The Blue Star
Part 1
The Blue Star was where denizens of Storybrooke sought to have their darkest needs met, their innermost lusts slaked. A three-story brownstone hidden in a tangle of old shipping warehouses, it had been a hostel, a speakeasy, a gentleman's club, and a consignment store in its long history. Now the Blue Star's proprietor had made it something truly unique. She catered to every proclivity, and her staff was held to the highest standards of taste. The decorations were subtle and tasteful; the first floor served as a restaurant where any citizen could respectably enjoy a drink or some of the most exquisite cuisine this side of the Atlantic. The upper floors, however . . .
Miss Blue stood in the mud room, grateful to be out of the horrid weather. Sleet and a horrible biting wind. A nor'easter was brewing if the meteorologist was to be believed, that was if one wished to put their trust in a man with a spray tan and hair gelled to immobility. Miss Blue shook her umbrella and tucked it into the box designed for such a purpose. One of her girls materialized out of the ether, helping to divest her of her calf-length blue coat, gloves, hat and scarf.
"Thank you, Astrid. How is the house?" Miss Blue asked, stepping into the Blue Star which greeted her with the welcome warmth of central heating, soft strains of classical music, muted lighting and gleaming wood floors.
"It's a full house tonight, ma'am. All the regulars." The elfin-featured waif trotting at Miss Blue's heels had made a truly abysmal waitress, costing Miss Blue a fortune in fine china and glass. She had found her stride upstairs though, and one regular, Leroy, refused to take anyone but her. Usually, such favoritism was bad for business, but in Storybrooke, that made for dedicated, high-paying customers.
"Excellent," Miss Blue replied, her knife-thin smile belaying the rush of pleasure. Weather like this and her dears were snuggled up nice and cozy at the Blue Star. It spoke so potently of their loyalty, and whispered so sweetly of their desperation. Miss Blue dismissed Astrid with a fond stroke on the cheek. Moving toward the bar, she sought out their resident mechanic.
"Sidney, is the generator fixed?" Miss Blue asked. Their take would not be tarnished by foolish things like the need for electricity. The swarthy mechanic scrubbed grease from his hands.
"It is, ma'am. I finagled with the plumbing too. We'll have water, even if this turns bad."
"You're a magician," Miss Blue praised, breathing a kiss on the air over his stubbled cheek. The man blushed like a schoolboy, stuttering out his thanks.
"Regina tells me she misses you. I'll give you two half an hour tomorrow night, on the house," Miss Blue offered, trailing her fingers down his cheek. Like a taste offered to an addict, Sidney would slaver for more and spend every one of his paychecks in pursuit of that more. Men were fools for Regina's brand of exquisite, smoldering sexuality. And Miss Blue enjoyed granting wishes.
The dinner hour saw Granny Lucas and her minions dancing between tables. Her granddaughter Ruby had also been a waste as waitress, not because of ineptitude, but of wasted potential. Upstairs she could shine, and for substantially greater tips than the rest of Storybrooke could offer. The lights flickered only once as wind groaned and sleet pelted the windows, and Miss Blue smiled. With everything running smoothly, Miss Blue marched to make her rounds upstairs. Thick royal blue carpet muted the rap of her heels on the stairs, their massive bouncer, Jorge, admitting her beyond the velvet rope with a bow.
Clientele of the Blue Star only made it up the stairs by producing a membership token emblazoned with the club's namesake. These tokens were obtained in two ways: one, it was purchased or bid for by private auction. In fact, Miss Blue could only think of one man on the books who had bought one outright. At the summit of the second floor, Miss Blue consulted the ledger and stroked the shape of his slanting signature. A. Gold. The Blue Star's most loyal customer.
Entry prices were steep, but the payoff was worth it. Bribes were rife to rig to auction, but in the end, Miss Blue filtered all potential members. Poor Dr. Whale would have to wait until next month to try his luck again. Membership tokens at the Blue Star were high-tech, non-transferrable, non-refundable. Miss Blue had actually consulted Gold for the particulars. The man was a genius when it came to fine print.
"Miss Blue, good evening." A low, Scottish drawl beckoned her from the lounge. Miss Blue's critical eye roved over her favorite customer, limned by the low glow of a fire. Gold glinted at his cufflinks and the handle of his cane, and the ring he wore winked blue, then red in the flickering light. Power oozed from his lean form, clothed in a perfectly tailored suit. A man who knew what he wanted, and expected it done as a matter of course. Miss Blue settled into the black wingback chair opposite him, primly smoothing her skirts.
"Good evening, Mr. Gold. What is your pleasure tonight?" she asked politely. His dark eyes flashed, and Miss Blue knew her suppositions were correct.
