Black Lipstick Kisses (15 page)

He finished playing with my clit and turned his full attention to my bottom, holding me around the waist and slapping my cheeks with his fingertips, just hard enough to make my skin sting. Soon I was in a rosy haze of pleasure, not so very far from orgasm, with my whole bottom warm and open and sensitive, my sex aching to be filled, my clit badly in need of some more attention. He was going to make me come, I was sure of it, but in his own good time, at once enjoying my body and taking his revenge for me tormenting him. Until then all I could do was lie there and let myself be brought slowly, slowly higher, my dignity forgotten as I surrendered to the delicious thrill of my first spanking.

Then he laid in.

It was completely unexpected. One moment I was lying across his lap with a silly smile on my face and my bottom pushed up for his attention, in bliss and completely accepting what he was doing. The next his hand had landed across my bottom with the full force of his arm, his grip on my waist had locked and I was screaming blue murder and thrashing crazily. He didn't stop, but just kept right on going, holding me hard to prevent my escape as he spanked me, his arm moving up and down like a piston, my body bucking wildly, my bottom burning with hot pain. I kept on screaming, begging, whining, anything to make it stop, until I was mad with pain and frustration. When finally I managed to fight my way free I slipped from his lap and sat down hard on the floor.

For a moment I couldn't speak, but only sit there, rubbing my blazing bottom cheeks with my mouth hanging open. My smacked skin felt thick and glowing hot, and I was shaking hard with reaction, some of it anger. It had hurt, a lot, and I was not pleased with him, but I couldn't deny the urgent need in myself. The spanking had put me on heat, there was no other way to describe it, with my hot bottom the focus of my body, my pussy at the heart, desperately needing to be filled. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted to suck his cock. I had never realised it was possible to resent my own desires. He'd taught me otherwise. At last I found my voice.

‘You bastard!'

He just chuckled, and very casually pulled down his fly. I swallowed.

‘Are you really going to make me do it?'

‘Not if you don't want to.'

He knew I did.

‘You really are a bastard, aren't you?'

I shuffled forward, to between his knees, taking in the rich male scent of his penis a moment before I'd opened my mouth around it. He sighed as I began to suck, his half-stiff shaft immediately starting to swell in my mouth, soon erect, and in my hand. I knew what I wanted to do, and I couldn't stop myself. My other hand went down, between my thighs, to stroke the swollen, sensitive lips of my pussy, and between. As I started to rub I set up a rhythm on his cock, my lips working up and down his thick shaft. He took my hair, twisting his hand in to it, to pull himself deeper into my throat, and back, leaving a ring of black lipstick just an inch from the base of his erection.

My thoughts turned to my hot bottom and the way he'd treated me, stroking me, tickling me, spanking me, taking more time over me than any other man I had known. It had hurt, at the end, but that was a small price to pay for the pleasure he'd given me, seeing to my bottom just as I was seeing to his cock, slow and attentive, unhurried, the way good sex should be.

He came unexpectedly fast, suddenly grabbing the base of the shaft to milk hot, salty come into my mouth. I struggled to take it, so close to the edge, then over, swallowing over and over with the waves of ecstasy washing over me, my body tight in orgasm, the warmth of my bottom a thrilling, delicious thing. For a long moment it was pure bliss, all the chagrin of letting him spank me gone, and then it was back as I sank down. Before I'd caught my breath I was thinking of revenge.

‘REVENGE' WAS A
bit strong. Return match was more like it. He had upped the stakes, taking me somewhere I had never been before, and it had left me feeling out of balance. I needed to get that back, restore a bit of pride. It was tempting to demand a return match, but I had a nasty suspicion I'd just end up getting turned over his knee again. Deep down I knew I wanted exactly that, which made it worse.

I could have slept with him, but I went back, trying not to sulk and not to play with myself as I lay in the darkness of the vestry. As I'd passed down the yew alley I'd felt the Major sniggering. Somehow he knew, and it had made me blush, for all that Michael would have said it was just in my head or the wind in the trees.

