Read FalltoPieces Online

Authors: Paisley Smith

FalltoPieces

Fall to Pieces

Paisley
Smith

 

Rockabilly crooner Polly Purefoy can’t believe her luck when
she’s approached by Mallory Hayes, a Nashville record producer, with an
invitation to join the Honkytonk Angels. There’s just one problem. Ms. Hayes
moonlights as a dominatrix and she’s formulated a theory that submissive band
members will make her job easier. Intrigued, Polly agrees to meet sultry Domme
Vivien Blackheart.

The pretty songbird obeys Vivien’s illicit commands with a
vulnerability that chips away at the seasoned Domme’s icy exterior. But Vivien
has been hurt before. And she’s resolved never to let another sub into her
heart.

From their first encounter Polly enjoys every decadent
punishment Vivien metes out, but the long, lust-filled sessions in Vivien’s
dungeon leave Polly wanting more than just spankings from her seductive
Mistress. She wants love. And she’ll do anything—
anything
—to get it.

 

Inside Scoop:
From the moment Vivien orders Polly to
take off her panties the two engage in wicked-hot BDSM play.

 

A
Romantica®
female/female erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

 

Fall to Pieces
Paisley Smith

 

Chapter One

 

Raucous country twangs and fiery fiddle music spilled onto
the streets from the honkytonks lining Lower Broadway. Mallory Hayes threaded
through the throng of Nashville tourists, wishing she blended in a little
better. Her Louboutin stilettos and pinstriped pencil skirt struck a glaring
contrast against the sea of sneakers, cargo shorts and t-shirts. In Tootsie’s
Orchid Lounge she’d immediately be pegged as industry by anyone with a good
eye.

She wrinkled her nose at the sharp stench of horse piss
wafting up from the hot pavement, where the carriages waited to cart tourists
around the downtown area for top dollar. Overlaying the earthy scent of horse
hung the boggy pall of the Cumberland mingled with the thin bite of domestic
beer, fried foods and diesel exhaust from the Metro Transit buses.

Amidst this throng of sketchy panhandlers and wide-eyed
travelers anxious to soak up the Southern music scene flocked the desperate
hopefuls from all over the globe who yearned to be discovered—pickers, fiddlers
and songbirds, soundalikes and those who thought they possessed that special
something different that would get them noticed.

Mallory dodged a duo of enthusiastic harmonica players who’d
drawn a small crowd of onlookers eager to toss a dollar into their tip bucket.

These neophytes only saw the bright lights and red carpets.
The fame and glory. They didn’t see the long, hard hours in the studio, the
endless weeks on the road, late nights, the desperation to repeat that first
success—or the rigorous lifestyle changes required by record houses and the fan
base of conservative listeners.

Unlike any other genre in the music industry, country still
clung to the past, a squeaky-clean mix of sweethearts and cowboys with no room
for anything or anyone who didn’t fit the mold.

When she’d come over from the UK, Mallory had hoped to be
producing good old grassroots blues and rockabilly. After all, most Southern
music stemmed from the Southerners’ Irish, English and Scottish heritage. It
was music she knew, music she could feel.

Culture shock had set in as soon as she’d stepped foot off
the plane at Nashville International.

Like all people, Southerners had their share of skeletons,
which were accepted as long as said skeletons stayed hidden in their closets.

In the UK she hadn’t had to hide the fact she was a
lesbian—nor that she was a part of the London BDSM scene. But now she’d arrived
in the South she was glad she’d chosen a pseudonym under which to wield her
vast array of floggers. Under the name Her Majesty she’d entertained submissive
women from all walks of life in her dungeon. From commoners and world travelers
to royals, she’d bent them all to her will and had loved it.

She’d even drawn from her clientele to fill her office at
the record studio. Well-trained submissives made stellar employees. They didn’t
tend to have the gargantuan egos that led to office infighting and power-struggling.

They were so well-dispositioned at work, in fact, she’d
formulated a theory. Would submissives work well as a band? Would they be
easier to mold and be more willing to keep their lives private to serve the
rigid whims of country music listeners?

She cringed every time she thought of what happened to the
Dixie Chicks. She’d attended their concert in London and had witnessed lead
singer Natalie Maines’ statement about conservative President Bush and the Iraq
War that effectively blacklisted the band for years. As soon as Maines uttered
the words, Mallory had known the Dixie Chicks’ rocket ride to the top had
ended.

The same for velvety-voiced crooner k.d. lang. While fans
admitted she possessed the voice of an angel, many country listeners refused to
buy her albums because of her lesbianism.

