Black Velvet (The Velvet Rooms Book 1)

Chapter 1




I can't do this anymore. 

I thought it would get easier. It hasn't always been like this, and I thought maybe I was just going through a phase.

There was a time when things were different, when I almost enjoyed this, a time when it came easy to me. I felt like the luckiest girl on earth, because I had discovered a job that allowed me a level of freedom unknown to any nine-to-five office slave. I only had to work two days a week, sometimes less, and still made more money than most of my friends.

But at some point, things changed. I started doubting myself. I started doubting this profession. I started doubting my moral compass and my own emotional health.

I started disliking what I was doing.

But that's normal, right? Everybody hates their job once in a while, don't they? It's called work for a reason. It's not a hobby, not fun. Most jobs aren't fun.

But my job is all about fun. Fun and pleasure. Not mine, of course. It's the client's pleasure that counts. 

I provide a taboo service—unthinkable, dirty, immoral. I've never been bothered by that, but it seems that all of those societal judgments are catching up to me. I can’t shut down the self-doubting voices. They've been gnawing at my conscience for too long. Things that once came easy to me, no longer do.

I want more than this.

Or at least something different. Something… better.

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. Now is not the time for me to be thinking about all of this. I have to focus. 

I have work to do.

I shut my eyes firmly, forcing out the uneasy thoughts, as I wrap my lipstick-painted lips around his cock. It’s a smaller-than-average version that almost disappears inside my hand when I enclose my fingers around it. He's rock-hard, so I know it’s all I can expect. This is all he has. Poor bastard. 

I don't care. I don't need to care. This is not about my pleasure, it's about his.

I moan and squirm beneath him, moving my hips seductively while I feel his eyes glued to my every move. He's panting heavily, standing tall and tense before me, his right fist clenching around a riding crop. He's almost ready to burst, and I know I could make this end any moment now. I open my eyes and look up, trying to catch his gaze, but I’m really just making sure he's too deep in the zone to realize where my eyes wander next.

He closes his eyes, now not even looking at me while I'm working his pathetic cock. I peer over at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. Still twenty minutes to go. He paid for a full hour, and I need to give him his money’s worth. I can't let him come just yet. 

He lets out a desperate moan when I ease my lips away, keeping my fingers locked around his stubby member, my eyes wandering up to his sweaty face. He’s old enough to be my father, but in good physical shape and fairly good-looking. He wants me to call him "Sir," and that is all he is to me. I don't know his real name, and I don't care to know, even though he's one of my regulars. The fact that he can afford our services multiple times a week speaks of his wealth, as does his appearance. His expensive suit, the obvious—and somewhat tacky—Rolex on his wrist, the Salvatore Ferragamo shoes that are waiting for him next to the door. He's fucking loaded, and I know I'm not the only girl at this agency who serves him regularly.

I have no idea who he is, but he's one of the big guys, for sure. He might not even be from this area. He might be married, even though I've never seen a ring on his finger. He might have kids, a family. He leads a life that's completely unbeknownst to me, because I'm not a part of that life. 

All I am to him is this.

I am his whore. 

He has his own schedule, just like every other regular. He wants to see me about every other week, always for an hour, always in this particular hotel room, always with similar requests. He is all about routine. He likes black and never wants to see me in any other color; he always expects to see the same hairstyle and the same makeup. He always wants to hear the same words from my mouth, and he always wants to come on my face to finish.

He is so fucking boring. 

"Slut," he breathes, glaring at me with a look that's supposed to deliver dominance but somehow seems misplaced on his face. "You're lazy today."

He always calls me "slut" and never cared to learn my real name. Most of them don't.

"Seems like you need a little encouragement," his voice thunders above me, shortly before the riding crop meets my ass, sending a hot wave of pain searing through my behind. I flinch and yelp, exaggerating my reaction for his benefit. Another blow strikes my skin, then another one, and the one following that is strong enough to rob me of my breath.

Shit, that fucking hurt. 

My pulse speeds up and my head is painfully clear in an instant.

It happened again. I drifted away. I retreated back into my head, dwelling on my newfound resentment for this job.

Soon, I won't be good at this anymore and I won't have a choice but to quit. And that's a big fucking deal, because I've always been good at this. No, not good… great. It's not arrogance that leads me to say this, but I know I’m one of the best because of the prices clients are willing to pay for me and the number of times I've had to turn down taking on a new customer. I can choose my own clients, and don't have to fuck every moneybag that comes around. 

I groan when he hits me again, closing my eyes as my hand tightens around his cock. His strikes are painful. Deliciously painful. Each blow makes my core tingle with heat, making me yearn for more. It's the best I can get out of this job and my key motivation for disobeying. I crave the punishments, the pain. Agony is the only thing that my body responds to.

I wish I could beg for more, but I know he doesn't like that. He just wants two things: dedication and obedience. Right now, I'm reluctant to give him either.

"Move!" he barks. I know what he wants from me, despite the vague command. He wants me to lie on my back, so he can shove his puny dick between my legs and fuck me. For two minutes, maybe three tops. Then he'll pull out, climb on top of me, and stroke his cock, panting, sweating and...


His exclamation is accompanied by another striking blow with the crop. I yelp in pain. A devious smile finds its way to my face when I look up at him. 

"Take it," I tell him, my voice hoarse and creepy. "Take what you want from me."

His eyes flicker for a moment. I've never said anything like this to him, and his reaction is hard to predict. Usually, I'd be more careful. I'd never risk upsetting my clients. 

But today I don't care. 

I've made a long-overdue decision.

"On your back!" he yells at me, grabbing a fistful of my hair at the back of my head and yanking me up. I’m smiling sadistically as I hurriedly gather myself to my feet, stumbling when he drags me over to the bed, where I fall into the sheets, dropping onto my back. My legs spread apart on instinct, and I produce a well-rehearsed moan when he parts my lips with his hard tip. I coil and squirm, knowing that his small cock is gliding inside with ease. The agonizing strikes with the crop—the pain—made me wet for him.

But I know I won't come. I never do. Never have. Never will. Climaxing while a man has his way with me is nothing but an illusion.

And that’s fine with me. I developed my own routine to handle this particular shortcoming.

In about a minute or two, I will tense up, rolling my eyes back into my head as I let out a tirade of groans that will make him believe what he wants to believe. I won't come for him, but he will think I did.

I count to myself as he rams into me with rhythmic motions, waiting for the perfect moment to start my act. It's a routine, a boring routine that only awakens the voices of self-doubt. But I don't care tonight.

Because I've decided.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I close my eyes, getting ready to make him feel good about himself one last time. One last fake orgasm, one last showering of his cum on my face, one last smile as I lick my lips when I clean it off. He doesn't know it yet, but this will be our last time together. 

It's decided.

I am going to talk to Miss Barry.

I’m quitting.