Originally published May 2015
Greetings, gals and pals. Here’s a story for you which distinguishes from my other works in one special way: it’s narrated in first-person. And from the point of view of one particular chick, who’s popped up in several Smokey Sagas—mostly the “Happy Endings” series—as a fictitious American rock star…named Velette. I first wrote and posted this two years ago, right after “Happy Endings V” (in which Velette reprised her role as Sara Kelton’s dream-Goddess—hence her capitalized pronouns), and thought Readers might like to know our fictitious musical Goddess a bit better. This is one of my “bonus” stories, if you will, different from the normal third-person Smokey Sagas, with no #. Hope you like it. This story has a sequel, but it unfortunately won’t be published on Noveltrove.
(Oh, yes, and a side note. I apologize for my long absence before this story. There were a number of things going on, and the other site on which I’ve been posting—albeit for four steady years—has grown utterly sick of me. So as of June 1st, ’17, I’m done with it. In March and April, I thought NT felt the same way. But I doubt it, and don’t feel the need to abandon my NT Readerbase as well. Besides, crazy as it may sound, I joined NT at the end of last June, so it’s almost been a full year as of this intro. And I like to think I had a hand in helping develop NT into what it’s becoming in 2017 and beyond. Cheers.)
And now, without further ado…“The Voxe: A Girl And Her Music”!
I was not born remotely resembling the person I am today. Then again, few are.
Thirty-two years ago, I came into this world Velette Cora Vanderbilt from Cincinnati, Ohio. I was a perfectly garden-variety infant: sweet, precious, and a big innocent heart. Many formative ages to follow entailed the same. Cut to today, I am an international, multi-platinum, million-selling songwriter and recording artist, with the now household name Velette Voxe splashed across my record covers. As well as something of an icon in the lesbian community, closing my first decade in the public eye. I wouldn’t put myself among the ranks of our late great Janis Joplin. Though I have, in the last nine years, been blessed with such honorifics as the Etheridge Kid Sister, Little Miss Chatelaine, the Lost Indigo Girl, and Jen Foster’s Other Half. Hey Jenny, guess what: I didn’t just kiss her either.
My childhood and upbringing were run-of-the-mill. My scholastic performance wound up just above average, fairly decent at best. I wasn’t Class Clown, Most Likely To Succeed, any of that goofy shit. I didn’t belong to any clubs or extracurriculars either. I liked sports, but only professional, and played by strong, athletic women. I was no cheerleader, nor did I go to dances, proms, or reunions. School pursuits just weren’t my wheelhouse. Hell, at that age I didn’t even have a wheelhouse. I had a few friends, that was about it—and some dates that went absolutely nowhere, for one obvious reason: they were with boys.
I’d encountered only inklings of my lesbianism since puberty. But by college, I was in full, intimate touch with my sexual identity. I knew there was some logical reason dating guys never worked. Coincidentally, the exact same year, I developed a huge appetite for composing music. Suddenly, I’d found my major and my minor. Pun intended.
My college “career” consisted of only a single semester, but provided me with two turning points nevertheless. As fortune would have it, these captured the essences of what would become my two most powerful passions: music and women. The former opportunity presented itself in 2004, in the form of a radio contest sponsored by Rainbow Records. The label was in heavy need of hot new acts to sign up. The contest entailed recording a selection of your own demos—original songs only—and sending them to the station.
So when we heard about the contest, it was actually my Dad, with whom I was hanging out that day, who suggested to me, “Hey, Letty, why don’t you give it a try, sweetie? You love music, and you’ve got a terrific voice. I bet you’d be awesome at it!”
Now, my father’d always encouraged me to follow my heart. He’d never knowingly lead me astray. And admittedly, when he gave me this (eventually life-changing) advice, my first and only reaction was…“Oh, geez, Dad, I dunno…you really think so?”
“Absolutely,” he nodded without a moment’s hesitation. “You can excel at anything you put your mind to, Velette Vanderbilt. You have far more talent than you realize. Then again, why shouldn’t you? You are my daughter, after all,” he smiled with a wink.
Have I mentioned I love my Dad?
Entrants had a month to submit. You could record a digital or hard file of your song—intro and additional comments optional. After the deadline, submissions would be narrowed to ten artists, who’d then be contacted to visit the station and meet the record executives! Perhaps an unexpected spot to drop an exclamation point, but dammit, I was excited!
I grew only more enthusiastic as I read on. Dad had a point: I did love music. I collected albums, I took guitar lessons, and singing was super-fun…I just didn’t know quite how good I was. But it was the label name that convinced me I had to audition: Rainbow Records! I’m a lesbian! How perfect was that?!
Now all I had to do was sit down and write a song. I could do this. I’d taken music theory courses, I played the guitar. Relatively easy, right?
Wrong. I may not have known a thing about the music business, but I knew I couldn’t half-ass my way through this like I did school. This was the big time. The professional record biz. True, I had a one-in-ten shot, but I’d be going up against some real talent here. Artists who were serious about this opportunity. Suddenly, this seemed more intimidating than it had five minutes ago. I realized I’d better get pretty fucking serious about this myself.
During the next couple weeks, I threw myself into it obsessively. I hit the cyber-waves, doing research while I brushed up on my strum and re-callused my fingers. I listened extra close to some of my favorite old records, trying to get inside the stylings and hone my pitch. I did my best to piece together the elements which made the sounds so captivating. I was heavy into big famous pop/rock groups, solo legends, and some semi-obscurities. And of course my Sapphic idols from whom to draw inspiration.
Two and a half weeks later, I had a rough outline of the first song I’d ever write. A charming bittersweet little ditty I called “Never Be Yours.” Turning my small apartment into a rehearsal space, I must’ve played those chords a zillion damn times, till even my guitar was sick of them. But I was really proud of the song, and wanted—no, needed—to get it just, exactly, perfect. I did a lot of fine-tuning on Sylvia (my beloved guitar) and my own voice. I had no clue if I’d anything close to decent pitch. But when I listened to the playback on my software, the results did not make me cringe. In fact, I was liking what I was hearing.
Wow, this is so cool! I remember thinking. How come I never tried this before??
At the same time, I tweaked the modest arrangement I’d built around the song. Again, I checked the output, trying to shut off consciousness that I was listening to myself…and was not displeased. Yet, I also became my own harshest critic. Sporadic points where I’d made the tiniest of mistakes, or hit one wrong note, robbed me of the satisfaction. And so I just kept working harder and harder.
Finally, by the time week three came to a close, the first demo of “Never Be Yours” was cut. August 4th, 2004. Just me and Sylvia. I’d seldom felt so proud of myself in my life. I’d toiled on this one single song for days, and achieved a result which met my early standards, and allowed me to listen without focus on the weak points. I had my song!
The only problem was, now, I couldn’t get the damn melody out of my head. I stripped naked to grab a shower, trying to think about literally anything else, but the song kept barging its way right back in. I emerged from the bathroom determined to get it the hell off my mind. I did some channel hopping. I tuned my way through the radio dial. I jilled into a holy motherfucker of an orgasm. But no luck. The song stayed. It had been only hours since I’d recorded the final note, and now it wouldn’t go away.
Then, out of nowhere, the brilliant solution appeared.
Write another song!
Why not? Why the hell not?? It wasn’t like I didn’t have time. There was still another entire week till the recording had to soldier off to the powers that be. And the entry rules said nothing about not including multiple songs in your submission. Maybe I could write an even better song, and record it on this Velette debut as well! Why not??!
