Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"What is all that?" Fancy asked.

"This," I told her, holding up a pen with a point that looked like a hypodermic needle, "is a Tombow. With a two–X nylon point. Kind of a drafting pen. And this is black dye— that's what it uses instead of ink."

I unscrewed the pen, put one end in the long narrow bottle of dye, and let capillary action do the rest. I smoked a cigarette through while I was waiting. Then I adjusted the point. "Have you got a piece of paper?"

She brought me a pad of pink squares with a little butterfly design around the top. I ran the pen over the paper— the line was thin, but so dark you could see it easily. I took out some more stuff: sharp–pointed #2 pencils, a calligraphy–point felt–tip pen, a package of premoistened towelettes, individually wrapped in foil.

I carried the stool over next to the couch, setting it up so it was readily to hand when I sat down. Then I unplugged the lamp and moved it over to the couch, adjusting the cone until it fell on just the right spot. Fancy watched me, fascinated, not saying a word.

When I had it all arranged, I sat down on the couch.

"Come over here," I told her.

She walked over slowly, uncertain. I took her hand, pulled gently. She came willingly enough. I kept pulling until she was sprawled across my lap. I yanked the spandex pants down over her rump, almost down to the back of her knees. Her panties were black silk, matching the patent leather pumps on her feet. I slid the panties down to her thighs, moved her bottom slightly toward me with my hand.

"Hold still," I told her.

"What did I do?" she wanted to know, a pouty tone to her voice.

"You opened your big mouth," I said. "Now don't do it again."

She lay still, her face in the couch. I rubbed the residue of baby powder off her bottom with my hand. Then I took the #2 pencil and lightly traced what I wanted on her right cheek. I took a close look— no good. I rubbed it off, tried again. Finally, I got it right.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice muffled.

"I told you to shut up," I said, smacking her hard on the rump. A red spot the size of my palm flared in the intense light from the lamp. "Don't move," I told her.

I traced the penciled design with the Tombow, working carefully so I didn't puncture her skin with the sharp point. My hands are surgeon–steady, but I'm no artist. It took me a long time before I was satisfied.

I held her there, one hand resting on her thigh, waiting for it to dry.

"Okay," I said. "Get up."

She struggled to her feet, red–faced, adjusting her panties, hauling the reluctant spandex into place.

"You have a good mirror?" I asked her.

"Yes. In the dressing room."

"Show me."

She stalked away from me, moving quickly. The dressing room had a full–length mirror, but the lighting was all overhead— I wasn't sure if it would work.

"Take those pants off," I told her. She practically ripped them down, kicking off her shoes, dropping the pants sullenly at her feet. I walked her over to the mirror, holding her by the shoulders. Then I turned her around so her back was to it.

"Pull down your underpants," I told her. "Take a look."

She did, craning her neck to see over her shoulder. She touched the black dot on her rump wonderingly. "What is it? I can't see it good."

"It's a tattoo, Fancy. Like you wanted. Only it's not permanent. This way, you get to see what it looks like. Feels like."

"Oh, I want to see it," she squealed, pulling up her panties and running from the room.

I followed her down the hall into her bedroom. She was standing in front of a makeup mirror on her bureau. The mirror was bordered by a string of tiny light bulbs, glowing a soft, rich yellow.

"It reverses, see?" she said, flipping the mirror to its back side. The new mirror was magnified, distorting the image unless you were real close. She pulled the panties all the way down to her ankles, stood on one leg as she kicked them off. Then she turned around so her back was to the mirror, bent over and thrust her bottom at the magnifying glass, looking over her shoulder.

"It's a little bomb!" she said.

I took a look for myself. Not bad, I thought. A little round bomb, complete with fuse, sparks coming off the end like it was going to go off any minute.

"You like it?" I asked her.

"Oh, I love it. But shouldn't it be…bigger?"

"No. Anyone getting near enough to see it, it should be something just between you and them, right?"

"I guess so."

"This way, it's like a beauty mark, unless you look real close."

"It's great," she said, wiggling her bottom hard. "Does it mean something?"

"Sure. It means you're an explosive girl. Tick…tick…tick…"

"You want to…take a closer look?" she asked softly, walking over to the bed, bending over.

"I love my tattoo," she said later, lying on her side, touching it with one finger.

"You get to decide this way," I told her. "For now, it'll be a secret."

"I have lots of secrets," she whispered. Sad, not teasing.

"We all do."

"Charm does too. Charm has more secrets than anyone."

"You seem to know some of them."

"You mean the video? That's not a secret. She doesn't care what she does."

"It wasn't her idea?"

"It was…a long time ago. When it started." Fancy shifted her hips, throwing one leg over mine, warm wetness against my upper thigh. "She got to watch. When we were kids. I never did."

"Watch what?"

"Spanking. My father would spank me. All the time. For anything. For nothing. He'd call me and Charm into his den. He had a special chair for it. A chair with no arms. He would tell Charm to stand still. Then he'd put me over his knee and spank me. Hard. He always made me tell him why I was getting it. If I didn't tell him, I'd get it harder. It hurt. And it was…embarrassing. With Charm watching me and all. If I cried, I'd just get it more. Then he'd tell me to pull up my pants and go to my room, think about what I did. When I went out, he'd close the door behind me."

"He never spanked Charm in front of you?"

"No. I guess he always waited until I was gone. I hated her for that— it wasn't fair."

"How old were you?"

"When it started? I don't know. I was real little. Maybe first grade? I'm not sure. But it didn't stop until I was a senior in high school."

"How did you get him to stop?"

"I didn't. That's when he committed suicide."

"Did you ever tell anyone?"

"My mother. I told my mother. She tied me up. In a chair. She slapped me and slapped me, screaming. She told me I was a little slut. I didn't even know what it meant, then. She said if I ever told her filthy stories again, she'd burn me. She held a candle right up to my face. I was so scared I wet myself. She just left me there like that. For a long, long time. I never told her anything again."

"Christ."

"When I was about thirteen, Charm came into my room. When they were out for the evening. I was still sore. From what he did. She said she was sorry, asked me if I wanted her to rub some witch hazel on it, to take out the sting. I told her to get away from me— I hated her so.

"Did you think she was— ?"

"She went away," Fancy continued like I hadn't said anything, "but she came back in a little while. She had her nightgown on. She laid down on my bed and pulled it up. She asked me, did I want to spank her? To make up for what happened?" She took a deep breath— it caught somewhere in her throat. "I did it. Harder and harder, but she never made a sound. When I was done, I was so tired I couldn't move my arm. My hand was sore from doing it. She turned over, said she was sorry. About what happened. I was crying by then, but she wasn't. She kissed me. I was all…excited, but I didn't know what it was. Charm knew. She…kissed me there too. Until I came.