“You’ve never seen her perform, have you?”
Not in public. “No.”
“Then you’re gonna need a stiff drink to whet your appetite.” He grabs a glass and pulls a bottle of whiskey from the shelf lining the wall behind the bar. “Here. Drink this to bolster your courage. If you’re planning on playing later, you’ll need a yellow wristband. We don’t allow heavy drinking and playtime atsub. It’s one or the other.”
I sip the whiskey, and press the cool glass to my flaming cheek. “Then I guess I need a yellow band.”
He rewards me with a crooked smile and snaps a yellow bracelet around my wrist. “Good girl.”
The lights dim, and the music starts. I don’t know the piece, but once the melancholy vocals begin, I recognize the voice from a song I heard on MTV this week. Lana Del Ray. The curtain goes up on a circular stage in the middle of the room. I didn’t notice it on my last visit. Then again, I was following Violet through the club, so who could blame me for not noticing anything but the deliberate sway of her hips and her voluptuous curves in her velvet dress?
Much like now. Violet is draped over an ornate emerald green chaise. It’s shaped like a Tantra chair with a high, rounded back that forces her breasts forward as she lounges. She’s dressed in only a nude lace corset beaded with crystals that catch the light, stockings, and suspenders. Even her crystal-encrusted heels are flesh toned. Her purple hair is set in 1940s old Hollywood waves, and her dark plum lips are just as kissable as they were the last time I was here. Desire arcs through me as I remember those lips on my pussy, licking my clit and tracing the place where her husband’s flesh met mine as he pumped into me.
Violet moves around the stage, all fluid grace and sex on legs. She takes off her corset, teasing the audience in time with the music. When the lyrics talk about putting on a show for her Daddy, Violet drapes her body over the chaise again and artfully loses her stockings and heels, discarding them on the stage floor where the thigh-highs are snatched up by eager audience members. She swings her hips to the beat and removes her corset and strapless bra. The crowd roars as her natural breasts are exposed, and she toys with the tassels on her pasties.
There isn’t a dry pair of panties or boxers in this room, mine included. I don’t know if I’ve ever been attracted to another woman before, but Violet isn’t a mere mortal. She’s a goddess, and everyone in this club knows it.
“How are you enjoying the show, little ballerina?” a familiar voice whispers in my ear. His arm snakes around my waist and pulls me tight against him. His erection digs into my back, and in the press of strangers all around us, Atticus’ touch puts me at ease.
“I didn’t know she could do that. She’s incredible.”
“Yes, she is.” He trails his hand over my hip and down my abdomen, hiking up one side of my dress with nimble fingers. He nuzzles my neck, and I watch his wife rock her hips into the chaise in time with the music, pretending to hump the furniture with a cheeky wink. “We didn’t think you’d come back.”
“It took a little time to figure out what I want.”
“And what is that, Camille?”
“You and Violet. Fucking me, punishing me, pleasuring me together.”
“I am so glad you said that.” He slides his hands into my panties and thrusts long, thick fingers inside me. I gasp, but if anyone around us notices, they pay me no mind. Too soon, Atticus removes his fingers from my body and shoves them roughly into my mouth. I suck them clean, like a good girl would. “Taste yourself, little ballerina. All that fucking hot cream all over my fingers that you’re licking up? All of that is because of that woman up there.”
He removes his fingers from my mouth.
“Not all, Sir,” I whisper. I don’t expect him to hear me, but he chuckles.
The music dies down. The lights dim, and I can just make out the outline of Violet sneaking off the stage.
“Come. My wife will be very happy to see you.” Atticus takes my hand and leads me through the throng of people. He stops in front of a different door than his office and enters without knocking. “You were incredible, darling. As always.”
I peer around Atticus’ broad shoulders and find Violet in her pasties and panties. Her heels are back on, and she sits at a vanity with a Hollywood-style mirror.
Her gaze finds mine in the reflection and she squeals, turns and stands, making grabby hands like a child. “Baby girl.”
I step around Atticus and into the room. He closes the door behind us. The lock clicks as it slides shut. A shiver runs the length of my spine. I don’t relish being locked in, but I suppose I prefer it to the possibility of someone barging in and finding us in a compromising position.
Violet crosses the space between us and pulls me closer. Her hands cup my face, and she presses a chaste kiss to my lips. I’m suddenly self-conscious. “What’s wrong, baby girl?”
“N-nothing. You . . . um . . . you were incredible out there.”
“You liked it, huh?”
I nod, and she grabs my hand and pulls me past Atticus, blowing him a kiss as she hurries toward the plush bed in the center of the room. Everything about this space screamsburlesque, from the gilt furniture to the brocade wallpaper and the lush red curtains surrounding the canopy bed. It’s too much, and yet it’s so perfectly Violet.
She yanks my hand, and we tumble onto the mattress. Violet pounces, straddling my hips and pinning my arms above my head. “You look ravishing, baby girl. Doesn’t she look edible in this dress, Boss?”
Atticus falls heavily into a velvet-covered armchair near the bed. “Indeed she does, darling.”
“Aren’t you going to join us?” I say breathlessly, because Violet is rocking her hips back and forth over my pubic bone, and it’s incredibly distracting.