FalltoPieces (2 page)

She recognized Ms. Hayes at once as the woman who’d been
sitting in Tootsie’s with Sherri Clark. Though her dark-red lips pulled into a
smile Polly didn’t sense any of that friendliness extending to the woman’s
eyes. This was all business and that was something Polly knew very little
about.

She’d sailed through her music courses at MTSU, even getting
great grades in English and history, excelling in her major field of women’s
studies. But she’d taken as few math and business classes as she could and
still didn’t know supply from demand or why the alphabet had ever been injected
into good old-fashioned arithmetic.

If music didn’t work out she planned to pursue a graduate
degree in psychology.

Ms. Hayes stood, looking like a model from an expensive
luggage ad rather than a high-powered record producer. Her white suit had been
tailored to perfection. The gauzy ruffles of her black blouse flirted with a
tasteful hint of cleavage and when she stepped from behind the desk Polly’s
breathing hitched at the sight of the most wicked pair of black stilettos she’d
ever seen.

“You like them?” Ms. Hayes asked as if she’d read Polly’s
mind.

“Like ’em?” Polly grinned. “Love ’em! I don’t think I’ve
ever seen a pair of Manolos in person.” She stopped before asking the woman how
she was able to walk in them. Polly loved her pumps and wedges but she’d never
braved the highest of the high heels. She tended to buy her shoes at vintage
shops. Cheap.

“Mallory Hayes,” she introduced herself and extended her
hand. Her sharp, blue eyes seemed to drink Polly in all at once.

“Polly Purefoy. Nice to meet you, Ms. Hayes.” Polly took Mallory’s
hand, surprised at the firm, retaining grip. Ms. Hayes inhaled sharply and a
tendril of desire snaked through Polly. She’d always been attracted to older,
more experienced—dominant—women. And this one made Polly wish she’d touched up
her chipped, red nail polish this morning.

“Please call me Mallory.” From head to toe Mallory Hayes
exuded controlled perfection. There wasn’t a hair out of place, nor a wrinkle
in her suit. Her makeup was flawless. Not too much, not too little.

Polly wondered if she should have toned down her thick false
lashes and cherry-colored, high-gloss lipstick this morning. But rockabilly was
who she was. Inside and out. If Mallory had connected with her for that reason
then Polly meant to give her the full effect.

Mallory stepped around the desk, her movements graceful and
quiet. An image of the lovely producer, wearing nothing but those high heels,
flashed in Polly’s thoughts. Heat settled in the back of her neck and between
her thighs.

Finally Mallory released her hand. “Have a seat.” Her
breathy English accent wafted over Polly along with the subtle fragrance of the
producer’s expensive perfume.

This woman is made out of class.
What in the hell
does she want with me
?

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.”

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 bullshit.”

“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.”

Polly’s head bobbed up and down again. She hadn’t expected
so many rules.

“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.