Lustfully Ever After (10 page)

Gilchrist looked more interested. “Yeah?” he said, sitting up straighter.

And that’s how I came to betray my sister by pretending to be her and sucking off her boyfriend in a nightclub cloakroom. I still get flustered to recall how I’d knelt between his thighs and how he gripped my hair, keeping my mouth low and steady around his hard, fat length. And when he came, his long,
tormented groan sounded like a cry wrenched from a creature of the underworld.

“Ah, Gina,” he murmured afterward. “You should drink more often.”

But Gina doesn’t drink.

She dances. We all dance. Every fucking night.

Most people have heard the rumors. Local newspapers report on the Dancing Dozen who keep the area’s cobblers in business by sending in their shoes for repair each day, twenty-four soles worn out after who knows what shenanigans. That’s not enough of a story for the nationals though. They want the dirt. They want to know where we go, who with, what we’re wearing, and whether cocaine or professional footballers are involved. Their desperation is such that one tabloid, let’s call them the
Daily Scum
, has offered a substantial reward to anyone who can provide evidence of our late-night activities.

Ordinarily, our father would be down like a ton of bricks on such blatant incitement to press intrusion, particularly when he doesn’t stand to profit. However, he also wants to know where we go, and he probably has an eye on a sponsorship deal with Reebok, so with this one, we’re on our own. It’s a relief, I can tell you.

In our separate groups, we made our way through London’s late-night streets, reconvening at Waterloo Bridge, where a fog was gathering to swathe the Thames in a spectral murk. Sisters three, four, and ten were late, so we hung around at the top of the steps, anxious and impatient. The haze was shot through with the city’s lights snaking along the banks, reflections on the black water like a sky of fallen stars. To the west, the gleaming palace of Westminster was a golden, gothic ghost casting a stern frown upon our illicit adventures. I swear, that building has my father’s eyes.

Across the river, the slow-turning wheel of the London Eye glittered above layers of mist, making it seem as if a phantom fairground were luring us to the other side. Or was it my father again, watching us peep-eyed through the environment?

When our remaining sisters had caught up with us, we hurried over the bridge because, no, it wasn’t a charmed fairground that drew us, nor could my father follow our every move, much to his frustration. Our nightly haunt was Club Subconscious, a darkly magical place of music and revelry in a Southwark venue three stories low, a former underground car park now transformed into a night club.

Well, “darkly magical” is their advertising slogan. To be honest, it’s a bit of a meat market but at least it’s members only and no one cares about our fame. I mainly go because my sisters would kick up such a fuss if I refused. (“We’re nothing if we’re not twelve!”) Plus, it’s the only time I get within sniffing distance of any action because we always have our boyfriends, twelve good, strong men, faithfully awaiting us on Waterloo Bridge, ready to dance until dawn.

Trouble was, we’d got the wrong boyfriends. My lover, Leander, hardly ever put out. I wished I had what Gina had. Wished I had Gilchrist. Maybe it was the mist or the odd sensation we weren’t alone, but that night, as we crossed the bridge, I felt we were on the brink of change, as if something in the shadows were waiting to upend our lives and sprinkle them with stardust. When that something in the shadows stepped on my toes, I got the jitters.

“Ouch!” I said.

“Didn’t touch you,” replied sister two, laughing.

“I know you didn’t. Something—ouch!”

“What?”

“Well, that felt like an elbow in the tits.”

“Lily, have you been drinking?” asked Gina disapprovingly.

Man, she is so uptight. “No, Gina. It’s the crystal meth kicking in.”

I caught a waft of masculine scent, as distinct as the aroma of someone nearby. Confusingly, no one was nearby. I breathed deeply, thinking, since ours was a walk through history and mist, perhaps they surrounded us, the faces of the lost, the drowned, and the long gone, ghosts of boatmen, brawlers, merchants, and dredgers from an era when the city stank and the river banks were sludge.

At the halfway point, when we met our men, I pressed a kiss to the lips of Leander, looking askance at Gina who was drawn close by her Gilchrist, his hand cupping her ass as they embraced. A knot of pain and jealousy pulled below my heart. In his arms, she was as stiff as a board, recoiling from the kiss he sought.

