Club Velvet 4
Copyright© 2026 by Kynlas_DK
Chapter 18
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 18 - Frank Devon, his pack, his club and the people who come to his club for connection and entertainment, this is their story and this is book 4 of the series. I would suggest starting at book 1 to understand the background and the world this club resides in.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft mt/Fa Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Incest Brother Sister BDSM DomSub Light Bond Polygamy/Polyamory
The reports the next day reported that a VIP lounge was purchased without preplanning. Someone showed up, bought a lounge for an hour and then left. The report said that Isis was the woman who was hired and he wanted to thank her for a job well done.
Is Isis here yet? He asked Lisa without getting up from his chair.
No, she comes in the evening this week. She won’t be here until later.
Did you see the report that she sold a VIP lounge to someone that just walked in off the street?
Lisa got up from her chair and walked into Frank’s office and took a seat in his lap.
“Well done Isis. I knew she’d be special, I just had a feeling.” Lisa said proudly.
“Well, if you see her before I do, let her know that I think she did a good job as well. As a matter of fact, WE send her an extra thousand as a bonus from the house. She needs to know how much I appreciate her hard work.” Frank said.
Done Frank. She’ll see it when she wakes up. his WE said to him and Lisa.
“Honey, do we know the person who hired Isis?” Frank asked Lisa, wrapping his arms around her body and holding her close.
“No, the card that paid for it was for Chase Ellington and that name doesn’t ring any bells for me.” Lisa said, expanding the reports on Frank’s computer.
“Well, whoever he is, I’m glad to see him in our club.”
Lisa sat on Frank’s lap, just enjoying being held, until her phone rang and she had to get up to answer it.
Chase and Mike landed back in California, then drove straight home. Mike veered off toward his office at the back of the property while Chase went looking for his father.
He passed through the entryway, cutting through the family room and kitchen. The house chef was prepping for dinner; she gave him a wave and slid a small plate toward him. Chase snagged a bite before heading for the home gym, where he found his father doing what he did best—shouting into his phone while sweating shirtless on the treadmill.
“The script calls for it ... Yes, I know your client doesn’t do that sort of thing ... Well, I’ve seen her do it at parties—personally. Tell her if she won’t do it on film, the deal’s off and she can find another part with another studio ... I hear you ... I understand ... No—she does it as written or no deal.”
Mr. Ellington ended the call, set his phone on the treadmill, and glanced toward the doorway where Chase stood, arms crossed, impatience in his expression. His father gave a brief grin before powering down the treadmill and stepping off, toweling sweat from his face.
“What’s up, Chase?”
“Nothing, Dad. Just got back, wanted to check in.”
Mr. Ellington wasn’t a large man, but his six-foot frame and the dark hair on his head and chest gave him presence. Black workout shorts and sneakers completed the look—Chase was silently grateful his dad wasn’t following Rule 8 right now.
“Hey, Chase,” came a voice from behind him. Megan Daniels, tablet in hand, earpiece in place, breezed past. She wore her usual—garter belt, stockings, modest heels ... and nothing else. Megan had been his father’s assistant since before the WE came alive, and their relationship had long since crossed into physical territory. The thing Chase couldn’t figure out was why she allowed it.
“Hi, Megan,” he said, eyes involuntarily tracing her as she walked away. He admired her beauty, but guilt kept any real fantasy at bay.
Megan handed the tablet to Mr. Ellington, who swiped through a few screens before making another call—another threat to walk away if the contract wasn’t followed to the letter.
Chase stayed silent. He’d seen this routine too many times to count.
When his father finally hung up, he gestured toward a nearby chair. “So, where did you go?”
“Chicago.”
“Why?”
“They have a club there—”
“A club? You went all the way to Chicago to party in a club?”
“Yes.” The defiance in Chase’s voice matched the set of his jaw.
Mr. Ellington studied him. “Name?”
“Club Velvet. It’s a strip club—supposedly the best in the country.”
His father leaned forward, searching it on the tablet. “Strip club, so what? We’ve got those here.” He scrolled a bit more, then his gaze shifted into the WE. “Oh ... they have whores there. Interesting.”
The word made Chase flinch. He didn’t know why, but it grated on him.
“No, Dad. They’re not whores—they’re dancers. Private dances for a fee. Isis was really good. I enjoyed it.”
Mr. Ellington snorted. “Chase, did you pay for sex or not?”
“I did. But so what?”
“If you pay for sex, she’s a whore.”
Chase’s eyes flicked toward Megan. He thought about saying something—about who else his father paid for sex—but the words stuck. Instead, he crossed his arms tighter and stood.
Without another word, he left. One glance back showed Megan reclined on a weight bench, his father lifting her legs, pushing his shorts down, and stroking himself before moving over her.
Chase shook his head and kept walking until he reached his room. It was large, comfortable—his own space. He crossed to the papasan chair in the corner, dropped into its deep cushion, and tried to make sense of where things stood.
Chase reached into the small pocket sewn into his papasan cushion and pulled out a faded, wrinkled photograph—a smiling woman on a swing, a tall, broad-shouldered man standing behind her, both caught in a moment of pure joy.
“Mom, I wish you were here. I could really use some help right now,” he murmured, pressing the picture against his chest as emotions bubbled up from somewhere deep in his heart.
He slid the photo back into its hiding place and tried to will himself into calm.
“I heard you were back,” a woman’s voice said as the door opened without a knock.
Elena stepped inside—long dark hair, deep brown eyes, olive-toned skin, and the healthy, confident beauty of a woman in her prime.
Chase lifted his head. “Hi, Elena.” Then he let it fall back, retreating into thought, into the ache of not having a mother to confide in.
She crossed the room, knelt beside his chair, and brushed his hair out of his face. “What’s wrong, Chase?”
“Nothing ... Everything...”
She took his arm and urged him to his feet.