Black Lipstick Kisses (23 page)

‘Yes, Angel. I do, I do. Make it harder . . . deep in me,
really deep . . . and . . . and . . . oh God, you're wonderful. Bugger me, Angel, hard, really hard.'

I pushed the candle home, now jerking furiously on his cock, in pure, wicked elation as his buttocks began to tighten and his gasps took on the urgent, uncontrolled note of climax, words still spilling from his mouth.

‘Yes, use me . . . hurt me . . . bugger me . . . really use me. Oh that feels so good.'

He grunted, his body tightened and his cock jerked, spraying come over my hand and the bed to the sound of my truly demented laughter. Even as he slumped down I was snatching at myself, determined to come, then and there, while he still had the thick candle shaft sticking out from between his buttocks and his face set in shame and ecstasy. He made to move, but I pushed him down with my boot, spreading my thighs wide as my hand went between my legs as he looked round.

His eyes came wide, staring at me as I began to masturbate, rubbing at myself in frenzied pleasure, my eyes fixed on the thick candle shaft between his buttocks, my mind on what I'd done to him, buggered him, reduced him to grovelling, squirming ecstasy at the penetration of his anus.

I cried out as I came, loud and high, breaking to a gasp as my body went into spasm, my pussy and bottom clenching over and over, my breasts bouncing in the corset's cups, and Stephen staring, his eyes wide, his jaw slack in reaction to what I had done to him.

I didn't tell him that it was over between us, I just couldn't. He was in a seriously vulnerable state, and
wanted to talk about it, to express his feelings, and to understand mine. It was hard to know what to say, because for all my arousal a great deal of my pleasure had come from penetrating a male, as much as an abstract thing as a physical one. It had felt good to put something into him as he liked to into me. It had felt good to know I was riding roughshod over what had to be a powerful taboo for him, something he saw as a homosexual act for all that he wanted it, but I didn't feel I could ask him just what else he might want, deep down. It had felt good to be wicked too, dirty, a demented little witch, a real witch from Hell.

What I told him was a half-truth, that doing it had made me feel empowered, and also uninhibited because he himself was being uninhibited. That made him feel a lot better, enough for him to put me across his knee and spank my bottom in revenge before we finally went to sleep.

It was impossible not to feel good in the morning. We'd shared a night of wonderfully rude, open sex, holding back nothing, and in the morning he was more attentive to me than ever, making coffee and toast, then going out for chocolate croissants and milk and cereal and dog food, everything I needed as I lay back and relaxed.

Again I was unable to say anything, and I didn't want to. Instead I wanted them both, to share me, to take turns, whatever. It could have been so good, if only, but I simply could not be certain of Michael's reaction. When I had jokingly suggested an open relationship he had turned it around on me, but I couldn't be sure he had been joking. He certainly liked the idea of a man being buggered, as I'd seen with the Goat of Mendes. Possibly he would be up for it, or at
least would be up for it if he didn't feel he was getting the raw end of the deal.

That, at least, I could do something about, or try, and by the time Stephen eventually left I had abandoned the idea of ending our relationship. It was a cowardly choice anyway, and the choice society expected me to make. That wasn't me. I would take the daring, outrageous choice, and if it all came horribly unstuck, then it wouldn't be the first time, and probably not the last.

THE BUNCH OF
roses that arrived the next morning was quite simply huge. There were three dozen, beautiful fat blooms of the deepest possible crimson. I knew they were from Stephen before I'd even read the card. I just couldn't see Michael sending me roses. Lilies, possibly, but not roses.

Sure enough, they were from Stephen. The note read ‘My Angel, for taking me somewhere I have never been before, with love, S'. It was sweet, and it made me giggle to think how strong his reaction had been to something he'd been so scared of. He was obviously going to be back for more, too.

The vestry didn't run to much in the way of vases, but there were plenty of urns, and I spent a happy half-hour's flower arranging before I was satisfied, not in the vestry, which was too cluttered with my gear, but in the church itself. It worked beautifully, vivid yet solemn, and perfectly in keeping with Foyle's interior. I was still admiring the effect when Lilitu's barking alerted me to somebody's presence. I went to the door, expecting Snaz or just possibly Stephen. I got Michael.

