Down in the Zero

kept my hands on her, holding her against me, forcing her to straddle. Her hips bucked, thrusting almost to full lock with each stroke. I ran my hand down her smooth back, tracing her spine with my fingers until I found the little spur at the end, right between the dimples on her bottom. I pushed the spur like it was a trigger. She muttered something in my ear, something I couldn't make out.

Her hard breasts bounced against my chest, slick with sweat. I kept my finger at the base of her spine, forcing her hips into little spasms. She was still saying something, harsh short breaths separating the words.

'Tell …me…what…to…do!'

I put my hands on her hips, driving her toward me as I shoved upward. 'Come, bitch,' I told her. 'Do it now.'

She popped off so hard I could feel the temperature change inside her. Her teeth were closed at the side of my neck as I caught her rhythm, followed her home.

When I came around again, the sunlight was slanted across Fancy's back. She was still on top of me, propped up on her elbows, looking down into my eyes.

'You're awake?' she asked.

'I guess I am.'

'I didn't want to move— didn't want to wake you up.'

'Thanks.'

'You want a shower?'

'In a minute.'

'A cigarette?'

'Sure.'

She slid off me, a faint crackle between her legs as we pulled apart. She stood up, stretched. Then she padded off to the living room. Came back with an ashtray and my cigarettes, sat on the bed, lit one for me. I took it from her, dragged deep.

'I never did that before,' she said.

'That?'

'Sex. Like that. Before last night. I mean, before last, last night, in your car.

'Like what?'

'With a man. Inside me.'

'I seemed to fit easy enough.'

She took the cigarette from my hand, pulled on it, exhaled. I watched the smoke fire from only one nostril, feeling her eyes, not connecting with them.

'I…put things inside myself. To get off. After I was done playing dom. Or sometimes, just thinking about it. And a couple of times, she did it to me…with a vibrator.'

'Who?'

'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'I'm going to take a shower. There's another one, down the hall, if you want.'

'We can go. Sunday night,' she said, standing at the door, her hand on my sleeve.

'Where?'

'Rector's. Sunday night, Monday's the next day. It doesn't open until late. Like you wanted. Okay?'

'Great.'

'Do you have any tattoos?' she asked.

'What?'

'Tattoos. On your body. I…couldn't see in the dark.'

'No.'

'Nowhere?'

'Nowhere,' I told her, remembering. I'd wanted one, all right. Not during the kiddie camp bits I served when I was a juvenile, but my first felony fall. There was a great tattoo artist in there, TKO Tony, a burly Irish prizefighter doing time for assault. He'd drunk himself out of the ring, but he was working himself up to number one contender status as a bar brawler when the Law took him down. He did beautiful work— panthers, dragons, snakes, anything you wanted. Going rate was four crates of cigarettes or a lid of grass. I wanted a hand of playing cards— Aces and Eights. I was a kid. The Prof pulled me up quick, crooning the truth.

'Skin art is for gangbangers and gunfighters, schoolboy. Not for professionals. You gonna work the stealing scene, you gotta stay clean.'

He was right and I knew it. Tattoos were for those guys doing life on the installment plan.

'They're not for me,' I told her.

'Could I get one?'

'A tattoo?'

'Yes.'