The Torch Singer Ch. 01

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Hello my lovelies.

This story haunted me until I finally started to write it down. I will post the next chapter very soon, but since it is long with a gradual build up (it will be worth it), I thought it made sense to break it up a bit.

One quick note: we flash back to when some of these characters are very young. But before anyone reads too quickly and gets upset, let me assure you that no sex takes place until everyone is well over the age of 18. By the time it gets hot and heavy, all are consenting adults.

I tend to fall in love with some of my characters as they come to life, as if of their own free will. This story is no exception. I hope you feel the same way.

Okay, enough intro – on with the show. Please be sure to turn off your mobile phones during the performance.





[A musical composition that has a romantic or dreamlike quality, and is associated with the night.]

She moaned, rolling over onto her back. A fine sheen of sweat made her pale skin glisten like silver in the shafts of moonlight that filtered through the blinds. She kicked the sheets downward until her shapely legs and feet were uncovered. Her nightgown was still hiked up to her hips, and since she never wore panties to bed, her wet sex was exposed to the light breeze from the ceiling fan overhead.

Her climax, while good (aren’t they all?) was not quite fully satisfactory. It had sort of fizzled out at the end. Again.

Frankie adjusted the delicate straps of her silky chemise. She had high, firm, petite breasts topped by small pink nipples that turned rose red when hard and erect, like they were now as they rubbed against her nightie’s lace bodice. Her heartbeat was still rapid, the muscles of her flat, slender belly were still trembling. The young woman’s long lean thighs were damp and quivering. Yet she felt as restless and wide awake as she did before masturbating.

She shifted up slightly for a moment to sweep her long mane of platinum hair to the side. It was feeling prickly against her damp neck and back. Settling down onto her pillow, Frankie sighed, trying to push through her frustration. She slipped an index finger into her mouth, tasting her own juices.

Why wasn’t it working? Perhaps the trouble was the fantasy she’d been spinning while touching herself. Maybe it wasn’t enough to make her cum as hard as she needed to.

She’d been thinking about a young actor she saw last week in the Previews of a new off-Broadway production. He was scruffy, rock-star lean, and pretty hot with a “bad-boy edge” that she couldn’t help finding rather exciting. Frankie had imagined a scenario involving a sudden meeting backstage, followed by a feverish session of perfect cunnilingus before he roughly took her in a hard and fast fuck in his small, messy dressing room. He’d managed to bind her wrists together with a scarf, and hoisted her up on top of his make-up table. Impatient to access her sweet, throbbing center, he’d ripped her lacy panties apart.

But something kept going haywire with the fantasy. Frankie sighed again, louder this time, as she acknowledged what it was. The actor’s face kept changing into someone else’s.

Dammit! If only she could exorcise that demon. It had been more than ten years since she’d seen him in person. He’d certainly forgotten all about her by now.

Fucking Jake.

He’d become the benchmark against which all men needed to measure up. So far, none really had.

She might have been able to put him out of her mind, if he hadn’t become, well… famous.

But of course he had – she’d always known he would. There had always been something special, something extraordinary, about Jake. Even when they first met as kids – Frankie was no more than eight and Jake merely twelve – she knew he was destined for great things.

She idolized him at first, finding herself drawn to him whenever he was at their house, which turned out to be very often. Frankie loved her goofy, affectionate brothers, but Jake was always the one who picked her up when she took a spill on her bike, or helped her to dislodge a splinter or patch up a scraped knee. Jake never patronized her. He laughed at her jokes and always gave her the toys he won from the crane claw machine game in the lobby at the movie theater. (She still had every one, they sat in a place of honor on a shelf in her apartment even now.)

And it was Jake who taught her to love music. The fact that she was a singer now was due almost entirely to his influence. At first, she feigned an interest in music as an excuse to spend more time with him, but the pretense very soon became a reality – and she found herself gripped in a passion that equaled his. He always swore that her natural instincts and musical taste were flawless.

