Red Hot Lipstick Read online

  'We seem to have retrieved all of the missing sequins,' Lavinia commented, resuming her everyday expression, and divesting herself of the role she had carried to perfection.

  ‘Now, shall I make you wait until I've sewn them all back on the dress? You can watch me while I sew, and think of your reward to come, when the dress is complete. How about that?'

  Steve remonstrated that he couldn't hold out that long. He was uncomfortably large, and nerves were tingling at the base of his cock with the irritant persistence of columns of ants streaming after sugar grains. He knew that if she went down on him he would explode in the silk constriction of her mouth.

  'I'll shoot a column to the ceiling five times, if I have to wait until you've sewn all those little sequins on the fabric,' he said, imploring her to grant him his reward. 'I want to keep the handcuffs on,' he urged, 'I'll be your captive. Let's do the 69 to start.'

  He lay down flat, back to the carpet, while she, facing in the opposite direction, positioned her pussy above his mouth, arched her back, and brought her lips to the level of his cock.

  'I can't take your panties down,' he said, 'I'm handcuffed.' They were both too urgent to debate the issue, and within seconds Steve was tonguing her slippery gusset, while she, sensing his climactic urgency, began by simply breathing on his cock, and then extending the exercise to prodding him intermittently with the tip of her tongue, a movement so slight that it carried the gentleness of a grass blade brushing the eyelid of someone asleep in the sunlight. It established an excruciating tickle in his cock. He could feel the insurgence of his orgasm building for detonative release. But Lavinia lingered as though she was blowing on hot food, and hadn't yet found the right temperature on which to bite.

  He could feel her body arch and contract under his tongue, the successive orgasms rippling up and down the length of her spine. And being handcuffed excited him. He told her that there was a pink sequin got up her crack, and inserted his tongue into her vulva. She let out a sustained moan as he found the roots of her pleasure. She convulsed at his enquiring tongue, and without warning, swallowed his penis whole, taking it right to the back of her throat, and running her tongue along its underside. Steve relaxed and let go. The orgasm built like surf unfolding on a Pacific beach. It hung back in a white arc, crested, and then rushed forward with all the inexorable delivery of a wave.

  They lay and rested for a while, before Lavinia sucked Steve alive again. 'You can have a second request,' she said, 'only my command is that you enter me.'

  Her chameleonic adoption of moods had now afforded her the tone of a dominatrix. He waited like a slave over her body, while deliberating on what to ask.

  'I want to make love to you while you're wearing your sequinned dress,' he said. 'And I'll help you resew all the sequins that get dislodged. If we go into the bed they can't escape the sheets.'

  'But I've got to wear this dress next week at the Fetish Club,' Lavinia stressed. 'And I've told you that I can't sing without it. It's my private fetish.'

  She deliberated for a while, and was clearly still sexually excited. 'All right,' she said. 'As a special favour, you can have me in the dress, but you really will have to pay the price of helping me sew the sequins back on. The trouble with the dress is it's old, and the stitching easily comes apart.'

  Steve felt a glow of pleasurable apprehension as Lavinia wiggled across the room in her wet panties, and struggled into the dress. She put it on over her head, and for a moment, her hands up, and her prominent breasts showing, she looked like a pink flower, a scintillating tulip growing on the curved stem of a woman's body.

  She came back to the bed, the hem rucked up around her waist, and Steve was urgent. He insisted that she release him from the handcuffs, as he wanted to feel her bottom full in his hands. He entered her with the authority of a master newly released from bonds. He went into her deep and had her cry out with pleasure. He impaled her with his expansive lust. She sobbed on the urgency of his feral rhythm. In his hands he felt the clusters of sequins, they were like a glitter-storm accompanying his lovemaking. He imagined how men viewing her on stage would desire her. They would imagine her naked, her pointed breasts blotched with crimson areolas, her bottom divided by a satin g-string. She would represent sultry mystique, a form of eroticism that was the more tempting for its inaccessibility.

  As his excitement increased, so he had the desire to tear the sequins that clustered above her bottom. He felt like a mad grape-picker suddenly possessed by the desire to savagely rip black fruit off the vine. As they both neared simultaneous orgasm, so his nails scratched at the sequins like a cat. He could feel them being torn off and covering the bed. He lifted her bottom and brought it down on the sequins so they stuck to her buttocks. He fingered them into her anal crack, knowing he would have the task ahead of retrieving them. They exploded together like a summer storm, and lay collapsed in each other's arms, bodies crumpled into submission.

