Babylon - Part 3

Ivory pushed through the doors of the Kit Kat Club, the red velvet curtains sliding over his shoulders like a lover's hand. Lights swam across the walls in velvet smears of crimson and gold. He found Miss Pussy perched on a high stool at the lacquered bar, legs crossed at the knee so the garter stayed just in view. She caught his eye, smiled without teeth, and tilted her glass toward the empty seat beside her. "Been waiting for someone who doesn’t ask permission," she said. Ivory sat. Up close the perfume was heavier—sandalwood and skin. Miss Pussy uncrossed her legs, let the slit of her dress fall open to the lace edge of her stocking, then let him look. His fingers stayed on the bar, gripping the polished edge until his knuckles whitened. She slid off the stool with a whisper of satin and took two steps until her hips brushed his knees. One hand traced the seam of his trousers from inseam to waistband, slow as if she had all night. Ivory felt the silk of her palm even through the cloth. "Come," she said, voice low and close to his ear. She led him behind the curtain at the back of the lounge. The room beyond was small: velvet chaise, low lamp, mirror angled above the bed so he saw every angle. She shoved his jacket down his arms and pushed him to sit, then straddled his thighs without waiting for invitation. Ivory’s hands found her waist. The dress slid up, caught at her hips, leaving nothing but the thin string of a thong and the heat beneath. Miss Pussy rocked once, slow, grinding the damp lace against the ridge already straining his fly. She worked the buttons of his shirt open, nails scraping his skin, then leaned in to bite his lower lip—hard enough to taste copper. Ivory groaned, the sound swallowed by her mouth. She guided his palm between her thighs; two of his fingers slipped past the thong and found her slick, already swollen. She clenched around him, hips circling while she licked the sting she’d left on his mouth. He crooked his fingers and her breath stuttered. She reached between them, freed his cock with a practiced twist of her wrist, then lifted just enough to seat herself in one smooth drop. Ivory’s head thudded back against the velvet. The mirror showed him everything: her spine curving, ass flexing, the wet gleam each time she rose and sank again. He gripped her thighs, thumbs pressing the soft inner flesh, and met every thrust until the chaise shook beneath them. Miss Pussy came first—tight pulse around him, a moan ripped from her throat—then reached down and stroked him once, twice, until he spilled hot inside her, fingers digging crescents into her skin. They stayed joined for a moment, breathing hard, sweat cooling where their bodies touched. She finally slid off, left a glistening trail on his thigh, and straightened her dress like nothing had happened. At the curtain she paused, glanced back, and licked her lower lip clean of the blood she’d drawn. "Come back when you want more," she said, and disappeared into the lights and music.