“Sire,” he said frostily, “maybe you should hold back tonight because there will be young ladies in attendance.”
Oh that. I slumped in my chair, already bored again.
“Whoop dee doo,” I grunted, twirling my finger in the air. “What else is new.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. After all, I’m the Crown Prince of a small city-state, heir to a vast fortune, with every asset at my disposal. You want lands? I got ‘em. You want estates? I got ‘em. You want far-flung mysterious overseas holdings which could potentially be illegal, but assuredly worth billions? I got ‘em. So as you can tell, I’ve been hunted by young ladies ever since I was a baby. Okay, maybe it was their parents doing the hunting at that age, but seriously, as long as I can remember, girls have been throwing themselves at me non-stop.
“Oh Kristian,” they’d breathe, bosoms heaving theatrically, pushing out their boobs. “Oh Kristian!”
And I just fucking hated it. I fucking hated these “aristocrats,” the inbred air, the predatory looks, the way dollar signs practically appeared in their eyes, cartoon-like, when they saw me. So I wasn’t excited at all, but Sproul cleared his throat to clarify.
“Tonight the girls will be from Miss Carroll’s,” he said, shooting me a meaningful look.
Um, ok.
“So?” I asked, bored. “What about it?”
Sproul looked at me disapprovingly.
“Miss Carroll’s is known for accepting only the most eligible young ladies,” he said with a sniff. “None of the riff raff you’ve been associating with lately.”
And I rolled my eyes. Of course, Sproul knew what I’d been up to in my free time. It’s not that I hate women, I just can’t stand the type that populate these stuffy society events. They’re always so thin, so skinny with elbows jutting, knees knocking, that sometimes I want to offer them a hamburger out of pity. Yeah, a Big Mac with a large order of fries would be just the thing. The emaciated look doesn’t turn me on, you know? My type is a lot curvier, with ass, boobs, and a sweet, wet cunt. And I’m not shy about bedding them, I just do it on the downlow.
Take Mama, for instance. Yeah, that’s her name. I met the woman at a bar last week, around 3 a.m. after a boring dinner and drinks at the Austrian Embassy. They were raising money for something or other, I’d already forgotten, and I’d hit the Jiving Rooster for some liquid relaxation afterwards, the seedy dive joint just my style, a place where I could blend.
“Hey stranger,” a brunette breathed, approaching me as I downed another shot of bourbon. I took a deep breath slowly, inhaling through my nose. Damn, the burn felt so good, my esophagus on fire, a pit settling deep in my belly.
I turned to look at her. I wasn’t expecting much, most women at the Rooster are pretty beat-up looking, but this one was better … sort of. She had a tramp tat on her lower back, something big and ugly, but I couldn’t see clearly in the low light. Her boobs were barely held in by a halter, busting out on top, below, and both sides, and her midriff was bare, showing a little pooch, but whatever, that was my thing. I like flesh, jiggly, soft, the kind you can squeeze in the middle of a long orgasm, hold onto as you’re losing it. And this girl had more than a little extra, so I leaned back, appraising her leisurely.
“Hey,” I drawled. “What’s up?”
“Mister, you looking for some fun?” she breathed, pushing her chest forward. “For a price,” she smiled sultrily at me.
Oh shit. A professional. Well, I had nothing against working girls and WTF, maybe that’s what I needed tonight. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed to stir things up, get the donkey going.
So I wasted no time with small talk.
I looked over the goods, staring her up, down, up, down, and then a third time for good measure. “Five hundred bucks,” I said peremptorily, “take it or leave it.”
I guess it was take because the girl shook her hips and shimmied excitedly.
“Sure thing!” she breathed, practically taking off her clothes right there. “You wanna head to a hotel?”
I let out a short bark of laughter.
“Hotel?” I said, “I can do better than that.”
And I brought the girl back to St. Venetia Palace itself, stowing her in one of the unused rooms in a side wing, among a series of empty maid’s rooms. I fucked that girl silly, forcing her to take it this way and that, bent over and bent double, her shrieks ringing through the empty hallways, her cries of pleasure echoing like alarm bells.
“Fuck me, fuck me, ooooh, yeeeahh,” she wailed, thrashing her head on the bare mattress. I was only too happy to oblige, so long as she didn’t talk. I’d realized that the woman was a bimbo, without a lot going on upstairs, and wanted to keep any conversation to a minimum. Long wails and drawn-out cries were okay, but no sentences necessary, thanks.
And of course the next morning, I had to ask Sproul to escort her out.
“Hold on, my man will come get you,” I grunted, watching as the brunette got dressed. Her lower back tat looked bad, like a squiggly eel that had been done by a child. “What is that on your back? Your money’s by the door, by the way.”
The brunette giggled and scooped up the cash, stashing it into her cleavage.
“Oh my son did it,” she said, pulling down her skirt a little to give me a better look in the grey light of morning. “He’s a tattoo artist, isn’t he so talented?”