10. Angel
The air inside The Velvet Society is a thick with the underlying electric hum of anticipation. It’s a sensory cocoon that effectively deafens the outside world. Here, the rain doesn’t exist. And Ghost? In this light, he’s just a shadow I’ve learned to ignore.
Ollie disappears toward the bar with a wink, already locking eyes with a broad-shouldered man in a navy waistcoat. I take my usual spot, leaning against a velvet-draped pillar, my eyes scanning the room with the practiced detachment of a seasoned regular.
I don’t have to wait long.
“You look like you’re judging every soul in this room,” a voice purrs near my ear. It’s a quintessential British baritone—smooth, educated, and laced with just enough arrogance to be interesting. “And finding them all boring.”
I turn my head. He’s handsome in that classic, effortless way—late twenties or early thirties, with dark hair swept back and eyes the color of a stormy Atlantic.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, clean forearms.
No tattoos. No grease under the fingernails.
He is the polar opposite of the men I grew up with.
“Maybe I’m just waiting for someone to prove me wrong,” I counter, my voice steady.
“A dangerous challenge to issue in a place like this,” he smiles, stepping closer. The heat from his body radiates against mine, a physical pressure that I welcome. “I’m Brian.”
“Angel.”
“An Angel in a den of iniquity,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Tell me, Angel, do you prefer to be worshipped, or are you looking for someone to knock that halo off your head?”
I feel a familiar spark—not of love, but of adrenaline. “I think I’m tired of being worshipped for things I’m not. I’d rather be seen for what I am.”
“And what is that?”
“Hungry,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, the flirtation sharpening into intent. “I can work with hungry. I have a private room booked for the hour. Shall we see if your appetite matches your bravado?”
I nod, and he leads me toward the back of the club, where the heavy soundproofed doors line the hallway. Once inside, the room is minimalist and high-end: a large bed with leather restraints, a rack of pristine toys, and a small table with a stack of laminated sheets.
The club provides these for one-time sessions—it’s essentially a consent contract. Even in the heat of the moment, the Velvet Society is obsessed with the rules. I pick up a dry-erase marker and begin checking off my list.
I mark the green boxes quickly: impact play, bondage, sensory deprivation. Then I move to the oranges—the ‘proceed with caution’ zones. I check off Gagging, Spanking, Flogging, and Light Breath Play. These are things I enjoy, but only if the rhythm is right.
Then come the reds. My hard nos. I slash the marker through Asphyxiation, Anal Play, and Knife Play. I’ve grown up around enough violence to know that I don’t want it in my bed. I’m looking for a release, not a near-death experience.
Brian takes the list from me, his eyes skimming over my choices. He raises an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the red marks. “Hmm,”
“I don’t like surprises,” I say.
“And your safe word?”
“Velvet,” I say firmly.
“Velvet,” he repeats, the word sounding like a promise on his tongue. “Then let’s begin.”
He starts by pinning my wrists above my head against the headboard, using soft silk ties.
The restriction is immediate and comforting.
As he moves over me, I close my eyes. My mind tries to wander—tries to find the scent of motor oil and the rough texture of calloused palms—but I shove it back.
Focus on the now, I tell myself. Focus on Brian.
He reaches for a small, weighted glass wand from the bedside table. It’s cold against my heated skin, a sharp contrast that makes me gasp as he trails it down my neck, over my collarbones, and between my breasts.
“You like the cold, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register. “You like feeling every tiny vibration.”
He replaces the wand with a soft, vibrating toy, pressing it against me with a firm hand. The sensation is intense, a buzzing hum that fills my entire lower body. I arch my back, my breath hitching as the pleasure begins to coil tightly in my gut.
“That’s it,” Brian mutters. He leans down, biting softly at the sensitive skin of my shoulder. “Take it, you little slut. You’ve been wanting this all night, haven’t you? Just a pretty little thing looking for a place to park her filth.”
I flinch internally. I don’t have a degradation kink. In my dreams—the ones I try so hard to kill—there is praise. There are whispers of ‘Good girl’ and ‘You’re mine, Angel.’ I crave the feeling of being cherished even in the middle of the storm.
I swallow the discomfort. I let his words wash over me like white noise, focusing instead on the way his hands feel on my hips.
“Look at you,” Brian sneers, his voice thick with a fake sort of contempt that seems to be part of his Dom persona. “Wriggling like a common whore. Is this what you do? Come to London to find strangers to use you because you’re too trashy for your own home?”
The words sting more than they should. They hit the raw nerves of my reality—the fact that I am here because I was rejected, because I felt like trash in Ghost’s eyes.
“Answer me,” he commands, his hand tightening on my throat.
“Yes,” I moan, the lie tasting like copper in my mouth. “Yes, use me.”
In my head, I’m far away. I’m imagining the bed is charcoal grey. I’m imagining the man above me has sandy brown hair and eyes that look like home. I’m imagining he’s not calling me a slut, but telling me he’s sorry. Telling me he waited.
