Exit to Eden book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Welcome to the club to satisfy all your desires. In the Caribbean sun. FICTION>; Erotica>; Exit to Eden - Trade Paperback. Share This Title: Exit to Eden. Read a Sample · Read a Sample · Enlarge Book Cover · Left hand banner -. We all dream of the forbidden but some of us make those dreams come true With the same mystery, menace and intensity as her Vampire.
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Exit to Eden is a novel by Anne Rice, initially published under the pen name Anne Rampling, but subsequently under Rice's name. The novel explores the. Exit to Eden Paperback – Bargain Price, September 25, The bold erotic masterpiece by #1 New York Times bestselling author Anne Rice writing as Anne Rampling. Roquelaure is the pseudonym for bestselling author Anne Rice, the author of 25 books. Editorial Reviews. echecs16.info Review. The same imagination that brought you the The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty: A Novel (Sleeping Beauty Trilogy Book 1 ) · A. N. Roquelaure · out of 5 stars 1, Kindle Edition. $ · Beauty's.
Jul 04, Minutes download. Jul 04, Minutes. We all dream of the forbidden but some of us make those dreams come true. With the same mystery, menace and intensity as her Vampire books, Exit to Eden explores the forbidden by taking us The Club, a vacation paradise where no aspect of sexual pleasure is taboo. Just as The Story of O shocked the Sixties by speaking about what had only been whispered, Exit to Eden gives voices to the sexual secrets of the Eighties.
And in Dallas. The story began at The Club. Welcome to The Club. You can see the drifts of white and pink rhododendrons, the orange groves, and the fields full of poppies and deep green grass. At the gates of The Club lies the harbor And beyond the grounds, the ever busy airfield and heliport. Everyone was coming in for the new season.
There were a score of private planes, winking silver in the sun, and a half-dozen snow-white yachts anchored in the blaze of blue-green water offshore.
The Elysium was already in the harbor, a toy ship it seemed, frozen in the sea of light. Who would guess that there were some thirty or more slaves inside it, waiting breathlessly to be driven naked across the deck and onto the shore?
The slaves all make the journey to The Club fully clothed for obvious reasons. Only naked and subservient are they admitted, and all their belongings are stored under a serial number in a vast cellar until time comes for them to leave. A very thin gold bracelet on the right wrist with a name and number artfully engraved on it identifies the slave, though in the first few days much would be written with a grease pen on that stunning naked flesh.
The plane dipped slightly, passed closer to the dock. I was glad the little spectacle had not begun yet. I sat back, feeling a slow warmth all over, a diffused excitement that came up from inside and seemed to cover all the surface of my skin. The slaves were always so deliciously anxious in those first few moments.
And it was just the beginning of what The Club had in store for them. I was unusually eager to be back. I was finding the vacations harder and harder from some reason, the days in the outside world curiously unreal.
And the visit with my family in Berkeley had been unbearable, as I avoided the same old questions about what I did and where I lived most of the year. Where do you go? The best time oddly enough were those I hated when I was a little girl: the two of us walking around the block together, uphill and downhill in the early evening, and him saying his rosary, and the night sounds of the Berkeley hills all around us, and not a word said.
Then, after the couple in question fell in love, the story transformed itself into what we think of as "female fantasy"--brass beds in New Orleans, homes with courtyards and clinging vines, hot chocolate and beignets at dawn.
Taken altogether, "Exit to Eden" managed to be everybody's fantasy, and was a great success. She gives us the daydreams but tries to get us to take a look behind the superstructure of those daydreams; past the anonymous moving parts, and the walks on the beach at dawn, to see what it is we really want.
The first--told in the first person--has to do with the life of Jeremy Waker, a famous writer and illustrator of children's books. His subjects tend to be nightgown-clad preteen little ladies going up and down Victorian staircases.
He works mostly from photographs. He lives alone in a dusty old house crammed top to bottom with antique toys. He's such a best seller that talk shows clamor for him, and he sells a thousand books at one sitting. Talk about fantasy! But Jeremy is desperately lonely. There have been a couple of wives, in the distant past, but no children, and even as he basks in the trappings of success, he knows something's not right with his life.
A series of never-to-be-shown paintings of rats and rodents in his studio tells his story: Waker is a man cut off from the workings of his own sexuality, his subconscious, his id; as undeveloped, in some ways, as the preadolescents in his children's books. Then, guess what? Belinda sails into his life. Just a kid of 15, she knows every amorous art, swills Scotch like a World War I fighter pilot, chain-smokes, wears every kind of goofy costume and lends herself with determined enthusiasm to every erotic fantasy Jeremy dreams up.
Besides the sex, what Jeremy most longs to do is to paint this enfante terrible , and he does; the series of nude studies that becomes, by far, his best work.
The painstaking descriptions of this process--Belinda, stark naked except for a Holy Communion veil, or riding boots, or what have you--are the standard erotic stock in trade of this kind of book--were it not that "Belinda" is something else again. This little kid is a runaway. She's adamant that Jeremy not search for clues to her past, though the reader is tipped off pretty early, through an elegant movie star friend of Jeremy's mom, that a friend of his had a child about 15 years back.
Jeremy knows he should cease and desist in his efforts to find out the clues to Belinda's past, but he just can't help himself. He does find out; she leaves him in a rage, but writes him a long letter.
And of course this letter, in its examination of the particulars of her short, unhappy life, gives us a clue to another whole realm of fantasy. Belinda's mother, Bonnie--Southern sleepy instinctual--is an American film star.
She has spent time in Europe, a kind of Jean Seberg; she has lived quietly on an island in the Mediterranean while her kid grew up like Topsy among good-natured acquaintances.