by Monica Belle
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.
12
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 hi
m 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 . . .
Michael sighed.
‘Sodomised by the Devil. That I have to draw.’
‘I’ll pose, just find me a Devil.’
He laughed. We’d come to Sir Barnaby’s tomb, and he was looking at the knight, as if expecting to find some clue in the intricate carving. There was a prickling sensation between my legs, and at the back of my neck, which went with the sense of disapproval emanating from the tomb and made me feel naughtier still. I couldn’t help but wonder if Michael would be able to feel it, perhaps at orgasm, perhaps.
‘Turn around, I’m going to suck your cock.’
Not surprisingly, he turned. I went down, squatting on the tiles, knees wide in front of him. Talking about rude things had already had its effect, his dick swollen in his trousers, and I quickly released him, into my hand, then my mouth, taking in the scent and taste of man as I began to suck. He took my head, stroking my hair as his cock grew in my mouth and the sense of pompous disapproval grew in my mind, but also regret and lust.
As I sucked I worked on Michael’s trousers, opening them and tugging them down, to get at him properly, my hands taking his neat buttocks, my mouth working on his cock and now his balls too. He gasped as I took them in my mouth, sucking deep and licking, my passion rising at his taste, and the feel of him, and the delicious rudeness of what I was doing.
I was trembling as I slipped my fingers down between my legs and into my knickers. As I entered myself I took his cock back into my mouth as deep as I could, thinking of how it would feel inside me, and wondering if I dared invite him to penetrate my bottom. The answer came immediately. Not to was prudish, weak, and unadventurous. I wanted it. My pussy was wet, ready for cock, my fingers already deep in, and coming out juicy. The naughtiest possible feeling hit me as I pushed them back, to find the tight ring between my cheeks and to open myself, slipping in, and up.
The sense of outrage that hit me as I penetrated my own bottom pushed away the last of my indecision. I began to finger myself and to suck harder on Michael’s cock, now fully erect. He was getting urgent, his fingers locked in my hair, maybe ready to come. I took a last, lingering suck and pulled back, leaving his beautiful cock rock hard and shiny wet.
He looked impossibly thick, adding a fresh thrill of fear I rocked back. For a moment more I was playing with myself, Michael watching and toying with his erection, and then I was pulling my panties down, kicking them off, pulling my dress high to bare myself completely. He took me in his arms as I stood, his cock rock hard against my belly. We kissed as his hands went lower, to cup my bottom, lifting me, and I was on his cock, sighing into his mouth as my pussy filled.
I took a firm hold, bouncing on his cock and thinking of my bottom hole, open and juicy behind. It would have been just the moment for the Devil to appear, right behind me, Michael holding me tight as my bottom was stuffed full of thick hot cock. I had to do it, as best I could, now, before Michael came in my pussy. I began to wriggle, trying to get off, but he had me tight, his pushes now urgent as he fucked me. Suddenly I was gasping.
‘No, Michael, not yet. Bend me over . . . do it . . . do it, Michael, up my bottom.’
He grunted, his teeth gritted as he lifted me from his erection. I’d asked for it, surrender, and it was going to happen, now. He turned me over, so easily, my body a toy in his hands, and bent me down, across the stone knight, the marble cold against my breasts and belly. My bottom came high, open, his cock touched between my cheeks, to my anus, and I was shivering with fear and desire, my head hung down, my breathing heavy and my mouth wide as he pushed and for the first time in my life I felt my bottom hole spread open around the head of a man’s penis. I was gasping immediately, overwhelmed not just by the sensation, but by the delicious, rude, inappropriate act, something good girls just do not do, only bad, dirty little imps. It did hurt, as he put the full length slowly up, a numbing heavy pain that had me clutching onto the statue and Sir Barnaby laughing in my face. I clung on, determined to take it, whimpering into the cold stone, my teeth gritted, until at last I felt his balls push to my empty pussy and knew he was right in.
My mouth was wide, my jaw shaking uncontrollably, my whole body loose, helpless as he began to push into me. Slowly my pain began to die away, leaving me feeling so full, and so wanton, holding the thought of what he was doing to me in my head, a man’s cock actually up my bottom hole, and bent across a tomb as I was buggered.
It could as well have been the Devil, dark and handsome like Michael, or huge and red, demonic in his passion, laughing as he buggered me, as he came up my bottom. Suddenly I was snatching at my pussy, the image bright in my mind. Sir Barnaby’s cruel laughter turned to outrage as I focussed and began to rub, imagining Michael as the Devil, my bottom hole stretched taut around his huge cock shaft.
He was pushing hard, his balls bumping my pussy, helping me up towards climax as I dabbed and flicked at my clit. I pictured myself, spread bare over the stone knight, bottom high and penetrated, a big, powerful man working himself into my straining anus, his face set in demonic glee. Michael or the Devil, it didn’t matter. They were one and the same, in me, buggering me, about to come in me, up my bottom . . .
As the orgasm hit me I screamed with all the force of my
lungs. I felt myself tighten on his cock, and then I was bucking frantically against him, wriggling my bottom and snatching at my pussy, clawing at the stone and screaming over and over, on and on. I heard him grunt, felt the final jerk of his cock inside me and I knew he’d come too, kicking my ecstasy up one more notch, my screams louder still, and dying, my body going slowly limp to the sound of Michael’s breathing and the alarmed fluttering of the pigeons.
Even when it was over and he had pulled out I felt too weak to stand. He helped me up, taking me into his arms for a long lingering kiss, until my legs stopped shaking. I was dizzy with reaction, sore and trembling, and let him support me back to the vestry. Only when I was in the sink with my poor bottom immersed in cool water did I manage to turn my mind to anything but the immediately practical.
Michael was watching me as I washed, grinning, thoroughly pleased with himself and by my reaction. I was feeling a little shy, but generally happy, for the sake of my pleasure, the experience, and the new bond of intimacy it made between us. It did occur to me that given what we’d done, and what had been in my head, I might have expected to repeat my Satanic experience, but it was Michael who posed the question.
‘Did you feel anything? Spiritually, that is?’
‘Yes, Sir Barnaby, but only as I expected to. I was picturing you as the Devil when I came.’
He laughed.
‘I am the Devil, haven’t you figured that out yet?’
‘I wish. Didn’t you feel anything of Sir Barnaby? Maybe a sense of moral outrage, or his amusement at my pain?’
‘No, sorry. It hurt then?’
‘Of course it hurt! But . . . in a nice way, at least once you were in. I’m glad we did it anyway. It’s only a pity you don’t seem to have my empathy. I wish I could convince you.’
