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Authors: Logan Belle

Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) (6 page)

BOOK: Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)

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He held her by the hips, his tongue moving from her clit to the center of her pussy, then pressing deep inside her, fucking her, while his thumb worked in and out of her ass. She didn’t want to come like this—apart from him, while he played her like an instrument. She pulled away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want you inside of me,” she said. He sat up, pressing her down to the bed. Instead of letting her mount him, he moved his full weight on top of her. She slipped her arms around him, kissing his neck, running her lips along the rough stubble on his chin. He brushed her swollen outer lips with his cock, and she felt a familiar surge of anticipation knowing he was going to enter her. But he kept his cock outside, rubbing against her until she was in a frenzy. She grabbed his ass, pulling him to her as hard as she could.

“Alec ...”

“What?” he said, kissing her temple.

“I want you,” she said quietly, wondering if she would get away with only saying that much. Sometimes he made her beg for it; as much as she loved sex, she hated articulating what she wanted. And really, when it came to pleasing her, he never needed her to say a word—he knew her body almost better than she did.

“I want you, too,” he said. And then, so quickly it was almost startling, he thrust his hard cock inside of her. She gasped, adjusting her hips so he didn’t get quite so deep. His mouth moved down to her breasts, biting her nipple. She didn’t know why she liked it rough sometimes, but with Alec she had learned the interplay between pleasure and pain.

He slid in and out slowly, and she had to fight the urge to tell him to stop moving, to just stay inside of her. She felt like she could come just from feeling him fill up her pussy. Then, his movements quickened and shortened to hard thrusts, and she knew he was close to coming. He pressed his finger inside her ass, and her pussy convulsed in waves.

“Oh, my God,” she said, clutching his back. His thrusts grew harder, animalistic in their intensity, and then he cried out. Her pussy clenched against his cock over and over, the waves of pleasure overtaking her.

When he pulled out, her pussy still throbbed slightly, as if reluctant to let go of the orgasm. Breathless, they lay side by side, and he pulled her closer so she could rest her head in the crook of his arm. She looked at his profile, his flushed cheeks and strong nose, and marveled at his beauty. There was an adage that before sex, men aren’t thinking clearly, and after sex, women aren’t thinking clearly. She wondered if that was true, because in that moment, all she could think was that she was madly in love.

T
he line inside City Bakery stretched from the register almost back to the farthest reaches of the buffet. Mallory, Julie, and Allison quickly broke off strategically: Julie would snag a table upstairs, Mallory would get the baked goods, and Allison would buy the “real food” they felt compelled to eat along with the shop’s signature pretzel-croissants and zucchini chocolate cake.

“This place reminds me of the dorm,” Julie said. Their coordinated efforts landed them a prime spot on the upper level, with three trays heaped with food, coffee, and hot chocolate.

“If Penn had served food like this it might actually have been worth the fortune in tuition,” Allison said.

“Don’t knock the old alma mater,” said Mallory.

“Says the only Ivy League–educated burlesque star on the planet.”

“For your information, not only am I not the only Ivy League burlesque star on the planet, but I’m not even the only Ivy burlesquer in New York.”

Allison shook her head. “Then they really are charging too much for tuition.”

Mallory threw a straw at her. Julie laughed, covering her full mouth with her hand. And that’s when they saw it.

“Um, excuuuse me—what is that giant object weighing down your ring finger?” Allison said.

“I’m blinded!” Mallory jumped up and hugged her oldest friend.

Why had she not noticed it as soon as she walked in? Julie was glowing.
I’m too wrapped up in all this crap with Alec, that’s why.

“Jonathan proposed last night. I was dying to tell you guys, but I knew if I just waited twelve hours I could tell you in person.” She looked at her ring as if seeing it for the first time.

“Where did it happen?”

“Oh, my God, it was so romantic. We went to the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, waited on line for like forty-five minutes, then took our stuff to a bench near the Fifth Avenue side. And we were just sitting there eating, and there were pigeons kind of milling around waiting for scraps of food. And so Jonathan got down on one knee, and I swear I thought he was feeding the pigeons or doing something like that, and the next thing you know he was holding out this gorgeous ring and asking me to marry him! And it was just like in a movie—after I said yes and was hugging him, the people on the bench across from us started clapping.”

