The Lincoln Town Car pulled up to a mansion perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean.
When Bette had told her that the Baxters had a beach house, Mallory had somehow envisioned something quaint and rustic like her parents’ summer home at the Jersey Shore. She was not prepared—although she should have been—for the sight of the Italian Renaissance mansion, with its triple-arched entrance flanked by palm trees. Her stomach tightened like a fist.
The night had begun a few hours earlier, with the phone call from Bette to Justin. She’s told him she was sick, but that the redheaded burlesque dancer he’d met at Voyeur was happy to perform in her place.
“He was fine with it,” she told Mallory from her cell phone. She was on Zebra’s private plane waiting to leave for Vegas.
“I guess he had to be, considering the party starts in three hours.”
“No, he was really okay with it. He said he remembers you from Thursday night, and you’re hot. He asked if you wanted to hang out at the party before you perform but I told him no—just to send a car for you to arrive a half hour ahead of time. That’s what I always do. If you want to stay after and mingle, that’s fine, but I never see the audience before I perform.”
“Okay,” Mallory said. She knew she would not want to mingle with the audience at all—not before, and especially not after.
“Break a leg,” Bette said. And then she was gone.
Pulling up to the entrance, the car circled a Venetian fountain surrounded by Bentleys and Ferraris. Mallory would have given anything to have Bette riding shotgun, even just to walk her inside. The only two thoughts that helped mobilize her out of the backseat of the car were that first, she was not Mallory Dale tonight. She was Moxie, and no one would know anything different. Second, the sooner she got through the performance, the sooner she would be home in bed so she could wake up the next morning to a flight that would take her home to Alec.
“I’ll be waiting here when you’re ready to leave,” the driver said, opening the door for her.
She grabbed the bag with her costume in it, a large Juicy Couture overnight satchel. It was Bette’s, and someone had personalized it for her with the word Noir in pink rhinestones. Or maybe she had just found a bag that came that way.
“Welcome! Are you a guest or a performer?” a woman greeted her in the entrance foyer.
“Performer,” Mallory said.
“What’s your name?” She looked at a clipboard.
“Mallory . . . I mean, Moxie.”
She spoke into a headset. “Moxie has arrived.” And then, “Mr. Baxter will be right with you.”
Justin appeared. He wore a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. He looked the way some of the slick agents looked standing with their A-list clients at the Academy Awards.
“Hey, Moxie. So glad you could fill in for Bette. Is she doing okay?”
“Yes. Fine. She’s . . . resting.” On Zebra’s jet.
“Poor thing. Was it something she ate?”
Mallory missed Alec with a sudden pang. If he were there, he would have deadpanned, “Yes, something she ate really got to her,” and they would have shared a private laugh.
“I’m not really sure,” Mallory said.
“Well, you’re an angel for stepping in at the last minute. Everything you need should be in the dressing room upstairs. I have hors d’oeuvres and a few bottles of Perrier and champagne but if you want anything else, just let Maria here know. You’re on in a half hour. When you’re ready, Maria will call the party producer to escort you to the performance area. The producer has your song cued up, so when you step onto the floor it will be ready to go. It’s not an actual stage, so there’s no curtain or anything—I hope that’s okay. I mention it because it throws some of the girls at first if they don’t know. But trust me, it works beautifully. We’ve done dozens of shows here, and by the end the girls tell me they like my room more than any club.”
“Thanks. It will be great, I’m sure.”
“Can’t wait to see you out there.” He kissed her on the cheek, and left her to climb the stairs alone.
Mallory stepped onto the performance space, which was a wide, hardwood floor that had surprisingly professional-looking lighting overhead. It had the effect of obscuring the audience somewhat. She knew the space was surrounded by tables for ten and that still more people were milling around, but she couldn’t see specific faces the way she could see the front row at the Blue Angel.
She positioned herself with her back to the audience, so they were looking at the intricate lacing of her corset, her arms outstretched in long black gloves. Her hands were shaking so hard she wondered how she would be able to remove the feathered skirt.
The first beats of the Peaches song “Lose You” overtook the room. She couldn’t tell if the crowd fell silent or if the music was covering the sound of voices, but either way, between the lights and the music she was able to get her mind in the game.