I saw his face tense with a moment’s impatience before he regained his composure. He’s such a gent—although actually, he isn’t. At least, not when it counts, if you know what I mean. He probably would have dumped Gina ages ago if I hadn’t given him hope. Oh, idiot, idiot me. If I’d thought more about the consequences, I’m sure I wouldn’t have done it.

Well, to be honest, that’s probably not true. When I’d stumbled upon Gilchrist in the cloakroom, I was so horny and restless, frustrated by Leander’s permanent primness. Leander treats sex like it’s a big deal, as if me fucking him means I might want his babies. But I don’t care for him that way. He doesn’t make my heart sing. I’d simply like a shag every now and then till I’m ready to settle down with someone I love. The problem is, I can’t imagine ever wanting to commit to monogamy. I like men too much to limit myself to one. Plus, I’m so accustomed to hanging out with eleven that coupledom is a lonely prospect.

Maybe Gilchrist could make me respectable, but he’s my sister’s boyfriend and I am evil and wicked for having such unsisterly thoughts.

And Gilchrist, unfortunately, was a man sustained by hope. He still acted as if Gina was The One. I appreciated his spirit but at the same time feared he didn’t know when to quit. Determination’s an admirable quality, but blind optimism’s a bitch. The way he’d caressed Gina’s butt when they met on the bridge suggested he hadn’t quite got the message. But I’d mixed up the message, hadn’t I? I’d made him think his girlfriend might occasionally be up for it, so you couldn’t blame the guy for trying. And, although I say it myself, I did give him a spectacular blowjob.

Memories of sucking Gilchrist’s cock and an unexpected hand on my own ass got me briefly excited. I thought Leander had turned lustful but when I looked into his eyes, that staid, Thameside Ferris wheel churning slowly behind him, they were as dead as ever. I dismissed the touch as the randy hands of London phantoms but by the time we reached Club Sub, I knew we were being followed.

Our stalker, I soon realized, was wearing one of those new invisibility coats made out of, what was it, negative index meta-materials? I’d read about the technology but hadn’t known the coats were on the market. How infuriatingly typical that some sly, skeevy journalist had gotten hold of one. Wouldn’t have minded an invisibility coat myself. Damn, he smelled good though, unlike my Leander who smelled of sweet, sanitized nothing.

At Club Sub, we danced under fake stars, over sparkling snowscapes and through sinister forests, each floor of the venue themed like stories from our childhood. When my soles were worn thin, I drifted off from Leander to grab a beer, trying to harden my heart to the sight of Gilchrist whisking Gina around the dance floor.

En route to the bar, Mr. Invisible started harassing me again, a nudge here, another there. Hell, he was annoying. I tried to escape him and wound up on the cold, concrete stairwell of the fire exit. I paused for breath, enjoying the calm of muffled music and my near-dark surroundings, a soft green emergency light the only illumination.

Finding sanctuary turned out to be a smart move, because when Mr. Invisible joined me (jeez, he was persistent), he was manifested as a pale shimmering ghost, outlined in luminous green. I lunged for him, taking him by surprise, and after a few moments’ struggle, I had the meta-coat off him and was scampering for the exit. Back in Club Sub, I slipped on my new garment and vanished. Poof!

When Mr. Visible emerged, looking a mite hacked off, I had to stop and stare. While he didn’t suit ghostly, he most definitely suited visible. Something about his stature or maybe his short, coppery curls gave him an enchantingly majestic air. We were in the forest zone, and against the backdrop of replica trees with pale, dappled disco lights swooping across the room, he could have been a medieval prince on an heroic quest.

Color me superficial, but I suddenly changed my mind about him. I might have stared till sunrise if I hadn’t been distracted by the sight of my Leander and Gina on the far side of the room, deep in troubled conversation. I threaded my way through the crowds, quickly realizing there was an art to being invisible that I hadn’t yet mastered. I left a number of people accusing innocent strangers of feeling them up and gained a new insight into Mr. Invisible’s difficulties. Perhaps I’d been over-hasty in my earlier dismissal of him as an opportunistic lecher. Funny how much more forgiving you can be of someone when you’d like to get in their pants.

Leander touched Gina on the elbow, stepping closer.

Oh,
I thought,
it’s like
that,
is it?

Gina pressed her hand to her heart, shaking her head, but she didn’t retreat. I moved nearer.

“But it’s you I want,” said Leander.

“And I want you,” said my sister, “but it’s not that simple.”

