by Logan Belle
Mallory’s heart started to beat faster. It was a perfect location—not too out of the way, but not as overrun and crazy at night as the Meatpacking District or the Village. And they had all talked about creating a more intimate venue than the Blue Angel, and certainly more intimate than the circus-like atmosphere of the Slit. From what she could tell from the outside, this space was exactly what she had in mind.
“Why didn’t you tell me you found something?” she said, following him into the darkness. He locked the door behind them and flipped a wall switch so the room was lit by a few bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The walls had been stripped down, and there were construction directions and markings all over them. Exposed wires ran along the wall and some from the ceiling. An empty bar lined the right side of the space, covered with a few discarded jackets and equipment left by construction workers. The room widened toward the back, with slightly higher ceilings and a corridor that she assumed led to the former restaurant’s kitchen.
“The layout could work like this: tables here, a few rows of non-table seating along the sides and back. Keep the bar where it is. And this space back here”—he led her by the hand to where the room widened—“will be the stage. Behind this spot is a kitchen, but we’re going to take it out and build a really good dressing room.”
Mallory hugged him. “It’s perfect! Oh, my God, I’m so excited. I can’t believe this is really happening.”
Alec picked up what appeared to be a large poster board propped against the back wall. He turned it around to show her, and she saw that it was painted with a large replicated image of the dancer that Alec had tattooed on his arm—the Mallory burlesque angel. Next to it, in bold script, were the words The Painted Lady.
“What is that?” she said, looking at his smile.
“I’m thinking it’s the name of the club. What do you think?”
“It’s perfect. It’s just all … perfect. I’m at a loss. You’re the writer—how do I express how amazing this is? I don’t know where to start.”
“Maybe we should christen the stage,” he said.
She looked at the floor. “You want to have sex in here?”
“I was thinking maybe the next best thing. Want to do a little inaugural performance?”
She smiled. Now she knew why he hadn’t wanted her to change out of her workout clothes. “There’s one problem: I need music.”
He walked over to the bar and picked up an iDock that was still plugged into an outlet. “Luckily for us, the construction workers feel the same way.” He set his iPhone between the speakers. “What do you want to hear?”
“You really think I’m going to do this?”
He walked over to the sign and held it up. “You are my muse, baby. Gotta keep the inspiration flowing.”
She smiled. “Fine. You win. As usual! Do you have Marilyn Manson on there?”
“Of course.”
“Play “Heart-Shaped Glasses.’ ”
She took her coat and his coat and spread them out on the floor to make a “bed.” Without props, tassels, and schoolgirl clothes, the routine wouldn’t work. But she knew that piece had to be her inaugural dance. It hadn’t made it to the Blue Angel stage for a reason—it was meant for this space, hers and Alec’s.
She pulled two hairclips from her bag and put them on the floor next to the bed. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she shed her clothes, leaving on only her black lace thong from the Gap. Not the most inspired undergarment, but she hadn’t planned to be on display when she woke up that morning. Of course, living with Alec, she should know to always be at the ready. And she loved it that way.
She stretched out on the coats, rearranging them so a zipper didn’t dig into her bare back. When she felt comfortable enough to begin, she told him to start the music.
The song filled the room, its rhythmic opening slightly tinny in the wide open space, and Alec sat on the floor in front of her. The opening built to a swell, and then the lyrics kicked in. At the first sound of Manson’s low, growling voice, she extended her body out, raising her arms in an exaggerated morning stretch. She turned away from the “audience,” giving a view of her ass. In the actual show, she planned to use stuffed animals to tease the crowd with only a partial view. She would make sure the color scheme was mostly pink with a few accents of red, and when she was fully dressed at the end, her final accessory would be an oversized pair of red, heart-shaped glasses.
With practiced slowness, she sat up in bed, giving a final stretch. She shimmied her breasts, wondering if she should cover her nipples with tassels during the performance or maybe just heart-shaped pasties. As she considered the finer points of how the performance should debut when The Painted Lady was open for business, Alec jumped up from his perch at the edge of the “stage” and practically tackled her on the coats.
