Page 1 of Black Velvet

Chapter 1

Elene

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 allaboutfun. 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'tneedto 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 isthis.

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.

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