Red Hot Lipstick Page 4

  Loredana ran one painted fingernail inside the band of her bikini bottom, and told Tristran to prepare for ecstasy. She took up the little saucer of black powder, spooned most of the contents into a glass of ouzo, and placed it in front of Tristran.

  'Lick my nipples,' she urged him, and his tongue snake-danced across her violet areolas. Her breath was hot on his shoulder, and her lips began picking at the tender flesh in his ear lobes. He caught fire as he felt her run a single finger along his taut cock.

  'Now watch me,' she said, and she took a little of the powder on the point of a finger and brushed it into his cock. And as she did so, it felt like she had ignited all the nerve points in his body. Sensation was so unbearably magnified that he didn't think he would withstand the intensity. 'Now brush a little on my pussy,' she whispered in a purring voice, her fingers slipping down her bikini bottom. She threw her head back against the pile of cushions and opened her legs wide with total abandonment. 'After you've powdered my lips, drink the little glass of solution I've prepared.'

  Tristran looked across at the androgyne who moaned with pleasure periodically. His cock was like a green jewel of struggling insects. He had never seen anyone so abandoned, to such perverse pleasure. The insects were choreographing a sexual dance on his penis. And the androgyne made not a movement to accelerate his pleasure. He left everything to the progress of the flies. The head of his cock was a wriggling green helmet. He was in a bitter-sweet agony of allowing his ejaculation to build so slowly that he savoured each second of increasing sensation.

  Tristran smeared a finger with black powder and brushed it on Loredana's moist clitoris. She shivered in exacting spasms. Her body was an undulating ripple of curves waiting to arch beneath his entry. He picked up the little glass and swallowed the mixture of ouzo and aphrodisiac. He felt his body respond immediately to the psychoactive compound. His mind was enflamed with erotic imaginings. He saw the sky full of girls sitting in lascivious positions with their legs wide open. He heard penises explode like volcanoes showering the landscape with molten lava. And he knew that when he came it would be eruptive and incandescent, just like an angry volcano.

  'There's all the time in the world,' he heard Loredana say as he entered her, and felt her body respond to him like a silk flower. Never before had he known such sensitivity in his genitals. Each thrust of his cock seemed to travel the length of a sinuous river. He knew he was on a journey to sensual paradise. The exchange of the powder on his cock with that at the entrance to her vagina created an impossible frisson of pleasure. Tristran could feel the orgasm mounting in him, but he knew ii would take hours to escape. And Loredana was beginning to moan with orgasmic abandon. He pushed her legs right over her shoulders and licked the soles of her feet to increase her ecstasy. She was so overtaken by pleasure that her eyes were closed in a state of semi-trance. And as his own orgasm built it felt like he had been coming since the moment he entered her swollen pussy.

  He glanced across at the androgyne whose deep breathing was an indication that his pleasure was rising. He was breathing like a man running up a steep hill. The iridescent flies were working away at the lacquer coating his cock. Loredana too opened her eyes and glanced across at her lover. He was struggling with electric expectation.

  Tristran began to thrust deeper. He felt inspired to love every centimetre of her curved body, to navigate the Mississippi inside Loredana's body. He ached with excruciating pleasure, and it was impossible to free himself from the sustained pressure. And he could sense with almost unnatural sensitivity that the degree of her build-up was equal to his own. They were caught in a flailing convoluted knot that wouldn't break.

  They heard the androgyne cry out that he was about to come, and Tristran saw the man's body convulse with sweat and ecstasy as a high stream of hot pearls erupted from his cock.

  Tristran had no idea how long he and Loredana had been making love. Her tempestuous demands seemed unending, and when he finally came it was like every sexual fantasy and longing in his body exploded at that moment. He collapsed soon afterwards into a sleep in which he imagined that he and Loredana were floating back to the mainland on a big white cloud.

  When he awoke, Loredana and the androgyne were sitting on cushions passing a hookah between them. Everything was silent except for a frisky breeze out in the trees, and the sound of waves printing white thunder across the beach.