When the lyrics began, she spun around twice, walked toward the front of the “stage,” and slowly peeled off one glove. Bette had choreographed a lot of spinning in the dance—she said the song begged for movement—and with each turn Mallory had to get her hands in position to remove another section of her costume. The one thing that was excruciating to her was that at the very end she had to remove her pasties. Bette had told her that Justin liked full nudity in his shows, but she could get away with just being topless since she was new and only filling in for her. But to compensate for this, Bette had added a spanking to the ending: Mallory would turn her back to the audience in a final turn, while wearing only a white sequined thong, bend over, and hit her ass with a black paddle.
The audience was quieter than the Blue Angel audience, but they clapped and occasionally whistled as she moved through the first steps of her performance. She pulled off the section of her skirt that doubled as fans, and she moved into her Clam Shell pose. She exaggerated each gesture, careful not to rush through the motions. She was again grateful that Bette had showed her the Ms. Tickle performance, which gave her the confidence to have moments of near-stillness.
She used one fan to obscure her waist and then removed the rest of her skirt, tossing it aside. The audience clapped their approval. Now the hard part: she did another turn, dropped the fans, and unzipped the side of her corset, then turned again, removing it in one motion. She felt a rush of heat through her body in those first moments standing there in just a thong and the pasties. She froze for half a beat, then forced herself through the motion of twirling the tassels. The audience erupted in applause and whistles, and something clicked inside of her; she stopped hearing Bette’s instructions in her mind, and she moved because her body launched into the steps as automatically as her lungs pushed out each breath. A sense of absolute control came over her, control of the room, control of herself. It became a game to elicit noise from the audience, and by the time she had to remove her pasties, she was happy to have some way to up the ante.
The music built to its finale, and she took two more turns, getting her ass in position for the audience to have a full view of her spanking. She reached down for the carefully placed paddle, then brought her arm out in an exaggerated motion before smacking her ass hard enough to leave a mark. Bette had told her she was lucky she was fair skinned—it wouldn’t be hard to get a red mark. Mallory had to trust her on that. From the shrieks of the audience—no more polite clapping, it was full-on yelling now—she could imagine they were seeing something.
The song moved toward its final beats, and she dropped the paddle and froze in a pose that mirrored her original position, back to the audience, arms outstretched.
The room went wild, and Mallory felt flooded with relief and a joy so pure it almost brought tears to her eyes.
As Justin had told her, there was no curtain to signal the end of the performance, but the party producer escorted her off stage and handed her a robe.
“You are incredible!” she gushed.
“Thanks,” Mallory said, slightly breathless.
“Moxie! Oh, my God, there are no words. You are a star.” Justin met her at the foot of the stairs.
“Thanks, Justin.” Her heart was pounding, and she felt like hugging him for giving her the chance to take the stage.
“Thank you. The Marigold twins are on next, but I suspect you stole the show. Bravo. Where do you perform in the city?”
“Um, I’m just starting at the Blue Angel. I’ve done a few shows just helping out between sets.”
“I’ll call you when we get back east. We’d love to have you perform again. Do you have a card?”
“Not . . . on me.”
“I can reach you through Agnes or Bette. Okay, then. You’re welcome to join the party. Hope to see you soon.”
This time, he kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her ass.
She shook her head and started up the stairs.
“Mallory!”
She turned to find Billy Barton looking up at her. She froze.
“Oh, hi, Billy.” She tried to sound casual, but her heart was racing. She knew the polite thing to do was to go back down the stairs and say hi to him, but her adrenaline had her in fight-or-flight mode, and she just wanted to run away.
“You were fantastic! I had no idea you were a burlesque performer. How could Alec not mention this—he’s writing a feature story on it, for God’s sake. And I like the red hair, by the way.”
She slowly descended the stairs.
“Thanks. Listen, the reason Alec never mentioned it is because he doesn’t know yet. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to be the one to tell him.”
“Sure thing—no problem. I hope you talk to him soon, though.”
“Why?”
“He’s been moping around the office like a lovesick teenager. What are you two fighting about?”
“We’re not fighting,” she said.
“He said you broke up.”
“We’re just . . . working some things out.”
“I’m sure hearing about your new hobby will cheer him up.”
