Black Lipstick Kisses

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Monica Belle

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Sultry and mischievous Angela McKie loves dressing up in fetish clothing inspired by Victorian decadence. Perfecting an air of occult seciness, she enjoys teasing men to distraction. She attracts the lustful attentions of two very different people: Stephen Byrne is a serious young politician with a bright future; Michael Merrick is a cartoonist for a horror comic. Both want her and set out to get her, but quickly discover they have bitten off more than they can chew when they allow themselves to be suduced by the maverick Ms McKie.

  About the Author

  Monica Belle is an Oxbridge graduate and the author of several successful Black Lace novels, including Black Lipstick Kisses, Bound In Blue, Noble Vices, Office Perks, Pagan Heat, The Boss, The Choice, To Seek a Master, Valentina’s Rules, Wild By Nature and Wild in the Country.

  Other books by the author

  Noble Vices

  Valentina’s Rules

  Wild in the Country

  Black Lipstick Kisses

  Monica Belle

  1

  THERE WAS A man in my graveyard.

  He had to be over six foot, because he was at eye level with the inscription on Lisbet Stride’s tomb, and I have to look up a little to read it. It was hard to pick out detail from forty feet above his head, but he was slender, pale, with a mop of floppy black hair, and dressed entirely in black, save for a tie-pin that glinted in the brilliant sunlight: intriguing.

  For a while I was content to watch, simply admiring the lithe, easy way he moved among the monuments and wondering what he was up to. He had a small pad, and would pause occasionally to sketch a detail: the grotesque black iron faces on the gate of the Braidault family mausoleum, the rusting semaphore installed by Major Inkerman Goodwell in case he woke up, the entwined angels lifting Lisbet Stride to heaven. Very intriguing.

  I still wasn’t going to do anything about it, not until he’d finished drawing the green man over the main door and began to investigate the corrugated iron sheets blocking it off. If he came inside, Lilitu was going to get him, and he was much too good looking for that. I had to stop him, but that was a problem. All I had on was a layer of factor 50. No clothes, no shoes, no make-up. Lilitu would have finished him before I was ready, bones and all. I pulled my head back a little, making sure all he could see was my face and a lot of black hair, and called down.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  He looked up, startled for just an instant until he realised that there was a woman’s head among the row of gargoyles on the parapet. I smiled. He spoke.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My dog will attack you.’

  ‘Ah. What sort of dog is he?’

  ‘She is a Doberman.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was a pause as he stepped back from the sheet of corrugated iron he had been trying to pull free. When he spoke again his tone was rather different, enquiring.

  ‘I was hoping to do some drawing inside. There are supposed to be some heads on the rood screen, which is the high wooden partition . . .’

  ‘I know what a rood screen is.’

  ‘Well, this is Victorian High Gothic, with seven heads representing . . .’

  ‘Representing the seven deadly sins, carved by Isaac Foyle. I know.’

  ‘You do? Maybe you’ve heard of me then. I’m Michael Merrick. I draw for Illuminatus, Black Dog.’

  ‘Cool. Don’t move.’

  I drew back. This guy I had to meet, but not stark naked. Stark naked was better than casual, so he was just going to have to wait, and I was hoping he would. I’d seen his art, beautifully drawn pictures that pulled you right into the page, usually dark, sometimes disturbing, occasionally arousing, always immaculate. I’d read his work too, and loved the way he could turn a conventional idea completely on its head. People like that don’t turn up at All Angels every day. Graffiti writers maybe, but not bona fide Gothic artists.

  In two minutes I was down in the vestry, my ‘flat’, once reserved for priests and choristers to don their robes, now just right for me and Lilitu. The deal is simple. I keep out the vandals and taggers, the drunks and junkies, the lovers and perverts: anyone else who thinks an abandoned church is a good place to disport themselves. In return I live for free, company water provided.

  In twenty minutes I was dressed, heeled black boots, black fishnets, black skirt, black belt, black top, black collar, black gloves, even little black silk panties. After all, you never know, and the idea of seducing a man only to have him discover I’m in granny pants is too much. I decided against a bra, determined to tease at the very least. A touch of rose attar served for scent.

  In twenty minutes I was made up, my eyes large and dark, the lids touched with deep green, my lips glossy black, my face pale. For jewellery I went for silver set with green tourmaline, not my birthstone but a match to my eyes, and not too much, just four rings, a necklace and ear-rings, pentacles and black suns. A green lavabell for my tummy button and a plain stud for my tongue were the final touches.

  I left by the rectory door to find Michael still at the front, sketching. Rather than speak to him, I perched myself on the flat top of Eliza Dobson’s tomb and rested my chin in one hand, waiting. He must have sensed me, because he turned almost immediately, smiling as he fixed me with piercing steel-grey eyes. I let him come to me, unmoving as I took him in.

  He was certainly six foot, cool and handsome, but with his loose hair and the large amethyst tie-pin giving him a faintly louche touch. I’d thought he was about my age, but a trace of line at his eyes and mouth suggested a little more, while he certainly seemed to have the confidence of maturity, arrogance even. He spoke as he reached me.

