Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)

by Logan Belle

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “I’ve been thinking about you, too,” she said, breathing in the unfamiliar scent of him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. She pressed her body against his and could tell that he was hard.

  “Are you going to quit?” he said, his voice husky.

  “Probably.”

  “You’d better go back to the couch until you make up your mind.”

  She looked up at him, his chiseled good looks even better at that close vantage point. Alec was sexy and ruggedly handsome, but Gavin was technically, empirically, unequivocally beautiful. And for the first time in years, she felt free from the terrifying feeling that she would never be attracted to anyone but Alec and that if she didn’t find a way to make the relationship work, she would never be happy. Standing there, holding Gavin Stone, she knew she could be happy with another man—even if just for one night. And she needed, for many reasons, to know what that would feel like.

  “I quit,” she whispered, kissing his neck. As if he were a statue in a fairy tale brought to life by her touch, he grabbed her face and pressed his mouth against hers. For a few seconds, she wondered how this would play out. But then her body took over, and she couldn’t think of anything at all.

  Gavin pulled her closer, his hands moving to her ass. They stood against his desk, kissing like teenagers, so hard and fast it almost hurt.

  Gavin pulled away, holding her hands and looking into her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Come over here,” he said, leading her by the hand to the couch. She sat next to him, trying to discreetly assess the bulge in his pants. “As much as I want you right now—and believe me, I can’t remember ever wanting anyone more—I’m afraid this is a bad idea.”

  “Do you actually think I would sue you? I mean, Gavin, that’s crazy. If you don’t want to do this, that’s fine, but please don’t blame it on our work relationship.”

  “I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” He raked his hand through his thick hair. He had the strong wrists of a lacrosse player. She imagined he’d gone to boarding school. He probably had had a roommate named Biff.

  “You’re not,” she said feebly. “I don’t know how to prove something like that, but you simply aren’t.”

  “I think I’d feel better if we both slept on this for a few days and then saw where we’re at.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, because what else could she say?

  And then they locked eyes, and she leaned in and kissed him, and he pulled her to him with a roughness that seemed to negate his objections. She straddled him, pressing her crotch against his erection. His hands wound through her hair, and their mouths clashed together, teeth against teeth. She wanted to put her hands in his pants, to guide his cock into herself. But she had too much pride to be that aggressive, though maybe it was, in fact, the dynamic he needed to go through with fucking her. Or maybe he wasn’t sure he really wanted her. She didn’t know, and so she head-tripped herself out of doing anything, letting him kiss her until her mouth felt raw.

  She climbed off of him, and he squeezed her hand. She grabbed her hastily discarded coat and her bag, and he walked her wordlessly to the elevator banks.

  “Monday, okay? I’ll see you Monday,” he said.

  “See you Monday.”

  Violet was waiting for Poppy behind the door. But it was a Violet that Poppy barely recognized, dressed in a pink rubber nurse’s costume, with red latex gloves up to her elbows, and a rubber old-fashioned nurse’s hat affixed to her head.

  “Hello, Ms. LaRue,” Violet said, with odd formality. “Did you pay the receptionist? I don’t take insurance.”

  “What? Um, yeah.” Poppy tried to ignore the nervous squirming in her gut, the nudge that there was still time to leave.

  “Then, right this way.”

  Violet led her down a narrow hallway lined with closed doors. Poppy didn’t hear any noise and wondered if the rooms were soundproofed. Finally, at the end of the hall, Violet opened a door with a set of keys and held it for Poppy.

  Poppy stepped inside. She didn’t know what she had expected, but certainly not this place that looked like a gynecology examination room, complete with a table and foot stirrups, an anatomy chart of the female reproductive system, and a tray full of latex gloves, lube, and some very official-looking instruments.

  “I … I think I should leave,” Poppy stammered.

  “Don’t be silly.” Violet handed her a pink paper gown. “Put this on, open in the front.”