It was more than a little awkward. The place was littered with bits of rose stem, wrapping paper and urns, also Stephen's card. I'd left the door open too, so there was no hiding the bunches in the church. The place was full of roses, he hadn't sent them and there was just no bluffing it. In fact there was nothing I
could think of to say at all. I just smiled, hoping I looked more foolish than guilty. He stepped in, puzzled.

‘An admirer?'

‘Well, yes . . . sort of.'

‘Sort of?'

‘Yes, er . . . you met him: Stephen Byrne.'

‘The MP!?'

‘That's the one.'

‘I wouldn't have put him down as the romantic type. Wow!'

‘Yes, he's . . . he's . . .'

What could I say? ‘Persuasive' would sound as if he'd already persuaded me, which he had, but no more than I had persuaded him. ‘Persistent' would sound as if he was pestering me, which was a blatant lie, and I had a distinct feeling the truth was not going to stay hidden anyway.

‘. . . perverted.'

It just came out, from somewhere inside me, because it wasn't what I'd meant to say at all. I'd had no idea what I meant to say. I was already blushing, and the instant I'd said it I was wishing I hadn't, and trying to explain myself in a great, clumsy rush of words.

‘I . . . I mean, he's really into . . . me, and . . . the way I am, and being free, and not having to be stuffy, and . . . he likes to pamper me, and he sent the roses, because . . .'

I'd told myself I would do it, and now I had to, only even as my mouth came open the choice was taken away from me. Michael had picked up the card, his head cocked to one side as he read it. I shrugged, unable to speak for the huge lump in my throat. It was out, and he was going to be furious, and that would be the end. I braced myself for the storm, feeling small
and guilty, my normal defiance no more than a tiny spark deep within me. He spoke, cool and calm.

‘So what did you do to him, to take him where he had never been before?'

‘I . . . like it says, I . . .'

‘Just say.'

‘I . . . er . . . I buggered him with a candle, OK.'

‘You buggered him with a candle!?'

‘Yes. It wasn't like that though . . . OK, so it was. He wanted to do me . . . up my bum, and I didn't want to, and I was a bit drunk, so . . .'

‘So you made him take a candle up his bum instead?'

Suddenly he was laughing, a full-throated roar of mirth that echoed around the interior of the church and startled the pigeons from the beams. I just stood there, biting my lip, far from sure just what he thought so funny, or even if his amusement might be the prelude to anger, until he reached out to tousle my hair, his eyes shining as he turned to me.

‘You are something else, Dusk, you really are! Any woman I've ever known, any woman I can think of, would have gone one of three ways. She might have refused, she might have accepted it and hated it, or she might have accepted it and loved it. Not you, not my Dusk, you turn the tables on him and bugger him until he's begging for more!'

I was blushing furiously, but I couldn't help but smile. Relief was flooding through me, because while there was more than just amusement in his voice, I couldn't detect any of the anger I'd expected. I still felt bad, and in an odd way I wanted him to be cross, but it was a far better reaction than I had expected. He went on, shaking his head as he re-read the card.

‘When was this?'

‘The night before last. Sorry.'

‘Don't be. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to stake a claim on you.'

‘No, really. I . . . I want to be with you, Michael. It just happened. I'll . . . I'll make it clear there won't be another time, OK?'

‘No. Play it that way and you'll feel resentful from the word go. Come on, Dusk, where's your spirit? You're not going to go all Christian on me, are you, not the girl who fucks to Satanic fantasies?'

‘How do you mean?'

He laughed.

‘You're into all this stuff, stuff most people couldn't handle at all. You fuck on tombs, you bugger men, of course you're going to do as you please. I'd be disappointed if you were any other way!'

‘Oh.'

‘What was it you said to me, about creating an abstract temple in which you could be honest with yourself. Well to me you are that temple, and I suspect to Stephen Byrne too.'

‘To you?'

