Page 3 of The Prince and His Bodyguards
This is getting to be weird because there’s nothing religious about this dirty session. But I suppose some people become true believers when they experience the little death, and this woman is no exception.
“My life insurance is PAID!” she screams, straining against her bonds. “You heard me, Father. If I die now, it is PAID!”
Rizza slowly pulls his shaft out before clambering down off the cross.
“But you’re not dead. You’re alive,” he says in a sardonic voice.
Mizhir pulls out as well, his dick slick and glistening with her fluids.
“Maybe she’s a littletoogenuine,” he adds with a shake of his head. “You know, without a filter and all? Yeah, I don’t think this one’s going to work.”
Of course, it’s rude for him to say that while the blonde’s right there, and he turns quickly to peer into the shadows at me. But my servant has the right of it. This woman is far too crazy, and she’s literally frothing at the mouth now as gibberish escapes her lips.
“Mockyto! Lord have mercy, jumba-wumba cococo!”
I nod slightly, and my men incline their heads in return, their expressions resigned. Then, they begin undoing the woman’s fastenings as I get up and leave the small chamber, shutting the door quietly behind me. I know my two henchmen will handle everything, from escorting her out to disinfecting the room and removing any traces of depravity.
Still, the situation sucks. It feels like we’ve been searching for a long time already. After all, I’m a prince of the kingdom, and I have a special mutation that makes double penetration absolutely necessary. Granted, most people don’t use their servants to “train” a potential partner’s cunt and ass, but then, I’m not most people. Mizhir and Rizza do my bidding, and as a Prince of Lysenia, their lives are sworn to mine.
But when will I find a suitable woman? I’m getting tired of running through ladies at light speed, all of them crazy, unsuitable, or both. Where is my dream girl? My shoulders slump as I make my way down the hall because she certainly doesn’t seem to be in Chicago.
CHAPTER2
Ali
“Are you sure?” my friend Mirabelle whispers as we’re escorted into the gilded foyer of Club Z. “So there’s a dark prince who lives here?”
I shake my head while rolling my eyes.
“He doesn’tlivehere,” I say. “I just heard he plays here sometimes.”
“Okay,” Mirabelle nods. “But what’s his name? And what country is he from?”
I shrug.
“I don’t know. They didn’t say. They’re top secret about these kinds of things you know. It’s not for the hoi polloi to know.”
“Hoi polloi?” my friend asks, her cute button nose scrunching. “I swear, you’re so uppity sometimes, Ali, using big vocabulary words like that. Besides, who’sthey?” my friend insists again, tugging at the top of her strapless mini-dress. “Sometimes, you’re so secretive in addition to being uppity.”
I merely roll my eyes where she can’t see. Hoi polloi is not the craziest phrase in the world, and in fact, I learned it because I love doing crosswords. I’m not super-educated or anything like that. In fact, I’m a student at Oakdale Community College, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t do my crosswords every day. They’re an addiction, if you ask me, and I have subscriptions toThe New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, andThe Boston Globeso that I can hit all of their crosswords each day. Oh, and I like the reporting too.
But this isn’t the time for crosswords because Mirabelle and I have secured entry into one of the most exclusive sex clubs in Chicago: Club Z. It wasn’t without some effort. I asked around for the longest time, and finally, my mom’s personal trainer’s aunt’s younger sister admitted that she knew someone who was a member. Then, I approached this person out of the blue, and after some reasoned persuasion (okay, I begged), they secured a guest pass for me and my friend. Of course, it helps that Mira and I are attractive young women because no one wants old, grizzled dudes at this kind of place. They want nubile, smiling, sassy young women who will wear mini-skirts and flirt. Sure, I’ll do all that – while I search for my mysterious prince.
After all, I’ve heard the rumors. Heck,lotsof people have heard the rumors by now. There’s allegedly some European prince who frequents the club, but it’s not his noble birth that has everyone intrigued. It’s the fact that he allegedly ties up young girls, and then orders his servants to train her sweet holes while watching from the shadows.
At first, I was stunned upon hearing the rumors. What kind of man was this? Why in the world would he need to “train” young women anyways? And why have his servants do it?
I suppose it must be because he’s rich. A lot of wealthy people are super-strange, if you ask me, and this prince probably no different. He prizes discretion, his privacy, yada yada yada, and can only trust a few loyal retainers to do for him what any man with a big cock could do. That’s my take, at least.
But still, why go to all the trouble? The chaining is no big deal – go to any sex club in the world, and you’ll likely find people in chains, if not hanging upside down while someone lashes them with a whip. But what’s the point of training a woman’s cunt and ass? And why does she need to be “trained” to begin with? This isn’t a lifestyle adaptation, as far as I know. This isn’t a Dom who’s looking to train a sub in a traditional sense. It sounds like this guy has one-offs with a variety of young women, and then ditches them before disappearing into the horizon.
That’s where Mira and I come in. After all, women are disposable to this so-called prince, which means he’s running through them at light-speed. While the best clubs can procure young women at the snap of a finger, still, even Club Z has been hard-pressed to keep up with the prince’s demands. To be honest, it sounds like they’re constantly trying to round-up virgins for a sacrifice before some pagan god, except they keep running out of girls.
I think that’s why Mira and I were granted guest passes tonight. We could never afford memberships at Club Z, of course. This place looks like nothing on the outside (it’s just a plain brick building on a random side street downtown), but now that we’ve stepped into the foyer, I look around the space and try not to gasp. It’s a small space with wood-paneled walls, a huge chandelier, and statuary in niches. Clearly, the membership dues must be in the five, if not six, figures.
“This way, girls,” a woman in a black cocktail dress gestures. Mira and I follow her down a long hall which looks straight out of an Italian palazzo with paintings on the walls and a gleaming hardwood floor. Then, we come upon double doors which the woman presses open.
“This is the main room,” she explains in a dulcet voice. “A lot of action goes on here, but as you’ll see, there are also private rooms for our members, as well as a basement down below with a red room and additional private play spaces. It’s all up to you. Have fun exploring and enjoy,” she says with a gracious bow. Then, the woman departs and Mira and I are left to our own devices.