Black Lipstick Kisses

by Monica Belle

  I certainly didn’t, and ever since had been wondering how much had been in my mind and how much external. Had I had the same experience at the tombs of notable left-hand path devotees, Sir Francis Dash-wood, Aleister Crowley or Samuel Mathers, there would have been no doubt at all, but the man who had possessed me was no Satanist, anything but. He was Sir Barnaby Stamforth, a local worthy and landlord whose tomb had never before given me any sensation beyond pomposity and disapproval.

  His tomb was the largest of those inside, blocking the side aisle and helping shield the arch to Isaac Foyle’s chapel where I liked to kneel. It was a huge thing of smooth grey-black marble with the front face showing a magnificent coat of arms, 64 quarters each picked out in minute details, griffins as supporters, helm and more. Elaborate mantling covered most of the remaining three sides except for the lengthy scrollwork inscription and the lid. On this lay a life-size statue of an improbably well-built man in full armour, his hands clasped to his chest in prayer, his stone face set in blissful repose.

  It wasn’t real, or at least, it wasn’t medieval. Sir Barnaby had been knighted for his services to commerce, and if he had ever worn armour it had not been for any practical purpose. He hadn’t been well built either, at least not when he had died in 1874, and probably never. As with all of those burials with which I felt empathy, I had done some research, and in his case there had been plenty to go on. I’d seen several photos in old newspapers, books recording the history of the area and a chapter of biography. The pictures showed a man of less than average height with a whiskery face peering out from under the brim of a stovepipe hat and an impressive belly stretching the front of his waistcoat. He had been in shipping, making a fortune in spice and tea and coffee, and had gained a reputation for self-aggrandisement. That went with the beautiful knight, but his tomb had radiated pompous self-certainty long before I’d known it was his true character. For religion, he seemed to have been a solid member of the congregation and a major benefactor of the church, and I had seen not the slightest hint of depravity, religious or otherwise.

  His character had led me to tease him a few times, but I had never sensed anything sexual in response, only angry disapproval. The idea of doing so again was both amusing and arousing, and I climbed back down intent on making the experiment. Reading the lines of the potted life history I’d found in the library, he seemed to have been a bit of a pig with women, intolerant and demanding. Possibly he had been dirty when it suited him; possibly he really had deflowered girls on a Satanic altar, and simply got away with it. If so, his tomb would surely now evoke at least something of what I’d experienced in the rapture of my trance.

  I peeled off my dress in the vestry and adjusted my make-up to create a more sultry look. In his day women would have been in long dresses, everything concealed for all the exaggeration of busts and waists and bottoms. To see me in my knickers and boots would fill him with outrage, and hopefully lust, the need to have me and to put me in my place at the same time. I hesitated over a black candle and decided against it. My mind needed to be sharp.

  To make it work I needed to see Sir Barnaby in a new light, not as I’d felt him, a crazed Satanist, but neutral, without my preconceptions. He’d died old, wealthy, overweight, respected. Surely he had to have yearned for sexual contact at the least, watching the young women, maybe paying, maybe using his authority to get what he wanted. However it had been, now he would be unable to force me to his will, his power gone, his prestige and his money worthless. He could only take what I gave freely.

  I thought of him viewing me as I walked out into the church, his little piggy eyes fixed on my body, his lust rising with his frustration, his impalpable fingers straining to sense my flesh as I came close to his tomb. His sense of outrage rose up as I touched the smooth marble mantling, and I realised that perhaps it was not the reaction of a prig to sexual display, but of a patriarch. Could he be angry that a woman should be free to go naked at her own choice, to pick her lovers, or reject?

  My mind turned to how I could do as I pleased, show off in front of him, maybe have sex in front of him with Michael or Stephen, or not. I could enjoy myself with the beautiful knight he had carved, rejecting him but taking pleasure in the image of himself he had desired. The sense of outrage grew abruptly stronger and I laughed. It was tempting, too tempting, and I reached out to stroke the statue’s face. The marble was cool, wonderfully smooth to my touch, and as I explored the contours of the cold, handsome face and thought of what I could do his aura grew stronger still.