‘Yes! Don't you see? You're what a man needs, what I need anyway, not some thin neurotic designer bitch, but a free, unbroken spirit, somebody he doesn't have to hold back with, somebody for whom he doesn't have to wear the mask. For me to attempt to crush that spirit would be a terrible thing. No, I aim to help release it.'

He walked rapidly into the church, leaving me flushed and confused. I'd never seen him so emotional, and nobody had ever said anything so wonderful to me. I'd been expecting angry recriminations, the sort of stupid shouting match on which so many relationships
end. Instead I was being praised, almost worshipped in a way, something of which I felt utterly unworthy. I followed him, to where he was standing in the nave, staring at the rood screen. He spoke as I approached him.

‘Old Isaac Foyle really could have been thinking of you when he carved his Lust. You represent everything a weak man is afraid of in a woman: aggressive sexuality, an element of spirituality which he can never share, much less control. It's all there, in Foyle's carving.'

‘Stephen's not weak.'

‘No, no, anything but. To judge by that note he craves what you can give. He might be submissive, but never weak.'

‘Submissive?'

‘Somebody who likes to be dominated during sex.'

‘I suppose so . . . maybe, but more a sort of all-round pervert, I think. He likes to . . . to spank me too.'

‘Somehow that doesn't surprise me.'

‘So what? You're saying I deserve spanking?'

‘With your bottom and your attitude?'

‘Thanks! What happened to me as a temple?'

‘A temple in which a man may freely express his lust, which in the case of a cheeky, round-bottomed imp like you and an English public-school boy means you get spanked. I take it Stephen did go to public school?'

‘Yes.'

I'd come close, and I slapped his bottom, feeling the firm muscle beneath his trousers. He immediately smacked me back, catching me across both cheeks with a firm swat and snatching my hand as I tried to protect myself. I gave in, and let him squeeze me through my
dress, wriggling away only when his finger began to delve between my cheeks. I couldn't help but smile, now at ease, and thinking how it would feel to show off for him with Snaz, perhaps for Stephen too. It appealed, a lot, something both naughty and seriously pleasurable, while for me it would also be atonement. He still had my hand, and led me down the nave towards the door, and Foyle's chapel. With Stephen out in the open, I wanted to admit everything

‘He wanted to watch me with Snaz too.'

‘That definitely doesn't surprise me. Any man who says he wouldn't like to watch two girls together is either gay or a liar.'

‘So you would too?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then you should have been here the other night. We went out bombing, and got drunk afterwards, and well . . .'

He blew his breath out sharply. I laughed, pleased to have punctured his armour of cool once more, and went on.

‘I didn't tell Stephen, I just teased him, telling him what we'd do, but in fact it was what we'd already done.'

‘I bet it got to him just the same.'

‘And then some. That was when he suggested letting him put it up my bum.'

‘You do let yourself in for it!'

‘What!'

‘You drive men mad with lust, so of course they're going to want you!'

‘Yes, I know that, but I don't expect them to want to spank me and stick their cocks up my bottom! You don't.'

‘I'm not anally fixated.'

‘Stephen is, obviously!'

‘And you'd have let him?'

‘I . . . yes, I would, if he'd won. We tossed a coin for it, you see, because I was a bit scared, and I don't know . . . I didn't want to feel I was surrendering to him.'

‘You were scared? It would have been the first time?'

‘Yes . . . no . . . yes, with a cock. Remember when I told you about my experience at Sir Barnaby's tomb? I had candles around me, and I put one up my bottom. It felt good, rude, improper, nice too, really full. And other times. When we fucked the first time . . . no, the second . . .'

‘I remember.'

‘I was imagining it was the Devil, coming up behind me and sticking his cock in while you were inside me too – that came from my experience on Sir Barnaby's tomb as well.'

He blew his breath out again. Talking so openly was obviously getting to him, and it certainly was to me. There was the same blend of fear and anticipation I'd experienced when the fall of a single coin had meant the difference between having my bottom fucked and fucking Stephen's. Had it gone the other way it would have been me kneeling on the bed with my bottom cheeks pulled apart, me panting and gasping in wanton, dirty pleasure, me . . .