Free Seven Days in Rio by Francis Levy

topiary-surrounded pool for a midnight swim, while I stood around awkwardly trying to cover myself. I needed to achieve a level of comfort. I asked Tiffany if there was somewhere we could stop so that I could buy some pants. Tiffany laughed like one of the insouciant vamps in early Italian neorealist cinema. “Your pants are what I like to do without, baby,” Tiffany giggled. Then she let out a whoop and floored the accelerator around a blind curve leading up a mountain pass.
    A large oil truck happened to be coming right at us as we rounded the turn. For a moment, I was sure I was going to meet my maker, so I closed my eyes and thanked God that at least I would die next to a beautiful, aristocratic Tiffany who far exceeded even my wildest imaginings. I love psychoanalysis, but I’m also an aficionado of modern drama, and my life was beginning to remind me of Strindberg’s A Dream Play . I couldn’t tell the curves of the body undulating next to me from the curves in the treacherous mountain road that we were climbing. It was a curious medley of emotions, a mixture of joy and terrible fear.
    I almost lost my breath when we pulled up in front of two huge gates guarded by naked Valkyries who had Uzis strapped over their shoulders in a way that barely obscured their breasts. The only uniforms they were wearing were stiletto high heels and the kind of officer’s hats worn by The Village People. Both of the guards had big hairy bushes that made my mouth water. I was reminded of Castro’s guerillas, who had distinguished themselves with their fulsome beards.
    “Are they whores too?” I asked.
    “Sure, everybody who works for us is.”
    It turned out her mother, Tiffany, was one of Brazil’s most venerated whores. She was of mixed ancestry, representing the wedding of two distinguished family lines. Tiffany’s grandmother had been a famous Amazonian princess whose legendary sexual abilities were documented in the Brazilian equivalent of the Kama Sutra . She’d married a Portuguese general who’d achieved notoriety for his conquests both on land and in bed. Tiffany told me that when her mother was making her way as a famous prostitute, she slept with a majority of the members of both houses of Brazil’s parliament, making her the most powerful woman in the country, at least while congress was in session. Even though she was a known prostitute, her beauty was such that she constantly received marriage proposals from some of the most renowned figures in politics and the arts, but she had turned them all down in favor of living the life of whoredom that she loved. It was only when she was well past her prime that she’d finally settled down with one of her best customers.
    Despite Tiffany’s torrid past, I wanted to make sure that before I paid for sex I’d succeeded in creating a meaningful relationship between us. Anyone can pay for sex, but it’s the rare john who can create a bond based on respect, dignity, and shared goals.
    I had never met the parents of any of the whores I’d fucked over the years. I felt that the opportunity to meet Tiffany’s parents was a privilege that could only increase our intimacy. Tiffany had revealed herself to me, in that she had been nude from the moment I met her, but this was a chance to really get to know the person beneath the beautiful breasts and outspoken Venus mound. I was going to be humping a woman whose history was now an open book to me, just like her genitalia. In the past, I would pay for sex and only afterward, sated and proud of my monstrous capacity, would I indifferently begin to ask a few probing questions. Conversation was exactly like fucking. When I paid for a woman, I could do anything I wanted to her, and our post-coital repartee was just an extension of my desire to explore. I would ask how many men she had screwed that day, how she had gotten into the life, and even what she did about her periods.
    The mansion was situated atop a huge piece of rock and