“Billy, I don’t want you to mention it, okay? Things are complicated right now, and I don’t think he needs this news at the moment.”
“My lips are sealed,” he said. They looked at each other for just a beat too long. She felt certain she couldn’t trust him.
She climbed back up the stairs.
The Blue Angel was empty for a Saturday night. Poppy wondered if maybe it was because Bette wasn’t on the bill.
“I don’t like her doing these parties,” Agnes muttered. “I never should have agreed.”
“She’ll be back on Tuesday,” Kitty Klitty said reassuringly. Agnes muttered something in Polish.
Scarlett Letter was headlining in Bette’s place that night. Poppy thought it should be her, but of course Agnes still looked at her as a newbie.
“Don’t you start getting involved with those parties,” Agnes told her.
“I won’t if you let me headline one night.”
“You show me something worthy of a headline!” she said. “And for your smart mouth, you can do the tip jar tonight.”
She couldn’t win with that woman.
Poppy watched Scarlett from the side of the stage. Her eyes wandered to the audience, and she recognized a woman in the first row. She had stringy brown hair and wore a business suit. Looking at her, Poppy thought the same thing she’d thought the first time she’d seen her: that woman needs a makeover. She knew there was significance to the woman, but who was she?
Then she realized who she was. It was Mallory’s boss!
But why was she back at the club? She couldn’t be trying to bust Mallory—Mallory had already been fired.
When Scarlett finished, Rude Ralph reminded everyone to tip generously on the way out. Poppy hated holding the tip jar. She felt the performers should be elusive after the show, and the stage kitten should hold the tip jar. But Agnes said the audience tipped more when it was one of the performers. They also tipped more when the girl stood there wearing nothing but pasties and a thong, which Poppy opted not to do that night. She was in a pissy mood, so she put her bustier and tulle skirt back on. Still, the bucket filled with tens and twenties. And then the stringy-haired woman put two fifties on the pile.
“You were amazing,” the woman said.
“Thanks.” Poppy smiled. Finally, someone had something positive to say!
“And . . . you’re gorgeous.”
“I’m Poppy.” She held out her hand. The woman might need a makeover, but at least she had good taste.
“Patricia,” the woman said, shaking her hand. To Poppy’s surprise, she felt a pulse of excitement when the woman closed her cool fingers around her own.
“Want to get a drink?” Poppy said, surprising herself.
“Sure.”
Poppy handed the tip jar off to Kitty Klitty, grabbed her coat and handbag, and left with Patricia Loomis.
Outside, there was an awkward silence.
“We could go to Dogstar on Avenue A?” Poppy said. “Or B Bar. That’s right around the corner.”
“I live uptown,” said Patricia. Poppy knew an invitation when she heard one.
“Okay,” she said. Patricia hailed a cab.
Patricia lived on 72nd Street off of Lexington. It was a third floor apartment in a quaint brownstone. Poppy noted how serene the streets were compared to the action in the Village.
“So you’re the one who got Mallory fired,” Poppy said. She figured she might as well make small talk since Patricia wasn’t particularly chatty.
“Are you friends with her?” Patricia asked.
“Not really,” said Poppy.
“Are you the one who called me that day?”
“Yes,” she said. “You didn’t have to fire her, you know.”
“I didn’t fire her—our boss did. And it wasn’t only because of the dancing.”
“Then why?”
“We didn’t think she had sufficient long-term potential.”
Finally! Someone who wasn’t enamored with the great Mallory Dale. Her night was looking up.
“You don’t have cats, do you?” Poppy asked.
“Yes—a tabby. Is that a problem?”
Okay—so nothing was perfect.
“No,” Poppy lied.
The apartment was decorated in French country—super cute. Poppy wondered if she would ever have enough money to have a nice apartment in New York.
Patricia asked if she wanted a glass of wine, and Poppy said sure, even though she only drank champagne.
“I have a great Malbec or Shiraz if you like red,” Patricia called from the kitchen.
“Um, sure.” As far as Poppy was concerned, Patricia was speaking a different language. But she would roll with it.
Patricia returned with two full glasses. She sat next to Poppy on the couch. An orange cat circled her leg, and she pushed it away with her foot.