I was starting to get so excited I had trouble sitting still. I began entertaining fantasies of visiting coffeeshops and open mike clubs, playing my songs. I knew each song had to be unique, with its own identity and vibe. For my second composition, I switched gears from the longing ballad I’d demonstrated on “Never Be Yours.” I started thinking up-tempo, upbeat, more of a rock sound this time. And lyrics to match. Something hotter, more fun and passionate, lacking the vulnerability of a solemn ballad. A ballad which, I was quickly realizing, showed but one single side of me. The possibilities ignited me, fueling me with the prospect of what could one day become—oh my God, dare I dream?—dozens of songs! So many combinations of chord and prose, of tone and design!
Fortune was with me down this promising path. I worked at Best Buy, rife with some of the finest electronics available. Real top-of-the-line stuff. And if I was going to do this, I needed more equipment than little ol’ Sylvia and some outdated computer software. Our employee discount was nothing to sneeze at. Next paycheck, I could have a field day!
One thing I definitely needed was sheet music paper. Or an application for the Dell to simulate it for me. I couldn’t forget how to play “Never Be Yours” if I tried, but if I kept at it, that wouldn’t be the case for long. I picked up Sylvia again and started noodling.
Going for a happier, more positive feel this time, I reversed the ratio of major to minor chords, and again found a raw arrangement I liked. I shut my eyes and let my hands do the walking, strumming these new chords again and again, letting lyrics come to mind. Forty-five minutes later, “Heart-Shaped Carnival” was born.
I was amazing myself. Two songs in full, in a single day! So far! I was on a roll! I played and sang “Heart-Shaped Carnival” to the computer, adding it to my files with “Never Be Yours.” I took attentive care to ensure the auras in both songs were unique. I accelerated the tempo, played Sylvia with a looser, more carefree feel, and sang with playful vivacity.
Now I was getting really proud. Two demos recorded! I gave my beloved Sylvie a smooch, right on the side of her beautiful body, unable to believe I’d let her sit around in her case so long. I couldn’t wait to write more with her.
Unfortunately, it was getting late. My mind was jazzed, but my own body was totally wiped. I didn’t know how I’d possibly get to sleep tonight, or concentrate on work tomorrow. I got in my jammies and climbed in bed, petting Little Letty inside my bottoms, willing myself to fall asleep, get up, get through the next day, come back home and write more songs.
Though with only a hint of it at the time, now that I’d had a taste…
…I’d found exactly what I wanted to do for the rest of my natural life. And to think if my father hadn’t spoken up that day in the car, I might never have even given it a shot.
Have I mentioned I love my Dad?
I raced home after work the next day and wrote five—count ’em—FIVE, more, songs. In seven hours! I just couldn’t stop; the ideas kept coming, one after another after another. And right along with them, accompanying guitar figures and melodies. How I even stopped there, I couldn’t tell you. I guess…hell, I guess I just wore myself out again.
Still, though exhausted once more, my mind was blown. Forty-eight hours ago, I had no original compositions, nothing whatsoever to call my own. And furthermore, I thought zero of it. Zero songs, zero ideas, zero outlines, zero desires.
Cut to a day and a half later: seven original tunes laid down in digital form on my computer, occupying seven equally gratifying drive megabytes. I was officially obsessed. Hell, I still am. When it comes to our own lives and pursuits, we do tend to get a little self-centered. Well, I don’t know about you—I get self-centered, and that’s what I wanna talk about. Let’s just focus on me for a minute here. Hello, my name is Velette, and I’m a songwriting-holic. It has been twelve minutes since my last composition. Here I go again.
But that’s okay. Believe me, this is one business that doesn’t just welcome obsession, it demands it. You have to be obsessed to survive and thrive in this business. Manufacturing industry’s in trouble in this digital age, but music itself isn’t going anywhere. Human beings need it for their own sanity, comfort and happiness. It’s a necessity of life.
These things in mind, I continued along my merry path. My abilities were limited with just Sylvie by my side. Not to make her feel less special, but there’re only so many things she can do. So a few days later, I concluded work with a magnificent purchase. I bought a bell- and whistle-loaded synthesizer. This thing was a beaut. I wasn’t as skilled at playing keyboards, but that was okay. Right now, I mainly wanted sequencing to back up Sylvia and myself. And how difficult could it be to meet someone who could rock this snazzy-ass synth-machine, and join me on one or two or twenty-seven jam sessions??
I had to clear a lot of space to squeeze in Sylvia’s new sibling Synthia (c’mon, I had to) and connect her to my computer, but I did it. Now where was that instruction manual…oh, my God. What is this, War And Fucking Peace? The thing had a bazillion pages. All I wanted to do was find some cool beats, not split nuclear atoms.
Hell with that! I found the on switch and started pushing buttons instead. So I wouldn’t get a lot of writing done tonight, big deal. I started to really enjoy playing with this thing. And hey, I realized, sequencing beats play as fast and as long as you want! So once I figure this out, I can re-record my existing songs with some wicked enhancement.
Whew! Okay, Dear Reader, in the interest of hopefully not boring you to tears, I’ll skip ahead. Long story short, I created a miniature album. I made eight electronically charged versions of my best songs so far, tweaked to my early, unlofty standards, and I was set. With one day to spare. Double whew!
The only step left was to compile the submission, and kick it on in. I added a little intro to tell them about myself, that there were a lot of songs here—hope that’s okay—and how important this had become to me. And that I hoped it showed in my efforts.
Okay, I won’t lie to you: the first couple days, my hopes were high. I knew it wasn’t wise to let them skyrocket, but I really did have such confidence in my work. So much, in fact, that even should Rainbow turn me down, I couldn’t just give up. I knew how tough a business this was, that even the most gifted artists often struggled like hell before they made it, if at all. I may not have known everything, but I’d fallen heels over head in love with the craft. I couldn’t yet imagine writing songs for someone else, either. I’d given birth to a dozen and a half babies, and I didn’t wanna put a single one up for adoption. I had, however, just applied eight of them to one of the finer “academies,” so to speak.
I didn’t know how long to wait to hear back, so I did my best to focus on normal activities, a big chunk of which now consisted of songwriting. I was hooked. I’d found a drug more intoxicating than I imagined any narcotic—which holds true to this day. For this reason, I’ve never used drugs; I don’t need them. And I’m a musician!
It was in the middle of a particular shit day—Monday, September 27th, ’04, to be precise—when the life of Cincinnati’s little 21-year-old Velette Vanderbilt would be forever changed. It was one of those days where nothing really big happens, but so many annoying little things gang up, you feel like if one more thing goes the slightest bit wrong, you’ll do something unthinkable. Fortunately, I did no such thing.
After another thankless day of retail, serving my ass up for the superiors to chow down, I drearily trolleyed home and unceremoniously slunk the car into an open space. When I checked the mail, I was in for a surprise. Three envelopes waited. A bill, a bank statement…and a note of correspondence from Universal Music Distribution.
My system accelerated. Universal Music was Rainbow Records’ parent corporation. They must’ve received my submission, listened, and…liked what they heard? Truth be told, I was nervous to open it. The way this day was going, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. But I had to, or my imagination would torture me. And my mood had no influence over what’d been printed in this letter. I got inside, tossed the other two items anywhere, sat, and opened it. My heart was pounding. I didn’t want any buzz words—good or bad—to leap out before I was ready, so I unfolded and perused carefully.
“‘Dear Miss Vanderbilt,’” I squinted, not wanting my eyes to jump down prematurely. “‘We would like to thank you very much for your submi’—…so and so and s—”
GASP. My heart flipped. I had to read the following sentence five straight times to make sure my eyes and brain weren’t playing tricks on me. My tone increased with every word.
“…‘After reviewing your very generous compilation of material, we are pleased to inform you that between your varied song stylings, we feel your work sufficiently reflects the promise and potential to prove an asset to the Rainbow Records family’!!” They’d chosen me as one of their winners! “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!!”
I grabbed the phone and frantically dialed.
“Dad? Dad!! Guess what?! You are never gonna believe this!”