  The air in the church was deathly still, but my skin was prickling as if to a breeze on my belly and breasts. He was touching me, he had to be, ghostly fingers on my flesh, struggling to force me to comply, perhaps the way he had obliged his wife, his maids, girls from the street, skirts high, drawers spread for access to their pussies, perhaps even to their bottom holes. I wasn’t going to. I was going to take my pleasure on the beautiful knight, leaving him to watch and fumble ineffectually at my naked flesh.

  I climbed up, straddling the statue’s legs, my thighs wide across the cool marble. The codpiece of his armour rose as a smooth, inviting bulge, ideal to rub myself on, which was exactly what I planned to do. I moved forward, mounting up to place the hard lump beneath me, pressed to my sex and bottom through my knickers. The air was musky with attar of roses mingled with pussy. I wondered if he could smell it too, adding to his outraged lust as I began to wriggle myself gently on the knight’s crotch.

  It felt good, my sensitive flesh and bottom cheeks spreading onto the hard bulge, the marble momentarily cool on my sex lips and bottom hole but quickly warming. I lifted my hands, arching my back to push my breasts out as I took them in hand, feeling my stiff nipples beneath my fingers and stroking away a bead of sweat as it trickled down my skin. Stretching high, I began to wriggle more firmly, revelling in the sheer joy of life and sex as my pleasure rose, purely physical for a brief moment before I turned my thoughts back to Sir Barnaby.

  I pictured him paying girls for favours, to strip or suck or fuck, and taking more pleasure the less they liked it. Now in death, he could do nothing, only writhe in an agony of lust as I squirmed on his statue, taunting him with my vitality. I laughed out loud, and suddenly his hands were clawing at me, my skin prickling at legs and buttocks, belly and chest. I closed my eyes, revelling in the sensation, willing him to take me as he had before, to control my body and make me do obscene things to myself, my ecstasy dedicated to Satan as I was drawn in to him . . .

  What came was my orgasm, rising up in my head as my sex tightened. I gave in, not as before, but to my own need. Sir Barnaby was denied, I was proud and naked and feminine, full of joy in what I was doing as I came on the knight’s crotch, clutching at my breasts as I cried out and my body arched in ecstasy.

  It had been fast, unexpectedly fast, my orgasm welling up from nowhere. I was grinning as I came down, panting, my whole body sweaty once more, the marble of the knight’s crotch now smeared with my juice. Fury radiated from the tomb, stronger even than Eliza Dobson’s, but different. I patted the statue on the head and turned my back, walking away with a deliberate wiggle.

  As an experiment it was inconclusive. I had tried to give myself to him, laid myself completely open in the hope of having my body taken over as before. It hadn’t happened, but that didn’t necessarily prove anything. Possibly I had not been susceptible enough, or my innate defiance of male control too strong to let him in. I’d felt him, I knew that, but as more or less I would have expected beforehand. Obviously I would have to try again with my head full of incense, and maybe a couple of skunk spliffs – a prospect that brought me both pleasure and apprehension.

  As an experience it had been fine. I was absolutely buzzing as I washed and dressed, and the urge to talk about it all was stronger than ever. I took Lilitu for a walk to try and take my mind off it, deliberately staying within sight of the tower of All Angels in the half-hope that Snaz would attempt to retrieve his hooded top. He didn
’t, and it didn’t take my mind off possession and Satanic ritual either, so that by the time I got back I knew that I was going to have to go and see Michael that evening.

  It would make me seem over-eager, I knew, but I didn’t want to play games and I was hoping that after our last meeting he wouldn’t either. So I dressed carefully, and my best: black silk pants, fine mesh hold-ups, heeled boots and my longest, tightest dress. Almost an hour spent making up and I was ready. I set off, despite being sure to arrive long before he did.

  Sure enough, I was down by the dock before the light had altogether faded from the sky. I found a place from which I could see the window of his flat, but there was no light. There was a trace of wry amusement at my own enthusiasm as I bought myself a takeaway – coffee and doughnuts – and went to sit at the base of one of the great black cranes across from him. It was a perfect scene, the evening a touch cool, the water absolutely still, the mass of the cranes etched black against an ultramarine sky shading to deep blue between copper-gold clouds in the west.

