[A sweet-and-sexy excerpt from Rock My Socks Off, an erotocomedic novel by Jeremy Edwards]

And while you’re at it, have a listen to the “Rock My Socks Off” theme song, written and performed by the author himself!

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‘I know a good car game,’ said Normandie as she drove them home.

‘It’s too dark to scout licence plates,’ said Jacob.

‘This is even better. This is where I tell you a sexual fantasy.’

‘Then again, the licence plates are illuminated.’

‘Jacob!’

‘All right, all right,’ he teased. ‘If you insist. Roll the fantasy.’

‘The sexual fantasy.’

‘Is there any other kind?’

‘Point taken.’ She cleared her throat. ‘My Sexual Fantasy. By Dr Normandie Stephens, age 30.’ She cleared her throat again.

‘Is the throat-clearing part of the fantasy?’

‘The throat-clearing is an optional bonus.’

‘Got it.’

‘And you shutting up now and listening is a mandatory proviso.’

He nodded, smiling. She twinkled at him.

‘I’ve always thought it would be very sexy to be played like an instrument. I mean, really like an instrument. For example, let’s say I’m on stage at the Symphony, on a bed – centre stage, of course –’

‘Of course. Oops – sorry, I wasn’t supposed to talk.’

‘Enthusiastic interjections are all right,’ she reassured him. ‘So anyway … the orchestra surrounds me. But there’s an instrument missing from their ranks. A solo instrument. A violin.’

‘Too bad. The patrons will probably all want refunds.’

‘They will not,’ said Normandie. ‘Because I am appearing in lieu of the violin. And a handsome man with very adept fingers – you, for instance – is appearing in lieu of the violinist.’

‘How does the conductor feel about this?’

‘In the fantasy, she’s the one who has suggested the whole thing.’

‘Ooh, I like your female conductor already. What happens next?’

‘You’ve been to classical concerts … people check their coats and take their seats, study their programmes.’

She swallowed, then looked over her shoulder to change lanes before resuming. ‘Finally, the house lights dim and the chatter devolves to a murmur. The conductor makes eye contact with me for a brief but intense instant, then with you. Then she turns to the rest of the orchestra and cues them to begin.’

‘Who is the composer?’

‘I think it’s Mozart. Mozart tickles so nicely.’

Jacob could hear the cheerful flow and surge of a Mozart score, and he was beginning to experience the excitement of what was to come.

‘They play for quite a few measures without you. You and I just look at each other, calmly, without touching. We are very confident on stage.’

‘What are we wearing?’

‘Really! You are so shallow. I take you to the Symphony to hear great music, and all you’re interested in is what people are wearing.’ She sighed in mock resignation. ‘If you must know, you are wearing your tux; whereas I am entirely naked, except perhaps for some suitable piece of symphonic jewellery.’

‘You’re always over-dressed,’ said Jacob, with a forced sigh of his own.

‘Your first solo happens around my right nipple.’

‘Is that ordinary right, or stage right?’

‘The nipple closest to you. With an expert feel – as it were – for every nuance of Wolfgang Amadeus’s rhythm, you greet and tease it, playing me note for note as the absent violinist would do upon his or her instrument.’

‘Clearly, I have the finer instrument.’

‘Thank you. Perhaps that’s why the violinist didn’t show up.’

‘My solo continues?’

‘No, it’s back to the orchestra now. You remove your hand.’

‘Aww.’

‘Well, let’s say you rest it on my hip.’

‘Which –’

‘The hip closest to you. We listen to the glorious music. My nipple is still tingling. It misses you, but Mozart has ensured your speedy return. I’m wet,’ she added, squirming in her seat.

‘I can tell.’

‘I’m wet in the fantasy, too.’

‘How convenient.’

‘I can feel my wetness beginning to pool – I’m naked except for the jewellery, remember – ’

‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

‘– and I know my juice is glistening under the lights. And now it’s time for your next solo. This time, you bring me both hands, and so both your old friend the stage right nipple and the shy little virgin stage left nipple become part of the score. Staccato tweaks … with legato strokes to my breast-flesh in counterpoint.’

