An erotic short story collection that explores a wide range of romantic situations-from BDSM to rock 'n' roll groupies to keeping a monogamous relationship spicy!
"Erotic and Lusty!" Says Fallen Angels Review about the work of Jade Blackmore. It also says, "She takes readers on a journey through just about every conceivable emotion, situation, and passion you can think of--lust, anger, the warm fuzzies, bondage, and flat-out eroticism." You will find all this and more in Blackmore's new collection of contemporary erotic stories. Most of the female characters in the stories are in their 20s and in rock and roll or the arts or attracted to men in those fields. Poor girls! Are they in for a surprise! "One Autumn Night" and "How Ashley Juniper Changed Her Image" deal with girls losing their virginity to bad boys. "Junk Bar Incident" says a lot about sex and loneliness and how catty women can be when trying to snag a rock star away from a rival! "Roses To Heaven" takes on the concept of tattoos as body art; "Seduced and Abandoned" is a sex for money story with a twist. "Geneva's Story" and "Tables Turned" deal with the emotional side of BDSM that proves the emotional and psychological games people play can sometimes be more interesting and sexier than any bondage gear.
THE JUNK BAR INCIDENT
It didn't snow my first winter in New York. After 29 years in my hometown of Chicago where literally tons of dirty slush piled up outside the shiny, see-through offices along Michigan Avenue, no weather could faze me. The snow and cold were negligible, and a fifteen-minute subway ride got me to the Village. All I knew about the Village was that Blondie and the Ramones played at clubs there in the '70s, and Beat Poets hung out there in the '50s. But the only place I knew of in current nightlife was a sleazy yet trendy bar, appropriately called The Junk. I hadn't made any friends during the first few months I lived in New York. I had just started to mingle with my fellow employees at the small music publishing company where I worked, but we weren't on a going to lunch together basis yet. My roommate was an academic with little understanding of the drudgery a nine to five office drone endured, and was unsympathetic to my plight.
So I sought comfort the only place I knew--in music and musicians.
The Junk was a sliver of a bar tucked away in a bunker type building, ostensibly an old warehouse, by NYU. I'd read about the bar in various rock magazines and gossip columns, and I figured I'd be among my peers. After a long day at work I was too tired to dress up, so I slipped on a pair of jeans and a low-cut angora sweater, buttoned up my fake leopard coat and headed to the subway station.
Luckily, the bar was crowded, so if I didn't meet anyone interesting I could slip right out again without being noticed. I ordered a tequila sunrise and drifted around the place, looking for someone interesting to talk to. I pushed my way to the bar, ordered another drink and sat down.
Tipsy but still coherent, I looked at the guy sitting next to me--or I should say, looked up. Even though he was sitting down, he was taller than the other longhaired musician types packed shoulder to shoulder in the crowed bar. Emboldened by drink I slouched over the counter, to see if he was making some time. No sluts had gotten to him yet--he was talking to a geeky old guy. I leaned back and avoided making eye contact with the geek. As I did my bare shoulder brushed against the studmuffin's hair. Fire!!! I touched a strand, amazed by its perfect dishwater blond crimps.
"Like my hair, do ya?"
Woah!!! I almost fell off the barstool. It was shocking enough that the tall guy had spoken to me--I usually only attracted geeks. But his accent was amazing--sort of like a cartoon. A dim-witted British accent-Cockney--that's what it was. I had never heard that accent in real life before and it floored me. I had no idea that he was, if he was indeed someone, i.e. famous. All the metal genre guys I knew where from California, graduates of the Poison-Ratt-Motley Crue school of bad hairdos.
He looked at me full-force, not quite knowing whether to look at my face, hair or bra-less little bosoms. Damn, he was handsome, though his nose was a bit too long for his face. Other than that, God's perfect creature made flesh. I wanted to eat him up. He was so handsome I blushed just from looking at him.
"Yours is nice, too, blondie," he said, referring to my hair. His accent again! Argh! I was probably red as a fire truck. He took the liberty of tousling my hair by patting me on the head like I was a toy poodle. I caught a glimpse of his hand as he rested it on my head. A big, warm hand, like a basketball player must have, I thought. Not deformed or like a giant hand, just big. Sadly, I thought, one of his hands could cover booth my boobs.
"You're a pretty little thing. Shy, too. I can tell."
That embarrassed me. I hated it when people called me shy, and took it as an insult.
"Let's go where we can have some privacy."
Oh, no, I thought, he's taking me to the dreaded john where all the groupie sluts and their boy toys went. I relented; he was beautiful and it had been a year since I'd had sex.
"No, not there love. You're better than that." We walked up a flight of stairs to a door marked employees, only he knocked on the door.
"Hey, Roger! You wait out here. I'll be right back." I waited, squeezing my coat 'til I thought it would shred it in my hands. Should I disappear, I wondered. I had time to get away without anyone noticing. I wasn't a very good slut, I guess. This guy was good-looking, but he could be a creep. How did I know? But I couldn't move. I just stared at him and thought, "Fuck, he's gorgeous."
The guy walked out followed by a thin, black-haired man whom I recognized as the club owner from photos I've seen. "Hi," I said, my voice hiking up an octave.
He winked at me. "He's all yours, honey." I turned around and two long-haired kids, barely old enough to be in the club, smiled and called to him. "Wow, Tom! Dude, what are you doing in New York? Are you playing a gig at L'mour?"
"Yeah, tomorrow night. We're on at nine."
I looked at him, confused. I didn't recognize the name and I felt too stupid to ask "Excuse me, are you somebody famous?"
Tom took me into the room and we sat down a red velvet couch. He lifted me up on his lap. I shrieked, letting out a cry of delight like a baby that had just been tickled. His cock, still sheathed but growing hard under his jeans felt good rubbing against my bottom.
"You make the sweetest cooing noises. You're getting me hard."
"I can feel that," I giggled, kissing swiftly on the cheek. "I like it."
"There, peace and quiet. What's your name, luv? I couldn't hear down there."
"Gina. Ah, nice name. Don't hear it that often."
Damn, he smelled good, like expensive cologne and sex.
"Well, what do you want to do next? Ladies choice."
I smiled a big, horny smile. Judging by the way his face lit up, I could do whatever I wanted. Funny, I was in charge. The other times I had collaborated with musicians in non-business related matters I had been the last cut of lamb in the meat market. Girls with big tits went first. If they exuded stupidity and had big tits they went even before that.
I ran my fingers through his hair, scrunched it up and then rubbed some of it. I pulled up my sweater and rubbed it against my tits.
Tom stared at me, amazed by my every move.
I undid the last button on his loose white linen shirt. Greedily, I brushed my hands over his toned, tan chest. A few sparse hairs interrupted the perfect skin, nothing to worry about. Then I kissed him from the nape of his neck to his nipples, plunking at them and giggling. "Yeah, you let yourself go, little one. Let yourself go."