Black Lipstick Kisses

by Monica Belle

  And I lay gasping on the wet grass, my head just over the edge of the pentacle, my blindfold down around my mouth, a candle burning just inches from my face to illuminate the great mausoleum before me with its fellows. Slowly it sank in: grey rock, lichen, twisted, terribly weathered forms, wax dripping down the breasts of a carved angel, and the name – Richard Byrne.

  10

  WHEN STEPHEN CAME for me I could still barely stand. I was shaking hard, my every limb still weak, my face, breasts and belly smeared with dirt, my dress ripped wide down the front. He supported me back to the car, his voice full of concern as he babbled questions I couldn’t bring myself to answer. What had happened was going round and round in my head, my fear so strong I felt sick to the stomach, yet undercut by a near demented sense of triumph.

  He, the man I had met in trance, had found me an abomination to his world-view, overwhelming me with his hatred. Yet I had fought back, and won, first forcing my female sexuality against the pressure, and second breaking free of the horrid vision he had dragged me into. I was dry, but for my own sweat, and my wrists and ankles had no marks to show that I’d been bound. It had not happened, yet I had felt it as surely as any real experience, just as I had felt the cocks inside me and the coldness of my lover’s sperm with Sir Barnaby Stamforth. There could not be the slightest doubt my communion had been real.

  Back in the car, Stephen wrapped me in a rug and gave me some water. I couldn’t drink, at first, or talk, my throat too tight, my head still swimming with emotion and dizzy from the smoke. At some point he stopped at a garage, to buy sandwiches and coffee, then at a darkened lay-by where I managed to get something down myself. With the water and food I slowly began to return to reality, and while sipping my coffee with him watching over me in alarm I finally managed a wan smile. For maybe the hundredth time Stephen asked me if I was all right. This time I answered.

  ‘I . . . I think so. That was . . . was, like nothing else.’

  ‘What did you do? It sounded awful, the way you screamed!’

  ‘It was awful, in a way. So tell me, who was Richard Byrne?’

  ‘An ancestor of mine. I thought . . . well, you asked for someone you could look up, and well, I know a fair bit already. It was a bad choice, yes?’

  ‘No, it was a good choice, in a way. Who was he?’

  ‘My childhood hero, I suppose you could call him. He was involved with the Civil War, a staunch parliamentarian who led one of Cromwell’s troops of cavalry. He . . .’

  ‘A puritan too?’

  ‘Oh, of the strictest stamp.’

  ‘Ah, anything to do with witches?’

  ‘Witches? No, not to the best of my knowledge, although I’m sure he would have been violently against anything of the sort. He was a great one for the ideal of democracy, which was what inspired me, and of freedom of conscience too, but vehemently opposed to anything that fell outside his personal world-view.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, he earned considerable distinction as a soldier, and later as a politician. He wouldn’t compromise his principles either, but fled to the Continent after the Restoration. When he died the family brought back his remains for interment here.’

  ‘Where’s here?’

  ‘Suffolk, well, Essex now, but we were in Suffolk, Hingstead, where my family had land for generations. No, Richard Byrne was my role model from well before I had any interest in going into politics myself, but as I found out more, and came to understand more, my opinion of him decreased. He believed very strongly in himself, and the rights of man, but when he had power, he abused it. He was also bitterly . . .’

  ‘. . . misogynistic?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know I was going to say that?’

  ‘I’ve just met him.’

  I had met Richard Byrne, there could be no question. Michael might doubt, but I knew I was right. I had known nothing about Stephen’s ancestor, nothing whatsoever, and yet my impression of him had been overwhelming, frighteningly so, and accurate. Again and again I tried to find a flaw in my argument, but there wasn’t one.

  Not that I could tell Michael, because he might doubt I was telling the truth, or worse, lying simply to try and impress him. That would not do. For Michael I had to be able to show that it was real, which was not so easy. What it did mean was that I could once more let myself go with him. I was back on top.