He wasn’t in shock or disbelief at all. His exact words to me were, and I do quote—
“Knew you could do it, babe. I am so proud of you.”
Have I mentioned I love my Dad?
Fast-forward two years, I would cut, produce and release my first major-label album, and officially land on the pop scene map.
But not before I met Lisa-Anne.
Lisa-Anne Lucy Brockton was and is a gift sent from fate, for which I can never repay. She was there the first day I met the Rainbow executives, and has since remained my agent, manager, professional and personal partner…and one hell of a lover. And for you detractors who feel a dual business and romance is an essential recipe for disaster, four words: Lily Tomlin, Jane Wagner. Over forty years working together, happily married.
Now, Reader, that I’ve shared with you the discovery of my life’s work, my beloved career, the awesome privilege of entertaining the world with my music…so shall I do with my other sublime passion: women.
When I began college after having come out—but before Lisa-Anne Brockton came along, to whom I’ll return after this next chunk of my story—campus was a magical place for a young lesbian. Beautiful girls everywhere. I was like a kid in a candy store. A candy store with no shortage of tasty goodies to be found at every turn. The question was, would the tasty goodies in question find me alluring and pleasing as well?
Now, I have always enjoyed being a lesbian (particularly of the lipstick persuasion). The issue lay in whether the heterocentric world felt the same way about me. Much fun as scoping college babes was at first, I hardly ran across a single, solitary gay-be or may-be in the entire lot. What was more, not until I began hanging with the “het” girls did I realize that straight as they claimed to be, they didn’t appear to like guys very much. At all. All they seemed to do was whine about all the stupid, douchey things they did. Being the andro-clueless lesbi, all I could do was quote Suzie Westenhoefer.
“Well, I’m…I’m sure he didn’t mean it…”
After the umpteenth one confided in me, bitching about how awful and horrible they were, I had a couple questions. For one, just who was the lesbian here again? I hated being asked repeatedly why I didn’t date guys. And maybe it was equally narrow-minded of me to wonder this, but curiosity was nagging at me. So I took an individual poll of them.
“Well, *insert girl’s name here*, if they’re all such fucking assholes—and you’ve somehow met and determined this of all three billion of them in the world—why continue to go out with them? Why don’t you try going out with a girl? I know you don’t think you like girls, but…if you never dated one, how do you know?”
This query provoked varied reactions, from abrupt confused silence, to the sarcastic, “Heh! I wish!” to the outraged, “What’s that s’posed to be, some kinda sick joke?!” to the downright horrified, “UGH! Oh my God, are you insane??!”
I’ll admit, a few of these reactions hurt my feelings. But if a young lady found herself on the edge of conversion, I was more than willing to urge her my way. But I failed to grasp the actual issue here. My reasoning was, everyone’s different, right? I’d struck up a few embryonic friendships with guys over my years. Of course, none of them went any further than friendship. But the bottom line was that while yes, some guys did seem pretty rotten, lots of others in my experience were perfectly nice and cool. How, I wondered, were these girls just meeting endless parades of jerks, one right after another? Maybe this was easy for me to say, but if I went out with gents…I found it hard to believe I’d have to go through such a huge collection of assholes just to locate one sweet guy.
And then there was the flip side. In the midst of all these misandric tirades, I took note that the het-girls didn’t seem willing to step back and consider their own shortcomings. Eventually, all the squawking got old. I didn’t think guys could be this catty to hang with. I’d never seen them sitting around together complaining about how shitty women were.
Sadly, these interactions, coupled with my severe lack of Sapphic company, drained the kid-in-the-candy-store feeling from me. But I couldn’t help how I felt about girls. I adored them. They were the softest, prettiest, hottest things to grace this fine planet. Still, I’d yet to experience my first sexual encounter with one. And my hormones were getting tired of it. Yet, were I to be intimate with someone, my heart and emotions wouldn’t be overruled in their own demands. As much as my pussy craved some action, I wasn’t about to let any dolly have her way with me without putting in her share of romantic affection: indefinite spells of pre- and post-sex cuddling, sweet whispered nothings, you get the idea. I wanted a thick-and-thin partner, not just a benefitted fuck friend.
In the meantime, I rubbed myself raw in bed to keep the yearnings at bay. But when I considered all the gorgeous gals I saw each day, it became intensely hard—and by “it,” I mean my “c-l-it.” I had no one fully or semi-serious in my life, thus my mind and body were free to fantasize, about whomever they damn well pleased. Most times it ended up being our beloved Jodie Foster. Not Jen Foster—though I liked her too—but Jodie. “Crush” wasn’t a big enough word to describe my feelings for her. Hell, Nell, there wasn’t a big enough word. I even wrote a song about her at one point, one of my more modest hits, “Beyond Heaven And Back.” I almost had the chance to meet her at an awards show. But when I considered I might all but literally melt at her feet, perhaps it was better I didn’t.
My “Little” Letty let me know how happy she was with Jodie in my mind’s eye. I imagined her talking naughty to me, igniting me from beneath. “Oh, hello, Clarice,” I’d chuckle back. “It’s good to see you again.” I stirred the head of my vibrator on my stiff, by now bulging red-hot clit, and whipped my head in heated desire. Finally, I burrowed my fingers inside and secreted all over them. It felt so fucking good.
“Jodieeeee…” I moaned.
“Velette…” I imagined her whispering back to me. I smiled as passion crashed over me.
“Say my name again,” I beseeched.
“Velette…” she cooed, coating all the letters—even somehow the silent ones—in a sheen of irresistible allure. The pleasure built and built, until I felt the courage to stop, delay the orgasm and rev my engine from the beginning. Little Letty wasn’t happy about this, but knew the big reward was coming. I willed pretend-Jodie to lay over and daintily kiss my lips, ears, neck, shoulders, arms, breasts…down my belly…my soft, milky thighs…
I was about to lose my goddamned mind. I thrashed and flopped on my bed, surfing waves I generated. Stars exploded in my eyes. My pussy spilled and squirted uncontrollably. In that moment my nipples could’ve cut solid glass. I released the viber and positioned my right fingers to hold it while jamming inside myself. Left hand free, I pinched my nipples, pretending the hand was Jodie’s. My head spun. My brain was on fire. I cringed, I winced, I grimaced. My head flew back into pillows. Tears leapt from my eyes. Immeasurable lust blazed through me. Wave after wave assaulted and body-slammed me.
I needed another hand. There were four in my fantasy, but only two in reality. I decided to flip onto my stomach. I slipped a pillow under my chest to press my heaving, burning tits against. Somehow, I kept my right hand comfy and cozy inside my cunt through the entire maneuver. I held the vibrator in place with my left like before, still fixed on my swollen, blood-red clit. My face was now buried in pillows. My feet rose and slammed the mattress as I tried to maintain focus.
Fuck me, Jodie! Hard and fast, here and now! FUCK ME!!
My thighs clenched, trying to squeeze everything out of the almighty vibrator I could. My moans quickly accelerated to yells and screams. I wanted to jam the viber’s head as far up my bubbling crimson pussy as it’d go. But my clit wouldn’t permit me to move it one inch. Naturally, I had to obey. My clit and pussy owned me when I was horny. Hence, my reference as Little Letty. It’s good to be on a first-name basis with the boss.
My impending orgasm toyed with me. It made me think it was nigh, and impishly retreated. I opened my mouth wide as I could, bit on a faceful of pillow, and shrieked my lungs out. Unable to wait or stand another second, I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to rip through the fabric with my teeth, and threw a shitstorm tantrum. I reached inside, burying my entire hand, and tried to get at my g-spot.
“Oh, Jodie…” I muttered through the pillow, voice half-hoarse. “Make me cum! PLEASE MAKE ME CUM!”
“Cum…for me, Velette,” purred the smooth, perfect voice of my beloved Jodie.
