Phoenyx: Flesh & Fire

by Morgana Blackrose

  “Those of you who have been in attendance here lately, or who at least have been paying attention – yeah, I’m talking to you, Sleepy Sam, at the back…” She waggled a finger at someone half-hidden at the back of the club, provoking a lot of laughter and a distant heckle in return. “Fuck me, did you say? No baby, I might just swallow you up. Go off and pleasure yourself through the eye of a needle.” The next round of laughs drowned out any further abuse, and she went on with her introduction: “Anyway, if you’ve been anywhere here at all lately, you’ll have noticed that we have a new member of our exotic dance troupe. Uh huh. You know who I’m talking about.”

  Honey had brought her fan club this evening, it seemed, as the expectant cheers and whistles stopped Mel in her tracks again.

  “Yeah, that’s right. She walks like a woman and talks like a man, but she’s not called Lola. So as she obviously needs no introduction – I’ll clear off and let her get on and show you what you’re all waiting for. Here she is, boys and girls, and those who aren’t too sure yet; Miss Honey.”

  But Melissa might as well have been speaking in ancient Latin as nobody in the room heard a word she said. The wall of noise was deafening and only once the band started up was I able to hear something that wasn’t the sound of rowdy expectation.

  We knew from the outset that this set would be different, as Honey had no sooner stepped onto the stage than she jumped off the front edge and began walking among the tables and the chairs, chatting to patrons as she went. We couldn’t hear what was being said but going by the reactions, it was clearly filthy, and equally funny. Well, I would have expected nothing less from her.

  Bruno was nowhere in sight and I had visions of him sitting in the toilet with a bad case of constipation, swallowing stress pills as he worried about what bizarre and potentially troublesome antics Honey would be getting up to – antics that he was unable to bring himself to look at, even through his fingers, from behind the bar.

  “How fucked-up do you think this is going to get now?” Petra asked me as we watched from the wings.

  “My guess is she’s going to go all the way.”

  Petra shook her head. “Really wish you’d stop calling that character ‘she’. For crying out loud, it’s a fucking guy who just happens to have stuffed a bit of silicone into his pectorals. That doesn’t make anyone female. I don’t care what you wear or how you walk; she’s just another tranny who couldn’t even go the whole distance.”

  I smiled as I caught her using the contentious pronoun ‘she’ there, but let it lie. I didn’t want to antagonize Petra any more, knowing that she was already deeply unhappy about the backstage situation. And besides, the front of the house situation was unfolding rapidly and demanding our attention.

  Honey had taken up residence at one of the bigger tables which currently accommodated our old Social Studies professors. She said something to the oldest one of their number, a kindly-looking, grandfatherly gentleman who always wore a velvet bow-tie and whom we had nicknamed ‘Professor Plum’, after his resemblance to the character in that old board game. The Prof pushed his chair back and next thing we knew, Honey had flipped herself up onto the table. The other profs snatched their drinks away quickly before she got the chance to send them flying with her size eleven boots and this, I guessed, was where she planned to make her last stand – assuming things panned out the way I (and Bruno too, no doubt) feared.

  She wiggled herself across the table on her hands and knees, shaking her ass in everyone’s face, then pulled her miniskirt up to show off her bright red G-string, and the very generous package hanging underneath. The Profs had already seen her last two performances and so probably knew what to expect from a spectator’s point of view. But now they were being invited to interact. And that was something very few of us ever did, always mindful of Bruno’s ‘look, don’t touch’ policy for the punters.

  She stood up and slithered out of her skirt, bending and shimmying with as much grace as Olivia on a good night, working the crowd with every little movement, every bump, every thrust of impeccably-honed sensuality; more feminine than mere femininity, more seductive than plain ol’ seduction could ever hope to be. Necks strained and heads popped up all over the bar-room as everyone else fought to get a good view of what was happening under the glaring lights in the corner.