  Poppy couldn’t believe the scenario she was in and was both freaked out and oddly turned on. Violet’s cheeks were flushed, her green eyes bright, her lips lacquered to an impossible sheen.

  Poppy undressed, her hands shaking too much for her to fold her clothes, so she ended up tossing them on a chair. She kept her back to Violet while she nervously stepped out of her panties and pulled on the paper gown.

  She slowly turned to face Violet, who was busy arranging items on the supply tray.

  “Get on the table,” Violet said, without looking at her, her voice emotionless.

  Poppy climbed onto the examination table, the tissue paper covering crumpling underneath her. It was surreal. She half expected to find a stack of magazines next to her.

  “Ms. La Rue, please slide down and put your feet in the stirrups.”

  Poppy complied, placing her bare feet against the cold metal, her legs spread apart.

  Violet stood and moved next to the table. She peered down at Poppy and began feeling her breasts with her gloved hands. Her touch was rough and clinical, and yet Poppy felt a surge of excitement pulse between her legs. Violet’s touch had little to do with an actual breast exam, but the detachment and brevity of her contact made it clear that’s what she was supposed to be doing.

  She moved away and took a seat at the end of the table.

  “Come down closer,” she said. Poppy slid her ass down more, feeling very self-conscious that her pussy was splayed open in front of Violet’s face in that bright room.

  Violet busied herself slathering lube onto her gloved finger, then inserted it inside of Poppy, as clinically as she had felt her breasts, then removed her hand. She straightened up in her chair.

  “Have you experienced any sexual dysfunction lately?” Violet said.

  “What?”

  “Any trouble having an orgasm?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “I thought you said you were having problems. That’s why you made the appointment,” she said.

  “Oh, um, yeah. I’m having problems,” Poppy said, playing along.

  Violet slowly removed her rubber gloves. Poppy shifted her feet against the cold metal.

  “You can’t even come when you masturbate?” Violet said.

  “No?” Poppy said, wanting to get the answer right.

  “Hmm. This sounds serious,” Violet said, rubbing Poppy’s clit roughly with her thumb. She massaged, rubbing gently and then more firmly, pressing until it was almost painfully swollen. Poppy squirmed on the table. She was afraid she was going to moan, but didn’t want to make any sound. She felt that if she did anything wrong she would ruin the script, and the thought of this somehow terrified her.

  “You don’t feel anything?” Violet said.

  “No,” Poppy whispered.

  Violet shuffled through the items on the tray next to the exam table, and Poppy nervously shifted her ass against the paper underneath her. Her palms were wet with anxiety, her pussy throbbing with the need for release.

  “Turn around and get on all fours,” Violet said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to cure you. Get on all fours—face the opposite direction from me.”

  Poppy had no interest in putting her ass in Violet’s face.

  “I don’t know. I … I think I feel better all ready.”

  “If you’re not going to let me treat you then you can leave.”

  “Leave now?”

  “Y
es. Do you want to come or not?”

  “I want to come.”

  “Then get on all fours. Doctor’s orders,” she said with a wicked smile. She moved to the side of the table, adjusting it to make it flatter. “Oh, and take off your gown.”

  Poppy slowly pulled off the paper gown, dropping it to the floor. Despite all of the times she had taken her clothes off in front of a room full of strangers, she had never felt as self-conscious as she did getting into the position Violet demanded. But she dutifully turned around and got on her hands and knees, her ass in front of Violet.

  She felt Violet’s hand, once again in a latex glove, gently tracing the curve of her ass. Her finger moved down, brushing her labia so lightly it was as if Poppy were imagining it. She longed to feel that finger press deep inside her, to trigger the release she needed so badly it was like her entire body was becoming a coil of tension.

  And then, nothing. She held the position for a few minutes, resisting the impulse to ask Violet what was going on. And then she felt Violet’s gloved hands spread her ass cheeks and then push something slippery and hard into her anus.

  “What are you doing?” Poppy said, turning around and feeling for the object. Violet slapped her hand away.

