Red Hot Lipstick Page 12

  Back home, he had everything prepared. The dark green blinds were snapped shut on the early summer evening, and subdued wall lighting gave the living-room just the right atmosphere for seduction. Martin had arranged vases of blue cornflowers and blue delphiniums on the glass tabletop, and Simone collapsed into the deep black sofa, her skirt riding to her waist as she attempted to bring it back to a level of decorum. Martin didn't miss the opportunity. He followed her on to the sofa, his body tumbling across hers in a series of erotic planes, his hands and lips going everywhere that tickled and drew excited laughter from her ecstatically thrown-back head.

  And as her skirt went missing, so he could see through her ultra-sheer tights that she was wearing the same pink silk panties as the ones which were deliciously irritating his triggering cock. It was she who slipped out of her tights and skirt, and began dabbing scorching kisses across his nipples and navel. He tensed with the expectation of her discovery, and her tapered red fingernails began unzipping him with agonized suspense. She ran one finger, then two inside his fly, and he could tell by the injection of passion into her kiss and sensitized fingers that she was aroused by her discovery.

  She opened the waistband of his trousers, and with his eyes closed he felt her lips run across his black suspender belt, while her fingers snapped the black straps against his thighs, just like a man does with a woman. Martin couldn't imagine sex that didn't involve this reversal of roles, and Simone was hungry to accommodate his needs. Her lips were brushing the head of his penis, and then with all the sensitive expertise of someone familiar with the gesture, she unclipped first one stocking and then the other and rolled them down Martin's legs until they bunched like two black flowers at his ankles. Simone was treating him with the tender sensuality of a man making love to a woman who demanded gentleness. She kissed his painted toenails through his stockings, and let her tongue travel up his thighs all the way to his scrotum, as though she were a man positioning herself for cunnilingus. Now he felt her tongue on his balls, and then she went back down his legs and began massaging his feet and finding nerve-points in his soles which connected directly with his cock.

  'Let me make you up, before we go into the bedroom,' Simone whispered, and he abandoned himself to her precise artistry as she worked at his eyes with mascara, eye shadow and eyeliner, and then highlighted his cheeks with a dusting brush, before paying detailed attention to his lips, outlining them not only with lipstick but with a supporting gloss and a dark lip crayon. She was deeply concentrated on her task, and periodically she would draw her head back to examine the line of her art. Martin grew additionally excited by this pronounced attention to his looks, and delighted in the idea that he would have a woman's face and a man's rampant penis.

  'Go and look in the mirror,' Simone advised, and Martin got up from the sofa and confronted an image in the mirror that he had always imagined to be himself, but had never thought to realize. This was the true him, the concealed feminine who lived on the inside awaiting release. And for the first time he felt truly at one with himself.

  'You look unbelievably sexy,' Simone laughed. 'Just edible – ' and having said that she adopted a Spanish wiggle and led him into the bedroom.

  Martin got Simone into the 69 position, and ran his tongue over her until she was juicy like a newly sliced melon. She had a shaved pubis, so he could bury his tongue in the folds of her labia. He was holding back his orgasm despite the depth to which Simone was swallowing him. The suction of her tongue was beginning to pressurize him towards explosion, and realizing this she backed off and urged him to slip into her pussy from behind. It was like all the fantasies he had ever nurtured gathered in the core of his sexual energy at that moment. He buried himself in her, and stayed dead still, letting her experience his hardness as a pivot, and she cried out with anticipation for his rooted thrusting. But instead, he increased her pleasure by having her wait. He whispered suggestions into her ear as he covered it with his lips, he ran a finger deep into the crack of her bottom. She was imprisoned on his hard lust, and he rotated her gently from the hips to give her a foretaste of the spasmic urgency that would follow.

