Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)

by Logan Belle

  “Nah. Agnes has your Dolce ad in the dressing room. She’ll never admit it, but she’s proud of you. Besides, I think she has bigger things than your defection to worry about now.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “Sounds like we have a lot to talk about.”

  “You have no idea,” she said, and thinking about last night, her happiness at hearing her old friend’s voice burst like a bubble.

  Poppy walked up and down the aisles of M&J Trimming, her go-to place for buying ribbon, buttons, feathers, and appliqués. Just setting foot in the door made her happy—it was the candy shop of costume creation.

  She tried not to get distracted by the bins of Swarovski flatback rhinestones in gorgeous shades of blue and green, colors with names like mint alabaster, peridot, olivine, and Capri blue. They were expensive, and she really had come to the store just for the tassels she needed for the Halloween show costume. Every time she walked into the store she saw ten things she wanted to buy just to have or because they inspired another costume. But one of the first things she’d learned about shopping for material was to go with a list and never deviate. Otherwise she would spend too much money on things that sparkled that she didn’t really need. In that sense, it was like being in her relationship with Patricia. She needed to just focus and stop worrying about shiny distractions, sexy women who would never care about her the way that Patricia loved her.

  The other night, she’d felt so bad about locking Patricia out of the office so she could look at porn, she immediately went back into the bedroom and made it up to her. Patricia had surprised her by easily agreeing to turn off the television, and their lovemaking was filled with an intensity that Poppy had not felt since the first few times they had been together. It was as if Patricia had sensed that Poppy was restless, and she, too, wanted to set things right.

  A quick turn down an aisle brought Poppy out of the danger zone into the display of tassels. She honed in on the gold ones she needed and put them in her shopping cart. That’s when she heard the commotion at the front door.

  “You can’t come in here with that camera,” yelled one of the store employees.

  Poppy picked out one more pack of tassels—black in case she changed her mind about the gold—and made her way to the front of the store. She was only mildly curious about the yelling at the front of the store, but when she noticed, out the window, the crowd on Sixth Avenue, she felt a surge of interest.

  “What’s going on?” she asked a bored-looking young woman at the checkout register.

  “I’m not sure,” the girl said with a shrug. “I think someone famous is here. There’s paparazzi outside.”

  Poppy placed her items on the counter. Having lived in New York a while, she had become indifferent to rubbing elbows with celebrities. While the girl scanned her tassels and put them in a plastic bag, Poppy gave the store a once-over, wondering if she had forgotten anything.

  And that’s when she saw her.

  Poppy would have known that shiny black bob anywhere. She instinctively started following the woman, like an animal turning after its prey.

  “Hey, you forgot your credit card,” the girl at the counter said to her. Poppy ignored her—she had to make sure, had to know for certain if it was really who she thought.

  From behind, all Poppy could see was her gleaming dark hair and that she was wearing stiletto-heeled black ankle boots under a black leather trench coat. She didn’t need to see more than that to know.

  “Bette,” Poppy said, feeling like a stalker as she closed the distance between them.

  The woman turned around, and sure enough, there was that alabaster skin, the girlish smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her deep blue eyes were hidden under oversized, round-framed black sunglasses.

  “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Bette said.

  “Sorry! I just…I’m so surprised to see you here,” Poppy said, her heart racing.

  “I just got back into town. Getting my M&J fix. There’s a place like this—better than this, even—in Paris. But aside from that one store I’ve really missed what I find here. Here, walk with me. I want to get what I need before the paparazzi talk their way in here and I have to bolt.”

  Poppy looked around as they walked. Despite the throng of photographers outside, none of the other customers seemed to notice the tabloid darling in their midst.

  “Is it always like that—with the photographers, I mean?”

  “Lately. LA is the worst. I thought maybe it would be different here but no such luck.”

  Bette’s phone rang, and she scrambled for it in her purse as if it were a lifeline.

  “Hey,” she said into her phone, shielding it with her cupped hand as if the casual observer could actually see who was on the other end. She stopped in the middle of the aisle. “Because you told me not to!” she hissed at the phone. And then she turned her back to Poppy and walked off.

  Poppy stood watching her for a moment, then headed back to the checkout register to retrieve her tassels and American Express card. The thought of going home to Patricia gave her a sinking feeling.

  She had found something that sparkled that she didn’t really need, but that she wanted. Badly.

  10

  Violet peeked out from behind the stage curtain at the crowd. The Blue Angel was packed. There was a hyped-up energy in the room, and she felt good about the show.

  Her only disappointment was finding that Mallory wasn’t on the schedule.

  “Mallory isn’t here tonight?” she asked Agnes, hoping she had somehow misread the lineup.

  “No. So Poppy ends the show and you open it.”

  Violet hated going first. The crowd was always excited for the first performer and easily impressed—too easily. Plus, they never remembered the first performer when they walked out the door after an hour-long show. How was she going to make a name for herself when she was practically the warm-up act?

