Undone Rebel (Undone Lovers, Book One)

Undone Rebel

Lila Dubois

Book one in the Undone Lovers series.

When amateur fetish model and rockabilly princess Adelita “Addie” Sanchez is asked to model for an instructional BDSM book, she turns the offer down—she’s not a porn star. Then she meets the three male Dominants behind the project, including Lane Therres, who convinces her the book is more art than porn, and she’ll be safe in his hands.

The rules of the photo sessions are clear—there’s no sex, and Addie can call a halt to anything she’s uncomfortable with. But self-reliant, strong-willed Addie doesn’t count on
liking
what the powerful Doms do to her body with their ropes, chains and toys. Enjoying Emory’s touch after falling for Lane, Addie turns away from both men, scared of what they’re making her feel. She’s worried that a relationship built on a BDSM contract can never be anything but whips and chains.

Lane will exchange Dom leather for shining armor to prove to his rockabilly princess that even the most gallant knights sometimes prefer dungeons.

Chapter One

There was nothing Addie Sanchez couldn’t fix with needle and thread or WD-40. For more complex problems, rebel-red lipstick was her second line of defense.

Addie slid needle through fabric with the care and precision the vintage satin-and-lace evening gown deserved, squinting at her stitches as she sat on the floor, too engrossed to adjust the lamp. The black-and-taupe dress hugged the mannequin’s form, tight but tailored, unlike modern clothes that relied on elastic.

“
Hola, chica.
”

She tied off the thread, smoothed the fabric and stuck her needle with its dangling taupe strand in the pincushion strapped to her wrist. Addie looked up from the hemline. Her friend and boss, though neither woman ever used the second term, stood in the door separating the back room from the retail floor of the shop.

“Pretty in pink.” Addie stood and examined her friend’s dress with its sweetheart neck and full skirt. The dress was bubble-gum pink with white piping along the breasts and half-cup pockets. Lulu had paired it with leopard-print peep-toes and a matching leopard barrette in her flaming-red hair. “Those shoes are killer. They make the outfit.”

Lulu kicked up her heel to examine her foot. “They are cute, aren’t they? But the best part of this outfit is the dress—it’s an Addie original.”

Addie smiled and slipped on the canvas-and-cork wedges she’d kicked off to sit on the floor. “That pattern looks good on everyone, especially someone with perky titties like yours.”

Lulu simpered and petted her cleavage. “They are pretty girls, aren’t they? And what are you wearing? Is this new?”

“Finished the top last night, what do you think?”

Lulu twirled her finger and Addie cocked her hip and swung around so her friend could see the modified halter top she’d designed. The studded faux leather straps crossed in the back to show off her shoulders. Glossy black buttons ran down the front and complemented the black-and-white
Dia de los Muertos
print. Today she was rocking it with tight, high-waisted jeans cuffed wide at midcalf.

“It’s seriously cute, but then everything you make is. Got a name for it?”

“Maybe the Muertos Mary Top? I haven’t figured out if I can mass-produce it yet. The hidden side zipper takes forever.”

“If you can I know it will sell in the shop.”

The front doorbell chimed. It was 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, early for any of L.A.’s laid-back rockabilly crew, most of whom were probably still recovering from a night spent dancing, cruising or partying. It was not, however, too early for the tourists who made up half of the store’s business.

Lulu nodded toward her office, a tiny hole off the sewing and stock room where Addie also repaired vintage clothes in need of TLC, and Addie headed into the store.

As expected, a trio of tourists—middle-American parents plus teenager—had come in and were staring around in awe. Addie slipped behind the counter and let them look, propping one elbow on the glass, ass in the air.

Lulu L’amore was situated on a posh strip of white-fronted stores on Melrose in Hollywood. They had a designer men’s shoe store on one side, a dog café and “barkery” on the other. Walking into Lulu’s was like walking from an ultramodern loft into the Mexican barrio in 1940s L.A. The walls were concrete gray and spray-painted with street-art-style depictions of pinup girls, flowers, palm trees and cars in bold colors. The floor was wood, tossed with leopard- and zebra-print rugs, the display tables built from shiny chrome car parts mounted with glass. Racks of dresses, skirts and shirts lined three of the walls, though in the back there was a small selection of guys’ items, most of which were shirts, hats and wallet chains.

