Chapter 6
GALINA
MomLifeAndMafiaBooks:
Sir, some of us are ovulating.
DaddyIssuesBookClub:
I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE
TheBookishBlonde:
Feel free to come over and drop your kids off at my pool anytime. And by pool, I obviously mean the back of my throat.
My nose wrinkles as I scan the hundreds of thirsty comments on The Ghost Prince’s latest video, which he posted the night after our "collision" in the library of Kingsward Hall.
My last video has blown the hell up, too. First, obviously, because he dropped in on the comments section and brought his legions of fangirls. But also because people have started to pick up on the fact that it was filmed in the Kingsward Hall library.
As intended.
Yes, Mariana Guzman may have started this by noticing that one of my videos was filmed in Ravencroft Library. But her observation has brought in a ton of new followers to my account.
I may not have planned for that, but if I’m being totally honest, there’s a bit of a thrill that comes with dancing on the edge of anonymity.
I suck on my teeth as I tap on my draft posts and hover my thumb over my newest video.
It’s pretty standard Velvet Villainess stuff.
I step in front of the camera in heels, fishnets, and a short plaid schoolgirl skirt.
At first, I only show myself from the waist down and roll my hips to a sensual beat.
Then suddenly I drop to my knees and open my mouth wide, giving the camera an overdone surprised look as I press my palms to my cheeks, my lips still making a wide “O”.
The caption runs “POV: when he puts you on your knees and uses your mouth like his good girl <3”.
I know. I know.
But my fans are going to love it.
I tap the “publish” button, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves and excitement that always comes with every new post.
When I first started putting on a mask, wig, and scandalously sexy outfits and performing as this alter ego, I told myself it was because of the books.
I really do love what I read. The heat, the possessive, utterly insane fictional men, the crazy plot twists, the forced proximity…all of it. I told myself that jumping on the BookTok content creator bandwagon was my way of expressing that love.
What I didn’t realize, or maybe didn’t want to admit to myself, was that it wasn't just about the books.
It was about the attention.
I like letting this side of me out to play.
Yes, my audience is overwhelmingly straight women. It’s not like I’m on social media shaking my ass for men to snag OnlyFans subscribers or whatever.
But maybe that’s what made it so easy to melt into this role. I’m not trying to appeal to the male gaze. I’m not doing this for men at all. I’m doing it for women just like me, who love the same fucked-up dark romances, and swoon over the same red-flag-parade fictional men.
At the risk of sounding like the biggest cliche in the world, I love doing this because it’s empowering, and I like the idea that it empowers other women, too.
But there’s also another reason I gravitate toward this. One that I keep to myself, and don’t tell a soul.
I get off on it.
I like the attention. Even if it’s not directly sexual, it allows me to feel a certain raw sexuality I’ve never felt otherwise.
When you come right down to it, Velvet Villainess is a character. She’s who I wish I could be in real life: vivacious, sexy, bold, sensual. In touch with and unapologetically okay with her desires and fantasies.
In real life, that's not me.
I mean, I’ve currently got a cashmere sweater draped over my shoulders, for fuck's sake. It's like there’s two version of me: the good girl who wears preppy clothes, irons her underwear, and has never done anything with a guy.
And the vixen.
The villainess.
Again, I’m not dancing in leather fetish gear to appeal to men.
…But that’s not to say that the idea of being watched like that by a man doesn’t turn me on.
It does.
A lot.
And as much as I hate to admit it, and regardless that I’ve now landed on “coercive blackmail” to describe my encounter with him, the idea of The Ghost Prince watching me is…
Exciting to think about.
Arousing.
Okay, it’s outrageously hot.
Except now, chasing that thrill has attracted the wrong kind of attention.
…Or maybe it’s exactly the right kind, I just don’t know how to deal with it now that I have it.
But that’s not why I find myself scrolling the comments of his latest thirst-trap.
I swear.
At least, it’s not why I find myself scrolling the comments of his latest thirst-trap this time. That would be because I pulled out my phone this morning and realized Velvet Villainess had been tagged about eleventy-bazillion times on his latest video, not to mention a few dozen previous ones.
BooksAfterBedtime:
Sir, please end our misery and spill the tea. What’s with you and @VelvetVillainess??!
SamanthaCarter17:
@VelvetVillainess did u get to watch this one live??
