Hell on Earth 1 - Hell's Belles

by Jackie Kessler

  The spotlights flickered, and for a moment I saw every face in the audience as clearly as stars dotting a midnight sky. At table three, I locked gazes with Paul. If that wasn't raging desire I saw flashing in his eyes, I was a cherub.

  My show ended, and I gave the men a parting butt-shot as I bent from the waist to retrieve my discarded clothing. I sauntered offstage, riding the wave of monstrous applause. Howls and hoots rang in my ears, made my nipples vibrate. Ah, my adoring fans.

  Fuck you, Mister Paul Hamilton. And the horse you rode in on.

  One by one, I worked the tables. Around me, the other dancers strutted their stuff, performed their shows, and sucked money away from the customers. Some, like Candy, were model strippers, so to speak. She talked to her customers, laughed with them, and more often than not led them upstairs either to the lounge or the VIP room. Others, like Aurora, never let the men forget they were ATMs with dicks—her big line, delivered in a thick Jersey accent was, "Gimme some love, baby. Put a ten right here." And then there was Lorelei. Her idea of a sales pitch was, "Wanna dance?" It blew me away that she got as many offers as she did. One line I heard her purr was something like, "You got my number, and I answer my pages." No idea what that meant, but obviously the guys did. It always seemed to lead to the VIP room.

  I strutted by table eight, smiling at this kid barely old enough to shave let alone know what to do with his rod. His hand shook when he asked me if I'd perform a lap dance at the table; between his fingers, a crisp twenty trembled like a virgin. I took his hand and gently pushed it between my breasts. After a moment, I said to the Lovestruck Young Thing, "The idea, sweetie, is to let go."

  "Oh… sorry."

  The bill whispered its song of money on my flesh. Smiling deeply, I began to dance for the LYT. I took his hands and moved them up my legs, over the material of the slinky short dress, coming to rest on my torso. His fingers twitched beneath the swells of my breasts as I rocked against him, his penis pushing against his jeans and pressing into my belly. Beneath his mop of black hair, his eyes sparked like polished glass. Even though I couldn't smell his fear, it was obvious the poor boy was utterly terrified. Two days ago, I would have gotten off on that. But now it made me feel a bit sorry for him.

  Holy fuck in Heaven. I was a sad, sad little ex-demon.

  "Just breathe, sweetie," I said, blowing in his ear. "I won't bite."

  "Really?"

  I winked. "Not unless you pay me."

  When the song ended, I stroked his hair. "Thanks for enjoying the dance." Against my stomach, his erection cheered.

  He let out a squeak. "I think I love you."

  "No, sweetie. You don't. But I'm guessing the next girl who's lucky enough to grab you will have herself a fine, fine time." Ugh, I was so fucking nice, bunnies seemed vicious in comparison.

  "Here," he stammered, handing me another folded bill. "Thanks. I mean… thanks." This time, he knew how to tuck the tip into my cleavage properly. Fast learner.

  Leaving the smitten LYT in my wake, I moved to the next table, where an overweight, middle-aged man pounded back his third drink. A wedding ring gleamed on his left hand, and thoughts of fornication twinkled in his eyes. Cha-ching!

  "Pardon me," I purred, "do you mind if I sit for a moment? These heels are murder on my feet." Not a lie; how strippers didn't spend a portion of their earnings on orthodics, I'd never know.

  He cleared his throat. "You go right ahead, Ms. Jezebel."

  Ms. Jezebel. Wasn't he the cutest little flesh puppet? I smiled my thanks as I sank into the chair opposite him. "Looks like you're thirsty tonight."

  "It's Thirstday, don't you know." He chortled at his own cleverness.

  One of the two cocktail waitresses working the room sashayed up to him as I settled back in my seat. "Sir, would you like to buy the lady a drink?"

  "Ah! Ms. Jezebel, forgive my poor manners. Would you care to quench your thirst?"

  Hmm. Would I like him to spend the money on booze for the house, or on me for my Former Demon Relief Fund? Let's think. "I'm good, sweetie. Thanks anyway."

  "We're all set for now," he said to the waitress. She smiled tightly at him and shot me a glare that should have evaporated me on the spot. Then she slunk away, on the prowl for other victims.

