Kiss Them For Me by Jack Wallen

It’s round six of the Music Be The Food flash fiction event. This time around we’re turning the clocks back to the early nineties and one of my favorite of the “goth” bands (although Siouxsie would insist that term does not apply), Siouxsie And The Banshees. This is my favorite song of theirs, “Kiss Them For Me”. Give a listen to the song and then read the fiction by Jack Wallen.

Kiss Them For Me

Illya’s voice was a breath of coppery air that wound its way through my senses, into my past, to threaten my future. She was my Queen. Point in fact, she was the Queen to all. We were her subiecta aeterna and she ruled our fashion, our festivities, our hearts, and our minds. Within the back streets of the city, she was mocked with the title “Beauty Queen”, but no one ever dared speak the two words together in her presence.

They would be killed for their efforts.

Or worse.

With Illya, there was always a worse. As her mate—more to the point, toy—I was privy to her worse on many an occasion. She would beat, flay, and flense with her bare hands. As the tenth impact shimmered, the body—her prey, she professed—would collapse in a defeated pile of ash. I was instructed to watch, every time. It made sense; she never dared allowed me a moment of mindful peace, always erasing any possible doubt who was lord and God.


Illya rolled over, her naked, full breasts taunting anyone that might dare spy upon her flesh. A ripple of fire danced across her overlarge pupils. I knew what she wanted from me in that moment. I dared not let her down.

I drew Illya’s hand to my lips and kissed the iron ring on her finger—a ring fashioned from one of the Nails of Calvary. She wore it to prove, to anyone who dared doubt, her power. “Nothing or noone will ever make me let you down…my love,” I whispered with great caution.

The opposite hand raised to my mouth, this ring carved of bone from her sire—the first of our kind—and kissed the smooth surface.

“Tonight will be divoon,” my Queen intoned in my ear.

This night was a special occasion for Illya. The anniversary of her ascension to the throne. Invitations were sent to every clan throughout the city, no matter how feral or hideous. Thousands of our kind would arrive, bearing gifts of every sort, to carve their devotion into the heart-shaped pool of fame.

Illya loved the spotlight. She would dress to make all matter of creature swoon—and they would. Men and women, beasts alike, would go to great lengths to gain an audience—brief as it may be—with the Queen. Wars would be waged, blood would be spilled, lives would be lost…all in the hope of standing before Illya to pledge a fealty she didn’t need to hear.

“Leave me, my pet. I must begin the preparation for the night’s festivities.”

As I exited Illya’s chambers, her attending maids swooped in to clean and dress the Queen.


Standing sentinel, in the center of the massive ball room, was what Illya called her “Fountain of Pink Champagne.” I knew the truth of that matter. The waterfall of frothing pink liquid was a mixture of human blood and sparkling water. It was a treat Illya created to satisfy her fancy for celebration. Attendees swarmed around the construct to drink deep from the well of bubbly life.

I hated the stuff—a fact my Queen would never know, lest my blood be that which overflowed into the anxious mouths of beasts.

As Illya and I approached the entry, the doors opened of their own volition and the thumping sound of a techno-fueled orchestra greeted us. Thousands of party-goers roared their approval as a flood of spotlights filled the landing on which we stood. Chants of “Illya, Illya” ran up against the music and threatened to tear down the walls and snuff the forbidden candles—fashioned of human fat and run through with tendon wicks.

With a raise of her hand, all sound ceased to exist. The city block wide and long ballroom fell into an abstract and profound silence. All in attendance awaited their forever-ruler to anoint the evening’s festivities with her grace.

“Who’s the prettiest by far?” Illya asked of her subjects.

“Certainly,” a solitary, female voice called out from within the throng, “the answer to that question would not be you, Beauty Queen.

A wave of gasps washed over the room.

Illya stood straight, her neck elongating and shoulders tensing for a moment that had not come since she glittered and gleamed her way to the top.

The crowd parted—not from intention, but from force—as if a wave of power raced through the room to make way for she who dared speak against the Queen. At the end of the bestial aisle she stood, a towering Amazon of a woman, dressed in a shimmering gown that seemed to move about her flesh of its own accord. Fashioned in the manner of a time gone by, she resembled a pinup model, curves in her hair to match the delicious curves of her breasts and hips.

“Illya, my love.” The woman spoke as she strode toward the grand staircase.

“Will you not stop her, my Queen?” My question was near to begging. I had no idea who this intruder was, but her use of love gave me pause to wonder if my duties end were drawing near.

Illya stood statue-still, watching the stranger make her way up the right-side stairs. Slowly she ascended, step by step, until she reached the landing to gaze upon the wonder she sought. With a graceful sweep, the stranger raised her hand above her head and spoke the words I’d only heard uttered by my Queen.

“Kiss them for me.”

As if under a spell, Illya glided across the marble platform until she stood, face to face, with the unknown woman. Before I could intervene, Illya leaned in and pressed her luscious mouth against the cherry red lips of the interloper. The second flesh met flesh, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers.

Within the span of a single kiss, I was undone; my duty as lover to the Queen ended. Illya turned back to me, nodded, and pointed toward the masses. My position as servant had been, in a gesture, officially revoked.

“Nothing personal, my dear. But when a woman such as she returns to my keep, how am I to say no?”

I bowed, knowing it was not my right to protest. “Thank you, My Queen.”

Illya beckoned me near and whispered softly, “You have served me well; therefore, I give you your life. So long as you remain in my city, you will fall under my protection.”

For the last time, Illya raised her hands to me and said the sacred words.

“Kiss them for me.”