Country music desperately needed those unique voices and
after following the trends Mallory realized the rockabilly scene was about to
go gangbusters. She was dying to produce an all-female band in the genre.

One problem.

Rockabilly musicians and singers were mostly
twentysomethings who lived on the far fringe of normal. If she wanted the band
to garner the audience needed for a widespread following, they had to—at least
in some ways—conform.

And what better conformists than a group of submissives
trained to please?

Mallory smiled to herself. The plan was almost diabolical in
its simplicity.

By the time she arrived at the lavender-hued landmark, the
daylight tourists, consisting of families and older travelers, had begun to
thin out in Tootsie’s, making room for a younger crowd ready to party.

It didn’t matter what night of the week it was. All downtown
Nashville nights were equally boisterous and as the sun set on Lower Broadway
liquor poured faster and the music blared louder.

“Welcome to Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge!” a barker at the door
boomed over the mob. “Tonight hear the Westside Blusers featuring pretty Polly
Purefoy!” He lowered his voice as a couple approached the door. “IDs please?”

A cute blonde and her husband produced their licenses. He
perused them with a well-trained and quick eye before stamping their hands and
allowing them through the door. He glanced at Mallory and gestured with his
head for her to go inside. “Good to see you, Mal. You’ve got a seat at the
front table with Sherri Clark tonight.”

“Thanks.” Mallory gave him a wink as she tucked her clutch
tightly under her arm and slipped inside. Sherri was a local girl who’d
attained a certain amount of national fame playing for tips on Tootsie’s front
stage. Now they paid her a handsome stipend to bring her entourage and sit at
the table nearest the door so patrons would see someone famous when they
visited.

Mallory blinked as her eyes adjusted to the low light. The
place hadn’t changed a bit in the nearly half-century since it had opened its
doors.

People standing shoulder-to-shoulder wrapped the bar. Those
who couldn’t find seats choked the narrow aisle in between the tables, making
it all but impassable. Stagehands and band members hurriedly worked to weave
through the crowd to set up their instruments on the cramped platform in the
front corner.

Though Mallory had been in Tootsie’s a hundred times she
still marveled at the musical history of the place. Even before it’d become a
tourist destination autographs had been scrawled on every bare inch of the
walls not covered by cheaply framed signed photos of various performers who’d
frequented the landmark.

“Mal!” Sherri waved from her perch in the circular booth in
front.

“Pardon me,” Mallory said as she navigated her way between
two tall guys in Titans jerseys. Both men eyed her in blatant appraisal but she
didn’t acknowledge their looks as she slid into the booth.

She leaned close to Sherri. “Remind me how much they’re
paying you to sit amongst this mob again.”

Sherri chuckled and took a long draw off a domestic
longneck. “Not near enough,” she joked, her Tennessee drawl even more present
since her rise to stardom. “What’re you havin’? It’s on the house, you know.”

“A club soda with lime,” Mallory replied.

“You ain’t drinkin’?”

Mallory shook her head. “I’m on the job.”

Sherri’s head moved from side to side, setting her red
corkscrew curls in motion. She hailed the bartender. “Another round for me and
a club soda with lime for my friend.”

Mallory laid her clutch on the table. “So tell me about this
little songbird.”

“Polly?” Sherri inhaled and drained the contents of her
bottle. “She’s hot.”

The corner of Mallory’s lips twitched as she tried not to
smile. Sherri’s friends knew Sherri was a lesbian, but her fan base had been
led to believe she was dating a well-known country singer who still lurked in
the closet himself.

“How does she sound?” Mallory asked.

A harried waitress squeezed between some people near the
stage and set their drinks on the table before scurrying away.

“Sounds as good as she looks.” Sherri reached for her cold
beer.

Mallory squeezed her lime and dropped it in the club soda. “Is
she…seeing anyone?” Mallory had checked out Polly Purefoy’s social media pages.
All of them. With her platinum hair and glossy, red lips, she seemed as chaste
as her name suggested. But there was something in the girl’s chocolate eyes…

That something was even more evident in her song lyrics.

Kiss me. Taste me. Pull my hair.

She was a lesbian. Of that Mallory was certain. More
importantly she was a submissive. Mallory’s experience told her that and she’d
never seen the girl in person.

“I asked around after you contacted me and no, she’s single,”
Sherri said. “Why? You lookin’ for a hook-up?”

“Oh no not me,” Mallory said quickly. “I just don’t want
there to be any…messiness.”