The world as I knew it exploded.
Finally…I had conquered the orgasm. Finally, it was mine.
I lost it. I howled, I screeched, I swore, I begged for ever-loving mercy. The lightning electrocuted me head to toe, shocking me with mindscrambling voltage. I rolled on my back, caking my thighs in thick hot cum. I didn’t care; I’d wash the sheets and myself later.
The orgasm wound down. My cunt was completely drained. The clit stimulation combined with my marvelous wet dream made me squirt like a lawn sprinkler. I dropped the vibrator as my head lolled and eyes fluttered once again. Faint colors swam before my blurred vision as my system shut down. At least I think it shut down. It was possibly the most intense orgasm I had or would ever experience. I’d have to write another little ditty or two about this—keeping it PG(-13), of course.
I don’t remember what happened next.
Lisa-Anne and I started working together a decade ago. After a brief meeting with the Rainbow executives, they flew me out to Los Angeles, and booked me into one of the swankiest hotels I’d ever seen in my life. It was a huge eye-opener for a little gal from the Midwest. Next meeting was with Lisa-Anne. She took me to lunch for some schmoozing. Honestly, though, I didn’t hear every word she said. She was—is—so damn enchanting. I was just a kid at the time, in my early 20s, while she was in her late 20s, already a veteran in the industry. Her seniority over me in both age and experience turned me on.
“Okay, babe, so here’s the deal,” she began, her beautiful green eyes affixed on mine. “I like your style and your sound. You’re raw, but the label and I see some real glimmer in there. And enough of it to turn you red-fucking-hot. In fact, I’ll tell you somethin’. This is gonna make ya skeptical, right off the bat like this. But between you and me, Velette…”
Her voice lowered as she leaned in to me. Her sultry perfume tickled my nose.
“…You’re a pop music prodigy.”
My mouth dropped open.
“No bullshit; Velette…you’re a genius. Babe, I’ve been in this business ten years. I know what the hell I’m talkin’ about. I know star quality. You may not believe me right now, but mark my words: you…are gonna, be, huge. I’m gonna reach inside you, I’m gonna find that glimmer, and I’m gonna make you shine, Velette. Like the superstar you’re gonna be. You are gonna have the world at your feet. I’m gonna set you on motherfuckin’ fire.”
I was instantly aroused. Lisa-Anne Brockton was clearly a genius herself. Of course, she was speaking career-wise. At least, I’m pretty sure she was.
“Oh, my goodness!” I remarked innocently. “I think I like the sound of that!”
“Damn straight,” she nodded. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else: you’re a cool chick with a hot look. I wanna see you on records. I wanna see you on stage and screen. We’re gonna throw you on billboards, posters, magazine covers, trading cards, the whole shebang. We are not messin’ around, sweet thing. This is the big time we’re talkin’ about.”
She was getting me really excited now, on several levels. We talked about introducing me to the biz, my love of songwriting, my skills, my star potential, putting together a crew of musicians, producers, engineers, technicians…she had so damn much to lay out for me, by the end of the meal my mind had turned to ravioli. I felt overwhelmed by all she was filling my head with. So I said so.
“Oh, that’s okay, babe, trust me,” she assured. “It’s cool. You don’t have to know about all the background stuff. I’m just letting you know that you will never see me unprepared. You just let me work out the nuts and bolts. Your job: write those hits. Just keep on the way you’re goin’, and let me do the rest.”
I smiled, thinking I could do that. All this talk about the big time was intimidating, but didn’t dampen my spirit. I could barely wait to get back to my room and pick up my guitar again.
“I can barely wait to get back to my room and pick up my guitar again!”
“’At’s my girl,” grinned Lisa-Anne. “Couple other things we’re gonna wanna take care of in the meantime though too. What’d you say your name was? The whole thing?”
“Oh, Velette Cora Vanderbilt.”
“Yeah,” she replied, pointing a finger. “We need to do a little work on that.”
“My name?...What’s wrong with it?”
“Absolutely nothing. Your first name I love. ‘Velette.’ It’s fresh. Vibrant. Vivacious. Just like you. ’S your last name I’m not so sure about. ‘Vanderbilt.’ Connotes construction work in The Netherlands or som’n’. Doesn’t exactly carry that sexy punch, y’know?”
“…Huh.” I’d never considered this. “So…you think I should do like Madonna instead? Just go by my first name?”
“Well, that’s one way to go. That is a unique handle you’ve got on ya. But I’ll tell you, I like that alliteration ya got going on with the ‘v’s. So I suggest we hold on to that and come up with a new ‘last’ name for ya. Something quick. Succinct. Monosyllabic.”
“Oh, you mean more like Velette…Vice?” I giggled.
“Heh! Well, I’m not gonna let you sound like some cheesy-ass ’80s cop show. Nah, I had something more in mind like…the Latin for ‘voice.’ ‘Vox.’ Velette Vox. Only problem is, Bono already pulled that.”
“Whoa!...” I thought out loud. “Velette Vox?...That…that sounds so cool!”
Lisa-Anne smirked at me, pouring on the charm.
“Like that, do ya?”
“I love it! Do we…do we have to let that go? I mean, this feels a little different. His real name’s Paul Hewson. I’m only changing my last name, right?”
Lisa-Anne’s smirk grew into a breathtaking smile I could totally lose myself in.
“I like the way you think, kiddo,” she told me. “All right, you got it. But I still say it can’t hurt to differentiate a little. What say we throw a silent ‘e’ on the end? So we don’t change the pronunciation, just the spelling.”
“Okay!” I agreed excitedly, grinning nice and big. Wow…Velette Voxe. I could almost see it on the albums now.
Velette Voxe: Debut!...Velette Voxe: Another Album Name Here!...Velette Voxe: Live!...Velette Voxe: Greatest Hits!...Velette Voxe: Greatest HITS LIVE!!...
Were those stars in my eyes just now?
“That sounds so awesome, Lisa-Anne. I c—…wow, I could just kiss you.”
“Later, babe. We’ve still got some serious work to do.”
My first recording session arrived a few weeks later, at Rainbow’s Spectrum Studio in downtown L.A. I was all set to get down to business. I knew how astronomical it was to record in a studio, even if the money wasn’t coming out of my pocket. Unfortunately, the first disagreement took place right away. I wanted to record “Heart-Shaped Carnival” as my debut, but everyone insisted another of my tunes, “Falling Apart,” had to come first.
To tell the truth, I was a little bemused and dismayed at the time. “Falling Apart” was the song I’d debated most over including in my eight-demo submission, and I put it right in the middle. Because out of those eight, this was actually the song I felt least confident in. I mean, yeah, it was okay, it was a decent song, but certainly wasn’t the one I’d expect to open my major-label career. But then, my crew knew better. They’d been in the business for years, after all; I was the rookie. It wasn’t as if I hated the song. And I was sure when the time came to record more, I could come up with material we all loved equally.
I will admit, though, it was damn hard to concentrate on recording music—even my own—with Lisa-Anne around. When we’d call it a night and I’d adjourn to my hotel room, she was the only thing on my mind. God, she even looked like a green-eyed Jodie Foster. I didn’t know how I’d gotten myself into this, but I did know how unwise it was to attach myself too close in a professional client-manager relationship.
And yet, at the same time…what a beautiful relationship we could have…
While this may not’ve been the smartest idea either, I opened my laptop, picked up Sylvia and wrote with my smoking hot manager as a passionate muse. I came up with what I felt was a lovely little number called “Forbidden.” Clearly, I couldn’t name it after her or put her in the lyrics. And I could be walking on dangerous ground—immersing yet further into infatuation and making a real emotional investment—but, I rationalized, it could also be a hit! Everyone can relate to that feeling. If desperately wanting and yearning for someone or something you can’t have isn’t universal, I don’t know what the hell is.