  Steve knew the exhaustive task would begin all over again, but he was happy. He had joined himself to Lavinia as well as possessed the stage fetish which he knew would magnetize the audience on Wednesday night at the Fetish Club: Lavinia pooled under a single blue spotlight, singing 'Gloomy Sunday' in the bluest, heartbreaking tones.

  Blues to Eat Your Heart Out

  Jim felt no sense of psychological distress at his particular fetish, but he was anxious at times that it might interfere with his work as an assistant in an alternative record shop. Girls all the time were coming in dressed in the black PVC minis and leggings which fired his sexual mechanism. And particularly the goths with their post-punk accoutrements, girls in pink or red fun wigs or with spiky implants worked into their hair. Jim got turned on looking at their fishnet legs, their shiny black ankle-boots, and more often than not their PVC or leather minis. He spent a lot of time fantasizing about his fetishes, and was concerned to find a girlfriend who would dress according to his dictates.

  In anticipation of this, Jim had taken to visiting Hyper Hyper and the Electric Ballroom, and had begun to acquire a personal collection of fetish garments. He devoted a wardrobe in his room to his private archive and painted it black outside and in, with silver stars liberally sprinkled across the paintwork. He bought metres of black PVC in Soho and lined the wardrobe shelves with this fabric. Part of his collection comprised catalogues of girls modelling PVC and leather, and the rest was garments. He liked skirts decorated with pronounced zips, particularly tight ones with the zip opening all the way down the front and back. And without a girlfriend to wear his personalized artefacts, he took to trying on the clothes himself, and the excitement this generated urged him into a nightly ritual of orgiastic self-gratification. He felt unsatisfied ii he couldn't be alone with his fantasies for an hour each night, and this need became devotional; in time he found himself kneeling to an improvised altar of PVC boots, his lips tracing the outline of the toe and heel. He knew people who got off just by listening to Lou Reed's S&M narrative 'Venus in Furs', an old Velvet Underground track which had lost none of its sinister whiplash connotations. The reference to 'Shiny boots of leather' made a friend of his grow instantly hard, and this friend would make love to his girlfriend to the accompaniment of this song placed on endless repeat. It would trance them both out and heighten their orgasmic pitch.

  Jim also liked the Velvet Underground and never tired of listening to their perverse drug and sado-sexual narratives, Lou Reed's cold unemotive expression serving to enhance the threat implied by the lyrics. So many Lou Reed enthusiasts came into the shop, as well as people into indie and techno-ambient music. Everyone had their own little cultic heroes, and defined their lifestyles through the music with which they associated. A lot of the PVC girls went for the last survivors of gothic like Siouxsie and the Banshees and Jesus and Mary Chain, and Jim liked to look at their make-up and see how they delineated their lips with a black pencil. He thought of them as a separate species, buttocks pronounced by black PVC hotpants, their concern with fetishistic de
tail causing excitement to travel all along his nerves.

  Sometimes Jim would visit call girls and have them dress up in the PVC garments he owned, and cock firmly in his hand he would work himself off to the accommodating fantasy. He would have them teasingly unzip a shiny skirt before sitting on the bed, legs open, wearing nothing but PVC panties. He liked to savour the possibilities inherent in sex, rather than act them out, and he was anyhow in his own way waiting for the right girl. His mental perception of this girl was so intense that he was disappointed by almost everyone he met, for no one even approximated to his ideal. There were girls who had the right eyes, the right mouth, the right legs, the right bottom, and sometimes the right voice, but these were isolated characteristics, and nobody seemed to embody the perfect synthesis of all the qualities he required.

  But at night he would return to his ritual. He placed a vase of red carnations above his altar of PVC boots, lit a subtle Japanese incense, put on music which heightened his erotic reveries, and then with shaking hands took out skirts and hotpants from his black wardrobe. He would then conjure to his mind the fetishistic image of the girl he wanted, and feel his cock expand to a hard resonant tissue. The act was becoming almost liturgical as the chords of 'Venus in Furs' reverberated through the room. Jim would jerk himself off in PVC gloves, the contact of the fabric in his penis, and the rhythm of shiny black fingers working up and down on his shaft bringing him to a devastating climax.

