Phoenyx: Flesh & Fire

by Morgana Blackrose

  They hadn’t yet, so I flicked open the top button of my cardigan. Then the next one, and the next one, until the sleeve dropped off my shoulder, showing a shiny black bra strap. I turned my back on the uninterested crowd and swung my ass at them while opening up the rest of the buttons, out of sight. No fumbling, no panic, no forgetting who I was or what I was doing any more – it was as simple and as automatic as breathing Although an awful lot more fun.

  I spun around to face the front, whipping my cardigan fully open as I did so. My tits swung almost out of control but the shimmy quickly transferred to my hips as I slid the cardigan down my arms, slowly, pulling it down beneath my ass and then tight against my thighs. I worked one hand out of the sleeve and caught the cardigan between my legs, pulling it up tight until I felt it rub hard against me, tight into my crotch. And through the music and my heartbeat and the bursting pulse in my head, I could feel myself getting warm, and damp, against the leather lining.

  I didn’t need the toilet any longer. I wanted more than that now.

  The cardigan spun, flicked and flew aside. I shook my tits again, showing how keen they were to be released, and got to work on the bra. Slowly though – dropping one strap low, and then the other. Cradling my bulging assets before me, squeezing them up to form a long deep cleavage. I turned away again and fought with the clasp, hoping that my fingers could remember how they did that thing.

  I struggled a bit at first. The clasps were being awkward, then I managed to get one free. The others followed and I spun around again, almost lost my balance on my heels and just managed to translate the motion by dropping down on one knee, my hands all that were holding the bra in place across my front. I squeezed and pushed them up, let them fall back and as I did so, spread my arms wide, threw my head back and let the whole lot spill out for those sexy guys to stare at. That had to have gotten at least someone’s attention.

  My nipples had prickled and stiffened, and I loved how that felt. I teased them and tweaked them and made myself jump with the dirty little electric jabs which shot through me as I did so. Oh, how I wanted someone else’s hands there, and inside my leather pants.

  Shaking my hair from side to side, I started on my jeans, pulling open one button after another. I had them all opened and my hands down the front, rubbing through my rough mat of hair when suddenly the music ended. I hadn’t even noticed the fade-out, and I found myself half-naked on an empty stage, staring out in panic at a strange man staring back up at me through a gently rising spiral of cigarette smoke.

  Just how terrible had I been? I waited for him to burst out laughing. I didn’t know whether to cover my tits up again or fasten my leathers first. So I just knelt there and waited for something to happen, hoping I didn’t look too much like a rabbit in the headlights of a ten-ton truck. I tried to smile but the skin of my face felt like my mother’s old cracked chamois dusters, dry and tight.

  Then another sound cut in over my throbbing heartbeat, a strange sound which took me some moments to recognize in my delirious state.

  He was clapping.

  “Phoenyx?” he said, and moved closer. He put his hands on the edge of the stage and moved his head with its thick black curly hair and sideburns into the light. Wide brown eyes looked up into mine.

  “Hi,” I said, feeling very stupid. I brushed a long wave of hair back from my face and grabbed up my cardigan in front of me. The spell broken, the music gone and the sexy audience with it, I felt cold, shivery, alone and very vulnerable once more. Sweat poured out of me from places that I didn’t even know could exude perspiration. My throat was aching for a drink, my tongue melted to the roof of my mouth. This, then, would be the bit where he grabbed me and did all the things to me that my mother used to say all strange men (or ‘wolves’ as she called them) would do to me if I wasn’t careful and gave them half a chance.

  But Bruno’s grin told me that I had no reason to feel like that. He was older than all those fantasy men I dreamed about, heavier and rather more streetwise than I preferred. Yet he seemed to have liked what he saw.

  And I really, sorely, needed to dash to the toilet again.

  “Hi to you too,” he said, and held out his hand again. “Do you want a job?”

