Fall to Pieces: Honkytonk Angels, #1

By 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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paisley Smith
• Release date: Jan 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540199294

Book preview

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