FalltoPieces Page 2
Polly perched on the edge of one of the two chairs in front of the desk.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Polly. I like your sound. I like it a lot.”
Polly wanted to squeal with delight. She forced herself to remain calm. Professional. “Thank you.”
Mallory crossed her arms just under her breasts. “How tied to your bandmates are you?”
“I… I feature with the band. They do other gigs without me.”
“Fabulous,” Mallory said. “I’m interested in starting an all-girl rockabilly band. I think you’d be a perfect lead singer.”
“All-girl? Produced by you?” Polly wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Where do I sign?”
Mallory’s blue eyes sparkled with a glint that bordered on mischievousness. She whirled and sat behind her desk once more. “Before you sign there’s a delicate matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
Polly dampened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. Nerves tangled in her belly. “Delicate?”
Mallory stood again and quietly closed the office door. “I want you to know that I’ve done my homework. I know you’re a lesbian.”
A shard of defiance fired through Polly. She gripped the armrests, intent on standing. Her sexuality was not something she wanted to either hide or flaunt. It certainly wasn’t on the table as a bargaining chip.
“Hear me out,” Mallory said quickly. “This isn’t going to be what you think. I promise you that.”
Polly relaxed, but only a little as Mallory eased back into her chair.
“You know as well as I that the country music scene, the fans especially, can be quite unforgiving when it comes to performers who are, shall we say, outside their conservative values.”
Polly nodded.
Mallory continued. “But country is evolving. There are far more crossover musicians than ever before. That said, I don’t think the fans are quite ready for what I have in mind for the Honkytonk Angels.”
Sensing the producer was alluding to something far deeper than sexuality, Polly scooted back in her seat and awaited an explanation.
“I want a cohesive unit of women, specially trained for the rigors of touring, of fame—because, believe me, you will achieve fame in this group—who can keep a handle on their private lives, can field interview questions and who are ready to rise to the top.”
Polly cleared her throat. “Trained?”
A smile played at the corners of Mallory’s lips. “Are you familiar with the BDSM lifestyle?”
“The…the what?” Polly stammered. Had she heard the woman correctly? Did Mallory intend for them to parade about the stage, brandishing whips while dressed in garters and corsets?
The idea of it railed against everything for which she stood. She almost laughed out loud imagining telling this to her women’s studies colleagues.
She’d always aspired to reach an audience with her music. But not at that cost.
“Have you delved in it?” Mallory asked.
“How do you mean?” Polly inquired. This opportunity was too great to up and walk out before she heard everything the woman had to say. “Sure. I’ve been blindfolded and tied up a couple of times.”
Mallory’s smile spread. “That’s a start. But I’m talking about the lifestyle. About submitting to a professional dominatrix.”
The statement stunned Polly in its bluntness. Even as she absorbed the meaning of it her nipples tightened against the rough lace of her bra. Her clit pulsed and she shifted in her seat, trying to assuage this lust-edged desire.
Since her early teens she’d considered herself a feminist. Strong. Capable. And yet heat rippled up her spine and flared around her neck and through her cheeks.
Everything inside her urged her to flee, to seek production and representation elsewhere. To hold on to the person she knew herself to be. But the darker side of her—that side that had never admitted just how much she’d enjoyed those bonds and blindfolds—kept her rooted to her seat.
She could scarcely swallow. “I-I don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”
Mallory leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers in front of her chest. “I’m asking if you’ll submit to being trained by a dominatrix.”
Chapter Two
Polly picked at the condensation-drenched label on her beer bottle. “She asked me if I’d submit to this dominatrix chick from her club. Apparently there’s one of those in Nashville, just in case you didn’t know.”
Sherri’s smile was smug. Too smug.
Realization dawned on Polly. “You’ve done it. Oh my God. She sent you to a dominatrix!”
“Not so loud,” Sherri said, although no one could have heard their conversation over the harmonizing singers on the corner stage at Rippy’s.
The floor-to-ceiling windows had been thrown open, releasing the mouthwatering aroma of Southern barbeque onto Lower Broadway. Tourists and locals alike filled the high-top tables and flanked the bar, enjoying live music and smoked-to-perfection pulled pork.
Sherri turned her beer up and finished it off. “Besides, there wasn’t much talking me into it. It’s not what you think.”
That was just the thing. Since her meeting with Mallory Polly had done an awful lot of thinking about submission. Out of blatant curiosity she’d watched a couple of videos online. She’d read every website that didn’t look sketchy. Short of discussing it with her women’s studies classmates she’d learned everything about it possible.
What disturbed her the most was her out-of-control libido. Time and time again she’d broken out her favorite vibrator and fantasized about relinquishing all control, imagined being bound, spanked, petted, all by a powerful, sexy woman.
She’d hoped for that meh feeling that would have allowed her to walk away, pride intact. Surprisingly her orgasms had been far more intense. Not to mention more frequent.
At the same time, far less satisfying.
Her fantasies only made her hungry to experience it in the flesh. For real. Would it be the same? Better?
Or terrifying?
Sherri leaned in close. “I still have a Domme.”