  The experience had also opened a whole new world of possibilities. I had never before experienced communion without making my own choice. Looking back, I could see that I’d always been playing it safe. The free-thinkers, the debauched, the rebels, they all liked me. The others I could cope with, even Eliza Dobson, who for all her venom had at heart been a very weak person, scared of her own sexuality. Richard Byrne was different, a real firebrand, and while the experience had left me badly shaken, it had also inspired a compulsion for more.

  Stephen was very good. I told him what had happened, and while he plainly didn’t believe a word of what I was saying, he had no explanation for the phenomenon. He even felt guilty, blaming himself in part for my experience, which suggested to me that he did not entirely dismiss it. Back at his flat I bathed and tended the scratches I’d inflicted on my breasts and tummy in my passion, ate and let him put me to bed. In the morning he drove me back, at my insistence, because I needed to think.

  I spent all Sunday in the church, naked, with the door firmly locked and Lilitu on guard, thinking on life, death and myself. Richard Byrne had seen me as the very incarnation of evil, unclean, an abomination before God. That meant his God, and while I have never had any illusions about what the po-faced and the strait-laced think of me, the sheer force of his antipathy had been extraordinary. Did enjoying my body and indulging my wilder needs make me evil?

  The answer had to be no. I have always seen myself as belonging to the dark, but as a wild-child, a rebel. Richard Byrne had undoubtedly thought of himself as a good man, yet he had no doubt killed many people and condemned many more in a variety of ways, all in the name of his beliefs. Eliza Dobson was little better. If she had not killed anyone directly, she had imposed a life of miserable drudgery on hundreds, and expected them to be grateful for it. I had neither killed nor repressed, but only exalted in breaking the taboos of just such people. I was not the evil one.

  I’ve always known that it feels good to be a bad girl, and never regretted it. From the moment I had rejected Christian values in exchange for more loosely spiritual ones I’d been used to making my own moral decisions. If some felt that to do so was a monstrous display of arrogance, then I could only argue that it was better than abandoning morals altogether. After all, I had no choice but to abandon a religion so moribund that many of its temples are in decay, so corrupt, so blind. Yet I adored all the trappings of that very religion, the elaborate ritual, the architecture, thus linking myself inextricably to something that was dying.

  By early evening I had worked myself into a fine state of Gothic despondency, and if I was rather proud in a way, I’d had enough. Brooding naked in a Gothic church is all very well, but one can have too much of a good thing, and it’s extremely cold on the bum. I’d also worked out my self-doubt and felt ready for Michael. He was in, and delighted that I was coming over, promising to make pasta and have it ready by the time I arrived.

  I put on my blades, knowing it would get my adrenaline pumping, my cheekiest skirt, a tiny crop top and pads, creating a Goth-urchin look I was sure he’d like to draw, and to fuck. It worked for me, just the way people reacted enough to leave me feeling full of mischief, and I was right about Michael. The door hadn’t closed behind me before he was reaching for his pad, even as the rich aromas of Bolognese sauce and red wine hit me.

  ‘Dead cute! Goth-chick on skates, always good for a poster.’

  ‘How about Goth-chick eating pasta?’

  ‘Nah, too weird. Give me a good pose, like the crazy one from Gorillaz . . .’

  ‘Which crazy one?’

  ‘The girl, of cours
e.’

  ‘There’s a girl?’

  ‘Just pose will you? Like you don’t give a fuck . . . yeah, great. Don’t move!’

  I’d frozen, head cocked to one side, slight snarl, middle finger exactly as I’d put it to show him what he could do with his instructions. He sketched quickly, no more than an outline to capture position and expression, then spoke again.

  ‘Good, now hold . . . hold that broom.’

  ‘The broom?’

  ‘Sure. In the picture it’ll be a fuck-off big gun. There’s a whole market for that kind of stuff.’