  Simone arched her head back to kiss him, and little by little he began to move inside her. She was still living with the expectation that he was going to withhold pleasure, and then he began to open up, and he ran his hands down to her hips and positioned them there in order to have her synchronize with his powerful spiral movements. Her orgasm was released in a series of agonized screams, her mouth twisted open in a rictus, her head collapsing on the bed as he fired hot stars into her interior.

  They lay there too drained to speak, listening to the subdued hum of London traffic outside, and to the noise of people pouring through the evening streets.

  'We'll make each other up again later,' Simone suggested in a feline post-orgasm voice, and Martin lay interlaced by her legs and arms, his desire beginning to find force again.

  'You know what,' Simone confided, 'I went to bed with a young man called Paul, who also liked to dress up. He's also a literary agent. He's more conventional than you, but he was dressed similarly, only he got pleasure out of wearing panties and stockings under a grey pinstripe suit. The suit had to be grey, he told me.'

  'What did he look like?' Martin enquired, trying to keep his voice impartial in its curiosity.

  'He was blond, about thirty, considerate manners. Said his offices were in Chelsea. I dated him for a couple of weeks and the one time we went to bed, he was dressed rather like you. Pink panties, stockings and suspenders. He wanted me to make him up, and he asked me if he could keep my panties to wear at the office. I imagine he's doing just that. He was lonely, but he said there was someone at the office, a man with your name, Martin, who would sympathize. He told me he knew this person cross-dressed as he had once glimpsed an area of fishnet stocking showing on the man's calf when he had inadvertently scratched his ankle.'

  'How very strange to think that there's another Martin who also has my predisposition to cross-dress,' he found himself saying, as he took Simone's left nipple from his lips.

  'But it's definitely not you,' Simone volunteered. 'You don't fit Paul's sketchy description of his colleague. He said this Martin sometimes wore lipstick at the office, and was an exhibitionist. You aren't. Besides, this man was older.'

  Martin listened with curiosity to how his colleague perceived him, and felt confirmed in his belief that we invariably create a fiction for ourselves in describing another. But now he knew. Paul was walking around the office in a pair of Simone's flimsy panties. The thought excited him, and he decided that he too would win Simone's knickers, and have the secret satisfaction of having won even with Paul.

  'I'd like to have your panties,' Martin ventured to Simone.

  'You'll have to win them,' she teased. 'I will give them to you as a trophy, if you make me come again, like you did a short time ago.'

  'Let me make you up this time,' Martin begged, and he applied to Simone's face the care and attention she had given to his. A little touching up from her, and their looks were almost identical. He lacquered her toes with the same scarlet nail polish he used on his own, fitted her legs round his waist and entered her to the hilt. From the very first thrust and her corresponding cry, he knew he was going to win his desired trophy.

  He couldn't help smiling to himself to think that two men on the fifth floor of an office tower above Chelsea Harbour would both be wearing Simone's panties beneath their formal office clothes.

  Hunt the Sequin

  She sat on the bed, legs arched, fastidiously applying a coat of Russian-red nail varnish to her toes. She liked the sensual pleasure she derived from this intimate artistry, an expression that was both sexual and aesthetic. Her boyfriend was, more than any other man she had known, unfailingly appreciative of this detail. In fact, he would often insist on applying the lacquer to her toenails, and the sensations induced by him stroking the soles of her feet in the process of his painting her nails red, violet, g
reen or black, would often lead to her experiencing orgasm. And at times she would reciprocate the ritual, and paint his toenails colours that corresponded to her own. He too, if she tickled his feet for long enough, would reach an orgasm. It was one of their private games, and had developed into a shared fetish.

  Lavinia wanted to make it as a singer. She had the necessary voice and looks. Her black hair poured in snaking ringlets to her shoulders, her high cheekbones and triangular mouth were offset by green eyes, and her figure looked body-sprayed into a black top and skintight jeans. She'd set up a small home recording unit, and sang torch songs of the kind that divas like Judy Garland, Juliette Greco, Dusty Springfield, and Marc Almond gave to the world: tear-jerking, lonelier than blue ballads which went straight to the solitary places in the heart. And even at home, when practising with no audience but her own projected persona, she would wear a dress made of thousands of shocking-pink sequins. Moulded to the chiffon on which the sequins were sewn, she would balance on bruised suede stilettos, her mouth smudged the colour of crushed raspberry, and a wineglass placed within easy reach. Lavinia was adept at staging her own performances. She longed to take her talents a step further and acquire a live audience.