“You’re kidding.” Polly’s lips parted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not really the sort of thing you go around making small talk about.” Sherri laughed. “I meet her once a month and in between sessions we have…internet sex.”
Polly’s eyes widened as she absorbed this new information about her friend. The pretty blonde bartender popped the cap off a beer and slid it in front of Sherri before moving on to her next customer.
“It’s good. It’s safe. Kind of a stress reliever, giving all your control over to another person,” Sherri explained.
“Oh wow! It’s Sherri Clark!” a giggling girl said as she approached. “Would you mind taking a picture with me?”
“Of course not,” Sherri said as she flashed a practiced smile and put her arm around the excited fan’s shoulders while the girl’s friend took a couple of shots with her phone.
After signing a napkin for each of the fans Sherri thanked them and then turned back to Polly. “This life can get wild. There are a lot of demands—not just from the industry, but from the public. Signing autographs and smiling for pictures can weigh on you after a while. And don’t get me started about dealing with the crazy haters! My sessions relieve that stress and better prepare me for the shit-ton of orders I take from producers, agents, other musicians, the whole mess.”
Polly gnawed her bottom lip. “The idea of submission goes against everything I believe.”
“Don’t knock it ’til you try it.” Sherri’s eyebrow arched. “Besides, these pros are discreet. Nobody’ll ever know unless you tell them.”
“Apparently so discreet your best friend doesn’t even know.” Polly rolled the pieces of the wet label into a ball.
“Just try it.” Sherri elbowed her playfully. “You know you’re secretly dying to let go of some of that feminist-mystique bullshi
t.”
“It’s not bullshit.”
“Bullshit,” Sherri said emphatically. “It’s okay to be weak, to be vulnerable. To let somebody else take control for a while.”
Polly didn’t have an argument. She had leaned far toward the militant side of her beliefs. Maybe too far.
“If you don’t at least try it you’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”
The blonde returned and set a couple of barbeque sandwiches in front of them. “Y’all want some extra sauce for those?”
“I’ll have some,” Sherri said, watching the bartender’s cutoff-clad bottom as she walked away to get the sauce. She slid her gaze to Polly’s. “It makes it easier for me to stay out of trouble. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit on a straight girl and then laid wide awake all night hoping the press wouldn’t find out.”
“I don’t know…”
“Look at it as research with the side benefit of earth-shattering orgasms and a recording contract.”
“Damn it, Sher. You’re not making this easier.” But already Polly knew what she wanted to do. Her pulse accelerated and she felt a tightening in her throat that this could really happen to her. Erotic sensation welled in her chest. The rough shame, the taboo of forbidden acts. She’d never really imagined she’d be here, making the decision to meet a woman whose sole purpose was to dominate her. “Is there…is there sex?”
“That’s between you and your Mistress. Everything you want or don’t want will be agreed to in a contract up front.”
Mistress…
The mere word had Polly squeezing her thighs together. The truth was, in spite of everything, she did want this. She wanted it bad.
What’d she have to lose? In fact she had everything she’d ever wanted to gain. A music career. Sex with no emotional strings attached. Polly laughed nervously. “I can’t believe I’m considering this.”
“Who’d Mal set you up with?”
“I have her card here in my bag.” Polly reached in her retro clutch and withdrew a business card. There were no high heels. No logos of whips or handcuffs. Only a name and a phone number emblazoned in a raised, black cursive font on a plain pink background. But she didn’t have to look at the card. She’d memorized the name. “Vivien Blackheart.”
“Vivien Blackheart?” Sherri echoed and arched an eyebrow. “Lucky you.”
* * * * *
Polly’s heart beat in her throat as she hurried up the sidewalk to the café where she’d arranged to meet Vivien Blackheart.
She’d exhausted a web search in hopes of finding at least one photo of the woman, but her future Mistress’ website was viewable only by invitation. So far all Polly had to go on was her voice.
If the woman looked anything like she sounded… Over the phone her voice was laced with mystery, devoid of a regional accent, soft as black velvet but not lacking in authoritarian firmness.
She hadn’t wanted to chitchat. She simply told Polly where to be and when to be there. Then she’d hung up.
At first Polly had been taken aback at the abrupt, unfriendly phone encounter. But then again, this woman was a dominatrix. Mallory Hayes wasn’t paying Vivien to be sugary sweet.
Doubt flared in Polly’s gut as she neared the café in the trendy Gulch area of Nashville.
Vivien had told Polly she’d know her when she saw her, striking more trepidation in Polly’s heart. Would the woman be dressed all in black? Stockings and garters and high heels?
Polly gulped and pulled open the café door. At once the nutty aroma of coffee wafted around her, soothing her senses, but only temporarily.
A stunningly beautiful, black-haired woman sat at one of the tables. She looked as if she’d stepped straight out of a film noir flick from the fifties. Glossy, red lips stood out in striking contrast against her flawless ivory complexion. Perfectly arched eyebrows framed thickly lashed eyes. A tiny mole, accentuated with dark pencil, dotted one high cheekbone. She would have looked severe were it not for the shiny, soft waves of her shoulder-length black hair and the feminine cut of her retro-style floral-print dress.
