Blood on Her Lips Pt. 01-02

BLOOD ON HER LIPS

Chapters 1-2

by Simone de Boudoir

Chapter 1: Anything Could Happen

Rose stood atop the cramped, dim stairwell that led to the basement of Theatre La Chatte. She peered down, waiting for her act to begin. Everything in the shadowy room was drenched in deeply-saturated red and purple lights. Most noticeable were the gold trims of the plush velvet sofas and the metallic embroidery of several large, tasseled Turkish pillows thrown about. Each glittered occasionally in the shifting lights. Delicate scarves and luxurious upholsteries were draped around the small space. This muted the lights and gave the room an intimate, almost claustrophobic feel. It could have been a tiny harem or opium den, but the platform at the back that served as a stage suggested that performers ruled this realm.

She couldn't see the seats directly—where as many as twenty patrons might be waiting for her—but the tall, gold-framed mirror that rested against the wall opposite the stairwell reflected a few customers sitting on red velvet couches and richly-embroidered armchairs waiting for the next show to start.

Madame LeClerc—owner, manager, and DJ at Theatre La Chatte—pressed play and "Anything Could Happen" by Ellie Goulding^[1] started playing in the tiny showroom below. Rose descended, step by step down the carpeted stairs that led into the ethereal little performance room. It did not seem to belong in the 21st century. Instead of the neon lights and sticky surfaces of a strip club or the large cabarets of Montmartre, the basement of La Chatte was more elegant, intentionally decadent, and eternally an anachronism.

A plush, burgundy divan sat at the back of the stage, and Rose began her act there. She wore a dazzling silver dress, adorned with sequins and her own round shoulders peeking out from behind the thin straps. She lounged languidly, her body stretched out across the length of the divan. She raised her legs so that each silvery, strappy high-heel was planted on the divan's cushions. Her knees were spread apart. She traced her hands along her exposed legs, up her sequined torso, and through her hair that draped over the edge of the divan. The touch of her own hands on her warm body and through her hair were immensely pleasurable, and she let her audience in on this secret with a subtle parting of her lips and fluttering of her eyelashes.

Twirling herself upright, she faced the audience. She spotted the flash of a gold watch on a man in the front row. Men wearing gold watches often bought private shows from the dancers. Accordingly, she paid him some special attention with her eyes.

Her mirrory dress reflected the reds and purples of the lights as she strode into the audience. The man with the gold watch was sitting on the frontmost sofa of the audience, so it was easy to give him a little extra attention first. She perched herself on his lap, her back toward him, and reached her arms behind her and around his neck. She writhed in motion with the music, and the fuzz of her cheek just barely grazed the side of his stubbled face.

The song's chorus—"anything could happen, anything could happen"—beat over and over again in her ears and throughout the cave-like room.

She could favor the man with the gold watch, but she couldn't ignore the other clients. She also didn't want to—it was too boring to focus only on the clients that were likely to buy private shows.

About eighty-percent of the clientele were older men, nice enough but less thrilling than the wildcards in the room. The younger men tended to be cute, with their shyness and eagerness mixed into confusing head clouds. Rose liked to lead them through those mixed emotions. The women in the audience tended to have a special glint of awe in their eyes, appreciating her talent and eroticism equally, which pleased Rose greatly. She felt a connection to them. Everyone else was welcome too, of course, as long as they were respectful and kind.

Every now and then, an asshole would invade the audience and behave rudely, make a scene, or not respect the rules, but luckily this was rare. In the most extreme cases, Madame LeClerc would ban a customer from returning.

Most often, it was a warm and inviting atmosphere at Theatre La Chatte. Rose wanted to ensure that everyone—not just the private show patrons—had a wondrous, sensual, and exhilarating experience with her during her act.

She moved to the back of the room and mingled with the rest of the audience. Sensually, she reclined backwards on the soft yet sturdy back of a sofa. The sofas were constructed for this exact purpose, doubling as audience seating and spaces for dancers. The sofa backs were wide and flat and lined with red velvet, and dancers used them liberally in their acts.

