THIS IS NOT a true story: What I’m about to tell you concerns a goth high priestess named Lucrezia Borgia. Of course she’s not the Lucrezia Borgia – well, not unless you believe in reincarnation. Even then it seems unlikely. This particular Lucrezia Borgia is one hot goth bitch with a foot-long schlong, who sings a real nice dirge and fakes one hell of an orgasm on stage. She’s got kind of a weird thing going with death, but don’t worry, she’s not a necrophile or anything. Just a little unusual. Oh yeah, and speaking of death, rumour has it she blew Keith Richards once, but that must’ve been years ago.
L.B. and the Deathtones, live at the Orphanage: Lucrezia, my reflection. Six foot five, if she’s an inch. Hovering above the audience, moaning out her best Linda Blair impression, dancing with the currents of sandalwood-scented mist from the smoke machines. Cleavage deep and white with silver ankh delicately swaying from one breast to the other. Tight black rubber dress, laced up the front, strapped down in back. Tight across the crotch, not quite showing what everyone wants to see. So short that you’d almost think you could get a glimpse of her cock if she had one, which is what keeps everyone wondering. Fishnets at half-mast, mid-thigh, sans garters. High-heeled deathrock boots. Lucrezia is a Thing of Satan, and damn is she proud of it. Heaven help the poor fucker who calls her a chanteuse. The Deathtones, generally speaking, do their lead singer justice. Lizzie Borden: five foot two, stretch jeans, lace bra delicately cupping little tits, stainless steel rings forming a gauntlet around her face. Gibson SG with a Slow Death bumper sticker across the front. No visible tattoos or genitals – rumour has it she’s post-op, the old-fashioned way. Mata Hari: Birth female? Who knows? Who cares? Gorgeous like no one else in the band, traditional gothgirl–wraithboy accoutrement: thick red lipstick, whiteface, black bob. Steinberger bass turned up to maximum distortion, eliciting a rumble not unlike that of an earthquake. Sleazy Johnson: only guy in the Deathtones, which would really fuck things up if he wasn’t an FTM. That gets you a lot of mileage, even in San fucking Frisco. Tight black jeans with the outline of a thick cock visible, white T-shirt, non-Euclidean geometry tattooed cruelly up and down both arms – don’t look too close! Flattop gelled flawlessly, wrap-around Lou Reed-style shades, jetblack hormone-induced Satan-goat framing an evil seductive smile that, had it been present at Gethsemane, might have made things go a bit differently. Slamming the drums like he’s really pissed off at them, but doesn’t see the need to work up a sweat.
It is still Walpurgisnacht, and has been since at least 1982. Maybe longer.
Pressed hard up against the stage, eyes wide as she looks up at Lucrezia, Alice’s blackberry lips form an “o” of desperation and amazement. The seethe of the crowd fills her with need for Lucrezia, all the longing of the children of the night and the drinkers of blood focused through her. She is a lens projecting their need into the singer. Alice’s black-rimmed eyes weep tears of ecstasy as Lucrezia moans and wails and whispers her seductive prayers to dark gods and goddesses. Alice: white-skinned goth girl, black-haired wraith, earringed wunderkind of black-lace mourning. She’s wearing a black lace wedding dress, not quite a full train, but enough to get Lucrezia’s attention. Alice sings along inside her head, knowing all the words by heart but afraid to hum or whisper them for fear of upsetting the magical sound of Lucrezia’s voice which touches her like the heartbreaking loss of an ancient love. Alice crosses herself as the band launches into another song. It’s Alice’s all-time favorite Deathtones song: Isle of the Dead.
Alice considers, deliciously, all the stories she has heard about Lucrezia. Drag Queen. Pre-op transsexual. Post-op transsexual. Or the most delectable rumour of all. Alice has run the scene a thousand times in her mind, ever since she heard it whispered to her in the bathroom the last time the Deathtones were in town. The rumour: Lucrezia is the lone graduate of a highly secret experimental programme, one financed by the government of Switzerland (whose current president is a MTF transsexual) in the most complicated variety of organ transplantation, known as Living Tissue Splice. The technique is called Genetically Operative Doctoring on the street, and it remains, probably, an unrealized wet dream of science. Alice heard the same rumours about that Fuck person, who used to hang around here. Alice has never found out first-hand whether GOD exists. It seems unlikely. But Alice can believe the stories when it comes to Lucrezia. It’s a chilling thought. Multiple genital capacity. It’s enough to soak the wedding dress with nuptial fervour.
Alice feels her knees go weak as Lucrezia blows her a kiss – a sad, mournful kiss. “In pace requiescat,” murmurs Lucrezia, looking directly at Alice. Alice’s eyes go wide, the “O” of her blackberry lips widening as she is struck with terror and erotic excitement.
Alice can’t be sure when she mentally reconstructs the incident later, but she is virtually certain that she had an orgasm at that moment – how else to explain the throbbing ecstasy which suddenly explodes through her young body like the fireball of a kerosene-soaked funeral pyre? Alice lets out a faint moan, unable to control herself, the vision of Lucrezia filling her eyes. The heat rushes through her. Alice faints and dissolves into the crowd.
