From the Top Shelf - Exit to Eden

If you've seen the movie version of Exit to Eden, but haven't read the book, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by this excerpt. The movie was a ridiculously watered-down, bastardized version of the novel by Anne Rampling (also known as Anne Rice and A. N. Roquelaure).

Elliott has recently arrived at "The Club", an island resort with a difference. He has agreed to spend two years as a slave, but immediately drew attention to himself by being flippant and arrogant. He has been singled out for special attention by Lisa, the creator and owner of the resort. After some tumultuous erotic frolicking in Lisa's private quarters, Elliott sleeps.

When I woke up, it was dark in the room, and she was saying my name. The little danger alarm went off in my head. If she sent me off now, goddamn it, I'd go mad.


There was one distant lamp on the dresser, throwing a yellow light on the hard, angular features of the sculptures and masks, and gleaming on the brass of the bed. And I was lying flat on the smooth cotton sheets, the spreads and pillows gone, and the curtains had been tied back. It was the familiar feel of leather closing around my left wrist tjat brought me fully around. She had already tightened the buclke and now, bending over me, her knees against me, she buckled the cuff at the right.


She's going to whip me,I thought. She's not through with me. Quick simmer of excitement. And I really asked for it, didn't I, saying those things, so it's going to be hard. And she'd do it if I didn't ask for it. Did I think that fucking her would stop her? Scared. Slow boil.


I gave a tug to the traps just to test the strength, and realized I couldn't possibly pull loose. My left foot was quickly manacled to the bedpost. And then the right. All this had happened before, it wasn't the worst. In fact, it was the most comfortable kind of whipping. So why the panic inside? Because it was she? Because never before had I had one of them who tormented me, not the way I'd had her. Beautiful! And all I could think about, in spite of this, was a line out of a bad Romans and Christians movie, where some slave says to the decadent patrician master, "Whip me but don't send me away."


I twisted, pulled at the straps, but I didn't even strain the heavy brass frame.


And she was watching me, standing on my right.


Her back was to the lamp. Her skin looked almost incandescent in the shadows, as if the heat in her had alchemized into light.


I thought of her under me again, her toughness and her softness, and that she was going to whip me, and the boil was rolling. I wanted to say something to her suddenly, pierce the tension. But I didn't dare. She had a black leather strap in her hand and this was going to be bad. And why Would she care if I did say something to her? What did I want to say?


She was dressed all in black now the way all the trainers dress, except for the lace blouse. Piquant, she looked, chic, a tight little leather vest and skirt snug around her body, her high-heeled boots laced to her knees. If I'd seen her sitting in a sidewalk cafe looking like that I would have come in my pants.


She moved towards me, holding the strap at her right side.


Now I pay for it, not just for the smart cracks, but having her. That's it, isn't it? I almost cringed. After all, the whipping never feels good. No matter how much you want it or love it, it hurts. And she'd know how to do it; she was the boss.


She came closer. She bent over, the frills of her blouse brushing against my shoulder, and she kissed my cheek. Perfume and silken hair. I shifted against the sheet, thinking I can't come like a school kid from her kissing me, that's nuts.


"You're a smart aleck, aren't you?" She said in a low, almost loving voice. "You've got a real smart mouth. And you're not under my command or under your own."


I almost said, Yes, I am, really, I am. I'll kiss your feet if you let me go, but I didn't say anything at all.


She kissed me again, bringing the tiny hairs up all over my body because it was so maddeningly light. Just a taste of her mouth. Whiff of her perfume again. "We're going to learn a few lessons," she said, "in how a slave talks and answers at The Club."

The lesson begins next week, so stay tuned.