Killing Kiss

by Sam Stone

  Francesca would frequently pitch notes for me, because my uncle wanted my male voice to remain forever a treble. I mimicked my cousin’s tone and pitching to such perfection that at first my uncle did not comprehend that my voice had broken and I was using my falsetto to please him. I was fifteen when he realised the truth and fortunately my voice had developed into a strong and controlled tenor, which thrilled him anyway.

  ‘You see, Adriana, your son still sings high, but with the voice of a man.’

  At fifteen I remained hopelessly in love with Francesca. I smiled at her as she accompanied me on the harpsichord but her eyes swooped down and she flushed at the undiluted love in my gaze. This was the first time I noticed a woman’s blush and it fascinated me. I wanted to know what it meant. As an only child, fatherless - because my mother was widowed soon after my birth, I had few men to speak to.

  ‘Uncle, why do some women blush?’ I asked tentatively one day when we were alone.

  My uncle stopped playing and looked at me, his eyes serious. For a moment I feared I had asked a very inappropriate question.

  Slowly a knowing smile crept on his lips and he pushed back his stool and stood. With his arm around my shoulders Uncle Giulio whispered into my ear.

  ‘Gabriele, it is time you and I went for a visit to a nice little house I know. There you will learn why some women blush and others do not.’

  So my uncle took me to a brothel. It was a large house, not a ‘little house’, on the square of S Giovanni with a huge inviting doorway that stood open to the street. Candlelight and music poured out to greet us as we walked up the marble steps. My heart thumped in my chest with fear and excitement as I wondered what I would find inside.

  I looked up at the expanse of the double staircase that was the sole furnishing of the entrance, with the exception of tall stained glass windows above the balcony that joined the two staircases halfway. Even so, it was the most elegant reception I had ever seen with its high ceiling, which stretched above the stairs to the top of the house.

  ‘This is Madame Fontenot,’ my uncle said, nodding to a large breasted woman whose cleavage looked as though it struggled to stay in her over-tight gown.

  ‘Signor Caccini, how wonderful to see you again. Who is this handsome young man?’

  ‘My nephew. He needs ... experience, Madame.’

  ‘But of course. Every young man needs that. I have just the thing for you.’

  She led us quickly through an immense parlour where a Florentine gentleman richly attired in a silk doublet and hose sat with a glass of wine as an attractive olive fleshed whore kneeled between his legs. She pressed herself against his chest, her slender hands reached down as she massaged the front of his breeches. I turned away from the heated gaze of the man as he wrapped his podgy hands around her and pulled her to him giving her a loud kiss on her painted cheek. His wet lips left a shiny impression on her face and I wondered how she could fail to raise her hand to wipe away his saliva. Women of all shapes and sizes were on display, wearing little more than thin strips of luxuriously sheer fabric. A petite blonde sat in a corner, her long hair draping over half of her face and I noticed she was covered in thicker fabric than the others. She stood as a tall merchant in a plush gold tunic approached, and I realised that this world my uncle had brought me to was very strange indeed. The left side of her face and body were badly scarred yet this man wanted her none the less; perhaps because she was so disfigured. He pawed her, showering kisses on the rough scars as his face turned ruddy with excitement.

  At the first sight of these half dressed females I felt a flush fill my cheeks and I was reminded of my cousin’s embarrassment of a few days before. Curious. Could this mean that she found me as pleasing to the eye? An ache grew in my loins. I was aware of a swelling against my brocade breeches.

  Madame Fontenot continued through the parlour and took us into a secluded alcove which was separated from the larger room by a heavy velvet curtain. The alcove was deep, and inside we found a chaise longue draped with a red silk throw trimmed with gold brocade. Beside it was a small round table that held a decanter of wine and two glasses.

  ‘Gentlemen, please be seated. I will return immediately with my recommendation.’

  Swiftly my uncle descended on the wine, pouring two glasses. He held mine out and I scarcely recalled taking it and lifting it to my lips to guzzle it furiously down between my trembling lips.