With her back arched, breasts thrust forward, and head thrown back, Rose closed her eyes and swayed as if under the song's spell. Eyes from around the room circled in on her, some of which were mere inches away. She licked two of her fingers and moved them down to spread her pussy, making this tableau even more intimate.

Rose fingered the hair of a nearby client before hopping off to move around the room again. She could touch them, but they could not touch her, unless she guided their hands. That was rule number one at Theatre La Chatte.

She tiptoed around the audience's realm for a bit, weaving in between chairs and sofas, stroking a knee here and gliding a finger along a chest there, before strutting back to the stage. There, in full view of the audience, she shimmied off her silvery dress to reveal pale-blue lace lingerie.

In long strides, she approached the tall, gilded mirror at the side of the room. She turned to face her reflection and ran her hands over her body. Her skin felt smooth and soft and supple. The blue lace of her lingerie, strapped across her chest and hips, stood out against the red and purple lighting. Rose and her doppelganger in the mirror flickered like delicate flames in the semi-darkness.

In the mirror she also caught the eyes of the gold-watched man. He was watching her intently. She locked eyes with him through the reflection and lingered just a second too long before shifting her gaze. This added an extra dash of enticement. She smiled to herself—he was hooked. But she wouldn't show him that she knew, not just yet.

Rose found it incredibly erotic to hold herself just barely out of reach while nearby clients' eyes brimmed with desire. She loved looking down at her own body, with her tits framing her pussy—all while strangers hungrily peered on.

When she first started dancing she thought she would just close herself off for a few minutes, focus on her technique, keep herself mechanically minded while the clients drooled around her. She had been shocked that, instead, she too found it pleasurable. Not because of the clients, who were often interchangeable and faceless. Instead, strangely, she awoke to the eroticism of her own body.

She became legitimately aroused during performances, and was often desperate to get home and rub her pussy to orgasm after a long day—one of the perks of the job.

"Baby, I'll give you everything you need..." trilled the song.

Rose unbuttoned the back of her pale blue bra and allowed the fabric to dangle while still keeping her breasts covered. She swayed with the rhythm of the song. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a new client descending the stairs. It was common for clients to arrive mid-show, and dancers always welcomed additional audience members. She waited for him to find a seat before revealing her tits—a most gracious welcome.

He was handsome, she noticed. Very handsome. Dark hair covered one eye, but this accentuated rather than hid the chiseled face beneath. He appeared young, but unlike the typical young solo patrons, who were often nervous and unsure, this man carried himself with an unmistakable yet unostentatious confidence. He chose a corner seat in the very back and crossed both his legs and arms. There was no anxious leg shaking or tensed shoulders. He was relaxed, yet sought to be hidden and guarded. His aura of mystery titillated Rose and she decided to indulge a whim.

She took her time getting to the back of the audience, where this new client sat. On her way, she traced a finger along the leg of the man with the gold watch, allowing a naked breast to come tantalizingly close to his cheek. She also gave some other audience members flirtatious little touches and looks as she meandered around them. Her tits bounces lightly as she hopped up the steps to the back row, where at last she made her way to the new client.

Standing wide-legged in front of this mysterious, darkly-clad man, she stretched out the thin straps of her blue panties with her thumbs and teased the motions of removing them. Her bare tits were at his eyeline and the edges of her pussy were nearly revealed, yet this man's eyes rested on neither. Instead, his eyes were locked on her visage. He did not look into her eyes, but seemed to focus instead on the lower edges of her face—her mouth, her chin, even her neck. Rose couldn't decide whether it was sweet or unsettling.

But Rose enjoyed a challenge. She picked up his hands and guided him to grasp the straps of her panties. The feel of his skin startled her, but she didn't let on. It must be freezing outside, she thought to herself, feeling the icy temperature of his hands.

She kept her hands over his as she helped him release her panties down her legs. Hopping onto the back of the sofa behind her, she kicked off the panties and spread her legs, daring this young man not to lower his gaze and admire her exposed pussy.

But he merely looked away, turning his head. Rose shrugged in her mind and concluded that he was just not into her. She moved on, giving her attention to the other, more worthy audience members. Moments later, he got up and left, carefully weaving past other audience members and silently climbing the stairs.