LitandLattes:
@VelvetVillainess once you recover from banging this man, which I can only assume is a religious out of body experience, please fill us in!!!
FatimaLovesBookBoys:
@VelvetVillainess are you two an item?
There are hundreds of comments like this, thanks to his goddamn “loved watching you dance in person for me” the other day.
Loved watching you dance in person for me.
For some reason, the more I think about that comment, the more it starts to rub me the wrong way. It suggests that I seduced him. Like I was the one that sat him down and rode his lap. Like it was my idea.
My jaw tightens.
No-no-no, my friend. I danced on your fucking lap because you MADE me.
Because he has a fucking video that could destroy my world.
Okay, “destroy” is a bit dramatic. But it would be devastating. I can tell myself a million times that Papa and Dad are supportive, loving, wonderful fathers who would completely understand.
But then I think back to some of the more colorful content I’ve done, and I cringe at the thought of either of them ever seeing it.
My posts as Velvet Villainess aren’t just flirtatious dancing in skirts that are a bit too short or leather tops that are a little too S&M, while going on about the books I love. If they were just that, I think I could handle my fathers seeing them.
But oh boy, does it get worse than that.
Like the times I’ve involved big rubber alien or monster dildos as humorous but very suggestive props. I mean, I have a video where I was reviewing a crazy hot BookTok hit involving a heroine who gets kidnapped by a centaur.
You know, half-man, half-horse.
…Guess which half had the cock.
I shot a video for that book kneeling on a bed beside this hilariously huge, horse-sized sex toy.
Huge as in not fitting into any human vagina.
In my video, I gasped comedically and gaped at it as the caption “when he’s measured in FEET, not inches” flashed beneath me.
Then there’s a quick edit, and I’m suddenly kneeling and bouncing exactly where the horse dildo was, a crazy look in my eyes and my jaw hanging open, implying I’ve just taken the whole thing into my pussy.
My fans loved it. Obviously.
Papa and Dad would have matching heart attacks if they saw it. And it’s not even the most fucked-up thing on my feed.
No, that honor goes to the worst thing I’ve ever done, which has a million views.
In my defense, I was horny.
I mean, I guess that’s at the root of a lot of questionable decisions throughout human history. But that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
The idea, of course, came from a book. In it, the hero grabs the heroine right before she goes into an important interview and stuffs a vibrator into her panties.
He waits until she’s sitting down for her meeting with her potential new boss and then turns the fucking thing on, forcing our poor girl to sit there trying to answer interview questions while she squirms and tries not to come.
I mean, hot.
In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I gave it a shot.
I gave a video review of the latest mafia romance book I’d read.
I did it sitting in a chair doing this goofy little dance, rolling my shoulders and running my hands over my chest. My fans loved the lacy semi-transparent top I was wearing, and that I’d printed out the mafia family crest of the book I was reviewing and had it framed on the wall behind me. They said my makeup was “on point”.
They didn’t realize that the whole time I had a U-shaped vibrator both inside me and resting against my swollen clit. They didn’t guess that the whole time I was filming, that vibrator was going at full speed, setting every nerve ending between my legs ablaze.
Not a single person knew that at the very end of the video, when I dropped my head back and shoved my hands into my wig, it wasn't an act.
I was coming.
On camera.
So, yeah. I might have the most supportive, amazing, loving and wonderful fathers in the world. But there isn’t a reality in any dimension where my DADS seeing me orgasm in a social media video with a million views goes over well.
I mean Jesus.
“Loved watching you dance in person for me.”
I read the comment again, the full weight of his threat pressing down on me.
I want to be furious at this fucker. I mean, I am furious, obviously. The problem is, I’m not furious enough.
…As demonstrated by the fact that I masturbated myself to a gasping, shattering orgasm while replaying grinding on his huge erection last night.
…Aaaand the night before.
Fuck, fine. The last three nights.
And I hate that.
I hate that I can’t look at what happened as an assault. I’m trying to, because that would make this so much simpler, in a way.
But whenever it comes up in my head, it inevitably devolves into fantasy.
Desire.
Burning need, both exciting and terrifying.
Like it or not, what happened the other night—his bare chest against my back, his swollen erection bulging against my dripping center, and my hair wrapped around his fist while he called me a good girl—was, no question, the hottest sexual experience of my life.