilian industrialist, and though I was wearing a Brooks Brothers seersucker jacket, bowtie, and preppy white dress shirt, I still didn’t have any pants. Even though Tiffany was totally nude, I didn’t know the mores of the society I was entering. Perhaps before she walked into her childhood home, Tiffany would pull a shift out of the trunk, maybe a servant would come running out to her with a bathing suit and robe so she could jump into a