by Logan Belle
“Braised short ribs,” said the hottie.
“I’d like to braise his short rib,” said Billy.
She laughed.
“You’re not drinking your wine,” he said.
“I only like champagne.”
Billy immediately summoned a waiter and asked for a bottle of champagne.
“A bottle? Isn’t that too much?”
“This is a Baxter party. There’s no such thing as too much.”
Across the table, a bald black guy in a sharp black suit and white tie called over to Billy. They began an animated conversation about some politician Poppy had never heard of, so she fixed her eyes on the platform and waited for her champagne.
The contortionist untwisted herself, and somehow managed to walk off the platform. Poppy wondered if her legs felt like Jell-O after that performance. She considered sharing this thought with her new bff, but he was laughing with the dude across the table.
A waiter appeared with a bottle of Krug and poured her a glass.
“Thanks. Billy, do you want some?”
“Why not? Poppy, this is Dominick Monde, head of Tout Le Monde Films. Dominick, Poppy LaRue, burlesquer extraordinaire. Oooh—this show just got good.”
One of the waiters was now on the platform. Wait—was that one of the waiters? All these beautiful guys were starting to look alike, with their phenomenal bone structure and taut, muscled bodies and thick heads of hair. This one was on the slim side, with a short blond buzz cut and Siberian husky blue eyes she could see even from the distance of the table.
The music changed yet again, this time to something that sounded like Moby meets dance / trance. The guy removed his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it aside, then easing down his trousers to reveal that he was not wearing underwear—and sported a big erection.
“I love the Baxters! You can always count on them for sausage with dinner,” Billy said, and the few people who heard him at the table laughed.
A second guy joined the first on the platform, fully nude, holding what looked like a fly swatter. He was Mediterranean-looking and broader shouldered, with longish dark hair, high cheekbones, and an Angelina Jolie mouth. His right bicep was fully tattooed, and he was, overall, one of the hottest guys Poppy had ever seen.
The dark guy stood in front of the blond buzz cut, who immediately knelt and took his erection into his mouth.
“Jesus,” Poppy breathed.
“Jesus Luz?” Billy said. “He looks like him, but trust me, honey—even the Baxters don’t have that much money. That’s Derek Dart. I’ve seen him in films. But I have to say his theatrical performance promises to be much stronger.”
The buzz cut guy worked Derek Dart in and out of his mouth, gripping his muscled ass with one hand, the other working his thick shaft. Poppy wondered how long it could possibly be before Derek came, and wondered if she was mentally prepared to see a guy come in another guy’s mouth. She could tell by the movement of Derek’s pelvis that he was probably getting close, but then he suddenly pulled himself out and turned the buzz guy around. Buzz cut bent over, and Derek started spanking his ass with the fly swatter. She couldn’t help staring at Derek’s cock, which was nearly purple in its heightened state of erection and glistened with saliva.
The blond guy was moaning from the ass-swatting in a way that Derek hadn’t done even when having his dick sucked. Poppy couldn’t believe she was watching this in a room full of people having dinner, and the strangest part was that the vibe in the room hadn’t changed from when it was simply a contortionist on the stage. She was afraid to really look around, because she didn’t want to catch anyone’s eye, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if some of the guests were still eating and talking.
And then Derek spit on his own cock, spread his saliva around on it, and pressed it into the other guy’s asshole. Poppy wanted to look away, but she was riveted. She’d only had anal sex twice and found it painful—and neither guy had been as big as Derek. She couldn’t imagine how this could feel good to the blond guy, but his face was absolutely rapt with ecstasy—unless he was the world’s best actor, in which case he deserved an Academy Award.
Derek pumped his dick into the guy with fast, hard thrusts, and the exertion made the muscles on his chest and arms stand out. Poppy was surprised at how turned on she was—couldn’t believe that her pussy was starting to throb.
Derek pulled his cock out and started pumping it with his hand until spurts of jizz fell like rain on the other guy’s buttocks.
Everyone at the tables started to clap politely, as if a piano concerto had just concluded.
“If they’re serving that with the main course, I can’t wait to see what’s for dessert,” Billy said with a wink. Poppy was tempted to say something about not forgetting to put the writer in touch with her, but she didn’t want to sound desperate. “Give me your cell number,” he said. “So I can pass it on to my writer. I want him to get on this. I think the issue is closing soon.”
Trying not to smile, Poppy recited her number, and he programmed it into his iPhone.
Justin appeared beside her seat and touched her shoulder.
“Glad you could make it. Are you enjoying the show?”
Somehow, the way he asked the question made her feel dirty, and this annoyed her. But her pussy was wet, and she couldn’t help thinking of how good he was at eating her out.
“Yes. Thanks.”
“A stellar evening so far,” Billy chimed in.
“Glad you’re enjoying. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your tablemate for a moment?”
“By all means. “
Justin winked at Poppy and gestured for her to follow him.
He led her to the bar, a room she remembered the last time she was at the house.
“What did you think of the show?”
“It was interesting.”
“Just interesting? I bet you’re wet.”
She did not think honesty was the best policy at this particular moment. “I enjoyed it, okay? Now I’m going to go back to the table.”
