by Logan Belle
“Have a seat.”
Gemma took a spot on the red velour sofa directly across from the desk. She ignored the twinge of nerves at the base of her spine. Her palms were sweaty, and she wiped them on her dress.
“Are you expecting a guest named Gemma?” the woman said into her phone. The reply on the other end must have been affirmative, because the redhead stood and gestured for Gemma to follow her.
They walked through a black curtain to a narrow hallway lined with closed black doors. The doors were numbered.
When they reached the tenth door, the woman knocked twice, then inserted a key that hung from a chain around her neck. She opened the door just a few inches until Violet was visible on the other side.
“Thanks, Petra,” said Violet.
Gemma was startled. Violet was unrecognizable, covered in leather from head to toe in a formfitting catsuit with openings only for her eyes, nose, and mouth.
Gemma turned back to find the receptionist, as if she were her last contact with civilization. But the woman was already gone.
“What are you waiting for? A formal invitation? Get in,” Violet said, opening the door wider.
The room was dim, and Gemma couldn’t see what was inside. She hesitated only a few seconds before crossing the threshold and letting Violet close and lock the door behind her.
Violet wore knee-high black patent leather boots with at least a six-inch heel, and the catsuit exaggerated her breasts in both size and shape. The overall effect was of something not quite human, but with a feral sexuality.
“What is this place?” Gemma whispered. And then she noticed the woman on the other side of the room.
She was petite, with large breasts and vibrant red hair both on her head and on her pussy. And she was blindfolded, flat on her back, and strapped to a table, spread-eagled.
“Okay, I have no idea what’s going on here… .” Gemma said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you up to speed.”
“I don’t want to … get up to speed. I just came to talk to you about taking the costuming job you offered.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did! On the phone! I said I wanted to take you up on your offer.”
“Oh. I thought you meant my offer to dominate you.”
“What?”
“Okay, my bad. No big deal. Why don’t you just help me out with this little dom session I’m doing, and we can talk business after.”
“This is crazy. I’m leaving.”
“See? That’s why you never come.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s why you never come—get off. Orgasm. Whatever you call it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? I do my research, sweetheart. Plus, I can ‘read the room.’ Like every dominatrix worth her salt. And what I would say about you is that you don’t get off because you don’t give. I was wrong at first, I’ll admit: I thought you were a classic dom case. But I’m revising my assessment.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gemma said, nervously.
“Want to bet on that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I bet that if you follow my direction, you will have the best orgasm of your life before you leave this room.”
“What are we betting?” Gemma said. A part of her wanted to tell this lunatic to fuck off, but the other part—a stronger and inexplicable part of herself—kept her rooted in place.
“If you win, I’ll pay you for the costume job and you don’t even have to do the work. If you lose, you have to design the costumes for the money.”
“But you already offered me the job!”
“And you said no. You said you were working for Justin Baxter.”
“What if I refuse?”
“I’ll find someone else to do the costumes. I have a large budget. I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
Gemma looked at her, blinking but unable to come up with a retort. She locked eyes with Violet, and when she finally could no longer take the other woman’s unnerving gaze, she said, “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Follow me.”
Violet rolled a set of steel drawers on wheels over to the table. If the redhead sensed their approach, she gave no sign of it.
From the top drawer, Violet retrieved a riding crop, a tube of something, and a large dildo. Gemma’s face must have registered horror, because Violet said, “Don’t worry—I’ll manage this stuff. You’re going to go old-school.”
She turned to the redhead and walked slowly around the table. Suddenly, she smacked the riding crop loudly against the wall. The redhead jumped, though her movements were limited by the restraints. “I have an assistant helping me today, slave. You’re so needy that it’s too much work for one person, you selfish cunt,” Violet shouted. “What do you have to say to that?”
“Thank you, Mistress Violet,” the woman said.
Gemma could scarcely believe what she was witnessing. And yet it was oddly exciting.
“This is Mistress London,” said Violet. “You are not allowed to look at her, because you are not worthy. So you must keep your blindfold on for the rest of the session.”
“Yes, Mistress Violet. Mistress London.”
Gemma looked at Violet in amazement. Violet smiled. She then began unbuckling the table restraints. Still, the woman remained motionless. Gemma noticed the red impressions in the woman’s fair skin from the tightness of the restraints.
When every strap was loose, Violet told the woman to roll onto her stomach. She complied, and Violet then rebound her.
Violet waved for Gemma to move closer to the table. She did, and when she was next to the woman, Violet handed her the riding crop and gestured to the woman’s ass. Gemma looked at her incredulously and shook her head. Violet grabbed the crop and brought it down on the woman’s right ass cheek with a loud smack.
“Ahh!” the woman yelled loudly. Gemma could not tell if it was a cry of pleasure or pain. Violet handed the crop back to Gemma.
“If you want another, you are going to have to ask Mistress London. And if you are lucky, she will give it to you,” said Violet.
