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The Voxe: A Girl and Her Music

By: Smokey125



Greetings, gals and pals, Smokey here. Here's another story for you which distinguishes from my normal numbered stories in one of the ways the "Redefining Punishment"s do: it's narrated in first-person. And again from a lesbian ("lebbi," as I affectionately refer to them, as you may know) point of view. Specifically, one very special and particular chick, who's popped up in several Smokey Sagas (mostly the "Happy Endings" series) as a fictitious American rock star...named Velette. Hope you like it. 

*** 

I was not born even remotely resembling the person I am today. 

Thirty-two years ago, I came into this world christened Velette Cora Vanderbilt, from Cincinnati, Ohio. I was a perfectly garden-variety infant. I was sweet, precious, and a big naïve innocent heart. Many formative ages to follow entailed the same. Cut to thirty-two years later, modestly as I can say it, I am an international, multi-platinum, million-selling song composer and recording artist—with the now household stage name Velette Voxe splashed across my record covers—as well as a little something of an icon in the lesbian community, closing in on my first decade in the public eye. I wouldn't put myself up there with our late great Janis Joplin—a few of my fans might, but not me—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. 

It's hard to decide where to begin in documenting my journey. My childhood and upbringing were run-of-the-mill. My scholastic experiences and performance wound up just a bit above average, fairly decent at best. I wasn't voted Class Clown, Most Likely To Succeed, Best Smile or any of that goofy-ass folderol. I wasn't a member of any clubs, academic groups or other extracurriculars either. I liked sports, but only professional—and mostly played by strong, athletic women. I was no cheerleader, nor did I go to any 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 a very obvious reason: they were with boys. 

I'd encountered inklings and telltale signs of my lesbianism since puberty, of course, but by college, I was in full, intimate touch with my true sexual identity. I knew there was some logical reason dating guys never worked for me. Coincidentally, the exact same year, I unearthed an enormous appetite within myself for composing music. My companion thirst for writing lyrics would join shortly after. Suddenly, I'd found my major and my minor. Pun intended. 

My college career may have only consisted of a single semester, but provided me with two turning-point events in my life nevertheless. As fortune would have it, these occurrences perfectly captured the essences of what would become my two most powerful passions in life: music, and women. The former opportunity presented itself in the year 2004, in the form of a radio contest sponsored by Rainbow Records. The label was in desperate need of hot new acts to sign up. The contest entailed writing and recording a selection of your own pop song demos—original songs only—and then mailing them in to the station. 

So when we heard about the contest, it was actually my Dad, with whom I was hanging out this fateful 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 had 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're an extraordinarily gifted young lady. You have far more talent than you realize. Then again, why shouldn't you? You are my daughter, after all," he glanced to me, smiling with a wink as he drove. 

Have I mentioned I love my Dad? 

Anyway, I visited the web site for the details. Entrants had a month to submit their work. You could record either a digital or hard file of your song—intro and additional comments optional—and hand it in via one of two methods: postal service, or web file sharing—the radio station affirmed both were equally secure—along with a sheet of personal info. A couple weeks after the deadline, the submissions would be narrowed down to ten potentially signed artists, who would then be contacted to visit the station and meet the record executives! Perhaps not the most appropriate place to drop an exclamation point, I know, but damn it, 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 I always found singing super-fun—with the radio, in the shower—but didn't know quite how good I was at it...well, I guessed I'd find out. But it was the record label name that convinced me I had to audition: Rainbow Records! And I'm a lesbian! How perfect was that?! 

Now all I had to do was sit down and write a song. 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 a step on the way to the big times we were talking about here. This was the professional record biz. True, I had a one-in-ten shot, but I'd be going up against some real hot young talent here. Artists who were serious about this opportunity. All of a sudden, this seemed more intimidating than it had five minutes ago. I realized I'd better get extra serious about this myself. 

During the next couple weeks, I threw myself into the project like an obsessive maniac. I hit the cyber-waves, doing some real web surfing, researching the biz while I brushed up on my strum and re-callused my fingers. I didn't have the means to hire a vocal coach or take voice lessons, so I listened extra closely to some of my favorite old records, trying to get inside the stylings of the singers and also hone my pitch. I did my best to pick out and piece together the elements which combined to make the sounds so captivating. I was heavy into big famous classic pop/rock groups (like the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Talking Heads), solo legends (Rod Stewart, Billy Joel, Carole King), and some semi-obscurities as well, such as—coincidentally enough—the band Rainbow. And of course my Sapphic idols from whom to draw inspiration: Melissa, the Janises, Joan, k.d., Holly, Kate, Amy, Emily, and Miss Dusty the Brit. 

Two and a half weeks later, I'd thrown together a rough outline of the first song I would ever write. It was, I felt, a charming, bittersweet little ditty I called "Never Be Yours." Turning my small apartment into a makeshift rehearsal space, I must've played that chord progression a zillion damn times until even my guitar was sick of it. But I really liked the song, was proud of it, and wanted—no, needed—to get it just, exactly, perfect. I did a load of fine-tuning on both Sylvia (my beloved guitar) and my own voice. I had no clue if I'd anything even close to perfect pitch, but when I listened to the playback on my computer software, the results I'd accomplished did not make me cringe. In fact, I was really rather liking what I was hearing. 

Wow, this is so cool! I remember thinking. How come I never tried this before now?? 

At the same time, while recording, I tweaked and polished the lyrics and modest arrangement I'd built around the song. Again, I listened to the output—trying to shut off consciousness to the fact that this was me, my own person...and was not overly displeased. Yet, I also became my own worst, most brutally harsh critic. Sporadic points where I knew I had made the tiniest of mistakes, or hit one single wrong note, robbed me of the satisfaction with my performance, and so I kept working harder and harder. 

Finally, by the time week three came to a close, the first official demo of "Never Be Yours" had been cut. August 4th, 2004. Just me and Sylvia. I kept a file of it with all its info in my computer, and also scribbled down a handwritten copy to keep as a backup. I had seldom felt so proud of myself for anything in my life. I'd toiled and toiled on this one single song for days, and finally achieved a result which fulfilled my requirements, 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 damned 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 on in, veritably invading me, for fuck's sake. I emerged from the bathroom cursing at myself, determined to find some way to get it the hell off my mind. I did some channel hopping. I tuned my way through the radio dial. I jilled myself into a holy motherfucker of an orgasm. But no luck at any turn. 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, a brilliant solution appeared. 

Write aNOTHER song! 