“What are you doing?” She laughed.
“I heard this was an audience-participation show.”
“No! Go back to your seat. I’m just getting started.”
“You’re getting me started, I can tell you that. And I’ve changed my mind.”
He pulled her against him, his hand running down her back, cupping her ass.
“About what?”
“Your original idea about how to christen the stage was much better. I defer to your wisdom.”
He kissed her, and she threw her arms around him, knowing that as long as they were together, the whole world was their stage.
Take a sneak peek at
NAKED ANGEL,
Coming in April 2012!
There is simply not a single ugly move in ballet. Not one ugly move. I like to hold burlesque to the very same standards.
—Dita Von Teese
In my ballets, woman is first. Men are consorts.
God made men to sing the praises of women.
They are not equal to men: They are better.
—George Balanchine
1
“Are you nervous?” Mallory Dale’s boyfriend Alec asked her.
“No. Should I be?” She surveyed the room, finally seeing the tangible results of nearly a year of work.
“It’s a big night,” Alec said.
“The first of many to come, I hope,” she said, putting her arms around him. “And I’m ready.”
In one hour the club they had built together would be unveiled to New York. Standing alone in the room, holding Alec’s hand, she felt confident in the world they had brought to life. The Painted Lady was unlike any burlesque club in the city: After careful research and their investors’ generous open checkbooks, they had managed to create a glorious throwback to the roaring twenties.
Mallory had always loved flapper style. It was fashion liberation. In that sense, flappers had done for women of the 1920s what burlesque had done for her: It had shocked her, and then irrevocably changed the way she saw herself. And now she’d helped create a space that would make Zelda Fitzgerald proud: The Painted Lady burlesque club was a decadent tableau of unrestrained art deco. The red walls were decorated with portraits of Josephine Baker and iconic flapper Louise Brooks, a collection of Grundworth and Yva Richard fetish photographs, and illustrated pochoir prints by Erté. The brass and bronze chandeliers had been designed for the 1925 Paris Exposition. And the top-notch sound system was already playing Irving Berlin’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”
“You definitely look ready. You are by far the sexiest flapper ever to grace a stage. Were women allowed to be this hot in the 1920s?” Alec said. He pulled her over so she could see her reflection in one of the mirrored picture frames.
She’d never been more excited about a costume. Her former boss—and onetime owner of the famous burlesque club the Blue Angel—had created the pink satin flapper dress and beaded headpiece for her. Then, after scouring the best vintage shops in the city, she and Alec had found the perfect accessories: ropes of pink and black beads to wear around her neck, and black patent leather heels with ankle straps. Even her face was transformed to Ol
d World glamour: Her best friend, the notorious burlesquer, model, and actress Bette Noir, had spent an hour at her apartment earlier applying her makeup to look flapper chic.
Alec kissed the back of her neck, running his hands up from her waist to her breasts. She sighed, a swell of desire rising in her chest. But she forced herself to push his hands gently away. “We don’t have time. Save it for later, okay?” she said. Still, she felt a twinge between her legs. Alec could always get her going, even when she had less than one hour before the beginning of the biggest night of her New York life.
“Now that you mention it, I am saving something for later,” he said, the tone of his voice especially devilish.
She turned to look at him. “Oh, yeah? What’s going on?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“You know I don’t like surprises,” Mallory said.
“Hmm. The last time you told me that, things turned out okay, didn’t they?”
She knew he was referring to the night he took her to her first burlesque show, on her twenty-fifth birthday, at the Blue Angel. Now, just two years later, it was the opening night of her own club. Well, The Painted Lady wasn’t technically her club. But she was the creative force behind it, along with Alec. It was their baby, and after designing the look and feel of the club, hiring the staff of dancers, choreographing the debut show, and writing the script for the opening night’s MC, it was finally the moment of truth.
Bette Noir strode from the front of the club. With her signature black bob, she already looked like a modern-day Louise Brooks.
