Velvet Guild Free Chapters
I’d always liked it rough—hands on my throat, push me up against the wall, hold me down rough. Not very many men are strong enough and confident enough to be able to fuck me properly, and I knew that. There had always been this longing in me, this want in me to have more, to push my limits harder, and I had to discover where that led.
You’d be shocked to hear I am a Catholic School girl. Yep. White knee socks, penny loafers, plaid skirt and everything. Going to mass every Wednesday was where I learned to spend time on my knees. Shortly after that, I learned about the power that I held over men in this seemingly submissive state. I learned how to give amazing head; it was like studying for a test and then doing the lab work. And, I promise you, there was never a lack of voluntary lab partners.
When I was thirteen, I remember going to a birthday party at a new friend’s house. Her mom was one of the ‘cool’ moms, so we got to walk around the neighborhood without constant harassment from someone like my mom. “Where are you going? Who will be there? When will you be back?” Nicole’s mom wore laced-up leather jeans, had a black belt in the application of a great smoky eye, and she was kind of my idol. When I grew up, I wanted to be just like her.
Nicole and I were walking to this park deep in an area that I wasn’t familiar with. She had swiped a wine cooler from her mom’s refrigerator, and we passed it around and giggled, slurping greedily at the pink, sugary awesomeness that held just a hint of something else. Now, I know that ‘something else’ was alcohol. It’s amazing how low your tolerance is when you have that first drink, and how little it takes to get a real buzz going. Two long sips in, I was feeling euphoric. Nothing could touch me. I was invincible. It was getting darker outside, and yet, I was unafraid. I felt warm and free and just good, the kind of good that only the very young can feel because nothing bad has ever happened to them.
We found the pirate ship, covered in weeds and beached on the shore of the river winding along the hidden park, and crawled up the gang plank. It was a park I loved, created by someone who actually thought how kids think. Not the sterile parks kids are forced to play in now, with everything smooth and perfect, built on beds of rubber to decrease the potential for injuries and lawsuits. Kids these days are soft, and parents these days are litigious.
I could smell cigarette smoke and hear low voices.
“I hope Austin is here,” Nicole said. He was her crush. All dark hair and the most muscles a kid in seventh grade could have without his dad shooting him up with steroids. I read an article once about someone who did that. Who would do that to a kid, condemning him to having a tiny unit and roid rage for the rest of his life? People are messed up and will do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame. This was before social media. Now, I am convinced that the bar is even lower.
Austin came out of a hiding place and offered his cigarette to Nicole. She took it greedily and sucked on it hard, trying her best to look like it was not her first time. When the smoke hit the back of her throat, she spent the next five minutes coughing and choking. The boys laughed and slapped each other’s backs. It was like they had just heard the funniest joke.
He grabbed her hand, and they disappeared farther into the ship, crawling into the dark nooks and crannies in search of some privacy. Would they kiss? I wondered what it was like to kiss a boy. I’d practiced so many times on my pillow and on my hand but was hoping, sometime in the near future, I would get a chance to experience the real thing.
I was still feeling floaty when I felt someone behind me. “Aimee Decker?” I searched my mind, scanning my memory bank for sound clips that would identify the slightly recognizable voice, but found nothing. I spun around and saw him. Joe Logan was my dad’s best friend’s son, who blamed me for getting grounded when his dad found damage on his pool table.
“See this bitch, homies?” (Forgive me, it was the nineties, our slang left a lot to be desired.) “She got me in trouble with my dad, and I got the belt for a week.”
Three more boys formed a loose circle around me.
“No one is here to tattle tale now. I think we need to teach her a lesson.”
Still, I felt no fear. Okay, maybe the tiniest seed took root deep in my belly, but all I could do was laugh. (I laugh when I am nervous.)
“What’s so fuckin’ funny, hoebag?”
They inched in closer and closer. The air around me was getting thinner. I don’t remember who pushed me first, but soon, I was being pushed around from boy to boy like one of those balls on the bumper pool table in Joe’s basement. I know I should have been scared, and I know that most people would have been scared. But part of me was thrilled. Being the center of attention, mixed with the Bartles and Jaymes, was a heady combination for me, and I hate to admit it (and I never will admit it if you tell anyone else), but I fucking enjoyed it.
