Chapter Eleven
Mallory makes her way down a long hallway. A door is open to a well-lit room and, inside, a woman sits alone at a painter’s easel. Artwork is propped up all along the floor and tabletops: elaborate colored-pencil sketches of nudes, exotic birds, and gothic florals.
The artist has shoulder-length dirty-blond hair, a wide nose, and very dark and sexy brown eyes. Her arms and legs appear to be covered in splattered paint, but on closer look, Mallory realizes they’re actually tattoos.
“Hello! Come on in.” The woman gestures for Mallory to sit on the stool placed in front of the easel. “I’m Jocelyn.”
“Penelope directed me to this spot,” Mallory says. “I’m not sure why. But … I don’t want a tattoo.”
The woman smiles.
“I’m not a tattoo artist. I’m a painter. I’m here to give guests custom hand-painted faux tattoos.”
“Oh. Okay. So how does it work?”
Jocelyn looks around the room at the art, and Mallory follows her gaze. “First you need to pick an image. Either something you have in mind, or you can use my drawings and paintings for inspiration.”
Mallory likes the idea. It’s whimsical—exactly the sort of thing Julie and Alison wouldn’t understand. But, like her more normcore friends, she does have a day job. So the “tattoo” will need to either be very discreet or very temporary.
“How long will it last?”
“The paint? You can completely remove it later tonight with baby oil. Or if you want to keep it a while, just tape plastic wrap over it while you shower. If you don’t protect it from water, it’ll start to crack and wear off in a few days.”
Mallory walks around the room examining Jocelyn’s art. It’s all interesting and quite beautiful, but nothing seems like, well, her. Even temporarily. It’s incredible that people can commit to a permanent tattoo.
“I just don’t know,” she says finally. Jocelyn stands up from her perch and, hands on her hips, looks her over.
“Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”
“I’m a burlesque dancer.” It’s taken Mallory a while to be able to say that. In the beginning she felt like a poser, and after three years of law school and half a year working at a Park Avenue law firm, saying she was an aspiring lawyer was almost as deeply ingrained as saying her own name.
“I love burlesque,” Jocelyn said. “Where do you perform?”
“The Blue Angel,” Mallory says with a touch of pride.
Mallory thinks of Penelope and the Slit and her invitation to perform there. For some reason, she has a creeping sense of doom. Of a looming threat.
“I have to check it out sometime,” Jocelyn says.
“The Blue Angel is one of a kind.”
“My favorite things always are,” says Jocelyn. “So: Here’s an idea for your tattoo. How about a blue angel? Or is that too literal?”
Mallory considers it and decides it’s too personal. The party feels like an escape, a fantasy she doesn’t want to pierce with any reality.
Seeing her hesitation, Jocelyn sits back down near her paint and starts sketching something on paper. “How about an angel burlesque dancer or … a sexy Varga girl pinup?”
Mallory is familiar with the Varga style: beautiful, curvy women in vibrant color—retro and ultramodern at the same time. Jocelyn takes a minute with her pencil and paper, then shows both option to Mallory. “What do you think?”
The woman in the sketch is posed like she’s just stepped off a 1940s Broadway stage.
A tiny top hat, tipped rakishly to one side, has a feather plume reminiscent of the Ziegfeld Follies.
Her hair is a cascade of vintage waves, and she perches on the Empire State Building as though it were her chaise lounge.
A feather boa is draped in one hand; in the other she dangles a martini glass.
“The palette will be ruby reds, midnight blacks, and champagne golds, with accents of neon pink,” Jocelyn says.
Before she can respond, someone behind her says: “Make it sexier.”
Mallory turns around to see Violet walking in and closing the door behind her. She thinks about how she touched her earlier at the theater and wishes she hadn’t liked it so much.
“Excuse the interruption,” Violet says. “As you can see I don’t need any help in the tattoo department.”
“Well, please join us. Maybe you’ll get inspired and change your mind.”
Violet takes a seat on an Edwardian couch while Jocelyn turns her attention back to Mallory. “Did you decide on a direction? Good girl or bad girl?”
“Bad girl,” Violet repeats. Jocelyn turns to Mallory for confirmation, and she nods.
Sure—why not? Wasn’t that what attracted her to burlesque in the first place—the chance to express the parts of herself that had been tempered, suppressed, discouraged, and restrained her entire life?
After all, what is it that makes a bad girl bad?
Not shrinking herself to make the rest of the world comfortable. Truly, the greatest sin of all.
“Great. So we’ll do a fallen-angel Varga girl,” Jocelyn says, squeezing tubes of paint to fill her palette—half a dozen shades of blue, black, white, and purple.
For placement, they agree on her bicep. Mallory can’t help but smile when Jocelyn takes the fine-tipped brush to her arm. The paint is cool for the first second it touches her skin, and then she doesn’t feel anything at all.
Violet moves closer, ostensibly to watch Jocelyn’s work.
