Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) (11 page)

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Authors: Logan Belle

BOOK: Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)
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Poppy squirmed under her gaze. Violet didn’t know if it was because she felt self-conscious or because she wanted her to do something.
Violet unzipped Poppy’s jeans and tugged them off roughly, tossing them on the floor. Then she took the scissors to her underwear, and she could see Poppy holding her breath when she grazed her lips with the cool metal. Her pussy seemed moist and inviting—was she wet already?
Violet still wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with her, but decided she’d like to get a look at her ass.
She untied her wrists again.
“Turn over on your stomach,” she said. Poppy hesitated. “Now!” Violet yelled.
Poppy turned over slowly.
“I shouldn’t have to ask you twice. Now get up on all fours.”
Poppy hesitated for only a second before getting onto her hands and knees. Violet picked up the paddle, and with a heavy arm, smacked it hard against Poppy’s left ass cheek.
“Ow!” Poppy said.
“Don’t ever make me ask you twice to do something.” She smacked her again. Poppy’s body remained rigid and still. Violet circled the bed and then landed one more blow against Poppy’s right ass cheek. “Lie flat on your stomach,” she said.
Poppy flattened herself against the bed, and Violet pulled each of her arms out so she could re-tie them to the bed posts. She swept her hand along the floor until she found the ankle restraints, and secured Poppy to the bottom of the bed, her legs spread wide apart.
Violet looked at the alabaster skin of her ass, marred with two angry red splotches like states on a map.
She knew Poppy was tense with anticipation for what would happen next, so Violet did nothing. Finally, she said softly, “I’m going into the other room. You had better not move a muscle. Do you hear me?”
Poppy nodded her head.
“Say, ‘Yes, Mistress Violet.’ ”
“Yes, Mistress Violet,” she said, her voice low and quiet.
Violet stood from her perch on the edge of the bed and moved to the doorway of her bedroom. For ten minutes, she silently watched Poppy. Sure enough, she did not make any discernable movement the entire time. Violet was almost disappointed—she had been looking forward to punishing her.
She strode back into the room, making sure her boots announced her presence loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Did you move?” Violet asked.
Poppy shook her head.
“I can’t hear you.”
“No,” Poppy said.
“No, what?”
“No, Mistress Violet.”
“Good girl. Just for that, I’m going to stick my finger in your pussy. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Mistress Violet.”
Violet sat on the edge of the bed, angled so she had a perfect view of Poppy’s cunt. She licked her thumb and index finger and then pressed her thumb into Poppy’s pussy, easing it in and out slowly. Poppy moaned, and Violet pressed her index finger deep into her asshole. Poppy’s anus clenched slightly in resistance, but she soon gave into it. Violet held her finger inside her ass while working her thumb inside her pussy, occasionally slipping it outside and up against her clit. Poppy was breathing hard and occasionally murmuring something. Violet couldn’t discern what she was saying, and she didn’t really want to. She decided she wanted to see her breasts.
Poppy raised her head questioningly, but knew better than to say anything. Violet quickly untied her restraints.
“Get on your back,” she commanded. Poppy complied, although her body moved clumsily, as if she weren’t accustomed to having the use of her limbs. Violet re-tied her arms and restrained her ankles. She used this time to strip off all of her clothes. Completely nude, she climbed onto the bed.
“Don’t move your head—keep that blindfold exactly where it is,” Violet said. Poppy was still. Violet straddled her face, her pussy poised inches above Poppy’s mouth.
“Stick out your tongue,” Violet said. Poppy complied, and Violet lowered herself onto Poppy’s mouth. “Lick my cunt,” Violet said. Poppy complied, eagerly running her tongue along Violet’s pussy lips and pressing it inside of her when Violet grabbed her head and forced her mouth deeper.
Violet didn’t feel close to coming. And then, like the night with the Asian and Irish girls, and the night with Ryan, she felt her mind drifting to Mallory. Suddenly, it was Mallory’s glossy dark hair fanning out on the bed beneath her, Mallory’s delicate features pressed against her cunt. It was Mallory’s mouth sucking on her clit, and Mallory’s hands that cupped her ass, bringing her closer, pressing her tongue deeper, until Violet was able to feel some release.
Violet withdrew from Poppy’s mouth and began fingering herself. She remained poised above Poppy’s face, so Poppy could sense her and no doubt smell her but had no idea what she was doing or would do to her next. Silently, Violet worked her own clit until it was hard as a bead. She slid down slightly so she was at the level of Poppy’s navel, and while she brought herself closer to orgasm, she looked at Poppy’s breasts. She imagined how she would touch them in a few minutes, imagined twisting the woman’s nipples until she begged her to stop. And then she came, silently, but with a violent shudder that shook the bed.
Without missing a beat, she moved down between Poppy’s legs. She saw the girl was more wet than before and wondered how much she had liked eating her pussy.
“Did you like the way my pussy tastes?” Violet asked, pressing a finger back inside of Poppy.
“Yes, Mistress Violet,” Poppy said softly.
Violet observed her carefully: Poppy’s cheeks were flushed, her chest was rising and falling in shallow breaths, and her breasts were full, her nipples erect and rosy.
She moved up so she could reach Poppy’s breasts with her mouth. While her tongue teased Poppy’s nipples, occasionally punctuated with a sharp bite of her teeth, Violet switched the rhythm between Poppy’s legs so that she had her thumb on her clit, one finger moving in and out of her. Within seconds, Poppy cried out, an orgasm shuddering through her, her thighs gripping Violet’s wrist like a vice.
When Poppy was finally still, Violet untied her arms and feet.
“You may take off your blindfold.”
Poppy slowly, with fumbling hands, pulled off her blindfold. Her blue eyes focused on Violet in a mix of lust, awe, and yes, fear. She sat up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, and pretty smile on her face. She looked like someone who’d been properly fucked for the first time in a while.
“I suggest you don’t mention this to anyone,” Violet said, pulling on a black robe from her closet.
“I won’t,” said Poppy.
“After all, you’re the one with a girlfriend.”
“She can’t find out about this!” Poppy said.
“I would imagine not. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re my bitch now, and when I call you for a good fuck, you’d better be available to me. Understood?”
“Um, yes. I mean, I think so.”
“Yes,
what?
”
“Yes, Mistress Violet.”
 
