Club Velvet 4
Copyright© 2026 by Kynlas_DK
Chapter 2
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2 - 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 Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
Sanchez opened the door to his home and quietly hung his jacket on the peg by the door. He stepped out of his insulated coveralls, tugged off his boots, then peeled away thick socks, leaving them in a neat pile before padding softly into the living room.
His wife lay curled on the couch, wrapped in her robe and a blanket, eyes fixed on the flickering screen where some chaotic game show buzzed and blinked. She didn’t look over, but he paused to watch her quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Then his gaze drifted around the room—the room he’d walked through a thousand times without really seeing. The couch she rested on was sagging and threadbare, its edges frayed from years of use. The matching chairs bore the same wear, their once-bold patterns faded to soft, washed-out tones. The room smelled faintly of coffee and lemon wood polish—familiar and grounding. Yet somehow, it all felt new. As if a veil had lifted and he was seeing the life they had built—not just for what it was, but for what it had weathered.
He moved to her, lowering himself onto his knees, then settled back on his heels.
“Hi,” he said softly. “I’m sorry ... for everything. I took you for granted, and I shouldn’t have.”
He leaned in, hesitant but hopeful, silently asking for a kiss.
A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Hi,” she replied gently.
“I’m sorry, Maria. I really am.”
“I know,” she said. “But ... what are you going to do about it?”
He let out a soft breath. “Let’s go furniture shopping.”
She sat up, blinking at him, head tilted like he’d lost his mind. “What?”
“I’ve been so busy working, I stopped seeing what was around me ... I stopped seeing you.” He paused. “We should go out. Pick something new. A couch, a chair, anything fresh. Something to mark a new start. To break out of our rut and begin again.”
He stayed kneeling before her, grounded, not moving from her presence.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked, her head tilted in curiosity.
“Very serious.”
She slid off the couch to kneel in front of him. They fell into each other’s arms, both of them crying softly, holding each other close.
“I love you, Maria. I always have. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
Now sobbing openly, Maria cried out into his shoulder, “I love you too, you big lug.”
They stayed like that—kneeling, embracing, weeping—until the tears gave way to laughter and soft kisses. One thing led to another, and soon they were making love on the living room floor until it was time for a very late lunch.
“We need a new carpet too,” Maria said afterward, catching her breath.
“I agree. Honestly? We might want to consider a new home.”
She burst out laughing, which set him off too, and the two of them spent long minutes giggling, wrapped up in one another.
They eventually cleaned up, got dressed, and peeked outside, briefly toying with the idea of going out to dinner. But the roads were still a mess, so instead they stayed in, cooked together, and later retired to bed—where they made love again and started talking about buying a new mattress.
With their love renewed, they spent the days that followed shopping—splurging on rugs, couches, chairs, a mattress, and fresh bedding—until their apartment felt bright, warm, and new again.
The snow had been cleared, and life at the club returned to normal. Frank, Lisa, and Veronica each resumed their roles, keeping the business running smoothly as patrons came and went.
Frank sat at his desk, reviewing the latest financials from each location. Metro City remained profitable, steady as ever. East St. Louis, which had been expanded years ago, continued to perform well—not through large transactions, but through a constant stream of smaller ones, as truck drivers and travelers frequented the club again and again.
Chicago, as always, was the crown jewel. Massive transactions fueled the bottom line, driven by celebrities and high-profile guests reserving VIP lounges for hours at a time. The club thrived, and so did the dancers.
Then he turned to the report from Velvet Reserve in New York City. The numbers gave him pause. The restaurant was thriving, consistently full. The dancers were busy too, with a healthy volume of private dances. But the VIP lounges? Surprisingly underutilized—especially when compared to Chicago. It didn’t make sense.
He flipped to the figures from Velvet Retreat. The retreat was performing well, stable and growing.
Still, Chicago remained their leader—by volume, by prestige, and by the raw gravitational pull it seemed to have on the elite.
He leaned back in his chair and reached out to the WE, Any thoughts?
We have many thoughts, what would you like to know?
Why isn’t New York as busy as Chicago?
Different types of people. Different class of people. Different needs. Different staff members.
Staff. Frank said, letting the words roll around in his mind.
WE, would you do something for me? Put out a help wanted ad to people out there who have something special. A personality. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m here, I have managers in all of the other locations with some special connection to the clubs. Maybe I need someone different out there, not some sort of a polished yes man, but something different. Could you do that for me?
The WE would be happy to do that for you. Should they come to you here in Chicago or stay out there for their interviews? his WE asked him.
If they are able to travel, send them here and I’ll see how they deal with a place like this, able to deal with dancers and customers. Maybe even able to enjoy a private dance if they’ve never had one before.
Sure thing Frank, it shall be done. His WE said, then quickly came back. Oh Frank, you won’t believe this, but someone has already expressed interest in the job. I can’t believe this, but they are even able and willing to travel to Chicago and meet with you.
Frank laughed, Cool. Send him over. I can’t wait to meet this person.
“Oh Baby! Fuck me!!” The woman cried out as she moved up and down on Salvatore’s cock, ‘Sal’ for his friends.
He held her by the hips, moving her up and down, helping guide her with strong hands, helping to make sure her pleasure was taken care of while also making sure he wasn’t injured.
“Yes baby, fuck me good.” he said, his voice deep and manly.