  I shrugged and retrieved the broom, holding it like a guitar, then across my shoulders, each time changing the way my legs were set. It was not easy to balance, but he worked fast, and I was quickly getting into it. I tried a third pose, with the broom pointing at the ground in front of me as if I was rolling forward. Michael responded with a grin. I gave him a snarl and he was sketching madly, turning a fresh sheet in just a minute or so.

  ‘Neat, now some for the bandes dessinées. More innocent, casually sexy as if you don’t know what you’re showing . . . still with attitude.’

  I cocked my hip out and stuck my tongue out at him, dropping the broom. He nodded, sketching hurriedly. The moment he’d finished I spun around, making my skirt fly up.

  ‘Hold that!’

  ‘I can’t! I’ll fall over!’

  ‘Hold onto something.’

  I tried, feeling somewhat silly as I attempted to twist my legs into a knot while balancing with two fingers on the wall. It was not going to last, but he finished in time, now grinning broadly.

  ‘Cute, now another. Can you pull your skirt up higher?’

  ‘I can roll the waistband up, if you mean you want my panties showing?’

  ‘Yes, again, as if you aren’t aware of it.’

  ‘Sure, you boys love to think that, don’t you?’

  I gave him what I hoped was a wry smile as I adjusted my skirt, tucking the waistband into itself so that my panties showed front and back. It felt cheeky, suiting my mood.

  ‘Great, now, hands on hips, knees together, kick one foot out . . . sulky . . . cynical . . .’

  ‘I’m going to fall over in a minute, Michael.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’

  He was sketching frantically, with me in a pose that might have looked cool but was seriously out of balance. At any second I was either going to go over backwards and fall on my bottom, or forwards and fall on my face. I went sideways. One skate slipped on the polished wood of the floor, then the other, and I was doing the splits, catching myself only just in time by slapping both hands on the floor in front of me. Michael stifled a laugh.

  ‘Very funny! Don’t move.’

  ‘Don’t move!?’

  He got up, turning to a new sheet as he quickly got behind me. I struggled to lift myself a little and looked back between my legs, to find him sketching away again, this time my rear view, which was going to be all legs and panties.

  ‘Hey, Michael!’

  ‘Don’t move . . . don’t move . . . don’t move . . .’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘That is beautiful!’

  ‘I thought you wanted attitude?’

  ‘Showing your knickers is attitude. Stick your tongue out.’

  ‘Michael!’

  I stuck it out though, feeling slightly put upon, because he was grinning like mad and obviously found my position humorous. Before he was finished my legs were beginning to get stiff, but as he pressed the end of his pencil to his chin in a gesture that meant he was done he spoke again.

  ‘Can you go right down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  I obliged, letting my legs slide slowly apart, wider and wider, my tendons aching, but at last with the crotch of my panties touching the floor. He gave a nod as I looked back over my shoulder, impressed, reached forward and flipped my skirt up onto the small of my back.

  ‘Pervert!’

  He didn’t answer, sketching busily until my teeth were gritted with the pain of holding my pose. Finally I could stand it no more and pulled myself up into a kneel position, grimacing at the hot feeling in my thighs.

  ‘Beautiful, stay just like that.’

  ‘Michael!’

  Again he laughed, and I stuck my bottom out, knowing exactly what he wanted. My skirt was still up, my panties exposed, and as I glanced back I caught him giving his cock a crafty squeeze.

  ‘You’re in a dirty mood today.’

  ‘Just a good mood, really.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Seeing you like that, for a start, and because . . . I have my new flat.’

  ‘Great! Now how about that pasta?’

  ‘Not yet, the art of pasta sauce is to let it simmer for as long as possible. So I’m going to sketch you, then . . . actually, could you pull your knickers down?’

  I sighed in mock exasperation as I reached back to tug down my panties and expose every single rude detail of my rear view to him. Once more he adjusted his cock, then began to draw, faster than ever. I could feel the air on my pussy, and on my bottom hole too. Both were showing, a very rude position indeed, and surely too tempting for him to resist. Sure enough.

  ‘Yes, pasta later. First I sketch you, then I fuck you.’