  ‘I know all of the women here, Gabriele, and they are young and clean. Do you have a preference?’

  ‘Slender,’ I whispered.

  ‘Well, we shall see. Me, I prefer the fuller figure.’

  Madame Fontenot returned with a pretty young girl with knowing eyes. She draped herself over me lasciviously; stroking my hair with her brown hands.

  ‘So fair. Are you not a full blooded Italian boy?’ she purred, sitting on my knee, her tongue slid over my cheek and around my ear.

  In disgust I pushed her away and she slid to the floor yelping with pain and fright.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not this one. Innocent.’

  ‘A virgin? That might be a tall order, Gabriele,’ my uncle sighed.

  The girl complained loudly on the floor, unused to rejection. Quickly slipping a gold piece in her hand, my uncle patted her head soothingly and squeezed her breast before sending her away to fetch the Madame.

  Several moments of whispered discussion followed between my uncle and the Madame outside the alcove.

  ‘A virgin? But how will he ... ?’

  ‘Can you get one Madame?’

  ‘Maybe. But not tonight, signor ... Perhaps in a few days ...’

  My uncle returned and took up the hat he had discarded on the chaise and I stood to join him determined to leave as I came because the atmosphere of the place nauseated me. We raised the curtain and there I saw my first object of sexual desire, carefully filling up the decanter of wine in an empty alcove opposite. Her hair was the same raven black as my cousin’s and she was young and pretty though clearly a servant rather than a courtesan. She looked up nervously realising she was being observed, a pink blush spreading over her cheeks as she turned quickly to scurry away.

  ‘Her,’ I whispered.

  ‘She’s just a servant girl,’ gasped Madame. ‘Her hands are chapped. She is not suitable for my patrons ...’

  ‘Then we will no longer be your patrons Madame,’ my uncle declared with a flourish.

  ‘Please signor,’ she wheezed, breathing with difficulty as she trailed us to the main entrance. ‘If I do this, no mother will allow their daughter to work in my kitchens. I make promises ... I cannot ...’

  At the front reception room my uncle reached out and clasped the handle, which barely groaned as he pressed it down. The door opened.

  ‘I do not feel I can recommend the Duke’s visitors here anymore Madame ...’ my uncle said as he began to lead me outside.

  ‘Signor! I have always delivered. Always. Anything my customers need, I find it. I may be able to find a suitable girl for you ... but not the servant.’

  ‘Gabriele?’ My uncle’s questioning gaze met my determined and stubborn stare.

  ‘No. I want that one,’ I said as we reached the front door.

  We began the decent down the front steps as my uncle crushed his hat back onto his head, the feather fell limp under the weight of his hand.

  ‘Alright!’ We stopped and turned to the now panting Madame. ‘I can perhaps ... Her mother is sick. I could persuade her for her family’s sake ... but it will cost much more than the usual. This one ... she is betrothed you see?’

  ‘Arrange it. My nephew must have what he wants.’

  I was taken up the marble stairs instead of back to the reception hall and the Madame led me down a long corridor off the main landing into a beautifully gaudy boudoir. The walls were painted wi
th murals depicting naked men and women indulging in what I imagined would become my own extravagance of the evening. My hose and breeches bulged once more as I looked at the pictures, though left alone I had doubts about the forthcoming event. Nervously I wandered around the room, wondering whether to sit on the chaise in the bay window or the luxurious four-poster bed. Beside the bed an ornate screen separated the room and behind it I found a bath tub and dressing area.

  The time dragged on as I waited. I drifted into an anxious stupor, sitting on the end of the bed as though anticipating my last day on earth, until a sharp knock on the door brought me back to my surroundings with a jolt.

  ‘Enter,’ I called, my voice squeaking and high.

  A blackamoor carrying a fresh decanter came in. I stared at him somewhat afraid, because I had never seen anyone like this giant with black skin and night-black eyes. Wide-eyed, I watched as he placed the wine on a table beside the bed, bowed and turned, leaving quietly. I filled the glass, sloshing the burgundy liquid over the intricate silver tray, and lifted it to my dry lips trying desperately to dull my nerves.