I chuckled as I turned the idea over in my mind. Why not? Why the bloody hell not?? It was certainly worth a try. And it wasn't like I didn't have time. There was still another entire week left over until the recording had to soldier off to the powers that be. And as I thought about it further, the entry rules said nothing about not including multiple songs in your submission. Perhaps I needn't stick to only one piece! Maybe I could write an even better song, and record it on this debut Velette sample as well! Why not??! 

I was starting to become so excited I had trouble sitting still. I began to entertain fantasies of visiting coffeeshops and open mike clubs around town, playing my songs! Songs. As in plural. As in with an 's' on the end. As in more than one. 

I knew each song had to be reasonably unique, with its own identity and vibe. For my second composition, I chose to switch gears from the pleasant but longing ballad style I'd demonstrated on "Never Be Yours." I started thinking more up-tempo, more upbeat elements, more of a rock sound this time around. And lyrics to match. Something hotter, more passionate. Lacking the vulnerable uncertainty of a solemn ballad...a ballad which, I was quickly realizing, showed but one single side of my multifaceted character and art. The possibilities ignited me, fueled me with 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 as I started down this promising path. At this point in my life, I worked full-time at Best Buy, a retailer rife with some of the most innovative, high-performance electronics available for public sale. Real top-of-the-line stuff. And if I was going to do this, especially with such a future investment in the field, I needed more equipment than little ol' Sylvia and some slightly outdated computer software. Our employee discount was nothing to sneeze at. Next paycheck, I could have a field day! 

Well, that's still in the future, I told myself, along with, Settle down! Settle down! 

I couldn't just go out and buy up everything that struck my fancy right away, but one thing I could do in the meantime was make a list of probables and necessities. One thing I definitely needed was some sheet music paper. Or an application installed in the ol' Dell that could simulate sheet music for me. At this point 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 around with her, to see what might happen. 

Going for a happier, more uplifting and positive feel this time, I reversed the ratio of major to minor chords, and again found a raw sketch of an arrangement I liked. I shut my eyes and let my hands do the walking, strumming this new chord sequence again and again, seeing what would come to mind lyrics-wise. Forty-five minutes later, "Heart-Shaped Carnival" was born. 

I was amazing myself. I'd finished writing two songs in full, in a single day! So far! I was on a roll! Using the same technical setup, I played and sang "Heart-Shaped Carnival" to the computer, recording it too into the system, adding it to my files along with "Never Be Yours." I took attentive care and precision to ensure that the auras given off in both songs were comparably unique. I accelerated the tempo in song number two, played Sylvia with a looser, more carefree feel, and sang with more playful vivacity. 

Now I was becoming really proud. Two demos recorded! I gave my beloved Sylvie a hearty, audible 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 hoped someone would come in and ask me to show them some audio-improving electronics. I changed into my jammies, yawned, stretched and climbed in bed, petting Little Letty inside my pajama pants, willing myself to fall asleep, in order to get up, get through the next day, able to come back home and write more songs. 

Though I had 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 that 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? 

*** 

My friend, are you ready for this? I raced home after work the next day and wrote five more songs. FIVE. In seven hours! All of a sudden, I just couldn't stop! The ideas kept coming, one after another after another! And right along with them, the 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 temporarily 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, I had seven virtually finished, completely original tunes laid down in digital demo MP3 form on my computer, occupying an equally gratifying seven megabytes of space on my drive. I was officially obsessed. Hell, I still am. I realize I'm making quite a big deal of it, but 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, but I get self-centered, and that's what I really 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's been twelve minutes since my last composition. Here I go again. 

But that's okay. Believe me, this is one business in life that doesn't only welcome obsession, it flat-out demands it. You have to be obsessed to survive this business. The record manufacturing industry's in a little trouble in this digital age, but music itself is not, going, anywhere. Human beings need it for their own sanity and happiness. It's a necessity of life. 

These things in mind, I continued along my merry musical path. My abilities were still somewhat limited with just Sylvie by my side, and not to make her feel less special, but there were and are only so many things she can do. So a few days later, I concluded the workday with a magnificent purchase. Being well in touch with the store merchandise, I had an advantage here. I bought a bell- and whistle-loaded synthesizer. This thing was a beaut! I wasn't quite as skilled at playing piano or keyboards, but that was okay. Right now, I mainly just wanted the built-in rhythmic sequencing to back up Sylvia and myself. And how difficult could it possibly be to meet someone who could literally rock this snazzy-ass synth-machine and join me on one or two or twenty-seven jam sessions?? 

I had to move stuff around and clear a lot of space to squeeze in my guitar'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...ah! Right here. And...oh, my God. What is this, War And Peace?! This thing had a bazillion pages! All I wanted to do was find some cool accompanying beats, not split nuclear fucking atoms! 

To hell with that! I thought, tossing it aside. 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, the 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, now, Dear Reader, in the interest of hopefully not boring you to tears with every detail of the process, I'll skip ahead. Long story short, I wound up creating a miniature album. I chose eight now electronically charged versions of what I felt were my best songs so far, tweaked to my early, unlofty standards of perfection, and I was all set. With one day to spare. Double whew! 

The only step left now was to compile the submission, and kick it on in. I added a little intro to tell them about myself, to say that there were a lot of songs here—hope that's okay—and to let them know how incredibly important this had become to me. And that I hoped it showed in my efforts. I went for E-mail, feeling this was easiest and best, attached the file, said a little prayer, and hit Send. 

Okay, I won't lie to you: for the first couple of days, my hopes were high. I knew it wasn't wise to let them skyrocket the way they did, but I really did have such confidence in my work. So much, in fact, that even should Rainbow Records turn me down, at this point I couldn't just give up. I knew how tough a business this was, and I knew even the most talented and gifted artists often struggled like hell before they made it—if they made it at all. I may not have known everything I was getting myself into here, but I'd fallen heels right over head in love with the craft. And I couldn't imagine writing songs for someone else, either. I already felt I had given birth to a dozen and a half babies, and I didn't wanna put a single one of them up for adoption. 

I had, however, just applied eight of them to one of the finer "academies" in the area, so to speak... 

I didn't know exactly how long I had to wait after this to hear back, so I did my best to focus attention back on my normal activities, a big chunk of which now consisted of songwriting. I was hooked. I'd found a drug more intoxicating than any narcotic—which still 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 crap day—Monday, September 27th, 2004, to be precise—when out of the blue, the life of Cincinnati's 21-year-old little Velette Vanderbilt would be forever changed. It was one of those days in which nothing really big happens, per se, but so many of the little annoying things gang up on you, you feel like if one more thing goes the slightest bit wrong, you're gonna do something unthinkable. Fortunately, I did no such thing. 