“Mistress London, can you please smack my ass?” said the woman.
Gemma hesitated for a second and then brought the crop down on the other cheek. To her shock, the woman moaned with what was clearly pleasure. Gemma looked at Violet, and she nodded. Again, Gemma brought the stiff crop down with a crack.
Violet reached over and stuck her hand between the woman’s legs.
“I can’t believe you’re already wet. Now, slave, I have a dildo that you have to take. Do you want it in your ass or your pussy?”
“My ass,” said the woman, to Gemma’s surprise.
“Too bad—you’re getting it up your pussy. I don’t think Mistress London should have to deal with your filthy ass, do you?”
“No, Mistress Violet.”
Violet was already squeezing lube onto the monstrously thick rubber penis. She handed it to Gemma, but Gemma shook her head no.
“Mistress London,” said Violet, “you and I have a little wager going, do we not?”
Gemma nodded.
“So let’s get down to business.”
The woman’s legs were spread and strapped down. Gemma took the dildo and stepped closer to the table. Slowly, she inserted the dildo into the woman’s vagina. She was surprised by how easily it slid in, but she pressed forward slowly. Unsure what to do, she withdrew it, and then pressed it in again, more quickly this time. The woman moaned.
More confident, Gemma maneuvered it deeper, then out, then back inside. The woman yelled out unintelligible things. To her shock, Gemma felt her own pussy grow wet.
And then she felt Violet unzipping her dress.
Her silver Brigitte Bardot dress fell to the floor, but Gemma did not break stride with the dildo. By now, the woman on the table was bucking against the restraints and begging Gemma to do it harder. Gemma complied,
trying not to lose focus just because she was now wearing only her thong and heels.
From behind her, Violet cupped her breasts. A ripple of pleasure shot through Gemma unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She pressed herself back against Violet and felt the leather against her bare skin. Violet pulled down her thong and pressed two fingers into her pussy. Gemma bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. The vibrations of pleasure in her pelvis were shocking and caused her to lose control. She tried to focus on keeping the dildo moving in the redhead, because the woman was crying out now in the throes of her own orgasm. Finally, Gemma couldn’t hold off any longer. She withdrew the dildo, then grabbed onto the edge of the table with both hands, grinding her pussy against Violet’s hand. It was impossible to stay silent, and she hardly recognized the animalistic sounds emanating from her throat as she was overtaken by the most powerful orgasm she’d ever had.
With one last shudder, the sensation eased. Violet withdrew her fingers. Gemma felt wobbly on her feet and was breathless.
“Congratulations, Mistress London. You’ve got yourself a job.”
20
By one in the morning, Martha’s birthday party had broken up into small groups and couples. The revelry had spread from the first floor up to the rooftop pool, which was now filled with half-naked and drunken partiers.
Nadia sat with her legs in the pool, her high-heeled shoes in her lap. Beside her, an actor she recognized from a popular sitcom was arduously trying to get into her pants. She’d always thought he was attractive on TV—but in person, not so much.
“So who was that dude who ran up onstage?” the actor said. She would have to look him up on the Internet when she got home to learn his name. He’d never introduced himself, operating under the assumption that she already knew who he was.
“Oh, just this guy I’ve been seeing,” Natalie said, uncomfortably.
“What a dick,” said the actor.
“It’s not… . He just has issues with, you know, the idea of my taking my clothes off for a living.”
“Personally, I think more women should take their clothes off in public,” he said. “Speaking of that—isn’t it time for us to take a swim?”
“I have to get going,” Nadia said, standing up. She felt wobbly and thought, for a terrifying second, that she was going to lose her balance and end up in the pool after all. The actor reached and grabbed her arm.
“Where are you running off to? The party’s just getting started.”
“Not for me,” she said. In fact, the party had ended for her the minute Max got thrown out by security.
What had he been thinking? And why hadn’t he told her he was going to be at the party? She was dying to ask him these things, but had ignored his texts and calls since his involuntary exit.
Nadia knew she should say good-bye to Justin or Martha on her way out, but she didn’t want to spend a half hour wandering around trying to find them. She hadn’t even seen Mallory, Alec, Poppy, or Bette in at least an hour. She told herself she should just go home. And yet she knew she wouldn’t.
Outside, drunken tourists were taking photos of the dramatic front gate of Justin’s building.
“Hey, gorgeous, get in the picture,” one of them called to her. She ignored him and walked down the street, her feet hurting in her heels, looking for a cab.
She didn’t know which made her more furious—the fact that Max had ruined her performance or that he’d deprived her of the chance to see if she had the nerve to go through with the striptease. But she did know that she’d never be able to sleep that night until she found out what had possessed him to do it. She also wanted to tell him how pissed off she was.
She dialed his cell phone, and he answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?” she said.
“Took you long enough to call me back.”
“Long enough? You’re lucky I’m calling you back at all after that little stunt you pulled. What the hell was that?”
