Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) Read Free Page B

piece of her mind—tell her she was a performer, not a call girl. Then she looked more closely at the girl on the bed. With her dark hair and pale, cream-colored skin, she reminded Violet of someone else she knew. Someone she had fantasized about getting in this exact same position.
    She moved to the edge of the bed, peering at the girl. She reached out and cupped her breasts. The girl stirred only slightly, mouth open and nearly breathless. She hadn’t made a sound since Violet had entered the room.
    Her breasts were bigger than those of the woman Violet really wanted—but that woman’s body was an impossible standard. This girl was close enough—close enough for Violet to close her eyes and take a nipple into her mouth. Close enough for her to slide her mouth down the length of the redhead’s lean torso, pausing at her hips.
    Violet sat back on her knees, and lifted off her tank top. The girl shifted her hips impatiently. Violet turned back to her, placing her hands on her thighs and gently spreading her legs.
    “Take off your jeans,” breathed the Asian girl from behind. Violet considered telling her to fuck off, but then thought better of it. As long as she was here, she might as well increase her chances of getting off as well. She hopped off the bed, easing off her white jeans. She kept on her black thong, and turned back to Irish, who had spread her legs wider. Violet got on her knees, ass in the air, and flicked her tongue against Irish’s pussy. She wondered what Asian thought of the view.
    She pressed her tongue deeply into Irish’s cunt, and the girl finally emitted a sound—a short, breathy gasp. Violet felt a stirring between her own legs and was happy to sense Asian moving around behind her. She didn’t know what the woman was going to do, but anticipated it would feel good.
    She focused on Irish, moving her mouth to her inner thigh and slipping her finger in her. The girl clenched her thighs against Violet’s hand, and Violet made her motions quicker.
    Asian moved behind her, grinding her slippery cunt against Violet and reaching around to feel her breasts. Violet just wanted her to finger fuck her and get her off quickly.
    Violet put her mouth on Irish’s clit, and the girl yelled out, “Don’t stop,” in her thick accent. It jarred Violet, breaking her fantasy that she was sucking off the woman she dreamed about, reminding her that she was instead with an exchange student in a crappy apartment building filled with people chugging beer. The woman she wanted would never be in this situation.
    And because of this, even when Asian moved her fingers expertly inside her, even when she tasted Irish coming, even when they were finished and both women gazed at her with adoration and told her she was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen, Violet felt nothing.
    And she was tired of it.
     
    Sometime between the end of her set and the time she got to the door with the tip jar, the crowd discovered there was a celebrity in the house. Ryan Ellison was surrounded by audience members, although this was New York, so they were all busy pretending not to notice him.
    Violet stood by the door, wearing only combat boots and a black thong. A few people filed out, stuffing singles and the occasional five in the jar. Cheap bastards, she thought. She didn’t know how the other girls tolerated this job. It wasn’t that she thought it was demeaning—she just wanted to punch these people who spent an hour watching them flash their pussies and then couldn’t part with a few bucks on the way out the door to go drinking.
    Which brought her to a momentary dilemma: What if Ryan Ellison didn’t fork over some cash? Could she still go through with it if he fell into the “cheap bastard” category? It was one thing to be a starfucker (literally), but another to be with someone who exhibited her pet peeve of behavior: cheapness.
    Did Bette Noir worry about things like this? No, of course not. If she got hung up on