  'No one is permitted to extend their stay at Devil's Paradise,' said the androgyne looking direct into Tristran's eyes. Now that you have tasted the aphrodisiac mushroom, you must return before you become addicted to its properties. And who knows, one day the sea may bring you here again, and you will resume a life that you will grow in time to think you imagined.'

  Loredana moved over and sat in her lover's lap. This woman looked at him now as though they had never made love. He could see that he was to be excluded from their shared life.

  'May I take a little of the powder?' he asked, but he knew he would never be allowed to return to the mainland with the aphrodisiac. He wondered about the effects it would have on his girlfriend, and then drank the glass of champagne theyoffered him before leaving.

  It was getting on towards evening. There was an orange and pink glow to the sky. A few stars could be seen sprinkled across the fluid curve of the horizon. His canoe had been placed near the edge of the water. He walked towards it. He had no Idea in which direction to row in search of the mainland.

  He dragged the canoe into the waves, and looked round a last time. He could hear the agonized screams of a woman building towards orgasm. And with a pang of jealousy as he put out into the surf, he knew the voice was Loredana's.

  A Boa Constrictor Tamed by a Flower

  There was a bridge that led directly across the ponds, and the few dinghies tied up there had begun to fill with spatulate autumn leaves. It was there that Billy used to encounter this big guy waiting for him, silent, minatory, and imposing: he just stood there evaluating the smaller boy's cock and buttocks through his skin-tight jeans. It had grown to be a ritual; the big one's musculature hulked on the bridge, his eyes scanning the lacquered shimmer of a leaf-green pond, and the little guy's crossing over to a friend's house on the other side. Billy sensed that there was a weird subtext at work in the body-builder's chemistry, and that the man was moving towards confrontation. It would happen sooner or later, and the sexual energies at work would demand weird erotic rites. Billy also had something on this man.

  It happened on a Thursday. The leaves were beginning to rain down on the bridge like shoals of tropical fish, all glossy skins and stalks for tails. Something within Billy wanted to incite provocation, and he took advantage of the mellow October day to dress in black lycra shorts, accompanied by a denim op. He brushed his eyes with dark green mascara, applied a light foundation to his face, and looked out of his bedroom window to find the big guy standing at his usual post on the bridge, one hand rubbing his cock through jeans, the other positioned loosely on a hip. Billy guessed that the man was on steroids and working out, for his voluminous muscles were unnaturally disproportionate to his frame.

  Billy started to cross the bridge, using a path rarely taken by pedestrians, and as he did so, he saw the big guy cross his arms and take up a confrontational stance at the other end. He kept on walking, determined not to be intimidated by his evident opponent. Billy felt the adrenalin shooting through his veins; he was fired up for the encounter. He got within ten yards of the man and stood his ground.

  'Hi there, cutie,' the big guy drawled. 'Where do you think you're going looking like a faggot? I want a word with you.'

  Billy stopped short. The man was wearing a white tee-shirt and blue jeans with a button-fly like a sailor's. He was all remonstrance and hard posturing. And there were two red circular blotches on his tee-shirt at the level of the nipples. Billy wondered about these coronas, and heard the man say, 'I've been watching you for a long time. We need to get to know each other. I'm the man here, and you're the woman.'
/>
  'I don't think so,' Billy replied. 'You're the woman and I'm the man, and I'll prove it.'

  The big guy smiled. He kept his hand over his genitals, but Billy couldn't make out the outline of a taut erection. It was like the man was posturing with little to offer. There was a blue gel in his short black hair, and it was clear that he devoted fastidious care to his appearance.

  'I'm in a hurry,' Billy said, 'I've got to be at a friend's house in a few minutes.' Billy knew that he said the words with little conviction, and that their meeting would naturally evolve into a sexual rite.

  'I didn't think body-builders wore lipstick,' he said to the man. 'You've got it round your nipples, haven't you!'

  The man smiled. 'Call me Rachel,' he said. His undertones were still menacing, though given a self-deprecatory edge by the marginal dissatisfaction he felt with his gender role. Billy felt that Rachel wanted to dominate him, but lacked the potency suggested by his musculature to be the active male. There was something depotentized about Rachel, and Billy with his heightened sensitivity guessed it would be steroids, and that the latter would result in his having a limp dick. All that expansively developed frame would terminate in a defused potential.