The Voxe: A Girl and Her Music



After another thankless day of retail, serving my ass up for my superiors to chow down, I drearily trolleyed back home and unceremoniously slunk my car into an open spot. When I checked the mailbox, 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 have received my submission, hopefully 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 what lay inside. But I knew I had to at some point, or my imagination would torture me. And I knew my immediate mood had no influence over the words that'd already been typed and printed on this letter. I got inside, tossed the other two items...anywhere, sat down, and opened it. I'll again be totally honest with you, my heart was pounding. Good or bad, I didn't want any giveaway buzz words to leap out at me before I was ready, so I unfolded and perused extra carefully. 

"'Dear Miss Vanderbilt,'" I read, squinting at the first line, not wanting my eyes to jump down the page prematurely. "'We would like to thank you very much for your submi'—...so and so and so a—" 

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 and inflection grew 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! "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!!" 

I grabbed the phone and frantically dialed. 

"Dad? Dad!! Guess what?! You are not gonna believe this!" 

He didn't sound in such shock or disbelief at all. His last words to me in this elated phone conversation were, and I do quote— 

"I knew you could do it, babe. I am so proud of you." 

Have I mentioned I love my Dad? 

Fast-forward two years, I'd cut, produce, master 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 with the Rainbow executives, ever since things began to take off for me, and has since remained my agent, my manager, my professional and personal partner, and one hell of a lover. And for the detractors who feel the dual business and romantic relationship is an essential recipe for disaster, I've got four words for you: Lily Tomlin, Jane Wagner. Over forty years working together, now married. 

Now, Reader, 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 I shall now proceed to tangent off and do so with my other sublime passion: women. 

When I began college after having fully come out—but before Miss Lisa-Anne Brockton came along, to whom I'll return after this next chunk of my story—campus was a magical place to be for a young lesbian. Beautiful girls were everywhere. I was like a child in a candy store. A candy store to rival any other. 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 myself have always enjoyed being a lesbian—particularly of the lipstick persuasion. The issue lay in the matter of whether the outside world felt the same way about me. As much fun as scoping college babes was at first, I hardly ran across a single, solitary either gay-be or may-be in the entire lot. What was more, not until I began hanging out with the "hetero" girls did I realize that as straight as they claimed to be, surprisingly, they didn't appear to like boys very much. At all. All they seemed to want to do was whine about all the stupid, douchey things they all did. Being the andro-clueless lesbi here, all I could do was quote Suzanne Westenhoefer. 

"Well, I'm...I'm...I'm sure he didn't mean it..." 

After the umpteenth one chose to confide in me, bitching about how awful and horrible they all were, I had a couple of questions. For one, just who exactly 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 really nagging at me. So I took something of an individual poll of them. 

"Well, *insert girl's name here*, if they're all such fucking assholes—and you've met and determined this of all three billion of them in the world, without a single exception—why do you continue to go out with them? Why don't you try going out with a girl one time? I know you don't think you like girls, but...if you've never tried dating one, how do you know?" 

This question provoked a couple varied reactions, from abrupt confused silence, to the sarcastic, "Heh! 'S gotta be better!" to the outraged, "What is that supposed to be, some kind of sick joke?!" to the downright horrified, "UGH! OhmyGod! Are you insane??!" 

I'll admit, a few of these reactions hurt my feelings. But some seemed more open to the idea than others. If a young lady found herself teetering on the edge of conversion, I was more than willing to urge her my way, catch her, and break her fall. But I was failing to grasp the actual issue here in the first place. My reasoning was, well, everyone's different. So surely not every dude on the planet's gonna be an evil scum bag...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 here and there did seem pretty rotten, lots of others, at least in my experience, were nice and cool. And so how, I wondered, were these girls ostensibly just meeting these endless parades of jerks, one right after another? Maybe this was easy for me to say, but if I did go out with gents, I found it hard to believe I'd have to go through such a huge collection of assholes to locate just one nice guy. 

And then there was the flip side of this coin. In the midst of all these misandric tirades, I took note that none of the het-girls was willing to take a step back, look at herself and consider or mention her own faults or shortcomings out loud. Apparently, as far as their conversations with one another went, they were flawless. Eventually, all the squawking got pretty old. I didn't think guys could be this catty to hang out with. I'd never seen a group of them sitting around together complaining about how shitty women were. 

Unfortunately, these interactions, coupled with the severe lack of Sapphic company around me, drained the enthusiastic kid-in-the-candy-store feeling from me. But I couldn't help how I felt about women to begin with. I just adored them. They were the softest, prettiest, hottest things to grace this fine planet. Still, I had yet to experience my first true sexual encounter with one. And my deprived body and hormones were getting a bit tired of it. Yet, were I to be intimate with someone, my heart and emotions were not to be overruled in their own demands. As much as my cunt craved some raw action, I wasn't about to let any smoking hot dolly have her way with me without putting in her fair share of romantic, savory affection: indefinite spells of both pre- and post-sex cuddling, a series of whispered sweet nothings, you get the idea. I wanted a thick-and-thin partner, not just a benefitted fuck friend. 

In the meantime, I stroked myself raw in bed to keep the yearnings at bay. When I considered all the lovely, wonderful varieties of gorgeous gals I saw each day, it became intensely hard—and by "it," I mean my "c-l-it"—to keep my hands and vibrator off myself. I had no one fully or semi-serious in my life, and thus my mind and body were both free to do—and by "do" I mean fantasize about—whomever they damn well pleased. Most times it ended up being our then-Miss now-Mrs. Jodie Foster. Not Jen Foster, whom I mentioned before, but Jodie. "Crush" wasn't a big enough word to describe my feelings for her. Hell, Nell, there wasn't a big enough word to describe my feelings for her. I even wrote a song about her at one point, one of my more modest radio hits, "Beyond Heaven And Back." The title just seemed to pop into my head one day out of thin air. I almost had the chance to meet her once at an awards show, but when I considered the possibility that I might literally melt around her feet upon contact, perhaps it was better I didn't. 

My Little Letty let me know just how happy she was when I focused Jodie in my mind's eye. I imagined her talking naughty and sexy to me, igniting me from beneath. "Oh, hello, Clarice," I would 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 back in heated desire. Finally, I burrowed my fingers inside and secreted pre-come 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 of 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 up again from the beginning. Little Letty wasn't happy about this, but she knew the big reward was coming. I willed my pretend-Jodie to lay over me and daintily kiss my lips, my ears, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my breasts...oh, my breasts...down my belly...my soft, milky thighs... 