"We have a standing arrangement, Miss Blue. I do so hate repeating myself." Miss Blue made a placating gesture.
"Of course, Mr. Gold. I was simply asking if you craved . . . variety." Gold exhaled through his nostrils and rose, leaning against his cane.
"I am well satisfied with my part of our bargain. Is the room prepared?" Miss Blue dropped his gaze, plucking an imaginary speck of lint from her skirt.
"With this ungodly weather, there was a necessary surcharge . . ." Gold reached for his vest pocket and flicked something on the table. His membership coin met the oak side table with a substantial clink.
"Put it on my tab. Have a pleasant evening, Miss Blue."
"You also, Mr. Gold. Give my regards to Miss French."
If pressed, Miss Blue would have chosen someone lean and predatory to suit Gold's formidable force of presence. Something in the way he carried himself, the essence of his dark reputation lent itself to imagined carnal delights. Ruby, maybe. Or perhaps even Regina. Lacey French had her own brand of cheap, cheeky charm, more suited for hustling pool tables at the Rabbit Hole. Lacey's saving grace came in her exceptional beauty and certain moral flexibility that Miss Blue admired in herself. Yet it was this offbeat beauty that captured Gold's interest?
She picked up the coin, holding it tight in her palm. It was still warm from Gold's body heat. She tucked it into her clutch. She had other calls to make this evening, more wishes to grant. The mystery of Lacey's allure would remain so as long as Gold paid. And Mr. Gold always honored his agreements. Everyone knew that.
Lacey nodded at Jorge's signal, pausing to wipe a smudge of pink lipstick from the corner of her mouth in the hall mirror. She winked at her reflection, quelling the flutter of nerves. It was another job, another john. Simple. She'd always liked sex, and at the Blue Star it was clean, safe, and the clientele was an entirely different echelon than what she'd had at the Rabbit Hole. Lacey tugged at the hem of her gold cocktail dress, a silky drape over one shoulder plunging over her cleavage, then clinging to her curves and ending at mid-thigh. Bracelets chimed on her wrists as she tucked a curl behind her ear. The walk was key. Just walk like you own the place, walk like a goddess, and you are.
She opened the door to the Rose Room to find him seated, hands gripping the arms of the chair before the fire like a king on the throne. Lacey waited, heartbeat hammering beneath the flimsy protection of her dress. Dark eyes roved over her, hot, possessive and so hungry. Like he wanted to devour her whole.
"Look at you. Drenched in my color." His voice emerged rich and deep, syllables mangled by his thickened accent. One look, one whispered phrase, and Lacey was paralyzed by a shivery rush of arousal, as potent as a hit of cocaine. She'd been clean for years, but Gold had become a different addiction. She tilted her head, coy, toying with one of her curls with a darkly painted fingernail.
"You like? Funny little coincidence, really," she said. His thin, sensual mouth curved in a smirk. Her stomach flipped. He rose and made his way toward her, graceful even with the cane.
"Tease," he accused, grasping her elbows and yanking her toward him, his grip hard. Beneath his veneer of sophistication, he was a predator, which Lacey found unbearably arousing. Lacey bit her lip, her gaze flickering over him.
"I prefer the term . . . creative," she purred. Gold hovered close, that knowing smirk still flirting with his lips.
"Liberal-minded, are you?" he said, his breath fluttering warm against her cheek, not quite nuzzling the hair behind her ear. Lacey breathed in, savoring the subtle, masculine scent of his cologne, augmented by the tang of the whisky he favored and the waft of clean silk.
"You could say that," she said, one finger lightly tracing his lapel and then the satin-covered buttons of his vest. Gold hummed his noncommittal agreement, his hand covered hers, guiding her to unbuttoning him. Lacey took to the task with alacrity. It had been too long since she'd tasted this: danger and lust, flirtation and slaking, the heady thrill of his hands and mouth on her.
"Not to mention. . ." he began in her ear, dropping a trail of moist, burning kisses along her jawline. His hand slid up her biceps and along her exposed back. These were not the hands of a man who lifted only a pen his whole life. He had worked with his hands at one time; calluses roughened palms and fingers, rasping deliciously against her skin.
"You're not afraid of me. That's more than most of Storybrooke can say." She bit down on a gasp as he nibbled delicately on the shell of her ear. As he was distracted worrying her skin with his teeth, she finished her handiwork on his shirt.
"I like complicated men," she said, she raked her fingernails down his lean belly. Gold hissed, burning eyes meeting hers.
"Enough," he rasped, grasping her errant wrist. The ring glittered between them. Moonstone, Lacey knew. She'd looked it up; she had never seen a stone that blue before.
