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.