  His work at the shop continued. Imports, remixes, picture sleeves, every sort of rarity passed through his hands, and he was responsible for pricing the stock. Aficionados of certain bands wanted everything. They combed through the latest additions three or four times a week, hungry to add to their collections and to have the latest news on new releases, fanzines, bootlegs, tours. Jim had a genuine interest in the whole infra-structure of collecting. He too hoarded his own scoop of Marc Almond and Scott Walker records, and would slip into a PVC jumpsuit to listen to the two great exponents of torch music.

  It was a Saturday in autumn. London was turning Octoberish, and big yellow and orange leaves splashed the pavements and parks. Rain dazzled in intermittent showers. There was a feeling of the season exiting in a red ballroom gown. Jim took his lunch-hour break in Regent's Park and watched a variety of ducks punt their way across the lacquered ponds. He liked the Carolina species, with their exotic plumes. There was a solitary black swan dipping into the mirror surface.

  Everything hung in stilled reflection. He liked to bring his melancholy to this place and drink in the scent of rotting leaves. He walked through an avenue of chestnut trees, his mind distracted by his sense of inner reflection. He didn't really know where he was headed, only that he was compelled to keep walking. Life was like that. You got into places and caught up with them later. Jim was deep in thought, and when he looked up he thought he was hallucinating.

  There was a small shelter in front of him and in it sat a girl whose purple hair and PVC clothes immediately attracted him. It was like breaking direct into a dream. He could see her tiny PVC skirt and long fishnet legs; her eyes were green and her lips shocking scarlet. She had the ultra-feminine, locket-shaped face of which he had dreamt, and she was just staring at him as though he was late and she had been waiting her whole life for this fortuitous union.

  'I've seen you in the shop,' she said quietly, and without reference to the fact they had never spoken before. 'I've been in a couple of times, although you've never served me.'

  Jim couldn't believe this was really taking place. There was a sudden sparkle of rain as he stood in the entrance to the shelter, and to avoid getting wet he sat down on the bench beside her.

  'I'm Melissa,' the girl said, recrossing her legs, and Jim watched the little strip of black plastic ride up her thighs. Melissa was a PVC fetishist's dream: her boots were made of the same fabric, and she wore a skimpy violet jumper under a black glossy top. Jim could see that she had pronounced breasts, and she spoke to him in the familiar confiding tones of someone he had known for a long time. The flurried rain sounded like it was shelling peas on the roof, and Jim was frightened he would blow his chances by failing to express the interest in her that his nerves registered.

  'I'm sure working in that shop is only half of you,' Melissa said, and Jim felt like she had got into his head and was seeing him from the inside. 'You've probably got quite extreme tastes,' she continued. 'I once knew a boy like you, and he collected dolls, and he used to make them panties with his sewing-machine. When his parents left him money he bought a house and converted it into a doll's house, and he lived there with mannequins.'

  'I'm not that bad,' Jim laughed, easing himself into possessing a voice, and with growing confidence he began to tell her a little about himself, and how for much of the time he felt himself in search of a purpose and somebody with whom to share his life. He lost consciousness of time and his job, and all the while he couldn't believe this meeting was taking place.

  'I'm going to have to get back,' he told her, and then with impulsive passion he risked, 'Come to my place tonight at about eight. I'll get some wine, and I'll be expecting you.' He quickly wrote out his address on a scrap of paper, and without waiting for her response ran off into the autumn rain, crossing the orange park at a run, and out into the wet streets.

  Jim felt agitated all afternoon. His mind was racing with the impossible realization that he had met the girl who conformed to his fetishistic ideals. He served customers in a trance. Someone wanted a Marc Almond Ectoplasmic Mix of 'The House Is Haunted', someone else a rare Tori Amos Japanese import, and there were requests for items by Syd Barrett, Julian Cope and The Grid. Jim mismanaged requests, and felt only the need to be alone, preoccupied with his thoughts of Melissa. Excitement was coursing through his veins and he had to restrain himself from outwardly showing his jubilance. In his mind he was imagining the elastic positions that Melissa would adopt under his guidance. He knew she would be wearing black PVC panties and that she would keep them on while he fucked her, and in the process heighten their mutual pleasure. He didn't know how he got through the afternoon, and it was still raining outside, for people came into the shop dripping with liquid diamonds.