I was about to lose my goddamned mind. I thrashed and flopped on my mattress, surfing the waves I was generating. Stars exploded in my eyes. My pussy began spilling and squirting uncontrollably. In that moment my nipples could've pierced solid glass. I released the vibrator and manipulated 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 my 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 hands in my fantasy, but only two in reality. I decided to flip over onto my stomach. I slipped a pillow under my chest to have something to press my heaving, burning tits against. Somehow, I kept my right hand comfy and cozy inside my cunt through the entire maneuver. I then held the vibrator in place with my left hand like before, now underneath me, still fixed on my swollen, blood-red clit. My face was now buried in pillows as I continuously whipped my head back and forth, up and down. My feet joined my head, rising and slamming the mattress as I tried to maintain concentration. 

Fuck me, Jodie! 

Fuck me here, fuck me now! 

Fuck me hard, fuck me fast! 

FUCK ME!! 

My thighs clenched, trying to squeeze everything out of the almighty vibrator I could get. My body actually started to bounce on the bed as if it were a trampoline. I moaned with each thrust onto and into myself. The moans quickly accelerated to hollers and screams. I wanted to jam the head of the vibrator as far up my bubbling crimson pussy as it would 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. 

My impending orgasm was toying with me. It made me think it was coming, and impishly retreated. Again and again. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, bit down on a faceful of pillow, and shrieked my lungs out. Unable to wait or stand it another second, I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to rip right through the pillow fabric with my teeth, and threw a shitstorm tantrum like a spoiled five-year-old. I reached inside myself, burying practically my entire hand, and tried to get at my g-spot. 

"Jodie..." I muttered through the pillow, voice half-hoarse. "Make me come! PLEASE MAKE ME COME!" 

"Come for me, Velette," purred the smooth, perfect voice of my beloved Jodie Foster. 

"COME FOR ME." 

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 strike orgasm electrocuted me head to toe, shocking me with record-breaking climactic voltage. My engorged pussy absolutely destroyed my bedsheets. I rolled over onto my back, caking my thighs in thick hot come. I didn't care in the slightest; I'd simply wash the sheets, and myself, later on. 

The orgasm wound down. My pussy was completely drained. The clit stimulation combined with my marvelous wet dream about Jodie made me squirt like a lawn sprinkler. Then I realized more than just my vagina had been drained. I dropped the vibrator as my head lolled back and my eyes fluttered closed once again. Faint colors swam before my blurring vision as my system shut down. At least I think it shut down. It was possibly the most intense masturbation and orgasm I had ever or would ever experience. I thought I would have to write another little song or two about this—keeping it PG(-13), of course. 

I don't remember what happened next. 

*** 

Lisa-Anne and I decided to start working together a decade ago. After a brief and extremely successful meeting with the Rainbow Records executives, they flew me out to Los Angeles, all expenses paid, and booked me into one of the swankiest hotels I've ever seen in my life. It was a huge eye-opener for a simple girl from the Midwest. The next meeting I had was with Lisa-Anne. She took me out to lunch for some schmoozing. Honestly, though, I didn't hear every word she said. She was—is—so goddamn enchanting. She's six years older than I am, and I was just a little 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 a bit raw, but the label and I can see some real glimmer in there. And we see enough of it to turn you red-fucking-hot. In fact, I'll tell you something. This is gonna make you skeptical, just 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. My nostrils twitched as my brain told me I liked it. 

"...You're a pop prodigy." 

My mouth dropped open. 

"No bullshit; Velette, you are a genius. I am not messing with you here, babe. I've been in this business ten years. I know star quality when I see and hear it. You may not believe me right now, but mark my words, young lady: you...are going...to be...huge. 

"I'm gonna reach inside you, and 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 obviously a genius herself, at turning ordinary figures of speech into amazingly effective innuendo. 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 something else: you're a cool chick with a hot look. I wanna see you on records. I wanna see you on the stage and the screen. We're gonna throw you on billboards, posters, magazine covers, trading cards, the whole shebang. We are not messing around. This is the big time we're talking about." 

She was getting me really excited now, on several levels. We made the meal last until just before our food went stale. We talked about introducing me to the biz, my love of songwriting, my guitar and vocal skills, my star potential, future evolution, putting together a crew of musicians, producers, engineers, technicians. She had so flipping much to lay out for me, by the end of the lunch my mind had turned to ravioli. I felt overwhelmed by all the information she was filling my head with. So I told her so. 

"Oh, that's okay, babe, trust me," she assured. "It's cool. You don't have to know all the background stuff at this point. I don't want you to worry about that, I'm just telling you about it to let 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 going, and let me do the rest." 

I smiled, thinking I could certainly do that. All this talk about hitting the big time was intimidating, but didn't dampen my spirit for writing material. I could barely wait to get back to my hotel room and pick up my guitar again. 

"I can barely wait to get back to my hotel 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. "There's one thing we need to do a little work on." 

"My name?...W—...what's wrong with it?" 

"Absolutely nothing. Your first name, I love. It fits. 'Velette.' It's hot. Fresh, vibrant, vivacious. Just like you. It's your last name I'm not so sure about. 'Vanderbilt'...sounds more like, I dunno, a connotation of construction work in The Netherlands or som'n'. Doesn't exactly carry that sexy showbiz punch, y'know?" 

"Hm." I had never really considered this. "Soooo...you think I should do like Madonna instead? Just be known by my first name?" 

"Well, there's one way to go. That is a unique handle you've got on ya. But I'll tell you, I do like that alliteration you've got going on with the 'v's. 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...uh...Vice?" I giggled. 

"Heh! Well, kinda, but I'm not gonna let you sound like some cheesy-ass '80s cop show either. Nah, I had something more in mind like...the Latin for 'voice,' you being a singer and all. Velette Vox. Only problem is, Bono kinda already pulled that stunt." 

"Whoa!..." I thought out loud. "Velette Vox?...That...that sounds so cool!" 

Lisa-Anne smirked at me, pouring on the charm. 

"You like it, do ya?" 

"Yeah! I love it! Do we...do we have to let that go? I mean, the band's name's on their albums: U2. Not Bono Vox. And-and it...it seems like this is a little different. I mean, I...I'm not changing my first name, right? The guy's real name's Paul Hewson. Bono Vox...I mean, that means 'good voice,' right? Seems a little...well, kinda pretentious, doesn't it?" I chuckled. 

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; Vox it is. But I still say it can't hurt to differentiate it. Like, what say we take liberty with the spelling? Throw a silent 'e' on the end? So we don't have to change the pronunciation, just the spelling." 