  And fucking Ryan Ellison hadn’t increased her exposure; the paparazzi hadn’t caught her leaving the club with him or leaving his hotel. And he hadn’t tried to contact her or returned to the club. It was her fault—she had held back in fucking him. If she had unleashed Mistress Violet on his skinny ass, he would have been back for more. Any woman can give a man pleasure. But few can inflict pain.

  By the time she took the stage she was in a foul mood. She was glad her act was loud and aggressive; the Rob Zombie song “More Human Than Human” cranked over the sound sytem, and she took the stage in her dreadlocked wig, leather jacket covering her black corset, her legs clad in thigh-high, six-inchheeled biker boots.

  Some might have construed her performance as a bit artless, but the way she threw off her clothes, gave the audience the finger, and flashed her pussy at them like a dare was every bit as choreographed as the more subtly teasing dances of her peers.

  One person in particular seemed to be enjoying her audacious display; she caught Poppy watching her from the side of the stage, an expression of jaw-dropping awe on her obnoxiously conventional pretty face. For the first time, Violet realized, Hmm. I could hit that. But she had no interest. There was only one Blue Angel pussy she wanted, and she’d had a taste last night. She had every intention of going back for more.

  Backstage, Agnes pulled her aside by the elbow.

  “I told you we do burlesque here—not stripping.”

  “That was burlesque.”

  “Not by Blue Angel standards.”

  “Get with the times, Agnes. No one wants to see fat chicks dancing to ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,’ waving around a bunch of feathers. That’s why people come here as a warm-up before going to their real entertainment for the night at the Slit.”

  “Then perhaps that is where you belong. One more show like that, and you’re out. And keep your mouth shut, while you’re at it.”

  “I’m the best performer you’ve got here, and you know it,” Violet said. />
  “I’ve seen dozens of you come and go. And every one of you thinks you’re something special. The truth is you’re all replaceable. So do what you wish.”

  Violet picked up her bag and searched for her cell phone. She didn’t need the old lady and her passé club. She would leave—and she’d take Mallory with her.

  Poppy was staring at her from across the dressing room.

  And that stupid bitch will probably follow me out the door, too.

  She pulled her cell phone out of her bag and dialed Mallory.

  Mallory leaned in toward the bathroom mirror, examining her arm. That morning, she’d thought about washing off the painted lady, but she couldn’t bear to part with it, despite the fact that it was a symbol of relationship disaster.

  But Alec was gone, on the other side of the country, without so much as a text to say he had landed safely. So she set to work with a bottle of baby oil and a pile of cotton balls.

  She watched the blue paint turn liquid, the angel’s face melting.

  Her cell phone rang in her handbag on the floor. Could it be?

  She fished it out, trying not to smear baby oil on it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey,” said Violet. “What are you up to?”

  Mallory cringed at the sound of her gravelly voice, a dozen erotic and excruciating images flooding her mind. She closed her eyes as if that could make them disappear.

  “I’m getting ready for bed,” Mallory said, immediately regretting her choice of words lest they be perceived as an invitation.

  “It’s early,” Violet said.

  “Not for me. Good night.”

  She hung up her phone. What did Violet want from her? Maybe she wanted a do-over for Saturday night so she could get a chance to fuck Alec, too.

  Mallory turned back to the painted tattoo, mashing the oily cotton against the image until it disappeared.

  Her phone rang again. She could not believe Violet had the audacity to keep pushing her!

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Mallory?”

  “Gavin?”

  “Yes—I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  She took a moment to compose herself.

  “No, not at all. Are you still at the office?”

  “I’m on my way to a dinner party at Cynthia Hobbs’s. She’s hosting a benefit for the ballet, and I paid for two seats but Susan just informed me she can’t make it. It’s a shame to waste a seat, and this is an event you might enjoy. The principals of this season’s Swan Lake will be there. And Cynthia would be happy to have you. She raved about the work you did on the case.”

  Mallory’s mind clicked into fast action. She loved the idea of getting out of the apartment, of being saved from having to brood about where Alec was and whether or not he would call. She wouldn’t have to think of Violet, or of the performance she had to do tomorrow night that she was already dreading because of her state of mind. But she was in leggings and a T-shirt, and he was already on his way out!

  “It’s kind of short notice. I’m not exactly party-ready,” Mallory said.

  “Just throw on a black dress. The median age there will be sixty. You’ll be the most glamorous one there in the simplest thing you own. Trust me.”

  Mallory laughed. She was already opening her closet.

  “How long do I have to get ready?”

  “Can you work fast?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Mallory was giddy with anticipation.

  Violet turned off her phone in a cold fury. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Mallory would refuse to see her tonight. All during her performance, she had imagined Mallory in the audience, waiting to get her pussy licked when Violet was finished. The thought that she wouldn’t be able to satisfy herself tonight was almost too much to take. She tossed her phone to the floor, where it clattered and slid to the nearest vanity table. Everyone in the dressing room looked at her for a second and then returned to changing and texting and getting ready for the next phase of their nights. All except Poppy, who could barely seem to take her eyes off of her.

  Violet pulled on her jeans and combat boots, threw her bag over her shoulder, and strode to the door. As she passed Poppy, she said, “Come with me.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice.