Well, I never! Fancy the two of them sneaking around behind my back! How very dare they? I realized my anger made me a total hypocrite because after all, I’d sucked off Gina’s boyfriend. However, that didn’t ease my temper. If anything, I got ever crosser because I was cross with myself for not having good reason to be cross. I searched for excuses as to why my betrayal was different to theirs but found nothing that convinced. Nonetheless, their duplicity stung.

I stomped off to get a beer. By the end of the glass I could see the main damage was to my ego and pride. And hey, didn’t this leave the way open to Gilchrist? After all, we were sisters. We’ve been happily swapping stuff since we were born. Okay, so we’d never swapped boyfriends—well, not officially—but there was a first time for everything. The thought rallied me. Now where on earth was my big-thighed, black-skinned, dark-eyed soldier?

I wandered from floor to floor before checking out the cloakrooms in case he’d taken refuge in there again. Cloakroom attendants at Club Sub smoke a lot of weed, and security’s lax. But I was invisible so I didn’t have to cajole anyone into letting me pass. Instead, I clambered over the counter, and when I accidentally kicked the book of tickets to the floor, the guy in attendance simply giggled.

The cloakroom was large and L-shaped, an extravagant room tiled in Egyptian green, with honey-colored benches and golden lockers, coats on rails waiting to be reanimated by their owners. Sure enough, tucked away around the corner was Gilchrist. But this time he wasn’t resting, not by a long shot.
He was standing, his head tipped back, his eyes closed. As ever, because he has a wonderful theatrical streak, he was wearing a military jacket, this one a deep indigo adorned with silver buttons. Again it was open, his chest bared. He was naked from the waist down. His elegant hands, tipped with shell-pink nails, were resting lightly on the flame-red curls of my newly visible journalist friend who was on his knees, shirt off, lips wrapped around Gilchrist’s cock.

I stared like a slack-jawed idiot. My heart and hopes went up-down, up-down, much like Mr. Visible’s mouth. My thoughts veered from a fear I’d lost my guys to man-love to a brand new awareness that, wowzers, this scene was horny. My groin thumped with lust, my lips swelling fast. I drew closer, worried that the drumming of my heart might alert them to my presence.

Mr. Vee’s hands were clamped to Gilchrist’s thighs, his skin pale and stark against the velvety darkness of my darling. Well, my sister’s darling, technically speaking. Rich, purplish shadows hollowed out the dip in Gilchrist’s buttocks, and he seemed so sturdy and corporeal compared to the kneeling beauty whose shoulder muscles shifted under translucent, blue-tinged skin, his armpit hair a wisp of fire. Gilchrist was a mighty storm and Vee was a forest wraith, strong but otherworldly.

Gilchrist groaned quietly and clasped his lover’s head, his dark fingers sliding through Vee’s russet curls. He held him close on the downstroke, and Vee, adjusting his position, edged toward Gilchrist’s black-haired crotch, slow and steady, until he’d taken him throat-deep. “Oh, mate,” croaked Gilchrist, eyes shut, knuckles blanching, “hold it there, oh fuck, that’s good.”

Vee’s neck bulged with the effort. My cunt pulsed as I remembered how Gilchrist had directed me to do similar. I moved closer, prepared to run the risk of discovery in return for the joy of being near them. They looked edible, like ginger snaps,
licorice, brown sugar and ice cream, but man-sized and a lot less sweet. They smelled of skin and beer, of being underground for too long. I wanted to taste them, and so I did, leaning in to lick Gilchrist from the base of his spine to his neck, careful to touch him with nothing but my tongue. He was warm and salty, and he made the strangest sound, arousal warped by disbelief. I blew on the back of his neck then stood on tiptoe to stream cool air across his gleaming, stubble-shadowed head.

He moaned again and dusted the back of his head as if an insect were bothering him. I dodged his hand, ducking sideways to see his thick length slide from the grip of Vee’s mouth, his shaft cabled with dark violet veins, saliva lending him a silvery sheen. Avoiding Vee, I cupped Gilchrist’s balls, fondling their shifting weight, making him moan. He didn’t seem to know or care that my touch was surplus to possibility.

Then Vee moved. He withdrew his hand. I was too close, didn’t budge fast enough. He knocked me, realized I was there. He snapped back from Gilchrist and flailed in my direction. Hitting and clawing at me, he tried to grab what he couldn’t see.