Black Lace Quickies 9 Page 9

  I only wrote the piece in the hope he would respond. ‘Perhaps someday,’ I declared, ‘Michael Angelo will show us all another side to himself.’ It was a weak bit of rhetoric and I wasn’t happy with the sentence flow either. But I let it pass. The point of it was to try to prove my hunch that the letters and graffiti were connected.

  Several days after the article appeared (I guess he’s not a regular reader), I received his email: ‘I’ll find you in the darkest place.’

  I’d trembled at the sight of his name in my inbox.

  Michael Angelo.

  The man. The mystery. Artist, vandal and demon lover.

  I’d brought him closer. He’d come to me. He who did things to women, changing them utterly. The two men were one and the same, I was sure.

  Despite my journalistic impulse to try to tempt him into disclosure, I didn’t reply.

  A couple of weeks later, he got in touch again: ‘Won’t you come out to play tonight?’

  By then, the rumours were really starting to spread. Michael Angelo was no ordinary street artist. His pictures were alive; they breathed; they touched people in unspoken ways. He sprayed his walls in about five minutes flat; his tiny stencils sprayed themselves; those paintings of shadows might not even be his. He was a ghost, an angel, a con artist. He didn’t even exist. It was a stunt dreamt up by a record company.

  Then there were the rumours about him and women. He preyed on them. They preyed on him. You could feel the pull. Women loved him. Women hated him. He stole their shadows. Six were having his baby. He was actually Jesus Christ come to save us from ourselves.

  And he’d asked me to come out to play.

  I’d been feeling kind of spacey ever since I’d first seen that wall. It was as if there was a newness in the world, a place of sensual tranquillity waiting to be explored. Desire and hunger spun me around, and I swirled in the midst of it, losing myself in daydreams where I floated among fingers or drowned in a sea of kisses.

  Why, of course I’ll come out to play.

  I started off at Jubilee Gate but there was nothing to see now except the hoardings of the NCP car park, drab and ugly in the feeble street-light. I visited other sites, looking out for broad canvases and small botanical stencils. I love his stencils. He sprays pictures of weeds, replacing the real groundsel, ragwort and valerian, removed by the council using deadly colourless sprays, with his own unnatural depictions. His counterfeit weeds grow from cracks in the pavement, and why not? Weeds have as much right to be in cities as they do in the countryside where they’re known more prettily as wild flowers.

  Michael’s bigger pictures, the weird gaudy landscapes, usually vanish within days but the weeds last longer. There are hundreds of them, vibrant splashes of fake flora springing up across the city, ignored by passing feet. I’m not even sure if they’re all his any more. It’s as if the images are self-seeding.

  I’d become something of a Michael Angelo fan, hurrying across town when I heard a new one had been spotted. Though I’d marvelled at the artistry, even getting down on my knees to sniff some weeds, none had affected me as much as the first one. That was the real start of my journey.

  I’d been walking for about an hour, eyeing all men suspiciously, when the rain came on. At first, I considered quitting but, after lurking in the bus station, I decided to keep going. My guess was, if he was going to reveal himself, I’d need to be in a place considerably darker than those I’d checked out so far.

  Fortified by that glass of red, I walked away from the centre, brain trying to convince gut I should head for the city’s edge. It was desolate and lawless on the outskirts, an urban wasteland of burnt-out cars, 60s tower blocks and cold grey concrete, all newly animated by layers of graffiti, a palimpsest of rage and disaffection. The thought of going there scared me, especially since I’d written an article slating Michael Angelo. Perhaps he, or his fans, would want to take revenge.

  Thankfully, as I was passing Upper Marlow Street, an area famed for its international cuisine, I had a sudden change of heart. It might have been the sight of people dawdling in front of menus and cosy windows, the smell of garlic or coloured lights on wet pavements. Either way, a buzz of excitement made me linger and, before long, I found myself gazing down Lower Marlow Street, a dark narrow road running behind the restaurants.

  It felt like a place he might lurk. It felt right. The back ends of kitchens cluttered one side, a jumble of sloping roofs, bricks, stucco, extractor fans, thick silver pipes and stern, blank fire doors. Wheelie bins and crates lined the wonky pavement and, seeing no one else around, I walked forwards, nervous and alert. A few feet in, the solid hum of ventilation enveloped me, muffling the world. Small windows obscured by grids, grilles or frosted glass glowed softly, and I caught only snatches of kitchen life: a UV fly-zapper, shelves of packaged noodles, a corner of stainless steel; small, still images at odds with the feverish industry of scouring, clanging and sudden sizzles of fat.