  He put the pad aside as he spoke. One tug and his zip was down, another and his cock was out, rearing thick and stiff from his fly. I gave him what I hoped was a suitably long-suffering look back over my shoulder, meaning to indicate that while I was prepared to let myself be mounted from the rear, it was not really what I’d been expecting. His response was to grab his pad again and make a hurried sketch of my expression, all the while with his erect penis pointing straight at my pussy. I began to giggle, amused both at his eagerness to draw and for sex.

  ‘Patience, Dusk, all good things come to those who wait.’

  With that he tossed the pad aside, shuffled quickly forward, put the head of his dick to my pussy and slid himself inside. I hadn’t realised I was so wet, and gasped in surprise as I filled, and again as he began to pump into me. He took hold of the waistband of my skirt, a firm grip, pulling himself deep in, and I was lost, delighting in my rude treatment. I flipped my top up, letting my breasts free, and closed my eyes, my whole body shivering to his hard thrusts.

  A fantasy began to run in my head, of being given the same treatment in the street, perhaps teasing him by letting my skirt fly up as I skated, flashing my knickers but never coming close enough to catch me. He’d be driven mad, his cock rock solid in his trousers, burning with frustration, only for me to trip. I’d go down right in front of him, on my hands and knees. My skirt would fly up, showing the seat of my panties, which would be wrenched straight down and his lovely cock pushed up into me before I could so much as squeak in protest.

  There’d be a big audience too, watching me fuck in the street, outraged, delighted, shocked, not even sure if I was willing until I flipped my top up to play with my breasts. That was me, all through, a bad girl, a rude, dirty Goth-chick, showing off her panties, showing off her bum, doing it in the street, masturbating in the street because she wanted everyone to see and she just didn’t care and because it felt, so, so, so good . . .

  I’d been rubbing myself as I fantasised, and I came, still with Michael pumping into me, a glorious feeling as I went tight on his cock, and more glorious still when he came inside me. For a long, wonderful moment we were together in perfect ecstasy, and then it was done and I was sighing to myself as he took hold of me and pulled me up into his arms.

  We kissed, long and slow, before I sank down to take him in my mouth, tasting myself as I sucked. He gave a contented sigh and tousled my hair, but pulled away before I could get him interested again. I put it off for later, content to eat and find out about his move.

  The pasta tasted every bit as good as it had smelt, and left me pleasantly full and just a little light-headed from the wine. He’d been packing,
most of his belongings already in cases, but the settee was still there and we sprawled out on it, my legs on his, now barefoot. Dinner had mainly involved eating pasta and teasing me, and I wanted to know what was happening with his move.

  ‘So what’s up with the flat?’

  ‘I’m moving in the week, to a place in . . . Coburg Road.’

  ‘My Coburg Road!?’

  ‘Just that, in fact, better than that. It’s the top flat in number 37, which is almost exactly . . .’

  ‘. . . opposite All Angels. Wow! Great!’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  I was, but there was an itsy-bitsy fly in the ointment, well actually rather a large fly, in the shape of Stephen Byrne. I already felt a bit guilty, because I had used Stephen to help me to better my sex with Michael. Now I was faced with a situation where it was simply not going to be possible to keep the two of them apart. Michael went on.

  ‘I’m not going to put any pressure on you, and I would never suggest you give up All Angels, but . . . if you like, I want you to treat the new flat as your own.’

  Suddenly there was a big lump in my throat. I couldn’t speak at all, but flipped myself over on the settee so that I could cuddle into the crook of his arm. I kissed him and he responded immediately, our mouths coming open for a long, loving kiss. It felt so good, tension I simply hadn’t known I had in me draining slowly away, until at last he pulled back.

  ‘It take it that’s a yes?’

  ‘It is a yes.’

  ‘No buts?’

  ‘Oh, plenty. First and foremost, you have to put up with my weird behaviour.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put up without it.’

  ‘Sex on tombs?’

  ‘Whenever possible.’

  ‘Bailing me out if I get arrested for art crime?’