Heaven/Hell/Purgatory: Alice slowly awakes, aware of a sensuous warmth surrounding her body. She is in flickering candlelight. A gentle, warm wind seems to pass over her face. The scents of sandalwood and roses, musk and jasmine, all mix in a seductive caress. Alice feels drained, exhausted. Her eyes gradually adjust to the dim light and she sees that she is on a canopied bed, with white lace curtains pulled closed around her. The faint glimmer of candles is all that lights the room. Thorned red roses are scattered about Alice’s head on the silken pillows. From somewhere, soft music plays. Alice recognizes it instantly: Rachmaninov’s “Isle of the Dead”. Music for the afterlife. Alice breathes warm sandalwood, not caring if she is alive or dead.
She remembers the kiss, blown to her by the apparition on the stage. It couldn’t have been real, Alice tells herself. Lucrezia is the deathgoddess of deathwave – she would never take notice of a humble little wraithgirl like me.
Then Alice recalls the orgasm, unsure whether it was real or hallucinated. Regardless, her thighs still tremble with the intensity and her body seems wrapped in its sensuous afterglow.
Perhaps Lucrezia did blow Alice a kiss, and orgasms granted by Lucrezia are the sweet kiss of death.
Alice wonders, for a long, gentle time, whether she might be in heaven or in hell. She imagines heaven, with its naked angels feeding her lotus petals and pouring nectar for her, and soothing her with harp and cello music. She considers hell, with its leather-and-spike dominatrixes snapping bullwhips and suspending her from dungeon walls by thick chains and manacles, tormenting and perverting her malleable flesh.
Either one would be OK, she supposes . . .
Alice’s eyes flutter as she looks around at the white lace curtains blowing in the warm wind, and at the candlelight scattering through the lace. Heaven or hell. Could be either.
So Alice lies still and devours the sensations.
She becomes aware of a presence on the other side of the white lace curtain. A dark presence, enveloping, dangerous. Unable to lift herself onto her elbows, Alice whispers a gentle query: “Who’s there?”
There is no answer. But Alice sees the form dancing a slow dance to Rachmaninov. Alice speaks again. “Who is it?”
The dark form stands there for some time, outlined in candlelight, shrouded by white lace, as Alice comes to recognize it.
“I am become Shiva, the destroyer of worlds.”
“How can it be?” whispers Alice, unmoving.
Slowly, Lucrezia draws the white lace curtain and stands before Alice.
“You have come to me from beyond the grave,” whispers Lucrezia, her words as seductive to Alice as those in any of her songs. “You have come to me from the sweet arms of Death. You have tasted the ice-cold tongue of Persephone and returned to bring me pomegranate seeds. I was afraid you had gone there forever . . .”
“I fainted,” whispers Alice as Lucrezia crawls onto the bed and closes the white lace behind her. “Your kiss . . . you blew me a kiss from the stage.”
“And you thought it was a kiss from the Angel of Death,” says Lucrezia. “You imagined that she had placed her lips against yours and sucked the very life out of you – and so you died.”
“I passed out,” murmurs Alice, as she feels Lucrezia settling down upon her. “I . . . I climaxed. The heat . . . I passed out.”
Lucrezia shakes her head, her beautiful face and lush, thick lips inches from Alice’s. “You tasted my tongue, without tasting it. You went to your grave, but only for a moment. Was it sweet, Death’s embrace?”
Alice sighs. Why argue? Alice settles into the softness of the bed as she feels Lucrezia’s lips touching her throat. “It was sweet,” whispers Alice. “Sweet death . . .”
Lucrezia begins to kiss Alice’s throat, nibbling gently between words. “The taste of Death was like absinthe upon your lips. Her embrace was like that of a lover. She wrapped you in ecstasy . . . and brought you here to me . . .”
“How did I get here?” whispers Alice, suddenly afraid.
Lucrezia senses her terror. “Shhhhhh – don’t worry. I had my boygirls bring you back here, where my physician Dr Faustus ensured that you would return from the land of the dead. Bringing your knowledge for all of us . . . what did you see there, my sweet Alice?”
“I do remember seeing heaven,” says Alice, vaguely confused. “And hell . . .”
“Ah, hell is the more delicious of the two,” said Lucrezia as she crawled on top of Alice. Alice did not wonder how Lucrezia had known her name – it seemed only right that she should know everything. “Hell . . . to atone for your sins, for all eternity, to suffer immeasurably, knowing there is no release – I look forward to it so . . .” Lucrezia considers the problem, absently, as she sets to work on the soft triangle of flesh just under Alice’s jaw. “Then again, Heaven would be acceptable, as well . . . or Purgatory . . .”
Alice moans faintly as she feels Lucrezia’s tongue trailing down her throat. Lucrezia pauses before the swell of Alice’s bosom in the black lace wedding dress. In fact, Dr Faustus has checked the girl’s identification to make sure she is of age. “Alice,” whispered Lucrezia. “Such a pretty name.” But it occurred to her that the girl might have a fake ID. Was it possible? No, Lucrezia decides. Not with retina scans.
