Black Lipstick Kisses (11 page)

We went down, Michael sinking beneath me, onto the floor. His zip rasped down, his dick came free, thick and hot between my bottom cheeks. I wriggled as his hands once more clasped my bottom, spreading my cheeks over his cock, his balls between them. He nudged himself at my pussy, growing faster against my wet flesh. I rose, took him in hand, feeling the thick, hard shaft as I put him to my sex, and in.

I sighed as I filled, riding Michael at last, mounted up as I took two handfuls of his hair and begun to fuck. Immediately he was pushing up into me, already urgent, his hands cupping my bottom, holding me, his eyes feasting on my body. Glorious, blissful relief flooded through me. He was in, our bodies joined, and nobody to break the moment. I stretched, pulling at my own hair with my breasts thrust out, seated proud on him just as I had been on the stone knight.

He began to push harder and deeper, jerking into me. I took hold of my breasts, teasing for just a second before the urgency simply became too much. The edge of my panties was rubbing on my clit as I bounced and I was going to come, with just a little more friction, and enough as he went wild. He was coming, and so was I, gasping out his name as I let myself go completely, clutching at my pussy in abandoned bliss, my body tight, my fingers slippery with his come.

Shock after shock of ecstasy went through me as we came together, one to each hard pump of his cock, until
I could hold myself no more and slumped forward on top of him, our mouths opening to each other even as he drained himself into me. His arms came around my back and mine under his shoulders and we were together, held tight in rapture.

We stayed cuddled close together for some time, saying nothing, just kissing occasionally, his cock still inside my body. Before too long our kisses had begun to grow urgent once more, and as I began to wriggle on him, so he once more began to grow hard. Soon my pussy felt nicely full again and he was pushing into me, slowly now, easing himself in and out as I held tight to his chest.

I let my mind wander as we did it again, imagining how he and I would share communion, locked in passion as we were, but on a tomb in the darkened graveyard or by candlelight in the church. Perhaps I could take him with me, into Sir Barnaby's unholy orgy, putting on a display for the delight of the ghosts. Perhaps it would go further still, with the two of them sharing me: Sir Barnaby beneath me, pushing his cock into my straining bottom; Michael on top, fucking to a rhythm. Perhaps not Sir Barnaby . . . perhaps the Devil himself, inserted in my bottom hole even as Michael and I fucked, together in supreme ecstasy, sperm pumping into me, hot
and
freezing cold.

Michael was getting more passionate, his strong arms tight around my back, holding me in, his fingers locked in my flesh. My thighs were wide, my bottom spread, so anyone behind could see the thickness of his cock inside me, and my open bottom, ready to be entered, buggered, but not by any man, by the Devil. I snatched back, twisting in Michael's arms, my hand slipping into the crease of my bottom, to touch my
hole, push in, one finger, then a second, opening myself.

It was going to happen. My pussy was spread in the coarse tangle of his pubic hair, his cock was filling me right to the head, and I could already feel my muscles contracting as I let my fantasy go. We'd be on a tomb, the tomb of some great Satanic master, fucking, me held tight in Michael's arms with my sex spread on his cock. The master would be in my head, then my mouth, thick and real as I sucked. I'd feel the presence of the Devil, his huge, burning hot cock pressed to my bottom hole before jutting in, shocking me as he jammed it deep, buggering me hard and fast. Three cocks would be working as one in my body, and coming, sperm exploding into mouth, pussy and bottom hole at the same instant as I screamed in the agony of my orgasm.

Just as I did, thrashing on top of Michael as I came, screaming and biting at his shoulder, my fingers working furiously in my bottom hole, my feet kicking on the hard wooden floor, my whole body wrapped in blinding ecstasy for one long, glorious climax.

AFTER ALL MY
elaborate plans for Michael Merrick, we'd had each other just seconds after I'd walked in the door. From start to finish it had taken maybe three minutes, the first time, but it was as much my fault as his, more really. The second time more than made up for that. It had been one of the best, certainly my best with a man, and I knew it could get better. He was well pleased with himself too, and with me. We went to bed with a bottle of strong red wine and stayed there until close to dawn, kissing and talking and fucking. I lost count of the number of times I came, and the ways. By the time I finally fell into an exhausted sleep I was sore and so was he, while my head was swimming with wine and talk of cultists and devils and bizatre rituals.