  (Not bad for just a ‘guy’, I thought to myself. He’d obviously spent a huge amount of time studying us chicks, distilled all of the best and sexiest bits, and dumped them in a blender along with a huge dollop of what Petra called chutzpah, or balls, in honor of her Yiddish grandmother.)

  The skirt flopped to her feet and she kicked it clean over everyone’s heads to send it skittering across the stage. She squatted down and faced one of the Profs, legs spread, while urging the one behind her to unclasp her bra. This task the elderly, trembling fingers just about managed, although not without some verbal encouragement being thrown at him from his colleagues and everyone else in the bar too. As the bra slid down slowly, Honey leant in over her captive Prof and let it fall gracefully, landing across his head where it remained, like a pair of lace-trimmed earmuffs, much to the amusement of the others.

  Then she stood up, that dark satanic grin plastered over her face, and plucked at her nipples, teasing herself to encourage her fullest arousal. Stripped down now only to her G-string and boots, it was time for the final revelation.

  I jammed the knuckle of my index finger between my teeth and began to gnaw in anxious expectation. That started to hurt after a while, so I pushed my middle finger in alongside it as well. I felt as if I was watching time itself unravel before me, as though Honey was channeling some esoteric cosmic force which caused normality to shrug its shoulders and take five, and bring the flawlessly-lubricated cogs of the universe grinding to a shuddering standstill.

  Whatever it was she was doing, it was magical.

  She worked that bar, and the poor breathless Profs beneath her, like nobody else I’d ever seen. Having abandoned the stage, she had made herself accessible, a table-dancing nymph whom everyone wanted to come to their spot. She slid the toe of her boot underneath one of the Profs’ jackets and flicked it off his shoulder, exposing a cheeky bit of laundered white shirt.

  “Oh my fucking God, no,” Petra groaned. “Not the geriatric sex.”

  “I don’t think she’s gonna go that far,” Mel replied. “Well...I pray, anyway.”

  But Honey was having too much fun. The G-string was tugged, slapped and stroked as she squirmed and cavorted on the table, making full use of that limited space. Then she slid off and turned to Prof Plum, beckoning him. He handed her his wine bottle, which had been removed for safety, and she fondled it in her hands, swinging her hips in front of him, and the rest of us could only guess what would happen now.

  “Ten bucks says that bottle’s going up the old boy’s shit-chute,” Mel guffawed.

  Honey stepped right up to him and slammed the bottle down between his legs, making him jump. And before he could recover from that, she was on her knees, sliding the neck of the bottle deep between her lips to great applause. Her actions became faster and more feverish until she snatched the bottle up, spun around and flopped down into his lap. She leant back, throwing her head alongside his, and quaffed the wine, splashing it all over the both of them. She lapped the drops with her tongue and then sprang back onto the table again, bottle still in hand, leaving a shell-shocked and dripping Prof Plum in her wake.

  She clenched the bottle between her thighs and stroked it; stuck a finger inside and sank to her knees, in front of the one Prof who’d been spared her humiliation until now. She slapped the end of the bottle under his chin and pointed. Put her hands on her hips, and waited for the gentleman to oblige, and suck her.

  Petra turned away with a shake of her head. “Fuckin’ circus,” she said.

  “Hey, this isn’t much different to the kind of tricks Sissi used to get up to,” Mel objected. “She just does it with a lot more cheek.”


  Honey’s phallic bottle having been pleasured to her satisfaction, she unwound herself back up to her full height again and stood, bathed in light, one hand down the front of her G-string and the other clutching the bottle. She threw her head back, pulled the red Lycra aside, and tipped the remains of the Profs’ Liebfraumilch all down the front of her body until her skin glistened white. And then, gradually, worked that G-string over her hips, her cock coiled up behind it like a snake waiting to strike. She squirmed it down further, circling her hips as she did so, until her full eight inches were unleashed to thunderous applause. She grinned back at the main body of the club, and shook her rock-hard cock in appreciation.

  She crawled to the end of the Profs’ table and worked the G-string off, pushing her rigid organ through her fist as she did so, pumping it slow and hard in time to the equally brash music.