  I could see Michael’s building in perfect reflection in the dock, and watched for the lights to flick on as I sipped my coffee, feeling at once foolish and excited. When it did come it was a surprise, sending a little shock of apprehension through me. I felt aroused, yet also vulnerable, my head clear, the thought of what I wanted from him sending little shivers through my body. This time it had to happen.

  A dozen doubts ran through my head as I walked around the dock. He wasn’t there at all, but only Chris. Chris would be there too. He would be there, but with another girl. Somehow he would have changed his mind. Anything to destroy the anticipation I seemed to have been building up for ever.

  He was in, his voice alone setting me trembling, so badly I fumbled at the buttons in the lift, pushing twice before the doors closed. It seemed to rise forever, and my stomach was tight as I pushed open his door. He was there, standing right in front of me, in black jeans and a black sweatshirt, an open hold-all beside him, smiling.

  I pushed the door to behind me. My fingers went to the straps of my dress, pushing one aside, and the other. It fell away, down over my chest and lower. A push and it was off my hips. I was stepping forward, Michael looking surprised and delighted, his eyes flicking over my naked chest, and down, to my legs and the V between them. My mouth came wide, my lips pressed to his and we were kissing, deep and passionate, tongues entwined, my arms around his neck.

  He took hold of me, stroking my hair, my back, my bottom, lifting me. My legs came around him, up on his hips, the bulge of his cock pressing to my mound, my breasts to his chest. His fingers came under me, pulling my knickers aside, holding my bottom wide, brushing my sex, and I didn’t mind, eager and ready as he struggled to free his cock.

  We went down, Michael sinking beneath me, onto the floor. His zip rasped down, his dick came free, thick and hot between my bottom cheeks. I wriggled as his hands once more clasped my bottom, spreading my cheeks over his cock, his balls between them. He nudged himself at my pussy, growing faster against my wet flesh. I rose, took him in hand, feeling the thick, hard shaft as I put him to my sex, and in.

  I sighed as I filled, riding Michael at last, mounted up as I took two handfuls of his hair and begun to fuck. Immediately he was pushing up into me, already urgent, his hands cupping my bottom, holding me, his eyes feasting on my body. Glorious, blissful relief flooded through me. He was in, our bodies joined, and nobody to break the moment. I stretched, pulling at my own hair with my breasts thrust out, seated proud on him just as I had been on the stone knight.

  He began to push harder and deeper, jerking into me. I took hold of my breasts, teasing for just a second before the urgency simply became too much. The edge of my panties was rubbing on my clit as I bounced and I was going to come, with just a little more friction, and enough as he went wild. He was coming, and so was I, gasping out his name as I let myself go completely, clutching at my pussy in abandoned bliss, my body tight, my fingers slippery with his come.

  Shock after shock of ecstasy went through me as we came together, one to each hard pump of his cock, until I could hold myself no more and slumped forward on top of him, our mouths opening to each other even as he drained himself into me. His arms came around my back and mine under his shoulders and we were together, held tight in rapture.

  We stayed cuddled close together for some time, saying nothing, just kissing occasionally, his cock still inside my body. Before too long our kisses had begun to grow urgent once more, and as I began to wriggle on him, so he once more began to grow hard. Soon my pussy felt nicely full again and he was pushing into me, slowly now, easing himself in and out as I held tight to his chest.

  I let my mind wander as we did it again, imagining how he and I would share communion, locked in passion as we were, but on a tomb in the darkened graveyard or by candlelight in the church. Perhaps I could take him with me, into Sir Barnaby’s unholy orgy, putting on a display for the delight of the ghosts. Perhaps it would go further still, with the two of them sharing me: Sir Barnaby beneath me, pushing his cock into my straining bottom; Michael on top, fucking to a rhythm. Perhaps not Sir Barnaby . . . perhaps the Devil himself, inserted in my bottom hole even as Michael and I fucked, together in supreme ecstasy, sperm pumping into me, hot and freezing cold.