  She saw herself as a sob sister, committed to her belief in unrequited love and the self-sacrifice that love demands. Her wounded, tremulous themes looked back to French chanson, as well as to the more jazz-influenced blues sung by the likes of Billie Holiday and Dinah Washington. She had begun to accumulate the accoutrements of a torch singer: a variety of boas, and elbow-length gloves in black satin, decorated her make-up table. She found she could use her voice in an operatic vibrato style, although she tempered this with a less elevated delivery, and was intent on developing a style of singing that was popular rather than histrionic.

  Her boyfriend had warned her of the dissolute end that had come to most of the women who had pursued singing as a career, but she would only dismiss the decadent myth surrounding femmes fatales. Lavinia felt she had to honour her particular calling. Some minor interest had been expressed in her demo tapes, although the scout had suggested that she sing lyrics which were less emotionally charged.

  One day her boyfriend came back to find her hunting sequins. A fall of these had occurred when she had unzipped her dress, and he found her arched on the floor, bottom up, desperate to retrieve the sequins she would sew back on her dress. 'Help me, darling,' she cried, as he extended a forefinger and tickled her in a arc that ran from her pussy to the crack of her bottom. 'Find my lost sequins, and you can demand what you want,' she said, shivering at the sensitivity with which he tickled her between the legs.

  Steve joined in the search, using his eyes like pins to pick up the shimmering pink discs. 'You can't imagine what this dress means to me,' she continued. 'It's part of my true identity. I couldn't sing without it, and I've got my first gig coming up next week, an opening spot at the Fetish Club.'

  'You'll be brilliant,' Steve said, hunting along the strip where a green carpet skirted the wooden floorboards. He dabbed at the offending glitterbugs, holding up two on the point of a finger as though he had been jabbed with a pin, and had produced a coagulative spot of shocking-pink blood.

  The sight of Lavinia's bottom was causing him to lose concentration. He continued his absurd exploration of crevices in the boards, and of dab-the-spot on the carpet.

  'We're getting there,' Lavinia exclaimed. 'And you'll be rewarded for your achievements.' He again slipped a finger between her wet lips as she went up on her haunches. And a little more incisively, and as a pointer to what would come, he sunk his teeth playfully into her left buttock.

  'Not yet,' she laughed, 'I can still see more sequins on the carpet. I'll be your captive only when you've completed the task.'

  'Make me yours, while we continue the search,' he said. 'I want you to make it impossible for me to unzip my jeans, but at the same time I need to be flexible so I can assist with the hunt. Handcuffs won't do, and nor will tying my wrists with a scarf or a pair of your panties.'

  Again he excited her, this time by extending his tongue, and leaving a silver snail-trail across her crotch. She was so moist it was like she had been dreaming of a waterfall of orgasmic juices pouring through her body, and had woken to connect with the reality of the situation. Her pussy made a drinking sound each time he touched it.

  Steve could feel his erection establishing a drum-beat against his stomach.

  'I know a way to keep you in,' Lavinia said mischievously. 'But it will have to be handcuffs, and you'll collect the sequins with the tip of your tongue.'

  Having said this, she went into the bedroom and reappeared with a pair of soft blue leather handcuffs. Having secured Steve's wrists, she returned to an even more provocative pose, bottom up, her hands working across her buttocks, with one finger straying to her pussy. Handcuffed, he could only protrude his tongue, like a cat in the sun, and imagine the tangy flavour of the juices flowing liberally from her cunt. They contained something of the smell of dank ivy leaves on a castle wall, and cinnamon as it lightly spices the palate. And whenever he licked Lavinia, with the slow flourish of a painter working on a particular detail of the canvas, she would moan with a convulsive shudder. It was her display of guttural vocalism that excited him to stage one audacity after the other, each being received with an increased response to pleasure.

