Black Lipstick Kisses (20 page)

‘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?'

‘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.