The Voxe: A Girl and Her Music



"Okay!" I agreed excitedly, grinning nice and big at her. Wow...Velette Voxe. I could almost see it on the album covers 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...wow, I could just kiss you." 

"Later, babe. We've still got some serious work to do." 

*** 

My very first professional recording session arrived a couple weeks later, at Rainbow's own Spectrum Studios in downtown L.A. I was all set to get down to business, because I knew how astronomically expensive it was just to begin working in a recording studio to begin with, even if the money wasn't coming out of my own pocket. I would need the producers and engineers to help me with pretty much everything off the bat, until at some indeterminable future point I would learn to hold those reins myself. Unfortunately, our first disagreement took place right away. I wanted to record "Heart-Shaped Carnival" as my debut, but everyone else insisted another of my tunes, "Falling Apart," had to come first. 

To tell the truth, I was a little bemused and dismayed by this at the time. "Falling Apart" was the song I'd argued with myself the most over including in my original eight-demo submission, and I placed it right in the middle, because out of those eight, this was actually the song I felt the least confident in. I mean, it wasn't terrible, but I just didn't really like it quite as much as the other seven. Yeah, it was okay, it was a decent song, but it certainly wasn't the one I'd have expected 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 would keep writing, and was sure when the time came to record more, I'd be able to create material everyone loved equally. 

I will admit, though, it was damn hard to concentrate on recording music, even mine, with Lisa-Anne around. When we'd break for the night and I'd adjourn back 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 enough to sense how unwise it was to attach myself too closely to her in the midst of a professional client-manager relationship. 

Yet, at the same time...oh, what a beautiful relationship we could have... 

While this may not have been the brightest idea I ever came up with either, I opened my laptop, picked up Sylvia and wrote some more, with my smoking hot manager as my passionate muse. And I came up with what I felt was a lovely number called "Forbidden." Clearly, I couldn't name it after Lisa-Anne, or put her name in the lyrics, and I could be walking on dangerous ground, immersing yet further into my infatuation, making a real emotional investment here, but, I rationalized, it could also be a hit! Everyone can relate to that. If desperately wanting and yearning for someone you can't have isn't universal, I don't know what the hell is. 

With "Falling Apart" in the can and the promo single on its way to the radio stations, I was on my way to rock stardom. Long story short, on February 8th, 2006, at 10:47 a.m., Pacific standard time, I tasted my first sip from the goblet of fame. This was the moment that, on WACR, the Accord, in Los Angeles, "Falling Apart" received its very first radio airplay. 

Once that D.J. said my (stage) name, Miss Velette Voxe, that was it; I was officially on the grid. I had made it onto the pop scene. The next several weeks saw my name and debut single entered into hundreds of web sites, music databases and social networks. At one point I had to take a step back, close my eyes and verify to myself that this was in fact for real, that all this was really happening. It was surreal. The promo singles circulated throughout the States, and I was actually getting my first peek at American fame. 

In the meantime, I continued writing with Sylvia, got back together with the crew in the studio and did some more recording. And, God help my beating heart, Lisa-Anne took me networking with her to promote the first single. All the while, I still had to get myself used to the fact that this wasn't a dream. But the ultimate confirmation of the reality was shortly to come. 

We spent the spring and summer recording full-scale productions of ten other tracks. Three of them were studio versions of the demos I wrote and submitted back in '04. The other seven were handpicked by myself and the crew as the cream of the crop. All eleven including "Falling Apart" were compiled and mastered together while I was sent on a photo shoot for the next big day, which finally arrived on Tuesday, October 17th. My first full-length album, entitled simply Velette, hit the stores and the web, released by Universal Music and Rainbow Records, also stamped with my own Voxe Recordings imprint. 

Padded by a nice amount of radio airplay, "Falling Apart" helped the record sell, as did its second single, "I Lose No Dreams." Rainbow also wanted me to make a music video for "Dreams," a request I gladly obliged. Half the video involved me essentially tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep, which eventually led to me getting up, retrieving Sylvia, holding her close to me and strumming her supple strings, playing her in my pajamas and lip-synching the lyrics. 

Some of my other demos that didn't make the album were included as bonus tracks on the singles, which also pleased me. Things progressed naturally, and little by little, the shock of making a splash on the scene wore off. I was starting out with a bang. Velette entered the charts, peaking at #37, not too 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 time and all this madness, I was forced to endure the torture of being so close to Lisa-Anne each day without the ability to show or tell her how I felt about her, bound by the professional nature of our partnership. I had to go on presuming it was inappropriate to make advances on my career manager. I had to figure it all out...somehow. 

*** 

With the hype steadily building on me and the fandom pouring in, my first BIG concert was booked, on January 16th, 2007 at L.A.'s own El Rey. I'm not going to lie to you, my friends. I was scared. Realistically, I knew I shouldn't be. After all, I had performed shows in much smaller venues, and these concertgoers would be coming to see me because 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 go out there and imagine all the chicks naked, and you'll be fine." 

Looking back on it, 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, and it's only going up from there. Chill, babe. They adore you. You've got zip to worry about." 

It's immodest as hell, but it's true. I've been addictively hooked on songwriting every bit now if not more than the days of "Never Be Yours." To date I've written hundreds of songs, released ten albums in my nine active years, countless singles including yet more songs in demo or remix form, video and concert DVDs, plus one greatest hits package. These days my live show has become a two-hour (or longer) pop-rock-stravaganza throughout some of the most vastly expansive venues all over the world. Tens of thousands of fans—mostly my hot young lesbian disciples in their teens and twenties—ah, perks of fame!—flock together and swarm to the front row, trying 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 give them a high-five. On special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries and such, I'll pull them up on stage with me and do a song especially for them. 