"Where do you want me?" she asked breathily, already wet and hiding her trembling. He'd barely touched her and she ached. Just a taste, that's all she needed. A taste of this sweet, hot magic they made together.
"Hands and knees on the bed. Now." Lacey hastened to obey, biting her lower lip.
The mound of down comforters was turned down, leaving only a four-poster bed of satin sheets, richly scarlet in the low firelight. Lacey crawled up on the bed, a toss of her head flinging her mussed curls down her back. Gold made no move to touch her at first. Lacey's breathing quickened, aroused by the thought of him watching, wanting. In the soft quiet, the tinkle of his belt buckle and sibilant sound of his trouser zipper were abnormally loud. Gold's warm hand cupped her hip through the dress, stealthily wadding the silky fabric. He groaned when he found her without underwear.
"Naughty girl." Lacey stifled a low moan at the sound of his voice, a husky whisper that felt as hot as the touch of his hand. Gold's fingers moved over her silky flesh, curling knowingly around her clit. Her hot ache sharpened into the sweet, silvery beginnings of pleasure. The callused pad of his index finger circled, gently circled . . .
"So wet," Gold growled. God, his fingers . . .
"Fuck, Gold. Get on with it." Lacey bit the words out, half a breath from begging for it. A hitch of breath, his free hand braced her, and he thrust into her in one sharp stab of his hips. Oh fuck yes, there he was! Hot, thick and so hard . . .
"This what you wanted, pet? Hmm?" Gold was just as wrecked and hungry as she was, she could hear it in the faint tremor running through his voice, feel the subtle tremble in his grip on her hip. That was almost as good as the pleasure building inside, agitated by his smooth tempo of thrusts. Lacey arched back, pulling him deeper.
"That's good, baby. Just like that," she said in a soft, broken whisper.
His stamina was impressive, and skill enough to have any woman he wanted writhing beneath him. But he chose her. Lacey focused on her breathing, on the calculated undulations designed to enflame him, anything other than the knowing circular kneading of his fingers on her clit and the obscene rhythmic slap of sweaty flesh meeting. Gold's blunt fingernails dug into her hip, his breath harsh and sawing. He was a reserved lover. Even underneath the onslaught of Lacey's admittedly talented mouth, all she earned was a low grunt, at most a muttered explicative.
Sex was a battlefield between them, and pleasure their chosen weapon. Oh . . . oh. This round was slipping through her fingers. There it was, that delicious tension, that shimmer of pleasure building in her nerves goaded by his teasing fingers, his glorious cock, that long, wicked tongue lapping the sweat from the back of her neck—Lacey's cry of completion emerged in a breathy whine, inner muscles clamping down. Her vision whited out for a moment, lost in that clenching, mindless euphoria. Dimly, she heard Gold's tortured groan, felt the heat of his semen inside her as he came. Her arms gave out beneath her and she pressed her sweaty cheek against the cool fabric, tangled curls obscuring her vision. Boneless in the pulsating languor following her orgasm, Lacey turned her head to accept his kiss, messy and perfect. She nipped his lip as she pulled away, intensely aware of his naked cock inside her, still deliciously hard.
"You marvelous bastard," she rasped in the voice of a woman well-fucked. Greed was a vice they shared. What could be better than another round of fun before their time was up? Lacey arched sinuously, feeling the weight of his balls against the cleft of her arse.
"Had some . . . pharmaceutical help this evening, yeah?" she purred, kittenish and coy as she nibbled on the sleeved arm braced beside her. Gold growled, pulling out. His open palm smacked her arse, a stinging blow on her right cheek that educed a squawk of mingled affront and arousal.
"Behave, Miss French," Gold said, smacking her left cheek for good measure. The pain, a sharp sting followed by a flush of almost-pleasure. Time to get the upper hand back. She crawled to one side, avoiding his striking hand. She rucked up the hem of her dress, swatting Gold's hand as he tried to assist her.
"Patience, Mr. Gold," she shot back. Lacey made a show of wiggling free of her dress, throwing a coy wink over her shoulder as she peeled off her bra. Fuck, the sight of Gold kneeling on the edge of the bed, half-dressed with his erect cock gleaming with her slick was something to linger over later, when another john labored over her that didn't arouse her half so well. Lacey moved up to the head of the bed and sprawled on the nest of pillows, wearing nothing but her hair and the strappy gold heels he hadn't given her time to discard.
Eyes dilated to pools of black, lip curled in a ravenous snarl, he looked like a beast. Her beast. That thought struck a chord deep in her, to her childhood dreams where she was lost in a forest, endlessly searching for a way back. Lacey found her practiced smile, parting her legs to reveal her naked sex and his seed smeared on her thighs. Anthony Gold was a possessive man. One look at her adorned with his seed usually had him on her like white on—moving faster than any man with a limp had the right to, Gold insinuated himself between her legs.