  She entered - with barely a creak of the door - a trembling wreck, washed and groomed, wearing a simple white dress. I put down my glass and stepped awkwardly towards her. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders; long, like a black shiny cloak. As I advanced she shivered, her eyes cast down, not demure but too terrified to meet mine.

  ‘Come here.’

  ‘Si, signore.’ Her voice quivered, but she slowly walked towards me. The white dress parted, revealing a slender leg to my eager gaze. Another step exposed a dark triangle between her thighs before she quickly pulled the dress closed. I took her hand, feeling the roughness of her flesh from the hard work of Madame Fontenot’s scullery; perfumed oil had been carefully massaged into her hands to soften the skin. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed beside me and I reached for the glass left haphazardly on the corner of the table. Refilling it, I held it out to her and urged her to drink. She shook her head, glancing up at me briefly to see my frown.

  ‘I do not drink, signore.’

  ‘It will make you less afraid ...’

  I pushed the expensive crystal into her trembling hands and lifted it until she sipped. Her nose wrinkled at the taste.

  ‘More,’ I urged, knowing that the strong liquid would calm and relax her. Finally she drained the glass and I quickly replenished it, holding it out to her now more willing hands.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Ysabelle, signore.’

  ‘Ysabelle ... I am Gabriele, not signore.’

  I kissed her before she could respond. She was stiff and nervous but I felt her lips part and knew that this at least was not so unfamiliar to her.

  ‘Who have you been kissing, Ysabelle?’ I teased.

  She blushed and the stain on her too-white cheeks was deeper and redder by contrast. I felt the more experienced of the two of us. And having carefully listened to my uncle on the way to Madame Fontenot’s, I knew exactly how to obtain my objective. Confidently I reached for her, my finger tips gently exploring the tips of her breasts through the sheer fabric. Her cheeks flushed redder and excitement gushed into my eyes and ears. I gripped the edges of the robe, pulling her to me for a more lingering kiss.

  ‘I like it when you blush ... Innocent girls do that so often. Ysabelle, you remind me of my cousin. Now, let’s see what’s under that dress?’

  Chapter 3

  I return to campus and the room I occupy; a small box with a single bed, small wardrobe and a desk. In jeans and tee-shirt I look like every other male student, and the years have developed my skills at mimicking the behaviour of each new generation. I even splash on some Issy Miyake aftershave so that I will smell like all the others. I am ready to join the party planned to welcome the freshers. Carolyn will be there, probably with her boyfriend, Steve, who showed up late to the lecture spoiling our fun.

  Carolyn’s and Alice’s humour dried up as soon as he slid into the tier beside them. He is proving to be a nuisance. Even so, experience has taught me that to defeat an enemy you must first befriend him.

  As I exit my too tidy room, I find several animated male students blocking the corridor. I weave through the testosterone until I see a familiar face; Steve stands in the middle of a group. I stop.

  I recall when I first laid eyes on my foe and his beautiful girlfriend Carolyn one dark night six weeks ago. I had pushed my way through the crowd of whirling faces, stumbling over the debris of discarded coke cans and candy floss sticks that cover the trampled and muddied grass. Behind me the big wheel curved; the scream of an excited female increased and decreased with every spin. The music from the Waltzer thudded with a tuneless pop song. I pressed on through the crowd.

  I stared desperately around the fairground, searching for my next fix; all the time aware of the distinctive nature of my pale face, drawn features and blazing eyes. I found myself before the fortune teller’s garish tent. An old mistake - never to be repeated - revealed that some of them are genuinely psychic and I did not wish to be ‘outed’ that night. I turned quickly away as the curtain pulled back and a brunette, a young girl, was invited in. Her blue eyes were wide open and glowed with fear as well as in anticipation of the future that was to be revealed to her. I could feel her expectation as the curtain dropped back down and she was swallowed up in a silent gulp. I shivered, basking in her naked emotions. Truly an appetizer.