  I tried to keep the cardigan in place with one hand while I held out the other to touch his. Then I gave up, and flung the boring old garment (which my mother had knitted for me) to the other end of the stage. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my nipples had grown harder and more sensitive than I’d ever experienced in my life. Whatever it was I was doing, I was enjoying it on every level of my being.

  “Really?” I squealed, almost deafening myself as my voice reverberated all around the big wide empty desert of the bar.

  “Yes, really. That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all day.”

  His hand grabbed mine and swung me off the stage and into his arms. He held me there for a moment, then put me back on my feet where I landed with a yelp and a jump of delight.

  I was in the Kitty Klub. What the hell would my mother think of that? I laughed aloud at the very idea as Bruno went off to remove the chalkboard sign from outside. If it had been he who had written the advert on it, and drawn the willy and the tit instead of the ‘!’, then he and I were probably going to get along just fine.

  All I had to do now was figure out where all of my clothes had gone.

  As well as holding back the rising need to wet myself – until I saw the sign across the bar marked ‘Ladies’. I made a run for it, clattering across the mosaic floor like a herd of elephants, half-naked with my tits bouncing around madly in front of me. And laughing like a maniac as I went, so much so that I barely even noticed the warm, wet worm which wiggled its way down my inner thigh to the inside of my boot. Oh God, this was going to be so exciting.

  As it turned out, I had no idea just how exciting it would all prove to be.

  Chapter Two

  Gettin’ It On

  My first few nights in the Klub were merely spent watching from the wings, seeing how the regular girls moved and responded, soaking up the atmosphere, and just getting used to the whole place. The performers shocked and amazed me with their wonderful moves, their beautiful figures and sensuality. I loved them all on sight and could easily have wished myself to be any one of them. Within mere days I’d become their new best friend, the new kid on the block who everyone wanted to protect and look after. I got drinks and dinners bought for me. I didn’t even have to think about money any more. I had landed on my feet like a cat, without any doubt, at the exact moment when my life was in dangerous free-fall.

  By the end of the week, Bruno called us all together into the bar before opening, in one of what he described as his ‘Klub Hugs’: little meetings where everyone was expected to speak up about anything that bothered them, make suggestions, raise ideas or just swap news and gossip. The main point on the agenda at this one was, of course, me: the new girl.

  “Meet our new lady,” as Bruno introduced me, to loud applause from the others. “You’ll know that I refer to all of you as ladies, Phoenyx. Not girls. That sounds immature, and condescending. I respect all of you totally, as I hope you all respect each other, as well as our customers. And, as I hope, you’ll respect our latest arrival.” He was so forward-thinking for his time. I got more applause for that and if my cheeks hadn’t been burning red before, they certainly were now.

  “Sissi was a great performer, our very own Empress of the stage and a tough act to replace, but that’s not why Phoenyx is here. She’s not going to be the new Sissi, and she has her own style, her own moves. I don’t want to hear any of you ladies making comparisons. I’m investing time and energy in this wonderful young redhead because I can see her bringing something new and exciting to the roster.”

  (My face must have flushed as red as my hair. I had always hated the way it did that. A curse of having such pale coloring, along with my silly freckles, which looked like someone had spattered my face with paint from the end of a
brush. I’d inherited it from my mother, and was always depressed to know that, like her, I’d still be wearing those stupid freckles when I was forty.)

  “Now, tomorrow’s Saturday and I want our newest member to hit the stage. But I don’t want her freezing up in the spotlight, so in order to warm her up, we’re going to partner her off with you, Olivia. You can figure out the routine between yourselves. As long as the new lady gets plenty of...exposure, and you both look like you’re having a good time. That’s all I ask.”

  Olivia was a tall, willowy character who moved like a tree bending in the wind. She had very long expressive hands, which she constantly fluttered around her face and neck in girlish fashion. On stage, she moved like a delicate sapling, swishing her hair and limbs in graceful and near-balletic arcs. Her skin was pale and so thin-looking, and the veins in her arms often seemed to glow almost electric blue when she was in action. At times, frozen in the spotlights, she looked like a china doll – so delicate and exquisitely-constructed. Her cascade of fine blonde hair almost enveloped her when she moved in hypnotic fashion. I couldn’t think what on earth I would be able to do alongside her without showing her up. I moved so heavily, clumsily, that we would have looked ridiculous together.

