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Chapter One
Let me help your spirit to sing. Leather-loving dominant seeks submissive for scene play, potential relationship. Must love music. Reply to voicemail box 665.
Gayle bought a newspaper along with her customary strawberry-cream-cheese-covered bagel and grande chai, and unfolded it on the spindly café table to peruse while she cooled down from her morning run. Ignoring the news, she flipped immediately to the classifieds.
The Thursday paper was the Arts and Entertainment edition. A special supplement listed all of the activities available for the weekend. More importantly, it also listed all of the auditions for the coming week.
She’d been in this city for a month now, and had yet to form any friendships with the people in the local branch office where she worked. They were all either in sales or management, and had nothing in common with her, their designated technical support person. Oh, they were polite and friendly, in an impersonal way—especially the ones in sales. But it was like she spoke a different language from them, or something.
So she was turning to her hobbies. She had a good voice, and had enjoyed doing community theatre before her unpredictable work schedule had forced her to give it up. Now that she had a standard work-week again, she could connect with the local theatre scene. She’d be bound to find friends there. Or, at any rate, find out where all the good bars, clubs and other hot spots were in this city.
She ran her gaze down the column of auditions, looking for musicals. The local opera company was casting bit parts for Faust, with the possibility of joining the company after the production ended.
Gayle shook her head. She was good, but not that good.
The high school honors theatre program was staging a production of Grease. Even if she got one of the adult parts, she’d be surrounded by children. Hardly a likely source of friends to go clubbing with.
The Gilbert and Sullivan operetta was a possibility. A lot of work to spit those patter songs out, but definitely for adults.
Then she spotted a notice for Sondheim’s Into the Woods. Perfect! A challenging but not impossible score. A large enough cast to get to know a bunch of people. She’d need to bring music to the audition. Next Tuesday at 7:00 p.m.
She ripped out the audition notice, and tucked it into the zippered pocket of her jogging set’s jacket.
Just having a plan already improved her spirits. Nibbling at her bagel, she glanced at the section of the paper revealed by the missing audition notice. The personals.
Smiling, she flipped the page and started to read the ads. There was more than one way to find a friend in a new city. Maybe a new boyfriend was what she should be looking for.
The first few ads were predictably from losers.
“‘Discreet afternoon fun’? He’s a married guy, looking for a little on the side. ‘Not interested in head games, players, or women who can’t commit’? That’s a guy who still has issues with his last girlfriend. ‘Single father of three who do not live with him’? Sounds like a guy who can’t be bothered to wear a condom.”
The rest were similarly mock-worthy, or sounded as dry and uninteresting as an all-day meeting. Then she came to a new headline.
“Alternative lifestyle personals? What’s that?”
Her eyes widened at the first entry. “Skilled master seeks slave for 24/7 D/s lifestyle. I’ll whip and beat you until you cry, then make you beg for more.”
Gayle shook her head. She’d tried a little bondage with her last boyfriend. It had been fun. Okay, more than fun, it had been a huge turn-on for her. But that guy sounded more like a psychopath than a sexual partner.
Her breath caught at the next ad.
“Let me help your spirit to sing. Leather-loving dominant seeks submissive for scene play, potential relationship. Must love music.”
Heat pooled low in her groin, her panties growing damp as the blood pulsed between her legs. She didn’t know why the words affected her so deeply. But she knew she couldn’t let this opportunity get away from her. Fingers trembling, she tore out the ad.
* * * * *
Later that morning, showered and dressed in a neatly professional skirt and blouse, Gayle was still thinking about the ad while working at her computer. She kicked off a database compaction, then leaned back in her desk chair and stretched her arms high above her head. It would be fifteen minutes at least before she could do the next task on her list.
A smile teased her lips. There was a voicemail box associated with the ad. Fifteen minutes was plenty of time to call and leave a message.
She dug the ad out of her wallet and nervously dialed the paper’s personals number, then carefully entered the extension at the prompt. The system clicked, transferring her to the voicemail box she’d chosen. And then the man who’d placed the ad spoke.
“Thank you for your interest in my ad,” he said, his rich and resonant voice reaching through the phone line to wrap around her lungs and squeeze. Her heart hammered. God, she could come just by listening to him talk. His words slid across her skin like a velvet caress, and her body arched, aching to bring him closer.
“Leave a message, and a way to reach you. If I like the sound
of your message, I’ll contact you.”
“No pressure,” Gayle muttered, her fingers tightening around the handset. Instinctively, she straightened her back, lifting her head to relax her throat and breathing deep into her diaphragm. This was just as much an audition as the Sondheim production would be.
The phone beeped, cueing her message.
“Your ad intrigued me,” she began, pitching her voice to be as clear and carrying as if she was onstage. “I love to sing, and tremble at the thought of putting myself in your hands. If you would be interested in making music with me, call me. My name is Gayle.”
Then she rattled off the phone number for the unassigned extension in her office that she used to test the marketing team’s modems. It had an old, analog phone plugged in to it. His would be the only incoming call on that line.
She ate her lunch at her desk, mocking her own foolishness. He probably wouldn’t even check his voicemail messages until the evening, when he got home from work. And if he liked her message enough to call her, he’d call back when she didn’t answer. But she couldn’t take the chance that he wouldn’t. So she grabbed a microwavable bowl of macaroni and cheese from the vending machines and a diet cola, her ears straining to hear the distinctive ring of the analog phone.
She was completely absorbed in debugging a glitch with one of the manager’s email accounts when the clanging bell of the phone startled her. Taking a deep breath, she sat up straight and relaxed her throat, then answered the phone.