"How do you want me?" she asked, with a pointed smile. A quick reminder of where they were and what she was, anything to dispel that surge of . . . of whatever that was. Gold grabbed her right leg, lifting it up to leave a biting kiss on the tender inside of her ankle. Lacey exhaled a soft breath. That was unexpectedly good.
"I want you underneath me, impaled on my cock, screaming the walls down with the pleasure I give you." He lifted her left leg to join its twin braced on his shoulders. Fucking bastard, he knew she loved it when he talked dirty.
"I want to fuck you into the mattress until all you remember is my cock in you, my tongue in your mouth, your fingernails imbedded in my back." Lacey moaned, both at his words and the feel of the blunt head of his cock, weeping fluid, nudging her swollen clit.
"I want you to come so hard you forget your own name." Leaning over her, Gold licked his index finger, oh those clever fingers! He rolled her nipples between index and thumb, very lightly pinching. Lacey stroked his thighs, the scrape of her nails muted by his trousers.
"Such a good boy. Oh, are you going to be a good boy and fuck me like you promised?" she breathed, arching toward the fleeting pressure of his cockhead. Even buzzing from her orgasm, Lacey wanted his cock in her, close and hot and hers.
"I always honor my agreements," Gold replied. He teased her, easing the head in then pulling out to circle her clit. Payback, she thought. Last time, she'd made him come three times in their allotted hours, the last time he was begging her to fuck him. Gold made quite a sight above her, face framed by her heeled feet, sweaty, mussed and snarling.
"You . . . you promi—ah!" Lacey began, silenced by the sudden flex of his hips, sinking halfway in. Not enough, fuck it wasn't enough!
"Nng, more. Fuck. Gold, more!" Lacey lay immobilized by the press of his pelvis and his lean arms braced at her sides. The bastard had the nerve to gloat.
"Now, now Lacey. Where are our manners?" Gold drawled, a pinch at her clit making her see stars.
"Please. Please." She capitulated, already striving toward another release. Gold's first hard upward thrust struck her sweet spot, and she came howling and clawing and thrashing beneath him. Soaked with sweat and dripping juice, she watched through bleary eyes as Gold pounded into her with lightning fast thrusts. One final slam, a low groan and Gold rode out his own orgasm, emptying himself inside her.
Together, they collapsed in a boneless sprawl of lazy kisses and languorous caresses. Lacey usually found the cuddling and pillow talk after sex supremely boring, even smothering. But trading drags on one of Gold's unfiltered cigarettes with his heartbeat underneath her ear felt . . . nice. Jorge's light knock broke the peace. Lacey struggled on weak knees to the heap of her discarded clothing, feeling Gold's semen trickle down her thigh. His gaze wandered over her appreciatively, especially as she bent over. Lacey offered a cheeky smile, blowing him a kiss.
"Until next time," she said. Hollowing out his cheeks as he sucked down a drag, Gold smirked, smoke curling out his nostrils.
"Next time, Miss French."
Two more clients, each tedious regulars, and Lacey made her way downstairs for breakfast after she'd showered. She smothered a yawn in her hand, sliding onto the barstool next to Ruby. The restaurant was now a forest of upturned mahogany chairs; Sidney's minions were now busily waxing the floors in preparation for another night. Above the bar, a flat-screen TV droned on the toll of last night's storm.
"How was your night?" Lacey asked, bare feet swinging in idle circles. Ruby shrugged, pouring Lacey a cup of coffee.
"Nothing special. Miss Blue gave me a couple naughty boys and one very naughty mechanic." Ruby's lupine grin gave away her favorite. Lacey snickered into her coffee cup.
"Gus came by again? How can he afford a bid?" she asked. Ruby tossed her loose red-streaked hair over her shoulder. Granny set Lacey's usual order of pancakes and bacon on the counter before her.
"Thanks, Granny." The bacon was crispy and perfect, a smoky counterpoint to the coffee's rich bitterness.
"He fixed a flat for Miss Blue last week. Must've called in the favor." Lacey chewed thoughtfully, drawn to thoughts to another of Storybrooke's denizens with a penchant for deals. Her gaze wandered to the TV as she tucked into her breakfast.
"In other news, our small town Storybrooke woke to a surprise. A yellow Volkswagen crashed into the town's sign early this morning. Early reports state the driver was unharmed, though her blood alcohol level was elevated. More on this as it develops."
A/N: Cursed!Smut, I love it so. What do you think?