The Taste of Her: Volume 2

Table Of Contents

Other books in The Taste of Her Series

A Good Show

Candy Topping

A Different View

Ephemera

Last Stand

About Jess Lea

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

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Other books in The Taste of Her Series

The Taste of Her — Volume 1

The Taste of Her — Volume 2

The Taste of Her

Volumes 1 and 2 in one compendium

(paperback)

A Good Show

The dressing room door slammed shut. Jacky thrust the blonde woman up against it and yanked her short white dress up over her buttocks. They were large, pale, and soft, crammed enticingly into ripped fishnet tights and pink cotton underwear. Printed across the back of her knickers, and surely visible from across the room, were the words Handle With Care.

The woman swivelled her head back for a second to look Jacky up and down. Her face was flushed, and she was smirking as she allowed herself to be turned firmly around again so that her brow, her spread hands, and her full breasts were all pressed against the door. Like the rest of the room, it was papered with layers of tattered bill posters: for the Clash, the Slits, Poly Styrene, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. There were phone numbers and lewd messages scrawled in lipstick—coral, burgundy, shocking pink.

Jacky pressed her wiry body, clad in ripped denim and well-worn leather, up against her companion. She shut her eyes, relishing the feel of the other woman’s pillowy flesh. The odour of exhilarated sweat and the clinging sharpness of cigarette smoke combined with the sweetness of Aqua Net hairspray and Poison perfume.

She pursed her lips and blew a teasing breath into the other woman’s ear. What’s your name?

I’m Lana. The woman’s sky-blue nails were splayed on either side of her face, half covering a glossy print of Annie Lennox. Her magnificent arse was pushing backwards, inviting Jacky’s attention; Jacky gave it an appreciative squeeze.

Bit of a cliché, getting so randy after a gig. But it had been a good one. The band had been on fire; Jacky had felt each note thrumming inside her and shaking the stage under her Docs. And tonight’s pub crowd had felt it too, bodies moving in time to Jacky’s voice as she growled and wailed and crooned. She might have been conducting them with every jab of her finger and jerk of her narrow hips, spurring her fans to whirl and shriek with release, holler the lines back at her, or fall into a breathless silence as she paused over each word in the final refrain. They’d been with her all the way, surfing the same waves of sound and sweat.

Now Jacky’s chest was straining with excitement, her skin drenched beneath the leathers, her spiked and shaggy black hair dripping. Her throat was raw and her body ached, but her head was still whirring. There would be no slowing down or sleep tonight.

She pulled back her companion’s mop of teased, peroxided hair and dragged her tongue up along the tender whorl of the woman’s ear, making the half-dozen silver sleepers rattle softly together. Then she worked those fishnets down to her visitor’s knees, earning her an all-body quiver. Well, that’s lovely.

She slipped her hand inside Lana’s knickers. Lana was already wet and jolting at every touch of Jacky’s fingers. Her underwear was soaked through. Jacky wondered when this sweet deluge had started. During the show, while Jacky had strutted, spun, and howled under those pounding red and blue stage lights? During their dance beside the throbbing speakers, with a squeeze of Lana’s hand as Jacky tugged her away to somewhere more private? During those kisses outside the dressing room, all giggles and sleaze and wandering hands, Jacky’s mind already halfway on what would happen inside?

Hell, maybe Lana just liked the idea of letting her knickers down for someone who’d once opened for the Ramones. Jacky didn’t mind that.

She rolled calloused guitar-player’s fingers round and round Lana’s straining clit, getting it good and slippery. The red bandana around Jacky’s wrist was rubbing back and forth in the cleft between Lana’s outer lips. Jacky wondered if the fabric would smell of her later; she hoped so. Her mouth was pressed to the stranger’s ear, pulling gently at the sleepers and whispering filthy sweet nothings, while Lana wriggled and her moans reverberated around the room. She wasn’t shy, this one. Good. The louder the better.

Part of Jacky would have liked nothing better than to finish it now, just like this: her hand pumping out of sight down Lana’s pants, her hips grinding into Lana’s lovely big arse, her body draping over Lana’s from head to toe, as if shielding what was left of her modesty as Lana thrashed and groaned and came shamelessly fast.

But that wasn’t enough. Jacky wanted to put on a better show than that, wanted nothing but the best for her girl.

For Rose.

She reached back with her free hand, tugging restlessly at the studded leather belt that held up her skintight jeans. The seam was cutting up between Jacky’s buttocks and rubbing a hot groove down the length of her crotch.

You okay, Jacky? Lana panted, and turned back to catch a glimpse. At the question, Jacky deliberately glowered, took Lana by the back of her neck, and pressed her forehead to the door, just below an old signed flyer of Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Stay there.

After a step back, she tugged down the zipper of Lana’s white dress, exposing a creamy back with a scattering of freckles. Jacky took a moment to admire the extreme smoothness of Lana’s generous flesh, the way it cushioned her hips and upper arms. There was a neat little tattoo behind Lana’s left shoulder: a rusted padlock split open by a blooming rose.

Jacky stared. She knew the original version of that tattoo very well; it was inked over Rose’s heart. No one else saw it nowadays, and the last time Rose had mentioned it was in an interview three years ago. This girl must be a genuine fan, then.

Had Lana heard the rumours about what else went on in Jacky Taylor’s dressing room? Was that the real reason she was here?

The possibility sent through her a fresh surge of excitement. She popped Lana’s bra hooks open and slid her hands around and beneath the fabric to squeeze and strum those gorgeous, plump treasures.

Lana’s breasts flowed over her palms, the large nipples stiffening further between her fingers as they brushed against the posters. Jacky kept her movements slow, pausing now and then to draw the tiniest circles around the ridges of Lana’s crinkled peaks.

Rose always enjoyed that.

She pushed the dress and bra straps off Lana’s shoulders until the fabric fell around her waist. Her roughened hands caressed Lana’s tender skin and again cupped and fondled her heavy breasts. She ran her palms lightly over Lana’s shoulders, belly, and throat, and arousal flared up at how the spiked leather bracelets on her left wrist snagged against those erect nipples, which caught Lana’s breath.

I must be making an impression, eh? Jacky teased. Then she dropped to her knees and tore those tights and knickers all the way down to Lana’s ankles.

It would have made one hell of an album cover: Jacky Taylor kneeling on the concrete floor, guitar discarded in the corner, wearing through the frayed denim over her knees, the soles of her boots curling back on either side of her tight buttocks. And above her, Lana was grinding her tits against the door and pushing her hips back as far as she could. Her flesh rippled deliciously as Jacky squeezed her full, dimpled cheeks and spread them, then ran her tongue up the salty crevice in between.

She was sweating. Jacky shed her leather jacket with an impatient movement and flung it away. Then she manoeuvred her new lover’s hips until she had Lana poised just the way she wanted her and worked her long, wriggling tongue deep into Lana’s cunt.

"Jacky, Jacky…" Salt molasses filled Jacky’s mouth, and Lana’s voice sounded in a breathless chant, reminding her of the girls who’d whooped and shrieked in front of the stage tonight. Getting a woman that bloody happy was the best feeling in the world. Most boys joined a band hoping to get the girls, but for Jacky, it had been the other way around. All those women who’d whispered and screamed her praises in her shabby little bedsit flat—in parked cars, in alleyways, in darkened corners at parties—had given her