The weekend was mine: Stephen was in Suffolk and Michael off at some convention in Birmingham. I felt I needed it, to get my head together, not only because I'd managed to involve two men in my life, but because each was fucking with my head in his own way. It needed resolution, but first something to think about, just to clear my head.

Research seemed the best bet, something to concentrate on and also productive. After taking Lilitu for her walk and making my round of the graveyard I headed up west, to the British Library. If there was
any evidence at all of Sir Barnaby Stamforth being involved with Satanism, then it had to be there.

I searched all afternoon, buried in tome after tome, on the computer and in the microfiche. There was plenty about him, but all of it marked with exactly the blend of pomposity and fantastical self-aggrandisement I had come to associate with him. He'd had statues put up to him. He'd had streets and buildings and charities and ships named after him. He'd even had a brand of Christmas pudding named after him. He'd also travelled the world, made a huge fortune, had eight children, done all sorts of arcane industrial things and been an MP. The only thing he hadn't done was indulge in Satanic sex rituals.

The more I read, the more I became convinced that I had manufactured the entire experience in my own head. I didn't want to accept it, because if I did, communion was never going to be the same again, maybe not even possible. That was enough to bring me to the edge of tears as I left the library, and I was cursing Michael. Yet the experience had been so powerful, and so real.

It was going to be a bad night. My head was full of ideas and images, doubts and yearnings, senses of stupidity and shame, defiance, arousal, me as Bernadette, me bum-up across a man's knee. I knew that the moment I tried to sleep they would all come crowding in. I had to get out of myself, somehow, and it was no use just getting blasted, because it might well not help and would only make matters worse in the morning. As a final straw I could feel my period coming on, adding PMT to my troubles just when I did not need it.

Yet there was nothing I could do. Taking a bus the other way and heading back to old haunts, did occur to
me, even going home. It was not going to help, or not much. There really was nobody I could talk to the way I needed to. I couldn't commune, it was impossible, not with the doubt Michael had planted in my head nagging at me. I could go out, walk the streets with Lilitu to keep me safe until I was simply so exhausted that I slept regardless of what was going on in my head.

There was nothing else for it. I'd dressed casual so that I didn't get any stress at the library, and stayed that way: black jeans, black top and, on sudden impulse, Snaz's hooded top. That made me think. I had her cans too. I could go and hit somewhere, give myself a rush that had nothing to do with men, or sex, and keep myself focussed for hours. It was pretty retrogressive behaviour, to use one of Stephen's expressions, but I didn't care. I wanted the hit, and the feeling that it was me against everybody else, that I was alone, laughing at them all.

I got the bag and checked through its contents. Snaz's colours were just not me, but Biggy's were better: purple, silver and a green not too far from tourmaline. There was a black needle-cap too, and I fed the four into my pockets, not wanting the added risk of carrying a bag. Nor did I want to be identified, and put down my mobile. Lilitu was eager, sensing my mood, her tongue lolling out and her tail wagging furiously.

It felt good, my worries already pushed down as I made my way down the yew alley and into the road. I stopped at the corner shop and used some of my modelling money to buy a four pack of strong lager, always a help. Just a few hundred yards away was the huge expanse of white paint where the big twin piece had been buffed over. To hit it would have been
madness, with everyone who had anything to do with the place on the look out. On the other hand it was oh so tempting. It would also have been a tribute to Snaz, which was silly, but what I wanted to do. Not that she'd know.

I went down the alley, but the café was still open and there were far too many people about. There was no harm in scouting it, and I hadn't eaten, so I bought coffee and a bacon butty for myself, a saveloy for Lilitu and went to sit outside. There was a great sense of wickedness building up as I considered how it could be done, all my problems pushed away into the back of my mind, just as I had wanted.

Getting on the roof seemed easy enough, with several cars and a breakdown truck parked tight up against the garage doors. The high bits they'd done, and the bit beyond the end of the garage was out of the question, and I could only imagine that she had sat on his shoulders to do it. A big piece was foolish anyway. I was out of practice and I was very unlikely to be given the time. Dubs were better, far quicker, and if it came down to it I was sure I could scramble up the cables onto the viaduct above.