“Cheers,” Patricia said, touching her glass to Poppy’s. “I have to confess—I’ve been thinking about you since that night I went to the club to see what Mallory Dale was up to.”
“Really?”
Patricia nodded. “You wore that trench coat with the red lacy thing underneath.”
Poppy saw the reverence in her eyes, and it was the biggest turn-on she’d ever experienced. It was like what she got from the audience when she was on stage, but times a thousand.
She set her glass on the wood coffee table, and took Patricia’s glass from her hand. As soon as Patricia relinquished the glass to her, she felt in control and knew what she wanted to do. Leaning forward, she put her mouth on Patricia’s, and, to her shock, the rigid lawyer responded like she had been shot out of a cannon.
Patricia moved on top of her, and within half a minute flat she had managed to remove Poppy’s sweater and skirt, her hands as practiced as those of Trent at Arkansas State when he took Poppy’s virginity. But this time, Poppy was not nervous. She welcomed the firm, practiced touch teasing her nipples, and loved the feeling of Patricia’s body pressing against her own.
Patricia removed her pants and blouse, and Poppy was surprised to find that the woman’s breasts were large and round, with areolas the size of quarters and the color of pale tea. She was dying to suck them. Patricia lay back next to her, and Poppy propped herself up on one elbow, tracing Patricia’s large, dark nipples. She was amazed by how much they turned her on, and bent her head to suck them. Patricia had a surprisingly slammin’ body—full breasts, womanly hips, but a flat belly and long legs. Who knew you could hide all that under a business suit? And finding it under the navy pinstripe skirt and tailored jacket was somehow much sexier than finding it under a pair of tight jeans and a sweater. She imagined going out to dinner with Patricia, and no one else at the restaurant guessing what was waiting to be unwrapped at home.
But she was getting ahead of herself: she had to make a lasting impression. Alec said the reason none of her hook-ups amounted to anything was because she didn’t have an emotional connection. But that part of relationships was a mystery to her. The only thing she could control was being beautiful enough to attract love, and being good enough in bed to keep people coming back for more. But even sex didn’t seem to be working lately.
She couldn’t worry about that now.
She brushed her mouth across Patricia’s breasts, her hands sliding down to rub her pussy. It felt strange to touch her pussy at first: Patricia had more of a bush than she’d seen in a long time. Nothing crazy—it wasn’t like she was in a 1970s porno or anything. But it was clear that the words “Brazilian” had never crossed her lips. Surprisingly, this didn’t bother Poppy. She was really into Patricia’s body—the way it looked, the way it felt, the way it smelled. For the first time, she understood the expression “animal attraction.” There was no reason for it, but she wanted nothing more than to explore this woman all over in every way she could.
Poppy maneuvered herself so she was positioned on her side with one leg over Patricia. She bent her head to take one breast in her mouth, circling her tongue over the nipple. Patricia made a soft noise, and Poppy felt heat between her legs. She pulled her panties down so she could feel Patricia’s leg against her bare pussy. The urge to grind against the woman was so strong that she let herself, even as she wondered if it was okay. Then, Patricia grabbed her ass, pulling her even harder onto herself.
“Move up a little,” Patricia said. Poppy complied, and she felt Patricia’s finger slip inside of her from behind. Poppy moaned. Patricia’s hand moved in and out while she kissed Poppy’s neck.
“Don’t stop,” Poppy said.
“I won’t. Come, baby.” The combination of Patricia’s touch— her fingers gently caressing her outer lips, but firm and deep inside her—and the term of endearment sent Poppy into her first orgasm. When she stopped quivering, Patricia pulled her up so they were face-to-face.
“You are so beautiful,” she said.
Poppy smiled, and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Come to my bed.”
She led her into a bedroom right out of a Ralph Lauren ad, in the center of which was a king-sized, high wooden sleigh bed covered with a richly colored floral comforter and half a dozen throw pillows. Poppy hesitated, but Patricia told her to get on and lie down.
“Let me look at you,” she said, and Poppy happily complied. It felt good to be objectified, to be someone’s ideal. For the first time since moving to New York, she felt like the prettiest girl in town.