  It was like being in the cab of a steam train, seeing the furnace that fuels the city. Upper Marlow Street was civilisation; a place where appetites were whetted and quenched amidst tasselled menus, chopsticks, peppermills and candlelight. Here, behind the scenes, was the dark grubby truth of it.

  The road was little more than a gap between old rickety buildings, street lamps along its length offering a faint white haze, as muzzy as gas lanterns in Sherlock Holmes’ day.

  ‘I’ll find you in the darkest place.’

  It was here. I could feel it in my bones. And yet, having arrived, I wasn’t sure I could go on. What did he mean by finding me? And did I even want to be found? My heart was hammering and I almost turned back. Not so tough, after all. I could go home, put the telly on, rustle up an Ovaltine. But I was always doing that, wasn’t I?

  So I continued, walking along the pavement opposite the kitchens and bins, glints of mica on the ground sparkling in the half-light. The steady tap-tap of my footsteps reassured, a noise to pierce the dead murmur of ventilation. I passed walled backyards, doors, gates and alleys, the former tradesmen’s entrances to once elegant town-houses. There wasn’t a soul around, and I wondered if I’d been mistaken. Maybe this wasn’t the place after all.

  And then I saw him. Or I saw a man, menacingly still. Several yards ahead, he stood within a doorway, a slim youthful figure, a pale hoodie concealing his face like the cowl of a ghostly monk.

  My heart skipped a beat. He didn’t move a muscle though he must have heard me. I kept walking, anxiety tightening my throat. Head bowed, hands in his pockets, he stood beyond a pool of lamplight, faceless, hunched and furtive.

  Afraid of him, I considered crossing the road but didn’t, my main reason being a ridiculously British one: it might appear rude. I wondered how many die from politeness. I wondered too, what his pockets contained. Blood roared in my ears, matching the roar of ventilation as I dared myself to continue. Was I brave enough to walk past him? Stupid enough? And what if he wouldn’t let me pass?

  He was wearing trainers. His feet were quite large. The laces were tatty. His jeans were frayed. And then the feet moved, off the step, and he was out of the doorway, swaggering ahead, his stride quick and shifty.

  I followed without a thought. His footsteps barely sounded while, behind him, mine clipped to keep pace. My mood soared, pulse drumming as I watched him walk, a touch of arrogance in his stride, droopy jeans and a neat little arse. Oh, he could lead me a merry dance around the city and I’d happily focus on that.

  Seconds later, he threw a glance over his shoulder then darted into a narrow opening. Gone. In a heartbeat, I was with him, my breath coming in quick shallow gulps. He was there waiting for me. We stood in a shadowed entrance leading to a courtyard cluttered with fire escapes, stucco crumbling from its walls. He kept his head dipped, face concealed by his hooded top, and I simply stared, breathing hard.

  Neither of us moved.

  Then, ‘Michael Angelo,’ I pronounced.

  Without raising his head, he sway
ed a fraction before taking a step towards me, shy and gauche. Instinctively, I backed away though something swelled in my heart and cunt. He stepped forwards again to stand perhaps a foot or more in front of me, that gentle pitch and roll in his stance reminding me of a landlubber on deck. I saw hints of a face, pale and angular. His manner was unthreatening, and there was a humbleness in the way he stood, as if he were presenting himself for my approval.

  ‘Who are you?’ I whispered.

  He wavered a couple of inches closer, and I read it as an offering. Nervously, I reached out, slipped my hands under his top and edged him nearer, my tentative caress sliding over smooth taut skin. Oh, did he feel good beneath my fingers. He didn’t respond. He simply stood there, taking it. My hands moved faster, firmer, my confidence rising with his apparent acquiescence. His body felt so healthy and alive, warm resilient skin skimming beneath my touch, muscles shifting as he swayed. His low-slung jeans rested on slender hips and I nudged his loosely belted waistband, palms pressing on the sweet jut of hip bone as my fingers kneaded his flesh.

  ‘You’re lovely,’ said a soft, stunned voice, and I realised it was me.

