Page 21 of Fallen Angel

“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.