With “Falling Apart” in the can and the promo on its way to the stations, I was on my way to rock stardom. On February 8th, 2006, at 10:47 a.m., PST, I tasted my first sip from the goblet of fame. This was the moment that, courtesy of WACR, the Accord, in Los Angeles, “Falling Apart” received its very first airplay.
Once that D.J. said my (stage) name, Velette Voxe, that was it; I was on the grid. I had made it onto the pop scene. The next several weeks saw my name and single pop into hundreds of web sites, databases and social networks. I had to take a step back, close my eyes and verify that this was in fact for real. It was surreal. The promos circulated throughout the States, and I was getting my first peek at the aforementioned big time.
In the meanwhile, I kept writing, and met back up with the crew for some more recording. And, God help my beating heart, Lisa-Anne took me networking to promote the first single. All the while, I’d still to get used to the fact that it wasn’t a dream. But the ultimate confirmation was shortly to come.
We spent the spring and summer making full-scale productions of ten additional tracks. Three were studio versions of ones I wrote and submitted back in ’04. The other seven were handpicked as the cream of the crop. All eleven including “Falling Apart” were compiled and mastered while I was sent on a photo shoot. On Tuesday, October 17th, my first full-length album, entitled simply Velette, hit the stores and the web.
Padded by a nice amount of airplay, “Falling Apart” helped the record sell, as did the second single, “I Lose No Dreams.” Rainbow wanted me to make a video for this one, a request I gladly obliged. I got to do a little acting as well. The video captured me (or my “character,” so to speak) tossing and turning, unable to sleep, which eventually led to me retrieving Sylvia, holding her close and strumming her supple strings in my pajamas.
Little by little, the shock of making a splash on the pop scene wore off. I was out with a bang. Velette entered the charts, peaking at #37, not bad at all for a debut. Reviews and press followed. Soon, out came the mamarazzi.
There was no going back now.
It bears repeating that through all this madness, I was forced to endure the torture of being so close to Lisa-Anne each day with no ability to show or tell how I felt about her. Bound by the professional nature of our partnership. I had to go on feeling it was inappropriate to make advances on my manager. I had to figure it all out…somehow.
With the hype building on me and the fandom pouring in, my first big concert was booked, on January 13th, ’07 at L.A.’s El Rey. I won’t lie to you, friends: I was scared. Realistically, I knew I shouldn’t be. After all, I had performed shows in much smaller venues, and these concertgoers came to see me ’cause they enjoyed my music and wanted to hear it live. I was simply unprepared for the sheer significance of the event.
“Don’t worry about a thing, babe,” Lisa-Anne encouraged. “Just get your sexy ass out there, imagine all the chicks naked, and you’ll be fine.”
Looking back, I can’t help but laugh a little at my trepidation over playing fifteen songs for eight hundred people. I wish I could go back and tell my 23-year-old self, “Oh, relax! This is nothing! Believe it or not, couple years from now, this eight hundred’s gonna be eight fucking thousand. Chill, Letty; they adore you. You’ve got zip to worry about.”
It’s immodest as hell, but true. I’ve been hooked on songwriting every bit now if not more since the days of “Never Be Yours.” To date I’ve written hundreds of songs, released ten albums in nine active years, a load of singles including special mixes and demos, video/concert DVDs, plus a greatest hits package. These days my live show’s become a two-hour (or longer) rockstravaganza throughout some of the vastest venues in the world. Thousands of fans—mostly my hot young lesbian disciples in their teens and twenties (ah, perks of fame!) flock and swarm to the front row, to get as close as they can to the stage, all the while swooning and screaming their hearts out. Oh, if you could capture the looks on their faces when I go down on my knees, reach out to them and touch their fingers, or go in for a high-five. On special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries, I’ll bring them up on stage and do a special song just for them.
After shows, I try to meet-greet as many backstage as possible. And continue to be the least bit blown away at just how momentously my music and existence has impacted their lives. Fans of a wide range come up to me, and you can read it in their faces, just how unreal the moment is. They become tongue-tied, often in tears, not knowing what to say. And I give them a warm hug to let them know it’s all right. You have to treat your fans like family as a celebrity. You have to understand what an incredible privilege it is for them just to get this close to you, and ask for an autograph or picture. You must realize they’ve taken you into their hearts and souls, spent time with you in their homes, cars, offices, gyms, fantasized and dreamt so longingly about just being able to talk to you. If only for ten precious seconds. I am not concocting these details of my own mind. I’ve culled them directly from letters they’ve written me. It strikes me they feel the way about Velette Voxe that I feel about Jodie Foster. Knowing this makes me wish I could sit down with each and every one individually, and tell them in return just how much they mean to me.
And so meeting fans on tour can be challenging in this one aspect. The most emotionally die-hard of fanatics—or “Voxers,” as we call them—will approach, embrace me, and begin sobbing on my shoulder. Confiding just how much she (or he) loves me, and now that they’ve gotten this chance to meet me, they don’t want it to ever end. They don’t want to let go. And to tell you the truth…I don’t either. I wish I could gather them all together and take them out with me. But I can’t just let one person stay in my arms for the duration of the meet-greet. Dozens of others are patiently waiting their turns, and I have to be fair. I have to distribute my time evenly. And then I have to get back on the plane and hit the next city. Sometimes it can be a bit much to bear. Especially the flying. I’m not a huge fan of flying, but those two—or three—hours on stage make it all worth it. It’s what it’s all about: the fans. They’re the whole reason I’m here. They’ve made me. Seriously, if it weren’t for them, I’d be bagging groceries.
Back in ’07, the fan mail began to pour in, both snail and digital. I was quite touched and flattered by them and natch, thought it was really cool. But around Christmas of the same year, after my second album was out and number three was almost done, one e-mail found its way to me, that I feel deserves special note. It was written by a young, at the time teenage girl called Patty Dimberg. She’s granted consent to reprint it, so here it is.
Dear Miss Velette,
My name’s Patty. I’m 15 years old. I didn’t think I’d ever write something like this, but after I bought your albums I listened to them until I memorized them. I love them. I love you. I love every song I’ve heard from you. Please don’t stop making your CDs.
I realized once I started listening to you that I’m gay. At least I’m pretty sure I am. And I wasn’t happy before, but I’m not happy now either. I thought life was supposed to be simple when you’re 15. But mine sucks. I hate school. I don’t have any friends. People pick on me and make fun of me. They call me gay, meaning it as a bad thing. And I AM gay. My parents are divorced. I told my mom I’m a lesbian, and now I don’t think she loves me anymore. She looks at me all different now and I think she feels like she did something wrong. It hurts so much. I’m crying as I’m writing this. I feel like I’ve made my mom hate me, and now I hate me too. I’m too scared to tell my dad. I don’t want him to hate me too. I don’t think I can tell anyone else, except maybe you.
The other day I was home alone, and I was so upset about everything I tried to kill myself. I swallowed a bunch of pills, but it didn’t work. I threw up. But then I thought of one of your songs. It was “Stone Cold.” I felt like the girl in it, who loses everything but just can’t give up. I wanna give up so much, but now I feel like you’d be disappointed in me if I did.
I just put your first album on. Listening to them really makes me feel better. I don’t know why. Life still sucks. I just want it all to go away, but now I feel like if I killed myself I’d let you down in some weird way. I know this may not mean anything to you. You don’t know me, and I probably just seem like some crazy stupid girl with a lot of problems. I just want you to know I love you. You saved my life. I feel like you’re the only one I can talk to.