My first thought in the morning was that I should be getting back to check up on Lilitu and All Angels. That was staring bleary eyed at Michael's ceiling before the events of the night before began to run through my head. I sat up, wincing slightly, to find Michael down by his art desk. He saw I was awake and went into the kitchen, just as I heard the pop of a kettle. I relaxed, glad that he was playing host properly, and took the steaming mug of coffee as he returned. It was as I like it, black and sweet, strong enough to send a rush through me after the first couple of swallows.

I'd told him about my experiences at Sir Barnaby's
tomb, but not in detail as it had led to another bout of sex before we could really get into it. Like me, he had no knowledge of Sir Barnaby Stamforth being associated with any of the Victorian cults, Satanic or otherwise. He had never even heard of Sir Barnaby, and while I had always thought of myself as widely read, he seemed to know every detail of every religious aberration recorded. I was thinking about it, but it was he who opened the conversation before he was halfway through his coffee.

‘So this Satanic ritual. Describe it again.'

‘Sure. I was on an altar . . .'

‘How do you know it was an altar?'

‘I know it was an altar because there was an inverted crucifix just above my head. I mean, it's not a normal piece of household furnishing, is it?'

‘No, sorry, but could it have been a table?'

‘I suppose, a big heavy one. It was set up in the middle of a room, well, a space, enclosed but large, because the men were standing all around me.'

‘You're sure they were men?'

‘Yes . . . I mean, I didn't see their bodies or faces, sure, but they had a male feel. I could see their eyes, reflecting candlelight, and light and shadow on the walls and ceiling beyond them. I was on one man, a servant, but I don't know how I knew he was a servant, except that somehow it seemed appropriate that because he was a servant he should be the one in my bottom.'

‘Makes sense to me.'

‘It does?'

‘Sure. Go on.'

‘The other one, Sir Barnaby.'

‘What makes you so sure it was Sir Barnaby?'

‘Well, he was in my head. It was his tomb, that's the way it has always been when I commune with the dead. But yes, his sperm was cold, which means . . .'

‘The Devil.'

‘Maybe. I've never experienced anything like it before, so I don't know. Maybe their sperm is cold anyway?'

‘Could be. And this felt completely real?'

‘The memory is as clear as . . . as what we did last night. I'm not saying that I was physically transported, but it felt that way. I could feel their cocks inside me, I could hear, and I felt the cold of the sperm in my body.'

‘That is some experience. You are truly blessed, or perhaps cursed. But come downstairs.'

He'd been sitting on the bed, and rose, the brief glimpse of his hard buttocks beneath his robe bringing back the night before to me as I followed. A piece of artwork was spread out on the drawing desk. He nodded at it.

‘The Goat of Mendes, in draft. I was working on it in my hotel room.'

I looked, the rough scene he had sketched out with me as the model now executed in elaborate detail. There was the cabal, in their black robes, faces hidden or indistinct. There was the altar, a heavy table at the centre of a darkened room with a black cloth draped over it and an inverted crucifix at one end. There was the young man, leering eagerly at the prospect of sex with the Priestess, then horrified as he discovered that it was he who was to be penetrated. Next he was on his back on the table, held from beneath by a man in coarse tweeds, the Priestess in him. In some frames the
ceiling showed, with a hideous goat's head where the light boss would normally have been. My mouth came open in amazement. Michael chuckled.

‘Similar, isn't it?'

‘Yes . . . but . . . but I didn't know . . . your story wasn't complete, nothing like.'

‘Close enough for your mind to form an image, I think. You are exceptionally sensitive to atmosphere, to suggestion.'

‘So . . . so you're saying that it was all from inside my head? That everything I've experienced is nothing but elaborate fantasy?'

‘No, not necessarily, but I am offering it as an alternative. We can be fairly certain Sir Barnaby Stamforth wasn't a closet Satanist. These things tend to come out over the years, especially if you have a good-sized group. There are always schisms, and people who want to tell the world what they've done, either to gloat or confess. Look at Crowley and the Golden Dawn.'