After shows, I try to meet and greet as many of them backstage as possible, and to this day I continue to be the slightest bit blown away at just how momentously my music and my existence in their lives has impacted them. Fans of a wide age range, male and female, come up to meet 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, loving 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 they consider it just to be able to get this close to you, and ask for an autograph or picture. You have to realize they've taken you into their hearts and souls, watched you in their living rooms, spent time with you in their kitchens, their cars, their offices, their 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 every one of them directly verbatim from letters fans have 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 the fans on tour can be a difficult thing in this one aspect. The most emotionally die-hard of Velette 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 to death, and now that they've gotten this chance to meet and hug 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 all the fans together and take them out for a drink. But I can't. 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 post-show time evenly amongst them. 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, what with the turbulence and jet lag, 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 2007, the fan mail began to pour in, both in snail form and digital. I was quite touched and flattered receiving them and natch, thought this 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 my attention that I feel deserves special note. It was written by a young, at the time teenage girl named Patty Dimberg. She has granted me 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 a letter 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. And 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 asks me what she did wrong. It just all 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 by myself, 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 them up. But when I was throwing up, I thought of one of your songs. It was "Stone Cold." I felt like the girl in it, who loses everything but 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 in the CD player. I think listening to them really makes me feel a little better. I don't know why, 'cause my life's still sucky. 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. I know 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 and 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 want you to be 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 that my face was also awash in tears, and my heart had cracked open, bleeding inside me. I felt so sorry for this poor, sad, troubled young lady. What was more, I wanted to make it all better. I wanted, just like she said, to sweep her 

into my arms and take all her pain away. Part of me wished I could be her mother as well—or more logically, big sister—but I'd have to take her all over the world on tour with me. It would be very complicated. Still, a person would have to be made of stone not to recognize the heartfelt emotion into which she'd poured each word. I cannot begin to express how much it means to me that listening to my music makes her feel better about herself, and especially that I saved her life. In all the time since hitting the music scene leading up to this particular day, I could never have dreamed my work held the power to do such magnificent things. 

But that's the majesty of deep, passionate music, my friends. And that's why as long as there are fans to enjoy it, 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 doing this, eventually I couldn't answer all of my fan mail anymore—except perhaps in brief, one-line snippets. I simply could not keep up; it poured in in such gigantic droves. Nor could I connect with my friends and fans on social outreaching web sites to such a close degree, for a similar reason. But I had also never received any correspondence to date which tugged at my heartstrings so desperately, so longingly, so deeply in need of friendship and compassion. I felt such an empathetic connection 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 so boldly. I wish to beckon you to the conviction that taking our own lives is never the answer. Please, I beg you not to take yourself away from me and all the others to whom I know you mean so much. I pray to God you will find the strength and love that you so much 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 on your behalf to keep you from suffering this awful pain. But I want you to know, Patty, as sincere as you or I were born, if there is one thing you are not, in this situation, it's alone. Believe me, my friend. To varying degrees, we have all been through it. God may have put us here amongst everyone else, but that doesn't make it take any less courage to come out, even to loved ones. 

You've done your part with your mother. I don't know your mother, so I can't say very much, but I wonder deep inside if she honestly believes she did something "wrong" here, per se, or if this is merely what she thinks she's supposed to believe. I'm sure this is perhaps relatively new, unfamiliar territory for her. I'm not trying to defend or take sides, Patty, but not a great deal of parents anticipate or expect 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 just this much. If he's anything like mine, he'll be sensitive enough to realize that no matter what, you're his daughter, and he's proud of you. As is and will be your mom. I know it. 

I realize the fact that they're divorced doesn't help. Divorce can be a terrible thing. But take heart, Patty. Be easy on yourself. Don't accept 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 for the fact you've figured out who you are at such a young age, and you'll be a better person for it. Between you and me, I wasn't sure I was 100% gay until just a few years ago. I actually envy you a bit, Patty. Had I known the truth at your age, I could've saved myself quite a deal of grief. Try your hardest, study, and soldier on. You'll get through it. I know reading that doesn't help very 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, a bit of reassurance. You say you hope I do not hate you, as you believe others do. Patty Dimberg, read me very carefully here. First of all, not only do I not hate you, nor any of my fans, I actually deeply care about you. When my fans tell me they are suffering, I suffer with them. Let me share your hurting and lessen it on you. I couldn't hate such a sweet, lovely young person as yourself if I tried. Furthermore, I am certain your mom doesn't hate you. You're her little girl. You mean the world to her. I'm sure of it. And you don't have to listen to your mean, nasty classmates in school. They're only lashing out at you to feel better about their own inadequacies. Deep down, they feel just as insecure as you do, if not more. They simply haven't matured enough yet to relate to you on a more human level. Remember, if someone has only hostility for you, they're not worth a damn. 

For now, Patty, just take life one moment at a time. And stop to take comfort in the little things. The beautiful things nature has 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 or consider that she's just a bitch, and then we die. Don't let it get you down, Patty. Don't give up. 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 that the third one is coming out in February. And when it's time for the fourth one, Patty, you might just find a little song on there written especially for you. But if you take your own life, you'll never get to hear it. 




The Voxe: A Girl and Her Music



All this being said, Patty, God bless you. Hang in there. I'm here if you need someone to lean on. 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. 

—V 

I didn't want to stop writing this reply, but if I never stopped writing it, then she'd never get to read it. I sent it, and a couple of days later, she wrote back to me again. She was still crying, but now, she told me, her tears felt a little happier. Patty's continued to keep in semi-constant touch with me over the seven years since, and I'm thrilled to report that per her updates keeping me posted, her 20s are treating her far gentler and nicer than her teens. I may have had something to do with it, but I maintain that she made her own better version of life what it is today. I'm so happy for her. In the time since then, I've received many other fan Ve-letters such as this, and have taken care to tender loving responses of encouragement and hope to these fans just as with Patty. 

In the meantime, the career must go on. Album number three, Breathless Kisses, crashed to Earth in February of '08, and with it, my biggest world tour yet. But just as the tour was getting started, dates underway, something magical happened. 

Breathless Kisses...hit #1... 

AND...and, resulted in a Grammy, for Best Pop Vocal Album, just barely beating out my friend Amy Winehouse, rest her soul. 

What we got damn near on album two, we absolutely perfected on album three. Everything fell into place. It was brilliant. It was 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 records, Velette and Voxe Around The Clock, made us proud, but in crafting them...I dunno, I guess I felt something was lacking just a little bit. Once we started working on Kisses, we took onboard an outside rock guitarist named Dez Tandy, who we all felt was the direct descendant of Tommy Shaw. He gave us a proverbial 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. Every one of us loved his rocking edge, and 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 lucky, that he agreed to go on tour with us. 

Lisa-Anne had been right multiple times. First, I did find it hard to believe that she was going to make me as acclaimed and renowned worldwide as she said. But second, she did. Practically overnight, a few weeks into the Breathless Tour, I started to realize the enormity. I soon 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 officially gripped the planet. Television appearance invites flooded our mailbox. I was asked to come to an Angels game and sing the anthem. I should have known something big was going on by the activity at shows home in the States. I arrived for a show at the Beacon in New York, and pranced out 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 the earpieces in, we could barely hear ourselves play. Almost three thousand seats in there, 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 straight through on three-day road trips just to watch me sing. They knew every lyric by heart. They knew the rhythms and nuances of the original recordings even better than we did. We'd begin playing the songs just to let the audience completely take over. They didn't even need me. At one point I actually forgot a line, and no one even noticed. 