“Julie, I’m so happy for you.” Mallory said. And she was. But she couldn’t help but think that while Julie’s boyfriend was proposing marriage, she had been trying to figure out if her boyfriend was still trying to get other women into bed with them. And sure, she and Alec had had many laughs about how “vanilla” Jonathan was. But Julie didn’t seem to be complaining.

A child shrieked at the table next to them.

“Ugh, there are too many babies here.” Allison made a face.

“Allison!” Julie said.

“What?”

“I knew it: you guys are totally going to ditch me when I move to Westchester.”

“You just got engaged last night, and already you’re moving to Westchester?” Mallory said.

“For the record, we won’t ditch you when you move to the ’burbs—at least, not until you pop out your rugrats,” Allison said. “Right, Mallie?”

Mallory played with her mug of hot chocolate. “I like kids,” she said.

“Well, I’m going to take a pass on that particular life experience.”

“Oh, really? And how does Andrew feel about that?” Mallory said. Allison had met her boyfriend, Andrew Goldmark, at one of the PR events she had coordinated a year ago. He worked on Mayor Bloomberg’s staff, was five years older than her, and together they made a typical Manhattan power couple.

“We’re completely on the same page. Marriage, yes. Kids—no. And we both want a traditional wedding: a hundred guests, white dress, the whole deal.”

“I love weddings,” Mallory said. “Every time I pass Vera Wang on Madison I get a pang.”

“Really?” Allison and Julie said in unison.

“Yeah. Why do you seem so shocked?”

Allison and Julie looked at each other, then down at their food.

“What?” Mallory said.

“Well, we just worry about you,” Julie said. “You want the same things we do out of life—a career, a good relationship. But you’re going about it in a . . . strange way.”

“What do you mean?” Mallory said.

“I think what Julie’s trying to say is, where the hell is this burlesque thing really going? I mean, we get that it’s cool and fun and it’s great that you took a leap and did it for a year. But really, Mallory—what’s the future?”

Mallory fought the urge to say something nasty and defensive. The truth was, sometimes she wondered the same thing.

“You say that you want marriage and kids, but you’ve been dating Alec for years and you guys still act like you’re in college,” Allison said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t get defensive, Mal. It’s just that you run around in that crazy burlesque world and then you wonder why Alec is always looking at other women. It’s not the best environment for a healthy, monogamous relationship.”

“I told you, we are monogamous now.”

“When was the last time he suggested bringing another girl home?”

“Months.”

“Well, I don’t think the verdict on Alec is in yet.”

“Who asked you to be judge and jury?” Mallory snapped.

“Okay, let’s stop. Mallory, we’re just concerned about you.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

She thought about Alec’s stunt with Violet the other night. And she didn’t feel fine at all. And as long as Allison and Julie were already down on her relationship . . .

“But this thing did happen the other night that sort of bothered me,” she said.

Allison and Julie leaned close across the table, as if Mallory were about to reveal the secret of the universe.

“As you so critically mentioned, you know Alec and I have had the occasional three-way. . . .”

“Yes, and we think you’re insane,” Allison said.

“Can you cut the editorializing and let me tell you this story?”

“Yeah, I want to hear the story,” Julie said, twisting her three-carat princess-cut diamond.

“But we agreed it was more trouble than it was worth and that we were done with all that—it was going to be just us. Monogamy. Traditional relationship.”

“Except for the time you saw that e-mail to him from the chick from Village Tavern,” Allison said.

“Seriously, shut up and let her talk.”

“Okay. Aside from that. And anyway,
she
was e-mailing
him
. He can’t control that. So two nights ago I had a show, and we decided we were going to go out to dinner afterward. We’ve both been working like crazy, and we knew we needed a date. He asked me where I wanted to go; I said the Stone Rose, and it was all good. We get to the restaurant, we’re waiting at the bar for our table because of course it’s a scene and the table isn’t ready, and as we’re waiting that chick, Violet, from the Blue Angel shows up.”

“The one with the crazy tattoos who works as a dominatrix?”

“Yep. That’s the one. At first I thought, what a coincidence. So she walks over to us, and Alec is all, ‘Hey there, Violet.’ And she says, ‘Cool place—I’ve never been in here before.’ And I realize that he invited her!”

