Black Lipstick Kisses

by Monica Belle

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘Kinky threesomes with other men?’

  I made it sound a joke, but I was watching very carefully for his reaction. Unfortunately he gave as good as he got.

  ‘Kinky threesomes with other girls?’

  All I could think of to do in response was squeeze his cock. That set us off again, me on top this time, then and there on the settee. After that it was bed, and more sex, and sleep, and more sex in the morning. It was nearly noon before I left, and it must have taken me three times as long to skate back as it had to come over. I fed Lilitu, who was not best pleased, and collapsed onto my bed.

  I woke well after dark, from a dream in which a man, maybe Stephen, was on top of me, being drubbed by demons for encouragement. After a seriously weird moment of disorientation I worked out that the thumps of their fists on his back was in fact somebody knocking on the vestry door. A voice called out, and I realised it was Snaz, somebody I could talk to. Dragging myself from the bed I went to unfasten the door, letting her in. She was in black jeans, her hoodie, her Timberland’s, with a bag over her shoulder.

  ‘Coming bombing?’

  ‘Uh . . . no . . . maybe. Hang on a minute.’

  ‘You look like death. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been asleep. I was shagging Michael all last night.’

  ‘Lucky bitch!’

  ‘Yeah, and there’s more. He’s asked me to move in with him, well, not exactly move in . . . Hang on, I need coffee, and food, and a new head.’

  She threw herself down on the bed and began to go through the contents of her bag. I started coffee and began to wash, my senses clearing as I splashed cold water onto my face. Snaz chattered away, explaining how Biggy had finally given up writing after a two-hour chase along the lines. I was only half-listening, but managed a grunt of agreement as she finished.

  ‘. . . it’s not like he got bagged.’

  I began to dress, pulling on a tatty top, my black jeans and boots. Michael wasn’t expecting me as such, or Stephen, and I felt I wanted to be with another girl, to talk. The bombing I knew I’d get into once we got started. Lilitu had come in from the church, and was sniffing Snaz.

  ‘Just tickle her behind the ears, she loves that.’

  ‘Yeah . . . right. She’s coming with us, yeah?’

  ‘Sure, but not trackside.’

  ‘Right, not after last night. So you’re still shagging both of them? You told Michael?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure what to do.’

  ‘Keep ’em both, like I said, one for kicks, one to be sugar-daddy. I would, and he’s not bad looking that Stephen. Bit of an old pervo, but not bad looking.’

  ‘Yeah, but Michael’s moving in across the road, and he wants me to be with him. I wish I’d told him about Stephen in the first place, because if I come out with it now, it makes me look dishonest.’

  ‘Looks like you’re going to have to choose, girl.’

  ‘Right, and it has to be Michael. He really wants me, and Stephen’s just after sex, but he’s been good to me, really generous.’

  ‘Rich is he?’

  ‘Fairly, yeah, but I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I’ll have him then, you can fuck off with Michael!’

  She laughed and rolled onto her back, watching as I twisted my hair up into a bun. I put toast on and fixed the coffee, Snaz folding her legs under her as she drank. Lilitu had crossed to the door and was looking at me hopefully, eager for a walk.

  ‘So if not trackside, where?’

  ‘Somewhere hard, somewhere everyone’ll see. I want ’em to know we’re girls too.’

  ‘Sure. We’ll do a crew tag. What was TST?’

  ‘Trackside Trouble, no good. How about Street Bratz, like from the cartoon?’

  ‘Too soft but not girlie enough. Street Bitchz would be better.’

  ‘Sounds like we’ve got pimps!’

  ‘Most bad words for girls are like that.’

  ‘Too true. She-Catz?’

  ‘Maybe. She-Catz from Hell? No, bollocks to it, who cares what the men think – Witchz from Hell.’

  ‘You’ve got it, girl. Let’s go bomb!’

  We smacked hands and we were gone, my adrenaline rising fast even as we walked down Coburg Road, arm in arm with Lilitu padding beside us. We had no idea where we were going, just high on life and mischief as we walked the streets. As we went we talked, ever more boisterous, swapping stories of tagging and sex, cheeking the men and teasing the boys. One guy got cheeky with us back, suggesting we take him into the park and suck his cock. We went, promised we’d suck if we could tag him, pulled his trousers down behind a push, wrote and ran, leaving him with his pants around his ankles and a rock hard erection, ‘Witchz from Hell’ written on his bare arse in indelible marker.

