Naked Angel (17 page)

She jumped off the barrel, now clad in only her top hat, heels, and bloomers. She moved fluidly into a few twirls that positioned her at center stage with her bare, alabaster back to the audience. She turned her head to the side to peek at the crowd, then she removed her hat, turned around, and used the hat to cover her breasts. She did a few showgirl kicks and walked to the front of the stage. With one hand, she slid the hat slowly down from her breasts to her belly to the front of her bloomers, her other hand obscured behind the hat as she worked to remove her pants. The audience clapped in anticipation. Sure enough, with the top hat still in place, Bette swiveled her hips until her bloomers fell to the floor. She kicked them aside.

A few guests in the front rows whistled. Max squirmed in his seat. As the song neared its end, Bette flashed her soon-to-be movie star smile, and put the top hat back on her head—revealing her bare pussy. The curtain slid closed.

Max was the only one in the audience not cheering in appreciation. It was unthinkable that Nadia would put on this kind of display. He wasn’t a prude—he loved sex as much as the next person—but the thought of the woman he cared about objectifying herself in such a way was more than he could endure. The burlesque audience was not filling seats to see choreography. They were not there for the costumes. They were interested in seeing as much naked flesh as they were allowed to see because they didn’t have the balls to be honest about it and just go to a strip club.

“And that, ladies and gentleman, is why Humbert Humbert didn’t stand a chance,” Alec said, again taking the microphone. “Another round of applause for Bette Noir—who, incidentally, made her New York début at a Baxter party just a few short years ago.” The applause grew louder. “Was anyone in this room at that party?”

A few hands shot up. “Yes, we all know
you
were there, Justin,” said Alec. People laughed. “Somehow, when a hot woman gets naked, you always end up in the room.”

Everyone laughed.

“Now, our next act features not one, but two stunning performers who pay homage to a Hollywood golden girl and a silver screen vixen who fought over one lucky man decades before Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie were born. . . . Ladies and gentleman, please give it up for Moxie and Naughty Natasha.”

The curtain parted to the song “Singin’ in the Rain.” Nadia sashayed out wearing a butter-colored raincoat that fell just below her waist, her long legs bare except for a pair of black, rubber, knee-high Hunter rain boots. She wore a matching yellow rain hat and carried an open umbrella. She posed for a moment with the umbrella open and over one shoulder, smiling with an innocent exuberance that mirrored the famous Debbie Reynolds pose in the film posters that featured the actress alongside costar Gene Kelley.

Nadia skipped to the front of the stage, twirling the umbrella. Suddenly, the music switched to the Bangles’ 1980s hit “Walk Like an Egyptian.” And then Mallory emerged from backstage in full Cleopatra regalia. The audience went crazy, yelling, “We love you, Liz.” With her exaggerated black, arched eyebrows, blue eye shadow from lid to brow, and tumble of dark hair held in a gold beaded headdress, she did embody a young Elizabeth Taylor.

Nadia, as Debbie, paused to watch her rival. Mallory moved to the front of the stage and untied her silky white robe, letting it fall to the floor to reveal the gold tunic underneath. Debbie, not to be outdone by the flashy Liz, began unbuttoning her raincoat.

Max knew where this was going. And he couldn’t let it happen.

He jumped up from his chair, almost knocking it over, and hurried up the aisle toward the stage. It was low enough that it was easy for him to jump on it, and he did, to exuberant cheers from the audience. It was clear they thought he was part of the act, perhaps anticipating him in the “Eddie Fisher” role.

“What are you doing here?” Nadia hissed, while Mallory, a consummate professional, kept performing.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, pulling her toward the curtain.

“You’re going for the wrong one, Eddie!” someone yelled from the audience.

“Seriously, Max—stop it. You’re ruining everything!” Despite her protest, Nadia followed him off the stage, behind the curtain. He didn’t harbor any illusions that she was happy to talk to him—she just wanted to end the spectacle.

“I can’t let you do this,” he said.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Two security guards came up the side stairs. After Nadia assured them she was fine, they turned to Max and said, “Sir, you’re going to have to leave.” They didn’t wait for his compliance but took him by the arms. Max didn’t resist or protest. He didn’t try to explain himself to Nadia.

As far as he was concerned, it was mission accomplished.

G
emma paid the cabbie, although she wasn’t at all confident he had brought her to the right location. The address did not look like it could possibly be a private club. The building looked more like it housed cheap office space or low-income apartments.

She dialed Violet’s cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. Not knowing what else to do, she walked inside the building and followed Violet’s instruction to go to the fifth floor.

The doors slid open to another set of doors. These were locked. Gemma located an intercom to the right of the doors and pushed the button.

“Yes?” said a voice from somewhere on the other side of the doors.

“Um, it’s Gemma. I’m here to see Violet.”

There was no reply, but after a few seconds the doors buzzed and Gemma pushed them open.

The room was narrow, and directly in front of her was a dark, shiny wooden desk that looked like a Victorian antique. Above it, in jarring contrast, was a colorful, art deco chandelier. And under the chandelier sat a remarkably pale young woman with red hair piled in a bun. She was dressed in a ruffled floral blouse and wore granny glasses. The overall effect would have been librarian-ish if the woman hadn’t had lips pumped full of silicone.

“Can I help you?” said the woman.

“I’m here to see Violet.”

The woman consulted the thin laptop on her desk. “You have an appointment with Mistress Violet?”

“No—I’m meeting a . . . business associate. Violet Offender? The burlesque dancer.”

“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?”