  'Haven't we met before?' Billy said, feeling his cock trigger. 'You must remember that hotel room in Tangier. You were tied up in chains on the bed, while two or three youths had their way with you. I was the guy with the camera.'

  Billy watched the consternation spread across Rachel's face and knew that he had gone far enough. He had the man alerted to a web of complicitous guilt, and all the more powerful in that his only release would be through the violence he wouldn't dare project.

  'You've got the wrong guy,' Rachel said. 'But I'll show you a thing or two in that boating-shed over there. I can lift you on my cock all day.'

  Billy felt the pulse drumming in his abdomen, a sort of manic sun shooting impulses through his veins. He was correspondingly compelled and repelled by the man's perfectly developed torso. The man had the sinuousness of a big cat, a panther or jaguar. There were jungle storms and lightnings concealed in his chest, stampeding beasts lived in his pectorals. Billy found himself following the man, and walking in a state of sexual trance towards the open boating-shed, its wooden doors peeling, and red and yellow leaves splashing the entrance. The whole path by the pond looked like a membrane of stained glass.

  It was dark inside the shed, and Rachel closed the door behind them. Light leaked in through a window in the roof, but Rachel knew the place and switched on a lamp that stood on it wooden bench. The air smelled of petrol, tar, boating things, and musty decaying scents. Billy warmed to the dark, oily intimacy that the place afforded. The size of his own cock was legendary, and for someone of such slight stature, it grew from him like a proboscis. He felt it hammering against the black lycra skin which contained it.

  'Want to wrestle?' Rachel drawled, shaping up a muscle in his right arm to a convex globe.

  Billy lightly dabbed at the bigger man's torso; he felt like a midget in the presence of some mythic giant's undulating bulk. 'Don't forget I've got the photos,' he admonished. 'You're caught in some compromising scenes, Rachel. Do you remember those street boys? Three of them fucked you, and you wore a leather face-mask so you wouldn't be recognized. But I recognize you, Stephen. It's Stephen, isn't it, when you're not Rachel?'

  The big guy's defences were coming down. Billy could see that the man was a passive slave waiting to be broken into by his cock. He would have him crawl naked on all fours across the bench, simulating an odalisque, her bottom polished with oil, and a tantalizing ruby on a chain suspended at her waist.

  Rachel lifted up his white tee-shirt to reveal two erect nipples polished by scarlet lipstick. Billy could see that the guy was really excited by the idea of being seen like this, and that his kicks came from empathizing with his partner's excitement. And Billy guessed that there was lipstick highlighting other parts of Rachel's body, and button by button he began undoing Rachel's denim fly, poking a finger periodically and coaxingly through the interstices, and still discovering no erection, no well-hung baton pumping to an engorged girth. What he had in his hands was someone submissive as a houri, a steroid artefact waiting to be fucked.

  Billy got Rachel's jeans down to his ankles, and he stepped out of them. His own cock was beating a percussive rhythm at his waist. Rachel was in the tiniest black briefs, and his voluminous genitals hung pendant in that pouch.

  Rachel went down on Billy's erection, wrapping his tongue round the head, and playing its fingerstops like an oboe. Billy worked his hands into Rachel's wall of shoulder muscles, and knew that he could humiliate the man as a slave. He would answer every peremptory dictate, no matter how avengingly bizarre.

  'Get down on all fours,' Billy commanded, and he slid Rachel's black briefs down to discover a lipstick circle drawn around and across the crack of his buttocks. The line was in the same poppy-red colour as that drawn to accentuate his nipples.

  'I'll fuck you so hard it will be like a stampede of elephants,' Rachel disclosed, attempting to apologize for his vulnerable passivity.

  'You're on so many steroids, you couldn't get it up an inch,' Billy let out, as he manoeuvred his penis into the lipstick circle, taunting Rachel with his slow exploratory expertise, working it on the bud and then backing off, and then repeating his provocative enquiry.