Perhaps he was there looking for another dancer, Rose thought. Theatre La Chatte tickets were not cheap, but one benefit of them was that they were good for the whole day—patrons could come and go as they pleased as long as they held onto that day's ticket. So sometimes clients only stayed for a short time, often returning later in the day. This was especially true if they were hoping to catch a specific dancer's performance, which was fairly common for the regulars.

Rose finished her act, not giving the interruption much more thought.

"Merci, tout le monde! My name is Scarlette," she announced, giving her stage name so that clients could request private shows with her. She had confidence in the man with the gold watch, who promptly stood up. This usually meant they wanted to hurry and be first in line to secure a private dance.

Rose gathered the clothing items she had scattered around the room and followed him upstairs, pulling on a silk robe at the top.

"I'm sorry," she heard Madame LeClerc tell the gold-watched man. "You'll have to wait, this other man has already requested a private dance with Scarlette. May I invite you to watch the next performance while you wait?"

"Other man?" Rose questioned to herself. She peered over and saw that behind the man with the gold watch stood the mysterious younger man. She could barely make him out; only his tall outline was discernible in the shadowy corner. This was quite surprising! Her pussy worked her magic after all—much faster than usual, it seemed. She was pleased, and intrigued.

"I want to go last." All heads turned toward the young man. "At the end of the night," he clarified. The surprises were compounding and the mystery around this person was waxing. Madame LeClerc took care of the arrangements and Rose took care of the man with the gold watch, though her mind stayed with the dark young man and his odd behavior. Her mind and body ached to explore this mysterious man further.

Chapter 2: Desire, Desire

It was finally time. Rose's final private dance of the night. She was rattled by a sense of jittery nervousness that she hadn't felt since her first days as an erotic dancer. But now, just like then, her nervous energy was not entirely fear-based; rather, it stemmed from excitement and eagerness. She was chomping at the bit, perched expectantly at the starting line waiting for the signal flare to go off.

Rose took a deep breath in an attempt to ease her shaking hands. She laughed at herself. How ridiculous to be nervous after all this time! She shook her hands as if drying them, in an effort to release her nerves through her fingertips. She glanced at the time—how could there still be 12 minutes left? She had been in this private dance room for nearly twenty minutes, ensuring that everything was prepped and ready.

Her phone was in place and set to play Anna Calvi's "Desire."^[2] She checked it again just to make sure. Everything was in order. She drummed her fingers restlessly and heaved an anxious sigh. Needing a distraction, she bolted to the tall, french-door style windows across the room, and propped open one pane. She pulled up a chair next to the window and took out her vape filled with liquid marijuana. She drew a few languorous puffs and felt the calming potion wash through her.

Her pussy also seemed to be hyper aware of this upcoming client. It tingled with readiness, seethed with anticipation. Would she fuck him? It had been quite some time since she had fucked a client, mainly because it had been some time since one interested her. Toying with the idea of fucking this mysterious young man gave way to toying with herself.

She was naked apart from a garnet necklace and thigh-high fishnets held up by a simple garter-belt. Patent leather heels adorned her feet. This left her pussy exposed and accessible. Her fingers traced along the curve of her hip bone, over the sensitive skin of her stomach, and across the softness of her upper thigh. Her nails dug into the flesh of her thigh before moving over the delicate folds of her pussy. Her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted.

Her fingers explored the contours of her clit. She rubbed herself gently, gingerly at first, before intensifying the motions. Like the graceful legs of an ice skater, her middle and forefinger spread open and slid down the grooves of her pussy's innermost realms.

She purred and moaned as her fingers picked up speed. Her pussy, made agape by one leg propped up with its pump against the windowsill, felt like it was glowing. It was true that if any passers-by on the streets below should look up, they would catch an eyeful of Rose pleasuring herself, since she had opened the drapes and window in order to puff on her vape. This thrill of exhibitionism urged on her exploratory fingers.