Mallory was grateful to Allison for giving her as a birthday gift one year the Nina Garcia style handbook,
The One Hundred: A Guide to the Pieces Every Stylish Woman Must Own
. Mallory actually followed it, and as a result she had a closet full of staples that, mercifully, included the classic little black dress, evening clutch, and overcoat at the ready. Getting dressed for the fundraising dinner was completed with the precision of a military operation.
Gavin picked her up in a silver Mercedes.
“You’re driving?” she said.
“Yes. I hate cabs.”
“But then you can’t drink,” she said, trying to cover what she suddenly felt was a gauche remark.
“I rarely drink during the week. Especially not at work functions, which I consider this. Especially now that you are coming with me.”
Mallory felt a sting at his remark, yet knew that was ridiculous. What did she think—that this was a date? Of course it was a work event. Yet somehow, sitting next to him in her best black cocktail dress, it felt like the furthest thing from work. What was going on with her?
Cynthia Hobbs lived in an enormous, art-filled threebedroom apartment between Central Park West and Columbus. The living room overlooked the glowing dome of the American Museum of Natural History’s planetarium.
Cynthia kissed Gavin on both cheeks when they arrived and introduced him to everyone as “the man who saved my life!”
The living room was filled with eight round tables set with crystal and heavy silver. The seating was assigned and was strictly boy, girl, boy, girl. Mallory was couched between Gavin and a Wall Street dude who looked at her like she was being served for dinner.
Twenty minutes into the evening, Mallory was buzzing on a big glass of earthy red wine and the thrill of just having met Anna Sandrine, the dark-haired, doe-eyed principal dancer in
Swan Lake,
who was seated at what was obviously the “A-list” table, next to Cynthia Hobbs.
“If you ‘saved her life,’ why aren’t you at her table?” Mallory whispered to Gavin with a smile.
“Seating is strictly by checkbook,” Gavin said. “And there were only three zeros on the one I wrote.”
That sounded like a lot of zeros to her.
But Mallory was happy right where she was—despite the errant hand on her leg courtesy of Mr. Wall Street. She pushed it away, and he laughed like it was a joke they shared.
Every few moments, Gavin checked in on her with a glance and a smile, making sure she was holding her own. She was.
“Every lawyer I know is miserable,” the Wall Street guy was saying.
“Yes,” she said, because it was easier to agree than to debate him. Mallory looked across the room at Anna Sandrine and thought that she couldn’t wait to tell Alec. But then she remembered she wouldn’t talk to Alec for a week. That was the deal, and she knew he would stick to it. She would have to do the same. At least she could tell Nadia the next time she was at the practice space.
“But, to be fair, a lot of people in my business aren’t happy. It takes a lot of money to be happy doing what I do,” he said. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Do you like your job?”
“I love it,” she said automatically, thinking of the Blue Angel. Then she realized he meant her paralegal job.
“Well, good for you,” he said, clearly surprised by her affirmative response.
She took another sip of her wine, wondering what the guests in that rarified room would think about her burlesque career. She doubted it would meet with the approval of these self-proclaimed patrons of the arts. And then she felt a sudden surge of loneliness.
The waitstaff began serving Tartufo for dessert. She clumsily tapped on the hard chocolate shell with her spoon, realizing it was time to stop drinking. Her fine motor skills were officially shot.
“Excuse me,” she said, and asked the server to point her in the direction of the bathroom.
The bathroom walls were covered in a salmon-colored fabric threaded with gold. Behind the toilet—a piece so sleek and modern she could barely find the flusher—hung a black-and-white photograph of Cynthia taken by Herb Ritts.
Mallory touched up her eyeliner and lipstick, thinking how in twenty-four hours she would be taking off her clothes on the Blue Angel stage. Only in New York could she find herself traversing the lines of low and high culture so quickly. Would she be able to successfully swing back and forth indefinitely? She doubted it. With a sinking feeling, she knew she was going to have to choose. It was just a matter of when.
Outside, in the hallway, Gavin was waiting for her.
“Oh! You surprised me.”
“Are you having a good time?” he said.
“Yeah. It’s interesting. “
“That isn’t too convincing,” he smiled. “I’m ready to go when you are.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Nights like these tend to have diminishing returns. It’s all downhill after dessert.”
“That’s one of my basic life philosophies,” she said, and he laughed. “Okay, well, you’re the one driving.”
“Let’s say our good-byes.”
In front of the building, a valet produced Gavin’s car. Gavin held her door open for her before getting behind the wheel.
“The man to your left at dinner—Jackson Deer? He asked for my card before we left. He’s divorcing his wife of ten years, and I think he’s worth about half a billion dollars,” Gavin said.
“Sounds expensive.”
“Yes. It could be a good case for the firm.” Gavin turned onto Columbus to get them back around to the cross street through Central Park at Eighty-first Street. “He specifically asked if you could be in the room for the consultation.”
“That’s weird,” Mallory said.
“Not really. You’re smart; you’re attractive. Whether or not you realize it, you’re a huge asset to the firm, Mallory. And you’re doing a very good job. I know you didn’t have the most positive experience at Reed, Warner, but I hope you’re feeling on more solid footing now. And I hope you’re thinking long-term with us.”

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