Two band members climbed onto the stage. The one who picked
up a guitar wore his black hair greased back to reveal two thick Elvis-style
sideburns. A pair of turquoise-blue socks flashed like a neon sign between his
shiny black-and-white wingtips and widely cuffed black jeans.

Another musician slid his lanky frame behind a snare drum.
His slicked blond pompadour came to a roll on the top that fell carelessly over
his forehead as he began twirling his drumsticks through his fingers.

This pair certainly had the look and Mallory didn’t doubt
they possessed the sound to match. Not just anybody got the coveted opportunity
to grace Tootsie’s front stage.

The crowd clapped wildly as another fellow ascended the
stage. With the collar of his black shirt turned up and wearing Roy Orbison
black glasses, he was quite the cool cat as he stooped to retrieve an upright
bass.

“Two, three, four…” he counted off and Tootsie’s blazed to
life with pure, raw rockabilly.

Mallory craned to look for Polly and finally caught sight of
her beside the stage. A man standing nearby gave her a hand and when she
climbed up the throng cheered. With wide eyes so deep and dark Mallory couldn’t
determine the color from her booth Polly looked too innocent for the reputation
that preceded her. Dressed in a sweet blue-and-white gingham frock that was
just long enough to tease a person into thinking they might get a glimpse of
frilly panties, and with her platinum hair done up in the front in two
oversized victory rolls, she certainly captured the audience’s attention.

Colorful tattoos decorated both her arms. Roses. Pinup
girls. Hearts.

Her ruby lips brushed the vintage microphone as she caressed
it with short, fire- engine-red manicured nails.

Her look alone screamed star quality.

Mallory offered up a silent prayer to the gods that this
bird had a voice to match. She almost forgot to breathe as Polly began to
speak.

“Welcome to Tootsie’s, y’all.” Her voice sounded like thick,
sweet molasses over the jerky rhythm of her band’s riotous music.

A chorus of cheers rang out. Regulars hollered the titles of
their favorites. But Polly was fixed on her set. She cut her eyes at the bass
player—the obvious leader of the band—and all at once the music changed to a
mix of bluegrass and old-style rock.

Mallory leaned forward in her seat.

For all Polly’s mix of vintage innocence, a bad girl emerged
when she opened her mouth to sing. She belted out the first notes of the song
and at once the music transformed her. Throaty and edgy, she churned out the
lyrics like a punk songbird.

She leaned and twisted and kicked, playing to the crowd of
enthralled admirers. Polly’s voice was near perfection but her tone bordered on
effortless. She focused more on delivering a spirited performance than worrying
about keeping every hair in place or singing every note on-key.

All that could be ironed out in a studio. Besides, the rockabilly
audience loved their slightly flawed heroines.

By the fourth song Mallory leaned back against the vinyl-padded
booth. A smile played on her lips. She was exactly what she’d been looking for.

She could make the girl a star.

Mallory withdrew a card from her purse and wrote
I’d love
to speak to you, Polly
on the back. She downed her club soda and put a five
on the table. “As always, Sherri, great to see you.”

After Mallory offered her cheek, where Sherri pecked a quick
kiss, she slid out of the booth and dropped the card and a twenty into the tip
bucket.

When Polly’s red lips blossomed into a smile of thanks,
Mallory knew she’d chosen wisely.

* * * * *

Polly gnawed one side of her lip as she navigated through
the sterile halls of the Universal Record House Music Company. She’d cut tracks
in several seat-of-the-pants establishments and recording facilities. But never
at one of the major players.

Here a professionally dressed receptionist greeted her at the
front door. She’d waited in a fashionable, modern lobby and watched as
well-dressed suits, working deals over their phones, rushed by and recognizable
talent—hiding behind big, dark shades—strolled through on their way to meetings
and negotiations.

Songs URH had produced piped through the halls, seemingly
coming from nowhere as Polly stepped off the elevator and followed the signs to
Mallory Hayes’ office.

Ms. Hayes had insisted they meet in person—alone—and Polly
couldn’t figure out why. Sure, the band had developed somewhat of a following
but—URH interested in her? Really?

She wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t
dreaming. This had to be a mistake. What if she’d inadvertently infringed on
someone’s copyright and Ms. Hayes had asked her here to ride her ass? Or worse,
present her with a lawsuit?

That was just her fear talking—those old tapes that told her
she wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, talented enough.

She forced them back and then she arrived at the door to Ms.
Hayes’ corner office. She stopped, took a deep breath and wiped her damp palms
on the hips of her red-and-white polka-dot capris. She exhaled and mentally
tried to quiet the butterflies in her stomach as she turned the knob and opened
the door.

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