Blair Erotica – författare

She must be touched. Jess has become obsessed by the sense of touch - not touching, but being touched. She wants to experience what it means to be touched free of the influence of knowing who is doing the touching. She wants to understand touch in isolation...and Debi is there to help.~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~The first time Jess really noticed, actually paid attention when someone touched her in a crowd (what she now called her first anonymous touch) was undoubtedly an accident…a casual brushing of bodies in a crowded room. Only her awareness made it different from countless previous touches. When she felt that errant hand (assuming it was errant) it stuck her that not knowing who had touched her, or why he had touched her (if he did it intentionally), was erotic. The prospect made her shiver with delight.She couldn't even classify that first touch as an intimate contact. It had been nothing more than a simple hip-to-hip brushing in a very popular club where all the very popular people met to…well, to brush together. Making contact, they called it, networking. Generally they (those popular people) didn't mean physical contact, but there it was, part and parcel of such evenings, leaving her hip burning from the stranger's touch, although the contact was slight as a passing thought. A passing contact. That it came to mean more to her than that was her own doing.But there it was. And from then on she paid more attention to those casual bumps and strokes, noticed every sensual moment and, more interestingly, measured her own response to them all.Her analysis revealed a deadly trap. A person touches you (feel the rush of awareness of the touch that makes the blood pound). But forget for the moment what they intended (or didn't. It might be an accident after all) or the circumstances of it. That awareness triggers the instinctive response to look and see who it is that was careless or intrusive enough to make physical contact. Intuitively she knew the danger that presented to her. The almost irresistible temptation to turn, to look, to identify the person she'd brushed up against ruined things. Consider what follows that look…a moment of awkwardness, in which she stares into the eyes of some man who is afraid she'll think him clumsy but has to worry equally she'll think he bumped into her on purpose (assuming that's not his intention). He returns her stare until she smiles disarmingly or makes some inane comment that allows them both to slip back into the shadows of other people. Even worse, she might look to see that he hasn't given the bumping of his hip into hers another thought. She turns and looks around foolishly trying to see who it was, and he is already talking with some other woman, touching her arm. Making contact. And so the accidentalness of the contact makes her feel silly. If he hadn't even noticed her, her arousal becomes a joke. A cruel joke.At first this was only a passing thought, or actually a series of passing thoughts she tried to understand in terms of the absurd and disproportionate (but real) physical response of her body. Her brain said these were silly accidents…a time when two bodies had momentarily collided in a crowded space. Yet her body screamed (insistently) that it was erotic. She wanted to understand that disparity (if that's what it was) and, more dangerously, where it led. How do you incorporate some new awareness into your existence, especially when it is something as fundamental as sensuality?

Jen is a maid but doesn't intend to stay one forever. The women she sees with good-looking rich guys can't do anything she can't, and she figures she might be willing to do more than some will. All she needs is the right opportunity and the right guy... and her passkey. Terry views the women around him as competing for his attention and she is happy to dance to his tune.~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~"e;You, Jen, are a gold digger,"e; he said.I looked at him and didn't say anything. I needed to know where he was going with that thought. It was true, but...He grinned. "e;I know. That term is usually used to mean something rotten and cheap, but all it really means is that you are applying yourself to the goal of marrying or at least being with, a partner of means--because he has money. You just met me and the only reasonable attraction I hold for you, other than perhaps physical, is my money."e;"e;Perhaps physical?"e; I laughed. "e;Modesty isn't your thing. But it's true enough that money is often a factor in any relationship."e;He nodded. "e;The difference between a financial concern and your approach is that you are playing the game deliberately, not just dealing with it to decide among suitors. Money is more important to you than some other things. And that's fine, as long as you are good at it the game and understand it."e;"e;It seems pretty simple, preferring wealth to poverty."e;"e;It's rather intelligent. I have no objection to an honest gold digger—the real deal because for a woman to pull that off she needs to be more than a hot slut,"e; Terry said. "e;Hot sluts are, in the scheme of things, cheap. A gold digger has to be able to hold her own in the circles her man travels in. For me, that's this hotel business. And a gold digger could prove herself useful."e;"e;So your ideal gold digger needs to be whatever you need at the time… able to make charming conversation, and look sexy enough so other men are jealous?"e;"e;That's the basic idea, except that she needs to make women jealous as well. And if she works out, she can learn to do a lot more than that. I'm telling you this because I like you and I think you have potential. I'm willing to let you have a chance to prove you are this real deal."e;"e;I'm game."e;He nodded. "e;Good. Tonight I have a dinner appointment. I want you to go with me. If things work out well then I'll have a chance to see you plying both aspects of your trade—the charming escort and deliciously wild whore. Most women can do both to some extent—the challenge is to find the point when you need to switch from one role to the other."e;"e;When you tell me to, right?"e;