“No way,” said Allison.

“Yes!”

“Did you walk out?”

“No. I thought about it. But then I was like, I’m not leaving the two of them alone.”

“I’m sure if you had left he would have followed you,” said Julie.

“I know. But still . . .”

“So what did you do?”

“The hostess seated us, and we had drinks and dinner and it was friendly enough, but Alec knew I was pissed, and I didn’t talk to him when we got home. I didn’t take his calls at work yesterday. But then after the show last night he told me she asked what we were doing after the show that other night, that he told her we were getting dinner and invited her just to be polite.”

“Such bullshit!” Allison said.

“Maybe not,” Julie said. “What if he just said it casually, thinking she’d never actually accept, and then she did? Why would Alec do something so blatant and piss off Mallory like that?”

“But this is what I’m talking about,” Allison said. “You guys live in this world where the natural boundaries don’t exist. You take off your clothes on stage, you’ve hooked up with other women in the past, and then you wonder why the lines are blurred.”

“So you’re saying it’s my fault?” Mallory said.

“Not completely. But the combination of Alec’s personality and the fact that you haven’t been great at drawing the line yourself . . . It’s hard to say if he even did anything wrong the other night.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him,” Julie said.

“I’m not. I’m just saying it’s not Alec; it’s not Mallory—it’s the dynamic between them that creates this constant tension.”

“So what’s the solution?” Mallory said.

“Get out of that burlesque culture. As long as you’re in it, your relationship will suffer.”

Mallory shook her head. “You’re wrong,” she said. But a small part of her had already begun to wonder.

V
iolet stood outside the building on Mercer street in SoHo. At not quite 10 a.m., she had already been running around the city for four hours. She awoke at the Hotel on Rivington and let Ryan Ellison eat her pussy one more time before she hurriedly got dressed and fought her way through the paparazzi staked outside the hotel to get a cab to Brooklyn. She needed to find a place to store her dom equipment in Manhattan—it was such a hassle to drag it back and forth, especially when the sessions were last-minute. But that was the price she paid for going freelance; when she had worked exclusively at the notorious midtown dungeon the Cellar, she had the convenience of storing all of her costumes and equipment in her locker. But for the convenience, she had to give more than half the price of her sessions to the house. As a private operator, she could charge whatever she wanted and walk away with every cent. It was worth the occasional last-minute subway ride carrying a suitcase full of whips and nipple clamps.

If only she could figure out how to make such a lucrative move with her burlesque career.

She pulled the keys out of her trench coat pocket. Yes, she had keys to this client’s well-appointed loft. His particular, elaborate fantasy included the feigned element of surprise.

She opened the heavy exterior door and took the small elevator to the top floor. It was warm for late October, and she was sweating in her thigh-high, black patent leather boots and constrictive corset. She set her suitcase down and took a moment to powder her pale complexion. It was vitally important, as the saying went, to never let the customers see her sweat. She was superhuman. She was master of the universe.

She was Mistress Violet.

With a quick time check—10 a.m. on the dot—she inserted her key in the door to the penthouse apartment. Slowly, she pushed the door open. Sure enough, as always, the man sat the middle of the room on an antique wooden chair, dressed in a vintage red ball gown pulled up to reveal his small cock, which he was methodically stroking.

Violet strode into the room, her sharp-heeled boots making a menacing clatter against the marble floor.

“Billy! Are you doing that naughty, naughty thing again?” she said, feigning shock.

“Yes, mistress,” the man said, with equally feigned sheepishness.

“This is very, very distressing to me, Billy,” she said, moving closer, shedding her trench coat to reveal her leather and satinclad body. The client’s hand continued to work his cock while his eyes swept her from head to toe.

Violet reached forward and slapped him hard across the face.

“Did I give you permission to look at me?” she screamed.

“No, mistress. I’m sorry, mistress,” he said, immediately reverting his gaze downward.

“You are being a very bad girl,” she said. “I’m going to have to punish you, you realize, don’t you?”

The man nodded, cowering slightly. Violet pulled a whip out of her small suitcase.