  After that it was chaos, running through the streets laughing, tagging anything either of us had ever taken against. By the time we stopped to rest we were lost, on some industrial site deep in East London, where a huge rank of gasometers rose black against the sky, one great drum still risen in its mesh of iron. It was perfect, huge, abandoned, the blank face of the drum visible for miles. I looked at Snaz and she looked at me.

  It was crazy, a stupid, lunatic scheme, trying to paint fifty feet above the ground, but just to know we were going to do it gave me such a rush. I had to, then and there, and there was no question of backing out as we began to walk down the side of the old gas company compound to find a way in. We were not the first there: a huge black and gold dub was sprayed across the double doors, one I recognised from All Angels. A minute later it had our tag right across it.

  Another minute and we were inside, and climbing, Lilitu looking up at me as I used the ornate latticework like a ladder. I was now scared, and more scared still with every metre I rose, the black iron roses on the gaunt iron lattice passing my face one by one, but I was still more elated. I made the first cross piece, the second, and with agonising care and my arm locked tight to the strut I eased a can of black from the bag and began to paint, sharing a wicked grin with Snaz as she too reached my level.

  My heart was hammering, my pulse racing. I could be seen by anyone who happened to look up from the road below, standing out like a fly on glass against the surface of the gasometer. Still I worked, the reek of paint strong in my nose as I made my rough outlines, my D, my U, moving forward to make the S, and further for the K. By then I was holding on with one arm stretched up to grip the strut, balanced high on the great iron skeleton, rooftops below me, the road, and a police car, cruising slowly past.

  I nearly wet myself, clinging frozen to the strut, my can still in my hand, hardly daring to breath. The car moved on, agonisingly slowly, turned a distant corner and was gone. Again I began to paint, urgent now, but forcing myself to go slow. Snaz had her letters done, faster and more practised, and was filling in vivid pink. I finished my K, tried to swap cans, fumbled and dropped the black, watching it fall as my whole body tingled to a fresh shock of adrenaline.

  My eyes closed, I forced myself to be calm, eased a purple fat-cap free of my bag and began to fill, smooth and even, telling myself I wasn’t racing Snaz, and nobody ever looks up, that there wasn’t really solid concrete beneath me. Another car passed, and a third, both slow, lovers or maybe kerb-crawlers. Neither stopped. I finished my can, took a second and the fill was done. A few simple low lights and I moved back to the centre, took Snaz’s black, and with agonising care sprayed in my final outline. I was done, the huge black and purple ‘DUSK’ standing out for all to see. The black was gone, leaving Snaz to sign our tag in gold, a name I truly felt I’d earned as we climbed back down, to hug and kiss, giggling together as she took our flicks, the huge twin dub faint in the dim glow of the street lamps, but plain enough.

  All done, we left, squeezing back through the damaged gate, and off, Lilitu bounding ahead of us. I didn’t want to come down: I was too high, too full of energy. We made the road, to find another dub on the wall below the gasome
ter, the same crew who’d done the gates, and All Angels. In a moment Snaz had her marker out, to scrawl ‘Look up, Toy Boyz’ across the white fill of their dub, just as the patrol car turned the corner in the distance.

  We just ran, helter-skelter across the road, into the mouth of an alley even as blue light flashed off the brickwork behind us. I heard the siren moan and my heart was in my mouth, my feet pounding on the tarmac, my muscles straining. A road opened up in front of us and we were across it, then another, with a high metal fence on the far side, lorries parked in ranks, men standing around the open hatch of a caravan, the smell of burgers and onions and grease thick in the air.

  I grabbed Snaz, pulling her into the shadows. The bag went over a wall, I shook my hair out, her top came off and we walked calmly across, Snaz greeting the knot of truckers with a cheeky remark. We ordered burgers, the men closing around us, most keen to get our attention, still talking and joking as the police car rolled past without so much as a second glance in our direction.