“Oh, Lucrezia . . .” it is all Alice can manage to choke out as Lucrezia unlaces the front of the wedding dress. Alice’s mind slips into a trance of unbelieving ecstasy – she cannot be sprawled in bed with Lucrezia Borgia, about to find out all her secrets – such bliss is denied mortal wraithgirls . . .
Lucrezia’s mouth descends on Alice’s nipple. Alice feels a surge go through her body. Moaning softly, she settles into the rapture, suckling Lucrezia gently. “Drink of me,” whispers Alice. “Drink all of me . . .”
Lucrezia’s hands work their way underneath Alice’s wedding dress. Alice gasps as Lucrezia touches her between the parted thighs.
“Is it true?” moans Alice softly, ecstasy flowing through her.
Lucrezia kisses Alice, nibbling her lower lip.
“Is it true?” says Alice, more mischievously this time, her lips curving in a smile. “Tell me if it’s true.” She nibbles at Lucrezia’s fingertips. “What they say about you?”
Lucrezia lifts herself onto her knees, most of her six-and-a-half feet towering over Alice. She laughs cruelly. “That I am become Shiva, the destroyer of worlds?”
Alice catches her breath. “Um, no, not that. I mean . . . the Swiss thing.”
Lucrezia laughs. She snuggles down against Alice, spreading her legs. “You tell me, my sweet. Death is yours to embrace.”
Holding her breath, Alice slides her hand up Lucrezia’s thigh. Lucrezia opens the black silk robe. Lucrezia holds Alice’s eyes in hers, willing the girl to discover with her hands, not her eyes, so that she will believe. Alice’s frail hand closes around the thick shaft of the multi-veined cock, feeling its hardness and its smooth, throbbing power. She moans faintly. Slowly, working her way down the shaft, Alice discovers the truth. Lucrezia’s scrotum is a smooth-shaved sac enclosing her hard nuts. Behind that, Alice feels the slick wetness, the hard clit, the full lips and tight hole of a flawless, fully operational, anatomically correct vat-grown vagina. Her mind races, unable to believe. Alice’s eyes roll back as she shudders in climax and loses consciousness again.
“Lovely Death,” weeps Lucrezia. “Her kiss hath come for you again, my delectable Alice. I can only pray her lips, once again, were sweet . . .”
Shiva, the Destroyer of Worlds: Alice relinquishes the embrace of death to find herself quite as effectively embraced by Lucrezia. Lucrezia has removed Alice’s wedding dress – figuring the wedding was already over. Now, Alice finds herself overwhelmed by sensation as Lucrezia whispers her prayers between Alice’s parted thighs. Alice, spread wide, squirms underneath the weight of the goddess. She feels Lucrezia’s fingers working their rhythmic wonders, sending surges of power through her body.
“You have returned,” whispers Lucrezia. “My prayers have been answered.”
“Oh, Lucrezia,” moans Alice. “Death’s embrace was so much sweeter this time . . .”
“You’re beginning to learn, my delicious . . .”
And Lucrezia’s mouth descends once again upon Alice. Naked against the silk of the bed, Alice gives herself over to ecstasy. She feels Lucrezia repositioning herself, reaching out to the night-stand, rolling an unlubricated condom over the thick shaft of her cock. Then Lucrezia settles down atop Alice as Alice greedily swallows. Lucrezia comes to rest with her body against Alice’s, the tip of her tongue just reaching Alice’s clit. Grasping the smaller woman’s thighs, Lucrezia rolls her over so they can more effectively trade favours. Lucrezia’s tongue buries itself in Alice as Alice descends upon cock and cunt with equal vigour, trading off and finding technology to be equal to nature.
When Alice cries out, Lucrezia rolls her over onto her belly. Lucrezia settles upon Alice’s body with newfound fervour, entering her from behind. Alice does not faint this time, but she most certainly sees Heaven and Hell both, simultaneously. It is then that Lucrezia climaxes, cock and cunt spasming simultaneously.
Curling up, embraced by Lucrezia’s strong arms, feeling the reality of the death-goddess androgyne against her, Alice finally allows herself to hum, softly, the lyrics to one of Lucrezia’s songs. Isle of the Dead.
Isle of the Dead: As far as Lucrezia’s fascination with Alice’s narcolepsy, if that’s what it is, I can’t vouch for its erotic value or safety. I’m not yet sure if Lucrezia brings Alice along with the Deathtones on their Australian tour, maybe keeping her in a coffin between shows. On the other hand, maybe Alice replaces the flute-player who fled to Sweden a couple of months back. Or perhaps Alice, having visited the Isle of the Dead, becomes bartender at the Orphanage. It’s also possible that Mata Hari goes mad with jealousy, since she and Lucrezia used to fuck, and takes a cleaver to the poor girl. That last one seems unlikely, unless you believe in reincarnation. Even then, it doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t really matter much, does it? Alice got a good fuck, and tasted the kiss of the angel of death, and probably got her picture in Propaganda to boot, maybe even Blue Blood. Shit, that’s a good enough reason for anyone to return from the Isle of the Dead. It’d bring me back, and I don’t even own a wedding dress.