  ‘Here lieth the mortal remains of Eliza Dobson, 1827 to 1895. You look remarkably good for a woman dead over a hundred years.’

  ‘She would not have been amused. Eliza Dobson, spinster of this parish and a noted philanthropist dedicated to the cleanliness and chastity of London’s poor. Quite mad too; apparently she used to sit the drunks and dollymops in leg irons while she lectured them on their vices.’

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Are you going to let me inside? Introduce yourself maybe?’

  ‘I’m Dusk.’

  He gave a nod, maybe of appreciation, maybe sceptical. I was not going to disillusion him. Angela I keep in reserve for the mundane. I slid from the top of the tomb and walked to the main door, not wishing to take him through the vestry and shatter any hope I might have of maintaining my mystique. He followed cautiously, a sensible choice, as the moment I’d slid the lower section of corrugated iron aside Lilitu’s toothy snout poked out, followed by the rest of her. Her eyes immediately fixed on Michael, but I’d taken a firm grip on her collar and begun to scratch her behind the ears.

  ‘Michael, meet Lilitu. Lilitu, meet Michael, who is not prey.’

  Michael stepped a little closer.

  ‘You named your dog after a Babylonian demoness?’

  ‘It suits her.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  I ducked in through the hole, pulling Lilitu behind me. Michael followed, into the cool dimness of the porch and then the nave, to lo
ok around with an expression of rapture. I let him take it all in, and for all my familiarity it was hard not to stare myself. Above us great Gothic arches rose to bosses carved as angels, demons and green men high above us. The shattered stained glass produced a dozen rich colours, with bright streamers of sunlight breaking through the holes to illuminate dust motes in the still air. Ranks of decaying pews lined the nave, with the striking black and white checkerboard of the floor tiles now spattered with pigeon droppings. Nearby, the arch that led to the tower and crypt, the interior chapels and tombs, each individual, each familiar.

  ‘Wonderful.’

  He didn’t speak the word, but sighed it. I immediately felt a touch of pride, for all that I had contributed nothing to the place, and only held its picturesque decay in check. It was still mine, at least for now, and it was impossible not to feel good when a man I had so long admired for his Goth art seemed awestruck by where I lived. To have him awestruck by me would have been better still.

  If he was, he wasn’t showing it, very cool an instant after he’d got over the initial image. He didn’t speak as he began to explore, taking in everything, and occasionally shaking his head in delight at some particularly fine detail, and also pieces of picturesque decay. Only at the sight of the scaffolding inside the tower did he frown, and he spoke only to ask if I had a torch so that he could explore the crypt. I obliged as best I could, with two of the big altar candles from the vestry, and finally found something I could say without looking silly as we descended the stair.

  ‘Don’t expect to be too impressed. It got a make-over sometime in the 60s, to try and bring in some money by hiring it out for meetings and stuff. It’s pretty awful.’

  He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, peering in at the decaying hardboard facings, the broken fluorescent light fittings, the false ceiling sagging down to reveal black gaps. A plastic chair lay on its side at the centre of the space; otherwise it was empty, our candles barely reaching the far end. Michael shook his head, but not in delight.

  ‘How could anyone do this? It’s vandalism, pure and simple.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Some people have no sense of history, or aesthetics for that matter. Do you mind if I do some drawing? Not here, of course.’

  ‘Go ahead, whatever you like.’

  We left the crypt and he immediately sat down on the charity box by the door and began to sketch, his eyes flicking from the paper to the body of the church. I watched as the picture grew, soft lines, then hard, an image building quickly on the page. He was capturing the atmosphere with extraordinary skill, maybe even exaggerating it, adding melancholy to the angelic faces, malevolence to the demonic, infusing the green men with an eerie mystique. With the main image in rough, he began to add details around the margin of the page, the faces of imps and angels, of beasts both wild and mythical. I wasn’t going to interrupt him, but he finally spoke of his own accord, still drawing.

  ‘This is perfect. I’ve a commission for a piece, the Goat of Mendes it’s going to be called. There’s a cabal of Satanists attempting to summon the spirits of an earlier, Regency, cabal.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘I can just see this as the interior of the ruined temple, the one the earlier cabal used. OK, so the period’s wrong, but for me it’s visual effect that matters.’

  ‘I can see that. I love your work. I’ve got a poster of yours, with a demoness and an angel fighting over a soul.’

  ‘“The Balanced Scale”? That was years ago, one of my first commercial pieces. I’ve never been that happy with it.’

  ‘It’s great! Just so . . .’

  I stopped. I’d been going to say ‘erotic’, because I’d often seen myself as the beautiful female demoness in the picture, and let myself go over the fantasy more than once. Admitting to masturbating over his drawings seemed a bit much, but I felt a stab of annoyance for holding back as I finished, somewhat lamely.

  ‘. . . evocative.’

  He went on: ‘Thanks. It certainly sold well. I was exploring ideas of good and evil then, trying to show how sometimes it can be a matter of which side you’re on.’

