The Jazz Singer
Erotic fiction by Michele London
Her name was Sybil, and Tony had been in love with her from the first night he’d walked into the club. Even through the smoke that hung in the air like a blue haze, she was beautiful; even against the raucous laughter and drunken conversations of the patrons, her voice was smooth and lovely; and even in the dim lights of the stage, her eyes sparkled and her smile cut straight to his heart.
When he came to work on his first night, she was leaning against the hood of his piano in a red dress and red lipstick, a cigarette curling smoke from between her fingertips. She’d been talking with the bar manager, a man named Rex Matthews, and as he approached them, she laughed aloud at something Rex had said. The sound of it stopped Tony in his tracks, and that was how she saw him for the first time, standing dumbfounded in the middle of the club, his sheet music in one hand and his hat in the other.
“Hi,” she said, stubbing her cigarette out in the crystal ashtray atop the piano. “You must be the new piano player. I’m Sybil, I’ll be singing with you tonight. Most nights, actually. As long as Rexie here keeps me around.”
Matthews, a thick man in a pinstriped suit, took a last drag on his own cigarette.
“You keep pulling in the dollars, honey, and you can stay as long as you want.”
She smiled at him and shook her head, and then he walked away, leaving Tony alone with Sybil.
“Oh, you brought your own music? That’s good, some of the stuff we’ve got here is looking pretty worn. You want a drink, or you just want to get started?” Tony managed to find his voice despite the effect of her smile.
“No, I mean, yes, let’s, just start playing, huh?”
“Okay by me. What do you want to start with?”
He settled himself behind the keys and shuffled through his sheet music, barely seeing the titles as he tried and failed to pull himself together.
“How ‘bout “Down Hearted Blues”. You know that one?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.”
He found the music in his stack and found the keys to start with. The first notes echoed against the empty tables and chairs of the nightclub. He knew he’d missed a note in the first bar, he was suddenly so nervous that his fingers were slipping all over the place. But when she started to sing, everything else faded away.
“Gee, but it’s hard to love someone,
when that someone don’t love you.
I’m so disgusted, heartbroken, too.
I’ve got those downhearted blues.”
He didn’t realize he had stopped playing until she wrinkled her nose at him and laughed.
“You okay?” she asked. He’d nodded and they had carried on, but he knew it was a lie. He was the furthest thing from okay.
That night, when the club had filled up and there was smoke and booze in the air and laughter ringing in his ears, he watched in an awed silence as she took the stage, gleaming in a dress of sequined silk as red as her lips, and took the heavy microphone between her hands.
“Evening, everybody,” she said, as low as a purring housecat. “Thanks for coming out to the Paradise Ballroom tonight. My name is Selena, but I bet you already knew that.”
Tony started right in on the first song of the night, and after that, they were both of them lost to the music for over an hour.
It might have been the low lighting, glinting off her gown like a dozen fiery stars; it could have been the way she leaned into the music, as if the notes she sang were pulling her somewhere that only she could go; or maybe it was the way she smiled after every song, and bit her bottom lip, surprised even now that they were applauding for her.
Whatever it was, Tony was under her spell, and he wondered later that he had been able to play any notes right at all.
For weeks they carried on that way, Tony playing the music he knew so well while Sybil, or Selena - as she called herself on stage, sang her heart out, night after night. As her smiles turned more and more often onto Tony himself, something new came to light up behind her eyes when she bit down on her lip.
It was raining that night. Sybil and Tony stood in the back door of the club, smoking, her sweet lilac perfume mingling with the tobacco smoke in the close quarters. Tony’s heart had already started to race, being so close to her. He couldn’t help but notice the way her lips wrapped around the cigarette’s golden filter. His pants tightened and he shifted uncomfortably, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
“Do you ever get nervous up there? Singing?” he said, desperate for conversation to mask his increasingly uncomfortable state.
“No,” she said. “Not really. Besides, I learned an old trick from another singer I used to know. It helps for when you get stage fright.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
She stubbed out her cigarette and looked up at him. Tony froze in place, a look he’d never seen in her eyes before holding him hostage.