“Remove your dress,” she said. The man complied, unzipping the back seam with practiced hands and stepping out delicately. He folded the dress and placed it carefully on the chair. “Now turn around and show me your ass,” Violet commanded. When he followed her orders, she waited a few beats, letting him savor the anticipation of the first tear into his flesh. Then, raising her arm and with expert precision, she flogged him across his ass cheeks. She noticed the familiar shudder run through him, and she didn’t know—never knew—if it was pleasure or pain. And her arm rose again.

After a few minutes, when red welts formed in a crisscross pattern on both sides of his buttocks, she dropped the whip and sighed.

“That was for looking at me without permission,” she said, walking around him in a slow circle. The man kept perfectly still, dared not look at her. “Now we still have to deal with your playing with your dirty parts, don’t we?”

“Yes, mistress,” he said.

“Bend over the chair, you little whore,” Violet said. The man slowly moved into the dictated position, bracing his torso with his forearms on the chair, his legs nearly straight, his ass high in the air.

Violet struggled not to yawn. The tedium of following the same script week after week, coupled with her lack of sleep last night at the hotel, was making this session unusually difficult for her. She used to love sessions like this—simple S&M, a little verbal abuse. Classic and very satisfying. Midway through the session she’d get a high that would last for hours. Now she needed a little bump just to get started most days, and that was getting expensive. It was a vicious cycle, spending money on coke just to get through the dom sessions to make money. Now, the high that she had to get through her nose with her domination work she could only get naturally on the Blue Angel stage. But that gig didn’t pay shit. It was a problem—one she wasn’t quite sure how to fix.

“I’m going to have to teach you a lesson,” she said, kneeling by the suitcase. She pulled out a wide black dildo, and squeezed a liberal amount of lube on it. “Teach you not to play with that pussy of yours. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, mistress.”

She advanced toward him slowly, then reached out her foot and skimmed his waiting asshole with the heel of her boot.

“Do you think you are worthy of having my beautiful boot in your dirty, ugly pussy?” she said.

“No, mistress.”

“No is right. I’m going to fuck you with my dirty cock—and you’re barely worthy of that.” And with that, she plunged the dildo deep into his anus. He liked a rough entry and then for her to work it slowly in and out while he jerked off.

While she waited for him to come, she looked around the apartment, marveling at the art, the photographs on the walls, the brilliantly composed furniture and color scheme. She thought about how many celebrities had been to parties in this very apartment, perhaps sat in the chair that their host was now leaning on while being fucked in the ass while drooling over a ball gown, his cock in his hand.

It was hard to recall the times when this had been fun for her. She knew she had once felt that way, but the memory was so intangible, it was like a dream hours after waking. Now all she felt was resentment. It was difficult to always be the one giving satisfaction, never receiving it. She thought maybe she had been on her way to some gratification the other night when Alec invited her to join Mallory and him for dinner. But then Mallory showed up with that sour look on her face. God, she’d love to shove this black rubber cock up her ass and loosen her up a little. But who was she kidding? If she got her hands on Mallory Dale, she’d forget all about her frustration and start eating that pussy like a kid in a candy store.

“Mommy!” her client called out, as he always did when he came.

Violet looked at her watch. Maybe she could call Alec and see if she could lure him out for coffee.

Her client slumped over the chair, spent.

“Thank you,” he said, breathless.

“My pleasure, Mr. Barton,” she said.

Time to clean up.

She went to the bathroom, washed her hands, and repacked her bags. She didn’t feel the high she used to get from these encounters; she felt drained. It was so exhausting to always give and never receive any satisfaction.

By the time she returned to the living room, her client was transformed from a sniveling sex slave to a media mogul. The entire countenance of his face was different, and he wore slacks, a jacket, and a green, blue, and pink-striped shirt she recognized from the window at Thomas Pink on Madison.

Wordlessly, he slipped her three hundred-dollar bills.

“See you next week,” she said.

“One more thing,” he said. “One of my writers got comped for this show. It’s sold out and supposed to be phenomenal.” He handed her tickets to a Jack Terricloth show at Joe’s Pub.

“Thanks. I love your connections,” she said, pocketing the tickets. “You know, you should own a club. Ever think about it?”

“Not really,” he said. “Huge time suck, and few are profitable. I’ll stick to media domination.”