“I think we should discuss this in person,” he said calmly.
“Where are you?”
“At the studio,” he said.
“It’s one in the morning. What are you doing there?”
“I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I spoke to you so I’m working. Meet me here.”
“I’m not meeting you there at this hour.”
“It’s on your way uptown. Just stop here so we can talk. Then I’ll put you in a cab home.”
She wanted to have the satisfaction of saying no, of saying “go to hell, I don’t want to see you anymore.” But the desire to see him and understand what he’d done was too strong.
In the distance, she saw a cab with its light on. She held out her hand.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Max met her out front. He paid for her cab and held the door for her. He wore jeans and a Ballet Arts T-shirt, and she could tell from the flush in his cheeks that he had been dancing rigorously. It was the way she used to deal with stress, too.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said. She said nothing, trying to ignore the immediate and almost overwhelming attraction she felt for him. She told herself it was just his post-workout pheromones playing on her senses. She attempted to put some physical distance between them as they walked past the twenty-four-hour security guard and made their way to the dark and quiet elevator banks.
The architectural elements of the building made it charming during the day but eerie at night. Max pushed the button for the second floor.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “This needs to be a quick conversation.” The doors slid open, and she followed him to the one brightly lit studio. Inside, Ravel’s “Boléro” played over the sound system. The French composer was one of her favorites, but she said nothing. For one thing, she might have told Max already. There was already a breadth to their relationship that made her lose track of things they had or had not discussed. She felt as if she’d known him far longer than she actually had.
Max turned down the music and sat on a wooden bench in the back of the room next to the piano. She sat on the bench, as far from him as she could without falling off.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” he said, surprising her.
“You are?”
“Of course. I didn’t plan to do that. But I care about you, and seeing you put yourself in that situation had a very intense effect on me.”
“Max, I enjoy what I’m doing. At least, I’m trying to. And your attitude toward it is just so … judgmental, and reactive, and frankly, not something I can live with.”
He looked at her with a smoldering intensity in his dark eyes that made it impossible for her to maintain eye contact. She glanced at their mirror image across the room. With their dark hair and long limbs and height, they looked like they belonged together. And when they made love, it certainly felt like they did. But with Jackson, she had learned the hard way that if you compromise in the beginning of a relationship on things that are fundamentally wrong, those differences will come back to hurt you in the end. Badly.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said. “Because I’m starting to care about you too much to ignore my feelings on this issue.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I guess we should stop seeing each other.”
His words almost knocked the wind out of her, and she was surprised by the intensity of her reaction. It was Jackson all over again, water in her lungs, the ground shifting beneath her feet.
“That’s bullshit,” Nadia said. “Don’t use what I do as an excuse. I know all about you and your track record with women. You should have just told me you wanted a one-night stand in the beginning. I would have been fine with it. But to pretend like you care, and then blame me for our not being able to continue seeing each other …”
“If you care about me, then why can’t you at least consider doing something other than burlesque? You haven’t been doing it that long—Jesus, you haven’t even completed a
performance….”
“Thanks to you! I felt good up there tonight. The only thing stopping me was you.”
“It was an impulse to jump up onstage. I told you I’m sorry about it. But that’s how strongly I feel about not seeing you make such a mistake. And the reason I went to the party without telling you was that I was curious to see if you were going to go through with it. I thought I didn’t want your decision tainted by me. I thought I wanted to see the truth of who you were in that moment. And then, I was the one who couldn’t stand the truth.”
“Why are you so against this? It has nothing to do with you. Why can’t you just be more open-minded? You barely know me. There’s more to my life than burlesque, but burlesque is the thing that has helped me the most since my injury.”
“I understand that it has served a purpose up to this point. Now I’m asking you to find the strength to let go of that crutch and get back to your real life.”
“You have no right to ask me to make those kinds of decisions. We barely know each other.”
He reached out for her hand, holding it for a moment before letting her go.
“And I guess we never will.”
21
At 7 a.m., Billy Barton had already completed his hour workout and was dressed in a Paul Smith shirt and pair of slacks. As he did at the start of every workday, he flipped through the New York Post, scanning Page Six. Though the gossip column had lost some luster since the days when editor Richard Johnson was at the helm, it was still part of Billy’s breakfast ritual, along with his Green Mountain coffee and an Acai smoothie.
“Listen to this headline,” he said to Tyler, who sat across the glass table picking at his egg white omelet. “ ‘Ballet Lothario Steals the Show at Burlesque Birthday Bash.’ It’s all about how a guest at Justin Baxter’s party jumped onstage during a burlesque show and dragged his girlfriend off. And the guy is the head of Ballet Arts! I would have had a photographer there covering the party for Gruff if I wasn’t on the outs with the Baxters over the Blue Angel. Of all the things that infuriate me about this situation, it’s not the money that bothers me most—it’s losing my connections.”