She's beautiful, black and desperate to dance--Her name is Rice and she wants to feel alive, but Danny, her husband, seems to be settling down, growing jealous when other men even look at her, and she wants them to do much more than look. If Danny won't play, the promise of adventure with the boys in the band at the club might prove irresistible.~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~Rice stepped onto the dance floor and let the music seep into her bones, let the pulsing rock rhythm make her nerves twitch and the she started moving with it, dancing across the floor of the club with Danny trying to keep up with her. He wasn't the world's greatest dancer. He had some nice moves, but he didn't care that much about it. When it came to dancing Danny could take it or leave it, but for Rice, dancing was sexy and wonderful…freeing. She worked out regularly, but dancing kept her in shape too and it was a release.Other people in the club, mostly men, watched her move and she ate it up. She liked dressing so that they noticed her fine body. It was nice to be desired even though the looks often upset Danny. He seemed to be getting worse even though he knew acting jealous, showing it and getting angry at other men, pissed her off. Increasingly he didn't even seem to like getting out.Tonight she'd insisted. "e;I need a night of dancing,"e; she told him. "e;It's a night for dancing."e;"e;You like the way men look at you in that short skirt,"e; he said. "e;You enjoy parading that sleek ebony body around and knowing they want you."e;"e;And what's wrong with that? Isn't this sleek ebony body what attracted you to me? Maybe you should have married that Shirley from work. She had, probably still has, a crush on you. Fat as she is, she probably is still available and other men won't be chasing her and making you act like an asshole."e;"e;I just hate seeing other men hitting on you."e;She wasn't letting him get away with it again. "e;Well you don't have to see it. Stay home if you want…I'm going dancing. The club has a hot band playing. Great dance music from all eras. I can't get off on that but if you can't get up some enthusiasm for a night dancing I'm sure I can find someone to dance with."e;Of course then he had to go.Now, on the dance floor, she came into her own. It didn't matter if Danny was there or not. It didn't matter who she danced with or if she danced with anyone at all. The music infected her and took control. The songs were good ones and the band did decent covers.The band was a four piece. A tall girl played keyboard and sang some of the songs. A stocky young guy with long blond hair and piercing blue eyes played guitar and sang other times. They were both good. Two other fair-haired guys laid down funky rhythms with drums and bass. The group was tight.As she danced by the bandstand, with the girl singing CHAIN OF FOOLS (she wasn't Aretha, but the effort was good) the guitar player openly gave Rice a good looking over. Enjoying it, she shimmied a little extra when she was close to the bandstand, letting them know she didn't wear a bra under her silk blouse. Naturally Danny noticed and his dance movements became tighter. The guitar player said something to his band mates and they grinned back at him, and when the song ended, they immediately started in on a hot rendition of BROWN SUGAR. The guitar player sang it with great energy, looking right at Rice. She felt a warm glow from having his eyes on her.Charged, she put on a show for him, really shaking her ass, and running her hands over her body suggestively. If he wanted to play, well she knew and enjoyed the game.

Runtime: 68 minutesWhen Vanessa wrangles an invitation for the maiden voyage of the airship Venus, her intention is to get the billionaire inventor to support her political agenda. Neil Warren has a proposal too, for a company that will make clockwork-driven sex toys. This is an enjoyable steampunk-influenced romp containing intensely graphic sexual language and is strictly suitable for adults only.