Holy hell, I thought to myself. I bet my friend Patty Dimberg's pretty proud of me right about now. To say nothing of my parents. I hoped Patty got to come see me when I dropped by her city. I told her I'd set aside free tickets for her and a couple friends, just as I did 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 shows at the Beacon... 

...That second night...my "Forbidden" dream came true. 

We were throwing back champers like it was New Year's. After my I-couldn't-even-tell-you-how-many-eth glass—I am one cheap drunk—somehow, 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, Velette." 

I couldn't believe it. It was about to happen. She'd taken me to her hotel room, which I only discovered the next morning. On the way through the lobby and up the elevator, it was all I could do not to rip all of our clothes right off. She made me wait patiently, yearningly, until we were safely behind her locked door... 

...At which point, everything was fair game. 

We were splashed, we were horny, and we were 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 marvelously seductive touch. Again, her intoxicating perfume assaulted my vulnerable nostrils as I pushed back against her. My senses flew into a dizzy frenzy. Our lips met...at which moment nothing as we know it would never be the same again. 

The next several moments were loaded with hungry moans through hot lips, fumbling hands, clothes being stripped, and unsteady footing in the general direction of the bed, bumping several pieces of furniture along the way. Such rough 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 along to the mattress. My heart rocketed to the undersides of my tits. Lisa-Anne's everpresent cleavage revealed to me that she was at least a 36. My own rockin'—pun not intended—38Ds bounced against her with craving ferocity. I burned with passion as columns of sweat began running down my nose and cheeks. We had turned no lights on; I could not discern, even by touch, whether Lisa-Anne was sweating like I was, or as piqued and psyched up as I. But I liked the way this was looking. 

Since I couldn't make anything out in the darkness and had her goddesslike face memorized anyway, I shut my eyes. She caught me by surprise as she abruptly detached from the kiss, and went rough on me. She placed her hands on my shoulders, and shoved me backwards, right down onto the bed, flat on my back. 

My breath caught in my throat as I sank into the welcoming mattress. My eyes remained closed, a fortunate thing as one moment later, the insides of my eyelids brightened. Lisa-Anne had flipped on the lights. I carefully, cautiously blinked them open. 

I got my vision to focus to see my career manager leering down on me. She spoke, strictly and ominously. 

"Don't you dare even 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 hasten to 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 leaking pussy belonged to her—a declaration whose truth was only figurative only a moment later. When she broke out her handcuffs. 

My eyes popped open at the sight. She smiled at me, sly and sinister, a pair dangling from her fingers. 

"Now hold still... 

"...Slave." 

*** 

Fifteen minutes later, Lisa-Anne Lucy Brockton, my sex-oozing manager, had me shackled to her hotel bed, hand and foot. 

I was still clothed, but had a feeling I wouldn't stay that way for long. My...gulp...manager was looking like she planned to do things I might either love, or...or...uh...let me get back to you on the rest of that. 

"Right then..." she cooed with a wicked-looking smirk. I did not realize it at the time, but now in her conniving hand was a pair of small tweezer-style clamps. I wondered, naïve and oblivious, just what these devices were and to what use they should be put. These didn't look like the sort of instruments one utilized to pluck her stray hairs. I still didn't know what else she had in store for me. 

The next statement she made 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 come on the spot, without even touching me. I forced myself to hold it back, to not spoil the fun. She sat beside my sprawled body on the bed...leaned down...took me beneath the neck...gripped me lightly by the hair...forcing a gasp from my lungs...and sizzled my senses, with the wildest kiss I've ever had laid on me. In that moment, I heard passionate saxophone music pipe into our room and flood the atmosphere. My eyes spun, clockwise and counter. 

I did not observe where she placed the clamp-tweezer-looking objects. All I noticed next was the smoothing of both her palms over my ripe hide. I wore only my under-T-shirt and my sky-blue panties, darkened now to royal blue by my rapidly dampening pussy. She was making me unbearably hot. I couldn't stand being unable to reach out and touch her back with my own predatory hands, but my immobilization also lit a fire under the intensity of the situation, bringing it to a level I'd never known before. 

I still had my panties on, but my breasts were going commando tonight. She slipped her literally titillating hands under my shirt, dancing up my bare tummy, making me wait infuriatingly long before finally ascending to my patiently but hungrily waiting boobies. She knew how much I needed her to love them. It would be impossible for anyone to not notice the two stiff erect nubs protruding up under my shirt. She was messing with me...mocking me, taunting me, 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 have known what she was doing. She was making this utterly impossible to stand. I was starting to wish I hadn't let her do this to me, torturously affixing me to the bed with these infernal handcuffs, until... 

All of a sudden, raw, hot goodness swirled and swelled inside, as I felt her cup me. She gripped me, fondled me under my shirt, coercing out helpless croaks of gratitude. My cheeks flushed as my head rode back on the pillows, flexing every muscle I could locate, willing the gratification of her unwithstandable touch to last. Her fingertips danced over my heaving orbs, rising and falling through the waves they generated—just as I did while making love to myself in my own bed. I could tell she had me right where she wanted me: cluelessly guessing what would happen next. There was no question about it: cuffing me down had granted her all the power. 

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, giving me my next order. 

"You will now squeal for me," she hissed. 

For half a second, I wasn't sure if she expected me to do this as well as I could on command, but when that half-second elapsed, she took away my choice. She took a firm hold on my nearer, now exposed breast, lowered down on me, closed her teeth on the top of my nipple, and pressed the bottom of it with one of her tweeze-clamps. 

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 wide-registered singer's voice. The pleasure of pain...damn, it hurt so good. Hey, John Cougar—I now know what you're talking about, dude. 

Her teeth released their bite. I heard her chuckle at me. 

"There's a good slave," came her evil praise. 

"FUCK!" I reiterated, once I found the necessary breath, passion with a dash of agony surging through me. "OH my GOD!" 

"Glad you like them," she smiled malevolently at me. 

The next thing I knew, our lips connected again, and once more I lost control of my faculties. I reflexively yanked on the cuffs, trying to get my arms free to wrap around her forever and never let go. I whipped my head back and forth between my restrained wrists, as if looking at the cuffs really good would magically make them unlock. 

Meanwhile, Lisa-Anne attached the matching unit of the tweezer-clamps to my other nipple. 