  I wanted to kiss him. My lips felt lost. But how could I kiss a man who wouldn’t show his face? I could have peered into his hood but I resisted, not wanting to scare him. I settled, instead, for letting my hands explore.

  It appeared to suit him. He seemed a passive, pleasured creature, allowing me to do what I wished. When I pushed his top high, he didn’t object, and I gazed at the beautiful exposure of his body, at his flat honey-tanned stomach, athletic chest and the hair rising from his crotch like a thin line of smoke. His top slid up and down as my hands roamed, my lust snagged between the urge to touch and the hunger to see.

  He didn’t even squeak, not a grunt, groan or a hint of a gasp. How far might I go before he offered a response, some hint of sentience hidden within the hood? Where was this leading? I was open to all eventualities: he could leave, become aggressive, reveal a face I disliked or even one I knew. For him to be familiar was the most dreaded option. With this strangely docile, rag doll of a man, I felt far and away from anyone I’d ever known.

  ‘Is this OK?’ I breathed and, when he didn’t reply, I let a cautious hand drift to the great lump of his groin. Still no complaint, especially not from me. Lightly, I stroked the shape of him, so turned on to feel the angle of his cock, its stiff urgency nosing at his jeans. I grew bolder, moulding the soft denim to his shaft, feeling how thick and hard he was. Yes, this was definitely OK. He didn’t need words to tell me.

  When I delved into his jeans, I discovered he’d gone commando, and the thick meat of his cock jerked to my touch. I curled my fingers around him and, at last, a tiny groan escaped his lips. I melted, bones dissolving in a sudden flood of lust. Within my fist he was vibrant and strong, and I reached deeper for his balls, straining for more sounds as I cupped his sac, toying with his shifting weights. Soon, I heard another faint murmur.

  Just that noise, that hint of arousal and vulnerability, had me melting in another surge of wanting.

  ‘Ah, fuck,’ I gasped, feeling weak in the knees.

  He edged closer, head rocking like someone half in a trance until, when I raked greedy fingernails down his back, his head lolled on a softly hissed breath. His hood slipped a little and, for the first time, I saw his face. Oh, and what a face it was. He had the most beautiful features, the flawless skin and sculpted clarity of someone noble or angelic. Light and shadow shifted within his hood, the gleam of the street casting a sheen on his narrow nose and the upsweep of his cheek. Stubble glittered darkly on his jaw and his eyes were deep set, a small ring glinting in one eyebrow.

  Quickly, he looked away, shuffling closer, pushing his body against mine and making me stagger. I freed my hand, needing to balance.

  ‘Careful! Stop it!’ I said, but he kept going until I was pinned to the wall, his body pressing into mine, face averted. He clasped my wrists in each hand, then raised them high against the wall. Fear chased my lust, making my heart gallop, my breath quicken, but I didn’t struggle, though I was braced in case I needed to.

  I couldn’t imagine needing to. We seemed to be fading into a world that was weirdly distant and yet somehow the same. While I was lucid enough to understand I ought to be on my guard, I was content to let it all happen. It was as if our here and now existed just centimetres to the left of ordinary. If anyone passed our courtyard alleyway, I imagined they wouldn’t even see us. Here, it was all OK. I would wake up before anything bad happened, no problem.

  Then, without turning to me, he spoke. His voice was a soft seductive breath. ‘Is this what you want?’

  I didn’t reply. I could barely speak. The question hung in the air and I stood, chest rising and falling, sandwiched between him and the wall, my arms splayed high in his grasp. Oh yes, I wanted this. I wanted whatever he had to give. I was wide open and reckless, liquefying in his presence. I wanted this, I wanted him, I wanted everything in the world. And soon, very soon, I’d find the words to say that.

  ‘Ah,’ I managed.

  Still holding me, he leant towards my left hand and, with slow precision, he licked along the inside of my wrist. His tongue moved over delicate veined skin, flat and wet, and a shock of lust darted from my wrist to my groin where it flared to a wild eager pulse. I gazed into the courtyard, scanning small quiet windows. Hints of street-light shone on black fire escapes and a chainedup bike, and from a washing line dangled an empty bird feeder. I couldn’t see anyone peeping but I hardly cared. Michael Angelo had me pinned to the wall and he was licking my other wrist, slow and wet, the wedge of his cock shoving above my hip.

  ‘Yes, I want this,’ I whispered, his saliva cooling on my wrists.