  Or maybe that was the point; secretly, we were going to be a comedy double-act, with Olivia as the straight man. She must have sensed my anxiety, for she closed a thin hand over mine and squeezed it reassuringly.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be just fine,” she told me. She sounded like my mother on my first day of school.

  If only I believed her, although I gave her a big warm smile in reply. I liked her a lot, and I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I told myself to try my very best. If I did that then nobody could hold anything against me afterwards.

  All through Friday night and the following Saturday, I worried. Even while wandering around the big high street stores with Olivia and buying clothes that would have inspired my mother to throw me out of the house, I couldn’t get the anxiety out of my head. It started off as a niggle, like a little itch, but the more I tried to forget about it, the bigger, heavier and more oppressive the fear became. Something was going to go wrong, I knew it. My first night would be my last. Things had been going so well until now – everyone liked me, I’d had everything done for me and I was made to feel not only at home, but as part of a family – it had to be too good to last. Nothing great or amazing ever happened to me, no matter how hard I tried: school exams, competitions, relationships, all went pffft as they wafted past me like leaves on the wind and took my hopes and dreams with them.

  And now this wonderful woman, Olivia, was trying to help me to become as exciting and classy a public performer as she? It was so ridiculous it just had to fail.

  Olivia tended to wear white lingerie, satin opera gloves and a long cream evening dress when she was performing, so she had the bright idea of dressing me totally in black as a striking contrast. I agreed, because I liked black, and we shopped for black underwear – a deep-cut bra which opened in the front, a satin Basque with six garter straps, and stockings.

  “Your own boots will be just fine, with a bit of polish,” she advised me as we toured yet another large department store in search of the sexiest stuff we could find, “if you’re used to them and they’re comfortable, that is. Besides, Bruno’s allowance probably wouldn’t stretch to a new pair, yet.”

  “Does he buy you things as well?” I asked.

  “Now and again, yeah. He’s so sweet; he cares for all of us. You know, I’ve performed in a few places here in Berlin and in Holland, and I’ve never met anyone as nice as him before. We’re very lucky to have him.” She held up a pair of black velvet hot pants against my waist. “These’ll look fantastic. Get in the changing room and try them on, darling.”

  Olivia called everyone ‘darling’. It was as though she loved all people, and seemed incapable of getting angry with anyone. I skipped in behind the curtain with the pants and the rest of the outfit, my fingers trembling now at the thought that this was what I’d be wearing that night – in less than ten hours – when everything was going to go to hell, a horror film with me as the star and prime victim. I wanted to give Olivia the clothes back, kiss her and tell her she was wonderful. And then run for it, all the way back to the railway station before I let everyone down and suffered the worst humiliation of my life. If I was this shaky now, how could I ever survive five, six, ten minutes on stage, in front of a packed house, and a demanding, expectant audience?

  I wriggled my jeans off over my boots, kicked my panties off too and pulled the velvet hot pants up to my hips. They fit perfectly, tight and snug and they definitely looked good on me. I allowed myself a crooked smile of appreciation at the mirror. At least if I could look all right, the evening’s exhibition might not prove too cringe-making, and I might still be in with a chance.

  I sorted through the other things that I’d placed on the stool – a couple of tops and a really short skirt which probably was illegal in some countries.

  I was just about to stand up again from bending over when I felt a warm, damp hand on my ass. The fingers tightened a little and I found myself being groped, grabbed gently, and an appreciative sigh drifted past me.

  I glanced up in the mirror and nearly squealed aloud at the sight.

  I squirmed around to find Olivia bent over me, face stretched wide in a big grin of forbidden delight.