  She kicked her leg up and the G-string went flying away behind her to land somewhere on the dark side of the stage. And now, stripped and glorious, Honey slid back to her bottle. She spat into her hands and rubbed them over the neck, and slowly – very slowly – squatted above it and lowered herself down onto its end. As she sank lower, squeezing her cock between her hands, the bottle pushed up between her ass cheeks until she was sitting on its shoulders, legs spread, tongue sliding between her grinning lips.

  “Okay, do I get five bucks at least for right orifice, wrong person?” Mel asked, but nobody else answered. I don’t think anybody else was even listening.

  Honey worked herself gloriously, basking in every moment of perverse self-adoration, until she had the whole club in the palm of her hand. Every jerk of her cock elicited a cheer, and she varied her rhythm, forcing the crowd to go along with her.

  She stood up, slid the bottle out of her ass and lay back on the table, stretched across it from end to end. And with one hand squeezing her balls and the other slithering up and down her shaft, Honey came – an almost surreal ejaculation of epic proportions, shooting glistening arcs of white up over her head to spatter all over the floor behind her. I was sure that all four Profs had either died of heart failure or been replaced by waxwork replicas, as none of them moved, and for a moment, neither did Honey – frozen in time, head stretched back, eyes closed and mouth gaping in silent ecstasy as the band crashed and blared to a rather un-syncopated finale. They were trying very hard not to look too closely at what the hell was going on out there, but from the sounds of it, the rhythm section just couldn’t help themselves, and wobbled accordingly as their eyes beheld that unprecedented sight and, despite all valiant efforts, lost their timing.

  Not that anyone else noticed, or cared. They could have been banging on frying pans with rolling pins and it would have made no difference to the audience reaction.

  Honey stood up, arms spread, and shook the last few drops of cum away from her still-twitching cock with a truly obscene pelvic grind. She leapt from the table and skipped back up on to the stage. Whipped her hair out of its pins, shook it loose and wild, and then bowed to the audience, so low I thought she was about to try to take her own cock in her mouth. And knowing her, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. The standing ovation swept around the bar, feet and fists clamoring on the floor and tables for more.

  “Holy fucking Mary, Mother o’ Christ,” Petra cried, the one truly devout one among us who swore and blasphemed worse than the rest of us all put together. We had assumed that she was just a natural sinner and enjoyed her confession and penance more than she really ought to. Or, if we were more cynically-inclined, a screaming, total hypocrite. “Did she just—”

  “Uh huh. I guess those balls aren’t just for show,” Melissa mused from behind her hands.

  Honey left the stage with a wiggle in her hips that would have made Marilyn Monroe spit, and the noise of appreciation was colossal. Yet none of us applauded – we knew she’d just had her final moment, her last act as a Kit. I had hoped that she wouldn’t try to spite Bruno, and just do what she was told, but then it was not in her nature to be obedient. She lived life her way, by her rules. She had made herself into the person she now was, after all, and there could be no half measures or compromises for her now. It was very brave of her, I thought with tears in my eyes.

  For in a few short weeks I’d become overwhelmed by the over-confident ex-porn star, wholly inspired by her fearless attitude to life and people. She was a free spirit, not bound by the concerns and worries that kept most of us anchored to earth. Honey was a butterfly to me. She might not spend long in the air, but she would look as wonderful and memorable as she could while she was there, and have great fun doing so, unheeding of what anyone else might say or think.

  And while the house continued to go crazy, backstage, the drama was careening towards a whole different kind of climax. Bruno came thundering out of nowhere – or rather, somewhere from the direction of the back area of the bar, jacket flying behind him like the wings of an enraged vulture. So, he hadn’t been having difficulties in the toilet after all – he’d been watching the whole thing carefully.

  “Honey! I need to talk to you.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder, gasped at the sight of the heavy-set figure chugging along hard and fast towards her, and then she made a break for the changing room. Everyone else cleared the path swiftly and I was sure he was lining up to rugby tackle her to the deck.

  “Honey!”