I let out yet another gasp. "Ooooh!" I winced. It was a bit scary. It was as if two very small, powerful insects had their legs tightly hooked around my nips. My eyes were subsequently forced back closed as Lisa-Anne slipped out her tongue and slicked me from jaw to temple, letting her hair fall over my face, triggering more small tingles inside me. She evidently had this whole routine mapped out. And damn it, 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 completely surrender under her spell. Then she pulled me back out of the reverie again. The next number she pulled on me was to tug the chain between my nipple clamps. 

"Ngggghh..." I groaned, involuntarily arching my back, trying not to admit that it stung. Body up, I pushed and buried the back of my head in the pillow, flipping hair all over myself, grimacing halfway between the two extreme stimuli being thrust upon me. I felt her arm slip under my neck and her lips begin to wreak havoc on the very same neck in question, all the while retaining her hold on both my captive nipples with one little finger. If this was Lisa-Anne Brockton's idea of foreplay, it was seriously revving my motor, irrevocably towards the point of being able to wait no longer. As she was orchestrating 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 was. 

"FUCK, Lisa-Anne," I repeated. "Oh, fuck..." 

"I give the orders around here, young lady." 

I knew I couldn't defy or argue with her, but my Little Letty was dying to come out and play. I hoped Lisa-Anne would agree to free her soon enough. Actually, however, if she'd already veritably arrested my nipples, what sort of treatment awaited Little Velette? 

I found it difficult to care, engulfed in such dynamic passion, but 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 occasion only involved my mouth. 

What felt like one eternity later, I detected Lisa-Anne's fingers hooking into the insides of my panties, and an anticipatory thrill went through me. Yes, yes, yes! I thought, a happy smile curling up into my cheeks. Yes, Lisa-Jodie-Anne Brockton-Foster, YES! 

Finally, my soaked panties came down. I heard her chuckle with satisfaction as she took her first gander at my swollen red pussy. Little Letty was visibly primed and ready for action. 

"Well, well," was the next she said. "And who's this then?" 

I giggled merrily. Fortunately, the panties sported some serious elasticity, and held up fine halfway down my splayed legs. The grin on my face spread ear to ear as she at last began tenderly rubbing my supple cunt. I purred like a kitty as she petted my furry kitty. She sublimely fingered my slit up and down, each stroke more glorious than the last. I pushed against her, trying to get more pressure applied. Pre-come 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 started screaming, 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 of my divine Mistress for the evening. 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 clit began to bulge and throb. It was this moment Lisa-Anne chose to close the other end of my tweeze-clamps...on my now totally erect clit. My eyes popped open and almost propelled directly out of their sockets like the corks in the champagne bottles we'd drunk tonight. The sensation of pleasurable discomfort 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," her voice 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 my 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 answer was a series of head-spinning screeches. Little did I know the biggest surprise was still yet to come. 

"Talk to me, babe. Are you likin' it?" 

She was toying mercilessly with me, knowing I was unable to 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." 

Oh, dear. 

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 on my nips and my clit, and fucked the hell out of me with the tickler. My eyes squeezed shut so damn tight as my eyeballs rolled back, the entire world turned every color of the Sapphic rainbow. As in-fucking-sane as I could swear I was going before, once again, she'd called it. She now owned my mind, as well as every part of my achingly tender body. Those cursed spikes inside me were pushing me way too far beyond my limits of sanity. Human electricity attacked me from every direction, virtually destroying me, as I tried to leap out of my own skin. So this was the whole reason she'd tied me up. She wanted to give me an evening I'd definitely never forget, while ensuring that it wasn't necessarily a good thing. She kept me still balancing on the untiltable dilemma of love or hate...of adore or despise...of adulate or loathe... 




The Voxe: A Girl and Her Music



At this point, Dear Reader, I can only recount to you the details of what I believe happened, as I had officially lost my mind. I have to assume, however, that my French-tickled cunt was being rapidly drained of all the come I could produce. I cannot express adequately just how thoroughly I was being driven out of my ever-loving gourd. If I was being steered in the direction of an eventual orgasm, I wasn't sure whether or not I should be terrified of it. I must be honest; I had no idea if she was even pulling on my clit and/or nips with the clamp chain anymore. I must have 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, howling, swearing, crying. I loved Lisa-Anne and I hated her. I wanted to marry her and I wanted to kill her. She'd better have hoped I never got the opportunity to tie her up, the little rat! Oh, the sweet, sweet revenge I could have 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 the good Lord I didn't have a show scheduled immediately after this. I was in no condition to sing right now, although Lisa-Anne could argue that in a way, 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 to me dynamically and deliberately, with quite familiar 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. 

"'Chickabee...chick-a-beeeeee...'" 

Fuck. 

That did it. I unleashed the mother of all climactic shrieks. The orgasm went up under me like a landmine. I was instantly drained. She milked me bone dry from the inside. My toes curled as the undulation rode them, thundering through me head to feet and back again. My poor clit could have burst wide open for all I knew. 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 it was undeniably all over. She continued relentlessly fucking me, prolonging what for me had become an entirely new form of torture. Unbeknownst to me, she'd been slowly counting all the way through it. 

And still in Nell's voice. 

"Seeeeeeeveeennnn..." 

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!" 

"Eeeeeeiiiiight..." 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!" 

"Niiiiiiiiiine..." 

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!" 

At long last, mercifully, it was over. 

"Ah!" I think Lisa-Anne said, in her normal voice again. "And there, client-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 yet also wonderfully fulfilling. The following seven and a half years since our tryst have remained more of the same. And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Having sex with Lisa-Anne Brockton and experiencing her wild ways was the optimum example of celebrating my affection for beautiful, kinky women. She was bold, she was biting, she made me like it rough. She could be cold, calculating and ruthless when she wanted to be, which isn't necessarily a bad thing in your manager-slash-agent. As an artist, I don't want to further my career at the expense of someone else's, but then, 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. And it's where I feel at home. Were it up to me, I would never ever stop. And according to countless articles of fan mail I've received, should it be up to them, I'd never stop either. True fans are simply the absolute best. They're always there for you if you just want someone to sing and play for, they never criticize or complain if you make a little mistake, they're just always so thrilled and starstruck to see you...this is the most wonderful career a little gal from Cincinnati could ask for. It can be 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 try something new and take that chance eleven years ago. And just think whom I would've missed out on as well. I found both the 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 that we will meet again soon. In the meantime, do please check my tour schedule. Perhaps I'll be coming to your town one day. Until then, I am Velette Cora Voxe—nee Vanderbilt—and I am an international, multi-platinum, million-selling song composer and recording artist. 

Just a girl and her music.