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Authors: Monica Belle

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BOOK: Black Lipstick Kisses
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We were both near naked in a warm, drowsy atmosphere, no distractions, no reason why we shouldn't come together. It was going to happen, soon enough, maybe when he got to the point he couldn't hold his pencil steady anymore, maybe when my patience snapped and I pushed him to the ground and mounted myself on his straining erection.

Still he drew, his eyes flicking between me and the paper as the Priestess's face became mine in one picture, and a second. With the third he adjusted my robe, opening it across my breasts and belly, leaving my pussy bare and the scent of my arousal mixing with my perfume. I was trembling, little ripples moving down to between my legs as he again began to draw.

In the fourth drawing the woman whom was now my avatar had her hips pushed forward as she pressed the head of her dildo to the young man's. I was going to have to push my hips out just the same way, undoubtedly betraying the moistness of my sex. He would know I was available, physically, and surely mentally too, and if he didn't do something about it then I was going to, at any moment.

With picture three finished I opened my robe and pushed out my hips, not waiting to be asked. He had turned a little, and as he moved back his robe swayed, revealing his cock for just an instant, heavy and urgent
over a pair of good-sized balls, just needing a touch to bring him to erection, my touch. Yet still he drew, cool and steady, only now I knew his indifference was a pretence. For nearly two hours I'd been slowly working myself up. I was ready and so was he.

‘Look, Michael, are you going to fuck me, or do I have to fuck you?'

He turned, grinning, put his fingers to the belt of his robe and tugged. It came open, showing off his lean, smooth torso, the firm muscle of his thighs, and the bulk of cock and balls. I stepped forward, intent on mounting him, with my robe still on, a hooded Priestess taking her pleasure, naked beneath her robe. He needed just a touch of encouragement, no more, and I sank quickly down, to take hold of his beautiful big penis. My mouth was wide, then full, the taste of man filling my senses as I began to suck. Michael was swelling in my mouth, and pulling back suddenly at the sound of a key grating in the lock. He swore.

‘Shit!'

I stood, instantly angry and at the same time embarrassed, searching desperately for what I was going to say to the girlfriend who was undoubtedly about to walk through the door. Only it wasn't a girlfriend, not a woman at all, but a man, as handsome as Michael, only blond, taller, a little more solid, with the same easy confidence in his face. He must have guessed what we'd been up to, because he was grinning the instant he saw me and there was laughter in his voice as he spoke.

‘Don't mind me.'

He strolled into the kitchen, completely casual, in fact just as if he owned the place. I was sure there was no flatmate; the possibilities that Michael was gay, or
at least bi, flicked through my head again before I realised the truth, at the same instant Michael confirmed it for me.

‘My brother, Chris.'

‘Oh, right. Does he normally just walk in like that?'

‘He owns the flat.'

‘Oh. But . . .'

‘Yeah, I know, he's –'

He broke off with a gesture of irritation and went back to the drawing, now just filling in details of shadow. I was so horny that for a moment the idea of asking them if they'd like to share crossed my mind, only to be dismissed. For one thing I couldn't see it happening, and for another I'd felt a link with Michael the instant I'd seen him. Not with Chris.

It was only when Chris came out of the kitchen with an open beer in his hand that I realised I'd left the
bandes dessinées
magazines on the settee, with one open at the page showing the woman entangled with the octopus. I'd already been blushing, sure he'd guessed what had been going on, but my face grew hotter still as he picked it up, turned it sideways and then upside down, smirking all the while.

‘Kinky! You ought to draw stuff like this, Mike. Aren't you going to introduce me then?'

Michael didn't answer for a moment, and he didn't look too pleased when he turned around.

‘This is Dusk, she's modelling for me. Dusk, meet Chris.'

‘Hi.'

‘Hi, babe.'

He went back to reading the magazine, pausing only occasionally to take a sip of beer. Finally, Michael spoke up.

‘Chris, I am trying to work here.'

‘Yeah, sure, but there's this guy coming round to view the flat later.'

‘You have to be joking!'