  We were laughing all the way back, so pleased with ourselves. In the safety of All Angels we opened beers and collapsed on my bed, replaying the hit and the chase over and over. A second beer followed, a third, and a fourth, until we were giggling stupidly together over anything each other said. When Snaz reached across me to get her can I caught her scent, and before I knew what I was doing I’d kissed her and she’d kissed me back. Immediately we were snogging, rolled together on the bed, cuddled tight, then rude, our hands pulled at each other’s clothes, eager to touch. My top came up, and hers, her bra too, our chests bare together, stiff nipples against each other’s flesh, and in each other’s hands and mouths.

  Our jeans followed, our knickers pushed down to get at each other, and we were bare from neck to knees, her bottom in my hands, her hand between my legs, her fingers in my pussy, my tongue in hers as I climbed on, head to tail, and hers in mine. I came, with her face buried in my sex and her hands all over my bottom, but it didn’t stop me, or her. We went on, kissing, licking, exploring each other’s bodies in drunken, adrenaline-fuelled glee, heedless of where we touched, fingers deep in pussies, bums in faces, legs and arms entwined in a tangle of sweaty girl flesh until deep into the night.

  11

  I WOKE IN Snaz’s arms, sore, embarrassed, not sure why it had happened at all. It had though, with a vengeance, and regret was pointless. As I washed I told myself it was just one of those things, another taboo broken. I knew I was right too, but that didn’t stop me feeling I’d done something I shouldn’t, or worrying about her reaction. By the time she woke I’d made coffee, and as I passed her mug I was praying she’d be cool.

  She didn’t say a word, just looked at me, her eyes big and questioning as she sipped her coffee. I smiled and shrugged. She smiled back, embarrassed, but happy, and I was grinning. I kissed her cheek and sat back in the bed, once more running over the events of the night before in my head, and the highlights, tagging the man’s bum, bombing the gasometer, and sex. Finally Snaz spoke.

  ‘You are one bad girl, Dusk.’

  ‘Then that makes two.’

  ‘Me? I’m not in your league, girl. Look at you, tagging men’s arses! Hitting a fucking gastank! Two men on the go at once, and . . . and me! Witchz from Hell is about right!’

  ‘Sorry about that, I . . . I suppose I got a bit carried away. It was fun though, yeah?’

  She nodded, her throat tight with embarrassment, her face and neck flushed pink. I reached out to touch her hair, wishing the knot in my stomach would go away and I could be just a bit more cool about what had happened. She didn’t try to pull back, but continued to sip coffee. At some point we’d stripped off, although I couldn’t remember doing it, and we were both naked. It didn’t seem to bother her, propped up with her full breasts bare, no more self-conscious than she had been when we were swapping clothes. Perhaps she felt different, as I did, now aware of her sexually, but it was a good feeling, and one she seemed to share. I stayed silent for a long time, not wanting to make small talk, and at last plucked up the courage to ask what I wanted to know.

  ‘First time?’

  ‘First, yeah.’

  Nothing more needed to be said, the rest was clear in the tone of her voice. It might have been her first, but it would not necessarily be her last, nor mine. I got up to make toast and cereal, now at ease, feeling good about myself, and her. She stayed in bed but watched me as I moved, making me feel sure that like me she had come to view my body in a different way.

  We ate and washed and dressed, now laughing and joking as we had been the night before, Snaz even planting a firm slap on my bottom as I bent to pull my knickers on. Both of us wanted to recapture some of the thrill of the night before, and we had soon agreed to try and get some proper flicks of the gasometer. I dressed carefully, to give myself a look as far as possible from the skinny, black-clad boy I hoped the police imagined they had chased: a short, loose skirt, a purple top with a death’s head motif, tights and heels. Snaz borrowed a dress, some jewellery and high-heeled boots, giving herself an instant Goth-chick look, about as far from the conventional image of a teenage vandal as it was possible for her to get.

  As it was, we needn’t have bothered. The industrial zone around the old gasworks was as busy by day as it had been empty by night. An endless stream of vans and lorries were coming in and out of a big parcel depot a little way up the road, a load of men were milling around on the corner for no obvious reason, and a mobile snack bar had been set up directly under our piece.