Eventually, I was on the ground, and I knew enough to instinctively pull my arms and legs up into the fetal position. Soon, the kicks were landing. One in my right shoulder blade, one to the kidney. The boys were laughing and hollering loudly, high-fiving each other when they really connected. I used my long blonde hair to cover my face; I knew I had to cover my smile. I knew, at thirteen, that I wasn’t supposed to smile.
“What in the fuck?”
“Stop it, assholes. Get away from her!”
Nicole was at my side. She pulled me to my feet and surveyed the damage. “Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and started pulling me to the sidewalk that would take us home. She took off her sweatshirt and handed it to me. “Put this on. Cover up the dirt, or my mom will never let us come here again. Are you okay? We can’t tell my mom.”
I nodded and forced a tear, knowing instinctively that I needed to say something like: “I was so scared. Can we go home now?”
So, I said it. But I wasn’t scared, and I didn’t want to go home.
The mower was loud, echoing through the window, over and over, up and down, but my moaning was louder. Uncontrollable sounds forced from a place I had just recently discovered, edging closer to orgasm, and then expertly, he withheld. The delicious frustration was sexy as hell.
He was in my ear, whispering deeply, “I know what you need, and I am going to give it to you, and then you are going to come for your Master.” His hand was on my throat, slowing the air, intensifying the building fullness. I craved his hands there, knowing the danger was part of what made it so hot.
“You need to be quiet. They are going to hear you. See how they keep coming back? They can hear something. They just don’t know it’s a gorgeous blonde tied up in my bed.”
It had been two years of sexual exploration. Meeting James was the catalyst of it all. We enjoyed our playtime together and I got an education, but, eventually, his interests and mine didn’t line up any more and we drifted apart. I have nothing but fond, tormenting memories. Since then, I’ve explored this side of myself with other willing partners.
I needed it, and the more I needed it, the lower I found my standards. I’m not ashamed to admit there were a couple of stragglers in there, a few uglies that I’d like to forget, but I am who I am.
I had found a place for my pain, but the pain I craved was the only door to pleasure for me. Sure, I’d had good sex, even great sex of the vanilla variety, but nothing ever came as close to ecstasy or made me come so hard as BDSM did.
In this feministic world we now live in, there doesn’t seem to be a place for me. A natural submissive. Yet, here I am. I currently live in a world where women are fighting for their rights, deep into the #metoo movement, and choosing not to denude their bodies. On purpose. The visuals of wiry black hair pouring out of armpits and the return of the 70s bushes actually make me a little sick. But I am a tolerant person, and it’s not my way to criticize how other people live their lives. Maybe I feel that way because I don’t want to be criticized for my proclivities or my lack of love for the feminist agenda.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship, so Tinder was the perfect place for me. Relationships were more trouble than they were worth. Conforming your day to day activities around another person? I’m submissive, but I’m not stupid. Two years before, a chance swipe right brought James into my life. He was my first proper Dom, and we explored so many dark fantasies together. The days we spent together, even now, have reached greatest hits status in my spank bank. Yes, girls have spank banks. We’re allowed to, and fuck you for thinking otherwise.
Maybe I am kind of a feminist, after all. I love sex. It’s neck and neck with sugar, my other vice. Sex is just as satisfying, but until James, there was this itch I could never scratch. This elusive thing wanted but never asked for. This deep craving, which I was inching closer and closer to satisfying without even knowing.
They say you should have three hobbies to be successful in life. One to make you money, one to keep you in shape, and one to be creative. I have always had an entrepreneurial spirit. My dad instilled this in me from a very young age, growing and selling homegrown tomatoes from our yard every summer starting when I was seven. Work ethic I have in spades, another gift from being brought up by a Marine. OOO RAH!
To this day, I love a military man. A man who is committed to something outside of himself? So hot. In uniform? Even hotter.