  Chuckling softly, I flipped my hair over my right shoulder and started working out the kinks of my left by moving it in slow circles. "You enjoying the show?"

  "Very much," he said to my boobs. "You're really good, Ms. Jezebel." Maybe he realized his gaze was doing things to my nipples, because he noisily cleared his throat and looked me in the face. "You dance like you love it."

  "I do. There's something about being on stage that makes it feel like the music pulses through my body."

  "You make it look… what's the word. Sensual."

  "Why, sweetie, I'm an exotic dancer. I'm supposed to make it look that way."

  We both laughed—just two people sharing a joke, nothing seductive or manipulative. At least, that was the goal. Make every customer feel like he's the one you really connect with—that's the secret. But I'd never tell.

  Jowls quivering with mirth, he said, "Well, you're a damned fine dancer."

  "Thank you." I leaned back in my seat and slowly crossed my legs. The hem of my micro skirt slid up to my crotch. Massaging my neck, I rolled my head to the left—and saw Paul at table three, smiling at red-haired Lorelei, who looked like she was having an epileptic fit as she flailed on top of his table. If she wasn't careful, her silicon-heavy tits were going to smother her. What a pity.

  As if he sensed my presence, Paul's eyes darted my way. Paul Fucking Hamilton. When I'd offered myself to him, he'd been all holier than thou. But there he was, with a half-assed stripper dry-humping his tabletop. My eyes narrowed, and maybe I was crazy, but I thought he shrugged and sort of rolled his eyes at Lorelei, who was now making a big show of sucking her fingers. Either that, or she was trying to yak all over him. Not that I could blame her.

  I turned back to face the heavyset man next to me, and I stretched my smile as wide as it would go without cracking my cheekbones. "This is going to sound like a line, so forgive me. Come here often?"

  His startled grin revealed smoker's teeth. "Every once in awhile. When the mood strikes me."

  Absolutely not thinking about Paul and Lorelei, I repeated, "The mood?"

  "To see some pretty girls dance." His eyes sparkling from drink, he added, "To dream about doing more than watching them dance."

  I lightly touched his arm. "Sweetie, you don't have to dream about it."

  Beads of perspiration erupted on his forehead. "No?"

  "If you like, we can go to the lounge, or if you prefer, the VIP room. I'd be happy to dance for you. Or with you."

  He licked his lips. I guessed that in all the time he'd come to Belles, he'd never had the balls to pay for a private dance. His voice cracking, he asked, "How much would this dance cost?"

  "Depends. If you want a dance in the lounge, that's thirty for the one dance."

  "My. So, um, for three dances, that's what, ninety dollars for ten minutes?"

  "Sweetie, don't tell the managers, but I'm more of a by-the-song girl than a clock watcher. Tell you what," I said, one conspirator to another, "for you, I'll give you four dances for a hundred."

  Fingering his wedding band, he said, "And we'll just… dance?"

  I patted the man's hand. "Never underestimate how sexy a good dance can be."

  Leaving the VIP lounge a hundred fifty dollars richer—the fellow insisted on showing his appreciation for the extra dance—I bumped into Candy by the foot of the stairs.

  "Wanted to tell you, the guy at table three's been asking for you."

  Paul.

  My face must have looked like I'd quaffed a milkshake with extra cream, because Candy said, "What's wrong? You know him?"

  "Remember I told you I'd gotten into a fight with this guy?"

  "Yeah—shit, you mean that's the white boy who can't jump?"


  "Yep."

  We both glanced surreptitiously at table three. Meeting my eyes, Paul lifted his beer in a salute. I turned my back on him. Bastard. He wasn't supposed to catch me sneaking a peek at him.

  "Looks like he wants to make up," Candy said.

  "It's going to take a lot more than a toast to get me to walk over there."

  "Girl, you serious?"

  "Excuse me, Candy. Nature's calling. I guess seeing him's bringing out the best in me."

  I clomped my way to the dressing room, pretending every time my stiletto heel hammered the floor it was really skewering Paul's eyeball. Or maybe his scrotum. Whichever would make a better popping sound.

  On the threadbare sofa in the back of the dressing room, Jemma sat with her hands around her knees, shivering violently. Even with the temperature at see-your-breath levels and her little scrap of clothing she was almost wearing, she shouldn't have been shaking so much. "Heya, Jemma. You okay?"