Whether it was this shared obsession that changed the chemistry between them, or something more that drew them together, Frankie still could not say. But over time a different Çankaya travesti kind of bond developed between the pair. Her feelings shifted from a simple childish crush, to something more mature. She was mesmerized by his good looks, and awed by his natural grace and athleticism. He seemed mysteriously wise and was unfailingly kind. His sharp mind and laser-focused awareness sent chills through her. But it was the music inside him that truly captured her heart. She felt it vibrating through her.

And then she noticed that the fascination seemed to become mutual. By the time Frankie was reaching her teens, though Jake was some four years older, he’d seek her out as often as she did him. At least that is how she remembered it. The hours they’d spent by the piano discussing his early compositions were precious memories. He seemed to really value and respect her opinions. She had never felt so alive, or so filled with purpose. He’d become the center of her little world, and Frankie was sure that he felt something other than brotherly affection for her.

There were magical moments when Jake would grow still, and his gorgeous eyes would fix on hers. The sound of her beating heart seemed deafening. Though completely inexperienced, she knew what her young body was trying to tell her. How she wanted for him to reach out; to touch her the way she wanted to be touched. To feel his lips on hers, insistent, loving.

But she never did.

Brutally, he disappeared from her life quite suddenly, before anything real ever happened between them. But the emotional damage was well and truly done. It was as if he’d ruined her for other men.

After Jake had gone, Frankie grieved for a long time. She spent hours listening to the Blues, crying in her room. Eventually, though, at the urging of her friends, she tried to become interested in other boys.

She dutifully went on double dates, went to the formals and the Prom, and even had a boyfriend for a while in college. It was her Sophomore year.

His name was James; he was a Senior, played the piano, was tall and dark haired, like Jake. That may be why she allowed him, after they’d been dating for almost two months, to take her virginity. She’d been drinking too much, and decided that it was time. Poor James tried his best to make it lovely, but all Frankie could remember was the pain, the blood, and the guilt and humiliation she felt afterward. While she enjoyed his company, and liked going out as a couple with their friends, she didn’t really want him the way he wanted her.

They continued to see each other for a few months, and they tried again a few times, but Frankie never really got comfortable enough to orgasm. When James graduated, they drifted apart. She didn’t mind. It was sort of a relief to not have to worry about someone’s expectations when she knew she didn’t have it in her to fulfill them. It made her feel like there was something wrong with her – like she was frigid.

Except that she wasn’t, because she’d often have incredible wet dreams and fantasies. Unfortunately, they’d all be about Jake.

She moved to New York City after graduation. Frankie went on dates from time to time when someone nice and attractive charmed her or was particularly persistent – but they all seemed to fall short. Their earnest attentions and kisses could be delightfully distracting, and sometimes that was enough for a little while.

Eventually, though, Frankie would find herself imagining their eyes a different color, wishing for a deeper, sexier voice, a more sculpted set of lips, a different, more graceful pair of hands. Above all, she sorely missed the music she’d felt inside – the music she’d felt when she had been with Jake.

She had an entire playlist of his romantic, haunting award-winning compositions on her smartphone. She carried it with her always. His music was full of wit, sensuality and melancholy, and Frankie felt as if she knew how he’d been feeling when he wrote each one. As a conductor, Jake teased astounding performances out of his orchestras. Violins wept, pianos sang in fervent or plaintive tones, percussion sections formed a beating heart, the woodwinds hummed with excitement or sighed with longing. The albums were great, and moved her to laugh and cry, but it wasn’t the same as being in the presence of the real thing.

So now, whenever she caught an actual glimpse – however distant – of the talented, incredibly handsome and accomplished man Jake had become, she was unable to stop herself from savoring each moment.

When she saw him featured in an industry magazine talking about his work; appearing on TV or YouTube passionately conducting some brilliant concert; or showing up, movie-star beautiful in his stylish formal wear at some broadcast awards show, she would be transfixed.

Sometimes Frankie read or heard things he said that reminded her of long-ago conversations, and foolishly allowed herself to fancy for a moment that he was Dikmen travesti somehow talking to her, composing for her, playing for her, as he had when they were young. She wondered if he ever thought about her.