Why does everything have to hurt so bad? Why can’t my mom love me? I hate myself so much. I wish you or someone would come take me somewhere else where I can be me and people will like me and everything will be okay. I wish you were my mom instead. I wish she was cool like you. I hope you don’t hate me too. I love you. ~Patty Dimberg
When I finished reading, I realized my face too was awash in tears, and my heart cracked open, bleeding inside me. I felt so awful for this poor, sad, troubled young lady. What was more, I wanted to make it better. I wanted, like she said, to sweep her into my arms and take her pain away. Part of me also wished I could be her…big sister. Still, a person would have to be made of stone not to feel the heartfelt emotion into which she’d poured each word. I cannot begin to express how much it means that listening to my songs makes her feel better, especially that I saved her life. In all the time leading up to this particular day, I’d never dreamt my work held the power to do such magnificent things.
But that’s the majesty of music, my friends. And that’s why as long as there are fans, it can never go away. This e-mail also served as a wake-up call of sorts for me, in that as much as I hated to stop, eventually I couldn’t answer all my fan mail anymore—except in brief snippets. I simply could not keep up; it poured in in such gigantic droves. But I’d also never received any correspondence which tugged at my heartstrings so desperately, so longingly, so deeply in need of friendship and compassion. I felt such an empathetic bond to this sweet, less than fortunate little girl. I had to write back. I had to let her know that she was not all alone, and that others as well as myself would always be there for her.
My dear Patty,
Thank you so very much for reaching out to me with your touching words and story. My own words cannot reflect my relief to read that you’ve survived and taken the courage to confide in me. I beckon you to conviction that taking our own lives is never the answer. Please, I beg you not to take yourself away from me and others to whom I know you mean so much. I hope you will find the strength and love you need, crave and deserve.
As to your misfortunes and disappointments upon coming out, Patty, I am terribly sorry. I would shed my own tears and blood to keep you from suffering this pain. But I want you to know, if there is one thing you are not, it’s alone. Take it from me, to varying degrees, we have all been through it. It takes no less courage to come out, even to loved ones.
I don’t know your mother so I can’t say very much, but I wonder if she honestly believes she did something “wrong” per se, or if it’s what she thinks she’s supposed to believe. I’m sure this is relatively new, unfamiliar territory for her. I’m not trying to defend or take sides, Patty, but not a great deal of parents anticipate this type of news. It’s no one’s fault. If she truly loves you, and I’m positive she does, she’ll come around in time. As for your father, I’ll say this much. If he’s anything like mine, he’ll realize that no matter what, you’re his daughter, and he’s proud of you. As is and will be your mom. I’m sure of it.
I know the fact that they’re divorced doesn’t help. But take heart, Patty. Be easy on yourself. Don’t assume blame for things you have no control over. I’m sorry you’re having a rough time in school, but you’re not alone there either. If anything, be happy you’ve found out who you are at such a young age. Between you and me, I wasn’t sure I was 100% gay until just a few years ago. Had I known the truth at your age, I could’ve saved myself a lot of grief. Try your hardest, study, and soldier on. You’ll get through it. I know reading this doesn’t help much right now, and I know it’s easy for me to say. But I promise you, it’s true. You will get through it. You’ll get through everything. I sensed your strength in your words. You’re more resilient than you think.
Finally, reassurance. You say you hope I don’t hate you, as you think others do. Patty Dimberg, read me very carefully. Not only do I not hate you, nor any of my fans, I deeply care about you. When my fans tell me they’re suffering, I suffer with them. Let me share your hurt and lessen it on you. I couldn’t hate such a lovely young person as yourself if I tried. Furthermore, I’m certain your mom doesn’t. You’re her little girl. I believe you mean the world to her. And you don’t have to listen to your classmates in school. They’re only lashing out at you to compensate for their own inadequacies. Deep down, they feel just as insecure as you do, if not more. They just haven’t matured enough to relate to you on a more human level. If someone has only hostility for you, they’re not worth it.
For now, Patty, just take life one moment at a time. And stop to take comfort in the little things. The beautiful things nature’s given us. Flowers. Birds chirping. Trees swaying in the breeze. And do be yourself. Yes, I know life’s an unfair mistress, but I refuse to believe she’s just a bitch, and then we die. Don’t give up, Patty. Happiness is out there. Things will start looking up. You’ll see. And I’ll give you something to look forward to. If you like my albums, you’ll be pleased to know the third one comes out in February. And when it’s time for the fourth one, you might just find a little song on there written with you in mind. But if you take your own life, you won’t get to hear it.
All this being said, Patty, God bless you. Hang in there. I’m here if you need someone. One day in your future, when you least expect it…you’ll hear someone laugh, and you’ll see them smile. And you’ll turn around…
…And it’ll be you. I love you too, sweetie.
I didn’t want to stop writing, but if I never stopped, she’d never get to read it. I sent it, and a few days later, she wrote back. She was still crying, but now, she told me, her tears felt a little happier. Patty’s kept in semi-constant touch the seven years since, and I’m thrilled to report that her 20s are treating her gentler and nicer than her teens. I may or may not have had something to do with it, but I maintain she made her own better version of life what it is. I’m so happy for her. In the time since then, I’ve received many other such Ve-letters, and tendered loving replies of encouragement and hope to these just as with Patty.
In the meantime, the career must go on. Album three, Breathless Kisses, indeed crashed to Earth in February of ’08, and with it, my biggest world tour yet. But just as the tour was getting underway…something magical happened.
Breathless Kisses…hit #1.
And…resulted in a Grammy, for Best Pop Vocal Album, just barely beating out my pal Amy Winehouse, rest her soul.
What we got near on album two, we absolutely perfected on album three. Everything fell into place. It was brilliant. An exhausting record to make, with thirteen tracks altogether, but when we were done…wow. We knew we had something big on our hands. The first two albums, Velette and Voxe Around The Clock, made us proud, but…I dunno, I guess I felt something was lacking just a little bit. Once at work on Kisses, we took onboard an outside rock guitarist, who we all felt was the direct descendant of Tommy Shaw. He gave us a swift kick in the ass and ratcheted everything up a few notches. Our pop transformed into powerpop. Our ballads metamorphosed into power ballads. You get the idea. We knew we’d achieved something a level above our previous efforts. And sure enough…
Boom: top of the charts.
Hell, this time we were the lucky ones, that he agreed to go on tour with us.
Lisa-Anne had been right multiple times. First, I did find it hard to believe she was going to make me as acclaimed and renowned as she said. But second, she did. A few weeks into the Breathless Tour, I started to realize the enormity. I had to be escorted around by a bodyguard. Is that really necessary? I thought.
Yes, he was. I was not prepared for the screaming.
Suddenly, everywhere I went, I was literally mobbed. Hounded after for autographs and pictures. Headlines, magazine covers, top entertainment news stories. Voxe Fever had gripped the planet. Television invites flooded our mailbox. I was summoned to an Angels game to sing the anthem. I should have known what was going on by the shows home in the States. I arrived at the Beacon in New York, and pranced on stage to a sold-out, standing-room-only Voxe-a-thon. I’d have sworn fucking Elvis came on with me.
It, was, DEAFENING. Even with earpieces in, we could barely hear ourselves. Almost three thousand seats, and I’m willing to bet not one person was actually sitting. Ticket demand was so extreme we had to add another entirely sold-out show. Fans camped out in front of the box office. Die-hards drove day and night on three-day road trips just to see me sing. They knew every lyric by heart. They knew the original recordings even better than we did. We’d begin playing the songs just to let the audience take over. They didn’t even need me. At one point I actually forgot a line, and no one noticed.
Holy hell, I thought to myself. Bet my friend Patty Dimberg’s proud of me right about now. I hoped Patty got to see me when I dropped by her city. I told her I’d set aside tickets for her and a couple friends, just as with my personal friends and family at the Ohio shows.
But if I’d thought for a moment before this there was still a chance of going back home, as it were, there sure as hell wasn’t now.