“Well,” she said, as if she were on stage already, “I just picture everyone in the audience in nothing but their underwear.”
His mouth went dry.
“Yes. You know, stockings, garter belts, corsets, brassieres.”
He nodded, unable to speak, or to picture anything else but Sybil out of her dress; the elastic bands of her garter belt marking out lines on her soft skin; her breasts swelling out and over the lacy cups of her brassiere. He saw himself ripping apart the hooks on her corset, freeing every inch of her skin to his touch, his taste.
“Is it working?” she asked.
“What? Is what working?”
“My advice. Is it making you less nervous?”
“To tell you the truth, Miss Sybil, it’s having quite the opposite effect.”
“Well then,” she said, taking a step to close what small distance remained between them. “Maybe you’d better just go ahead and kiss me, then, since you want to so badly.”
“I never, I mean, I didn’t mean to –“ She put her finger on his lips.
“Best do it quickly,” she whispered, “before you lose your nerve.”
When she moved her finger away she was smiling at him, and Tony knew she was right. If he didn’t do it now, he might never.
He circled his arms around her waist and brought her close, and bent down to meet her lips. She put her hands on his chest and melted into him, opening her mouth to let his tongue slip inside. He squeezed her hips, needing to feel her curves in his hands even if it was only through the fabric of her dress. When his fingertips suddenly met flesh, Tony broke away and looked down. He hadn’t realized he’d been pulling her dress up, but now the fabric was bunched around her thighs, leaving her legs bare.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to take advantage.” She looked down for a moment, assessing the damage for herself.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said.
Before Tony could answer, Sybil had returned to kissing him, and now her leg came up to hook around his waist. He found himself pressed back against the wall as she grasped his shoulders and pushed their bodies together. His erection strained against his trousers, eager for her heat that was seeping through their clothes. Slowly, timidly, he walked his hands up the inside of her dress, finding the clasps and hooks of her under garments and releasing them one at a time.
When the last one came undone Sybil gave a little sigh and pulled her leg further up around his hip. He fumbled with his zipper, his head buzzing with anticipation and the heady rush of being allowed this; of being allowed her.
He let out a sigh of his own when he sank into the length of her. She nearly burned him with her heat, and her fingers dug into his arms in silent encouragement. He grabbed her other leg then, and picked her up off the floor, swinging around to put her back against the wall as he clutched the mounds of her buttocks, and drove himself deeper into her.
He laid his forehead on her chest, inhaling the fragrance of her skin, reveling in the gasps and moans that were coming from her throat. He knew he didn’t have long; he had wanted her for so many nights, now that it was happening, he could hardly contain himself. So when Sybil’s breathing grew faster and she tightened around him, burying her face in his neck to muffle her cries of release, Tony let go of the control he’d been holding on to.
With his head spinning and his muscles limp, Tony helped Sybil slide her feet down to the floor again and they stood together for a moment, breathing. He wondered now if she was going to regret being so rash; he knew it was difficult enough for lady singers to hold onto their reputations working in clubs like this one. He watched her as she did up all her clasps and buttons and hooks once again, never once speaking to him as she did. He was suddenly mad to light a cigarette, but somehow it just didn’t feel right.
“Miss Sybil, I hope you’re not mad. That was…that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“I know, honey,” she said, smiling. “I’m not mad. Why should I be? In fact, I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance sometime. If you get nervous, just remember that little trick I taught you and we should get on just fine.”
Michele London is an author, editor, and romance consultant with Scarlet Girl. She is a regular contributor to Scarlet’s Letter and the archive of articles at ScarletGirl.com. She writes dark fiction and erotic fantasy, and dips into real-life tales of sexy for the lovely ladies as a Scarlet Girl pleasure party consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area.
If you like this bit of erotica, and would like to see more, please let us know.
In the meantime, for 10% off the items of your choice from ScarletGirl.com, just enter code "JAZZ413" into the Coupon Section at checkout.