She straightened as Polly came into the café.
It was too late to turn back now. Besides, Polly was too intrigued to walk out. Shaking, she approached the table. “Miss Blackheart?”
“Sit.”
Without question, Polly dropped into the chair opposite. She’d intended to show this woman that she wasn’t a simpering weakling, that she wasn’t her typical client. She’d already blown it.
“Your test results?” Vivien held out her hand.
“Oh those. Yes, I have them.” Polly plunged her hand into her purse and produced an envelope containing a clean bill of health from the MTSU infirmary.
Vivien didn’t open it. Instead she slid a similar envelope across the table to Polly, who slipped it into her purse.
Vivien raised her hand. “Server.” Her tone brooked no refusal. At once a young man darted to their table.
“You may order,” Vivien said to Polly.
May order? What the fuck? “I-I’ll have a mocha and…and a slice of chess pie,” Polly stammered as she glanced over the server’s shoulder to the chalkboard menu.
“Anything else for you, ma’am?” the server asked Vivien.
“No. Thank you.” Her lips pursed into a smile that faded as soon as he turned his back.
Polly resisted the urge to squirm as the dominatrix’s gaze moved over her.
Vivien blotted her lips with her napkin. “I assume from your agreeing to this meeting and coming here that you are willing to participate in this arrangement.”
“Uh…yes.” Although Vivien didn’t appear to be much older than Polly she was so beautiful and sophisticated, Polly felt like a blubbering schoolgirl in her presence. Any courage she’d possessed prior to coming here slipped out of her grasp like a helium-filled balloon on the rise.
“Very well. Then I’ll not waste your time with idle twaddle. After our meeting today, if I permit you to submit to me, you must agree to my terms.”
Polly nodded.
“I am your Mistress. Not your girlfriend. Not your confidante. And not your lover. This is non-negotiable.”
“Okay…” Polly could see where some clients might hope for more.
Vivien’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I will require strict monogamy from you during your training period. We can renegotiate our business relationship when that is over if you and I so choose.”
“Strict monogamy?”
“Your training will involve a certain amount of sexual domination and submission. That is why I have asked you to bring your test results today and why I shared mine with you. During the training, you are not to engage in sexual activity with anyone but me.” Vivien sipped her coffee as if they were discussing the boarding of a pet rather than sexual submission.
Polly nodded. She wanted to offer that it wouldn’t be a problem since she hadn’t been in a relationship—period—in the last six months.
After her last breakup she’d decided she wouldn’t settle for anything less than someone who met all the criteria on her list. And it was a long list. But in her circle of college lesbians and butchy musicians, her top three standards—confidence, class and attractiveness—were hard to come by.
Vivien’s gaze lifted from her cup and Polly was stunned by the depth of her green eyes. “If you lie to me—even once—our contract will be terminated.”
The server returned with Polly’s mocha and pie. “Enjoy,” he said before darting off again.
“In private I will require you to call me Ma’am. If by chance you see me out in public you will use my given name.”
“Yes Ma’am…uh…Vivien.” A wave of heat rushed up Polly’s neck at the mention of the dominatrix’s name.
“If you have a problem with our relationship or if your needs are not being met I expect you to discuss them with me prior to our next session. I will become very impatient with you if I sense you are withholding information.”
“If I text you, phone you, email you, you must respond immediately. Failure to do so will result in punishment I assure you will have you thinking twice about making me wait in the future.”
Heat unfurled in Polly’s stomach and snaked its way between her legs.
“You are not to drink or smoke prior to or during our sessions. If I smell it on you, you will be dismissed. On your own time you can do as you please.” Vivien refrained from speaking as the server passed by their table.
When he was sufficiently out of earshot she continued. “If we have sexual contact it will be because I desire it. Do not mistake it for love or a show of commitment. If I touch you sexually it will be because I desire it. Not because I am attracted to you or wish to have a relationship with you or out of reciprocation. In turn you will be respected and prized. I will do my utmost to see to all your submissive needs,” Vivien told her. “Do you agree to my terms?”
Polly uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Her clit throbbed and dampness pooled in her panties. Why was this turning her on? She shouldn’t be looking forward to such an arrangement, to being humiliated, degraded…cherished.
This is crazy. Get out of here. Tell Mallory Hayes to go fuck herself. “Yes.” Polly heard her own voice as if it were far away. “I agree.”
Vivien gave her the same fleeting smile she’d bestowed on the server. “Very well. Now go in the bathroom, remove your panties and bring them back to me.”
“My pa—”
“Go.”
Polly hadn’t expected this to happen so quickly. She debated telling her just that. She considered refusing, even lying that she wasn’t wearing any.
If you lie to me—even once—our contract will be terminated.
Her pussy squeezed around its own emptiness as she stood. Slick fluid seeped into her panties, making her painfully aware of every tingling inch of her body. As she started into the restroom, some unseen force seized hold of her, catapulting her toward some high she’d never experienced with any drug.
Giving over her power—even for this one little act—intoxicated her.