She carried a large flower arrangement wrapped in plastic. “Someone has a secret admirer,” she said, handing the package to Mallory.
“Is that my surprise?” Mallory asked Alec.
“No. It’s not from me.” He raised an eyebrow, as if looking at her with suspicion.
“Busted—my secret lover,” she teased. A year ago, it might have been true. But all of that was behind them now.
Mallory tore the plastic wrapper away to reveal a remarkable bouquet of pink flowers that happened to match the exact shade of her costume.
“Will you look at this!” she said, almost afraid to move the arrangement it looked so delicate and perfect—more like a sculpture than a flower arrangement. A dozen or so Phalaenopsis orchids brimmed over the top of a long, rectangular vase. Underneath the flowers, circles of grass looped inside the glass walls, as if an artist had painted green circles with a delicate brush.
Mallory detached the card. “For Mallory: Thanks for all your hard work. Tonight, we see it bloom. Our love, Justin and Martha.”
“You gotta love those guys,” Bette said.
Justin Baxter and Martha Pike were the money behind The Painted Lady, and they were among Manhattan’s most visible—and unusual—couples. Martha had made her millions in the vaginal rejuvenation field: she’d invented a device called the Pike Kegel Ball, and many boldfaced names over the age of thirty, when pressed, would admit it helped take years off their vag. Justin was a drop-dead-gorgeous former playboy who’d settled down with the less-than-attractive Martha when he was in his early thirties, and the two seemed extremely happy together. They both had an appetite for beautiful young women and kinky sex, and they happily indulged their desires together. They also threw the most decadent, incredible parties on both coasts, and were major patrons of the arts. When their favorite burlesque club, the Blue Angel, was bought out by a woman they knew would run it into the ground, they’d decided to open a club of their own. That’s when Mallory and Alec got their dream jobs: The club was theirs to create and run. Martha would write the checks.
“Now I’m tempted to give you my surprise,” Alec said, putting his arms around her. She tilted up her face so he could kiss her.
“So give it to me, baby,” she said.
“Ah, my favorite thing to hear,” he said, pulling her close. “But you’re just going to have to get through the show.”
“You’re such a sadist,” she said.
“And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Violet Offender paced the dressing area of the club formerly known as the Blue Angel. She ran a hand through her shortcropped, white-blond hair, her cheeks flushed with irritation.
“What do you mean it’s by invitation only?” she snapped at the petite redhead busily getting into costume. For once, the sight of the woman’s luscious breasts bound in a corset wasn’t enough to calm Violet’s nerves.
“I did what you told me to do: I went to get a ticket for the show tonight, and the woman at the door told me the opening night was by invitation. Press and friends only.”
“Jesus! Why do I have to do everything myself around here? Give me a phone.”
The girl scrambled to hand over her iPhone. Violet punched in the numbers for her reluctant business partner and bankroller, the magazine publisher Billy Barton. “Billy, I need you to get off your ass and do something for this club for once: We need press passes to the opening of The Painted Lady. Apparently I am the only one around here who seems aware of the fact that a major competitor is opening shop tonight. I didn’t buy this fucking dump to get steamrolled by Mallory Dale six months later. Call me back ASAP.”
“Baby, there’s nothing to worry about,” said the redhead, half-dressed in her costume, a sexy equestrian ensemble complete with riding boots and crop. “We’ve already been open for months and months.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Violet snapped. “This isn’t the Internet: Getting there first doesn’t mean shit. It just means you’re old news. Change back into regular clothes. I’m getting you into that show tonight one way or another. And I want you to report back everything: the music, the girls, the costumes. Take photos.”
“They probably won’t allow photos,” said the redhead.
“I’m not asking you get permission, I’m telling you to get photos. God, I’m tense,” Violet said. She knew there was only one way to relieve her stress. Now that she was running the club, she barely had time for her former day job and favorite pastime, her work as a professional dominatrix. Fortunately, her latest fuck toy, a five-foot-two-inch former investment banker with enormous breasts and the burlesque name Cookies’ n’ Cream, was always willing to bend over backward—literally—to accommodate her needs.
