Exit to Eden (15 page)

But she laughed. She tried to hide it, turning to the side a little, but I'd heard it, one of those soft little laughs.

I saw myself kissing her suddenly, subduing her with kisses, and pulling down the lace and the pearl buttons of her blouse. I couldn't think of her in any other way, except in my arms with me kissing her and opening her mouth. Nice. This is real trouble, sport.

Why didn't she just draw a blank from me? I mean the white-light blot out of terror that came over me at the pavilion and in the receiving hall?

"Are you really
that
afraid of me, Elliott?" she asked. The blood was dancing in my cheeks. But she couldn't see it, it was too dark. "You don't sound like you're afraid enough."

I could see the white lace spilling down over her breasts. I could see the paler skin of her long throat. Her voice was touching some place deep inside of me that was as vulnerable as it was unexplored.

"I'm afraid," I said.

Pause.

"Maybe you should be," she said as if confiding an important secret. "I'm so disgusted you got yourself into this mess, I'll make you sorry you did."

I swallowed, trying not to make a little grimace, keep the ironic smile off my face.

She rose on tiptoe and her hair touched my naked shoulders, her perfume inundating me. I felt her lips against my mouth, high voltage, the lace of her blouse crushed against my bare chest. Double shock, taking the breath out of me, her wet little mouth opening. My cock touched the smooth leather of her skirt. I sucked at her hard, opening her lips wider, pushing my tongue into her, my cock pushing her. She let me go and danced back.

I strained forward on the leather tether as far as I could, and kissed her hard on the neck before she could get away.

"Stop it," she said, jumping back farther.

"I'm your slave," I whispered. I really meant it. But I couldn't resist adding, "Besides, I can't get loose from this damned hook."

For a second she seemed too steamed and too surprised to say anything. She was glaring at me. And she was rubbing the place where I kissed her as if I'd bitten off a little chunk, which I hadn't of course.

"You're fucking incorrigible!" she said furiously, but there was something tentative and uncomprehending in it, and in her face.

"I didn't mean to be," I said very contritely. This was a real mess. "Honest, I didn't. I really didn't. I came here wanting to obey all the rules. I don't want to keep getting into trouble like this."

"Shut up."

Tense moment. Blood pounding in my head, and a couple of other places. I wondered if they had a jail in this place for the really bad guys. Maybe the slave convicts dug ditches on a chain gang. Would I get a fair trial? Would she testify against me? Would Martin send a telegram begging for clemency? Probably not.

She moved in cautiously, like I was some sort of jungle beast. I didn't look at her.

"Now, I am going to kiss you again," she whispered. "And you keep still."

"Yes, Ma'am."

She drew in on my right, careful not to brush against me, and there came the 300-volt shock again, and this time I felt her burning up. I thought I'd come just kissing her, it was so hot. She was leaning against my side. She had her arm around me. And when she suddenly let go I turned my head. Mount Everest all right.

"I'll be waiting for you, Elliott," she said.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said, still unable to look at her, absolutely tortured by the sounds of her footsteps moving away.

I walked towards the administration building like I was being chased.

I was in a low-grade fever. I kept touching my mouth because my lips were tingling as if he'd done something to them, like the hero in a high school romance, kissing me that way. I could still smell him, the salty clean smell of his skin.

Yes, a hundred times more beautiful than his pictures.

But it was his manner that was the killer, his manner that put it all into some sort of perspective. Because when he smiled and when he spoke, the character came out.

Stop it, Lisa.

I mean this is a healthy, red-blooded American male, here to play slave for two years, who just happens to know how to put on the charm for anything female, how to use his eyes and his voice.

I was just too wired right now. Shouldn't have tried to check him out so early, should never have turned off the phone, and should never have kept everybody in the office waiting just to go down there and see him!

I mean sneaking down to kiss him on the mouth as if we were in the back of a Chevrolet, this had to stop, that's certain, couldn't go on for three days. Three days. The voice was like the look in his eye. Really
present
. But that's what we want from all of them, right, that we take over their fantasies and become the fantasy. So what's so terrific that he is really there?

At eleven, The Club was still alive from one end of the island to the other, lights pulsing in a hundred curtained windows, the sky overhead a fathomless dark blue under the lamp of the full moon.

I walked fast past the doors of the darkly carpeted casino, not wanting to be seen or spoken to, only glancing out of the corner of my eye at the naked slaves navigating gracefully the endless sea of tables, trays held high as they hurried to take orders, to serve wine, liquor, exotically colored and decorated drinks.

Behind thick and dimly illuminated glass wall panels the slaves on display writhed and struggled in their bonds, limbs polished in gold or silver, pubic hair studded with tiny jewels. On the stage at the far end a little playlet was being enacted, two Greek slave girls in delicate chains and bracelets, being severely punished by their Roman lords.

In the quieter lounges the drama was more intimate, Club members having brought their slaves at heel to the tables. Above the dark, glittering bottles of the bar, a string of young men with heads bowed and arms bound high above them, a series of statues by Michelangelo, turned silently on a carousel.

I saw Scott, the Panther, my dark and handsome genius Trainer of Trainers, in fast conversation with an old English lord, a recent member who'd been hanging around for months, and a little jet of excitement warmed me at the sight of Kitty Kantwell crouched at his feet, her lips pressed to the carpet silently waiting his command.

So he had picked Kitty. Good for her. He'd probably taken Kitty right to the new trainers' class and used her for demonstration. I should have gone, might have learned something. Now that was thinking like the old Lisa, in the swing of things around here, as the old expression goes.

Wishful thinking, kid. Three days down there. No. The fact was, nothing had felt right since I landed. Nothing had felt right since before I even left.