  ‘Then turn around,’ he replied, releasing his grip.

  He stayed close and I had to squirm to face the wall. Immediately he grabbed my hands and held them high again as if he were about to frisk me. I stood with my cheek to the stucco, his body a light pressure behind mine. The wall was rough to touch, the scars of old ivy draped there like giant grey lace.

  In my ear, he murmured, ‘I paint pictures.’ His breath warmed me, then he tongued behind my ear and nibbled my lobe. I could hear the click and snuffle of his closeness, feel fabric brush my neck, and he pressed harder, his cock digging into my buttocks, forcing my pubic bone against the wall.

  After a while, I said, ‘Yes. I like them.’

  He released my hands but I kept them there. ‘I know you do,’ he whispered, and he scrunched my skirt, bunching it higher until I felt the night air on the back of my bared thighs. He slipped a hand between my legs and rubbed the flesh there. I groaned, a noise like pain, as wetness sluiced through me. His fingers caressed my thighs, and I felt as if my cunt might dissolve down into my legs in search of his touch.

  ‘Please,’ I breathed, ‘do something. Touch me. Fuck me.’

  I leant heavily against the wall, needing its support, arms still raised. He edged my knickers down, firm hands skating over the globes of my arse, and I was so tense with wanting I almost stopped breathing. His fingertips stirred wisps of my pubes and inside I was aching, desperate to take the full fat thrust of him. I stepped out of my underwear, pushing my naked arse back.

  ‘Hard,’ I said. ‘Do it hard. Please.’

  He reached around to the front of me and rolled my erect clit, while his other hand squeezed and nipped my buttocks.

  ‘Please,’ I said in a near growl, and he clasped my waist, then jerked my hips back so I was tipped forwards, hands to the wall, hearing the sound of him unbuckle.

  ‘I’m a stranger,’ he said, and then the big head of his cock was there at my entrance, easing into my wetness. ‘You came looking for me.’ With a jolt, his cock slithered straight up me, my flesh rushing open. I was suddenly stuffed with meat, my hole stretched around his thick forceful girth, juices spilling. He shunted into me with slow deep thrusts.

  ‘You walked alone down empty streets,�
�� he said, speaking in quiet huffy breaths. ‘And now a man you don’t know fucks you against a wall. In the darkness.’

  I panted and moaned as he rammed himself faster, keeping me close with that arm around my waist.

  ‘You found this place,’ he said, gasping a little. ‘Not me. You found it. You’re here, getting fucked, liking it, letting it all go. Blank, seedy, anonymous.’

  I whimpered, his words making me flush. He was telling me how dangerous and dirty this was. I knew damn well I was at the mercy of how he might use his muscle and, while the prospect frightened me, I couldn’t, wouldn’t break away. He groped my breasts as we fucked, rummaged under my top, shoved aside my bra, pinched my stiff nipples. I loved the feel of him inside me; loved the furious thrust of him; loved the greed of his hand; and loved, most of all, being scared out of myself and flung into a place of debasement and abandon.

  ‘There’s a dark beauty in this, isn’t there?’ he said. Still thrusting, but slowing the pace, he leant forwards to bite my neck, teeth gently scraping. ‘Filthy bitch,’ he whispered, and he made the words sound so kind. ‘Hot little cunt. Out looking for it. Chasing cock down the street.’

  I groaned, an awful plaintive sound, and he dropped his hand to strum my clit. My orgasm began to tighten. My head span with hallucinatory colours, bright, beautiful landscapes and crazy phallic daffodils. I knew I was losing it, falling headlong into a tumble of warping ecstasy.

  ‘You don’t know who I am,’ he said. ‘And I’m fucking you, making you come.’

  My body flared with sensation, my cunt dense with cock, heat, nerves and sodden, slippery friction.

  ‘I’m making you come,’ he panted as he butted at the core of me. ‘Fucking you. Banging you. My hot little slut. She’s coming. I’m making her come.’

  His words rippled up my thighs and then I was coming hard, starbursts of colour exploding in my mind as I whimpered and wailed. He slowed, letting my climax grip, my inner walls clenching on him while the rest of me dissolved. Then, as my spasms faded, he shoved fast and rough before whipping himself clear and spurting on the ground. He came with a strained growl that thinned to a yelp. Suddenly I was afraid to turn. What the hell kind of noise was that?