Patricia soon moved from looking at to touching her: she dipped her head between Poppy’s legs, licking her outer lips slowly. Poppy reached down and played with Patricia’s hair while the woman’s tongue moved in circles around the rim of her pussy. Poppy knew how wet she was, but Patricia didn’t seem to mind. She used her fingers again, then, just as Poppy felt close to coming for the second time, Poppy pulled herself up so she was lying directly on top of her, their pussies kissing. Somehow, this felt almost more intimate than intercourse with a man. They rubbed against each other, a slow but intense grind that brought Poppy to the edge of climax. Then Patricia switched positions so that she was above her, bending down to eat Poppy’s pussy while pressing her own cunt into Poppy’s face. Poppy held Patricia’s ass while gingerly running her tongue inside her pussy, and she felt Patricia do the same to her. Even though the outside of Patricia’s pussy had hair, the inside was smooth and easy for Poppy to lick. When Patricia pressed her tongue inside of her, Poppy did the same thing, so they were simultaneously fucking each other with their mouths. Poppy worked to keep up with Patricia, but she felt herself sliding into an orgasm, and she could only put her head back and let the waves rock through her body. She cried out, and Patricia slid her fingers inside her, bringing Poppy to a feeling she had never experienced before.
“That was amazing,” Poppy said when she was finished.
Patricia moved off the bed, and Poppy thought maybe she was tired of fooling around. Failure—again! But then Patricia pulled something out of her nightstand drawer. Something purple. And big. A big, thick, veiny, purple penis.
She returned to the bed and placed the dildo next to Poppy. Immediately, she resumed attending to her, licking her breasts and stroking her arms, her belly. She pressed the dildo into Poppy’s hand.
“I want you to use this on me,” she said.
“Um, are you sure?” It seemed a bit unnatural to her, but then she remembered how when she was hooking up with Bette she had craved penetration.
“Yes—don’t be nervous. I’ll show you what I like,” Patricia said.
She guided Poppy’s hand with the dildo, pressing the thick head along her outer lips, then circling her clit. When Patricia relaxed and moved her hand away, Poppy continued the motion on her own.
“Now press it against my clit. Yes, just like that. Now rub it up and down on that spot.” Poppy followed her directions. Patricia’s head tilted back, her breathing heavier. “Now inside,” Patricia said, moving the dildo toward her wet center. Poppy gingerly pressed the tip inside.
“Fuck me, Poppy. Fuck me the way you like to be fucked,” Patricia said, thrusting her pussy up toward her. Good lord! Poppy felt way out of her depth. It seemed just entirely wrong to stick this object inside someone.
“I . . . can’t,” Poppy said, her hand clutching the purple penis in a frozen position.
“Of course you can.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you. This thing is huge.”
Patricia sat up.
“I’m sorry,” Poppy said.
“Don’t worry about it.” Patricia stood and walked to the door of the bedroom.
“Are you leaving?” Poppy said, aghast.
“No! I’ll be right back.”
Poppy hugged her knees to her chest and hoped she hadn’t just blown it. But Patricia quickly returned, holding out a black box the size of a small shoebox.
“Open it,” she said.
Poppy removed the lid and found a plastic cover, and underneath that a black satin pouch and in it a sleek, black oblong object that was smooth and tapered at the front.
“What is this?”
“Gorgeous, right? It’s the LELO ‘Ella’ dildo. I haven’t even used it yet. I thought maybe you’d be more comfortable with this one.”
Poppy held the object in her hand, turning it around a few times. It did seem more inviting, with its flawless finish and delicate shape.
Patricia resumed her position on the bed. Poppy sat next to her, and Patricia pulled her down, kissing her, her hand moving between Poppy’s legs. She stroked Poppy’s clit and told Poppy to finger her at the same time. Poppy complied, and as she worked her finger in and out of Patricia’s slick cunt, she found herself wondering what that LELO would feel like. Patricia kept the pressure on Poppy’s clit, refusing to move inside of her. It was as if she wanted Poppy to feel the absence of penetration, to be deprived the way she had deprived her of the purple dildo.
Poppy pulled Patricia’s hand lower, trying to get her to finger fuck her, but Patricia refused. For a second, Poppy stopped the motion of her own hand, distracted by her frustration.