Closing her two spread fingers into a firm arrow, she plunged them deep into her exposed opening, now wet and trembling with desire. At first, she let her hand take the lead, pulling her glistening fingers in and out of herself in heaving waves. But her hips quickly joined in, rising and falling, up and down onto the chair, her bent leg still steadied against the windowsill. The pointed tip of her pump peeked out past the window pane into the open air.

Rose withdrew her two fingers and darted them into her mouth, as much to gain extra wetness as to taste her own dripping pleasure. Her fingers lingered in her mouth for a moment, then rushed back down again. Her wet fingers licked the outer layers of her throbbing pussy, as her moans got louder. Her free hand clutched an uncovered breast, squeezing it tightly, while her hardworking fingers continued their dance inside and all around her beating cunt.

Her fingers rubbed and thrusted, thrusted and rubbed, exchanging focus from her inflated clit to her slippery cavern, and then back again. Rubbing and thrusting, clit to cavern. Thrusting and rubbing, cavern to clit. Cavern to clit, clit to cavern, until—with violent force—her body erupted into a paroxysm of pleasure.

She lounged back in the chair, her limbs draped languidly over the arms. Both feet now rested on the ground. She felt relaxed and empowered, ready to perform.

~~~~

Finally, it was time to go downstairs and collect her client. Rose patted the sweat from her brow, fixed up her rustled hair, and covered herself with her silk robe. Her skin was hot and charged with the afterglow of sexual pleasure, and the silk felt sensual and cooling against it. Goosebumps flared and hard nipples protruded through the thin layer of silk.

The dark stranger was waiting in the narrow entrance of Theatre La Chatte. It was 11:30 at night, yet he wore sunglasses. Shyness could perhaps explain this, along with some of his other odd behaviors, Rose thought to herself. Or maybe he prized anonymity. Was he scared of a less-than-understanding girlfriend finding out, or perhaps he worried about crossing paths with a coworker? Irrelevant to Rose, these were common distractions that hovered in the minds of her clients. Her role was to distract them from their distractions.

"Bonsoir, chéri," Rose greeted him. In addition to the sunglasses, he kept his head bowed, and all he gave in recognition was a subtle nod.

Rose always flashed a peek into the contents of her robe to ensure her clients liked what they saw before going off to have their private dance. This one, however, turned his head away, averting his look. She shrugged mentally at his seeming disinterest, then took him by the hand and led him up a winding flight of stairs and into the private dance room she had arranged. She directed him to sit in the chair she had placed in the center of the room—the same one on which she had just pleasured herself—and set up her phone to connect to the speakers and play music.

"Ready?" she asked over her shoulder. He nodded. She noticed he still did not remove his dark sunglasses.

"First, the rules," she said, turning toward him. "Rule one: you must stay in that chair until I tell you that you can get up. Comprenez-vous?" He nodded slowly.

"Rule two: your hands are free to touch yourself, as you like, but they can only touch me when I guide them. Comprenez?" He nodded. She smiled.

She turned to play the music, her finger hovering above the play button, but stopped herself. She turned back around and approached him slowly. Coming close enough to touch him, she traced her fingers along the outline of his sunglasses.

"You would like these to stay on, or may I—" He answered by abruptly pushing her hand away. This startled her, but she had certainly encountered much more bizarre requests from clients, so she shrugged and acquiesced.

Finally, she played "Desire" and began her act.

Rose tossed off her robe and gave the seated stranger a full view of her body. Her necklace dripped a trail of twinkling garnets between her exposed breasts. Legs in fishnets, hips in garter-belt, feet buttressed by heels, she rested in a standing pose. Her own hands caressed the lines of her body until they reached her chest. She could feel his eyes following the movements of her hands. She cupped her tits, gazed down and admired them lovingly. She then coyly raised her gaze to his eyeline—this little trick typically gave her clients the titillating sensation of being caught looking at her, which in turn gave her a little thrill. But those damned sunglasses blocked this effect, at least on her end.

Anna Calvi's deep, throbbing voice rang out: "But it's just the devil in me / The devil that's calling as I come undone."

Rose had planned on dancing a good distance in front of him for a while longer, as she typically did in her private acts, before shifting to the portion where she touched him. Yet she felt herself compelled to initiate that part faster.