  “I’m treating you. It’s just a butt plug. Relax. Now get on your back again with your legs spread.”

  “This feels weird… .”

  “Keep it in there. Get on your back.”

  Poppy turned around, taking deep breaths, trying not to think about the sensation of heat and pressure in her asshole. She spread her legs and lay back on the table. Looking up at the ceiling, she wondered what was wrong with her—why she was in this situation. Surely, this was not healthy behavior.

  And then she felt Violet’s bare fingers skimming her pussy lips, then the flick of her tongue against her clit and her fingers pressed inside of her. The combination of the pressure in her ass and the touch on her G-spot made her come so violently, the wave of pleasure was almost like pain. She cried out, calling Violet’s name, saying nonsensical things, shamelessly pressing her pussy closer to Violet, begging for more.

  When the last tremor of orgasm subsided, Violet stopped touching her.

  “You’re cured,” she said. “You can get dressed now.”

  Poppy was too spent to move. She was dizzy with the aftermath of intense physical sensation and the confusion of the encounter. She was vaguely aware of the foreign object still lodged in her rectum. As she raised her pelvis to do something about it, Violet pulled her hand away.

  “Leave that in until you get home,” she said.

  “It’s uncomfortable,” Poppy said, realizing she sounded like a child.

  “I don’t care. It’s part of your treatment. Doctor’s orders. I’m going to sit here and watch you get dressed to make sure you don’t disobey me.”

  Poppy stood from the table, her legs shaky. She pulled on her panties, conscious of her anus working to hold the butt plug in place. When she was completely dressed, Violet walked her wordlessly to the door of the room, and sent her down the dark hallway alone.

  Mallory’s lips still felt slightly bruised from Gavin’s kiss, and this distracted her enough as she opened her apartment door that she didn’t notice the lights were on in the bedroom, when she had most certainly left them turned off.

  She flopped down on the couch, leaning back and smiling. Kissing Gavin Stone. This was insanity.

  And then she noticed Alec’s shoes at the edge of the couch.

  “What the hell?” She jumped up, the light in the bedroom finally registering with her. “Alec?” she called, hurrying into the bedroom. Sure enough, he was at the edge of their dresser, folding clothes into his suitcase.

  “Hey,” he said, looking up at her. There was a calm neutrality to his expression that was more alarming than any anger.

  “Hi! When did you get here? I thought you weren’t coming back until Sunday.” She resisted the urge to throw her arms around him.

  “Kendall got called to New York, so I wrapped things up there sooner than planned.”

  Mallory couldn’t help but feel a surge of jealousy at the casual familiarity in the way he called the starlet just Kendall, not Kendall James.

  “Oh. How did the interview go?”

  “It went well. She’s not jaded enough to stonewall every question, which was lucky for me.” He stood up and closed the suitcase.

  “Are you packing, or unpacking?” Mallory asked. Suddenly, the kiss with Gavin seemed as trivial as a prolonged glance exchanged with a stranger on the subway platform.

  Alec didn’t answer her, but carried his suitcase to the living room. She followed him, swallowing a lump of despair in her throat.

  “Sit down for a minute,” he finally said, after he had already taken a seat on the couch. She sat next to him, both in the same places they had been in when she raced home from the Plaza to find him. But this time he took her hand. “I was thinking a lot while I was gone. I missed you,” he said. She sensed a “but,” and didn’t want to hear it.

  “I missed you, too.” Unable to hold back another minute, she put her arms around him. When his circled around her, she started to cry. It felt so good to be close to him, she almost couldn’t breathe.

  “Mallory, the thing is, as much as I missed you, at the same time, it was a relief to be away from the constant tension between us.”

  “What tension?” she said lamely.

  He looked at her as if to say, Come on. “I don’t know why you did what you did the night of the Plaza, but I know you’re not a reckless or promiscuous person. There’s something going on in our relationship that led us to that point, and maybe it’s my fault. Maybe in the past I challenged you to push your boundaries, and now you reflexively do that to get my attention. Or maybe I pushed you to open your view of your own sexuality, and now it’s more open than I can handle and it’s my own fault. Either way, I just don’t know what else to do but take a step back. Spend some more time apart. And maybe then we’ll get the answers.”

