Page 2 of Black Velvet

Soon, I won't be good at this anymore and I won't have a choicebutto 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...

"Slut!"

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.

Chapter 2

Damon

It's never enough.

No matter what I do, no matter what I achieve, no matter what I buy, no matter...

Nothingevergives me that elevated feeling I crave. Nothing ever makes me feel full and accomplished. I've reached higher and higher, earning what others can only dream of making, and all I'm left with is this damn void. Nothing ever lasts.

I know what it feels like, that euphoria rushing through your veins when you get what you've wanted for a long time, when you finally make something—or someone—yours. But after that first rush is over, it’s gone, and there's nothing. Nothing, like the hollow emptiness that lingers after the effects of a drug has worn off, leaving me back to the shell of a man I was before.

Why does it come so easy to other people?Doesit come easy to them? Or are they pretending? The smiles plastered on their faces might be as fake as most women's gasping orgasms when anyone fucks them except me. I know it's common for them to pretend to get off, but they can't lie to me. And they better not fucking try, either, because Iwillknow. I hate being lied to. Who doesn't? But it's even worse for me, because I can smell a lie from a mile away. Betrayal reveals itself to me so easily it's almost tedious.

I pace back and forth in my living room, a tumbler of scotch in one hand and my phone in the other, restlessly pondering the conversation I just had. Is the revenue promised by this new endeavor going to make any difference in my life? Do I even care if it does? The call didn't excite me as much as it probably should have, but maybe that's okay. Maybe Ishouldn'tbe excited about a mere business deal, an investment. It's the first time for me to consider doing something like this, so of course I'm curious, maybe even nervous. Butexcited? Hardly. I have very little to lose and a lot to gain if this investment turns out to be lucrative.

I sigh and then idly take another sip of my scotch, my gaze drifting across the bustling city skyline below. I literally live at the top of this city—at least it seems that way when I look down at it from here. Very few buildings are as tall as this one. My penthouse stretches across the entire uppermost floor, and about a third of it is an open terrace. I've only been living here for a few months, and I'm continually surprised that I haven't grown tired of this place yet. It's by far the nicest, most expensive place I've ever called home, and there's hope that it will calm my restless nature at least for a while. Before moving here, I could barely stand to stay in the same place for longer than three months. I was always on the move, quite literally.

I flinch in surprise when the buzz of my phone disrupts my rambling thoughts. I expect it’s Scott, the start-up guy I just spoke to, but am taken aback when I glance at the screen. I recognize the number, but it's not him.

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