  He chased her down the corridor, but she was recalcitrant.

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m off now,” she yelled back at him as she gathered her stuff from inside. “You won’t need to sack me. There – I’ve kept my promise, and just given you the most awesome fucking display this place has ever seen. But thanks for having me anyway.”

  I watched as she shoved all her gear into her bag and pulled her raincoat on over her sweating, naked skin. The make-up was starting to run down her face and I wondered just what she had planned now.

  As she stomped down the corridor and reached the back door, glowing red under the neon ‘Ausgang’ sign, I thought about following her outside to calm her down, take her somewhere for a drink, help her get over it. She pushed the door and I saw thin grey streaks of rain dash down in front of her. It always rained on nights like this, as if the heavens had conspired to make the moment as miserable as possible for all concerned. She paused then, as if realizing exactly what she had just done, and what she was about to do.

  Then Bruno called out:

  “Honey? Stop right there.”

  She didn’t turn back. Just stood there, framed by the darkness and facing oblivion in whatever form the future would hold for her. Her emotions and hormones had to be so confused and extreme; I couldn’t even bear to think what she might do now. Yet I knew that I, of all people, would be unable to do anything to change her mind.

  “No,” she shrilled back. “I don’t want to hear your lecture. It’s all over; I’m not listening any more.”

  Bruno growled deep in his throat, like an angry dog. “Honey? Shut up, would you. Listen to me. I got the license. Okay?”

  She froze in the doorway, and I turned to him with a gasp of disbelief.

  “You did what?”

  Ignoring me, he went on: “I figured you might try something like this. Go out on a high note. And I didn’t want to lose you, or any of you, or end up in court myself. So if you still want to give me your notice, then fair enough. But I’m just saying it’s all legal now. There’s nothing to report, nothing to worry about. The crowd tonight was so big because I put the word out there’d be something special to see here. It was a hell of a gamble, but I think it paid off and from what I hear, tonight’s takings have almost covered the cost of the license alone.”

  She turned and wandered slowly back, walking, even stumbling rather uncertainly, as though wearing high heels for the first time in her life. There was no wiggle in her walk now, no proud catwalk strut showing off that ultra-feminine carriage. She was almost falling over herself to return to us, looking clumsy and ungainly
in her boots, as though we were seeing the real Honey for the first time ever – the vulnerable, emotional, over-excitable person that she was, the angel who had just hurled herself out of heaven and landed in a big bouncy safety net.

  When she was half-way back she dropped her bag and ran straight at Bruno, into his arms like a runaway freight train, and nearly put him through the changing room wall.

  “Why?” she squeaked. “You didn’t have to do that. It must have cost a fortune.”

  “Not so much. I have friends in the right places. And you were worth every penny. But next time, do it on a plastic sheet or something, will you? I’m gonna get screamed at by the cleaning ladies for this,” he mumbled from beneath her huge sloppy kisses and wildly trailing hair. Through all the frantic slobbering and sucking, I could hear an unfamiliar sound: Honey was crying.

  “Sorry,” she said at last as she pulled herself away. “Sorry for being a bit of a twat lately. It’s just how I am. I don’t like being told what to do. And sometimes I just can’t help myself.” She dragged a dangling snake of hair away from her face and snuffled beneath her glowing pink cheeks. The end of her nose had turned red, like Rudolph, and the sight just made me want to burst with laughter, a sensation I often got in Honey’s company, as though her mere presence injected concentrated jollity into my singed and overburdened soul.

  “You’ve no need to apologies,” he soothed. “You might just have given this place a shot in the arm. Does make me wonder where we go from here, though.”

  “Well, I could aim it into a wine glass at twenty paces, if you want. That’s my party trick.”

  “Then save that for the private parties.” When Honey chewed on her lip, looking put-out, he added; “We’re booked for one next month. Some bunch of corporate executives. Fancy it?”

  “Thank you, so much,” she cried. “I’m so happy; I could suck your cock right now.”

  “Save that for the party as well. There’s a lady present.”