  In the cab, on the way to her apartment, Violet pulled a T-shirt from her bag and used it to blindfold Poppy. This wasn’t just some cheesy rip-off move from a bad gangster movie; she really was a private person and had no intention of allowing Poppy to know where she lived or see what her apartment looked like. And the fact that Poppy complied with the blindfolding made her confident that the woman would let her do whatever she wanted to her.

  Ideally, she would have been able to take her to the Cellar or another one of the dominatrix clubs where she worked and occasionally rented space. But Friday nights were too expensive for her to rent space just to give Poppy a freebie, no matter how much she would love to have access to the equipment. She’d just have to improvise tonight. Besides, she was sure Poppy would be back for more, and Violet felt turned on for the first time that night, anticipating how delicious it would be to wage a campaign of sexual control over Poppy LaRue.

  But for tonight, she would start slowly—relatively.

  The cab pulled up in front of her building, and she helped Poppy navigate the wide cement stairs to the front door of the four-story brownstone. Her legs were long and lean in her short leather skirt, and Violet couldn’t wait to get her hands on them.

  To her credit, Poppy had been silent for the ride and even as she made her way into Violet’s apartment, leaning into her so she didn’t stumble.

  She led Poppy into her bedroom and helped her off with her coat. Then, with Poppy still blindfolded, Violet tied each of her arms to the wrought iron headboard.

  Poppy’s chest was heaving up and down with her heavy breathing. Violet didn’t know if it was from the exertion of climbing four flights of stairs in stilettos, or nerves, or excitement.

  “I like that you’re quiet,” Violet said, as she looked through her closet for appropriate attire. “Conversation can be so tedious.”

  She stripped off the clothes she only wore after a show, the same old jeans and a shirt she’d had so long she didn’t care if they got covered in glitter or if they were lost or stolen backstage. She turned to make sure Poppy was still in place on the bed, not trying to take off the shirt covering her eyes or loosen her wrist restraints. She didn’t want her getting too comfortable.

  Violet changed into a crotchless leather catsuit and thigh-high patent leather boots. She rifled through her drawer of masks and decided on a Victorian studded favorite of hers that she’d bought at a fetish shop on West Twenty-second Street.

  A quick perusal of a duffel bag full of supplies from her last dom session with a client yielded a good leather blindfold to replace the makeshift one she currently had wrapped around Poppy’s eyes. And switching the blindfolds would give her the opportunity to let Poppy have a glimpse of her in her Mistress Violet ensemble—she wanted her to have an accurate mental image while she was being defiled.

  She strode over to the bed and untied Poppy’s arms.

  “Sit up,” she said. Poppy obeyed her immediately. Violet bent closer to her, untying the clumsy knot holding the shirt against her head.

  She stepped back so Poppy could get a good look at her. The expression on her face was the perfect blend of awe and trepidation. She knew Poppy wanted to tell her she was beautiful—that for once she was looking at someone more outstanding than herself. But—and rightfully so—she was hesitant to speak.

  Violet tied the leather blindfold around Poppy’s head and instructed her to lie back down. She fastened restraints around her wrists, bondage ropes that were the best quality she had, the least likely to leave marks.

  “I need to get something from the other room. Don’t move an inch while I’m gone.”

  Silence.
>
  “Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Poppy said.

  “Good girl. And while we’re at it, don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

  Violet wasn’t sure what the girl’s deal was, but she knew enough about human behavior to know she was desperate for a good fuck.

  She made a quick trip to the kitchen to get a pair of scissors, then returned to find Poppy still in place on the bed. In a way, she was disappointed. It would have been nice to return to find her untied, naked, masturbating—and eager to tell Violet she could shut the fuck up and watch. But people rarely surprised her. Annoyance flared in her; why did she always have to do all the work?

  On the floor beside the bed, she laid out the basic equipment she needed: a pair of scissors, a paddle, a-cat-o’-nine-tails, and ankle restraints. She added a ball gag to the collection, just in case her sexual servant suddenly became chatty.

  Poppy was wearing a tight black T-shirt that Violet hoped for Poppy’s sake was made by Old Navy and not Vince or James Perse, since it was about to meet an untimely end.

  She stood at the side of her bed, looking down at Poppy.

  “Stay very still,” she commanded, pulling the bottom of Poppy’s shirt taut and lining up the mouth of the scissors. Then she began to cut. Violet made sure that Poppy felt the cool press of the metal against her belly as she worked her way up.

  “What are you doing?” Poppy said, trying to sit up.

  Violet pushed her back down.

  “What did I tell you about speaking unless spoken to? I’m going to have to punish you for that. And, not that it’s any of your business, but I happen to be removing your shirt. Your hands are tied—since I obviously can’t trust you—so I have no choice but to cut it off.”

  Once the T-shirt was split down the middle, she parted it like a curtain and looked at Poppy’s breasts. She had to admit—the girl had a damn good body. Violet recalled now, although she hadn’t thought about it before, seeing Poppy’s ugly girlfriend at the shows a few times. Violet was a tough critic, and she had to admit Poppy was technically the most beautiful girl at the club. So what was with the subpar pussy she kept at home?