Black Lipstick Kisses

by Monica Belle

  It was going to be me taking out my own frustrated lust on myself if I wasn’t careful, and there was a wry smile on my face as I fixed sweet coffee and toast, the first thing I’d had since the morning. I had turned Michael on, obviously, for all his cool, and Stephen too. Both would be thinking of me, I was sure, imagining what might have been, and what might still be. Stephen’s fantasies I was sure would be quite plain, straight sex with him on top, maybe a little bondage or something else mildly kinky. Michael had imagination, and would want something dark, maybe with me in restraint, or something ritual, even a little vampirism, inspired by the fanged image on the rood screen.

  The thought of expressing myself as Isaac Foyle’s lust to Michael was just too much. Foyle would be shocked, but I could commune later for atonement. For now I needed my head filled with thoughts of a live, hot-blooded man, and to come as he burned in my mind. By the time my coffee mug was empty I knew I had to do it. Nobody was going to catch me, not with Lilitu on guard, and I pulled my skirt up as I sank to the floor, kneeling, my knees wide apart, imagining myself on top of Michael, beneath the rood screen, about to feed him inside me. I lifted my top, freeing my breasts to the air, my necklaces suddenly cool against my skin, my nipples hard and sensitive as my fingers found them.

  I closed my eyes as I began to masturbate, stroking myself as my mind wandered. We’d come so close to sex, maybe right there on the floor of the church, surrounded by the spirits of the dead as we fucked, joined together in life. Or we could have done it on a tomb, taunting one of the Victorian worthies buried within the church, their anger and lust and envy bringing us up to ecstasy. Michael would feel it, I was sure. He’d seen me as a wraith, an ethereal being, rising from death; he had to understand.

  To come over the way he had seen me was what I truly needed, and I pictured myself, as I could have been, pulling out from the face of lust, to greet his fear with an insubstantial kiss. I’d grow firmer, feeding on his energy, my sharp little teeth on his skin, pricking it as I gained substance. He’d be lost, helpless in my arms, as we sank to the floor, his body beneath mine, me drawing up his power, preparing to draw out his seed also as I slipped his penis free and into my now substantial body.

  My panties came aside and I pushed my fingers into myself easily, imagining them as his cock. They went to my mouth, and back, the fantasy now burning in my head. It felt good, wonderful, just right for me, mounted on him, the salt taste of his skin in my mouth, him inside me, me draining him. I began to rub harder, squirming my hips against my hand, wishing he was really inside me, his body given over to my pleasure completely, mine to take.

  I came, my body tightening as I cried out in ecstasy, and at the last moment it wasn’t Michael Merrick in my head, but Stephen Byrne beneath me, terrified yet utterly enraptured as I fed on his neck and drew his come into my body.

  2

  TWO MEN, AND very different. The question was, which first? Michael fascinated me, but he seemed the type to lose interest if I was too eager. With Stephen it was all a bit embarrassing because he was so much older, but there was no use denying my own interest, not after the way he had popped into my head just as I was enjoying my orgasm. Stephen’s plans for All Angels decided me.

  I called him on the Tuesday and fixed a date for the Friday night. By then I’d spent an hour in an Internet café and I knew a lot more about him. There were no surprises. He was married, as I’d suspected, to the daughter of one of the fat cats in his first constituency, who seemed to be a right bitch. She was high up in a food chemicals company for one thing and, to me, that alone made him fair game. There were no kids, and he lived in a fancy house in Suffolk.

  As I dressed I kept having to remind myself that my real aim was to change his ideas about All Angels, but that was no reason not to look good, just the opposite. I change my look for nobody, but I wanted to make the best of the naive image I’d already established, albeit by accident. I went for patterned tights, a thong, a dress so short and loose that the least breath of wind or ‘careless’ movement would give him a peep-show, no bra, heeled boots and a collar. As usual, I was dressed in all black, set off with my silver and tourmalines. I even toned down my make-up a little, more gravy and less graveyard.