  Rachel was beginning to plead for penetration, a boa constrictor tamed by a flower. 'Before you get this,' Billy said, 'you're going to swear to me you'll act honest, and stop intimidating people like me. I know you, Stephen. I keep tracks on guys like you,' and simultaneously thrusting deep into Rachel's anus and impaling him with his cock, Billy reached for the shoulder bag he had kept within arm's reach, and grabbed at his camera.

  Now he had him. Balancing on Rachel, he began snapping pictures of their union, and of the man's feminized bottom, riding him like a bronco-buster standing up in the saddle. He'd take the risk of fighting for his camera afterwards, but for the moment submitted to the sexual combat. The rapacious snake and undulating flower ran through his head as a recurring image. It was just that, and all he could hear was Rachel instructing him, 'Deeper, go deeper,' and a wind kicking up the leaves outside.

  Alice through the Looking Glass

  Alice lived in the restored wing of an otherwise vacated gothic mansion on the edge of the city.

  She arched her legs in the voluminous marble bath, pushed them up vertical, as though they were being appraised by the posters of Elvis Presley and the Marquis de Sade on the opposite wall, and then with her head supported on the rim, kicked them back over her shoulders. She liked to tickle herself in this posture, her pussy dripping with scented foam, and to imagine a spectator observing her through the two-way mirror her uncle had ingeniously incorporated into the bathroom restoration. Alice fantasized that she was being watched. The spectator would be cupping his balls with his left hand, and working on his cock with the right. l le would modulate his virtuoso rhythm, anxious to restrain his crisis until the exact moment when Alice cried out from her solitary pleasure. And her red fingernails worked slowly, expertly over her shaved pussy, the little jewel that she depilated with such extreme attention to detail. She dipped her forefinger in and wriggled. If only Presley, in his skintight hipsters, would step down off the wall, unzip and mount her without a word of introduction, or Sade come out of his formal eighteenth-century pose, and brandish a cane across her soft, nubile buttocks.

  Alice had just turned eighteen but she looked considerably younger, and liked to put her hair in ribboned plaits, and to wear a pleated micro-skirt which emphasized her long, curvy legs. Her uncle called her his divine cock-teaser, and Alice never objected to his following her up the tall staircase, staying back a number of stairs the better to see all the way up her disarmingly short skirt. She got moist from that little game; and several times on his return from lengthy stays abroad, she had opportunely walked out of the bedroom in her black bra and panties t
o find him stationed in the corridor, as though already anticipating her flouncily provocative streak to the bathroom.

  Was someone outside now, she asked herself, as she began to quicken the rhythm of her fingers, her voice starting to rise as she felt her pleasure increasing. It was excruciating. She ached with the fantasy of haying a thick cock pushed into her now, right on the edge of orgasm. Or better, two. She would gag on the smooth columnar one, while a knottier heavy weapon pinned her with its remorselessly vigorous thrusts.

  Alice heard her throaty scream of pleasure. She had forgotten, or half forgotten, that her uncle's parasitical valet, Frank, was still in, and probably lying on his bed flicking through the girlie magazines he collected from the fifties and sixties. She had discovered boxes of vintage Playboy and pin-up magazines in Frank's wardrobe. The shots were more discreetly posed than today's nudes, and Frank was clearly obsessed by the variety of stocking shots available to the reader, most of the models emphasizing the seductive appeal of seamed stockings and suspenders.

  Alice wondered about Frank. She knew of his preference for wearing false eyelashes, and she had been tempted to leave a pair of her used black knickers on his pillow to see what response this action would provoke. Frank must have been a youthful forty, and it had been his job to drive her to and from school in her uncle's Bentley. It was then she had acquired the provocative backseat poses of a teenage tart. Defying school regulations by wearing white see-through panties under her gymslip, Alice had sat reading in the rear of the car, her legs arched in a way that allowed Frank to see everything in the driving mirror. On the road home she would apply eye make-up, and with her legs angled over the empty front passenger seat, and her hem retreating to the area of her hips, she would read Sade's Justine as the car hummed through the lanes leading to their gothic retreat.