Chapter Six
Violet can’t believe how easily Mallory gives up the tip jar. What kind of career strategy is that? Clearly, she didn’t learn a thing from her former mentor, Bette Noire.
Now Bette—there’s someone who knows how to play the fame game.
She made a name for herself at the Blue Angel, but really hit the stratosphere when she became the arm candy of a global pop star named Zebra.
The two of them were photographed everywhere, and Bette became world famous.
Well, Violet is watching, Violet is taking notes, and Violet has even bigger plans for herself.
Anyone can fuck a celebrity. That’s the easy part.
Violet squints at the audience, trying to spot the movie star in the audience as she gyrates through her performance to the song “Erection” by The Faint.
It’s impossible to see with the stage light in her eyes.
Some of the girls like that—makes it easier for them to show their pussy without looking someone in the eye.
Violet thinks they’re the pussies. But not her.
No, she likes being watched—way, way more than she likes being fucked.
Violet exits the stage to applause, foot stomping, and whistling.
She always takes particular pride in being the showstopper—the final performer.
It guarantees she’ll be the one the guys are thinking about later that night as they fondle their still-hard dicks.
She’s the one all the luscious lesbos will be imagining when they eat each other out.
They’re the ones she’s really performing for.
At some point, between the end of her set and the beginning of her tip jar duty, they sniffed out the celebrity in their midst. Now Jarod Marks is surrounded by audience members gravitating closer to him while pretending not to notice him. It’s very New York.
So Violet simply stands by the door, wearing only combat boots and a black thong. A few people begin to trickle out, stuffing singles and the occasional five in the jar. Cheap bastards, she thinks.
Then she has a terrible thought: What if Jarod Marks doesn’t tip? Can she still go through with it if he falls into the “cheap bastard” category? She has no problem being a starfucker (literally)—except if someone exhibits her pet peeve behavior: cheapness.
Did Bette Noire worry about things like this? No, of course not. If she got hung up on the details, she wouldn’t have managed to fuck her way to a six-figure Dolce as much as she loves sex, she hates articulating what she wants.
And really, when it comes to pleasing her, he never needs her to say a word—he knows her body almost better than she does.
“I want you, too,” he says. And then, so quickly it’s startling, he thrusts his hard cock inside her.
She gasps, adjusting her hips so he doesn’t go quite so deep.
His mouth moves down to her breasts, biting her nipple.
She doesn’t know why she likes it rough sometimes, but with Alec she has learned the intricate relationship between pleasure and pain.
He slides in and out slowly, and she resists the urge to tell him to stop moving, to just stay inside her. Then his movements quicken and shorten to hard thrusts, and she knows he’s close to coming. He presses his finger inside her ass, and her pussy convulses in waves.
“Oh my god,” she says, clutching his back. His thrusts grow harder, animalistic in their intensity, and then he cries out. Her pussy clenches against his cock over and over, the ripples of pleasure overtaking her.
When he pulls out, her pussy still throbs, as if reluctant to let go of the orgasm.
Breathless, they lie side by side, and he pulls her close so she can rest her head in the crook of his arm.
She looks at his profile, his flushed cheeks and strong nose, and marvels at his beauty.
There was an adage that before sex, men aren’t thinking clearly, and after sex, women aren’t thinking clearly.
She wonders if it’s true, because in that moment, all she can think is that she’s madly in love. And always will be.