  He picked me up in a fuck-off big Jaguar, very new and very black. From the outset there wasn’t much effort at pretending it was a business meeting. He was dressed casually for a start, the neck of his shirt open under a roll-necked jumper and cream-coloured trousers tight enough to hint at a not unimpressive bulge at the crotch. Nor was he talking political rhetoric as he had before, but normal, easy chat with the odd carefully dropped hint to show how wealthy and important he was. I soaked it up, playing the awed little girl as we picked our way through North London and onto the motorway. After slipping a CD in the sound system he put his foot down, picking up speed to just under a hundred miles per hour with the Rolling Stones on loud. It was mature yet cool, and just guaranteed to overwhelm silly little me.

  The place he’d chosen was miles from anywhere, by the roadside beyond Aylesbury, and presumably selected because there was no chance of him being recognised. Again, it was not the choice of a man wanting to have a serious discussion on a heavy issue, but just right for an experienced lothario out to seduce a woman half his age. That was his intention, no question. He took my arm as we went inside and selected a table in an alcove. Before we’d even got our drinks he had taken my hand under the pretence of admiring my rings, and by the time we’d finished our starters his hand was on my knee beneath the table. I couldn’t just let him seduce me, that would have been too easy, so I gently detached his fingers from my thigh and put the question.

  ‘So, what about All Angels?’

  ‘All Angels? Oh, don’t worry about that.’

  ‘I do worry. I don’t want it ruined – no, desecrated – because that’s what you’re doing, even if it isn’t used as a place of worship any more. And besides . . .’

  He laughed and I stopped, right on the edge of pointing out that attempting to seduce young Goth chicks was not going to help either his marriage or his career.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You. You’re so earnest. It isn’t going to happen, not in a million years. All Angels is Grade Two listed, and English Heritage have vetoed any attempt to alter the interior, unless it’s a complete restoration. Nobody can afford that, so I expect it’ll stay as it is.’

  ‘So why all the bollocks? Votes?’

  ‘Yes, mainly. Prestige within the party as well, but yes, mainly votes. That’s why the project is designed principally for pensioners. Do you know what the percentage of voters over sixty is in my constituency?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thirty-one, and they are more likely to vote than any other age group. That’s just the start. There are a lot of new people moving into the area, and I need to keep my profile up. The longer I can keep the All Angels business going, the better, just so long as I can be seen to be supporting local residents. I don’t want it to actually happen – that way I lose out on months of good publicity.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I was cross, suddenly, not with his answer, but at the realisation that he was telling the truth, and that I’d worked myself up over what was to him a tiny move in a big game. He smiled, with more than a touch of condescension.

  ‘So don’t worry about your precious church.’

  ‘Right. Thanks, I suppose. Isn’t that a bit cynical?’

  He shrugged. I decided to press the point.

  ‘What about your ideals?’

  ‘Ideals? Ha! I used to have ideals, yes.’

  He paused to dab his mouth with a serviette, then went on.

  ‘I was going to change the world, or at least the country, make it a better place for everybody, get rid of the old class system once and for all, make for a genuine meritocracy. Before the end of my first year at uni I was toeing the party line with the rest of the hacks. Idealists don’t get on. But never mind all that. W
ho wants to talk politics? Tell me a bit more about yourself.’

  I didn’t really want to, and I was feeling small and not a little stupid, so I just smiled and shrugged. By good fortune the waiter chose that moment to arrive with our main courses, and I buried myself in steak with peppercorn sauce to avoid conversation. He did the same, and my feelings slowly came around as we ate, from chagrin to a really urgent need to somehow get the upper hand on him.

  My chance came sooner than I had expected. He was trying to get me drunk, surprise, surprise, and had ordered some fancy gin cocktails when we came in. I hate gin and had hardly touched mine, but he’d drunk his and ordered a bottle of strong red wine with our food. He kept wanting to top my glass up but I was just sipping, and he didn’t have the patience to leave his. By the time we’d finished he had drunk almost the entire bottle and was starting to go pink in the face. He also had his hand well up my skirt, tickling my thigh just an inch from my pussy. One knuckle brushed the crotch of my panties and I gave a little involuntary shiver. I pulled back, but he’d seen, and he knew. Once more I got the little condescending smile, then his open move.