Addie knew she was as much a part of the decoration as anything on the walls. The teenage boy tourist’s eyes got wide when he caught sight of her. She shifted her weight to her other foot, making sure her ass rocked in her tight pants as she did.

He broke away from his parents, making a beeline for the counter. Picking up a cigarette holder studded with crystals in a cherry-bunch pattern, he pretended to look at it while ogling her breasts.

“Welcome to Lulu’s,” Addie said. “You like it old school?”

“Old school? Oh yea, I’m totally old school. Like Tupac.”

Addie laughed. “Sugar baby, that’s not old school. I’m talking about rock when that’s what rebels knew.” She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “I’m talking about Glen Glenn, Big Sandy and the Fly Right Boys. The kind of music that you can dance to.” Addie put her finger on the cigarette case, which the boy had been nervously twirling. “When there’s a little jive in the air, a man holds out his hand and,” Addie took the cigarette case from him and, with the barest touch to his forefinger, turned his hand palm up, “a girl puts hers in it and lets him take her away.”

Two hats, a wallet chain, three CDs and a feathered headband for mom later, the tourists walked out happy and Addie slipped the four-hundred-dollar credit card receipt into the drawer.

Lulu came out from the back carrying a stack of mail and the cordless phone for the private number in her office.

“I sold a few hats to a little boy who thought Tupac was old school,” Addie told Lulu as she straightened the countertop displays. When her friend didn’t react she looked up, concerned.

Lulu was standing there with a wild grin on her face. Her cream skin made her blue eyes sparkle, her upswept and curled hair picking up the sunlight that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the shop.

“What is it?”

“I got a call on the business line for you—about you.”

“About me? What for?” The business line, separate from the shop’s line, was supposed to be for vendors only. Addie was a shop clerk and seamstress—there would be no reason for anyone to call her on that number.

“It’s for a modeling job.” Lulu clutched the phone as if it were an Oscar statue and squealed in delight.

Addie blinked, blinked again, then snatched the phone from Lulu, who had broken into an impromptu one-person Charleston. She hit the voicemail button.

“Hello, my name is Helen Renwald from C&C Productions. I’m looking for Adelita Sanchez. We ran across her photos and are interested in her for a project we are putting together. Please have her give us a call at—”

Addie threw herself across the counter, scrambling for a piece of paper and pen. With the phone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder, she scribbled the number. Lying over the counter, she hit the voicemail button again to check it.

“If I were a straight man I’d find this appealing.”

Addie looked over her shoulder to see Pissarro, the owner of the designer shoe store next door. Pissarro, who went by one name like Cher and whose real name was probably John or Bob, was thin, stylish and just edgy enough to be interesting—all the things a gay man in L.A. had to be if he wanted to play in the lively, glittery waters of West Hollywood.

“Guess, guess! Someone called about a modeling job for Addie.”

“You didn’t give me time to guess.” Pissarro leaned against the counter next to Addie’s hip and pinched her thigh. “Oh, to be a woman and be accepted with fat thighs.”

“Fuck you.” Addie wiggled off the counter. “I’ve got the number. Should I call?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t you?” Lulu demanded.

Addie looked at Pissarro, who reached up to smooth her Betty Page bangs down, then touched her cheek with the back of his tanned finger.

“Did they say what photos they saw? What type of shoot they want you for?” he asked.

“No.” Addie looked at the scrap of paper she held, creasing it with her deep-indigo nail.

“Oh. Well, shit.” Lulu slipped around behind the counter and pulled out an eight-by-ten portfolio—Addie’s portfolio.

When Lulu had opened an online store and needed models for the clothes, Addie had been a natural fit, not only because she looked the part, but because many of the exclusive pieces Lulu was selling had been designed by Addie. Between the two of them they’d modeled all the clothes in the store. A photographer friend had taken the photos in exchange for a few custom pieces and a bit of cash. That same friend had later asked Addie if she’d be interested in modeling lingerie for a store in San Diego.