They grunted and gasped as their mutual love worked its way to their shared mutual pleasurable conclusion.
“Oh god, coming.” He grunted as his cum shot upward and splashed against the walls of her cunt. The woman sagged against him as her own orgasm washed through her body.
Sal held her still, sharing the afterglow of their passion. Both breathing hard, they rested until Sal’s softening cock slid out of her well used pussy.
“Ok babe, hop up, we’re making a mess.”
The woman moved off of him and laid on her side next to him. Sal, a big man, stood up and moved to the bathroom to start the shower.
Sal, a job has opened up that meets your preferences, his WE said as he waited for the hot water.
Yeah? Where and what? he asked, cracking his neck.
The job is with Velvet Entertainment. The location is on Long Island.
Never heard of ‘em. What do they do?
Velvet Entertainment owns and operates several high-end strip clubs—two in Metro City, one in East St. Louis, one in Chicago, and a private location on Long Island. The WE projected images of the club fronts like a glossy ad campaign.
What, they need a bouncer? Bartender?
No. They’re hiring a Client Liaison—someone to attract members and encourage full use of the club’s services.
Sal stepped into the shower and whistled for the woman lounging in his bed to join him. She did. They washed each other, touching and kissing, cleaning off sweat and the mess they’d made earlier.
When Sal was done, he toweled off, walked to the couch, and sat down, continuing the conversation.
Client Liaison, he muttered. Sounds like HR bullshit. He glanced around his place—the peeling paint, sagging furniture, and that damn flickering kitchen light. His pension didn’t cut it. What’s the pay?
No amount is listed. But WE records show the owner, Frank Devon, takes good care of his people.
Fine. When’s the interview?
Two days. Travel tomorrow, get familiar with the club, the culture, then meet Mr. Devon.
He paused. Frank Devon? Is that name familiar? Do I know this guy?
No. You’ve never met.
Sal frowned and leaned back, trying to place the name. The woman came out of the bathroom, still damp, and curled up in his lap.
“What’s all the thinking for?” she asked, kissing his neck.
“I gotta travel. Got a job interview ... in Chicago.”
Her head jerked back. “Chicago? What the fuck, Sal? We just got settled here. You movin’ again?”
“Gia, relax. The job’s on Long Island. The interview’s in Chicago.”
“Oh,” she said, then smirked. “Long Island sounds fancy. Is it someone from the family?”
“No idea. Haven’t met the guy. But the company’s got clubs all over, so it’s big.”
She kissed his cheek and padded off to the kitchen to make breakfast.
While she rustled in the fridge, Sal pulled out his phone, scrolled through old contacts, and paused. It’d been years, but he tapped the name and held the phone to his ear.
“Yeah,” the voice answered, gruff and disinterested.
“Carmine. It’s Sal.”
“Sal who?”
Sal clenched his jaw. “Salvatore Ransom.”
A bark of laughter erupted through the speaker. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Listen, you fuck. I need info, and you’re the guy. So cut the shit and talk to me.”
Carmine laughed harder this time, chest-deep and wheezing. “So what’s my dear cousin need today?”
“Idiot,” Sal grumbled. “You know anything about Velvet Entertainment? Some guy named Frank Devon?”
The laughter died instantly. “How do you know that name?”
Sal stiffened. “What’s the deal? Is he family? What’s the issue?”
He heard a door close. The background noise vanished.
“Frank Devon’s not family. But he’s serious. My company did construction work for him on the Island. Real hush-hush.”
“How serious?”
“He sued the city ... and won.”
Sal blinked. “Bullshit.”
“No bullshit. He challenged some old city laws—stuff nobody touched—and he won. The laws changed overnight. That kind of serious.”
Sal whistled low. “No one wins against the city. They settle, maybe. But win? Nah.”
“I’m telling you, Sal. We signed NDAs so tight, I can’t even tell you what paint we used. He’s the real deal. Don’t screw with him.”
Sal sat with that for a beat. “Who else do we know in Chicago?”
“I’ll send some numbers. All family. They’ll talk. But remember—Frank Devon ain’t some clown. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t raise his voice but still makes the room go quiet.”
“Got it. Thanks, Carmine.”
Later, Sal scrolled through the numbers. Old cousins, mostly forgotten. He tapped one.
“Hello?”
“Lou, it’s Sal.”
“Sal who?”
“Salvatore. From the City.”
“Holy shit—Sal! Been ages! How the fuck are you?”
“Alive. Listen—I need some info. Carmine gave me your number. Ever hear of Frank Devon?”
“Frank Devon? What are you doing with him?”
“Interviewing. Some Client Liaison gig.”
Lou paused. “You’re not screwin’ around?”
“Nope. Why?”
“Frank Devon runs Club Velvet up here. It’s famous. High-end. Clean. Guys wait in line to get in. Even me.”
“No shit.”
“No shit. My crew did the renovation years back. The place is tight. Kitchen, coffee bar, the works. The women? Jesus. Not hookers, Sal. Real women—college girls, office types, even moms. And they’re perfect. I don’t know where he finds ‘em.”
Sal leaned back. “You can ... you know ... get serviced there?”
Lou chuckled. “You can. But it ain’t cheap. And again—no street whores. This is high-class.”
“Got it. Thanks, Lou. Maybe you’ll take me there when I’m in town.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Call ended, Sal stared at his screen.
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