Violet locked the dressing room door. “Take off your clothes,” Violet said. “But leave on the boots.”
Cookies wordlessly complied, unfastening her corset and stepping out of her lace panties. Her legs were covered in black English riding boots, with a zipper up the sides. The rest of her costume, including a black riding helmet and riding crop, were by her feet.
Cookies’ delicate porcelain skin was red from the pressure of the corset, and it gave Violet the irresistible urge to see matching welts on her ass.
“Turn around,” Violet said, picking up the crop. Cookies obeyed, letting Violet push her down so she was leaning on a vanity table, her ass in the air. “Don’t move,” Violet ordered. She paused for a minute to look at Cookies’ pale, creamy ass, a hint of russet pubic hair showing between her legs. She resisted the urge to get on her knees and lick the other girl’s pussy. She knew in order to get true satisfaction she had to do things in the proper order. Violet understood the need for control, something most of her lovers did not. At least, not until she taught them.
She raised the riding crop and brought it down hard on Cookies’ left ass cheek. The girl cried out, but did not move a muscle. A satisfying red mark emerged almost immediately on her flesh. Violet repeated the lashing on the other side. She dropped the crop and kneeled behind Cookies. She pressed one finger into Cookies’ pussy and was satisfied to find it very wet. Violet was surprised to feel the building pressure in her own cunt. There was something about Cookies that always got her excited. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was a relief to not be bored yet.
She worked her finger in and out, reaching up to graze her clit before resuming the sharp strokes inside of her. She sl
ipped one hand inside her own underwear, mirroring the motions inside herself as she worked Cookies into a frenzy. She felt Cookies’ pussy contract on her fingers, and the girl cried out as she came.
Violet quickly pulled off her jeans. She tugged on Cookies’ hair to turn her around. Violet sat on a chair and spread her legs. Cookies knelt in front of her, hands on Violet’s thighs, her tongue lapping at her wetness.
“Fuck me,” Violet growled. Cookies darted her tongue in and out of Violet’s pussy. Violet pulled on her head, trying to get her deeper. She felt a rush of impatience. “Use your hand.”
Cookies moved her mouth to Violet’s clit, her fingers pressing inside with the sharp, fast strokes she knew Violet liked. Sure enough, Violet shuddered to a silent climax. Cookies sat back on her heels, wincing when she accidentally put pressure on the freshly bruised skin of her ass.
Violet noticed her discomfort, and said, “If you think your ass hurts now, you don’t even want to know what it will feel like if you come back here tonight without photos of The Painted Lady show.”
2
Mallory stood behind the red curtain. On the other side of it, center stage, Alec warmed up the crowd, reminding them that the more skin the performers revealed, the louder he expected the audience to get. “Foot stomping is appreciated, but not mandatory,” he said to a few laughs.
“I see some familiar faces out there,” he said. This was met with shouts and clapping. “As you know, this is a huge night for New York burlesque—and I don’t just mean because Supersize Suzy is visiting us tonight.” This brought another round of applause: Supersize Suzy was a six-foot-two, doubleD-breasted British transvestite who had recently been made infamous by her unbridled performance in a burlesque documentary called Fan Dancers. “And if that wasn’t enough, we are starstruck to have with us tonight—fresh off her latest movie set—the mysterious, magnificent Mistress of Delight: Bette Noir.” More applause, whistles, and a few random shoutouts of her name.
From her perch behind the curtain, Mallory smiled. She remembered how, at the first show she’d gone to, the audience had gone wild when Bette’s name was announced. And that was before she became world famous for dating the pop star Zebra, starring in a national Dolce & Gabbana campaign, and getting rave reviews in an indie film directed by Jake Gyllenhaal. “But first, I have the great pleasure of introducing to you our opening performer: the sexy, sassy, incomparable Moxie!”