  “Darling, I love your bottom,” she whispered. She leant in over my back and breathed in my ear. “I told you that you’d look fantastic in these.”

  The shorts were very tight and were cut high, exposing my heavy cheeks.

  “Thank you,” I gasped, and then squeaked as I felt her hand between my legs.

  “Olivia...” I started, to find her looking at us both in the mirror, her chin cradled on my shoulder. I was that bit taller than her in my boots and she looked rather stretched, and somehow even more vulnerable than usual, with her swan-like neck pressing against mine.

  “Yes, dear?”

  I shut my eyes as I felt my moisture begin to seep out of me and into the soft furry velvet which clung to my creases and curves like a tight glove.

  “Hmm, keep doing that.”

  She touched me harder, parting my labia through the material with her teasing finger. I pushed back against her, arching my back. Watching that beautiful woman stroking me in the mirror was almost indescribably erotic. I slowly opened up the bra and let my breasts fall out for her.

  “I think I’ve just found our routine for Saturday night, Phoenyx,” she said. “I want you – the black queen – to seduce me, the innocent in white. Strip for me, corrupt me. Make me yours. And take me, in front of them all. Make them want to join us, to share in our pleasure.”

  “Yes,” I sighed, “that sounds perfect.”

  “You remind me so much of that English girl, what’s her name – Fiona. Fiona Redmond or something. Long and red and absolutely luscious.”

  I had no idea who she was talking about, but I didn’t care as she buried her mouth in my neck, behind my ear, blowing hot excited breath onto my skin. I shuddered.

  “I love having my hair pulled,” she said. “You can do that to me – it’ll look so sexy. And make me feel so excited too. A good performance needs that kind of edge, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” I squeaked. The way I felt at that moment, if she’d asked me to help her rob a bank that afternoon, I would have agreed to it without another thought.

  “You can be a little bit mean with me too, it’s okay,” she went on, her breath dancing all over my nerve-endings. “I like it that way.”

  She brushed a tide of that beautiful shimmering hair over me. But I couldn’t bear the thought of tugging on such finery – it felt like she was asking me to rip a beautiful piece of antique lace. I ran my fingers through it, rubbing it against my bare chest, feeling it wash all over me, tickling, teasing.

  “Pull on it, darling,” she urged me. “Go on. You won�
�t hurt me. I’m not as weak as I look. I spent five years at ballet school – that’s a physical regime as tough as the army, I’ll tell you.”

  Her laugh was beautiful, a gentle tinkling sound like a distant little teacup landing on a ceramic floor. I didn’t know what to call the feeling which battered inside my ribcage and squirreled madly around inside my guts. Love, perhaps, but surely that was silly – a woman couldn’t love another woman in that way, could she? My mother didn’t seem to think so, but it felt an awful lot like what I got when I saw my favorite heroes on television or in magazines. Perhaps I’d find out for sure now.

  I turned around to face her, looking her up and down. I was startled to find that she’d slid out of her dress and stood naked there, smiling at me, those neat and silky curves just as wonderful in bright shop lights as under the soft spots of the Kitty Klub.

  She chewed on her lip as I gathered a handful of hair, winding it around my knuckles. She was waiting, expecting, and so I gave her a little tug. Her head slid into her shoulder, her eyes closing and lips parting with a gasp of excitement. Her hands landed on my breasts, holding them, pressing them. She pushed herself hard against me, and I pulled her hair again, drawing her face towards mine. She smelled of fruit, and of rose water – reminding me of summer mornings at my aunt’s place out in the country in West Baden. Her delicate fingertips closed around the peaks of my tits, now so thick and hard they almost hurt. I was totally lost. If a store assistant had pulled the curtain aside at that moment, I would have yelled at her, ‘Get lost, we’re busy!’

  She squeezed my nipples gently, and then I did cry out. Except that my throat was too dry from the thrill, and it came out more as a croak. Her thumbs hooked in the stretchy waistband of the hot pants and slid them all the way down to my knees. She knelt in front of me and looked up.