  ‘I’ve read your essay on evil forces in science fantasy, the one where you show the story as propaganda by the good guys, because they won so they get to tell the story, with the bad guys as defeated rebels. It gave me a whole new perspective.’

  He grinned, flattered.

  ‘It was a bit tongue in cheek, but yeah, it works, for Tolkein especially. I feel that’s been done though, and I want to move away from it, to take a less black and white perspective, even an irrational one.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I want to get away from the idea of building a main character to suit the reader’s preconceptions, which is what the magazines always want. Now I’ve got a bit of a name for myself I can afford to be somewhat bolder, to make people think, even disturb them.’

  ‘I think you manage that already!’

  ‘I try. I didn’t in that sense though. I’m doing one at the moment, where my main character’s a typical anarchist eco-warrior type, but at the end he’ll turn out to have been telling the story as he looks back at how he came to be an executive in the very corporation he tried to defeat. That’s when his ex-buddies burst in, but I’ll leave the ending open.’

  ‘Well cool.’

  ‘It’s not new. Have you read Clockwork Orange? Not seen the film, but read the book?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He shrugged, looking a touch embarrassed, as if he had revealed himself as a charlatan, and went back to work. I felt myself warm to him, something in addition to simple physical attraction and the fascination of meeting somebody I admired. For a moment he had let his defences down, and it prompted me to do the same, allowing my mind to wander to more intimate possibilities.

  As the drawing grew he paid more and more attention to the margins, filling them with fantastical details. The picture was centred on the nearest of the great roof pillars, but he had left it as a faint outline, despite the real thing being decorated with a column of grotesque little faces, which I’d have thought irresistible. At last he spoke again.

  ‘I might even make this a cover. What do you think?’

  ‘Sure . . . great . . .’

  ‘It just needs a focus, perhaps not one of the characters, but something to get the essence of the story across.’

  He turned to me with a disarming grin.

  ‘Would you mind posing? You really look the part.’

  ‘Sure. How do you want me?’

  I’d tried to be cool, hiding my instant rush of girlish glee at being asked to pose for him, but my voice had cracked a little as I answered. He’d really got me flustered, in no time too. As he pondered my question, my wicked side was hoping he’d suggest I would be best naked – for all that my shy side was dreading exactly that. It felt nicer to be naked, shy or brazen. Finally he spoke.

  ‘I’ll have you as a spirit, I think, brooding on her fate.’

  ‘I can do brooding.’

  ‘Great. Lean against the pillar. Put your cheek next to the stone . . . yes, like that. Raise your right arm. No, with your palm flat against the stone . . . yes. Put your left hand at the front of the pillar, fingers splayed, as if you’re caressing the stone. Yes, perfect, just under a face. Now closer, and stretch up a little, onto your toes.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Yes, ideal, but it wouldn’t work if you were even a fraction less slender.’

  Flattery, which from him nudged the balance of my feelings further towards taking my clothes off, at least some of them.

  ‘My clothes don’t spoil your line, do they?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can work around that.’

  He began to draw, his eyes narrowed in concentration. I stayed still, horny, wanting to impress, yet feeling something of a fluffy girlie for doing so. That’s just not me. I like to take charge, to be the one getting into another’s head, the desirable one. He should have bee
n the one getting slowly steamed up, not me. Bollocks to modesty. Sometimes a girl just has to do it.

  ‘It would be better with my top off, wouldn’t it?’

  Before he could answer I’d pulled my top up, and over my head, leaving my necklaces. I resumed my pose, now with my bare breasts pressed to the cool stone, giving him no more than a brief glimpse of my nipples, hopefully not enough to show just how perky they were. His response was a cool nod, but he had gone ever so slightly pink. Again he began to draw, his concentration more intense than ever, only to stop suddenly and speak.

  ‘There, I don’t think we can improve on that until I’m in the studio. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  I stepped away from the pillar, pointedly indifferent to my partial nudity. He watched me come towards him, calm and appreciative, without a trace of embarrassment as his eyes moved down from my face. I stepped close, allowing the side of my breast to press onto the lean muscle of his arm as I inspected the picture.

  It was me, but transformed into an impossibly slender creature, half merged with the pillar and with the tiles of the floor, naked beneath a gossamer shroud. The contours of my body, the lines of the pillar and the black and white check of the floor blended, light and shade. Even my hair seemed to flow into the surroundings, my face alone distinct, with an expression hard to read, maybe grieving, maybe remorseful, maybe defiant. At first glance my breast had seemed to show clearly, yet looking closer it was hard to pick the lines from those of my shroud, while another fold might or might not have suggested the lips of my pussy.

  It was beautiful and flattering, yet I felt as if he’d stripped me bare, and again caught the need to exert myself. I stepped away, wondering what he’d do if I simply pushed him down on the tiles and ravished him. My wicked side wanted exactly that – him inside me as I rode him on the floor, amusing myself with his body, taking orgasm after orgasm until he was begging to be allowed to do the same. Drunk, I might just have done it, even if I did have a suspicion he’d have rolled me over after a minute or two. Sober, my shy side came to the fore and I found myself walking away from him, towards the rood screen.