But then she’d mentally shake herself for being silly, and try to focus on reality. It was absurd to delude herself that Jake still remembered some flat-chested, infatuated little girl he knew more than a decade ago.

Yeah, as if. Wasn’t he dating some famous model or other? Tragic.

But like a junkie desperate for a fix, whenever she was able, she’d cut out stories about him or download his clips and videos. Like some pathetic, love sick loser, her willpower would break and she’d climb eagerly into bed, madly touching herself as she fantasized about looking into those piercing blue eyes, kissing those perfectly carved lips, feeling those talented hands all over her body.

He’d say her name in his deep velvet voice, locked in each other’s gaze, like when they were just teenagers. Jake would finally tell Frankie that he loved her, and only her, all along. This time, they would act on all of those feelings – their bodies would cleave to one another – fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

Jake would crush her to him, and she’d have to stand on tiptoes to reach him. His hard body would be unyielding as his straining erection would grind insistently into her pussy through their clothes. She’d hear him growl deep in his throat as his lips slammed down on hers in a fierce kiss, demanding nothing short of her complete surrender. One of his dexterous, strong hands would cup her petite heart-shaped ass, holding her lower body tight to his as the other hand cradled her head to prevent her from escaping. His tongue would plunge deeply into her mouth with a promise of how he’d soon be penetrating her –

Her hands were again working frantically – two fingers sliding roughly in and out of her dripping tunnel as the other rubbed slick circles around her hard little pearl. She exploded- the reverberating waves causing her slender frame to shudder convulsively. Frankie saw flashes of light behind her eyelids and cried the name of her first love into the night as she came again – this time violently. This was the release she’d been craving. At last.

As her body slowly recovered, she laughed almost bitterly at herself. After all this time, the thought of him was the only thing that could bring her to this kind of climax; he was the only one she…

Frankie couldn’t finish that thought.

Fatigue finally taking hold, she pushed down the hem of her nightie and reached for the sheet, pulling it back up over her cooling skin. As she turned to her right side, shaping the pillow to fit comfortably to her neck and head, a single tear ran from the corner of her eye to leave a little wet spot on the crisp white case.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, she murmured “Fucking Jake…” once more. She sighed contentedly this time, finally sated.



[A short piece of music preceding a more substantial work, or an introduction too brief to be called an overture.]

Frankie’s real name was Francesca, but only her mom called her that. By the time she was in elementary school she insisted people call her by the more masculine nickname, because the sound of “Fran” or “Franny” always made her feel ill.

Besides, she was all tomboy… well, on the inside, at least. Being surrounded by two older and one younger brother pretty much guaranteed that would be the case, even if she hadn’t been so inclined to begin with. But who can tell with such things how much is nature and how much is nurture?

Everyone said their father was a dead ringer for Jon Voight. Unfortunately, he was also a first-class abusive jerk who split a year after her little brother Joey was born – when Frankie was four years old. So their mom, Alice, had to work for a living. That meant she didn’t have the time to assert her feminine influence during her daughter’s formative years. Frankie ran around with her brothers and their friends, clad in sneakers, beat up hand-me-down blue jeans and tee shirts while the other little girls in the neighborhood wore dresses and ribbons in their hair. She collected frogs and turtles the way the other girls collected Barbie dolls.

Boyish though she was, she never allowed anyone to cut her long, white-blond hair. That was the one female vanity she’d retained – though on most days it was confined to a single plait or a pair of flaxen braids that fell all the way down her back.

By the time Frankie was in middle school, Alice despaired she’d never become interested in the usual dresses, dances and boy-watching that preoccupied her peers. While loving her only daughter’s independent spirit, she would have also liked it if Frankie had a few friends who were girls. She worried that her daughter might end up being one of the tough-talking, undisciplined townies that were Eryaman travesti so plentiful in her blue collar Massachusetts neighborhood.

It crossed her mind briefly that Frankie may not actually “like” boys – but as she started paying closer attention, she saw that her daughter seemed to get nervous and excited around Jake, a particularly handsome friend of her eldest son, Bobby.

