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Authors: Monica Belle
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which took ages. The incident had completely spoiled the erotic high Iâd been on, and while we might eventually have got around to it, the moment was gone and it could never have been so good. He was also keen to get back and find out if his flat had been sold from under his feet. I didnât complain. I was to be his model, and there would be a next time.
4
IâD PUT MYSELF in a fine position, not for the first time. Thereâs that old joke about men being like buses, none for ages and then they all turn up at once. It certainly seems to be true for me, because there had been nobody significant in my life for months and then both Michael and Stephen had appeared on the same day.
The sensible thing to do would have been to gently but firmly dispose of Stephen and concentrate on Michael. It was the obvious choice, and what every friend, agony aunt and busybody would have told me to do. Michael was single, more or less my age, unattached and shared a great deal with me. Stephen was old enough to be my father, married and we had very little in common.
It was not that simple. Stephen and I had fucked, and it had been good. Iâd really enjoyed my feeling of power and his uncertainty as Iâd pulled him into the graveyard and mounted him on Eliza Dobsonâs grave. He licked me too, well. I had also promised to be in touch, with the implication of more sex to come, and I knew that I wanted it.
Michael and I hadnât fucked, but from what we had done he seemed less mature in his outlook, which was hardly surprising, but almost more needful of being in control, and I do like to call the shots. Bossy or not, he shared my fantasies, and it was great to imagine the sort of ritualised sex we might get into. Iâd done it withother men, fucking on tombs, in churches and once in a pentacle with black candles burning at each point, but it had always been to oblige my desires rather than to share them. It had been the same with Stephen, but with Michael it would be mutual, and so much stronger for that.
Had Michael laid any claim to me it might have been different, or not, because I hate the idea of being any manâs âgirlâ and exclusive to him. He hadnât, though, and he seemed pretty liberal, especially the way heâd jumped at my suggestion of a male virgin getting one up the bum from a priestess. Most straight men get pretty hung up about that sort of thing, getting it up the bum that is, not sex with priestesses. Then again, I wasnât sure he was one hundred per cent straight, something I also found exciting.
In the end I promised myself I wouldnât ring Stephen and that if he didnât come around that would be the end of it. It was an easy option, a bit of a cop out maybe, but the only decision I knew I could stick to. Michael was off to Brussels to see a
bandes dessinées
publisher for the rest of the week, but I was going to be modelling for him on the Sunday. Both of us knew what was likely to happen, and I also knew it might make a difference to my attitude to Stephen.
I spent most of Tuesday in the graveyard scrubbing graffiti off. Even with Lilitu around it had proved impossible to stop it all, although it was nothing to what it had been when I arrived. Most had given up, but I was sure that at least two of the local writers had decided it was a challenge. Either that or they were trying to provoke me personally. One signed himself âBiggyâ, the other âSnazâ, which might just have been female. Girls are rare in the graff scene, most of thosewho do associate sticking to hip hop and other things that donât get you arrested. Biggy went in for purples and blues with a lot of fades and a silver base. Snaz preferred clashing electric blue, vivid pinks, a particular acid green and a scarlet lip motif. Both were equally skilled and an equal nuisance. I wasnât even sure which they were, or even if there really were two rather than one, because
4
IâD PUT MYSELF in a fine position, not for the first time. Thereâs that old joke about men being like buses, none for ages and then they all turn up at once. It certainly seems to be true for me, because there had been nobody significant in my life for months and then both Michael and Stephen had appeared on the same day.
The sensible thing to do would have been to gently but firmly dispose of Stephen and concentrate on Michael. It was the obvious choice, and what every friend, agony aunt and busybody would have told me to do. Michael was single, more or less my age, unattached and shared a great deal with me. Stephen was old enough to be my father, married and we had very little in common.
It was not that simple. Stephen and I had fucked, and it had been good. Iâd really enjoyed my feeling of power and his uncertainty as Iâd pulled him into the graveyard and mounted him on Eliza Dobsonâs grave. He licked me too, well. I had also promised to be in touch, with the implication of more sex to come, and I knew that I wanted it.
Michael and I hadnât fucked, but from what we had done he seemed less mature in his outlook, which was hardly surprising, but almost more needful of being in control, and I do like to call the shots. Bossy or not, he shared my fantasies, and it was great to imagine the sort of ritualised sex we might get into. Iâd done it withother men, fucking on tombs, in churches and once in a pentacle with black candles burning at each point, but it had always been to oblige my desires rather than to share them. It had been the same with Stephen, but with Michael it would be mutual, and so much stronger for that.
Had Michael laid any claim to me it might have been different, or not, because I hate the idea of being any manâs âgirlâ and exclusive to him. He hadnât, though, and he seemed pretty liberal, especially the way heâd jumped at my suggestion of a male virgin getting one up the bum from a priestess. Most straight men get pretty hung up about that sort of thing, getting it up the bum that is, not sex with priestesses. Then again, I wasnât sure he was one hundred per cent straight, something I also found exciting.
In the end I promised myself I wouldnât ring Stephen and that if he didnât come around that would be the end of it. It was an easy option, a bit of a cop out maybe, but the only decision I knew I could stick to. Michael was off to Brussels to see a
bandes dessinées
publisher for the rest of the week, but I was going to be modelling for him on the Sunday. Both of us knew what was likely to happen, and I also knew it might make a difference to my attitude to Stephen.
I spent most of Tuesday in the graveyard scrubbing graffiti off. Even with Lilitu around it had proved impossible to stop it all, although it was nothing to what it had been when I arrived. Most had given up, but I was sure that at least two of the local writers had decided it was a challenge. Either that or they were trying to provoke me personally. One signed himself âBiggyâ, the other âSnazâ, which might just have been female. Girls are rare in the graff scene, most of thosewho do associate sticking to hip hop and other things that donât get you arrested. Biggy went in for purples and blues with a lot of fades and a silver base. Snaz preferred clashing electric blue, vivid pinks, a particular acid green and a scarlet lip motif. Both were equally skilled and an equal nuisance. I wasnât even sure which they were, or even if there really were two rather than one, because
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