I skipped the traditional track. No brick and mortar four-year college for me. Not because I wasn’t smart enough, but because I didn’t value it enough and longed to be on my own. I left my childhood home at seventeen when Mom and I had a disagreement about the boy I was dating. The boy disappeared a week after I moved into my rat-infested, shitty apartment, the only kind that a seventeen-year-old can find with no credit history. Still, I was happy there, living on ramen and fruit punch, the highest of all fructose-laced drinks, the ridiculously red kind you get in a gallon jug at the supermarket. I’d drink half of it, then fill it with a bottle of gin and repeat.
I’m a creative in a world where creatives are undervalued, sometimes not valued at all. My photography degree was worthless, a useless vanity degree now that the invasion of digital imaging spawned a new photographer popping up every seven seconds. I was living with my boyfriend, not because I loved him, but out of convenience. In exchange for blow jobs, I was able to live rent free, and this arrangement was acceptable until it wasn’t. I can’t go into that right now. But it was ugly and it left a mark.
So, at the middlest-aged part of my life, I found myself unemployed, a single mother, in a world that didn’t value my skills anymore, without a safety net (otherwise known as a man) to take care of me. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, I was afraid. I was looking for something. I was surprised when it found me. “Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” That’s what everyone always says. So, I found myself sitting at a dirty wooden bar, drawing two columns on a napkin and brainstorming the next step.
Two old fashioneds in. (Yes, I am a whiskey drinker.) The only things on my list were sex, cheesecake, and Japanese culture. I felt incredibly unskilled in a world that prioritized math and science. Why did the big guy hit me so hard with the creative hammer? If only I had a love for banking or selling insurance, but both of those realities gave me the willies and would have resulted in my slow death. Boredom was something I was terrified of more than eking out a survival. I would always find a way to survive; I was exceptionally good at it. But boredom? That would make me destructive. I knew that. My past had taught me as much, so I was vigilant in keeping my boredom at bay.
Do you believe in fate? Do you believe in source energy and the law of attraction? I eat that shit up with a spoon. I developed a cult-like fascination with Abraham Hicks, and devoured his teachings, brought to you through a medium known as Esther, an elderly woman who spoke about herself in the third person. I hesitate to tell people I listen to those because that’s when the word crazy gets thrown around. I like to think I am open-minded.
So, when sitting in that bar, overhearing the woes of girlfriends suffering through missionary sex two nights a week to earn the latest Coach bag, a delicious seed of an idea was planted. In my slightly drunken state, the idea of introducing adventurous couples to the basics of BDSM using a ‘house party’ home demonstration model was bordering on genius. Piggy-backing on the mainstream success of 50 Shades of Grey, we discovered people were more open-minded in the boudoir than originally thought. On that night, in that shitty dive bar, the idea of an internet forum called Velvet Guild was born. It was both my finest moment and, eventually, my greatest nightmare, as you will learn. A burst of brilliance, an idea so fresh and cutting edge I got carpal tunnel from patting myself on the back. I was a fucking genius, and finally, I was going to thrive, not just survive.
“The story is ABSOLUTELY believable in this lifestyle. The main characters are real, have flaws, (though fewer than average) and experience emotions/reactions that I can personally relate to.”
Collection 1 on Paperback
Episodes 1 2 3 4
(This Page Contains Affiliate Links)
Meet Aimee: A single mom barely scraping by, raising a teenager alone. To make ends meet she decides to teach willing couples the darker arts in the bedroom using a house party demonstration format. A submissive in the bedroom, but a fearless entrepreneur outside it, she is driven to create success for herself and a better life for her daughter Raven.
Jagger: Aimee’s current Dom and best friend, a retired special ops military dog handler, and unlikely BDSM 101 instructor.
Asher: An erotic art dealer desperate to break into the closed doors of wealth and power. A bi-sexual chameleon, who identifies as a switch.
Zaya: A bi-racial dominatrix who is willing to push her subs’ boundaries for the right reasons.
Trixie: The 67 year old owner of Underground Bound, providing pleasure in all its forms for herself and her clients. Knowing this lifestyle is a lifetime desire, you never stop craving it.
James: A gray hat hacker, who has a history with Aimee, but is consumed by his need for revenge against the wealthy. He takes his angst out on fresh willing partners that he finds online.
250 pages of Sexy Power Control
This Collection Includes Episode 1, 2, 3 and 4.