‘You know the deal, Mike, and you're doing well now. You said so yourself. We better get some of your shit out of view and all.'

‘Yeah, right.'

He put his pencil down, carefully, but I could sense his frustration as he began to tidy his work area. I was feeling the same, but there was nothing I could do and it felt silly just standing there. So I began to help, stacking the magazines and moving the chairs in an attempt to create some sort of order. In half an hour we'd succeeded, more or less. When Michael went into the kitchen Chris followed, and I was sure he was dropping a hint that I leave. I took it, dressing as best I could under my robe and making my excuses to them, only to have Michael quickly tag on. I was feeling pissed off as we went down in the lift, and in the street asked him straight out.

‘So what's the deal with the flat?'

‘Chris is in property, buying to let or sitting on places until he reckons he can get the best price. He's pretty generous, as it goes. I've been there two years, rent free, but he's getting a bit impatient with it.'

I nodded. It was a feeling I knew well, my own occupation of All Angels being more or less on sufferance. The difference was that if I lost it I'd be looking for squats. Technically I was already in one, but there are squats and there are squats. Feeling a bit more sympathetic, I took his arm. He accepted the gesture and began to steer me, not towards some conveniently
lonely alley, which was where I needed to go in my belly if not in my head, but to a wine bar.

It was further down the dockside, a trendy new place built of polished wood and glass. Across the dock was a rank of cranes painted black, not functional, but a sort of industrial sculpture, really quite Gothic. He ordered a carafe of wine, and my irritation began to slip away as we sipped and chatted, the funny side of what had happened slowly coming to the front, and I found myself smiling.

‘Lucky your brother didn't come in a few minutes later.'

‘Lucky he didn't bring the clients in with him!'

‘Nah, that way you get to hang onto your flat for longer.'

‘Yeah, true. He reckons it's bad enough with my pictures on the walls. Apparently what really sells a place has nothing to do with practical things. According to Chris it's all down to ambience. He'll be making toast and coffee about now, to make it smell homely.'

‘What could be more homely than a woman's pussy?'

For one tiny moment he actually looked shocked. I found myself smiling and blushing, embarrassed but pleased with myself at the same time. He was cool, but not that cool. There was no longer any need to act, at all.

‘We could go back to All Angels?'

‘Why not?'

He drained his glass and I did the same. We rose as one and left, arm in arm, all pretence gone. We were going back to All Angels and we were going to fuck, plain and simple. It was a good way, half an hour on skates, and I was in no mood for small talk.
‘Have you ever had sex on a grave?'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Well you're going to. I like to imagine the person's ghost watching me, maybe pleased, feeling that I'm honouring them, maybe angry at me, for committing sacrilege or for mocking them with my vitality.'

‘What was the name of the tomb you were on when you came down for me, when we met?'

‘Eliza Dobson. Yes, I have. Think how she'd rage, so angry yet so impotent, when in life she had all that power. I love to think of her, watching me bare, watching me enjoy a man's cock, watching me fuck, all the things she tried to suppress.'

‘What if she appeared to you? Screaming at you, clawing at you with ghostly hands.'

For a moment I wondered if I should tell him, but decided it was better to keep it as fantasy, for the moment.

‘Oh, yes please! I wish, I really do. I'd just fuck all the harder, put on a good rude show for her.'

‘I really think you would.'

‘Oh, I would, you'd better believe it.'

‘That I have to draw. You in the throes of passion, underneath me . . .'

‘No, on top, riding you with pride.'

‘OK, as you like, naked.'

‘No, not naked. Not stark naked, anyway. With some clothes on, a skirt and top maybe, but pulled up so that I'm hiding nothing.'

‘Your knickers would be off though, maybe dangling from a piece of carving.'

‘Perfect.'

‘And her ghost rising from the tomb, maybe swirling up from under the lid . . .'

‘. . . her face set in fury and shame and anguish . . .'

‘. . . her fine clothes decaying tatters . . .'

‘. . . her hands clawing at my body . . .'

‘. . . but only bringing you more pleasure.'

‘Yes, and the wilder she got the more pleasure we'd take, feeding on her rage and spite, until we came, together. That would banish her, and soothe the souls of all her victims.'