  'I hope you're picking up sequins with your tongue,' she laughed, returning to her own close scrutiny of the carpet. 'I'd never find sequins to match these; I got the dress at a charity shop, and it was undoubtedly made for a stage artist.'

  Wanting to play the game, Steve crawled across his area of carpet, inspecting it for pink sequins, and retrieving a cluster with the tip of his tongue. He moved over to the low round table that occupied a central position in the room, and there Lavinia took the sequins off his tongue. It was tedious work, but to reward her captive Lavinia began to give open displays of masturbation. She sat facing him, legs wide open, and with two scarlet fingernails, proceeded to caress her pussy. She then rolled over in a half-somersault position, and pushing her black gusset aside, began to dip her fingers into her sensitive nerve-endings.

  'If only your hands were free,' she taunted Steve, 'you could be giving me such pleasure. I like it when you roll my clitoris between your thumb and forefinger. I'm going to paint your nails, bad boy, while you're handcuffed, and then have you tickle me when you're released.' Lavinia continued to simulate sex positions, and then returned to assiduously combing the carpet for missing discs to her dress.

  'We'll soon be there,' she said after a time. 'And now I'm going to unzip you so I can see what you've got.' Lavinia went over and slipped her tongue into Steve's mouth like a drinking straw inserted into a cocktail. At the same time, and with exaggerated slowness, she inched the zipper down over his engorged length. It had the mauve blush of an orchid, the tip straining out of the elastic of his tight black briefs. 'One little lick, and no more,' she said, fitting an oval mouth softly over the circumcised helmet. Steve gasped, and to complete her expertise, Lavinia took his length right into her mouth, squeezed it with pressure, and left him to anticipate the rhythmic head he knew would eventually follow.

  'There's still more sequins to find, darling,' she teased. 'I can see them signalling for rescue.'

  They resumed their diligent search; it was growing to be obsessive, and Lavinia had taken to walking round the room swinging her hips like a strip artist. If Steve had been able to place his hands round her bottom at such times he would have had the impression that he was steering a car round the wide sweep of a mountain bend.

  'We're not through yet,' Lavinia warned in her playful tone. 'Focus carefully, I want the last shimmering offenders.'

  'What is my reward going to be?' Steve questioned, propelling himself across the carpet on his knees, and shaking his manacled hands.

  'It's up to you to ask,' Lavinia answered. 'Who knows how far I'll go to please you? My throat is being trained to de
liver arias and coloratura. I'm sure it needs the silent pitch that comes with fellatio.'

  'I'm not sure I'll settle for so little,' Steve replied, jabbing at a solitary pink sequin with his flickering tongue. 'I'm beginning to feel like an anteater, or a bird pecking for seeds, and my cock is boiling with hot lava.'

  Lavinia went over to the microphone stand, draped the pink-sequinned dress across her front, put on a backing tape, and delivered an emotively blue version of 'Gloomy Sunday'. She felt into the words, bringing alive the notion of death's 'black coach of sorrow' confiscating the lover. She sang it in the voice she was going to use at the Fetish Club, when draped in a black boa she would extend a gloved arm to orchestrate the song's elegiac mood. And what Steve admired was her ability to live out the song, and to empathize so deeply with the lyrics that she appeared to be the song's solitary victim. She ceased to be the Lavinia he knew, and became someone invested with an aura of invincible power. Made fragile through vulnerability, she took refuge in the strength acquired through displaying the spectrum of grief that the lyrics required. Lavinia was so concentrated on her role that it was as though the room had ceased to exit, and she was on stage under a spotlight, the boards reddened with carnation heads thrown in homage to her dramatic rendition of smouldering ballads.