  "Cold," she said, teeth chattering.

  No shit, Sherlock. "Sweetie, you should go home. You're sick."

  "Not sick. Need the money."

  Before I could think better of it, I offered her the cash I'd just scored from the lounge. "Here."

  She stammered, "What's that?"

  "A wad of boogers. What do you think?"

  Shaking her head, she said, "No."

  "Will you take the flippin' money before I talk myself out of this?"

  She sniffled so deeply that she should have choked on her own mucus. "Can't. Yours."

  "Oh, for fuck's sake." I grabbed her hand and shoved the money into it. Her perfume immediately attacked my sinuses, and my eyes watered. Sickeningly sweet, like milk, but with a hint of something more foul beneath it, maybe like fetid breath or an unwashed body. Looking up at me, her red-rimmed eyes puffy and distraught, Jemma looked sick and lost—a little girl abandoned in a hospital by her mother.

  "No need to pay me back. Now go on, go home. Shoo. Put on something disgustingly cute like flannel jammies and bunny slippers, bury yourself in bed, and get some sleep."

  She pulled her arm away and clutched herself. "Not sick. Just cold."

  "Then buy a blessed sweater," I muttered, walking past her to the tiny bathroom. After I flipped on the light and shut the door, I banged my head against the wall. It felt sort of good, so I did it again. I needed money, almost as badly as a creature of Greed. So what in all the levels of unholy Hell had possessed me to give any of it away?

  I was getting so soft that my spine was going to melt.

  After I did my business, I opened the door to find Momma hovering right outside. "All yours," I said, motioning to the toilet.

  "No thanks, honey. When I have to take a crap, I use the VIP room. Better toilet paper." She took me by the arm. "Come on, Jezebel. I've got to show you something."

  She gently but firmly led me out of the dressing room at a clip that would've have made soldiers beg for mercy. We zoomed onto the showroom floor, weaving our way around customers and my coworkers. And at table three, she stopped me dead and put out her palm.

  Paul, grinning like an angel with a new halo, dug out a bill from his wallet and put it in Momma's hand.

  "Thanks a bunch," I said, spitting out the last word.

  Smiling at the face on the greenback, Momma said, "You should be flattered that the gentleman wants to see you so badly, he gave me a twenty for the privilege."

  As she meandered away, I called over my shoulder, "You should at least give him a lap dance for the twenty!"

  She shouted over the din, "Honey, my dancing days are far behind me." Then the crowd and the music swallowed her alive.

  "Hi, Jesse."

  Refusing to look at him, I crossed my arms over my breasts and stared at the foosball table tucked into the back corner of the room. Did anyone really come here to play foosball? I sniffed, "Hello, Paul."

  "Will you at least look at me?"

  "Depends. You going to make me feel like throwing myself in front of a truck?"

  "Not if I can help it."

  "Okay then." I glanced at him. His hair was a little shaggy, his cheeks and chin a little stubbly. His poet's eyes beckoned with odes and epics; the bump on his nose that spoke of fights in his past cried out for my fingers to touch it. And that mouth… Bless me, the man was so fucking sexy I wanted to throw him down and suck him dry.

  Oh, wait. I'd already tried going that route.

  "Your sets are fabulous tonight," he said. "I thought you were good yesterday, but damn, tonight you're on fire."

  "I bet you say that to all the strippers."

  "Just the ones I like."

  "Uh-huh." I made a big deal of tapping my foot—which, in four-inch heels, is a royal pain. "I have to get back to work. You know, dancing for the guys who actually fantasize about me kissing them."

  He ran his hand through his curling brown hair. "Listen, about before. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, or embarrass you."

  "Embarrass me? Why? Just because I threw myself at your feet and you said no?"

  He blew out a sigh. "It's not like that. God, if you only knew how much restraint it took for me to walk away…"

  "Yeah, my heart bleeds for you. See you, Paul."

  "Wait, please."

  Hating myself, I waited.

  "Let me make it up to you?"

  Ooh. Possibilities abounded. "How?"

  His lips quirked in a suggestive smile. "For starters, can we see if the VIP room's available for a private dance?"

  Nonplussed, I said, "Sure. Want me to get Lorelei for you? I saw you drooling over her seizure on the table before. I didn't peg you for a boob man."