  It was a piece, no question, a real burner, maybe not that artistic, but with pink and purple letters seven feet high and fifty feet off the ground it was no mere dub. When we moved over to get drinks from the snack bar I heard one man voicing surprise as to how it could have been done. His mate pointed out how the frame could be climbed, but there was doubt in his voice. I shared a look with Snaz but kept quiet.

  Plenty of other people were looking at it, and our crew tag stood out clear and proud, but as we took our flicks nobody thought to question us. We even had a man photograph it with us standing by the snack bar, clearly visible but not obviously the focus of the picture. That was enough, and we headed back, not wanting to push our luck.

  We said goodbye at the doorway to Snaz’s flats, and our parting kiss turned very briefly into a snog, leaving me with butterflies in my stomach and a deliciously naughty feeling. I had experienced so much in the last few days, and I wanted more, more of Michael, more of Snaz, more communion, more graff. I could have it too, all of it, and I was in a seriously up mood as I walked back to All Angels, singing to myself, even skipping, and not giving a fuck for the odd looks I got from passers-by.

  The only person who hadn’t really entered my head was Stephen, and that changed when I got back. A parcel had been delivered, tucked in behind Alasdair Croft’s headstone where I had told the postmen to put them. It was quite big, soft and flexible, fuelling my curiosity, so that I opened it the moment I was inside. A note fell out as I tore the paper, a card decorated with a picture of purple lilies and ‘with love, Stephen’ written neatly across it.

  I tugged the inner wrapping open, revealing something black and shiny, which I quickly pulled out, immediately entranced. It was a corset, faced with black satin, the cups and hem trimmed with a single layer of heavy cotton lace. It had suspender straps, pegs at the front and eyes at the back, all brass and perfectly finished. I couldn’t begin to guess what it would have cost, because it was undoubtedly custom made and no expense had been spared with the materials: Not to have put it on immediately would have been a sin.

  I stripped, then and there, naked, because it seemed appropriate. It was an image I’d longed to try, but never had the opportunity, bare but for corset and stockings, a demi-mondaine, dark and sultry. My hair was right, long and black and silky, and a collar and long gloves would give it a Gothic touch. A quick wash, some powder and I was ready, my fingers actually shaking as I pulled it around me and closed the catches. I
t felt tight, even with the laces slack, pulling my waist in and making my hips and bust fuller. I added stockings, clipping them up to increase the sense of tightness on my legs, black heels, and lots of make-up in black and purple and crimson.

  The gloves were black lace, reaching right up to my elbows, the collar black leather. Both added spice to my image. It felt great, and it looked great, definitely sultry, and definitely rude, with my nipples just showing over the top of the cups and my bum and pussy shockingly bare and framed in black material. Michael was going to love it, and would want to draw me in it, as he had my Goth-urchin look, increasingly rude poses until we ended up fucking on the floor.

  A really bitter pang of guilt hit me. It was a gift from Stephen and I was thinking of fucking Michael with it on. I mean, what kind of a bitch does that? I was going to have to let Stephen down, but I was going to do it gently. For one last night he could have me, as he wanted me. I rang to thank him for the corset and fixed a date for the Saturday, dinner out, with me in the corset beneath my dress. The implication was that we’d come back to his flat or All Angels for sex afterwards, and I didn’t intend to disappoint.

  It was not easy to get into the right mood for the night. What I’d done with Snaz was very much in my head, making it harder to concentrate on anything else. Also, a little part of me was saying that I was letting myself be manipulated by accepting expensive gifts which were effectively in return for sex, but a much bigger part was telling me that I should appreciate his generosity, and show it. Then there was the thought of telling him it was over afterwards, which was not going to be easy.

  Not that my ill feelings stopped me making an effort. I made up slowly and carefully, then put the corset on over stockings, but no panties. High heels, gloves and a collar, only this time a black velvet choker instead of leather, all added to it; a long black dress tied at the waist to emphasise my exaggerated figure gave the final touch and I was ready. The effect was almost as sultry as before, because although I was covered, it took no more than a glance to realise that I had no panties. My nipples showed, and I knew Stephen would be both entranced and embarrassed, just the right combination for a man.