When modeling the lingerie had turned into recreating some of Betty Page’s most famous photos—the hairbrush spankings, mock bondage and even one with a bit in her mouth—Addie hadn’t blinked. The sexy, powerful photos had shown that even in the ultra-feminine lingerie she was still tough, and Addie liked that.

What she hadn’t counted on was the flood of invitations to do pornography that had come her way once the lingerie store’s ad campaign, which included a few national magazines, came out.

Lulu flipped through the portfolio, past pictures of Addie modeling clothes they sold in the store to the lingerie photos.

“You think they’re calling about porn?” Lulu asked.

“They didn’t say, but that’s all anyone ever calls me about.”

“I thought you set up a website for you Rocka-whatever modeling.”

“Rockabilly,” Lulu said, glaring at Pissaro. “Don’t get pissy. You know we attract most of the foot traffic on this block.”

“I did set up a website, and it has the clothes pics instead of the lingerie ones, but still, it seems suspicious,” Addie said, but Lulu and Pissarro talked over her.

“My eyeballs scream when they come into this flea market. There are motor vehicle parts
inside
.”

“Going in to your store is like visiting my gyno. Oh wait, my gyno is more interesting.”

Ignoring their bitching, Addie looked at the first photo.

The first was black and white except for the pale-pink-and-silver corset and matching panties Addie wore and the baby-blue nightie of the girl she was spanking. The other girl, a blonde whose face was away from the camera, had her forearms braced on the wall, legs spread. In the photo, Addie was holding up the hem of the nightie with her left hand, the right holding the wood back of a hairbrush against the blonde’s bare ass.

Addie herself was in heels, stockings and a garter belt, along with the corset and panties, which were the products they were trying to sell. In the photo, Addie wasn’t looking at the girl’s ass. Instead, she appeared to be talking, her lips, which looked as dark as her wavy hair, inches from the blonde’s ear.

There was only one way to find out what they wanted. Addie walked away from the bickering pair and dialed.

* * * * *

Helen flipped to the next picture. “Here’s another photo from this same series. I want you to remember that this is all just for a lingerie store.”

Now the dark-haired retro beauty was posed against a black-and-white patterned wall. She wore a see-through black lace teddy with a black bra and panties underneath. Her legs were spread, arms down but held away from her sides. Wide black ribbon bound each wrist and disappeared into the edge of the photo.

Lane sucked in a breath, captivated by the look of defiance on her face. The woman’s chin was lowered, her hair mussed and tangled, destroying some of her retro-pinup-girl style. One corner of her mouth was drawn up in a fuck-you half-smile. But her eyes, looking at the camera through her lashes, were vulnerable.

“Look at the tension she has on the restraints,” Emory, seated beside Lane at the conference table, said.

“Those aren’t restraints. They’re ribbons, props.” Across from the other men, as far away as he could get himself, was Master Alton.

Lane kept his eye roll to himself and looked at Helen. “Any more photos?”

“Of course.”

All three men sat forward when the next image popped on screen.

In this color photo, she knelt on a bed, her caramel skin dark against the ivory sheets. She wore a blood-red teddy with lacings up the sides and a matching red leather collar. Her hands were bound and positioned in front of her crotch, squeezing her breasts together. A shiny silver bit between her teeth forced back red lips and showed off pert white teeth.

“She’s gorgeous. She’s perfect,” Lane said.

“That’s what we think,” Helen replied. A plump woman in her mid-fifties, she didn’t look as though she was the president of an erotic media empire, but she was. Her latest project was an introduction to BDSM coffee-table book, complete with high-quality erotic photos. Lane, Emory and Alton, all Doms from L.A.’s various BDSM scenes and cultures, had been recruited to write the text of the book, each man offering his unique perspective.

The writing was done, and now came the good part—generating the pictures to go with all that text. Helen didn’t want a professional sub or an adult-entertainment professional. The book would be marketed toward couples looking to spice up their sex lives and people in the scene who wanted to watch a new sub’s introduction to the culture through photos. There had been talk of creating a video, but that really was porn and Lane, for one, would have opted out.

“Well, gentlemen, what do you think?”

“I say yes,” Lane answered immediately.

“Yes,” Emory added.

“Any woman can be trained to some degree. She’ll probably do fine,” Alton, who insisted on being called Master Alton, said grudgingly.