  ‘Pudding? Coffee? Or perhaps back to London for a nightcap at my flat?’

  I had to take charge.

  ‘Not pudding, no, I couldn’t eat another thing. You could eat something though, only not at your place, but at mine.’

  I winked. It took a moment for what I’d said to sink in, and then he went pink, which was well satisfying. Recovering himself he turned to signal a waiter for the bill even as he pulled his car keys from his pocket, then tried to give as good as he’d got.

  ‘Great, but you’re to eat too. Fair’s fair. Where do you live?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll drive.’

  ‘You? Drive? That’s not really . . .’

  ‘Yes it is. You’re drunk, and MPs can’t do that sort of thing. I’m driving.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’ve passed my test, don’t worry.’

  ‘Yes, but, the insurance . . .’

  ‘Live a little, will you? I won’t speed and I won’t hit anything, promise. Then, afterwards, you can have a nice leisurely coffee and head back as late as you like, or in the morning if you prefer.’

  I gave him another wink. He swallowed and nodded, reduced from wicked seducer to quivering jelly in seconds. I reached out to take the keys from his limp fingers. He let me, and I went outside as he settled the bill. I hadn’t lied. I had passed my test, at seventeen, first time of asking. OK, so that had been in a Ford Fiesta and I hadn’t driven since, but how hard could it be?

  It wasn’t hard at all, it was wonderful. By the time he came out I had more or less figured out the controls, successfully turning the lights on and only managed to spray water over the windscreen once. He began to give me instructions the moment he got in, but I ignored him, pulling out onto the road and putting my foot down. I was doing seventy in a few seconds, and revelling in the sheer power at my disposal, also the fact that he was clutching the seat with both hands while desperately trying to act nonchalant.

  All it needed was the right music, but his 70s rock at least had pace, and helped keep me on a high all the way back to London. Getting down to the East End was less fun, and even more terrifying for him, but I made it without incident and parked the car outside the gate to All Angels graveyard. I seated myself on the bonnet, twirling the keys around one finger as he got out, looking none too happy, also puzzled. I was ripe for mischief, feeling alive and in control, in my element and well out of his. He looked around, more than a little uneasy.

  ‘Angela, where are you taking me? I thought we were going to have coffee at your flat. Why are we stopping here, at the cemetery?’

  ‘Surely you like a frisson of danger, Stephen? It’s the thought of the dead all around me that really makes me come alive. What could be more vital than being among those who’ve gone before, knowing we have this one brief moment, for lust?’

  I took him by the neck of his jumper, pulling him in as I trailed off, to kiss him hard on the mouth. For a moment he resisted, his eyes flicking up and down the empty street, but his instincts quickly took over, his mouth opening under mine as he took me into his arms, one hand cupping my bottom. I wriggled away and broke the kiss, laughing as I pulled him after me, towards the gate. He gave a last wistful look at his car and followed, between the high pillars with their stone griffins staring down at us and into the dimness of the yew alley beyond.

  His lust got the better of him as the darkness closed around us, his hand cupping on my bottom to pull me close. I let him grope, and kiss me again, but steered him firmly on, pushing between two thick yews to where Eliza Dobson’s tomb lay completely screened from the road. His face showed for a moment, dull orange in the faint glow of a far-away streetlight, then disappeared as I pushed him back against the hard stone of the tomb. I caught his voice as I fumbled for his crotch.

  ‘Angela! Not here, not on somebody’s . . . ah . . .’

  The sigh came as my hand closed on the bulge in his trousers. He was as big as I’d hoped, and hard, his cock a rigid bar beneath the material of his trousers, straining to be let free. As I began to squeeze him he gave in, allowing me to push him over on the flat stone surface, to ease his zip down, to pull his erection free as I began to feel the outrage of the mad old bat on whose tomb we were about to have sex.