As electrified as I was by the explosive back-to-back Beacon shows, that second night…
…My “Forbidden” dream came true.
We threw back champers like it was New Year’s. After my I-couldn’t-even-tell-you-how-many-eth glass, I ended up somewhere I didn’t recognize.
“Wh—…where am I,” I think I slurred.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” purred a voice.
I turned around and blinked a face into focus.
The irresistible face of a green-eyed Jodie Foster.
“We’re gonna have some fun tonight, babe.”
I couldn’t believe it. It was about to happen. She’d taken me to her hotel room. On the way through the lobby and up the elevator, it was all I could do not to rip our clothes right off. She made me wait, patient, yearning…till we were safely behind her locked door…
…At which point, everything was fair game.
We were splashed, randy, and ever so in the mood. This much I knew. What I didn’t know was that she’d been wanting it just as much as I had. She grabbed me aggressively, and pinned me against the nearest wall. I surrendered at her marvelous seduction. Again, her intoxicating perfume assaulted my nostrils as I pushed back. My senses flew into a dizzy frenzy. And then I knew…that nothing would ever be the same again…as our lips met.
The next several moments were loaded with hungry moans through hot lips, fumbling paws, clothes stripped, and unsteady footing in the direction of the bed, bumping furniture along the way. Such encounters with tables and chairs which otherwise would leave us groaning in agony bore no effect. Our groans remained purely lustful.
Narrowly avoiding ruining our outfits by way of tearing them off our bodies, we staggered our silly way to the mattress. My heart rocketed to the undersides of my tits. Lisa-Anne’s everpresent cleavage revealed she was at least a 36. My own rockin’—no pun intended—38Ds bounced off her with craving ferocity. I burned with passion as columns of sweat ran my nose and cheeks. We had no lights; I could not discern, even by touch, whether Lisa-Anne was sweating like I was, or as psyched up. But I liked the way this was looking.
I could make out zilch in the darkness and had her goddesslike face memorized anyway. I shut my eyes. She caught me by surprise as she abruptly detached, and got rough. She placed her hands on my shoulders, and shoved me right into the bed on my back.
My breath caught in my throat as I sank in. One moment later, my eyelids brightened. Lisa-Anne had flipped on the lights. I cautiously blinked open my baby blues, and focused my vision to see my manager leering down on me. She spoke, strict and ominous.
“Don’t you dare even fucking think about moving from that spot, young lady.”
My pussy leaked.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do exactly as I say, exactly when I say. I remind you your life is in my hands.”
A chill ran through me. She was right. What a hell of a way for her to get what she desired. I’d be terrified if I wasn’t burning with hot lust to fuck her. I knew she could see the wet spot generating between my thighs. God, why’d she have to be so damn bewitching?
I couldn’t fight it. She held all the cards. Tonight, my pussy belonged to her—a declaration whose truth was only figurative until a moment later…when she broke out her cuffs.
My eyes popped open. She smiled, sly and sinister, a pair dangling from her digits.
“Now hold still…
Fifteen minutes later, Lisa-Anne Lucy Brockton, my sex-oozing manager, had me shackled to her hotel bed, front paw and hind.
I was clothed, but had a feeling I wouldn’t be for long. My…gulp…manager was looking like she planned to do things I’d either love, or…uh…let me get back to you on that.
“Right then…” she cooed with a wicked smirk. Now in her conniving hand was a pair of tweezer-like clamps. I wondered, naïve and oblivious, just what these were, to what use they should be put. They didn’t look like the sort of instruments one used to pluck away hairs. Her next statement brought out the kinky devil in me, and filled my head with deliciously naughty possibilities.
“…Time for me to earn my ten percent.”
She almost made me cum on the spot, without even touching me. I forced myself to hold back, to not spoil the fun. She perched beside my sprawled bod on the bed…took me beneath the neck…gripped me by the hair…forcing a gasp from my lungs…and sizzled my senses, with the wildest kiss ever laid on me. My eyes spun, clockwise and counter.
I did not observe where she placed the clamp-tweezer objects. All I noticed was the smoothing of her palms over my ripe hide. I wore only my undershirt and sky-blue panties, darkened to royal blue by my rapidly dampening pussy. She made me unbearably hot. I couldn’t take the inability to touch her with my own predatory paws. But my immobilization also lit a fire under the intensity, bringing it to a level I’d never played before.
I still had my panties on, but my breasts were commando. She slipped her literally titillating hands under my shirt, dancing up my tummy, making me wait infuriatingly long before reaching my hungry waiting boobies. She knew how I needed her to love them. It was impossible for anyone to not notice the two stiff erect nubs protruding under my shirt. She was messing with me: mocking, taunting, tormenting me with her sadistic teasing.
“Oh, fuck…” I half-moaned and half-whined. “Lisa-Anne, plee-e-e-ease…”
“Patience, slave,” she answered me, malice seeping from her tone. “All in due time.”
She must’ve known what she was doing. I was starting to wish I hadn’t let her do this to me, torturously affixing me to the bed with these infernal cuffs, until…
Suddenly, raw, hot goodness swirled and swelled inside, as I felt her cup me. She gripped, fondled me under the shirt, coercing helpless croaks of gratitude. My cheeks flushed as my head rode the pillows, flexing every muscle I could find, willing her unwithstandable touch to last. Her fingertips danced over my heaving orbs, rising and falling through the waves they generated—just as I did making love to myself in my own bed. She had me right where she wanted me: cluelessly guessing what would happen next.
I gasped as she roughly flipped up my shirt, exposing me to the light-bathed room. The cool, open air kissed my erect nipples and tickled my belly. Her tongue tantalizingly flicked my ear before I heard her hushed, raspy voice again.
“You will now squeal for me,” she hissed.
For half a second, I wasn’t sure if she expected me to do this on command, but when that half-second elapsed, she took away my choice. She seized ahold of my nearer, now exposed breast, lowered on me, and placed one of her tweeze-clamps on my nipple.
Gasp. It pinched, but took my libido and hormones in a choke hold. She was right; I would now squeal for her. And squeal I did.
“EeeeeeeeEEEEEEEE!!” I exclaimed at the top of my singer’s register. Damn, it hurt so good. Hey, John Cougar—I know what you’re talking about, dude. I heard her chuckle.
“There’s a good slave,” came her evil praise.
“FUCK!” I reiterated, passion with a dash of agony surging through me. “OH my GOD!”
“Glad you like them,” she smiled malevolently.
Next thing I knew, our lips connected again, and I lost control of my faculties. I reflexively yanked on the cuffs, trying to get my arms free to wrap around her and never let go. I whipped my head between my wrists, as if looking at the cuffs really hard would magically unlock them. Meanwhile, Lisa-Anne attached the matching clamp to my other nipple.
I let out yet another gasp. “Ooooh!” I winced. It was a bit scary, as if two powerful insects had their legs tightly hooked on my nips. My eyes were subsequently forced back closed as Lisa-Anne slipped out her tongue and slicked me, jaw to temple, letting her hair fall over my face, triggering more tingles. She evidently had this whole routine mapped out. And dammit, it was woooorrrrrkiiiiiiiinnng…
For her next trick, she nosed me under the arm, kissed her way to the crook, and hickeyed the hot spot right at the inside of my elbow. Touchdown and checkmate, I thought, feeling myself surrender under her spell. Then she yanked me back out of the reverie again. The next number she pulled was to tug the chain between my nipple clamps.
“Ngggghh…” I groaned, involuntarily arching my back, trying not to admit it stung. Body up, I pushed and buried my head in the pillow, flipping hair all over myself. I felt her arm slip under my neck, her lips wreak havoc on it. All the while keeping hold on both captive nips with one little digit. As she orchestrated this whole kinkfest—not entirely unlike the way she did with my career—I couldn’t help but wonder if she was as fiercely lit up as I.