Jake was tall and lanky, with hair so dark it was nearly black. He looked keenly at the world through stunning, ice blue eyes. He was what people call an “old soul”. An only child in another single mother household, he was a precocious boy, wise beyond his years, and was a genuine musical prodigy. Jake practically lived at her house, becoming a sort of adopted member of the family.

Alice had an old upright piano that her parents had given her. It took a place of honor in their well-worn little living room. None of her children ever learned to play it. But Jake, who spent hours at their house every day, divided his time between hanging with her kids and pounding away on that piano. He actually learned to play and tune it himself, and Alice became aware over time that the music drifting from the living room started off as childlike songs, but ended up being Joplin, Gershwin and Thelonious Monk, and then later Rachmaninoff, Satie and Glass.

And soon, she started hearing music that she’d never heard before – a sound that was very original.

She also noticed that Frankie developed a love for music, too, particularly Blues and Jazz. Music seemed to establish a bond between Jake and her only daughter. Frankie would sit on the floor, eyes closed, her back to the piano, while Jake played and talked to her about the composers and musicians he loved. The other boys would be out playing stickball or riding their bikes around the neighborhood, while Jake and Frankie stayed in, rain or shine, huddling around old sheet music scattered across the living room rug.

Alice knew better than to worry about anything untoward going on. She would have trusted Jake with her life. She still, however, arranged regular little interruptions. Because though she trusted Jake, she didn’t entirely trust male hormones – or female ones, to be honest. These were the days during which Frankie started to blossom into womanhood before their very eyes.

Soon, her little girl was spending half her allowance on old LPs of great singers. Frankie would hole up for hours in her room listening to Billie Holliday, Etta James and Nina Simone. These legendary divas succeeded where so many others had failed before. They turned Frankie into a lady.

The transformation was remarkable. Suddenly, gone were her cut off shorts and scraped knees, and in their place were lovely, thrift store vintage dresses and the whiff of cologne.

Her brothers mercilessly teased her, uncomfortable to suddenly realize they had a sister in their midst. It was as though she’d somehow betrayed them. Frankie simply ignored them, their taunts beneath her notice, but it didn’t make any difference. Alice was concerned that she’d have to intervene at some point if the boys didn’t stop tormenting her.

One day in late August, while she was making dinner, Alice heard an ungodly commotion and a couple of screams that drew her running from the kitchen to their postage stamp-sized front yard.

She saw an enraged Jake, fists still clenching at his sides, standing over Bobby, who was flat on his back in the patchy grass, cradling a bloodied nose with mud-stained hands. Joey and her second-oldest, Brian, whose hands were likewise caked with mud, were staring wide-eyed at the scene, the garden hose making a puddle at their feet. Frankie stood apart from them by the front gate, her rose-printed dress was dripping wet and torn; mud was splattered on her cheek and along the bodice of her frock. Unlike the others, her tear filled eyes were locked on Jake with a look akin to hero worship.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what had been going on. Alice gently sent Jake home to cool off, suggested Frankie go clean up and change clothes, and made the other three boys come sit with her in the kitchen while she tended to Bobby’s nose and gave them a piece of her mind.

Alice never yelled. But the cold fury in her voice was enough to make her sons cower. She talked for a long while about concepts like honor, respect, and what it meant to be a man. Her sons were grave and quiet, ashamed and genuinely sorry. They truly did love their sister. They answered honestly, describing with regret what they originally intended to be a goofy prank to spray her with the hose, but ended up getting out of hand. The three boys were assured that they would all be on dishwashing, housework and lawn duty for the foreseeable future.

Bobby, though smarting over being bloodied and bested by Jake, was miserable that he’d disappointed one of his close friends, not to mention his kid sister. Her eldest son admitted that Jake, despite punching him in the nose, behaved more nobly than he had. Alice was relieved to hear that her words were not falling on deaf ears.

Two things never happened again after that night: The boys never teased Frankie, and Jake never came back to the house.

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