Except kissing Elliott Slater just now, how about that? Richard, the Wolf, got up from the desk chair as I came in.

"Sorry to wake you, Lisa," he said. "Tried to get you earlier but…"

"I'm here to be awakened. What's going on?" I asked.

Two handlers, looking a little smudged and dusty from the long day, were standing by with their arms folded doing their best to fade into the white walls.

And in front of the desk a girl, in a short, belted, white terry-cloth robe, sat sobbing theatrically, pounding her knee with her fist.

"Miss Teenage America," Richard said. "The doctors say she's not a day over seventeen."

If it hadn't been for the squabble over Elliott, I would surely have remembered her from the receiving hall. Luscious breasts bulging against the sagging lapel of the robe, and long, exquisitely sculpted legs. She tossed her black curls angrily, jutting her lower lip at me and then her eyes squinched, watering fearfully, as Richard gestured for me to take his chair.

"You can't do it! You have to take me!" she said shrilly, her lips looking almost bruised from her crying. And her whole face knotted as she shook her head and pounded her fist again. It was difficult to believe it just looking at her, but when she spoke, it was clear.

Richard pushed the medical report at me. He looked sleepy, his deep-set eyes a little red, but he was still amused by the whole thing. I wasn't smiling. This was such tiresome business, and talking to her would be the worst part.

"Look," I said. "You're too young to be here, your papers are fake."

"The shit I am!" she said. "I'm twenty-one. I was trained by Ari Hassler and I can…"

"Did you talk to Hassler?" I asked Richard.

"He denies everything, says she fooled him completely," Richard said wearily. "She has a phony birth certificate and driver's license…"

"It isn't phony, I'm plenty old enough to be here, what are you trying to pull!"

"You're a minor and you don't belong here," I said, "and you're going out tonight."

I looked at Richard.

"I can't get anything else out of her, same routine." He dropped his voice. "I'll wager you she's not the only one."

"Well, then, find the others!" I said crossly. "Submit the entire group to another examination. If there are any minors, I want them out."

"Please…" She leaned forward, her hands clutching almost modestly at her robe. "Let me stay, you've got papers saying I'm twenty-one, what are you scared of? You can't tell me you don't want me. Look at me. I saw the others. I'm as good as any…"

"Pick a town," I said coldly. "A nice private flight to Miami and first class from there to wherever you want to go. You're leaving now."

"I wanna stay here! You don't understand what this means to me, talk to my handler, he'll tell you I was perfect. Look, I'm ready, I'm telling you, I've been trained by the best."

"Okay, dump her in Los Angeles."

"No!" she screamed. She bit her lip, eyes becoming a bit vague and probably a bit practical. She said in a mumbling voice, "New York."

"Okay, New York. Give her the usual two nights at the Plaza, and a thousand dollars." I looked at her. "Use it wisely, as the old saying goes."

"Bitch!"

"Oh, I'd love to teach you some manners before you go," I said under my breath.

She studied me, calculating desperately.

"Get her out of here," I said.

"Just give me one good reason why you're doing this to me," she pleaded. The tears were very pretty sliding down her rounded cheeks, but her eyes were like two stones. "You know good and well the members would love me, admit it. What the hell's the matter with you that you want somebody six years older than me, for Chrissakes?"

"Honey, it's a cruel world. But have you ever heard the words 'consenting adults'? We don't deal in crazies, we don't deal in minors, we don't deal in unwilling slaves. Come back in five years, and maybe, just maybe we'll talk to you. But don't try to fool us under another name. Now, get her out of here. Fly her to Miami as soon as you can."

"I hate you, you bitch!" she screamed. The trainer tried to lift her and she sank her elbow into his belly. "You can't do this to me, my papers are in order. Call Ari!" The other trainer had slipped her arm around her waist. "I'll tell the goddamn fucking
New York Times
!"

"Don't bother," I said.

She was trying to unbuckle the trainer's arm.

"But if you're really serious, we have two
New York Times
reporters in Bungalow H. And there's a guy from NBC in the main building on the fifth floor."

"You think you're so smart. I'll blow the lid off this place!"

"Everybody's done stories on us, darling. Go to the library and look it up. And when a slave 'tells all,' I'm afraid it's the back page of the tabloids, right along with the tearjerkers by the ex-call girls and porno stars that have found Christ. As for the
Times
, you really can forget it. Ever hear the phrase, 'all the news that's fit to print'?"

The handlers lifted her off the floor. She kicked furiously as they carried her out the open door.

When it closed softly behind her, Richard and I glanced at each other.

"Ari's on line one."

I picked up the phone.

"Honest to God, Lisa, I don't understand this. That girl can't be sixteen. If she is, I'm losing my mind."

"Ari, I just saw her. Miss Teenage America. Cut the crap."

"I'm telling you the truth, Lisa, this is over my head. She had papers all over the place. Did you test her, Lisa? She's been working as a cocktail waitress for two years in the Village. Lisa, she's a stick of dynamite, I'm telling you, she can't be sixteen, she taught me tricks."

"We don't buy from you again, ever, Ari," I said.

"Lisa, you can't do this to me. You don't understand .'. ."

"Not if it's Racquel Welch's body and Greta Garbo's head."

"Lisa, she could have fooled God. I've sold you the best merchandise this side of the Rockies, you can't get slaves out of the eastern states from anyone…"

"Ever hear of Gregory Sanchez in New Orleans, or Peter Slesinger in Dallas? You sold us a minor, Ari, a sixteen-year-old girl. We can't trust you, Ari. Good-bye."

I put down the phone.