‘Her victims?'

‘Oh, she used to do some horrid things, all in the name of propriety of course. The Victorians were like that.'

‘Yes, I've read Acton. It always seemed so sordid, nothing to really get a grip on for a story. I like the way you see it though. You're an inspiration.'

‘Just weird.'

‘You're not weird.'

‘Trying telling that to my parents, the other kids at school and my teachers.'

‘OK, you're weird. So am I then.'

He laughed, and I grinned in response, feeling closer still. Like me he was an outsider. Like me he knew how it felt not to fit in and to refuse to try. Like me he had never gone under, and was now free from all the stifling social constraints we had to put up with. I wanted to talk, to tell him everything, and to know about him.

‘You had a hard time as a kid?'

‘More odd, but yes, hard at times. I'm not complaining, because without it I'd never have the richness of experience I rely on for my work.'

‘Tell me.'

‘Well, I'm adopted, for a start, which didn't help, but it was down to my mother, in the main. She's one of
these people who is always searching for an answer and is never satisfied with what she gets. My grandparents are quite sane, but she caught religion in her teens, a bad case. I can't remember what it was when I was tiny, High Church Anglican I think, but I remember being converted to Roman Catholicism at about four, especially the candles, hundreds of them, burning in this huge church. Candlelight fascinates me, and I'm sure that's where it comes from.'

‘I'm Catholic, or I was, and I know exactly what you mean about candles. I still go to confession sometimes, just for the atmosphere. Do you?'

‘No. I'm not a Catholic any more, I haven't been for years, as such. I suppose I could be considered Christian, but only in the broadest sense. My mother changed her mind when I was maybe six. When we went to Scotland for a holiday she caught Calvinism. Suddenly nothing would do but we come to understand our basic wickedness, and all the candles and incense and stuff was so much popery and a sin in itself. I remember being made to feel dreadfully guilty for wanting to go into a church and light a candle to a great-uncle who had died, when just a couple of months before the same action would have earned the highest praise.'

‘Confusing.'

‘Just a bit. It happened again a couple of years later. I can't even remember what to, but it was another Low Church sect, and even more severe. Then there was a brief spell as Mormons, some American thing she saw on TV with lots of shouting and waving our arms about, and an evangelical group largely dedicated to harassing people on Sunday afternoons. The last lot had a particularly strong anti-sex message, remaining
a virgin until marriage and all that shit. You can imagine how that went across with my hormones starting to kick in.'

‘What about your dad, and Chris?'

‘Dad was foreman at the local factory, and where home was concerned he'd do anything for a quiet life. My main memory of him from childhood is that he was always tired. Not mother, she never stopped, sampling different creeds as if they were brands of washing powder and never satisfied with the results. We couldn't just be part of the congregation either, she always had to try and take over the whole thing. Every time it happened it was always the great life-changing event, the crucial revelation that immediately had to be preached to the unenlightened, and of course everyone else in the family had to tag along. I've been anointed, dipped and dunked. I've been a choirboy, an altar boy, an acolyte, a supplicant, and several other things I can't remember, one of which involved kissing the toe of some seedy old sod's sandal.'

‘You're lucky that's all you had to kiss. You rebelled, yeah?'

‘Inevitably. It used to scramble my brains at first, but by the time I left school I had come to understand who I was, and my creed. School was another problem. It changed every time mother's religion changed. I kept myself sane by drawing, first mixing up all the imagery I was picking up, with pretty much the entire range of Christian myth at my disposal and some very peculiar ideas about priests, death and ritual. When I hit puberty I started to explore the dark side of it all, revelling in everything I was told was wrong, devils and sins expressed as anthropomorphic beings especially. I can't have been more than thirteen when I
bought Isaac Foyle's biography. I loved horror comics too, and anything dirty of course, but as much because it was utterly forbidden as for the thrill. Mother used to burn them if she could find them, and I was for ever being sent to priests to discuss my “problem”. It only made me keener.'

BOOK: Black Lipstick Kisses
7.64Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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