  ‘Sit down, my dear - cross my palm with silver and I will tell you all.’

  The soothing voice of an ancient gypsy seeped through the cloth with the mingled rustle of money. I could almost see her bony fingers, sagging, aged skin, fold around the twenty, as she whisked it away from the girl. Mud squelched around my trainers but for once I didn’t care. I stood entranced, examining the patterns left by hundreds of pairs of shoes in the earth, zigzags and deep dotted lines. I slipped deeper into myself for a time; forgetting the whirl and rush. The noise of the fairground receded.

  The people faded into the background. All I was aware of was the hunger and I focused it, searching for the right aura. A smooth-cheeked creature passed by, her image caught in the corner of my eye. I raised my head, feral eyes watching her through my long hair as I snapped back alert. Possible? No. Quickly I dismissed her - too young despite the heavy make-up. She was no more than fourteen. Her companion, however, was far more interesting. An older sister maybe?

  I zoned in on them, watching them move towards the stalls. The older girl guided them through the thickening crowd; she swayed provocatively when she walked, despite the mud. Oh yes.

  ‘Carolyn!’ A young man, student type, greeted them, enveloping the older girl’s hand in his huge paw.

  They hugged, kissed; his hand strayed down her waist and onto her hip.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he mouthed over the drum-bursting music beside the dodgems.

  Carolyn nodded. Her lovely, long black hair fell straight over one eye, in some bizarre hairstyle that would guarantee her myopic problems in the future. That didn’t matter of course, as she probably wouldn’t reach old age.

  ‘Aw. Not yet! We’ve just arrived,’ cried the younger girl. ‘I haven’t been on the Waltzer yet.’ She tugged at Carolyn’s sleeve like a spoilt child.

  ‘Ok. Just a little longer. You don’t mind do you, Steve?’

  Steve shook his head, No, though his face drooped. Clearly he didn’t wish to offend ‘his girl’. He watched sullenly as Carolyn’s sister swooped on the Waltzer, the Big Wheel and the Parachute, glancing at his watch every few minutes. His longish hair fell in his eyes and he pushed at it, his hand snapping through the unwashed strands as if it they were charged with electricity. Impatience oozed from him, seeping through his pores like athletic perspiration until Carolyn’s eyes flicked at him. She frowned before turning back to smile encouragingly at her sister a
s she climbed the tinny steps, her black boot heels clacking loudly, to the Ghost Train.

  I was drawn to her and found myself standing closer than I usually allowed on the first sighting. A warm breeze carried her scent; Imperial Leather and Pantene. I inhaled, dizzy with her aroma, bathing in her aura. Her dark hair shone in the multicoloured lights. Flecks of green glinted in her warm brown eyes.

  ‘Why are you sulking?’ Her voice was breathy.

  ‘I’m not. Just want you to myself, that’s all.’

  ‘I know what you want, Steve. You’ve made it quite obvious. And I’ve told you already how I feel.’

  Discontent turned the air sour. She didn’t want him.

  ‘What’s the point in me being here then?’ He frowned.

  ‘Tonight’s about Suzy. You know that. I won’t see much of her once we go to Manchester.’

  On cue, Suzy returned tossing her curly brown hair.

  ‘Can we have popcorn before we go, Caz?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They left. I followed. Through the throng of burger and hotdog stalls - the sickening smell of overcooked meats turned my stomach - out and away into the parking area. They weaved through the jumble of haphazardly parked vehicles before coming to a halt beside a battered Mini: BMC not BMW. Steve extracted a mass of keys from his ripped jeans’ pocket and opened the passenger door. Suzy quickly climbed in the back, turning away when Steve leaned in, taking advantage, as he grabbed her sister. Carolyn stiffened at his touch, but his kiss warmed her. She softened, dipping into his embrace. A slight film of sweat dampened her armpits; it smelt of ... innocence. I soaked in the aroma until the kiss became heated. Steve’s hands wandered from her waist and slid between them slipping under her blouse. Carolyn pulled away.