“Did I offend you in some way?”
“You offended me the last time I was here. I told you.”
“Let me make it up to you. I’d love to lick your pussy.”
“No, Justin! Seriously, I’m not some fuck toy for you and your wife.”
“I’m not talking about my wife. Just you and me this time.”
“I’ve got to get back to the table,” she said. She knew she was probably blowing her chance at an invitation to the LA trip, but so be it. She already had something more important on deck: the interview with Alec Martin.
Then, as if reading her mind, Justin said, “Maybe your tablemate would like to watch us. You know how curious those journalism types can be.”
And then she realized she could seal the deal for LA and the magazine with one shot.
Justin took her silence as a yes. She watched him walk to her table and whisper something in Billy’s ear. Sure enough, he returned with Justin, and the three of them rode the elevator upstairs without a word exchanged.
Justin led them to a sitting room on the third floor. It was all black and white—three low-to-the-floor black couches, a white shag carpet, and a few retro silver floor lamps. A baby grand piano was in the far corner, and Poppy wondered if anyone actually played it or if it just suited the color scheme.
Billy sat on one of the black couches that directly faced another identical couch. The light was on a dimmer, and Justin set it lower before steering her to the couch across from Billy. He knelt in front of her, hiking her dress up and easing her panties off. She rested her head against the back of the couch, trying not to think of the full view of her pussy currently on display for Billy Barton. But then she thought of how intent Bette was on getting his attention; she was sure she had it in a way Bette never had.
Justin pushed her legs apart and brushed his thumb against her clit. She remembered his technique from last time, the way he pressed his finger
s inside her first and then followed deeply with his tongue. Just the thought of it made her squirm, and she touched his hand that gripped her thigh, pulling it toward her pussy. He let her guide his hand, and slowly inserted his middle finger deep inside her. She moaned and arched back, forgetting all about her audience. Just as she was starting to peak, he stopped.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Why don’t you finger fuck yourself for us,” he said. Before she could respond, he sat next to Billy on the couch. The two of them looked at her like they were in front row seats at an off-Broadway play.
She was so close to coming she had to finish herself off anyway, so she decided she would simply pretend they were not there. She put her head back, closed her eyes, and stroked her clit, but she was so aroused she didn’t need any warm-up and moved straight to pressing two fingers inside herself. As she worked herself up toward an orgasm, trying not to think about Billy and Justin watching her, she realized the fact that they were there actually heightened her excitement. She moved her fingers faster and harder, thinking of the publisher of Gruff magazine and the millionaire playboy who could be anywhere doing anything choosing to watch her masturbate. With this thought, her orgasm broke, and it was so strong she cried out very loudly. She shuddered against her own hand, and only then did she allow herself to look at her audience.
Justin moved to stand in front of her. He immediately knelt down, took her wet fingers into his mouth. Then he pressed her thighs apart further, and lapped at her pussy like a cat at fresh cream. She glanced over his head at Billy Barton, and saw that his pants were around his ankles, his cock in his hand.
And that’s when she realized she didn’t have to worry about getting the interview. In fact, she was going to push for the cover.
15
Mallory stepped off of the plane and into the sunshine. It was incredible—you spend a couple hundred dollars and five hours on a plane, and suddenly winter was gone. It was just heat, palm trees, and dry air. She felt instantly relaxed, couldn’t stop smiling. Alec, the law firm, sleeping fitfully on Julie’s couch . . . it all seemed a million miles away.
“The air smells different out here,” she said to Bette.
“I know. Better, right?”
A driver met them at the luggage carousel, and carried their bags to the black town car for the twenty minute drive to their hotel in West Hollywood.
The Palihouse was a boutique hotel with an entrance so discreet it looked like a private club. The driver carried their bags down a short flight of wide, wooden stairs that led them into a wonderfully atmospheric lounge.
“We’re staying here?” Mallory said, taking in the vintage chandeliers, Moroccan tiled floor, distressed leather couches, and idiosyncratic design touches like antique birdcages.
“I know—I love it here. It’s Paris meets LA,” Bette said.
The check-in desk was just a simple wooden table manned by an adorable young guy who greeted them cheerfully. He handed them each a room key—an actual key, not the plastic card she was used to—and told them that all the information they needed for the weekend festivities was in their suite.
They rode the mirrored elevator up to the fourth—and top—floor. Bette opened the door to the room, and a song Mallory vaguely recognized was playing at low volume.
“What song is this?”
“ ‘I Feel Cream’ by Peaches. Which is a crazy coincidence, or maybe a good omen, because I’m performing Saturday night to her song ‘Lose You.’ ”
“This place is incredible,” Mallory said. “I’m not going to want to leave.”
“You can take the bedroom,” Bette said. “I don’t plan on spending much time asleep.”
Their room was like a hip urban apartment, with a huge living room with black carpet, exposed brick, moody photography, two white couches, and enough side tables and chairs for a small party. They had a full kitchen complete with a marble island in the center, a bedroom with a king-size bed, and enough closet space for a family. There was an ultra-sleek bathroom with black tiles, lots of mirrors, and a glass enclosed shower. “I feel like the coolness of this place is seeping into my pores.”