‘Violins don’t do counterpoint.’

‘I’m a special violin. And every dumdedumdum in the piece is a sensual adventure for me and my little breasts. By the end of the solo, I’m writhing.’

‘Me, too,’ said Jacob. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to make it through the whole movement.’ He unzipped his trousers.

‘There you go,’ she said approvingly.

‘I feel bad, though. I get to come to your symphony, while you have to keep driving.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get mine.’

‘I promise it,’ said Jacob.

‘So do I. Now, this time we don’t have to wait as long for your next appearance. You tap neatly on my belly …’

‘Your sensuous belly.’

‘I’ll accept that. You tap neatly on my sensuous belly, as we wait out the few measures. You’re holding me at the ready, as a violinist might hold the violin, itching to play. Then …’

‘Yes?’ he hissed eagerly.

‘It’s time. And now you get to really show your talent. Upon my breasts, yes; but the melody doesn’t confine you to that. Not this time. One hand flutters down to where I’m wet, bringing the pulse of the music to those lips. The other hand travels freely as well, finding harmonics at the back of my knee … on the tip of a toe … oh, God, places only a great composer could imagine. And I … I … I need to pull over.’

Jacob never stopped stroking himself while Normandie concentrated on availing herself of the present exit, which offered them a deserted rest area. When she brought the car to a stop, she cut the engine and turned the dome light on. Then she undid her seatbelt.

‘Yes, you’re playing me like an instrument, bringing discrete moments of pleasure to every sensitive place on my body, then moving back and forth between them in ticklish glissandos, until I’m completely resonating with the music, my body singing with pleasure.’

Jacob had never heard such an erotic mouthful.

He was getting close, and he saw that Normandie had a hand in her pants. Judging from the motion of her wrist, her fingers were moving furiously.

‘You’re all over me, but, inevitably, your music hovers over my cunt. Your fingers pluck, then hold, controlling the tone, vibration, sustain, and duration of each note. You become slick with my resin.’

‘Ohh,’ said Jacob.

‘I’m buzzing from my ears, which have become flushed little tuning pegs, to my smooth, warm ass, which vibrates with every tone. Then, as the genius of Mozart brings all our senses to a peak, you, maestro, provide a masterstroke, finishing me off with one perfect, climactic quarter-note on my clit, and …’

She didn’t need to say anything else. They just sat there in their respective seats, a well-lit exhibit of abandonment. They rocked and jiggled cartoonishly, letting their own hands take them where Normandie’s vividly related fantasy had pointed.

‘Oh, fuck!’ said Normandie.

‘I’m coming,’ moaned Jacob, stating the obvious as his cream shot onto the dashboard.

‘Yes. Me … me … ahhhh!’ The car shook with her scream.

When they arrived home, Normandie undressed for bed while Jacob fussed with the stereo. Soon the room was brightened by an unseen orchestra.

‘You just lie there,’ said Jacob. ‘I need a minute to get into my tux.’

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About Rock My Socks Off

Writer Jacob Hastings is uninspired by his latest assignment: a museum full of hideous rocking horses. But his socks are rocked by Normandie Stephens, a mischievous astronomer who can match his dry wit, quip for quip, and his sexual appetite, frolic for frolic, with energy to spare.

Thanks to Jacob’s public relations and the machinations of a feisty and frisky mentor named Kate, an impasse in Normandie’s career promises to blossom into either glory or disaster—with enigmatic photographer Susan and obtuse clubber Brandon along for the wild rocking-horse ride. Between farcical talk show appearances, sensuous threesomes, horny little quickies, sex-drenched romantic getaways, and close calls with utter embarrassment, the pace never lets up in this smart erotic romp.

About Jeremy Edwards

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over fifty anthologies, including three volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series.

Jeremy’s work explores sex in its sunniest form. His explicit, quirky fiction celebrates joyful sensuality, libidinous urgency, offbeat romanticism, and the pleasures of language and laughter, with the focus on cerebral, sexually self-aware women and the men and women who adore them. His greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at www.jeremyedwardserotica.com

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