She couldn’t help but smirk at the word “domination.” As a magazine editor he should have a better sense of irony. And for some reason, an image of Mallory flashed through her mind. “Suit yourself. But do you have one more ticket for this thing?”

“No. My editor needs the other one to cover the show for the magazine.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, holding out her hand. “You know, my schedule is really looking tight next week. I hope I can fit you in.”

He handed over the ticket.

Outside, she dialed her phone.

Mallory grasped the barre with both hands, her right leg extended on top of the smooth horizontal pole, arching her foot. She brought her right arm up over her head, bent slightly at the elbow, her face turning slowly toward it as she arched her back and slid her leg forward on the bar, extending her body into a long stretch.

In the reflection of the floor to ceiling mirror, she could see the ballet dancer behind her, Nadia. They split the cost to rent practice space at Ballet Academy once or twice a week. Nadia was hoping to land a spot with a major dance company so she could make a name for herself. Mallory doubted Nadia had any idea about the type of performing Mallory did—or that the name she was making for herself was “Moxie.” Although when Nadia saw Mallory working on her new routine to the Marilyn Manson song, “Heart-Shaped Glasses,” she would start to realize her practice space partner wasn’t training for
The Nutcracker.
Usually Mallory saved her choreography for practice at the Blue Angel, but lately she felt the need to get away from the other girls.

A knock at the studio door broke her concentration. She turned to see Alec waving outside the glass window. He waved her over.

“What are you doing here?” she said breathlessly, opening the door. Cool air rushed to meet her, making her realize how sweaty she had gotten. There was no workout like ballet—not Pilates, not yoga, not spinning—nothing.

“I want to take you to lunch. I know we have plans to meet later, but I couldn’t wait.”

“I still have a half hour left.”

“Mind if I watch?”

“No, of course not. I’d kiss you but I’m gross.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

She shook her head and returned to the studio. Nadia was packing her bag.

“I’m sorry. Is it bothering you that he’s watching? I can have him wait for me outside,” Mallory said.

“Why would I mind? I’m all about the audience. I just have to run—practice downtown.”

Mallory was amazed at the discipline and rigor of Nadia’s life. It was an endless chain of practice, rest, practice. She felt guilty complaining about how little time she had between her paralegal job and shows at the Angel. It was a cakewalk compared to what real dancers went through.

Now that she had the room to herself, she slipped the Marilyn Manson CD into the ancient, wall-mounted stereo. She was glad she’d saved her old CDs and even bought new ones every once and a while just because of the practice space.

She cued up the song, “Heart-Shaped Glasses.” It was her favorite song of the album, a dark, decadent Lolita tribute. The video featured a young Evan Rachel Wood, and it was rumored at the time that she had broken up Marilyn Manson’s marriage to the most famous burlesque star of the modern day—Dita Von Teese.

Mallory’s idea for the “Heart-Shaped Glasses” routine was to play with the audience’s notions of desire or what is desirable. Unlike most acts in which the performer starts dressed and slowly removes items of clothing, she would start the routine naked—in just a G-string and pasties. Her character would wake up in bed, stretching and teasing the audience with brief glimpses of her ass, her legs, her breasts. She would have to figure out the best way to get a prop bed on the stage—maybe just a folded comforter and a cardboard “headboard” and pillows would do the trick. She would cover the comforter with heart pillows and stuffed animals, and these objects would partially obscure her nudity while she stretched in an exaggerated awakening. Then she would need a vanity table, and she would sit in front of that in just her G-string and pasties, and put her hair in pigtails.

By that point, the audience might wonder what grown woman slept with stuffed animals and wore pigtails. And when she shimmied her breasts and pulled on her plain, starched white blouse and short, plaid schoolgirl skirt, the audience would begin to realize that they should not be desiring her. Mallory liked to find ways to provoke her audience, not just turn them on.

Excited with her idea, she grabbed her bag and met Alec outside the studio, throwing her arms around him.

“Um . . . you taste like salt,” he said.

“I have a great idea for an act to a Marilyn Manson song.”

“You and Marilyn Manson! I think his music is synonymous with sex for you because the first time you saw Bette perform, it was to one of his songs.”

“You might be right. Whatever the reason, I’m pure inspiration, baby.”

“What show are you planning this for? The Halloween show?”

BOOK: Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)

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