But Mallory feels her eyes scanning her body, from her legs, to her breasts, and back down again.
The intensity of the two women’s attention is overwhelming: Jocelyn using skin as a canvas, and Violet viewing her like an object.
And she has a strange flash fantasy: Violet walks over to her and slips her hand under her dress, her fingers moving under the elastic of her underwear and brushing over her clit before dipping inside her. She shudders.
“This is interesting,” Violet says. “Can I try?”
“Painting?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure. But not on this design—you’ll wreck it,” Jocelyn says with a wink and a smile.
“Let me do something on the other arm. Or your leg,” Violet said.
“On me?” says Mallory.
“You’re the one in the chair,” says Violet.
She shakes her head, unnerved by her deeply unwelcome erotic thoughts. She doesn’t want Violet to touch her. “I’ve had enough artwork for one night.”
“It’s true that sometimes less is more,” Jocelyn says, leaning in close to dab at her arm.
“Don’t worry—I’ll paint the next one where no one will see it.”
Mallory feels a twitch between her legs.
In an attempt to get control over herself, Mallory focuses on the artwork appearing stroke by stroke on her arm: a 1940s pinup-style brunette, her tumble of long hair nearly black.
Finally, Jocelyn puts her brush aside and appraises her work.
“What do you think?” Mallory says
“You tell me,” Jocelyn says, passing her a hand mirror. The burlesque angel looks even more fantastic when she can see it straight on, not looking down at it.
“I love it,” Mallory said. “It almost makes me want a real one!”
It’s true. She’d planned on washing off the paint at home tonight. Now she’s hoping it really will last a week if she takes care of it.
“My turn,” says Violet.
“Are you an artist?” asks Jocelyn.
“Yeah,” Violet says. “I’m a real Renaissance woman.”
Something deep within Mallory tells her it’s time to go. But she doesn’t move.
“There’s no other image I want,” Mallory says. “What could top this?” She smiles at Jocelyn with appreciation.
“Don’t be closed-minded,” Violet said.
“I have to agree,” Jocelyn says. “It’s like in improv: The attitude is ‘Yes, and …’” She relinquishes her stool so Violet can have access to the paint and brushes. Mallory looks back to the door, wondering if Alec is looking for her.
“Pull up your skirt,” Violet says. “Actually, you’d better take it off. I don’t want to get paint on it.”
“You can paint on my other arm—I’m not taking off my skirt.”
“I thought you said you were a burlesque dancer,” Jocelyn says. “Don’t be shy around us.”
Thanks a lot, Mallory thinks.
“I’ve seen her undressed backstage so I don’t know what she’s so uptight about,” Violet says. Both women look at her expectantly.
“I can’t spend the whole night sitting in this room waiting for paint to dry,” Mallory says.
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you entertained,” Violet said. It sounds more like a threat than a promise, and it ignites her darker impulses—her shadow self.
“Fine,” Mallory says. She considers telling her to make sure it’s something small but decides against giving any direction. Whatever she says will no doubt provoke Violet into doing the opposite. So she just stands, unzips her skirt, and steps out of it, leaving just her black lace boy shorts.
“Sit down,” Violet says, her voice deep and authoritative. Mallory has heard that Violet either is or was a dominatrix, and she gets the sense she must be a very good one.
Mallory returns to her perch on the stool.
“Spread your legs,” Violet says.
“What?”
“I’m going to paint something right there.” She pokes her inner thigh with the wood end of the brush.
Mallory moves her legs apart, and Violet slides her stool closer. She selects a fine-tipped brush and, after dipping it into purple paint, begins working on the innermost section of Mallory’s thigh, inches from her pussy.
Jocelyn walks to the door and it closes with a sharp click.
She returns to stand behind Violet, intent on her handiwork between Mallory’s legs.
Jocelyn leans down, and at first Mallory thinks she’s getting a closer look at Violet’s painting but realizes she’s reaching around to cup Violet’s breasts.
Violet, ignoring Jocelyn’s touch, stays focused on her brushstrokes.
Jocelyn pulls down the bustier, baring Violet’s ample and—Mallory hates to admit—perfect breasts.
She can’t resist watching Jocelyn’s fingers graze Violet’s hard nipples, and she feels a quiver between her legs.
“Almost done,” Violet says calmly, as if an extremely attractive woman isn’t fondling her. Mallory dares to take a peek at the image on her leg; Violet has painted a wide-open purple flower that looks like an engorged vulva.
“What is that?” Mallory says.
“It’s a violet, obviously.” Violet takes a step back to admire her handiwork. Meanwhile, Jocelyn is still touching her.
“I’ll blow on it so it dries faster,” Violet says, and before Mallory can protest, she kneels down and pulls aside her panties, blowing gently on her pussy.
Violet holds Mallory’s underwear aside with one hand, and with the other she brushes her thumb against her clit. They lock eyes as Violet presses a finger deep inside her just as the door to the room opens with a click.
It’s Alec.