Jazz Hands By Eric Erato

A tall and handsome jazzman is intrigued by the proposal of his elegant female fan: she will do anything he asks, no matter how degrading. As these two musicians mine the depths of their own darkness and sensual brutality, they begin to realize how much their basest needs complement each other. Public sexual displays, dangerous encounters, bizarre bondage, fetish wear, and total submission mark their descent into the depths of passion.

"Show me how you touched yourself here in the club while I was playing." I expected her to balk and to exit the conversation.

We were at the front of a lighted room, having not yet reached the dark hallway to the exit. But she looked deeply into my eyes, nearly making me catch my breath, then cast her glance at the floor as she stood before me, sliding both hands from different directions. The right slipped down her stomach and the left brushed across her substantial thighs as they slightly parted. With short but perfectly kept nails, she teased her thighs and pelvis before pushing two fingers harder across her pussy from outside her dress.

"No," I told her harshly. "Really touch it if you feel that way. The dress just masks the depth of your desire." She looked up at me and held my cruel gaze. A half smile curled my lip. Her face betrayed no emotion but comfortable resignation as she dropped her hands to her side and began to steadily hike up the lower portion of the graceful black dress. She did not look apprehensively at the audience. It was as if only the two of us occupied the entire room.

People nearest to the right side of the stage had begun to notice us, but I did not tell her to stop. I did not move my body to block their view, although it would have been easy to do. Unconsciously, I moved half a step closer to her, smelling the expensive floral perfume tastefully pressed on her neck and breast, and as she raised the dress above her thighs, I smelled her lovely personal musk.

She never hesitated.