There were still way too many people about when I'd finished, so I went down under the bridge and into the park, sipping beer and trying to remember how the lines looked from the top of the tower. About a half-mile east there was a junction, which always meant plenty of transformer boxes and stuff, but it was very open, better for bombing than anything else.

Then it hit me. The hideous concrete box of a community centre in which I'd first met Stephen was perfect. Its long, featureless walls just cried out for some colour, and it was sure to come to his attention.
He knew nothing about my graff exploits, and although I had told him I liked to be called Dusk, he never used it. I could do letters so crazy he couldn't even be sure, but he would surely suspect. That would give him a reason to spank me . . . no, that would teach him a lesson for doing it.

I doubled back on my tracks, deliberately walking slowly. The centre would be shut, I knew, but it was foolish to risk anything before midnight. I drank my second beer on a bench at the edge of the park, feeling gradually more detached from the people around me as the alcohol kicked in. Only when the pubs had chucked out did I move on, my stomach tightening as I grew close to my target.

Two rich yellow streetlights illuminated the front, with an alley at one side a black mouth overhung by creeper to make the side wall an easy target. That was not for me. Nor was the front, with its tattered posters and shuttered windows. I moved to the corner, peeping into the car park. A CCTV mast stood against the near wall, fixed camera, set to cover the parking spaces. That was just fine.

Keeping a close hold on Lilitu's lead, I worked my way along the wall, my back against the brick, under the camera mast and on. The back was perfect, no camera, two huge bins to shield me from the car park and a high, creeper-hung fence behind. A plain concrete wall stretched from the bins to the rear door – my canvas.

I spent a moment listening, my throat and stomach tight, my hands trembling slightly. It felt good to be back, a street urchin once more, and I was grinning as I popped another beer and set out my cans. I'd come this far, so I should do it properly, a piece. Already I
was buzzing, and I could just imagine Stephen looking at it with his face of concern and disapproval, the one he kept for just such occasions. He would speak with regret about fund allocation for youth services and the need for channelling creative energy, complete bollocks, and all the time thinking of how much he'd like to spank my bottom for me.

Michael would be less fun, accepting of the act but critical of my abilities. That was what determined me to make it as good as I possibly could, and I paused with the black needle cap in hand. The old black letter ‘Dusk' was not enough. I wanted full-on Gothic, illuminated capitals, as if it had been done by some berserk medieval monk. I could do it too – I'd spent enough time looking at them and writing them.

I began to work, a can in each hand – one beer, one paint – focussing on the way a raven's quill runs on paper as I put down a bold, sweeping D. It was right, straight out of the Book of Kells, and I knew I was on a roll. My u followed, s and k, all perfect lower-case black letter. I drained my beer and opened the last, wishing I'd bought six instead of four. Taking up the rich purple, I filled the upper part of the D, faded and filled the lower with green. The others followed, and more black, thickening the outlines and adding serifs. Then the silver, to create a pattern of Celtic scrollwork around each letter, crossing over and under to bring it all up into three dimensions and ending in beaked birdheads like the prows of Viking longships.

It glowed. Only a neat i to sign it and I was done, my piece perfect, Goth graff art at its best. I was laughing and grinning as I stood back to finish my beer and let the image soak in, and wishing I had a camera.
It would be gone in days, I knew, buffed or gone over by some toy bombing crew. I didn't want to go. It was a work of art, my best, not like Michael's, but an infinite improvement to the dreary concrete wall of the centre. The council were not going to see it that way.

I was still standing there maybe half an hour later when Lilitu alerted me with a deep growl. She had lain quietly as I worked, used to being patient while I did strange, human things she couldn't understand. Now she was anything but, standing stiff with her legs braced and her ears pricked up, her teeth showing in ready snarl. I melted back into the shadow of the bins, absolutely still, my heart hammering, my hand clamped tight over Lilitu's muzzle.