  I climbed on, mounting him, his cock now hard against the crotch of my tights, pressed right on my hot spot. All I needed to do was rub and I would come, then and there, but that was not enough. I rode him, making him moan deep in his throat as I wriggled my pussy and bottom against him, feeling the fleshy bulk of his cock and balls and thinking how it was going to feel inside me. His hands came up to touch my breasts through my dress, feeling their shape and then tugging urgently at the material to get me bare. I obliged, peeling it up and off, to leave myself naked from the waist up but for my jewellery, a near naked succubus ready to take her victim into her body.

  His hands found my chest again and I let him feel, lifting my arms onto my head to raise my breasts, flaunting myself, with my upper body outlined in the orange light. Fingers found my nipples, eager and trembling as he explored me, stroking and pinching as I squirmed my bottom onto his lap. I was not far from orgasm, then it hit me, suddenly, and I was arching my back and crying out in ecstasy, my clit pressed hard to his rigid shaft through panties and tights. He let me do it, squeezing my breasts as I rode him to ecstasy, wriggling on his cock, bare and wanton and free.

  I went forward as the glorious peak began to fade, on top of him, wanting to be held and stroked as I came down. He was urgent, too urgent to care for my needs, his hands going not to my back but to my bottom, to pull my cheeks wide even as his cock prodded at my crotch, his fingers digging into the mesh of my tights. I managed a protest, but too late as the seat of my tights was torn wide and my thong pulled roughly from between my cheeks, baring my bottom fully to the cool night air.

  He went in, easing himself up into my body with a long sigh and still gripping my bottom as he began to buck underneath me. I tried to lift up, still dizzy with my orgasm, but wanting to ride him. He wouldn’t let me, holding me firmly with my bottom spread to the night and grunting as he jerked into me, faster and faster, only to stop suddenly. I thought he’d come, but a moment later he was lifting me off and swinging me down from the tomb, his erection wet with my juices and still rock hard against my belly.

  I let him turn me, too high to fight, down across Eliza’s tomb, bottom up. His fingers fumbled at the ruins of my tights, tearing them wide to leave the whole of my bottom sticking out from the hole in the back, whipping my thong smartly down and once more pushing himself up inside me. I took a firm grip of the far side of the tomb as he began to fuck me once more. Now it was me who surrendered; bent near-naked over the cool stone of a grave, my tights ruined to expose me for rear entry, my nipples rubbing on the engraved letters in the lid, Eliza’s hymn to the virtue of chas
tity.

  Stephen grunted, and came, pulling himself free at the last instant to spray hot come over my bottom and back, then settling it between my spread bottom cheeks to finish himself off. I stayed down, letting him enjoy my bum and feeling a little used, but impossibly horny, too much to resent what he was doing. All I could manage was a weak protest.

  ‘Pig.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘Now for that pudding.’

  For one instant I didn’t realise what he meant, and then he was down behind me, his face to my bottom, licking me from behind. My mouth came open in shock, and pleasure too. He was licking my pussy, just after he’d come, something so few men will do, and from behind, something dirtier, more abandoned that I would have believed him capable of. Not that I was going to stop him, and I gave my bottom an encouraging wiggle to make sure he didn’t stop.

  His reaction was to burrow his tongue deep up my pussy. I closed my eyes, relaxing, sure he would take me where I wanted to go without having to be told. He put his hands to my bottom cheeks, fondling and squeezing as his licking grew firmer, and firmer still. I slid my feet apart and lifted my chest a little, taking my breasts in hand, to stroke my nipples. I was going to come, and soon, licked to ecstasy over Eliza Dobson’s tomb, on which I’d fucked.

  I could sense her ghost screaming disapproval of my naked body, of the sacrilege I had committed, but most of all of the joy I took in everything she had fought so hard to repress. It was good, dark and dirty at the same time, just like what Stephen was doing to me, his tongue now on my clit, licking hard, the tip flicking over my taut bud, faster and faster. A thumb slid into my pussy, a fingertip began to tickle my bottom hole and my muscles were contracting, my orgasm rising up, and bursting in my head and sex.