“Don’t stop!” Patricia said, and Poppy immediately resumed her in and out fingering, feeling Patricia begin to contract against her hand. Her pussy muscles were strong, and Poppy experienced the orgasm against her hand in a way that was remarkable and exciting. Her own pussy was throbbing now, and she was dying for the type of release that she had managed to give Patricia.
When Patricia finished climaxing, she kissed Poppy hard on the mouth, and pressed the LELO into her hand.
“I want you to be comfortable with this stuff,” she said hoarsely. “We will have fun with it. Try it. Make yourself feel good, and let me watch.”
Poppy was so excited, Patricia didn’t need to ask twice. She spread her legs and stroked herself with the LELO a few times before pushing it deep into her cunt, then drawing it out slowly and pressing it in again. She moaned and didn’t even care that Patricia was watching this incredibly intimate act. Then, wordlessly, Patricia took it from her. She licked Poppy with a long, practiced stroke of her tongue, then worked the LELO firmly inside of her.
“Does it feel good?” she said.
“Yes,” Poppy breathed.
“Do you want it fast or slow?”
“Fast.”
Patricia worked it in and out, and Poppy felt her pelvis moving with the LELO as she would move with a guy on top of her. When her orgasm came, it was so sudden and strong it forced a scream out of her, and she was startled at her violent response to being fucked in that way.
Patricia lay next to her and pulled her close. They held each other for a minute, and Patricia laughed.
“I don’t think you were scared of fucking me with that,” she said. “You just wanted it all to yourself.” She kissed the top of Poppy’s head.
“I had no idea it could be that good.”
“Baby, that was nothing. Tomorrow, I’m taking you shopping.”
Poppy liked the sound of that. Tomorrow. But she knew that for now, she should go. But when she stood to get her clothes on, Patricia grabbed her hand.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s so late. I should get home.”
“I wish you would stay,” Patricia said.
It was the first time anyone had asked her to stay the night since she’d moved to New York three years ago. Poppy sank back into bed, pressing herself against Patricia, who put her arm around her.
“Does your cat sleep in the bed?”
“I’m a one-pussy woman, Poppy. The bed is just yours and mine tonight.”
Mallory closed the door to her suite at the Palihouse. She sat on the couch, where just twenty-four hours ago she had sat worried that she would not be able to pull off Bette’s routine. But she had not only done it: she had done it, and loved it.
She pulled her phone out of her bag and dialed Bette’s cell.
“It’s me,” she said.
“Let me go somewhere quiet—hold on!” Bette said over the sound of club music. Mallory waited, sifting through her bag. She found the envelope Justin had left for her in her dressing room, which she had yet to open. “Okay—tell me!” Bette said.
“Where are you?
“The Bellagio. Zebra’s hotel room. She’s having a little get-together. Now tell me.”
“It went great. Amazing, actually. I remembered everything you taught me—it all came together. By the middle of the performance I was barely thinking except for the logistics of getting the costume off—my body just knew what to do. And I love that song, and your choreography is perfect for it. I was thinking of adding one last turn at the end, but there was nothing else to take off, and I remembered you saying each movement has to mean something for the overall reveal so I didn’t mess with it. . . .”
“Did you remember what I said about not mingling with the guests before your performance—about staying elusive?”
“Yes.”
“I’m proud of you! I just wish I could have been there to see it. Oh, Zebra says she is proud of you, too.”
Mallory shook her head. How had her life come to this—the biggest pop star in the world was being supportive of her burlesque debut!
“How are you?”
“Mallory, this is it. I feel my life in motion. The paparazzi photographed me leaving the hotel with Zebra. I guarantee I will be in Us magazine next week.”
“How are things with you two?”
“She’s unbelievable in bed.”
Mallory smiled. “I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m happy for you! So when do you want to audition for the Blue Angel? That is what you want now, right?”
“Yes, “ Mallory said, admitting it for the first time, even to herself. “Can you help me?”
“Of course I’ll help you. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“When are you flying home?”
“I don’t know, Moxie. But you’ll be the first to hear.”
Mallory could imagine the devilish look in her beautiful blue eyes.
“Be good,” she said.
“I’m always good,” said Bette.
Mallory ended the call, then sank back in the sofa. She looked at the time, then calculated New York hours. In less than twenty-four hours, she would be with Alec.