“Ooh—a gift basket.” Bette unwrapped a bottle of Dom Pérignon, some products from Bliss Spa, and a medium-sized black box.
“What’s inside?” Mallory asked. Bette handed it to her.
“Take a look.”
Mallory removed the lid, and inside was a pink satin pouch. She untied the pouch drawstring to find a hard, rubbery ball that was translucent; inside was another ball, like a little weight. The bizarre object had a looped, firm string attached. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s the famous Pike Kegel Ball!” Bette laughed.
“You’re joking.”
“No—I’m not. Martha made millions on that thing. Many satisfied customers will tell you that you are now holding in your hand the secret to having a super pussy.”
“I don’t get it—you stick this thing up your vag and then what?”
“You have to flex your pelvic muscles to hold it in place. It’s resistance training for your vagina.”
Mallory laughed and threw it at her. Bette ducked, and the ball landed on the couch.
“You have to try it before the trip is over. Stop being so closed minded!”
“I’m not being closed minded . . . but I am being closed vagina-ed.”
“With that kind of attitude I’m going to send you right back to New York.”
Mallory laughed and walked into the bathroom to wash her face and apply sunscreen, and was surprised once again to see her deep, cherry red hair. But she loved it—her skin tone looked entirely different, and she barely needed any makeup; her hazel eyes looked green; her under-eye circles seemed somehow diminished; and the natural flush to her cheeks was enhanced.
Bette waved an envelope at Mallory.
“He booked me a massage at Equinox on Sunset. I’m going to call and see if they can fit you in, too.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll go later.”
“No! It’s more fun if we go together.”
“I don’t know. I just lost my job—I shouldn’t be spending money like this.”
“I’ll put it on Justin’s tab. I told him I’m bringing a friend. It’s not a big deal. I’m calling now, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
* * *
Two hours later Mallory was wearing a white robe, sipping cucumber water, and relaxing on a lounge chair next to Bette on a deck overlooking Hollywood.
“My gym in New York overlooks a Gap and a hotdog vendor,” Mallory said.
“It’s pretty sick out here. Every time I’m here I think about moving.”
“Why don’t you?”
“The burlesque scene isn’t as strong. At least, not as supportive as what I’ve found in New York. Maybe that’s just my experience. Besides, you don’t want to be broke and struggling in LA. You want to be established and have money. New York on the fringe is cool and artistic. LA on the fringe is desperate.”
“Moxie and Bette?” A woman in an Equinox staff T-shirt called to them.
“You gave them my burlesque name?” Mallory said.
“Yeah. Out here you’re Moxie. All weekend. I’m serious—try it.”
“I’ll try it if you tell me your real name.”
“I’m offended you’d even ask,” she said, smiling.
Two women led them to the massage room, introducing themselves as Jessica and Amy. They left Mallory and Bette to get comfortable on side-by-side tables. Mallory shed her robe but left her underwear on and quickly climbed under the tightly folded white sheet.
“You have a hot body,” Bette said. Her robe was off, and she sat up on the massage table, stretching. Mallory couldn’t help looking at her perfect breasts—they still amazed her. She could barely believe she had touched them, held them in her hands, and had her mouth on them. It was as if she’d had a painting from the Met in her apartment for a few hours.
“I still don’t get why you never wanted to hook up after that night. You seemed into it at the time.”
“Shh—they might hear us,”
“Who? The massage girls? They don’t care. Why are you so edgy all the time? You’re like a nervous little Chihuahua.”
“Oh, my God, I am not. I just don’t want to talk about this here.”
The masseuses returned and quietly took their places beside Mallory and Bette. Soothing music filled the room. Mallory closed her eyes, melting into the massage table as the woman pressed her warm, well-oiled hands into her sore muscles. Her mind clicked into floaty, stream-of-consciousness mode, and that meant that the thoughts she had been working so hard to keep at a distance found their way in: she missed Alec. She should be with him, getting ready for dinner together on a Thursday night, maybe stopping by Barnes & Noble on the way to dinner to buy two books that they would read and swap. On the way home they would stop by the bagel store to get bagels and lox, so they didn’t have to wait on the long, Saturday morning line. And they would debate whether they should make omelets or sandwiches and continue the ongoing debate about how long you can keep cream cheese in the refrigerator. Instead, she was stretched out on a massage table in a strange city next to a woman she barely knew, and who knew nothing about her. Her life with Alec felt like something she’d imagined, a dream she’d woken up from and wanted to go back to sleep to return to.
She felt tears, and willed them back. This was ridiculous—she was on a fabulous vacation in LA. She was traveling with a new friend, an interesting friend who was opening life up to her in a way she had never experienced. Bette didn’t care if Mallory failed at work, didn’t ask her how and when she would get a new job. And she was a friend who made her feel beautiful, showed her how to be beautiful.
The masseuse’s hands kneaded her neck, and she thought about how Alec used to make her feel beautiful. He was the first person to give her an orgasm. He was the first guy who told her that he loved her. And even though he sometimes checked out other women—blatantly checked them out—he used to tell her she was the hottest girl in the room—even when it wasn’t true. And yet he meant it.
