Ladies of Jamaica: an erotic anthology

By Andre LeMagne

A collection of erotic stories, set in Jamaica or with Jamaican heroines. They explore interracial themes. "My Jamaican Virgin" chronicles how a tender virgin violinist rapidly develops into a lusty woman, eager to experiment. "Spy on Me" is an erotic tale of espionage. "Extortion in Kingston" is a tale of non-consensual/reluctant sexual encounters that somehow lead to a happy ending. And finally, in "At First Sight", two strangers in a hotel discover, quite by accident, the joys of voyeurism and exhibitionism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andre LeMagne
• Release date: Jan 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310011092

Andre LeMagne

Andre LeMagne is a mysterious and reclusive dabbler in the arts, from writing erotica, to music and photography. As a writer, he struggles to navigate along the fine line between his devotion to classical form and refined use of language, on the one hand, and his overheated carnal impulses on the other. He lives in North America and plans to keep a low public profile until after the revolution.

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Ladies of Jamaica

Copyright 2015 Andre LeMagne

Published by Andre LeMagne at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

My Jamaican Virgin

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

At First Sight

Spy On Me

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Extortion in Kingston

Chapter One - Setting Up Shop

Chapter Two - Springing the Trap

Chapter Three - The Chickens Come Home To Roost

About Andre LeMagne

More books by Andre LeMagne

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Acknowledgments

The author would like to fondly acknowledge his cultural adviser, Cinnamon Swann, and his literary adviser, Amara Novi.

My Jamaican Virgin

Chapter One

Ten years had passed since I graduated from the Conservatoire national supérieur de musique et de danse in Lyon. I was a rising star in those days. I finally had a commission to write a symphony, from the The Orchestre National de Lyon. But even back then I was plagued by the distracted temperament that was to become such an obstacle, later in my life. I needed a refuge, a sanctuary in which to complete the work. And it was my friend Sebastian who provided it.

Sebastian was a Jamaican entrepreneur who had cultivated a network of business contacts in France. He was a cosmopolitan, a man who had acquired a taste for that which is good in French culture, including its music, and this had provided the opportunity for me to become acquainted with him after seeing him at numerous concerts and recitals. I bumped into him one late May morning at a café on the rue Stella. We drank espresso, and I found myself confiding in him that I was at my wits' end, unable to concentrate on my symphony because of an endless stream of distractions, not the least of which were two Parisien beauties named Fleure and Nanette.

That evening, I received a call from Sebastian, where he posed to me a solution. His neighbor in Jamaica had a guest house which was vacant. The neighbor was a music lover. He had already called her and obtained her consent. She was to provide me my sanctuary.

One week later, I boarded a plane, which stopped here and there before finally coming to rest on the tarmac at Norman Manley Airport. Mrs. Hewitt was there with her son, Leonard, to pick me up. She was a woman in her late sixties with a hardy, weather-beaten face and a beatific smile. She looked like an amalgam of different races, and wore her hair in a tight coil of braids. Leonard was tall, darker in complexion than his mother, with close-cropped hair and a shy grin.

We loaded my luggage into an old station wagon and set off into the hills north of Kingston, to a neighborhood called Sherbourne Heights. There Mrs. Hewitt lived in a rather impressive three-story abode. There were balconies on the second and third floors, each decorated with elaborate wooden lattice-work, faded white in color. And in the corner of the yard, down the hill. was my own little refuge, a guest house with studio, bedroom and bath, almost hidden by the palms that surrounded it.

That night I dined with Mrs. Hewitt and Leonard in the big house. She asked me questions about my symphony: Was it in minor or major key? What size orchestra? Were there fugues in it? I promised to keep her apprised of my progress. Leonard, as it turned out, was visiting on holiday, and planned to leave the following day for St. Lucia, where he lived and worked. And I revealed that the next day would be my thirty-third birthday. This prompted Mrs. Hewitt to break out a bottle of dark, sweet-tasting rum, which we drank until I became pleasantly tipsy and retired to my little place in the corner of the yard. 