Brian moves faster, his movements becoming more rhythmic and urgent.
He reaches for a leather flogger, the soft thud of the tails hitting my thighs in a steady beat.
The sting is grounding. It brings me back to the room, back to the reality of the London rain and the life I’ve built out of scrap metal and spite.
“You’re nothing but a body to me, Angel,” Brian whispers as he nears his peak. “Just a place to dump my stress. You understand that, don’t you? You’re just a toy.”
A toy.
The word echoes Ghost’s rejection. ‘It was a joke, Angel.’
The cold plastic of the ball gag slides between my teeth, tasting of latex and antiseptic. Brian buckles it behind my head, pulling it tight enough that my jaw aches. I don’t protest. I want to be silenced. I want to be unable to say his name, even in my head.
He moves to my limbs next, replacing the soft silk ties with the bed’s heavy-duty leather restraints.
He pulls my arms and legs toward the four corners of the mattress, stretching me out until I’m a taut line of vulnerable skin.
I’m completely exposed, gagged, and immobile.
This is what I asked for. To be an object.
To be a thing that doesn’t have to feel the weight of its own heart.
The sensation is a rush—a sharp, jagged spike of adrenaline that makes my toes curl. For a moment, the thrill of the surrender almost drowns out the hollow ache in my chest.
Brian stands over me, his silhouette dark against the dim red light of the room.
He doesn’t look like a British gentleman anymore; he looks like a predator who has finally cornered his prey.
He reaches down, his fingers calloused as they slide between my thighs.
He’s rougher now, his touch clinical and demanding.
I moan against the gag, the sound vibrating in my throat, a muffled plea for more—or maybe for it to be over.
Suddenly, his hand moves from my hip to my neck. His fingers wrap around my windpipe, and he squeezes.
It’s harder than I like. It’s a firm, heavy pressure that cuts off my air entirely. My eyes go wide, staring up at the ceiling as my lungs begin to burn. It’s pleasurable in a terrifying, primal way—the lightheadedness comes on fast, a dizzying swirl of grey at the edges of my vision.
Too much, my brain signals. That’s too much.
I try to form the word. Velvet. I try to push the safe word past the ball gag, but it’s impossible.
All that comes out is a frantic, wet grunt.
I try to shake my head, to signal that he’s crossing the line, but my neck is pinned by his weight.
I’m trapped in the one situation the club warns you about: a partner who isn’t reading the body language and a gag that won’t allow my safe word to come out.
Panic flares in my chest, a hot, bright spark of survival instinct. Just as the grey starts to turn to black, Brian releases his grip.
I gasp, the air rushing back into my lungs in a jagged, painful sob, but the gag swallows the sound. I’m lightheaded, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I expect him to check on me, to see if I’m okay, but the “session” has taken on a life of its own.
“You like that, don’t you?” he mutters, his voice thick. “You like being right on the edge.”
Before I can recover my senses, he’s unbuckling the restraints.
He doesn’t let me go, though. He grabs me and flips me over onto my stomach with a forceful shove.
I land hard on the mattress, the gag rubbing against the charcoal linens.
He pulls my hands behind my back, the leather cuffs clicking shut again, pinning my arms painfully high against my shoulder blades.
Then, I feel the shift in the air. The sudden, terrifying pressure.
I didn’t check that box. This was a red. A hard red. A “never-under-any-circumstances” red.
I try to scramble away, to arch my back, to do anything to stop the intrusion, but he’s too heavy. He’s a wall of muscle and intent. Without a word of warning, without the prep the lists demand, he forces his way in.
The pain is a white-hot blade. It tears through the hazy, sexual fog of the night and shatters it into a thousand pieces of pure, unadulterated agony. It’s not a “kink.” It’s a violation.
I scream, but the gag turns it into a horrific, guttural hum that vibrates through my skull. My eyes leak tears that soak into the bedsheets. I’m fighting now, my body bucking against him, my heels drumming against the mattress, but my hands are tied and my mouth is stuffed with plastic.
Every thrust is a reminder of my own powerlessness.
I keep trying to scream. Velvet. Velvet. VELVET.
The pain in my lower body is a blinding, rhythmic strobe light, but it’s the pressure on my throat that finally ends it.
Brian reaches forward, his fingers hooking like iron talons around the front of my neck again.
This time, there is no hesitation, no caution.
He squeezes with the full force of his climax, his weight bearing down until my windpipe collapses and the oxygen in my blood turns to poison.
I lunge against the leather cuffs one last time, my muffled screams dying in the back of my throat, but the room is already dissolving.
The deep red light of the walls bleeds into a muddy purple, then a flickering grey, before the edges of my vision cave in completely.
The last thing I feel isn’t pleasure or even the agony—it’s the terrifying, weightless silence of the void as the world simply stops. My head lolls against the sheets, the ball gag still cold and heavy in my mouth, as everything goes black.