  Mallory reflexively wanted to argue with him, to tell him that was ridiculous, that she didn’t want time apart. But she knew how wrong that would be considering where, how, and with whom she had just spent the last hour. She was scared to admit it, but Alec was right. They needed to step back and see what they really wanted, if they were capable of being in a relationship that didn’t make both of them crazy. So all she said was, “I’m scared.”

  “Me too,” he said. He hugged her again, and she breathed him in deeply. She wished she could stay like that forever. But after a minute, Alec patted her leg.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I have to, Mallory.”

  “Where are you going to stay?”

  “Billy said I can use the Gruff corporate apartment for a few weeks.”

  Of course he did. And she was sure Billy just loved hearing about their drama. She wondered if Billy Barton knew what it was like to feel such anxiety and uncertainty. Had he ever cared about someone enough to make him or her the center of his world? She doubted it. He seemed emotionally bulletproof. It must be nice.

  Mallory walked Alec to the door. She wasn’t going to stop him from leaving, but she couldn’t help but cry when he stepped into the hall. He hugged her one more time, and then there was nothing left to do but watch him go.

  16

  Billy Barton stepped out of the Lincoln Town Car on the corner of Eighteenth Street and Ninth Avenue. He held a cup of coffee in one hand and the prescription of Ativan he’d just refilled in the other. It was going to be that kind of day.

  “Wait for me here or go around the block a few times if you have to. I should be back in less than an hour,” he told the driver.

  He walked half a block west to the male grooming salon, Sugar, which was owned and operated by his first male lover, Harvey Hixenbaugh. Harvey was twenty years his senior. They’d met when Billy and some friends had ended u
p at the legendary restaurant Florent after a night of clubbing senior year in high school. Billy’s buddies liked Florent for the twenty-four-hour food and supermodel sightings; Billy loved it for the clientele of drag queens, burlesque dancers, writers, actors, and bon vivants who ruled Manhattan by night and slept all day. Even though Billy had months left to go at Riverdale Country School and a four-year stretch ahead of him at Penn, he knew already the life he wanted to live. If he had to jump through a few conventional hoops in order to get there, so be it. That first night, Harvey had surreptitiously slipped him his number. Billy had planned to wait until he was safely at college to act on his homosexuality, but he quickly revised his plan when Harvey appeared to be a perfect partner in exploring the side of himself he could share with nobody in his “real” life—not his billionaire, Wall Street father, not his socialite mother, not his older brother who was in Washington working for a Republican senator who had eyes on the White House.

  It was a glorious six-month affair, a blur of drugs and sex and an endless loop of nightlife that introduced him to the artists and tastemakers who set the pace that the fashion, music, and film industries would follow. This crowd validated his desire to live a “big” life—showed him it was possible.

  Now he owned Gruff, had his pick of the hot male—and occasionally female—models and hipsters who roamed the underbelly of Manhattan after dark. And Harvey was clean and sober, running a successful business, and married to a painter named Oliver. Life was good.

  And now this mess with Violet.

  When he’d met the Burberry model Tyler Rand at a photo shoot for Gruff, he’d referred him to Harvey. All the top male models, actors, porn stars, prostitutes, and successful, closeted “straight” guys came to Harvey for “sugaring”—it was like waxing, but used a warm sugar mix that worked in the direction of the hair growth, not opposite the growth like waxing. When it was done right, it could eventually lead to permanent hair removal. Some salons just added sugar to their waxing mix and called it sugaring, but getting the actual sugar-based paste exactly right was a skill, and Harvey charged an arm and a leg—no pun intended—for his expertise and services. Despite the cost, it was still impossible to get an appointment without a referral. And today at 11a.m. was Tyler’s standing appointment.