‘True.'

‘And even in Victorian times it would have been hard for respectable citizens to go around deflowering virgins, especially on a regular basis. Pimps, blackmailers, relatives . . . someone's going to let the cat out of the bag.'

‘True, and your scene is very close – only if I was fantasising, I'd be the Priestess.'

‘Ah, yes, normally, but you were off your face, and you said you couldn't do it again.'

‘Not off my face completely, and no, I couldn't. But what about the cold sperm? I felt it! And the goat's head? You hadn't put that in at all, not even in rough! It was just like that.'

‘Exactly like that?'

‘Yes! No . . . I don't know, I was coming! It was pretty close though, teeth showing, tongue hanging out, staring eyes, great curly horns.'

‘Our minds tend to run on the same lines, and we had discussed the whole goat thing. Maybe it stuck in your head?'

‘What about the sperm then?'

‘If it was the Priestess, with an ejaculating dildo, the cream or whatever would be cold. You would know that subconsciously.'

‘I'm not convinced. So how do I pick up on atmosphere from places and people I know nothing about?'

‘Hard to say. It could be a little thing, evident only to your subconscious mind, like with the sperm. In France you would have been aware of the great war cemeteries even if you hadn't focussed on them. The tombs at All Angels are very personal, each reflecting something of the personality of their occupant . . .'

‘No, the tombs convey the essence of how their occupants really were – not the personas they created in life, but only how they saw themselves. Sir Barnaby's tomb is grand and fine; he may have thought of himself that way, but he was pompous and stuffy. The same with Eliza Dobson. Her inscription makes her out to have been the next thing to a saint, and I'm sure she thought of herself that way, yet the tomb radiates outrage and bigotry.'

‘What was saintly to her is bigoted to you. What was grand to him is pompous to you. Or, there could be something spiritual there . . . perhaps a lingering aura related to the dead individual, without their spirit being cognisant in any way. Perhaps a bit of both, what you experienced being a combination of influences –
my story and a spiritual dimension. Or maybe you're right. Maybe you had a vision of another time. Maybe you fell through some kind of portal; a quantum leap across dimensions.'

I nodded, my mind whirling with ideas, wanting to believe I had some special power. What he said made sense, at least some sense, but I didn't want to accept it. It felt as if he was trying to be kind by extending his ideas to admit the possibility of mine. Kind, yes, but it was hard not to see it as condescension. I didn't answer him, but stood there looking at the illustration and trying not to look sulky. After a while he went on.

‘The servant thing is funny though, and hard to explain. I hadn't put him in my draft at all, had I?'

‘No.'

‘So you couldn't have seen him, yet you came up with the same image, allowing only for the difference in sex between you and Dave there.'

‘Dave?'

‘Dave. Guys who have awful things happen to them in my drawings are generally called Dave. I'm hoping it will become an accepted noun for a hapless male, “a Dave”.'

I smiled despite myself.

‘You're right. How do you explain it?'

‘I can't, but I know where the servant thing came from in my head. It was in a graphic novel I saw when I was a kid. A naked woman, sexy in an upper-class sort of way, with a tattoo on her belly saying “servants' entrance around the back”. I thought it was funny at the time, but it left me with this vivid image of upper-class women inviting their servants to have anal sex. So, yes, when a servant fucks any woman but another servant, it's up her bottom.'

‘I swear I never saw that comic.'

‘No? So why did you feel it was appropriate? Something from Sir Barnaby? Some bizarre genetic memory? Some memory buried in your subconscious?'

‘You'd say the last option, wouldn't you?'

‘I'd say most probably the last option. After all, you might have been, say, on a bus, and have heard the joke told. You don't remember. Maybe you didn't even hear it consciously, but it still fixed in your head.'

Again I nodded. There was a cold logic to everything he said, impossible to refute, but irritating, and it was impossible not to feel mocked. My sense of defiance started to rise but I bit down the comment that came to my lips. We'd made love, and it had been wonderful, strong and spontaneous and uninhibited. To spoil it because we didn't see eye to eye on just one point would have been stupid. Besides, he was keeping an open mind, or at least he said he was. I allowed my defiance to switch to a determination to prove myself right as I made my excuses.