“FUCK, Lisa-Anne,” I repeated. “Oh, fuck…”
“I give the orders around here, young lady.”
I knew I couldn’t defy or argue, but my Little Letty was dying to come out and play. I hoped Lisa-Anne’d agree soon enough. Actually, however, if she’d already veritably arrested my nipples, what sort of treatment awaited Little Velette? Well, I found it difficult to care, engulfed in such dynamic passion. I just hoped she didn’t plan to really injure me. Intense pain and I did not get along. I hated going to the dentist, and that only involved my mouth.
What felt like an eternity later, I detected fingers hooking the insides of my panties. An anticipatory thrill went through me. Yes, yes, yes! I thought, a happy smile curling up my cheeks. Yes, Lisa-Jodie-Anne Brockton-Foster, YES!
Finally, my soaked panties came down. I heard her chuckle with satisfaction, taking her first gander at my swollen red pussy. Little Letty was primed and ready for action.
“Well, well,” was the next she said. “And who’s this then?”
I giggled merrily. Fortunately, the panties sported elasticity, and held up halfway down my splayed legs. The grin on my face spread ear to ear as she at last rubbed my supple cunt. I purred like a kitty as she petted my kitty. She sublimely fingered the slit up and down, each stroke more glorious than the last. I pushed, trying to get more pressure applied. Moisture oozed its way through, greeting Lisa-Anne’s fingertips.
My heart and pulse sped to blistering pace as she culled my labia apart. The further she separated them, the harder my clit grew. My system accelerated till I was about to explode, as Lisa-Anne leaned down on me…unleashed my clitty…and began licking.
I went wild. I screamed, twice as hard as I’d ever made myself scream jilling off. I yanked on the cuffs, even though I completely welcomed the treatment Lisa-Anne was putting me through. I was merely dying to be able to reciprocate the touch. I couldn’t, but if she was looking to keep giving it to me till I blew like Vesuvius, by God, I’d take it.
My entire coochie began to bulge and throb. It was this moment Lisa-Anne chose to close the other end of my tweeze-clamps…on my now erect clit. My eyes almost propelled directly out like the corks in the champagne bottles we’d drunk tonight. The sensation turned into heavenly hell, exponentially multiplying on my vulnerable clit.
“YIKES!” I screamed, to Lisa-Anne’s utter delight. She laughed at me.
“If I didn’t own your ass before, I certainly do now,” she hollered, above my overwhelmed screams. “You’re my own little pet, kept right on my leash.” She tugged the chain, now lightly jerking on both my nipples and clitty. I was starting to go out of my mind. This really was hellish heaven. I couldn’t decide if I loved it, or if it was driving me insane.
“Like that, do you?”
My only reply was a series of howls. Little did I know a bigger surprise was still yet to cum.
“Talk to me, babe. Are you likin’ it?”
She was toying mercilessly with me, knowing I couldn’t form intelligible words.
“Well, if you’re likin’ that, you’re gonna fuckin’ love this…”
I was only half-able to focus on what she was telling me.
“If you have any…idea…what this will do…to a woman…
“Prepare to surrender your mind.”
Holding my cunt wide open, Lisa-Anne Brockton proceeded to penetrate me—
With what I only later found out…was a French, fucking, tickler.
I kid you not, my friend. The little devil literally spiked me, with a French, fucking, tickler.
Oh my gosh, YOU EVIL…EVIL…WITCH!
She tugged my nips and clit, and tickler-fucked the hell out of me. My eyes squeezed shut so damn tight, the entire world turned every color of the Sapphic rainbow. She’d called it. She now owned my mind, as well as every part of my achingly tender body. Those cursed spikes pushed me far beyond my limits of sanity. Human electricity attacked from every direction, as I tried to leap out of my own skin. So this was the reason she’d tied me up. She wanted to give me an evening I’d definitely never forget. She kept me balancing on the dilemma of love or hate…of adore or despise…of adulate or loathe…
At this point, Dear Reader, I can only recount to you what I believe happened, as I’d officially lost my mind. I have to assume, however, that my French-tickled cunt was rapidly drained of all the cum I could produce. If I was being steered in the direction of an orgasm, I wasn’t sure whether or not I should be terrified. I must be honest; I had no idea if she was even pulling on me with the clamp chain anymore. I must’ve severely underestimated just how deathly French-ticklish my pussy was.
By now I was all but trying to break the bed. Once again, I flopped, thrashed and lurched uncontrollably, yelling, swearing, crying. I loved Lisa-Anne and I hated her. I wanted to marry her, and to kill her. She’d better have hoped I never got the opportunity to tie her up, the rat! Oh, the sweet, sweet revenge I could’ve inflicted on her hot, sexy ass.
I had no idea which way was up anymore. Left was right, day was night, dark was light, black was white. I was beyond hoarse. Thank God I didn’t have a show scheduled right after this. I was in no condition to sing right now, though Lisa-Anne could argue that I was singing, for her. Crooning my goddamned heart out at her mercy.
Then she made the ultimate upping of the ante.
She raised her voice to carry over mine, and spoke dynamically, with deliberate words.
“‘I always believed that fear belonged to other people’…” she told me ominously.
OH MY GOD.
“‘I heard someone screaming…and it was me.’”
She was. She was! She was Jodie-quoting me!
Oh, God, not Nell… I found myself mentally entreating. I can’t resist Nell! Please, please, PLEASE, not Nell!
But she knew. She knew my sexual kryptonite.
And damn her, she wasn’t afraid to take advantage of it.
That did it. I unleashed the mother of climactic shrieks. The orgasm went up under me like a landmine. She milked me dry from the inside. My toes curled as the undulation rode, thundering through me head to feet and back. I was stormed through and again by the raging orgasm, to and past the point of being unable to take it. I actually began begging for it to be over. I couldn’t stand it anymore.
But up to me, it wasn’t. Lisa-Anne wouldn’t let up till she was through. She continued relentlessly fucking me, prolonging what had become an entirely new form of torment. Unbeknownst to me, she’d been slowly counting since it began. And still in Nell’s voice.
At long last, mercifully, it was finished.
“Ah!” I think she said, in her normal voice. “And there, baby-slave…is my ten percent.
“…Now then. Let’s discuss your next album, shall we?...”
There you basically have it, Reader. As you’ve seen, life can be quite challenging, and also wonderfully fulfilling. The seven and a half years since our tryst have remained more of the same. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Experiencing Lisa-Anne Brockton and her wild ways was the optimum example of my affection for hot, kinky women. She was bold, she was biting, she made me like it rough. She could be cold, calculating and ruthless when she wanted, which isn’t a bad thing in your manager/agent. I don’t want to further my career at the expense of anyone else’s, but, that’s show biz. People get screwed, in more ways than one. She’s a cruel business.
The bottom line is that I get to do what I love for a living. It’s where I feel at home. Were it up to me, I’d never ever stop. And according to countless articles of fan mail I’ve gotten, should it be up to them, I’d never stop either. True fans are simply the absolute best. They’re there if you just want someone to sing and play for, they don’t criticize or complain if you make a little goof, they’re thrilled and starstruck to see you…it’s the most wonderful career a little girl from Cincinnati could ask for. It’s a lot of work, and not always fun work, but the rewards outweigh the drawbacks by a lightyear. Just think what I would’ve missed out on had I not decided to take that chance eleven years ago. And whom I’d have missed out on as well. I found both loves of my life in one fell swoop.
Thank you, my beloved Voxers, and thank you once again. You have been wonderful. I love you all. I dearly hope we’ll meet again soon. In the meantime, please check my tour schedule. Perhaps I’ll be in your town. Till then, I am Velette Cora Voxe—nee Vanderbilt—an international, multi-platinum, million-selling song composer and recording artist.
Just a girl and her music.