Free Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) by Logan Belle Page A

undergarment.
    “I kind of want to go out tonight,” Poppy blurted. Patricia looked at her in surprise.
    “Really?” She flipped on NY1 News. “It’s cold tonight—look at that. Forty-two degrees. I say we stay here where it’s cozy.”
    “Um, okay. I’m going to go on the computer and see if I can find a movie for us to see tomorrow.”
    “Sounds good,” Patricia said, happily flipping back to Law & Order.
    Poppy pulled a cardigan over her sheer camisole from La Petite Coquette. Patricia was right about one thing—it was cold.
    She turned on the light and the computer monitor in the office and locked the door. Removing her underwear, she sat in the desk chair and logged onto the Web site Fleshbot. She flipped through a few links to videos of women using dildos on each other, giving blow jobs, and even a strange fetish video of two women passing a small ball back and forth using only their assholes. None of this was doing anything for Poppy. She knew the only woman on the site who would help her get off was the porn star Stoya. With her alabaster skin, black hair, and tight body with perfect, small, pert breasts, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Bette Noir.
    She found a link to a video of Stoya having double penetration—one guy’s cock in her ass, the other in her pussy at the same time. Stoya’s face was flushed with pleasure, and the guy on top had his hand wound in her hair, then he pressed a hand against her neck. Poppy clicked off—a little too much penis. She wanted to see Stoya alone or with another woman. She settled on some stills of Stoya with a woman identified in the tags as “Jizz Lee.” She clicked through the two dozen photos of the pair allegedly frolicking in bed the morning after the AVN Awards. Some with Stoya underneath Jizz, her breasts being sucked, a wicked smile on her lush lips. Others, Stoya on top, her hand between the other woman’s legs. Stoya and Jizz kissing, both smiling, either crazy about each other or putting on a good enough show for the cameras.
    Now that’s what a couple should be doing in bed!
    Poppy slipped her hand between her legs, her middle finger skimming her clit, then moving down to reach inside. She was amazed at her own wetness, and she considered stopping right there and going back into the bedroom to fuck Patricia. But then she thought of the last time they’d had sex, and how she barely had been able to come, and so she continued pressing her finger more deeply, looking at Stoya’s porcelain body entwined with that of the butch lesbian with the buzz cut. She closed her eyes, and Stoya turned into Bette, and it was Poppy’s body she was pressed against, her own breast being suckled by the dark-haired beauty. She imagined the feeling of her nipple between Bette’s teeth, half memory, half fantasy. She imagined Bette’s fingers expertly playing between her legs, her thumb on her clit, her middle finger inside of her—the way it had been that night a year ago. She could smell Bette, that vanilla and citrus perfume she had worn the first—and only—time they made love.
    Poppy arched back against the hard desk chair, her hand working quickly in and out. Her breath quickened, and she felt the swelling in her pussy that told her the rush of pleasure was moments away.
    “Poppy? Why is the door locked?” Patricia called out, knocking.
    “Sorry—just a sec,” Poppy said, opening her eyes, looking at Stoya, trying not to lose the pleasure that was achingly close.
    “See if that Colin Firth movie is playing at the Angelika,” Patricia said from the other side of the door.
    Poppy kept one hand in her pussy, the other clicking furiously through the images on her screen. But it was a lost cause—her fledgling orgasm dissipated like a quickly deflating balloon.
    “Can you just give me a minute?” Poppy snapped, surprised at her own anger.
    Silence from the other side of the door.
    Again, she wondered: Is this what it meant to be in a relationship? And