  Michael was getting more passionate, his strong arms tight around my back, holding me in, his fingers locked in my flesh. My thighs were wide, my bottom spread, so anyone behind could see the thickness of his cock inside me, and my open bottom, ready to be entered, buggered, but not by any man, by the Devil. I snatched back, twisting in Michael’s arms, my hand slipping into the crease of my bottom, to touch my hole, push in, one finger, then a second, opening myself.

  It was going to happen. My pussy was spread in the coarse tangle of his pubic hair, his cock was filling me right to the head, and I could already feel my muscles contracting as I let my fantasy go. We’d be on a tomb, the tomb of some great Satanic master, fucking, me held tight in Michael’s arms with my sex spread on his cock. The master would be in my head, then my mouth, thick and real as I sucked. I’d feel the presence of the Devil, his huge, burning hot cock pressed to my bottom hole before jutting in, shocking me as he jammed it deep, buggering me hard and fast. Three cocks would be working as one in my body, and coming, sperm exploding into mouth, pussy and bottom hole at the same instant as I screamed in the agony of my orgasm.

  Just as I did, thrashing on top of Michael as I came, screaming and biting at his shoulder, my fingers working furiously in my bottom hole, my feet kicking on the hard wooden floor, my whole body wrapped in blinding ecstasy for one long, glorious climax.

  6

  AFTER ALL MY elaborate plans for Michael Merrick, we’d had each other just seconds after I’d walked in the door. From start to finish it had taken maybe three minutes, the first time, but it was as much my fault as his, more really. The second time more than made up for that. It had been one of the best, certainly my best with a man, and I knew it could get better. He was well pleased with himself too, and with me. We went to bed with a bottle of strong red wine and stayed there until close to dawn, kissing and talking and fucking. I lost count of the number of times I came, and the ways. By the time I finally fell into an exhausted sleep I was sore and so was he, while my head was swimming with wine and talk of cultists and devils and bizatre rituals.

  My first thought in the morning was that I should be getting back to check up on Lilitu and All Angels. That was staring bleary eyed at Michael’s ceiling before the events of the night before began to run through my head. I sat up, wincing slightly, to find Michael down by his art desk. He saw I was awake and went into the kitchen, just as I heard the pop of a kettle. I relaxed, glad that he was playing host properly, and took the steaming mug of coffee as he returned. It was as I like it, black and sweet, strong enough to send a rush through me after the first couple of swallows.

  I’d told him about my experiences at Sir Barnaby’s tomb, but not
in detail as it had led to another bout of sex before we could really get into it. Like me, he had no knowledge of Sir Barnaby Stamforth being associated with any of the Victorian cults, Satanic or otherwise. He had never even heard of Sir Barnaby, and while I had always thought of myself as widely read, he seemed to know every detail of every religious aberration recorded. I was thinking about it, but it was he who opened the conversation before he was halfway through his coffee.

  ‘So this Satanic ritual. Describe it again.’

  ‘Sure. I was on an altar . . .’

  ‘How do you know it was an altar?’

  ‘I know it was an altar because there was an inverted crucifix just above my head. I mean, it’s not a normal piece of household furnishing, is it?’

  ‘No, sorry, but could it have been a table?’

  ‘I suppose, a big heavy one. It was set up in the middle of a room, well, a space, enclosed but large, because the men were standing all around me.’

  ‘You’re sure they were men?’

  ‘Yes . . . I mean, I didn’t see their bodies or faces, sure, but they had a male feel. I could see their eyes, reflecting candlelight, and light and shadow on the walls and ceiling beyond them. I was on one man, a servant, but I don’t know how I knew he was a servant, except that somehow it seemed appropriate that because he was a servant he should be the one in my bottom.’

  ‘Makes sense to me.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘Sure. Go on.’

  ‘The other one, Sir Barnaby.’

  ‘What makes you so sure it was Sir Barnaby?’

  ‘Well, he was in my head. It was his tomb, that’s the way it has always been when I commune with the dead. But yes, his sperm was cold, which means . . .’

  ‘The Devil.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve never experienced anything like it before, so I don’t know. Maybe their sperm is cold anyway?’