  "Boobs are nice," he admitted. "Especially on sexy brunettes with green eyes."

  My heartbeat quickened, and when I licked my lips I tasted perspiration beaded over my mouth. Bless me, did Roman actually turn up the heat in the joint? Or was Paul getting me hot?

  My body said to me, What do you think?

  Stop that, body. I'm pissed off at him. He's not allowed to turn me on. Got it?

  My body, treacherous thing it was, ignored me. My nipples nearly exploded through my bra. Between my legs, a hint of wetness lapped at my G-string.

  "What do you say, Jesse? Me and you, in the VIP room for a half hour."

  I barked out a laugh. "That's two-hundred-fifty dollars. You sure you want to start making up to me by me robbing you blind?"

  "It's worth it." He stretched out his hand, and I took it, helping him to his feet.

  After a pit stop to inform Lyle of my whereabouts, Paul and I headed to the VIP room.

  As we approached the back room, he leaned close and whispered, "I know I've seen you before."

  Goosebumps broke across my flesh. "Really?" I said lightly. "Where?"

  "I don't know. But I feel it in my gut. I know you."

  "Sweetie, that's probably just hunger pangs."

  He laughed—oh, that laugh!—and said no more about it. But as I led him into the VIP room, I thought about how he'd looked, twisted between his bedsheets, his hair sleep-tousled, his breathing ragged.

  And I remembered how his agonized shrieks had echoed in my ears.

  Chapter 17

  Paul's Bedroom

  Materializing into an unknown space entails a bit of risk. It's not as dangerous as, say, calling an Archangel "fuckhead," but it's more nerve-wracking than planning a few laps in the Lake of Fire. Thing is, when you don't know where you're about to appear, you could solidify inside an object or a being that's already occupying the space. Granted, I wasn't alive in the technical (read: breathing) sense of the word, but even so, suddenly sharing space with an oak tree or a moving city bus hurt like a bastard. I don't recommend it.

  So when I materialized inside of a pitch black closet and found a sneaker, a basketball, and rumpled clothing poking out of my hooves and legs, I bit back a yelp and yanked the dirty laundry out of me. Fucking mortals and their fucking possessions. And not in the cool d
emonic sense that was always a scream at parties.

  It's your own fault, Lillith's voice sniffed in my mind, her thoughts as hard and shining as diamonds. You shouldn't be solid. You're a Nightmare, remember?

  Moping, I tossed the shoe to the floor. I'm a succubus acting like a Nightmare.

  And what difference does that make? I imagined her full-lipped smile as she projected her thoughts to me—Lillith, Queen of the Succubi, thought she was the epitome of wit. Yeah, right. And Jim Carrey was the Pope. Call it what you will,

  your role now is to terrify sleeping humans. Think you can do that, Jezebel? Or should I speak to Him about placing you as a ghost?

  Balling my hands into fists, I replied, That won't be necessary.

  The silence stretched longer than a mortal's small intestine. Lillith hissed, That won't be necessary . . . what?

  Whoops. Maybe she was the ruler of all female Seducers, but she had pride that would put any demon of Arrogance to shame. That won't be necessary, my Queen.

  Better. You don't have to like me, Jezebel. But you do have to respect my position.

  Which, based on her reputation, meant straddled over King Asmodai and sucking his dick while she wiggled her ass in his face. As you say, my Queen.

  Now do your job and terrify the flesh puppet.

  Her presence winked out of my mind, but I knew the connection lay there, waiting to be activated. She was watching me. Bitch.

  Hating one's supreme ruler wasn't the best way to enjoy an immortal existence. I didn't know what I'd done to earn her wrath; smart demons didn't question such things, they merely accepted it and did their best to avoid said ruler whenever possible. For whatever reason, Lillith attacked my confidence like a cancer did a human's body. She ate away at my ego and ravaged my assurance in my abilities. If I nabbed three clients, it should have been five; yet if I brought in ten, then I was sacrificing quality for quantity. If I maneuvered my lover into calling my name when I was riding him, then I was relying on demonic power instead of my own skill. And if I didn't tempt a mortal into saying my name as he ejaculated inside of me, then I obviously didn't take my role seriously. And so on.