  He got away early, and picked up a couple of bottles of Macon Rouge at the Soho Wine Stores. The rain had eased off and he walked home at a sharp pace through the Soho streets.

  Once indoors he proceeded to make himself up, applying black mascara and eyeliner. He slipped into a pair of PVC leggings, pulled on shiny knee-boots and awaited his visitor. He had lit candles above his altar of boots, and the room presented a gothic aura perfectly in keeping with its occupant. Jim liked headily resonant scents and sprayed a little Obsession into the air.

  Melissa was prompt in her arrival, and Jim followed her up the stairs to his first-floor flat. His eye went directly up her seamed fishnet legs to the dangerously short hem of her PVC mini. The tautness in his groin was unbearable. He longed for her black-painted fingernails to tickle his cock out and for her dark red lips to swallow on his erection. He imagined he would shoot black pearls into her throat.

  Melissa warmed to the tenebrous sexual atmosphere of Jim's flat. She sat back in an armchair, arranging her legs and attempting to retrieve her skirt from her hips. Jim felt it was like they had always known each other. Her lips came naturally to a heart-shaped pout, and her laugh vibrated with the promise of sensual pleasure.

  'I can't believe we've just met,' Jim found himself saying. 'And if you'd come into the shop I would have fallen for you at once. It's more like you've stepped out of my head and into my life. I can't believe you're here.'

  ‘Come and explore me then,' Melissa replied, and Jim was instantly fastening to her hot kiss, his hands working across her nipples, then down to make contact with the PVC skirt and boots. He thrilled on contact with the fabric. He knelt down and ran his tongue along her boots, up her fishnet thighs, and across her skirt. He savoured the taste of PVC, his fingers working at the fabric like a kitten's paws.
When his fingers found her crotch he could feel it was outlined with silk. The contrast between the two fabrics excited him further. He extended the motion of his tongue to her pussy and drew from her sharp ecstatic moans. She was wet and in rhythm with his adventurous caresses. He folded her legs right over her shoulders in order to gain deeper access to her hot jewel. And when she twisted back up it was to bury her tongue in his throat and to tease his cock out with her black-painted fingernails.

  It all happened just as he had imagined it, as though he was reliving a dream. Her lips closed over his penis at the base, and she began by running her tongue up and down his frenulum. It was an exquisitely teasing motion, and then she popped the cherry and swallowed all of him, positioning him for deep throat and running her tongue all over his alerted nerves. They built to a rhythm, but he wanted more. As he disengaged, so she slipped out of her fishnet tights and black silk panties, but sensing their mutual fetish, she kept on her PVC skirt, replaced her boots, and put on the PVC gloves which he offered her. Jim also responded to the ritual by dressing in a pair of PVC gloves and a top of the same fabric calculated to excite Melissa by its contact with her skin.

  He heaped a great cache of shiny boots, skirts, and leggings on to the black counterpane, so that their lovemaking would involve all the symbols of their fetish. The adrenalin in his body was explosive. All of his fantasy objects were in evidence, and without any prompting on his part Melissa put on the crotchless PVC panties he had bought in anticipation of the right girl. He could see that she had streaked her pubic hair with dyes that were mauve, blue and green. She had a chain around her waist from which a miniature PVC boot was suspended. Jim kept on thinking that she couldn't be real, and that he was about to embrace his supreme sexual fantasy, rather than a woman. He delayed for fear of meeting with an illusion, but then she was drawing him down with a darting exploratory tongue, and fitting herself to the contours of his body. And without any effort he was swimming inside her, her gloved fingers hooking at his undulating flesh as their two bodies locked in a sensual geometry. They were both urgent, but restrained. Melissa moaned each time her body was covered by PVC garments, and Jim worked her back and bottom into the cool fabric. She arched her legs wider, and his black-gloved hands ran all over her body. Her glossy boots trailed up and down the backs of Jim's thighs, and then locked together round his waist. They were like a PVC python, and Jim built to a furious rhythm, his intensity increasing each time Melissa ran her gloved fingers over his bottom and balls. When they came together, her fierce cries reverberating through the flat, it was in a paroxysm of mutual fantasies.