The next days were productive ones. I spent them mostly alone in my little dwelling. The only sounds I heard were the pleasant natter of tropical birds and insects. Now and then I would emerge to explore the sprawling yard, which contained a small forest of palms and fruit trees. I noted tangerine, lime, coconut, pear, breadfruit, cherry, and others which I could not identify. At breakfast, lunch and dinner time, Mrs. Hewitt appeared with plates of food, a seemingly endless variety of local specialties: mackerel rundown and green bananas, callalloo and saltfish, curried goat, fried bammies, or stewed peas and rice with pig's tail for flavoring. Mrs. Hewitt patiently explained what each dish was, and sometimes, how to eat it. 

On the fourth day I was in a jovial mood, working on my scherzo, when I first heard the violin. I recognized Mozart's Sonata in E minor, without the piano accompaniment. It was coming from somewhere in the neighborhood. Intrigued, I poked my head out the door of my sanctuary to try to ascertain from where the sound was coming. I followed it along the ramshackle fence at the bottom of the hill, and at point where the decayed wood had sagged and broken, I stepped over it into the adjoining property. I was a bit trepidatious about trespassing on the neighbor's land, but my curiosity had gotten the better of me.

I passed through some bushes and saw the back wall of a tidy bungalow, painted a pale rose color. The sounds of the violin seemed to be coming from the side of the house. As I crept to the corner, intending to peer cautiously around it, the Mozart stopped, and one of the Brahms sonatas began. I have to say honestly that after all these years, I can't remember which one, but I remember the girl as if she were standing before me right now.

She stood barefoot upon a concrete patio, wearing cut-off jeans and a raspberry-colored top. She had smooth chestnut-colored skin and wore her hair in a little top knot; her right side was facing me, and her pretty round face was directed at her music stand, as her brow furrowed charmingly in concentration. She was slender, but her breasts were precociously full. Her posture was confident and assertive as she played. I guessed that she might be in her late teens.

She played the movement through until the end. I applauded. I hoped that it would not alarm her. She turned quickly and looked at me questioningly.

I'm very sorry to startle you, I said, but I heard you playing and I had to know who was making such lovely music. I extended my hand. My name is Georges.

She hesitated for a moment, then placed her violin bow on the music stand. She stepped toward me, shook my hand firmly and said, I'm Emma.

I'm a musician, too, Emma, I said. I'm a graduate of the conservatory in Lyons in France.

Emma's eyes widened in delight. Really? she asked. I just applied there! And to the Paris Conservatory, too!

Well, I wish you all success. For a while, I'm going to be your neighbor. I'm staying in Mrs. Hewitt's guest house. I'm in Jamaica to write a symphony.

Really? A symphony? May I see it?

Well, I've just started it. It's really only fragments at this point. But I hope to knit them together into something nice.

How exciting! I have always wondered what it must be like to compose.

I pondered my answer for a moment. Well... it's music, just like playing an instrument.

Will you show me later, then, Georges?

Of course, Emma. Just keep practicing. It will inspire me to write. I shook her hand again and returned through the palms and bushes to my little dwelling.

Chapter Two

Several days later I was in the middle of my scherzo again, when I heard a soft knock on the door. Come in, I said.

The door opened a little, and Emma's face peeped in. Are you busy? she asked.

Well, I'm writing, I replied, but you're welcome to visit.

Emma slipped through the door. That day she wore an emerald green blouse, a gray skirt, and sandals. She leaned over to peek at my score, which was sitting on the little table where I ate and composed. Where are the wind instruments? she asked.

Emma, these are just sketches. See here? I pointed at the score. I put them all on one system, like a piano reduction, in concert pitch. I'll fancy them up later on.

Oh, she replied. It looks like an organ part.

Yes! I said. A choir of winds is like an organ. But the parts have more individual character.

Emma looked at me and smiled brightly. I get it! she replied. She seated herself across from me at the table. In six weeks I have my auditions, she confided.

You're doing the Mozart and the Brahms?

And some other things, too. Emma replied. But those are the big ones. She looked around my little sanctuary.